Chapter Text
It was storming the day that the avian was dragged in.
Shadowed green eyes followed the haggard looking bird-man from inside cold iron bars, the dark figure inside covered in scars not entirely of his own making. He stole a glance outside and winced as the new avian was slapped in silver chains, his white wings tied together with a rope that he knew from personal experience burned, and slammed inside a cage that was too small for him to even lie down in.
After all, the hunters didn’t care much for the comfort of their livestock. Not when they passed through this camp day and night. No one was special.
Time passed. The storm only worsened. Tents were closed; the figure’s view of the avian now limited to the occasional flapping of the tarp in raging winds. Rain splattered through the holes in the roof and dripped through the iron bars, right onto the figure’s messy brown hair.
Inevitably, boredom took over.
The figure sighed, and dropped his chin into his palm. He couldn’t afford to rest against the sides of his cage — he’d found out the hard way just how much iron burned vex hybrids such as himself. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe.
In, out, in, out.
Steady; calming; slowly becoming strained. He could feel his mind start to spiral in the darkness — he never did like being alone, and the hunters knew that.
Once again, he cursed his unruly tongue for landing him in this place — even though any reasonable hunter should’ve known that gambling with a vex of all creatures would end badly.
He hadn’t even been allowed to hold onto the coins he’d won — won fair and square, might he add. He hadn’t even used his magic or anything!
— Not that he could, what with the iron in his bars, but it was the thought that counted, wasn’t it?
His stomach growled in hunger, but the figure didn’t even flinch. He only sighed again, shoulders slumping. “No rations for a week,” he parroted with a grumble. "Cart it off next round. What a bunch of dirtbags.”
At least the rain was providing him with water. He wasn’t really in the mood to end up delirious like last time.
Last time —
He squeezed his eyes shut with a wince.
Nope, not thinking about that.
Something clanged outside, and he perked up immediately, latching onto something — anything — to keep him distracted. His ears strained to hear what was going on over the thunder that boomed above, but he didn’t need to bother — a few seconds later, the tent flap opened, and the new avian’s cage was thrown inside with a garbled scream to stay quiet.
“Woah!”
The figure immediately sat up straight and took the chance to observe his suddenly acquired companion. They look terrified, was the first thing he noticed. The poor thing was trembling head to toe, drenched white wings snapped back to behind their shoulders tightly. Brunette hair obscured their face, but he could see their shaking arms wrapped protectively around their knees, knuckles bloodied and bruises decorating their pale skin. They were gulping down air in a frantic attempt to calm down, but it wasn’t working.
Oh dear. Maybe he should step in.
“Hey,” the figure murmured in a slow, calm tone. His voice was a little hoarse from not being able to talk for so long, but maintained its silky quality. “Breathe in with me. Come on.” He inhaled deliberately deeply, and the avian instinctually followed. “That’s it,” he encouraged. “Now hold — one, two, three — and let it all out.” His lips released a soft whoosh of air, his forehead creasing slightly when the avian hiccupped instead.
They weren’t exhaling. They looked, if possible, even worse than before. Wide dark eyes peered at him through their curtain of brunette hair, a flash of purple going through before they gasped loudly and crashed to the side of the cage, holding their sides in pain. The second they gained the smallest sense of awareness, they scrambled backwards until their back hit the corner of their prison, one soaked wing bending against the rope in a way that couldn’t have been comfortable. Their narrowed gaze met his own, suspicious, yet so very tired.
He felt a small, tucked away part of his scarred heart soften at their expression.
“Hey, hey,” the figure quickly raised his hands to show he meant no harm, scooting back himself. “You can’t keep your breath in like that, you’re going to pass out. And I’m guessing you want that even less than being trapped in here with me.”
The avian glared at him with all their exhausted might, but the sound of a shaky exhale soon reached his ears, and the figure couldn’t be more glad. He didn’t want his newfound companion to leave him so soon, after all.
“There we go,” he said carefully, maintaining his steady tone. “And repeat.”
The avian struggled to draw in another breath, but powered through, and held it. The figure demonstrated how to exhale, and they copied, and slowly — slowly — their breathing settled. Their puffed up feathers returned to a smooth structure. Their dilated pupils became less pronounced.
The figure let out an audible sigh of relief.
Good.
“I’m Scar,” the figure introduced as soon as they calmed down enough to listen. He waited for their response, as was polite, but the avian didn’t deign him with one — still staring at him with those wary dark eyes.
That was fine. Scar could talk enough for the both of them.
“Since you’re probably new to the whole hybrid-hunter camp schema — schemat — thingamajig,” he stumbled over the words, but smiled brightly lielielie nonetheless, “I’ll be your guide to the whole process!”
The avian, predictably, said nothing.
Scar, predictably, did not care.
“Welcome to the GoodTimes tent, my mysterious avian friend, and buckle up for the story of your life,” he gestured to their surroundings dramatically. He flicked his eyes back to the avian and found them looking away, inspecting the tent rather than paying attention to him.
He sniffed. “Jeez, tough crowd.”
Not that he let it affect him. Clearing his throat, he began, lowering his voice to an enchanting whisper.
“Once upon a time, in a world of magic and wonder, were an ancient race of builders.”
Ooh, that definitely caught the avian’s attention. It was only a brief flicker of their dark gaze in his direction, but it was enough. Smirking, he leaned closer, widening his green eyes, selling the tale to enrapture his — somewhat unwilling — audience.
“These builders — kind, noble, brave builders — ventured out across the miles and miles of open wilderness, and befriended every creature they came across. From the fiery pits of the Nether to the clouds in the Overworld sky, their union created a new type of being called a hybrid — a creature that embodied both human and mob-like characteristics!”
He paused for dramatic effect, then said a little louder, “That’s us,” gesturing to himself and the avian, as if it wasn’t obvious.
The avian still only stared. Actually, he thought he could even detect a bit of incredulity in their eyes — that was good, though! That’s what Scar was going for. Any sort of distraction was welcome in this place, and it was his job to provide it like it had been provided to him when he first arrived. It was simply repaying the favour once granted to him by someone else, and actually made sense, unlike most things in this place.
Scar knew — knew far too well, in his personal opinion — how easy it was to fall into that pit of depression, of terror and wild anger consuming their every moment, of falling victim to the taunts that the hunters laid out only to skewer one of their heads on the camp border the next morning.
This avian was undoubtedly going through the same struggle.
— Enter Scar, the master of deception and trickery. He’d talk in circles until this little guy couldn’t remember what colour the sky was. He knew the poor thing would never see it again, anyway.
So on he continued his story, sitting up straighter and throwing a hand over his face in theatrical despair.
“But alas! Not every builder was keen on the existence of hybrids, and a rebellion soon overthrew their chiefs — and hybrids were left to mingle amongst their mob counterparts, roaming the wilderness, happy and untamed and —” he faltered in the oppressive silence. His voice broke, and he swallowed, hand dropping back to his side, his mask cracking ever so slightly.
“Free.” The word left his mouth in a sort of yearning sigh.
The tent fell into a tense silence. Neither occupant spoke. Then,
“...The human race advanced,” came a reluctant voice from beside him. Scar jerked, and the avian met his eyes warily, yet kept talking, their voice hoarse as if from screaming too long. “And although hybrids were what showed them the possibilities of their natural world in the first place, they were shunned, and hunted for their parts or kept as pets and trophies.” The avian shuddered, burying his head between his knees briefly, before drawing in a steadying breath and flicking his eyes to Scar. The avian smiled — or rather, his lips twitched ever so slightly in the upward direction — humourlessly. “Which is why we’re here.”
Scar blinked. “You can talk.” He said dumbly. He’d started to think the poor bird was mute.
That, apparently, was the wrong thing to say.
“‘Course I can talk, ” the avian spat, bound wings bristling. “I just don’t make it a habit to chat with total strangers.”
“We’re not strangers,” Scar placed a hand over his chest, offended. “We’ve been together in a tent for the better part of half an hour! We’re best buds! And—”
The avian spluttered. “You are not my ‘best bud’—”
“And, ” Scar continued loudly, talking over them, “now that I know that you can talk, I’d like a proper introduction, mister! I’ve already told you my name.” He waggled his eyebrows expectantly. “It’s only polite to give me yours.”
The avian narrowed their eyes.
“Come on,” Scar said earnestly. “I don’t bite.” His pointed ears gave a little twitch. Lie.
OK — so maybe Scar wasn’t helping this avian only out of the sheer goodness of his heart. Maybe there was a little selfish motivation that snuck up on him. But in his defence — no one in this camp had a shred of genuine goodness left in them, and Scar’s no exception.
And look — he was a vex, alright? For void’s sake, the one thing his kind didn’t do is good.
Scar is, was, and will forever be a spirit of chaos and trickery, not a spirit of goody-two-shoes stuff like helping out terrified birds. And making anyone give their names to him, well… It powered him. Gave him control over their soul; of their mind; of… well, anything they do, really.
—And oh, has it been a long time since Scar’s been in control.
It won’t last forever, given the blasted iron bars, but he’d make do. He wanted — no, needed this to work, because for some reason, he couldn't quite seem to ditch the tiny, stupid hope niggling in his brain that maybe, just maybe, gathering more names, more power, would be enough to finally get out of this place.
To his frustration, however, no such enticing thing was brought forth.
“What sort of hybrid are you, anyway?” The avian asked instead, wariness coating every word.
Scar’s smile froze in place. He kept his face as friendly as ever, though the corners of his mouth tightened.
Dang it, they weren't as gullible as he’d thought.
“Oh, y’know,” he waved a hand carelessly. A silky smile curved his lips — a smile that said trust me, I’ll never lead you astray. “It’s not really anything useful.” His ear twitched ever so slightly. Lie, lie, lie. His abilities were why he’d managed to evade the hunters for so long.
Not that it did much good in the end. He’d still gotten captured, just not as early on as most were. And boy was he glad for that, at least.
“I’d still like to know,” the avian said sharply, and oh, they definitely sounded suspicious.
“Fine!” Scar threw his hands up — and immediately hissed as the iron above burned his skin, drawing them close to his chest instead. “I’m a vex,” he grumbled. Honestly, he wasn't even all that mad — because though he wasn’t going to admit it to their face, he was impressed. Not many could resist his innate charm like that.
“Then, I’m not giving you my name,” the avian said, in a rather self-satisfied way. They shot him a glare, and struggled with their wings — trying to draw them around their body in a protective cocoon of feathers, presumably, but failing miserably due to the tight rope binding them together. Fed up, they bunched up the tattered red sweater they wore and ducked their head inside, effectively blocking out any further attempts at conversation.
The tent plunged into utter silence.
Oh no. Oh no, no, no.
Scar was seized with a sudden panic. He didn’t want to be alone again!
“Wait!” He called desperately, reaching out through the bars and barely avoiding being burnt again. “Wait, please!”
For a second, he worried that they genuinely didn't care what he had to say. But a moment later, the avian slowly peeked out from under their sweater, scowling.
Oh, thank goodness.
“You don’t have to give me your name,” Scar rushed out. His green eyes, once so self-assured, looked wild and distraught. “Just tell me. Please.”
The avian’s dark eyes stared at him, long and hard, before flicking to his straining fingers. Their whole body tensed at the sight, as if awaiting some sort of strike.
Oh. Oh. Scar retracted his hand apologetically, and the avian relaxed slightly. “ I’m sorry,” the vex muttered, scrubbing his face tiredly. “Just please, talk to me. Please. ”
Every second of the silence that stretched after his words was torture. He could feel the incoming mental spiral, the waves of hopelessness that crashed against his mind, fear and horror overcoming every sense and —
“I’m not going to give you my name, vex,” the avian hissed quietly. Scar's shoulders slumped, and he opened his mouth to plead with them again — that no, they didn’t have to — but the other beat him to it. They sighed and flicked their gaze around the tent, before haphazardly staring at the vex's general form.
“I’ll tell you, my name is Grian.”
The avian — Grian — raised his dark eyes and met Scar’s gaze with a stern expression. “I rather like it, too, so you better not steal it.”
Scar nodded vigorously. No surge of power came, but he didn’t care — anything that stopped the horrible thoughts in his head was worth the world to him. “Nope, no soul stealing happening here,” he raised his hands in defeat, then fell into a relieved smile. “Thank you.”
Grian shrugged uncomfortably, his white wings rustling. “It’s nothing.” His eyes drooped shut for a second, before he snapped awake, feathers puffing up in alarm. He rubbed his face and stifled a yawn — and if that sight wasn’t the cutest thing Scar had ever seen, he’d eat his own pants.
He cleared his throat. “You’re tired.”
“Gee, I never noticed,” the avian muttered.
Scar bit back a bark of laughter, green eyes glittering in amusement. “You’re a really sarcastic little bird, aren’t you?” His smile faded. “Betcha that tongue’s gotten you into some sticky situations.”
Grian’s face went stony.
Scar immediately regretted his crass words.
“I mean, my tongue’s gotten me into my fair share of trouble,” he laughed awkwardly. “That’s — kinda the whole reason why I’m here. Solitary confinement — except it’s not very solitary now that you’re here, is it? Double confinement? Duo confinement? Dy—”
“Do you,” the avian grit out, a hostile expression on his face, “ever stop talking?”
Scar’s entire demeanor dimmed. “Right. Sorry.”
Grian threw him a poisonous look and turned on his side, leaning against the iron bars for support — a luxury that Scar couldn’t afford. His white wings strained against their restraints, and Scar didn’t need to be a vex to know that he was squeezing his eyes shut, trying to get some meagre semblance of comfort in this horrible, horrible place.
He closed his own eyes, his sigh echoing around the tent. He couldn’t lie down, but maybe some rest was all he needed to feel better again — to think of a way to get out, even. He could deal with the silence for now, knowing there was someone else here with him. He had to.
“G’night, Grian,” he muttered, out of pure exhaustion.
Somewhere in the darkness, he thought he heard a tiny grumble of assent. It wasn't not the reply he was looking for, but it made a smile curve his lips anyway.