Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

✦ ✧ Long ago, our kind danced upon the mountains like flames. Now only the embers remain ✧ ✦

Hope is a strong word.

It’s not so much hope that drives him forward as it is determination. 

It’s a fire beneath his skin. It’s a heat in his blood. It flows through him with the magic he thrives on. It pulses through his veins. It drives him forward. Onward. One step at a time. One step. Another. Keep going. Never stop. Fight. Fight. Fight.

If he were to stop, if that determined fire were to be snuffed out, he knows he would fall. It’s the only thing that keeps strength in his legs, magic crackling at his fingertips, spine straight, and head held high.

He doesn’t hope Shiro is alive so much as he knows it. 

He refuses to believe otherwise. 

He hasn’t heard from the others in months. Perhaps even years. Time is odd. It flows strangely as he walks the ley lines, one foot in familiar lush Ionian forests and one foot in the barren realm of humans. He tries not to keep track of it. If he pays attention to the time that passes, he’ll be forced to face how long he’s been wandering. 

He can’t look behind him. He can only look ahead. 

He doesn’t know if the others are alive. He finds traces of them now and again, but he doesn’t know how long they have been there. He does, however, know that Shiro is alive. 

He has to be. 

No matter where he is or what state he’s in, he has to be alive. 

He is alive.

Because if he’s not, then Keith will have to face the fact that he is actually alone, truly alone, and has been for a while. That is a shadow he’s not quite willing to face. 

Nights blend into days, and days bleed into nights.

He finds clues. He finds leads. He follows them. He catches a whiff of galra activity. He chases it. He fights them. He stops them. He cleanses ley lines and temples of shadow magic. He moves on. He finds more leads. He frees vastaya. He doesn’t stick around. He fights off the humans who fight him. 

He fights. He survives. He moves on. 

One step forward. Then another. He doesn’t look back. 

He hears whispers of a captured vastaya. One from the Marmora tribe. Black fur. Fierce silver eyes. One that had been captured. One that had been forced into galran arenas. He chases rumors. He weeds through gossip. He follows the barest of leads. He finds galran hideouts. He destroys arenas. He frees the prisoners.

He doesn’t find Shiro. 

He moves on.

He takes shelter in the woods, among the trees. The forests of Ionia are familiar. They’re his home. Surrounded by magic, he feels at home. It’s almost a comfort. He avoids humans as often as he can. He doesn’t stay in their establishments. They know him. They know of him. His feathers are known.

The Raven of Marmora, they call him. 

He supposes they’re not wrong. 

Most know to fear him. Most know to avoid him. Most clear out of his path. But most is not all. There are some who covet his feathers. Priceless. Full of wild magic. Prizes from a race that’s dying. They think they can overpower him with numbers. With human weapons. They are wrong. They learn their lesson. Painfully. 

He sometimes takes shelter in Marmoran hideouts. They’re hidden all throughout Ionia and surrounding lands. They house a wealth of information left by those who had taken shelter there before. Everyone leaves reports of their movements, of what they’ve done. Keith is no different. He records his movements. He hides his disappointment when he finds no one there. 

He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he last saw them. No doubt years before he and Shiro were separated. Though time is difficult to count. His memories of them are vivid, even if they’re surrounded by an uncertain fog of time. It feels like a different life. When they were all together. When he had a home. A life that he can no longer go back to.

The only thing he has left of them are the records they leave in the hideouts. He often finds himself running his fingers over the pages, over the dates marking the tops of the pages. It’s the only proof that they’re still out there. That, and the rumors he hears whispered on the wind, whispered in taverns and between travelers. He’s apart of those whispers. Whispers of the Vastayan Blade. 

It’s a reminder that despite being alone, he’s apart of something, and that something is worth fighting for.

It’s a comfort as the days pass, as the nights drift away. Time slips through his fingers as he chases words, rumors, gossip. He finds himself at dead ends, only consoling himself in the fact that he’s doing some good, even if he hasn’t found Shiro. 

But with each rise and set of the moon, he finds the colors bleed a little more out of the world. The human realm seems more and more barren, and it’s leaking further and further into his homelands. The music seems to fade, and he doesn’t know if it’s slipping from this world or if he’s becoming deaf to it. He still feels the magic, but it’s disconnected. He’s not in tune with it as he used to be. He fears he’s losing himself, but he can’t stop. Can’t turn back. 

Forward. Onward.

He’ll willingly lose himself if it means his people have a future.

The days develop patterns, and patterns settle into monotony. 

He finds himself finding comfort in the monotony. In the grayscale world. In the silence.

He’s forgotten what it was like to hear the music. 

✦ ✧ I will make them dance. I will make them hear  ✧ ✦

When he hears the music, he thinks it must be a dream. 

He’s walking through a human village. Their technology is simple, as are most of the smaller towns around Ionia. The cobblestones are smooth and uneven beneath his feet. He keeps his cloak pulled tight around him to hide his feathers, though the bulging shape of them is hard to hide completely. He keeps his hood pulled up and his head tilted downward. 

He had caught wisps of rumors from a traveling group of merchants. It was nothing concrete. Gossip and rumors, whispers and tales, but they told of an artifact being sold here in this town. A necklace of unmistakable vastayan origins. That, in and of itself, isn’t unheard of. Vastaya often created and sold wares to humans. Trade between their people had become more and more common as the human lands expanded. Things are traded. Things are found. Things are sold.

However, the whispers had come up when a traveling merchant had said he had seen the necklace being sold. He had said it had a feather that reminded him of Keith’s. 

It could be a coincidence. It could merely be a regular feather that had been dyed to look vastayan. It could be another vastaya’s feather. But... in all his travels, Keith has never seen another vastaya like him. He’s never seen another with feathers. Lhotlans, the Marmora had said his kind are called. If there is even a remote chance that the necklace has one of his own feathers, he has to have it. And if it turns out that the feather belongs to another vastaya... well, maybe he can find out a little more about where his parents came from. 

So he finds himself in another human town. One that he’s probably been to before, but they all blur together, they all look the same. Trying to keep his head down. Trying to stay hidden. He’s known in these parts, and he doesn’t need to draw unwanted attention to himself before he can even find what he came here for. 

Then he hears the music. 

He freezes mid step, body stiff and poised mid-motion, eyes widening and lips parting as his jaw falls lax. 

For a moment, and just a moment, he’s transported back into the deep corner of Ionia where he grew up. He’s back in the wild, untamed jungles. He’s back in his village, surrounded by the Marmora tribe, vastaya who don’t look like him but who have never treated him differently for it. He’s back with Shiro, young and reckless, a laugh at the tip of his tongue, breathless as they chase each other through the ancient buildings that made up their village. Ancient stones, moss covered and vine dipped. 

He closes his eyes, and he can hear the music of home. The song in the air dances across his skin, fills his lungs. The notes, silent to the ear but heard in his soul, urging him to move, to breathe, to live. 

In that moment, brief and fleeting, he can smell the earthy scent of home, the damp ground after a rain, the way the trees smelled in the sun. He can hear Shiro’s laughter, the grumbles of the Elders, the general din of their tribe. He can feel the stones of their homes beneath his feet, the packed earth, the woven rugs. He can feel the moss and vines beneath his fingertips as he climbed. He can feel the warm wind beneath his wings, combing invisible fingers through his feathers. 

There are colors and music and life.

And then the moment passes, and he opens his eyes. 

He’s back in the human town, the name of which escapes him. Nameless. Bland. Gray. The same as any other. It smells foul and stagnant. The noises are loud and grating. The air is thick and heavy. 

It’s then that he realizes that the music isn’t in the air. It isn’t the sound of magic. It isn’t a live wire, a buzz of energy, light and fleeting across his skin, in his lungs, in his blood. 

But it’s close enough. 

His feet are moving before he makes the decision to do so, carrying him through the human streets. It’s only then that he realizes that the town isn’t as crowded as he expected it to be. There are some people here and there, but so few compared to the usual hustle and bustle that he’s come to associate with human settlements.

His ears perk up beneath his hood, causing it to shift precariously, but he can’t bring himself to be as cautious as he had been moments before. His entire body feels tight as a bowstring, taut and tense as he’s drawn inexplicably toward the music. It gets louder with every step, and with every step, he feels a buzz fill his lungs, anticipation racing through his veins. 

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but it isn’t at all what he sees. 

As he rounds a corner, he finds the source of the music, as well as where all the people are. Before him is a town square, a large stone fountain at the center. The crowd is thick, swaying, chattering in whispers. Keith clings to the edges, watching the sight from afar. On the far side of the fountain, he can see the performer dancing along the lip of the fountain. The man’s back is to him, form distorted by the stone tower at the center of the fountain, but he can see the flashes of color, the jingle of his adornments.

He’s about to step away, despite the strange draw of the music, despite the part of him that feels the irresistible tug, but as he moves to head back the way he’s come, the performer twirls into view. 

Keith’s first impression is blue. Bright, vibrant blue. Blue of all shades, ranging from the midnight navy of the sky giving way to night, to the bright crystal blue of ice atop a frozen pond. Delicate, vibrant shades of blue, each adorning a feather, each feather glistening in the sunlight, each weaving together in a beautiful display. 

A vastaya.

Not just any vastaya, but someone like him. 

He’s never seen another feathered vastaya, a Lhotlan, and Keith finds his breath catching in his throat as his heart lodges itself there. His ears perk up fully, causing his hood to fall to his shoulders. 

Dark skin. Rich and wispy chestnut hair. Ears sprouting long and furry from the sides of his head, turning blue near the tips. Blue markings on his cheeks and chin. His clothes are strangely simple, making his plumage more extravagant His lean chest is on display, and he dances across the fountain’s lip on light feet, each step confident and quick, making his movements graceful and lifting. His wings rise above his shoulders, falling well below his waist. They spin as he twirls in a brilliant display. 

But it’s not the beauty of his wings that makes Keith give pause, that makes him feet rooted to the spot. 

It’s his song. 

A simple lute in hand, his fingers pluck at the strings with quick precision, never hesitating, never missing a note. His voice is beautiful, rich and warm, lilting and light. It rises and falls like waves on a beach, flowing like a river downstream. And the words. 

It’s not the common tongue. It’s not a language the humans would understand. It’s not a language Keith understands. But it’s one that he feels. 

He feels it in his chest, a pulsing warmth, a tug and a pull, urging him forward despite being firmly rooted to the spot. He knows enough to realize that it’s an old vastayan tongue. There’s magic in the words themselves, an echo of power that he can hear and feel. There’s music in the language that only adds to the magic of the song. 

He knows it’s an old vastayan tongue, but it’s not one that he’s ever heard before. It’s not the one that he heard growing up with the Marmora tribe. It’s not the one that that made up the songs he knows and learned from. 

It makes his heart ache with something he finds hard to place. 

He doesn’t know how long he stands there. Doesn’t know how long he watches the performer. He doesn’t know if one song has passed or two. He’s just as enraptured as the audience. Pinned in place and lost in time. 

The vastaya’s music is like a fresh breath of air in his lungs.

Then two brilliantly blue eyes lock with his, and he forgets how to breathe. 

Something flutters inside him, an ache and a warmth. He’s unfamiliar with it. He doesn’t know what to make of it. It’s foreign and strange. It fills the hollow inside that’s been growing for years, making his chest feel uncomfortably tight. 

Then the vastaya smirks, lips quirking at the edges, curving upward into a look that’s entirely self satisfactory, confident, cocky. His song never stops, but neither does he look away from Keith. His eyes grow lidded, and he winks, playful and teasing. 

It’s then that Keith snaps out of his trance. 

He feels the scowl take over his features, furrowed brow and lips turning downward into a frown. He scoffs, rolling his eyes, and before he turns, he sees the vastaya blink, surprise making his expression fall and his words to stumble. A small trickle of amused satisfaction trickles through him as he pulls up his hood once again, turning his back on the performance. 

Vastaya or not, Keith decides that the man is an idiot. A fool. Using old vastayan treasures, their songs, to entertain humans. Flaunting his wings like they’re nothing more than pretty novelties. Flaunting himself like he’s nothing more than a doll for human entertainment. Arrogant. Cocky. 

It figures that Keith finally finds a vastaya like him, and he’s an absolute idiot. 

Still, with his performance going on in the town square, Keith is easily able to find the shop he heard was selling the necklace. He manages to slip inside, find the necklace in question, and question the shopkeeper for information. He might have been a little rough with the man, but he had been uncooperative and Keith had been riled up by the sight of the necklace’s pendant. Despite the shopkeeper’s shouts for help with the wild vastaya, no one is around to hear him.

For the first time in a long time, he’s able to walk out of a town without blood on his daggers and angry humans on his heels.

Perhaps the idiot is good for something.

The necklace is something Keith hasn’t seen in years. It’s simple in design. A leather cord, worn and frayed, adjustable knot that has been tied and retied throughout the years. A few beads made from stones and fired clay from their homeland. 

And at the center of the necklace, the highlight, is a singular feather. 

It’s thin in appearance, looking fluffy and light. A downy feather of his youth. One of the fluffy childhood feathers that eventually fell out to be replaced by sleek, mature feathers. 

The downy feather is deep purple in color, plucked from his under wing, high and close to his back. Deep violet in the shadows, shining with shades of purple and red near the bottom, sheen brought out where it catches the light. Despite its wispy appearance, the feather is hard and stiff as metal, frozen and petrified into place with magic. Preserving it forever as a pendant, a moment of his childhood captured and vibrant. 

He has a very similar necklace. Same leather cord. Same beads. Same fraying knots. His pendant, however, is a tooth. Small and pulled into a rounded point. A child’s fang, barely threatening and barely significant. Like his own feathers, they fell out naturally to make room for mature fangs, sharper and larger. 

Like the feather, the tooth is petrified with magic, preserving it like a stone that would never tarnish or crack. 

He and Shiro made these necklaces for each other when they were young. After Shiro had found him, lost and alone. After the Marmora tribe had officially adopted him. After he had become family. Despite their differences in appearances, all vastaya were of the same blood.

He and Shiro had exchanged mementos of themselves, one night beneath the stars, after Shiro had caught Keith in an attempt to run away, feeling like he didn’t belong. They made promises to each other. Blood brothers. Friends for life. Together until the end. Perhaps not family born, but family chosen. 

There was no mistaking the necklace as anything other than the one Keith had made for Shiro all those years ago. He knew Shiro would never part with it willingly, just as Keith would never part with his. The thought that it had not only been abandoned, but found and sold by humans as a novelty makes his stomach churn. Still, it’s a lead, and he hasn’t had one of those in a while. 

For now, Shiro’s necklace rests around his neck, tooth and feather pendants resting against his chest beneath his shirt. 

But he can’t dwell on the past. He has to keep moving forward. And now, thanks to the shopkeeper, he has a direction. 

The shopkeeper said he had bought the necklace off a traveling merchant whose hometown was a three day’s walk to the west. Keith makes the journey in two, pushing himself and cutting his way across the wilderness to stay off the main roads. He tries not to get his hopes up too high, but this is the first solid lead he’s gotten in months. 

When he does force himself to rest, he finds himself nestled in trees, staring up at the stars and wondering if Shiro can see the stars from where he is. 

And when he finally slips away into a light sleep, his dreams are haunted by a gleaming grin, eyes like the ocean, and feathers like the sky. He wakes from these dreams with a start, the echo of foreign songs fading in his ears. 

He finds himself in a human village, nearly half the size of the previous one. There are no town walls, no guards, no security. The roads are mostly packed dirt rather than cobblestone. The roofs are patched thatch instead of tile. Few of them span taller than one floor. It’s a farming town. A cluster of buildings that house shops and other professions in the center of a sprawling, loosely scattered farmlands. 

He arrives around midday, but decides to wait until nightfall. He stays near the forest edge, watching and waiting. He’s not good at waiting, but he knows it’s for the best. Smaller towns like this may not have security, but he’ll no doubt stick out more. They’ll be more likely to run him out. 

While he waits, he pulls out his Marmora blade, a dagger crafted through ore found deep within Ionian mountains and fire touched with wild magic. All the warriors of his tribe have one. While he doesn’t necessarily need it when he has his feather daggers, it’s a comfort to have on him all the same. He uses the dagger to carve the Marmora symbol into a thick tree trunk, signing it off with a simple K. 

If any of his people come by, they’ll know he’s been here. 

He passes the rest of the time sitting in a tree, high enough to be out of sight and concealed by foliage. He spins feathers between his fingers, glowing a soft reddish pink when he hardens them into knives. He tosses them, embedding them into nearby trees and branches. Then he raises a hand, palm glowing as the feathers shake briefly before returning to his hand. He snatches them out of the air only to repeat the process. 

By the time the sun sets, he’s anxious and buzzing with energy. He shifts his cloak over his wings, pulling his hood up over his head and lying his ears down flat beneath it, before making his way to the center of town. Finding the local tavern is easy. It’s one of the biggest buildings, and the only one open this late. The windows are all lit up, and music and voices filter through the walls, leaking out louder whenever the door opens. 

It’s exactly where everyone in a small village like this would go after dark, where everyone meets when the work is done. It’s exactly where he would need to go in order to find someone. 

He reaches for the door just as it swings open, but he doesn’t manage to move in time before two women are spilling out into the night. The first stumbles into him, her friend falling into her back. He takes a step back, catching his balance as his hands automatically go to her arms to keep her steady. 

“Oh! Pardon me, I didn’t mean—“ 

Keith stops listening to her, ears perking forward against his will as he catches onto a deep, melodic laugh from inside the tavern. It’s just a laugh, but it sounds like music, and it sends a strange shiver down his spine. 

“You’re one of them!” 

His attention snaps back to the woman as she gasps. The door closes behind them, cutting off the beautiful laughter. He narrows his eyes at her, suspicion pinching his features. “What?”

“You’re one of them!” She repeats, but while her eyes are wide, her voice isn’t one of shock or fear. It’s one of awe. He lets go of her, taking a step back. “Your ears!” She says, pointing to her own head. 

Keith’s hands fly to his hood, tugging it further up over his head, covering the traitorous ears and forcing them down flat once more. 

“A vastaya,” The second woman says, leaning forward to whisper loudly in her friend’s ear. Both of them smell like smoke and cheap beer. 

“Right! A vastaya,” She says, awe melting into excitement as she smiles. “Are you here with the other one?”

He feels an eyebrow raise. “Other one?”

“Yes!” She says, half turning to gesture toward the tavern. “The blue one!” Keith follows her gesture, eyes flickering to a window as a flash of blue dances into sight. 

It’s a coincidence. It has to be. He’s not too far from the first town he had seen him in. It wouldn’t be too farfetched that they had traveled in the same direction. Still, Keith finds himself stiffening, heart pounding as a strange sensation comes over him. He wants to... run. Get away. There’s a strange allure to this vastaya with blue feathers and a devilish grin, and Keith doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like how it makes him feel. 

Still... he knows he can’t run. He has a lead that could lead to Shiro, and he can’t give up this opportunity.

“Can you sing and dance, too?” One of the women ask, he doesn’t catch which one. And frankly, he doesn’t care. 

“No,” He says, voice flat and final as he pushes past them. 

He takes a deep breath before pulling the door open and slipping into the tavern. It’s a large common room, filled with tables and chairs and benches. A fireplace is at the far end, a bar with a door to the kitchen at the back. Candles burn in cast iron holders hanging from the ceiling. It smells of cooking meat, freshly baked bread, cheaply made beer, and the pungent stench of sweat and bodies. 

It’s crowded, but no one bothers to look up as he enters. All of their eyes are cast to the side of the room with the fireplace, where the vastaya perches on the edge of a table, leaning back on one hand, head cocked to the side, and an easy grin on his lips as he weaves a tale that has the entire room captivated. In his free hand, he idly spins a gold coin between his fingers, movements smooth and nearly hypnotic. He throws it up, barely glancing at it before snatching it back out of the air.

Keith doesn’t realize he’s staring until blue eyes flick up to meet his, latching onto his gaze and refusing to let go. His words never pause, but his lips tilt upwards just a little more, eyes turning a little more coy. 

Then he winks, and once again, it tears Keith out of his trance. 

He turns abruptly, ripping his gaze away from the bright blue peacock with a huff. He shakes himself, a small gesture that has his feathers rippling and ruffling beneath his cloak, before pushing further into the room. 

He had been anticipating suspicion of him, as he’s used to encountering when humans realize what he is. These people, however, barely give him much more than a curious glance. They think that he’s with the blue one, and he stops trying to correct them. Their assumptions lower their suspicions, and he’ll take advantage of that. 

He questions the bartender, who directs him to a group of merchants in a corner, who seem oddly playful given that he’s a vastaya. They offer him information if he can beat them in a game of cards. They’re humoring him. Welcoming him. And he knows it’s only this way because they assume he’s with the storyteller on the far side of the tavern. He scowls, not wanting to waste time, but he forces himself to sit and play their game.

He can hear Shiro’s voice in the back of his mind. Patience yields focus.

The human’s game is easy, if not time consuming. None of them can seem to read his impassive expression, and while he can see their frustration, they take it in stride. The entire time he plays, he keeps one ear on the table, eyes on the game, while his other ear twists to point across the room.

The blue one is spinning tales. He picks up some of the words, but he doesn’t pay attention to the story. He does, however, listen to the man’s voice. It’s rhythmic and clear, rising and falling, creating emotion and weaving it so effortlessly into his words that it forces the audience to feel it. Keith doesn’t need to look to know that he has his entire audience captivated, on the edge of their seats, held tight to every word that drips from his honied lips as he tugs them along. 

He’s talented. Keith will give him that. Charming. It’s only a shame that he wastes his talents on human entertainments. It taints his gifts. It makes a mockery of who he is, of their people. 

They are vastaya. They have ancient and powerful blood in their veins. They are beings of myth and legend, walkers of the veil between spirit and magic, flesh and blood. And yet here, in this tavern, he looks like nothing more than a pampered peacock, dressed up and shining like a doll for the humans’ enjoyment. 

It leaves a sour taste in Keith’s mouth, even as he finds himself drawn to the man’s voice, light and sweet, deep and soothing, melted sugar and raw honey. 

The merchants tell him the man he’s looking for has gone to visit family in another town, this one a five days journey back the way he had come. It’s two days by horse. He thinks he can make it there in four by foot. 

As soon as he has the information, he stands to leave, pushing his hood back over his ears and leaving the coin he had earned on the table. He slips out into the night, only able to properly breathe once the door muffles the blue vastaya’s voice. 

The further from the tavern he gets, the clearer his head becomes, night air crisp and cold in his lungs. He feels a prickle at the back of his neck, a tug in his gut, an urge that begs his feet to stop, to turn around, to look back.

He keeps moving forward, eyes stubbornly on the road ahead. 

The third time he sees the blue peacock, he has no warning.

One moment he’s being surrounded by guards and hostile civilians. They position themselves to appear big, squaring their shoulders and bearing their teeth, puffing out their chests as if Keith has something to fear. Some of them reach for weapons, but most just brandish their fists. 

They’re in the middle of the city’s market square, surrounded by stalls and shops and people. They had bumped into him, shouted when he ignored them, grabbed his hood and pulled, exposing his ears and his face. They had grown even more hostile not long after, when one of them had recognized him and called for the guards. 

His cloak is pushed back, wings and feathered bared, hunched into a defensive stance, fingers reaching for his feathers, magic already crackling at his fingertips, flowing through his veins.

He hadn’t meant to get into a fight, but fights always seem to follow him. He has a reputation that precedes him, and he doesn’t exactly help to dispel it. It doesn’t help that pent up energy, frustration, and irritation has him often itching for a fight. 

But before they can home to blows, there’s a flash of blue, feathers brushing against his face, causing him to straighten and take a surprised step back. The magic leaks from his fingers, slipping away as he blinks, taking in the vastaya in front of him.

He stands between Keith and his aggressors, and the startled humans have taken several steps back, staring at him in wide eyed surprise. The vastaya bends down low, picking up several of the apples that had fallen to the ground when Keith bumped into a stand. As he straightens, he casts a glance over his shoulder, catching Keith’s eye. 

Up close, Keith can see the soft fluff around his ears, how the blue tips match some of the lighter colors down his feathers, how the marks on his face curve to highlight his sharp bone structure, how they match his eyes. His chestnut brown hair is messy and disheveled, giving him a look of wild abandon that’s oddly alluring. His nose turns up at the end. His chin is jawline is sharp. His eyes seem to glint in the sunlight as they look at him, crinkling at the edges in what is plainly amusement, lips curved up into a cavalier smirk. 

Keith feels himself bristling, feathers ruffling as his wings rise higher off his back. His lips purse, twisting into a deep frown, brows pinching as he glares. It’s clear that this man thinks of himself as Keith’s savior, when Keith hadn’t needed saving to begin with.

Before he can voice that, however, the man is turning away, back to the humans who’s surprise has faded to wary suspicion. 

He stands at ease, weight lazily to one side, wings held high to obscure Keith from view. His wings are thick, feathers sleek and wide, glistening in the sun with far too many shades to name. Keith has never thought of feathers as beautiful. They’ve always been apart of him. Something he never put much thought into. They always set him apart. 

But this vastaya... his feathers are beautiful. Objectively, that is.

“And what seems to be the problem here?” He says, voice smooth and casual, lifting at the edges like his smile, light and easy. He tosses an apple up into the air, tilting his head to watch it as it rises and then falls back into his palm. 

“This doesn’t concern you,” One of the men snaps. 

Keith can’t see the vastaya’s face, but he can hear the amusement in his voice as he says, “Doesn’t it? Now tell me, what has my companion here done?”

Keith scoffs at the word companion rolling his eyes. He’s startled when a tail flicks out and slaps against his shins. He stares, eyes wide with surprise and lips gone slack. A tail? This vastaya has a tail? It’s not the thick muscle of Shiro’s tail. It’s lightweight and thin, as wispy as the rest of him, widening into a cluster of dark blue feathers, tipped with light blue patterned eyes like the feathers at the end of his wings.

“He’s the Raven of Marmora!” Comes a shout, drawing Keith out of his reverie. The nickname isn’t one he gave himself, and it’s not one that he’s entirely opposed to, but it’s still said with enough venom that it has Keith bristling.

The blue vastaya doesn’t seem fazed. He merely shifts his weight, easy smile clear in his voice as he says, “Perhaps, but do you know who I am?” He gives a little spin, a flourish that his his wings spread wide and feathers catching the sun. He then begins to juggle. 

The display is ridiculous, unorthodox, and completely idiotic. But it has the humans distracted, and that’s all Keith needs. Still shielded from view by the vastaya’s wings, Keith slips away, pulling his cloak back over his own feathers, tugging his hood back over his head. 

He doesn’t have time for this. Doesn’t have time for this feathered buffoon or a fight with civilians. He has a merchant to find. A lead to follow. 

But as he rounds the corner, leaving the market square behind, he finds himself glancing over his shoulder. 

 ✦ ✧ The Vastayan named the world. We named the trees, the wind, the mountains. We know their power ✧ ✦

The traveling merchant ends up trying to sell his information for one of Keith’s feathers. Keith ends up getting the information by promising the merchant that he would be allowed to keep all of his fingers and toes. After he learns where the man had found the necklace in the first place, Keith slips away into the night, leaving nothing but a couple silver pieces for the man’s silence. 

He follows the man’s directions, sticking near the dirt packed human roads, but staying far enough away to avoid being seen. 

He finds himself in a section of forest that’s densely wooded, off to the side and far between human settlements. It’s a path that is the quickest way between cities, but a way that is usually avoided due to the fact that it weaves close to vastayan territory. 

Under normal circumstances, this would be a comfort. However, in this instance, it’s not. 

While there is magic in the air, it’s not the warm flow of life. It’s not a breath of fresh air. It’s not the cooling sensation of standing in a river beneath the hot sun. It’s not relief. 

The magic in the air feels heavy. It feels dark. It feels tainted. There’s an odd acrid smell to the air. It’s barely noticeable, but it leaves a sour taste on his tongue where it lingers. He can feel it crawling across his skin, making his hair stand on end and his feathers ruffle. His body naturally reaches out to the magic in the air, the magic that flows through these forests like life, but he recoils from it. It feels wrong. 

Unfortunately, he knows this feeling. He recognizes this magic taint. It’s twisted. Unnatural. Pollution. A toxin in the life force of Ionia. Shadow magic. 

Fortunately, that means the galra are nearby, which means it’s entirely possible that Shiro is being held somewhere around here. Especially given the fact that his necklace was found near here. 

The merchant hadn’t been sure exactly where he had found the necklace, but it had been somewhere off the main path when he was rooting around for something to eat. Luckily, Keith doesn’t need exact directions. Now that he’s here, now that he can feel the galra’s influence, all he has to do is poke around until he finds them.

The wild magic here is tainted, constricted, and stained, but it’s still shining through beneath the metaphorical tar. It’s still thriving, if only barely. It’s a good sign. It means that the galra haven’t completely corrupted the ley lines around here. Not that he doesn’t know how to repair corrupted ley lines, but it’s much easier to rub out a stain than coax a whole new flow through a dry riverbed. 

The stench of shadow magic is thick, which means they’ve been here for a while. He knows there’s no temple in this area, so the galra can’t just take the magic from the source. They have to syphon it, which takes much longer. They no doubt have some sort of base. And where there is a base, there’s organized galra activity. Where there is organized galra activity, there are prisoners. 

Where there are prisoners, there is a chance he might find Shiro.

He deviates from the man made paths, diving into the woods. He creeps through the trees, letting his fingertips brush along the bark, listening in ways that only vastaya can. He can feel the shadow magic getting thicker. He’s getting close. He can taste it on his tongue. Feels the slight burn in his lungs. 

He finds another road, one that is much smaller, much rougher. It’s not the main path rambled by humans and horses and carts. This one isn’t used as frequently. No doubt going to a place that isn’t often visited. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end, and he crouches low, a little ways off the path. He presses one hand to the ground and closes his eyes. 

He listens to the ley lines, deep within the earth, the flow of wild magic throughout the land. He can hear its silent scream. He can feel the stain. He can feel how weak it’s become. If he listens carefully, he might be able to find the source. Where shadow magic is slowly choking out the wild magic, corrupting it. 

If he just... focuses...

Music makes his ears perk up, twisting to find the source. 

His eyes snap open, and he lifts his head, brow furrowing as he turns. He can’t see anything, but he can hear it. It’s not loud music, nor is it complicated. Casual plucks of strings, rhythmic and light. 

He shouldn’t follow it. He knows he shouldn’t. But suspicions are nagging at him, irritation pushing him to his feet. Each plucked note tugs him through the forest, searching for the source. 

As he gets closer, he can hear humming, light and lilting, calm and casual and fleeting. 

Then the music stops, and Keith freezes, ears twisting this way and that, trying to pick up anything. There’s a rustle from above, the flutter of feathers. weight hitting the ground behind him. 

He whirls, dropping into a crouch, wing flaring and fingers hovering near it, ready to pluck feathers if necessary. 

The blue vastaya stands there, light on his feet, tall and proud. His wings are flared, on display without being too obvious about it. There’s a lute in his hands, but he’s no longer playing it. The smirk on his lips is no doubt designed to be charming, as is the way he tilts his head, eyes lidding as he meets Keith’s glare unflinchingly. 

He’s preening, and it makes Keith’s gut flare with irritation. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” The man practically purrs, voice low and smooth, dark and honied. He leans forward just a fraction, tilting his head. 

Keith straightens, standing tall and lifting his chin, sizing up the other vastaya. The other might be taller, but it’s only by a few finger widths. Keith certainly has the height if ears are counted. He flares his wings out a fraction, but it’s not for show. It’s a threat. “Are you following me?”

His smirk widens, if only minutely. “I like to think of it as fate bringing us together again and again—“

Keith doesn’t let him finish. He rushes forward, deeply satisfied at the surprised squawk that escapes the other man as he scrambles backwards. Keith backs him into a tree, plucking a feather with one fluid motion, magic crackling hot and red across his fingertips as he hardens and sharpens the feather, consistency equal to that of a steel blade. 

He holds it to the man’s throat, not quite touching but close enough to make him sweat. “Who are you and why are you following me?” He snaps, leaning into the man’s space. 

He stares at Keith, eyes wide and jaw slack, body pressed tight against the tree trunk. His lute has fallen from his grip, lying abandoned and forgotten on the ground. 

His surprise, however, only lasts a moment before he recovers. cocky confidence leaking back into his features and fixing them back into the smirk that Keith has grown familiar with. “Now, now, there’s no need for that.” He says, voice smooth as silk, low and calming. He reaches up, attempting to push Keith’s hand away with gentle fingers. 

Keith doesn’t budge. 

The man sighs, irritation flickering behind his eyes as he rolls them. When he looks at Keith again, there’s more of a spark there, a challenge, something harder. His smirk is still there, but it’s no longer flirtatious. It’s amused and wry. “I’m not here to hurt you.” He says, voice more honest, a silent laugh lifting the edges of his words. “Besides, you could skin me alive before I could even try.”

The way he says it leaves no room for doubt. He’s certain of that statement. A fact. Keith might be flattered if he wasn’t confused. 

He takes a step back, then two. Slow and wary as he keeps his eyes narrowed on the other man. He lowers his feather dagger, but keeps it in his hand. It’s a comforting weight in an unfamiliar situation. “You know who I am?”

The man pushes off the tree, making a show of brushing off his clothes and shaking out his wings. The spark in his eyes is back, the charming tilt to his lips. “Everyone knows of the Raven of Marmora. Your reputation precedes you.” He drops into a low bow, every line of his body smooth and graceful, wings catching the light and accentuating every dip and curve. “It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

He straightens, hands perched on his hips, chest puffed up, wings out. He stares at Keith expectantly, grin wide and proud. 

Keith stares right back, one brow rising. He doesn’t know what to expect from this situation. This vastaya knows who Keith is, but hasn’t offered his own name in response. Isn’t that what was expected of these conversations? It’s been a long time since Keith has gone through this. But the silence is stretching and the man i still looking at him expectantly. He supposes he’ll have to hurry this along so he can get him to go away, and he can get back to his search. 

“And... you are?” He tries. 

Doubt flickers across the man’s face. The sparkle in his eyes dims as his brows furrow, smirk fading rapidly. He looks utterly baffled. “You... don’t know who I am?” 

“No,” Keith says, lips pursing. The man looks crestfallen, and Keith finds himself feeling like he needs to offer him something. “You’re a performer.”

“Well, yeah,” He says, tilting his head as his shoulders sag, chest deflating. “But you don’t know who I am?” He asks, toeing the line between begging and incredulous. 

Keith gives him a blank look, crossing his arms over his chest as he offers a one shouldered shrug. 

“You’ve got to be— oh my spirits,” The man says, voice rising. One hand on his hip, he runs his other through his hair, making it wilder. He turns on his heels, stalking away for several paces before whirling back around, arms and wings splayed wide. “Name’s Lance? Famous performer, singer, storyteller, battle-dancer?”

He looks at Keith expectantly, smile crawling back up his lips. 

Keith shrugs again. “I’ve never heard of you.”

“Are you—“ His entire body deflates again, smile dropping into a small frown, bordering on a pout. He sighs, picking himself back up, picking up the shattered remains of his composure. He straightens, but he’s no longer puffed up with pride. “No matter, you’ve met me now. And may I have the pleasure of your name?”

Keith stiffens. “Why?”  

Lance’s smirk turns a little more genuine. “Well I can’t very well go around calling you Raven of Marmora. That’s a bit of a mouthful.”

“Keith,” He says after a moment of hesitation. It’s a gruff grunt of defeat. He’s not… used to giving out his name. No one ever asks. 

“Keith…” Lance repeats, strangely wistful, slow, like he’s tasting it on his tongue. It makes Keith bristle, but he doesn’t know why.

There’s a rustling that has Keith’s ears whirling. His attention snaps to the side, following the source of the sound. He doesn’t see anything, but there’s a sickly feeling creeping into his gut, twisting his insides. The taste on his tongue is bitter. He feels a small wave of distorted magic shift past him, brushing past, alerting him to their presence. 

“You need to leave,” Keith says, cutting off whatever ramble the vastaya, Lance, has gone off on. He had stopped listening the moment he felt the presence of shadow magic. 

He glances over when he hears a series of indignant sputters. “I just got here!”

Keith glares at him hard, lips pressed into a thin line. “And now you need to go. Now.”

Lance stands his ground, crossing his arms over his chest, meeting Keith’s glare with one of his own. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Lance,” Keith snaps. 

Which only serves to make his lips quirk up at the edges. “Oh, so he does know my name.”

Keith sighs in frustration, the sound trailing off into a growl. “We don’t have time for this—“ He cuts himself off as another subtle wave of shadow magic pushes at him, rippling the air around him. 

This time, even Lance seems to feel it. He stiffens, smirk falling instantly as his eyes widen, blue irises going hard as they dart around. His stance falls just a fraction, wings rising, shoulder’s squaring. “What was that?” He asks, and for the first time, there’s no hint of a smile in his voice, no humor, no hidden joke. The confidence is still there, but it’s harder, stronger, fiercer. Demanding an answer. 

Keith is surprised by the instant switch, but now isn’t the time to dwell on it. 

“That,” He says through clenched teeth, eyes darting in every direction, looking for movement. “Is the reason why you need to leave.”

“I’m not leaving you here alone,” Lance says, stern and unyielding. 

Without really realizing it, he’s turned his back to Lance, and he’s a little surprised to find that Lance has done the same for him. They stand close enough that he can feel their feathers brush together, sending shivers down his spine. Back to back, they keep their eyes on the forest around them. 

Keith’s fingers reach for his wings, plucking out the first feathers he feels, magic hardening them instantly. He holds them between his fingers, a familiar weight. “I don’t need your help.”

To his surprise, he hears a soft chuckle. “I know you don’t.” Lance says, and that amused lilt is back in his voice. Keith glances over his shoulder to catch Lance eyeing him sidelong, a smirk lifting his cheek, crinkling the corner of his eye. “But I can’t let you have all the fun.”

There’s a dangerous glint to his eye, a confidence in the way he holds himself. Fearless. Strong. Confident. 

It sends something foreign and warm rushing through him, heart fluttering in a way it most definitely shouldn’t. 

“Don’t get in my way,” Keith says. 

He doesn’t laugh, but it’s clear in his voice, warm and soft. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

There’s a rustling. Footsteps. Another surge of shadow magic in the air. Keith’s ears whirl, head snapping in the direction of the sound. 

But then there’s a sting on his neck, quick and piercing. He lets out a surprised sound, hearing Lance echo it behind him. His hands slaps to his neck, finding something there. He pulls it out, ignoring the sting as he stares down at the dart in his palm, the metal tip glistening menacingly. 

He turns, vision blurring and whirling, mind struggling slow to catch up, making everything move at half speed. He blinks rapidly, desperately trying to fight off the gray dots that crowd the edges of his vision. Lance is standing there, looking at a similar dart in his hand. 

His lips purse, brows furrowing, staring down at the dart as if it were nothing more than a minor inconvenience, like a glass of spilled milk or unexpected rain. “Well,” he says, lips moving slowly, voice sounding sluggish. Keith hears his voice as if he were far away. “That can’t be good.”

He looks up, clouded blue eyes meeting Keith’s. 

And that’s the last thing Keith sees before darkness overtakes him. 

The first thing he becomes aware of is the cold stone beneath him. It’s like ice seeping through his clothes, through the thin layer of his feathers, hard and unforgiving. He feels aches in his joints, bruises rising to the surface in various places. Whoever had handled him while he had been unconscious had not been gentle.

The second thing he becomes aware of is the stench. It smells of damp earth and wet stone. Rotting hay, sweat, and piss. He’s been in enough prisons to know what one smells like, and as the realization dawns on him, he accepts it with a flicker of irritation.

The third thing he becomes aware of is the air. No, not the air. The magic. The wild magic here feels choked, tainted, twisted. It’s dark and draining, sliding across his skin like invisible sludge, making his lungs thick with it, making his body shiver with disgust.

Shadow magic. Prison. Galra.

He opens his eyes, giving them a moment to adjust to the darkness. The only lighting comes from a dim lantern hanging outside his cell. For walls of stone. A low hanging ceiling. A stone floor scattered with dirt. A pile of soiled hay in the corner. A fourth wall that’s entirely metal bars, giving him a glimpse into the stone hallway.

He’s alone. Which isn’t anything new, but he wasn’t alone when he was taken. He feels a roll of something through him. Worry? Guilt? He can’t tell. He can’t dwell on it. Right now, all he can focus on is his own situation.

He sits up, rolling his shoulders, feeling the aches and kinks in his back. He shuffles his wings, trying to stretch them out. They’re stiff and bruised from mishandling and from laying between him and stone. He flares them out, twisting to run his fingers reverently through them. His feathers are ruffled, out of place, some of them bent.

He doesn’t get far into his grooming before he hears a heavy door open, footsteps, whispered voices, rattling of chains.

He stiffens, pushing himself to his feet to hover in a low crouch. His mind is still foggy along the edges, not working as quickly as he wants it to. His body feels stiff and uncooperative. Whatever toxin they used to knock him out, it’s still in his system. But he’s not going down without a fight.  

They appear in the hall outside his cell, all dressed in dark robes to obscure their bodies, eyes glowing yellow beneath their masks. He bears his teeth, growl ripping from his throat. He reaches for his feathers, but when he reaches for his magic, he only gets a few crackles, a couple sparks, before it fizzles out.

He stares at his hands in horror. There’s something in his veins, in his body, a press on his magic, dampening his attachment to it, keeping him from fully accessing his magic. He feels... defenseless without it. Hollow. Vulnerable. His eyes snap back to his captors, eyes wide as fear prickles at the back of his neck. 

His hand goes to his waist, but his Marmoran blade is gone as well.

He fights as they push into his cell, primal and rabid, clawing and flailing with all his waning strength. They subdue him easily, hands rough on his arms, on his wings, chains containing him as they drag him out of the cell. Still he fights, because that’s all he has left to do.
 

When he wakes again, it’s a slow rise to consciousness. His mind is foggy, shying away from the aches and pains in his body. He barely remembers the questioning. Barely remembers the questions. He remembers biting back responses. He remembers cursing them and keeping his mouth shut. He remembers clenching his teeth against the pain.  

They hadn’t gotten anything out of him, but he knows they’re not done with him yet. This is only a brief respite before they go at him again. They asked him about the Blade of Marmora. They asked him about the vastaya. They asked him about wild magic. They asked him what he was doing.

He gave them nothing but his screams, and his throat feels raw from it.

Pain is nothing new. Torture is nothing new. He’ll find a way out of it. He always does. He just needs time.

Back in his cell, laid out on the unforgiving stone, he feels oddly calm.

It takes him a moment to realize he hears humming. It’s soft and muted, but echoes over the dead space between the stones. It sounds eerily haunting, but it’s not unpleasant. It whispers across his skin, chasing away the irritation of shadow magic, filling him with a strange warmth.. He’s drawn to it, if only because it’s a spark of familiarity, of warmth, in his otherwise cold cell.

He pushes himself to sit up, ignoring the way his body protests. He drags himself across the cell, leaning his shoulder against the stone wall, letting his wings rest out behind him. They feel bruised and twisted. He longs to straighten his feathers, to groom them, but his arms feel so heavy and weak. His stomach growls painfully. He doesn’t know how much time has passed.

He’s closer to the humming, but as soon as he settles back down to listen, it stops.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Comes the soft voice, low and hoarse, but still managing to lift at the edges. Keith gets the distinct impression of a smile. A tired smile, but a smile nonetheless.

“So you are alive,” Keith says, oddly relieved, feeling his lips trying to twitch up into a smirk, but being unable to do it.

“Indeed, I am.” He says, and while Keith finds it incredibly frustrating that he always manages to sound amused, right now, the lightness of his tone is a comfort. Just his voice is a comfort. “A little worse for wear, but alive.”

Keith tries to swallow past the lump in his throat, licking dry and cracked lips. There’s a cut there, and he tastes the metallic edge of blood. “Did they...?”

“Question me? Yes. Quite thoroughly.” There’s a grimace in his voice, a exhaustion that he can’t hide.

“Are you...” Keith starts, trailing off.

There’s an indigent scoff, a ruffle of feathers. “It’ll take a lot more than that to break me.”

Keith feels himself giving into that smile, but it’s quickly sobered. “What did they ask you?”

“Mostly about the Marmora tribe. About you. They seem to think we’re partners.” There’s an amusement there, one that has Keith bristling.

Which reminds him... “Why were you following me?” He asks, sitting up a little straighter, staring at the stone wall like he might be able to see through it. He’s certain Lance is in the cell next to him, judging from the direction of his voice. For once, Lance is silent, and it hangs heavy in the damp air of their cells.

“I... don’t really know.”

“You don’t know?” Keith feels himself bristling further, feathers ruffling, defensive, confused. He frowns. “So you admit you were following me?”

“Yes,” Comes the soft answer. “I was.”

“Why?”

“I guess... I just thought you were interesting. I wanted to know more about you.” The answer is thoughtful. His voice is no longer amused, but there’s something else there that has Keith’s heart pounding uncomfortably.

He frowns, rolling his eyes as he mutters bitterly, “Yeah, well, now you’re a prisoner of the galra. I doubt your curiosity was worth it.”

A soft chuckle that has shivers running down Keith’s spine. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Before Keith can question him further, the door at the end of the hall opens, spilling light and shadows along the floor in front of his cell. He stiffens, wings flaring out threateningly. But the robed galra pass right past his cell. Only the last one in the line spares him a glance. It’s quick and fleeting, and he can’t read anything behind that mask.

They open Lance’s cell, and he hears rustling as they pull him to his feet. Keith holds his breath as they drag him out, as they pass in front of his cell.

Lance doesn’t fight. Not like Keith had. They’re rough with him anyway, chaining his hands behind his back, tugging it roughly, pushing him so he stumbles, shoving his wings if they get in his way. As they pass in front of Keith’s cell, Lance tilts his head to catch his gaze. There’s a purple bruise surrounding one eye, bottom lip swollen and cut. His face, arms, and exposed chest are littered with bruises and cuts, letting Keith know that he may not have fought like Keith had, but he hadn’t gone silently.

“Guess it’s my turn.” He says, light and teasing, as if they were talking about rounds of drinks and not rounds of questioning, of torture. Despite the wince of pain, his lips tug up into the barest of smiles, sending Keith a subtle wink as the galra shove him along the hallway, out of sight.

Keith tries to rest, but sleep is hard to come by when his mind is elsewhere, heart caught between twisting at the thought of Lance’s screams and fluttering at the thought of his soft humming.

When they haul Lance back to his cell, his feet are dragging, body limp in their grip. His wings hang down his back, one of them at an awkward angle that has Keith wincing. His tail drags on the floor behind him. His feathers, once beautiful and blue, are dingy and dirty, coated with a layer of grime and blood. His head his hanging, face shadowed, but Keith thinks he can see more bruises.  

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, nor does he have time to ask if Lance is okay. As soon as the door to Lance’s cell is closed, they come for Keith.

They drag him out of his own cell kicking and screaming
 

Keith tries not to give them the satisfaction of his pain. He shouts and he curses, but his throat is hoarse with rage.  

The scream that tears through him when they break his wing is raw, primal, and the shattered sound of a beast in pain.

He blacks out not long after that, consciousness shying away from the pain, away from that reality, hiding from the world in the comfort of darkness, curling around the core of magic inside him, smothered and constricted but pulsing with pain and rage and the desire to survive.
 

He wakes with a silent shout caught on the lump in his throat. His right wing lays heavy down his back, against his shoulder and arm. Limb. Lifeless. He tries to move it, and sharp pain shoots through him, sharp and piercing, leaving an after ache of a knot in his gut.  

He lays on his left side, cheek pressed to the cold stone, and for once he welcomes it, tries to ground himself in that sensation. A choked sob escapes him, muffled and yet still loud in the dead space. He tries to curl a little tighter around himself, but movement hurts.

And then there’s a voice. A song. It starts softly, not so much breaking through the silence as rising through it, pushing it gently aside. It swells, echoing hauntingly through the thick, stagnant air. It stays soft, but loud enough that Keith can hear it clearly. He doesn’t understand the words, but he can feel their power. An old vastayan tongue. The same one Lance had sung in when Keith had first seen him, but it’s not the same song. It’s more somber. Cradling. Soothing. Comforting.

Keith closes his eyes and lets it wash over him. Lets Lance’s voice and the words of their ancestors wrap around him, glide across his skin, chasing the stick and weight of shadow magic away. It settles into his bones, easing the shaking of his limbs, soothes his rattled nerves.

When the song fades out, the silence in its wake is unwelcome. Keith licks his lips, taking in a shuddering breath. “What song is that?” His voice is raw and hoarse, rasping past the lump in his throat.

“You don’t know it?” Comes the soft reply. His voice only sounds slightly better than Keith’s own. What he wouldn’t give for water. 

Keith shakes his head out of habit before he remembers that Lance can’t see him. “No,” He says, then softer, “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s... a song of our people.”

“I recognized it as an old vastayan tongue.”

“But you don’t know it.” He says. It’s not a question, but there’s an air of sorrow about it. 

“No...” Keith says. He doesn’t know what possesses him to feel the need to explain himself. To defend himself. Perhaps it’s the distant disappointment in Lance’s tone. Perhaps it’s just to fill the silence. Perhaps it’s just to keep hearing Lance’s voice. “They sang in a different tongue in the Marmora tribe.”

“I suppose they would,” Lance says airy, thoughtfully. “I sing in the old Lhotlan tongue. Our ancestors’ songs.”

“Our ancestors...” Keith echoes. All vastaya share the same ancestors at their distant roots. They all came from the same area of Ionia before spreading out and settling different tribes. Before adopting specific characteristics. But Lance has said our ancestors in a way that sounded very specific. Not the general ancestors of their kind, but the more specific ones that both he and Keith derive from. 

Keith has always thought of their ancestors in the general sense. In a way that connected him to the Marmora tribe. 

“Yes,” Lance says, voice dropping low and soft. “You’re Lhotlan, too.” It’s a fact. Certain. Indisputable. Even as it’s said with a gentle prod. 

“I... suppose I am.” 

There’s a soft chuckle. It sounds like music in the dead space of their cells. “Why do you sound so surprised by that?”

“I’ve... never thought of myself as anything other than vastaya or Marmoran.”

“So you never grew up knowing of your people?” That hint of sorrow is back.

“The Marmora tribe are my people.” He says, bristling, defensive. But he can’t find the energy to put much heat into it, and it ends up coming out more pitiful than intended. 

“I know. They raised you, right? That’s what the rumors say.”

“Yes...” That should be enough, but he finds himself wanting to say more. He never wants to say more than what’s necessary. He doesn’t know if it’s because he craves a distraction from the pain, or if it’s because of Lance. “They found me when I was young. I don’t remember my parents. I don’t... know anything about the Lhotlan tribes. I don’t know which one they came from.” 

“You don’t know anything at all?” He sounds mystified. Keith supposes that’s better than pitying.

“The Marmorans tried, but they didn’t know much themselves. I grew up learning their lore. Their songs. You’re...” He pauses, licking cracked lips, wondering why his heart flutters in his chest like a caged bird. “You’re the first other Lhotlan I’ve ever met.”

“Really?” He sounds positively pleased. Keith can practically hear the smirk in his voice. Can hear the way he puffs himself up, preening like the peacock he is. “And what’d you think?” He asks, voice dropped low, a purr, even if it’s ragged and hoarse. 

“Loud.” Keith says flatly. “A show off. An idiot. Flashy. Obnoxious.”

He’s expecting an indignant response, maybe to provoke something angrier, a banter. Instead he gets a laugh. A low chuckle that gets louder until it devolves into coughs. Where his heart flutters at the sound of his laugh, it clenches as the sound of cough ripping out of rattling lungs. 

It occurs to him that he doesn’t know how hurt Lance is. He sounds fine, but from what he’s seen of Lance, he knows better than to trust that cheerful demeanor.

“They broke my wing,” He says into the silence, voice somber and broken. He doesn’t know why he says it. Doesn’t know why he offers that information instead of merely asking Lance how he’s fairing. He’s not asking for pity. Perhaps he just needed to say it aloud. Make the information real. Because he’s still having a hard time accepting it. 

There’s a deep inhale from the cell next to him, following by a long hissing exhale. “They did the same to me.” Comes the soft reply, barely whispered.

They don’t offer apologies, nor do they offer condolences. Keith doesn’t pity Lance, but he does feel sympathy. There’s a silent camaraderie between them, one that grows from a shared pain. A personal pain. 

But there’s only so long that Keith can stand the silence. Only so long before the aches of his body become overwhelming again. “Will you teach me more Lhotlan songs?” It’s a soft request, one that he almost wishes he could take back, half hoping Lance hadn’t heard him at all.

“Only if you teach me some Marmoran songs sometime.” Lance throws back, teasing, light, far too much given the circumstances.

Still, it makes Keith smile. Small, barely there, but felt nonetheless. “No promises.”

“With you? I’ll take what I can get.”

And then Lance begins to sing for him again, soft and lilting. His voice is angelic, combined with ancient words that hold a power of their own, whispers of the magic of their homelands. Keith closes his eyes, letting it wrap around him, lull him into a state of half sleep. 

He doesn’t know how Lance can manage to sing when in this situation, but perhaps he, too, needs a distraction. 

Keith has never been good at keeping track of time. Time to the vastaya isn’t a solid construct. It ebbs and flows like the magic in their veins. Their lifespans are long, and time is told in the passage of stars. They can feel it in the spread of humans, encroaching on their lands. They can feel it in the strengthening of shadow magic. 

Keith tells time in moments. In days. In weeks. Months. Years. 

Here, in the dark, damp of his cell, he loses all concept of time. Time is told in the space between his meals. In the space between being questioned. In the moments where he sleeps fitfully. 

He eats the bland food offered because he knows he has to. He has to keep up his strength, even as this place drains it from him. He meditates when he sleeps, curling his mind and soul around the magic in his core, protecting it from the creeping shadow magic that threatens to seep through his pores. 

He thinks there’s something in the food that’s keeping him from accessing his magic, but he can’t afford to stop eating to find out.

He doesn’t know how often they question him. Lance says it’s no more than once a day, and while Keith feels like it’s more than that, Lance seems to be better at telling time. Keith knows for certain that he’s questioned more often than Lance is, but he’s fine with that. He’s the one associated with the Blade of Marmora, the only vastayan group actively fighting against the galra. They must have realized that Lance knows nothing, despite his claims that when questioned, he gives them no indication that he is or isn’t with Keith. 

Keith is fine with this. He can handle pain. He’s used to it. He doesn’t like seeing Lance in pain. Doesn’t like hearing the strain in his voice and the hiss in his breaths. He doesn’t like that he cares. 

Mostly, they’re left alone. Alone to lick their wounds and stave off their aches and pains. Keith has never minded silence. He’s spent a lot of his life in silence. The Marmorans aren’t particularly talkative, and after the destruction of their home and the formation of the Blade, he and Shiro have been on their own. He talks to Shiro, but Shiro is someone with whom Keith can enjoy a comfortable silence. Since Shiro has gone missing, silence has been Keith’s only constant companion.

He’s finding that he hates silence with Lance. Perhaps it’s because he can’t see Lance, but he hates when the cells are filled with nothing but strained breaths. It grates against his skin like shadow magic. He only feels better when he can hear Lance’s voice. It’s a comfort. It’s a relief. It’s a reminder that he’s not alone here, beaten, magicless, and with a broken wing. It reminds him that Lance is well enough to speak. 

They talk a lot. They talk about nothing. They talk about everything. They don’t know if and when the galra are listening, so they say nothing important. But they speak to fill the silence. They speak to find comfort in one another. They speak to distract from the pain and the heavy press of shadow magic and the thick, stagnant air. 

Lance tells him stories of his performances. He tells Keith of the times he’s angered villages and of the times he’s accidentally started bar fights. He talks about his narrow escapes, of his grand performances, and he speaks of his successes and failures both with such pride. He’s a storyteller, through and through. He knows how to make his voice rise and fall. He knows how to build suspense, how to create impact. He knows how to make Keith laugh, even if it’s only a low, breathy chuckle. 

Keith, in turn, is not a storyteller. He doesn’t know how to weave a tale to make it interesting. He doesn’t know how to embellish or create a scene with just his words. But Lance hangs on his words anyway. Encourages him to keep going, even when Keith is certain he must be boring him. 

He tells Lance about some of the fights he’s gotten into in human settlements. They bond over bar fights. He tells Lance of all the ridiculous things humans have done to get the upper hand on him. He’s surprised when he finds he can make Lance laugh, and he’s surprised even more when he realizes he likes it. 

When the nights grow long and the anticipation of their next questioning makes them somber, they talk of other things. Lance tells him of Lhotlan lore, and Keith tells him of Marmoran legends. They find common ground in the stars, of constellations. They talk of the ones that are the same, known by all vastaya, and they talk of ones that are specific to their tribes. 

Lance says he wants to show Keith the constellations he’s talking about, to lay beneath the blanket of the night sky and point them out.

Keith isn’t sure that’s a good idea, but he keeps his thoughts to himself. 

Time feels stagnant and still, but it keeps moving. Sometimes sluggish, sometimes with bursts of motion. He counts time in how his bruises form and fade. In how his pains go from sharp to dull aches. 

He spends the time speaking with Lance, his fingers carding through his feathers. His hands are dirty. His feathers are filthy. But any sort of grooming helps. And the constant motion is soothing. So he straightens his feathers, brushes them back into place, stretches the aches from them. He’s never been vain, but he misses the gleam of his feathers under the sun, misses their soft, silky texture. 

He has fleeting thoughts of what it might be like to touch Lance’s feathers.

When Lance is taken for questioning and Keith is left alone, he spends the moments calculating his escape, planning and plotting. It’s not a question of if, but simply a matter of when. 

And when he escapes, he’s going to make certain that Lance is with him.

Keith realizes too late that he’s been foolish. 

He had assumed that because he’s a known member of the Blade, infamous in his strikes against the spread of galra influence, that he would be a priority prisoner. He had assumed that his usefulness would give him time. Time to plan. Time to find a way to escape. That all he had to do was wait it out, deal with the pain, keep avoiding questions. 

He hadn’t realized that the galra did not, in fact, find him that useful if he continued to keep his mouth shut. 

He didn’t realize that their patience had a timer that had been ticking.

He doesn’t realize this until the timer runs out. 

They’ve threatened him. They’ve ripped out some feathers. They’ve broken his wing. They’ve hit him. They’ve cut him. They’ve overrun him with shadow magic, tearing him apart from the inside. They’ve threatened more, but deep down, he never believed them. He stared at them, unflinching and strong. Despite the weakness of his body, his will was strong. 

It isn’t until they pin him to the floor, arms and legs chained up and pulled taught, heavy hands holding his broken wing out straight, a flash of metal catching the light as they pull out an axe, that he really, truly feels fear. 

His body freezes at the sight of the axe, eyes widening and jaw clenching. Adrenaline burns through his veins. They ask him questions again. The usual questions. Demanding information on the Blade. Their movements. Locations of temples and vastaya tribes. Keith can barely hear them over the pound of his heartbeat in his ears.

He’s not proud of how he begs. How he pleads. Of the tears that burn hot in his eyes and fall down his cheeks as he’s faced with the axe. They don’t listen. They want answers, and answers aren’t something he can give them. 

“We have no use for a bird who won’t sing,” One of them says, the leader, the one who always asks the questions. 

“Please,” He begs, voice gone ragged, tongue feeling thick and sluggish, lump in his throat choking. “Don’t! Stop!”

“If you won’t sing, we’ll clip your wings and move you to the arena. It’s been awhile since they’ve had Lhotlan blood.”

Keith screams as the axe falls, deafening and raw, but the ache in his throat is nothing compared to the white hot pain as the steel cuts through his wing bone. 

He must have blacked out, swallowed whole and retreating into himself as shock overtakes his body. When he regains consciousness, he’s being dragged against damp stones, thrown into his cell, falling to the hard, unforgiving floor with a groan. The cell door swings shut behind him, clanking loudly in the dead air. 

His entire back burns. It’s a pain that aches like pulses of fire, waves of heat that spread out through his entire torso, ending in tingles at his fingertips and toes. His chest feels tight. Each breath is shallow. He feels like he can’t get enough air. Each beat of his heart brings a sharp, twisting sting to where the broken skin and bone protrude from his back. His back and remaining feathers feel wet from his own blood, air cooling it, feeling sticky. The cold stone against his cheek is strangely welcome as fire rages through his body. 

Then he hears another cell door open, shuffling, rustling, noises of protest. It takes him a moment to realize what’s happening, for his mind to really catch up to his surroundings. 

Lance.

They’re taking Lance. 

“Keith?” The voice jerks him back to the present, makes his whole body tense, back spasming with it. There’s the sound of rattling chains in front of his cell. “Keith?”

He lifts his head, propping himself up on his elbows to look toward the hall. Lance stands beyond his cell, wings pulled back, feathers puffed up. He’s leaning away from their captors, fighting their hold for the first time. He tries to yank himself out of their grip, but his wrists are bound behind his back. His eyes are wide, fearful and shocked, mouth hanging open, twisted in pain. 

”Keith...” He whispers his name, broken and pained, eyes moving from Keith’s back to his face. 

For the second time, fear runs through Keith’s veins, cooling the fire and leaving him chillingly cold. No. His eyes flicker to Lance’s wings. Dirty and dingy but still beautiful and blue. No, no, no.

“Don’t touch him,” He hisses between clenched teeth, pushing himself to his knees, turning to face his cell’s bars. “Don’t you dare touch him!” He shouts, spit and fire in his voice as he tries to get to his feet. But his balance is thrown off. His left side feels so much heavier. 

The galra are already tugging Lance down the hall, ignoring his struggles and easily overpowering him. Lance tries to twist in their grip, tries to keep his eyes trained on Keith. For the first time since he’s known him, he sees fear twist his features. It makes his gut lurch. 

“Leave him alone!” He shouts, but his protests fall on deaf ears. He throws himself to the bars of his cell, body sagging against them, limbs shaking, back screaming in pain. 

The heavy door closes, leaving Keith with nothing but his own ragged breaths as company. His knees give out, body slumping to the floor. He closes his eyes, resting his forehead against the bars. His knuckles are white as he squeezes them. 

“Don’t...” He says, lips barely moving, voice barely heard. 

Keith has never been one to sing, nor has he been a very touchy person.

He’s only ever really sang when his voice could be easily masked within the chorus of his tribe, and he’s only ever been able to stand touching people that he’s close to. 

But as Lance is thrown into his cell, body broken, bruised, and bloody, crumpling to the hard stone, he finds that neither of those things matter anymore. 

He’s surprised when they toss Lance into his own cell, and as much as he’s itching to crawl to the other vastaya, he stays still, glare trained on the robed figures that move into the cell. They chain the two of them together, wrist to wrist, and Keith scoots forward so Lance doesn’t have to move for them to be close enough to be chained. 

As the others filter out of the cell, the leader of them remains. Keith doesn’t know who they are or what they look like beneath the dark robes, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget their voice. If he hears it once he’s on the outside, he won’t hesitate to kill them. Plain and simple. 

They tell him that their wings will fetch a good price among traders. That Lhotlan wings are hard to come by these days. They tell him that they’ve run out of usefulness. That come tomorrow, they’ll be moved to a different facility. An arena. Where they’ll fight for their own survival daily among other prisoners. 

And then they leave, and a thick silence settles in his cell, broken only by Lance’s ragged and raspy breaths. 

Once he’s sure they’re gone, Keith is moving. He shifts Lance closer to the back wall, wincing and gritting his teeth as the other lets out whimpers of pain. He settles back against the wall, left side pressed to the stone. Lance sprawls out on his stomach, back facing the open air. 

Keith has felt the horror of losing a wing, but seeing it is entirely different. Lance’s left wing is gone. In its place is a short, bloody stump, clothes and exposed back stained dark. It’s no longer actively bleeding, and for that, Keith is thankful. HIs remaining wing is limb down his back, falling off to the floor. Beautiful blue feathers stained and crusting with red. 

It hurts to look at. Makes Keith’s heart squeeze. Makes his stomach roll, bile threatening to rise up his throat. 

This isn’t entirely his fault, and he knows it. Lance is the one who had been following him. Lance got himself into this situation. But Keith can’t help but feel the guilt, heavy and leaden in his gut. 

As obnoxious as Lance is, as much as an idiot he seems as he parades himself around, as much as he puts himself on display for human entertainment. As much as he’s cocky and over confident and showy, Lance is beautiful. It’s a matter of fact. He’s beautiful and he’s talented. He knows it, too, tries to shove it in everyone’s face, which is what grates against Keith’s nerves, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that he is. 

And now he’s lost one of his beautiful wings. 

Keith maneuvers Lance’s head onto his lap, holding their chained wrists at a comfortable angle while his free hand tentatively brushes the hair away from Lance’s sweaty brow. 

Lance’s eyes flicker open, and he tilts his head back a fraction to look up at him. His eyes are dark, glazed, and dazed. There’s strain along the angles of his face, but that doesn’t stop him from forcing a small smile. “Hey.” His voice is rough and hoarse, pained and strained. 

Keith forces a small, wry smile. “Hey,” His voice cracks, but neither of them acknowledge it. His fingers lightly trail along Lance’s cheeks, his jaw, his forehead, his temple. 

The lighting of the cell is dim, but up close, Keith can see how many bruises he has. He’s a little surprised. Lance never fought them when they came to take him out of his cell, yet he bares all the marks of someone who struggled tooth and nail. 

“Admiring my beauty?” Lance hums, traces of amusement in his voice. Keith doesn’t know how he manages it. 

He snorts softly, pad of his thumb gently brushing over a dark bruise beneath one swollen eye. “You have a lot of bruises.”

He tries to shrug, no doubt out of habit, but the movement jostles his shoulders, his back, and he winces, hissing in pain as he forces his body to once again relax. It takes him a moment longer before he responds, He’s still trying to keep his voice light, despite the increased strain and crack of his words. “I asked them to avoid the face, but they don’t seem to care much for beauty.” He tilts his head a fraction more, flashing Keith a grin that’s far too bright for the grim atmosphere of the cell. “They have no appreciation for my sass.”

Despite it all, Keith finds himself smiling. “So you weren’t a perfectly well behaved prisoner.”

Lance scoffs, rolling his eyes before settling his face back to Keith’s lap, nuzzling in until he’s somewhat comfortable. “Me? Behave? I don’t know the meaning of the word.”

They drop into silence, long enough that Lance’s breathing evens out somewhat and Keith thinks he might have fallen into sleep. His fingers card through Lance’s hair, nails scratching at his scalp, trailing as far down his neck as he dares. His eyes remain on the spot where his wing should be. 

“I’m sorry...” He says to the darkness, barely above a whisper. He doesn’t think Lance will hear. Doesn’t think he’s awake. He’s surprised to hear a mumbled response. 

“It’s not your fault.”

Keith purses his lips, brows furrowing. His own back aches, a pulsing heat that reminds him of his own mutilation. “If it weren’t for me—“

“Keith,” Lance’s voice is surprisingly hard. Stern. It catches Keith’s attention, and he looks down to see a pair of fierce blue eyes gazing up at him, dark in the shadows and narrowed just so. “I don’t blame you. You didn’t do this.”

Keith frowns. He doesn’t have the energy to argue with Lance, and he doesn’t think Lance has the energy to argue back, but he knows the man will if he pushes. So instead he says, “I’m going to get you out of here.”

Lance’s eyes spark in the dim lighting, head tilting as his lips lift into a smirk. “Not if I get you out of here first.”

Keith offers him a small, amused smile, and Lance lowers his head once again, eyes drifting closed, body heaving as he exhales a shuddering sigh. 

Lance seems to relax when Keith runs his fingers through his hair, so he doesn’t stop. And when he’s certain that Lance is close to unconsciousness again, he starts to sing. Soft and ragged, throat dry and raw from his own screams. It’s not beautiful. It’s not remotely pleasant. But as he sings softly, voice shaping words in the old tongue of the Marmora tribe, Lance sighs softly, contently, and that’s all the encouragement that Keith needs. 

✦ ✧ We are seen dancing and thought insane - by those who can't hear the music  ✧ ✦

They get their opportunity the next day when the guards come to get them.  

There are fewer guards this time, no doubt under the impression that they would be weak and subdued after the shock of losing a wing. They are weak, but they are not subdued. And it’s the fire of their rage that gives them strength, that steels their cores, makes the magic inside them flare through their veins, giving them life.

They had whispered their plans in the shadows of the night, between moments of unconsciousness. Their plan was simple: escape. They don’t have much design beyond the initial escape of their cell, but Keith is used to improvising, and Lance assures him he can keep up.

They both try to rest as much as they can as they wait, conserving their energy and building their strength. But sleep is shallow and neither of them can truly rest with adrenaline in their veins and fire in their hearts.

The shackles around their wrists are built to suppress their magic, keeping them from accessing it, but despite what the galra may think, that doesn’t make them helpless.

When the time comes, they’re ready. Their bodies heal faster than humans might, but with the thick corruption of shadow magic around them, muddling and suppressing their natural core, it stunts their healing process. But they’re standing. Battered and bruised. Blood and sweat dried and crusted on their feathers and skin. They still stand.

They stand, and they’re ready to fight.

They wait, against the back wall, feigning defeat as the guard yank them to their feet. Then they strike. They knock their feet out from under them. Lance wraps their connecting chains around one of the guard’s necks, using his free arm and body weight to hold down flailing limbs. Meanwhile Keith wrestles with the other on the ground as best he can. He finally manages to get his legs wrapped around the galra’s neck, ignoring the nails that scrape and claw at his thighs as he squeezes.

After the body goes limp, he waits a moment longer before releasing him. When he looks to Lance to see how he’s fairing, he’s crouched over the other unconscious guard, watching Keith with a strange mix of wonder, appreciation, and something darker.

It makes Keith’s rapid heartbeat flutter, and he ignores the feeling as he pushes himself to his feet, leading Lance to the open door of their cell.

They heave the door open slowly, pausing to peek out into the hallway beyond. It splits to either side, and for the moment, it’s empty. Keith nods to himself. “Let’s go.”

Keith darts to the left, and Lance turns to the right. They’re both jerked backwards as the shackles between their wrists are pulled tight. Keith’s eyes widen in surprise, and Lance let’s out a small yelp. He stumbles back a couple steps, turning to glare at Lance.

Lance lifts their joined wrists, lips pursed as his gaze narrows on the chains. Then his gaze flickers to Keith’s overtop them, and he quirks a small, wry smile. “Guess that’s not gonna work.”

Keith huffs, glaring at the chains. It’s not like he forgot about them, but he certainly hadn’t thought this through.

Great.

Before they can argue over which way to go, Keith’s ears twitch, hearing the soft pad of footsteps down the hall behind him. He whips his head around. He can’t see them yet, but he knows they’re coming. They don’t, however, sound to be in a rush. So for the moment, they have an advantage.

“Let’s go your way.” He says, turning back around to hurry past Lance.

His eyes are locked down the hall where Keith had been staring, lips pursed into a small frown. “Right, sounds good.” He says, stumbling after Keith when the shackles between them pull taut.

The dungeons are built like a maze. Hallways upon hallways. Turns and twists. All dark and lantern lit. The air is stale and stagnant, giving Keith the distinct impression that they’re underground. They keep their ears perked and alert, listening for any sound of footsteps or voices that aren’t their own. 

Walking is a strange thing without one of his wings. He’s always had two. They’ve always been apart of him. He learned to walk with them. He hadn’t realized just how much his balance would suffer without one. He felt off. Felt wrong. Everything felt off center, and all the movements he’s grown accustomed to doing automatically need to be adjusted. 

It’s a strange feeling, one that means more for his future, but one he can’t dwell on right now.

Every time they come across a patrol, Lance tugs him down another hallway, despite Keith’s itch to just keep going. It’s only a matter of time before they’re discovered missing, and the quickest way out is a straight shot, but Lance has them twisting and redirecting to avoid guards.  

There’s not much Keith can do to protest. Arguing takes even more time, and Lance is surprisingly strong.

Then the alarm sounds. Loud and piercing, a ripple of shadow magic rolling through the air. They both freeze, bodies stiffening and ears laying flat to escape the sound. They exchange looks before picking up the pace, moving from a quick but careful walk to a run.

Ahead they hear footsteps coming toward them, fast and urgent. Keith steels himself, gritting his teeth as he picks up his pace. He’s ready to run straight into them, to kick and claw and knock them down before he keeps running.

But Lance tugs him into an alcove, a nook off to the side of the main hall, shrouded in shadows and out of the main reach of the lantern light. They stand close to the stone walls, wings folded as close as they might. Keith holds his breath as the footsteps near, body going still as he tries to slow his heartbeat.

His knees bend, shoulders hunching, preparing to strike. When the steps are right in front of them, his body tenses, leaping forward—

Lance jerks him back, using their joined hands to wrap awkwardly around Keith’s lower back, holding him to Lance’s chest. His free hand lands heavily over Keith’s mouth before he can voice a protest. His eyes go wide before glaring at the other vastaya, but Lance’s eyes are on the hall, watching with tight lips and hard eyes as the guards run past them.

Once they’re gone, footsteps fading, Keith pushes away from him, ripping the hand from over his mouth. “What are you doing?” He hisses, furious.

Lance’s eyes narrow, gaze still hard and unyielding. “Me? What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to get us out of here.”

“You’re trying to fight."

“Of course I am! Why aren’t you?”

They’re close, and Keith doesn’t remember getting this close. He can feel Lance’s panting breath hot against his cheeks. Their noses brush just slightly. Lance’s blue eyes are a storm that take up the entirety of his vision. “We’re unarmed,” Lance hisses, frustration and exasperation clear in his tone. “We need to get out of here alive, and that means picking our battles!” Keith scowls, opening his mouth to protest, surprised into silence when Lance’s finger is suddenly pressed against his lips. The other vastaya leans back, face forced to relax as he smiles. “Look, I dig your fighting spirit, I really do. But neither of us are strong enough to fight our way out of here. We need to play this carefully.”

Keith glares at him, smacking Lance’s hand away. He turns away with a huff. “Fine,” He says, ignoring the weird feeling in his chest and Lance’s smile as he leads the way back down the hall.

They dodge a few more patrols, and Keith feels like they’re going in circles before they finally find the stairs that lead up into the main compound. It’s then that Keith realizes that this isn’t solely a prison. It’s an entire galra hideout. And it’s high in activity with the news of their escape.

The stairs are guarded by two soldiers, and they managed to sneak up behind them, knocking them out much like they had the guards in their cells. With a grunt of effort, they manage to drag the unconscious bodies to the side before climbing the steps.

They barely make it out into the main compound before Keith stops in his tracks, eyes locked onto a room with the door cracked. From what he can see inside, the room is a mess, but he’s been in galra compounds before. He knows the layout. He knows they always have a room where they keep confiscated prisoner possessions.

His knife.

His belt feels far too light without it.

“Keith?” Lance calls, having been tugged to a stop, but Keith isn’t looking at him. “Keith! Come on, we gotta go.” He says with a tug at their shackles.

Keith knows he’s right. Time is limited. They need to escape. But... “My knife.” He says, eyes tearing away from the door to lock with Lance’s, wide and confused.

“What?”

“My knife,” Keith repeats, eyes flickering to the room once again. “It’s probably in there.”

“I thought you used your feathers,” Lance says, confusion coloring his tone.

“I do, but— All members of the Blade have a knife— my knife is probably in there—“

“Keith, we don’t have time!”

He knows. He knows. He knows. But... He turns back to Lance, eyes wide and pleading. He hears it in the way his voice cracks. “Lance, please. It’s all I have.” He hates how broken he sounds, how pathetic and weak.

But Lance’s face softens. He heaves a heavy sigh, eyes darting around the hall, running fingers through his hair, making it stand up with sweat and dirt. “Alright, yeah,” He says, turning to Keith with a smile that’s small but vibrant in the dreary halls of the galra compound. “Let’s hurry.”

They dart into the room, which is thankfully empty. Unfortunately, it’s a mess. Prisoner possessions have been tossed around, none of them organized in any shape or form. Obviously having been riffled through without any sense of care. He digs through everything thoroughly, hands grabbing everything, eyes darting everywhere for any glimpse or gleam of the familiar metal. The familiar gemstone.

Lance stays by his side, giving their joined hands as much movement as possible, but his eyes remain on the door, posture stiff and nervous.

“Keith...” He mumbles, wary and low.

Keith’s ears twitch, twisting to listen. He can hear footsteps approaching, slow and cautious. Questioning voices.

“Did you leave that door open?” Comes one voice.

“Not that much.” Says the other.

“Keeeeith...” Lance whines, tugging gently at their joined wrists.

Keith doesn’t look up. He needs his knife. He needs it. It’s all he has left to connect him to the Marmora. His people. His home. It’s who he is. He can’t leave it here. He won’t.

“Hey—!” One of the guard shouts, but the sound is choked off into a pained gurgle. And Keith whips around to see Lance driving his elbow into the man’s throat before grabbing him and locking his free arm around his neck.

The guard pushes backwards, ramming Lance’s back into the wall, and Lance’s face twists in pain as his wing stump hits the stone, hissing breath escaping through clenched teeth, but he holds on tight. The movement jerks Keith off the floor by their joined wrists. The guard’s hands are clawing at Lance’s arm, but he refuses to give. Keith’s eyes flicker to the doorway as the second guard comes into view.

“Keith!”

He turns, and Lance’s eyes are locked in the direction of the doorway, staring pointedly down the guard’s body. Keith follows his gaze to— there, on his belt, is Keith’s knife. Handle of it poking up through the leather strap.

“Is that—?” Lance asks, sounding winded and strained.  

“Yeah,” Keith replies, eyes locked and narrowed on the new guard.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Lance’s smile. “Well, what’re you waiting for?”

Lance locked his grip around the guard’s neck, lifting their joined hands to hold the man’s shoulder in place. In one swift motion, summoning more strength and dexterity than Keith would have given him credit for, Lance snaps the man’s neck. It’s quick, decisive, and fluid. With a push, he drops the body to the floor, taking a moment to straighten his clothes and roll his shoulders as he peels himself off the wall.

He glances at Keith, who’s watching him, impressed. But Lance only smiles, small and slight, a dark glint in his eyes mingling with his amusement. “I’m not helpless.” He says.

Keith finds himself smiling. “I never said you were.”

“You were thinking it.”

Keith shrugs, but before he can reply, the other guard is shouting. He reaches for his belt, ripping out Keith’s knife, pulling his arm back, hurling it towards him.

He snaps into motion out of reflex, twisting his body to dodge the knife as it tumbles blade over handle at him. It skims past his face, over his shoulder, and he moves with it, snatching it out of the air with practiced ease. This is his knife. If the guard thinks he can hurt him with it, he has another thing coming.

Keith continues his twist, momentum carrying his body in a tight circle. Lance, surprisingly, moves with him, spinning around him on light feet, wing and feathers flaring out behind him in a way that is entirely unnecessary and entirely for show. Leave it to Lance to make a performance out of a fight. He moves around Keith as if it were a dance, helping carry his momentum around.

And as they complete the spin, the flurry of feathers and wings, Keith extends his arm, letting go, and watching as the knife shoots out, blade embedding in the guard’s chest.

Lance lets out a low whistle as the man falls, then turns to look at Keith with raised brows. “Impressive.”

Keith smirks, already pulling him across the room to retrieve his knife. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Gladly.”

They rush through the halls, avoiding guards where they can, taking them out when they can’t. Tainted magic is thick as the guards search for them, but from what Keith can tell, this compound has a fair number of galra who can’t use shadow magic. They thrive in it, but they’re either soldiers or acolytes. It makes it harder for them to track the two vastaya, and Keith is grateful.

They find a door, and they can smell the fresh air leaking through the cracks. It’s not the main door, but it’s still guarded. Two of them. Build strong. Padded leather armor. Swords at their hips. Keith is willing to bet all exits are guarded at this point. And two guards are a lot easier to get past than more.

He starts for them, but Lance tugs him back, pressing a finger to his own lips to signal silence. While they hide around the corner from sight, he goes through a series of complication hand motions, grinning at Keith expectantly when he finishes.

Keith just stares, one brow raising in his confusion.

Lance sighs, shoulders slumping. “Never mind.” He mumbles, a soft huff as he inches toward the corner. “Just... follow my lead.”

He steps around the corner then, casual and calm, like he’s walking into a tavern and not into view of two armed galra soldiers. “Hey, fellas!” He says, voice loud enough to carry, light and lilting. Once he’s in sight, he leans against the corner of the wall, wing flaring out a little to hide Keith from sight. His shackled arm is behind him, allowing Keith to remain just around the corner. From the guards’ view, Lance is alone.

“Halt!” One of them calls.

“Hey, now! No need to shout. I’m already halted. See?” Keith’s ears twitch as he hears them approach. He crouches low behind Lance, knife held loosely in his grip.

“Hands in the air.” One of them snaps.

“Where’s the other one?” Demands the other.

“You guys are so stiff! How about you relax a little. What about a joke? Okay, okay. How do you catch a unique bird?” There’s a pause, and Keith can only imagine the baffled scowls on the soldiers’ faces. “Unique up on it!” A soft chuckle, Lance’s shoulders shaking slightly. “Get it? Like you sneak up on it?” There’s the sound of weapons being drawn. “Hey! Whoa! Okay, okay, calm down. I’m not gonna kill ya.” He pauses, and Keith can hear the smug grin in his voice. It makes his own lips curl into a small smirk. There’s a tug on their shackled wrists, cluing Keith in that it’s time. “He is.”

Lance’s hand grabs Keith’s wrist, giving them more leverage as he swings his arm around, lending Keith momentum as he swings around the corner. His knife finds the first guard’s neck. Then Lance is spinning him again, and he lets the momentum carry him, letting his body roll with it, wing flaring out with the movement. His knife rips from the guard’s throat, and he tosses it in the air, catching it in a different grip, slamming it into the next guard between his armor plates, twisting.

Then Lance is pulling him again, and they’re running, shoving through the heavy doors, and stumbling out into the fresh air.

✦ ✧ I look around these forests and I see freedom. I hear the music  ✧ ✦

The sun sets as they make their mad dash through the forest.

The air is still dampened by lingering shadow magic, but the natural magic of the land is clearer than it had been inside the prison. Keith feels like he can finally breathe, despite the burn in his lungs and the ache in his legs. The cold metal over his wrist still keeps him from being able to access his magic, but he can feel it inside him, boiling and writhing and damn near bursting from the seams. 

It’s a fire in him that keeps him going. 

The galra are hot on their trail. They can feel the waves of shadow magic that linger around them, from their druids’ searching fingers. They can hear the feet of the soldiers trampling through the forest behind them, not gaining any closer but also not falling behind. 

He and Lance may have an advantage by being vastaya, having more natural stamina than humans, but the galra are something in between. Humans corrupted by the allure of tainted magic, infusing their bodies and making them an unnatural hybrid between human and vastaya. And he and Lance are still injured, still weak. They can only keep going as long as their adrenaline lasts. 

Running is far more difficult than he anticipated. Lance can keep up, but Keith is just a little faster, a little lighter on his feet. He’s quick to jump over obstacles and turn in directions that his gut deems the best path. Lance let’s him lead now, following him through the woods without protest. Running with their wrists shackled close makes for awkward posturing. Even more so when they’re both thrown off balance from missing a wing. 

More than once Keith finds himself stumbling after throwing out his wings for balance, only to find his center of gravity is completely thrown off with only one. He stumbles, and Lance catches him, pushes him back up, hand on his lower back to keep him moving. Lance stumbles several times himself, and Keith bites back a frustrated groan, tugging on his arm, pulling him back to his feet. 

They need a plan. They need a way to escape. They can’t keep running forever, and he can already feel their stamina and strength waning. His body aches, burns, protests. They need something, anything to give them a chance to get away.

Lance must be thinking the same thing because he’s suddenly tugging on Keith’s arm, pulling him off in another direction. Keith is startled. Lance has been following him up until this point, so the sudden change is unexpected. But he has no better ideas, so he stumbles after him. 

Then the sound of running water reaches his ears. They twitch atop his head, perking forward, twitching irritably. But Lance doesn’t stop running, and when he notices Keith started to slow down, he doesn’t hesitate to pull him bodily forward, refusing to let their momentum slow.

When they reach a river, wide and current quick, Lance turns, leading them along the riverbank on light, quick steps, heading downstream. Keith eyes it warily, panting against his burning lungs and the tight squeeze of fear in his chest. 

Lance stops suddenly when they reach a cliff, standing next to where the river falls over it into a wider river below. Keith skids to a stop, eyes wide and heart hammering in his throat. He leans back as Lance leans forward, pulling their joined arms taut as he peers over the edge of the cliff. 

When he turns back to Keith, he’s grinning. 

“No,” Keith says, already shaking his head. “No. No way. We’re not doing that.”

Lance’s grin falls, shoulders hunching as he frowns. “Come on! It looks deep enough.”

Keith shakes his head a little more vigorously, taking a step backwards. His skin feels cold and clammy where the fresh air cools his sweat. The dried blood on his back itches terribly. “There has to be another way.”

He turns, moving to take another step back the way they’ve come, but Lance tugs him forward with enough force that has Keith stumbling. Lance catches him, one hand on his wrist, one on his upper arm to steady him. Keith’s free hand ends up on Lance’s chest to catch himself. He glares up at the other vastaya and is surprised to find Lance is already glaring back at him. 

“Keith, there is no other way. This is the best chance we have.” His voice is hard. Steady. Sure. It leaves no room for Keith to argue because Keith knows he’s right. But...

His eyes stray to the river beside them, eyeing the spot where the water tumbles over the cliff, the sound of it roaring loud in his ears. Thundering. Deafening. Terrifying. “I— I can’t—“ He says, voice cracking. He snaps his mouth shut, biting his cheek. His eyes flicker back to Lance’s, wide and pleading. He tries to take a step backwards, but Lance doesn’t let him, grip tightening.

“Do you trust me?” Lance asks, voice soft and low. Keith is surprised he’s even able to hear it over the roar of the falls. 

Keith stops struggling and stares at him, mouth agape. “I don’t even know you!” He snaps. 

Lance doesn’t even flinch. The corner of his lips quirk just a little, just enough to soften the edges of his hard gaze. “Do you trust me?” He repeats. So soft. So sure. Keith can feel Lance’s heart hammering beneath his hand. 

There’s shouts somewhere behind him, and Keith’s ears swivel towards it, but his eyes remain on Lance. The galra are catching up. He and Lance are outnumbered. There’s no way they can fight and win. This is their best chance, and he knows that.

His eyes flicker to the water before returning to Lance’s. Keith feels captivated by the depths of his gaze, holding his so firmly. There’s something... calming about him. Something that eases the frazzled edges of Keith’s fraying nerves. Something that makes breathing a little easier. Something solid and firm and anchoring. 

Keith can’t say for sure if he trusts Lance. He barely knows Lance. 

But he wants to trust Lance.

So he clenches his jaw, grits his teeth, and nods. Lance’s answering grin is blinding in the setting sun. The bruises and cuts, dried sweat and blood, do nothing to detract from his beauty. They help give him a dangerous edge. One that has a thrill shooting down Keith’s spine. 

Lance’s free arm wraps around his lower back, pulling him in close, until they’re pressed chest to chest. He holds Keith’s hand between them, shackles pressing uncomfortably into their flesh. “Just hold onto me.” He says, voice a low whisper in Keith’s ear, breath tickling his fur, brushing against his hair. 

Then they jump, and the thundering of the waterfall drowns out the sound of their pursuers shouting. 

Keith’s stomach drops with the feeling of free fall. His body tenses, curling himself automatically into Lance, into his warmth, into his sturdy and comforting hold. Their wings automatically flare out, attempting to slow their descent. It does little to help, however. Keith can feel how stiff his feathers are, and the yank of wind against his good wing jostles his back, tugging on his broken stump and sending pain through his torso. 

The wind catches his wing and Lance’s, causing them to be thrown off kilter, making them spin. Keith squeezes his eyes shut and holds his breath, bracing himself for impact.

It’s not the fall he fears, but the water below. 

Luckily, the water is deep enough to catch them. But as soon as the icy depths wrap around him, engulf him, Keith’s entire body freezes. He tenses up, unable to move, irrational fear and panic making his chest squeeze. His lungs burn. 

Then Lance is tugging his body, hauling him through the water. Keith can’t bring himself to help or struggle, hanging limp as Lance pulls him through the water. 

He doesn’t know how long they swim for, how long he’s forced to hold his breath, but it feels like an eternity before his head is breaking the surface. He drags air greedily into his lungs, limbs finally able to move, desperately keeping his head above water. Then Lance is tugging him again, pulling him through the water, cutting through it himself like he was made for it. 

Keith briefly and distantly is awed by this fact. By how naturally Lance moves in the water, easy and fluid, moving with it rather than against it. Keith can feel the drag of his wing behind him, the pull of water lodged feathers, but Lance doesn’t even look like he struggles with his. 

When they reach the riverbank, a ways down from the waterfall, Lance drags him ashore. He pulls him bodily from the water, stumbling a ways before they both collapse. Lance leans against a thick tree trunk, and Keith falls against him. He leans against him, both hands clenched against his bare chest, body curled up in Lance’s open lap, head fallen to rest on his shoulder. His wing is tucked up close to his back, and he greedily tries to absorb Lance’s warmth, feeling his own body shivering violently, uncontrollably. 

The tree they find shelter next to is giant, roots splaying out far and wide, and they nestle between them, surrounded by them, hidden in a pocket with the river to their backs. 

For a moment, they both simply lay there, huddled together, and breathe. Eventually, Lance’s heaving chest evens out, the heartbeat beneath Keith’s fingers calming to something more manageable. “See?” He hears Lance say, still sounding breathless but with an edge of amusement. “That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”

Keith lifts his head to glare at him, ears pressed flat to his head, hair a dripping mess, plastering to his skin. He’s still shivering, even if it’s not as obvious as it had been moments ago. He knows, however, that he’s pressed close enough to Lance for him to feel it. He scowls, but feels like the heat behind it falls flat, especially when faced with Lance’s widening grin. 

He chuckles, and Keith can feel it rumbling beneath him, low and pleasant. “You look like a drowned cat.” He says, but while it’s teasing, his voice is also so incredibly soft, almost... fond. It makes Keith’s retort die on his tongue. 

He stiffens when Lance lifts a hand to run his fingers through his damp hair, pushing it back away from his face, soothing his palms over Keith’s ears, fingers soft and gentle as he scratches at the base of his ears. 

Against his will, he relaxes, eyes closing and head dropping back to Lance’s shoulder. He doesn’t have the energy in him to protest in this moment, and it feels much nicer than he’s willing to admit. 

The moment is shattered when they hear shouts again, footsteps pounding through the forest. They both stiffen, Lance’s hand in his hair stilling. As the voices get closer, Lance’s hand slides down his back, wrapping his free arm around Keith’s waist, twisting their bodies slightly, poising himself just a little above him. His wing falls over them both. It doesn’t offer any protection, nor does it offer camouflage. 

But the intent behind it is there, and it makes Keith’s stomach flip. 

They wait, both of them barely daring to breathe while they listen, ears twitching at every sound. The shouts come closer, voices rising and footsteps so close that for a moment, Keith thinks they’ll be found. His fingers close around the hilt of his knife, and he waits. 

But then the footsteps pass, moving right past the other side of the tree that hides them, leaping over the other end of the root system. They don’t relax until all sounds of pursuit fade and the forest comes back alive around them. 

They exchange glances, grim expressions and somber faces. They help each other to their feet and set off down river. Neither of them speak, silently listening for any sign of the galra nearby. 

Keith tries not to dwell on the echoing memory of being pressed against Lance’s chest, slender fingers carding through his hair. 

✦ ✧ I am Vastaya. I am born of magic. This is my destiny ✧ ✦

They walk through the night, exhaustion hanging on their shoulders but neither of them willing to stop. They find a village near dawn, and sneak through the streets until they find the blacksmith’s.

The fires are already lit, the local blacksmith already taking stock for the day as his apprentices tend to the furnaces and sweep the floors. They all stare, open mouthed and wide eyed, as the two vastaya stumble in. They’re dirty, single wings a mess, clothes barely wearable, looking tired and beaten. 

Still, Lance manages to smile. He smiles and holds himself light on his feet, despite the heavy droop to his wing. Chin held high and laughter on his tongue, he talks to the blacksmith like they’ve been friends for years. Keith watches, an equal mix between awed and baffled. He can’t bring himself to do more than stare flatly, a vague scowl on his face as he glares at the apprentices staring. 

Lance manages to convince the blacksmith to help them, despite the fact that they have no money or goods to trade. While the man riffles through his tools, Lance weaves an exciting tale of them getting captured by the ruthless galra clan, of their torture, of their daring escape. It’s embellished, fanciful, and by the time he’s done, it barely resembles what actually happened. 

But it also is specifically tailored to induce awe and gain sympathy. And it works like a charm. Keith remains silent as Lance paints them as brave, vastaya heroes, nearly downed by the terrorizing galra clan but able to persevere. Even the blacksmith looks impressed as the cuts the shackles from their wrists. 

As soon as they’re freed, Keith steps back, rubbing his raw and bruised wrist with his left hand. 

He watches for a moment longer as Lance chats with the blacksmith, easy smile on his face as he sips from an offered waterskin. He takes a step back into the shadows, and then another. Then he turns and slips outside.

The world is cast in shades of gray, the odd veil between night and day, where the air is damp with dew and thick with mystery, where time seems to stand still. 

He breathes in deep, closing his eyes briefly to settle himself. 

He considers saying goodbye to Lance, but decides against it. Lance is back in his element. This is what he does. Keith still has a job to to. A purpose. He needs to keep moving forward. He doesn’t have time for distractions. He doesn’t have time for pretty boys with pretty feathers and smiles that make his heart race. 

Lance is much better off without him. He only brings pain to those close to him. It’s better if he doesn’t say goodbye. It’s better if he just leaves. It’s better if he just disappears, fading back into myth and gossip and rumor. He’s already caused Lance enough pain.

Besides, he needs to find Shiro. 

He opens his eyes, clenches his fists, and starts off down the dirt packed street, back the way they had come. 

“Not even going to say goodbye?” Comes the voice behind him, halting him in his tracks. 

Keith turns, glaring at Lance over his shoulder. Despite his tone, light and teasing, despite his little smirk, Keith can see the shadow of hurt in his eyes. He steels himself against it. Hardens himself. Ignores the twist in his gut. “Stop following me.”

Lance shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning his weight to one side. His wing droops low behind him. “Sorry, Keith. We bonded. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“Just... go back to your life, Lance.” Keith bites out, turning on his heel and walking away. 

When he speaks, it’s soft and weary, exhausted but determined. There’s no doubt in his voice, only tired certainty. “I’m going to find you again, Keith.” 

Keith really hopes that he doesn’t. 

He hopes that he does.