Archive of Our Own

Grian closes his eyes and lets the sunlight wash over him, warming his skin and hair. He relishes every moment he spends outdoors, treasuring the brief reprieve from his duties inside the dark house.

Today, the majority of his tasks involve the garden. Of course, he has his daily chores of making meals and sweeping and dusting and mopping and dressing the house’s inhabitants, but those are a blip in the grand scheme of the day.

And what a beautiful day for it – not too hot, but pleasant enough to go outside without a cloak or jacket, with a cool breeze that rustles the tree leaves and Grian’s hair. His wings itch to unfurl, to let the wind blow through the feathers, but he keeps them folded tight against his back. Even that’s not worth the Watchers’ wrath.

Grian kneels in the dirt, examining the pumpkin patch. They’ve come along beautifully this year. He could make a lot with them: pumpkin pie, roasted pumpkin seeds, puree, pumpkin bread, soup, vegetable stock… though, he’ll have to do whatever the Watchers request.

He eyes a smaller pumpkin. Maybe he could squirrel that one away in the attic, sneak down into the kitchen late at night, and make something just for himself. His mouth waters at the thought.

But, no, that wouldn’t be possible. The Watchers see everything. They’d notice if he took a pumpkin. They’d notice if he took a single pea pod. 

Grian cuts the stems of a few pumpkins and loads them into his vegetable cart. He’s hefting the second one in when his foot dislodges the third and sends it rolling down the hill.

“Oh, shoot,” he mutters, and takes off after it, picking his way through the foliage surrounding the garden. The pumpkin shows no signs of slowing down. It tumbles out of sight. Grian runs after it.

He slows to a jog as the terrain evens out somewhat, then to a walk as he spots orange through the branches. He crouches down to lift it up.

“Well, hello there.”

Grian freezes.

“Are runaway pumpkins common in these parts?”

Slowly, very slowly, Grian straightens up, eyes trailing up the legs of a white and brown spotted horse, up and up until he meets the gaze of its rider. He seems tall, though it’s hard to judge height when he’s both sitting down and on a very large horse, with messy brown hair and emerald eyes. He’s dressed in a green velvet coat embroidered with golden floral patterns, riding pants, and leather boots.

But by far, his most striking feature is his scars.

He has multiple on his face alone. One cuts across his left eyebrow. Another mars his right cheekbone. A third stretches across the bridge of his nose, crooked from a previous break. Almost imperceptibly, a small white scar offsets the symmetry of his lips.

“Hello,” says Grian. “I seem to have lost my pumpkin.”

“Do you live around here?” the man says.

Grian can’t get his brain to function properly. He opens his mouth, about to speak, then closes it and simply nods.

“That’s interesting,” says the man. He looks over his shoulder, breaking eye contact, and Grian can breathe again. “I was sure this area was just forest.”

“It’s quite hidden away,” Grian says. “The– my… employers, I guess, don’t like to be bothered.”

“I’ll do my best to keep it that way, then,” says the man, and smiles. Grian has to think for a moment to remember how to smile back. The man’s hands tighten around the reins of his horse.

“Why are you here?” asks Grian, suddenly desperate for him to stay, then immediately winces.

The man doesn’t seem bothered at all. “I’m supposed to be on a hunt.”

“What for?”

“I’ve been told there’s a great white wolf in this forest. Supposedly, it’s tradition to come out here and hunt for it.”

“I’ve heard of a white wolf in these parts.”

The man sits up straighter. “Really?”

“Yes,” says Grian, “but I’d rather you left her alone. She’s a friend of mine, and I’d be very grateful if she were unharmed.”

The man crosses his hand over his heart. “You have my word!”

Grian eyes the quiver of arrows on the man’s back. He raises an eyebrow. “What are you doing instead? If you aren’t hunting like you’re supposed to be.”

“Well, I’m talking to you, of course!” says the man, flashing Grian a brilliant smile. The whiteness of his teeth is almost blinding.

“Right,” Grian says, “of course. And what do you do when you’re not pretending to hunt a great white wolf or talking to me?”

“I–” the man starts, then falters. “I work at the palace.”

Grian’s eyes widen. “Are you serious?”

The man nods. “And you? When you’re not chasing pumpkins?”

“I suppose you could call me a servant.”

“And what did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t.”

The man smiles wider. “A man of mystery, are you?”

Grian shrugs. “Guess I am.”

“No matter. My name’s–”

A distant hunting horn bellows from further into the woods. At the same moment, a summoning bell rings from the Watcher house.

“I must be off,” says the man. “I hope I come across you again, mystery pumpkin man.”

Grian searches for the words to reply, but comes up with nothing. Instead, he smiles and gives a nod before turning and heading back up the hill. Behind him, the man nudges his horse and rides away in the opposite direction.

He thinks about the not-hunter as he sets places at the dining table that night, and as he washes the dishes, and as he helps the Watchers to undress, and as he takes his meal of leftover scraps by the dwindling embers of the fire. What a strange man. So covered in scars, yet dressed so finely. A hunter, but unwilling to hunt. 

Grian rests his head on the stone floor, watching the coals in the fireplace fade. To work in the palace… The servants there must have their own beds to sleep in. Their own rooms, maybe. They wake each morning and serve themselves breakfast and tend to the king, and the nobles who live there, and wander through the palace gardens in their free time. They’re greeted with a smile and dismissed with a thank you, he bets.

The servants in the palace also don’t have wings.

Grian watches the fire until he can’t keep his eyes open anymore. He dreams of stained glass and freshly laundered silk sheets.

The Watchers are out on business today. They won’t be back until midday tomorrow, leaving Grian alone to tend the house. He packs up their carriage first thing in the morning and waits until they’re out of sight and earshot before he darts back inside. He locks himself in the attic, draws the curtains, and pulls his shirt over his head.

Grian examines himself in the dusty mirror propped up against the wall, gently running his fingers along the ropes that bind his wings to his back, secured with knots around his chest and stomach. He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly through his nose, then pulls the ropes loose.

Gritting his teeth, he unfolds his wings, pushing through the aches and pains that come with moving a limb that’s been locked in place for a long time. They’d be beautiful, he thinks, if they were allowed to breathe. As they are now, though, not so much. Snow white feathers that would otherwise shimmer brilliantly are broken and wildly out of place, covered in dust and grime. Each movement sends twinges of pain from the wing roots to the tips.

Grian stretches them out as far as he can before the pain becomes too much and holds them there for a second. He sits down cross legged on the floor and gets to work preening them, ripping out the broken feathers, straightening the crooked ones, brushing dirt out from in between them. They’ll be bound to his back again shortly, but the brief reprieve is worth it.

With the Watchers gone for the day, Grian takes the risk of not binding them just yet, instead only folding them against his back and covering them with his shirts. He goes about his regular morning chores as quickly as he can so he can be out in the garden. On days without the Watchers, he gets visitors.

They’re already waiting for him at the edge of the forest when he steps outside. Grian smiles.

“Hello,” he says.

“Morning,” says Pearl. She’s a tall woman with long brown hair, clad in a blood-red cloak. Grian’s not sure where she came from. For all he knows, she lives alone in the forest with only her wolf for company. Said wolf companion, a hulking beast of an animal, sits dutifully at her side. “How are you?”

“As good as I can be,” says Grian. “The weather’s been nice recently. The garden’s doing great.”

Pearl tilts her head. “Nothing new?”

Grian shrugs.

“They hurt you recently?”

Grian shrugs again. Pearl frowns. Her wolf, Tilly, softly whines.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Pearl,” says Grian. “It’s not like I can do anything about it. And as much as I enjoy your visits, there’s not much you can do about it either.”

Pearl’s hands twitch at her side, like she’s itching to wrap her fingers around the handle of a weapon. But she takes a moment, breathes deep, and rolls her shoulders back. 

“How are you and Tilly doing?”

“Oh, just fine. Tilly’s a wonderful girl. The weather’s been good for our garden, too, even if Tilly loves to get her beautiful white fur all caked in dirt.”

“Keep an eye out for hunters. I heard they might be after your wolf.”

“You don’t have to worry about us. The hunters, though…”

“Can I get you anything? Do you need any food to take back, or some water?”

Pearl smiles. Tilly wags her tail. Grian walks closer and holds his hand out for her to sniff.

“Not right now. We’ve got all we need. Right, Tilly?”

Tilly barks in affirmation and licks Grian’s palm. He rubs her head and scritches behind her ears, his hands sinking into her fur. She’s got so much of it he could bury his hand all the way up to his elbow.

Pearl hangs around and chats while Grian tends the garden and harvests what he can. She never crosses the property line. She never has.

Eventually, the sun begins to dip in the sky, and Pearl bids her farewells before vanishing back into the forest. Grian goes back inside and binds his wings with rope. He collapses on the mattress in the attic.

When the Watchers return, it’s with a fervent excitement. There’s a buzz to them that makes Grian’s skin crawl. All he can do is try to keep out of the way lest they notice him and find an outlet for their energy.

He carries their luggage inside, unpacks it as quietly and efficiently as he can, and sets about preparing supper. Even so, he earns himself a few hits to the back of his head and, once, a grip on his wrist hard enough to bruise. It’s less than he expected. Whatever’s caused this excitement in the Watchers must be big. They murmur to each other, careful to fall silent whenever Grian is in earshot. That, too, raises interest. They don’t hide things from him often. Who would he tell? It’s not like he can leave. The Watchers have made that very clear.

If Grian were to leave, if he were to deny the Watchers’ protection, if he were to unbind his wings and leave them on display, there’s no doubt he would be captured and sold. Or, worse, he would have the wings ripped from his back and be left to die. The outside world is not kind.

But today, they’re hiding something.

One thing the Watchers haven’t managed to train him out of is his urge to meddle. To find loopholes. If the Watchers are hiding something from him, there’s a reason. 

So, as he serves their supper, he keeps an eye out. And– there. The corner of a slip of paper peeks out of one of the Watchers’ pockets. On his way back to the kitchen, he bumps against the chair and slips the paper into his sleeve. He’s rewarded with a slap across the face.

“Pay attention,” says the Watcher. “How are we to look out for you if you don’t pay attention?”

Grian says nothing, simply bowing in apology and rushing out of the room.

That night, he locks himself in the attic and pulls the paper out to examine. He sits on the windowsill and squints at the letters in the light of the moon. His reading isn’t great – he doesn’t need to know much to serve the Watchers, and there’s no point if he never leaves the property, but he can make out a few things.

First, the royal seal. Highly important, then. He knows the Watchers have a lot of power and influence, but he had no idea it reached the palace.

Second, numbers. A date, he thinks. Grian wracks his brain, but he can’t recall the current date. The changing of the season affects his duties more than the changing of the day, and the Watchers don’t keep a calendar. None that he’s allowed to see, anyway.

Third, a word he’s intimately familiar with. Hybrid. That, at least, is a word the Watchers made sure he knew. See how they target you, they said. See the way they single you out. You mean nothing to them aside from the wings on your back.

That must be why they kept this from him. Something about the king, and a specific date, and hybrids. But they’d keep him safe. They promised. As long as he’s with the Watchers, he’s under their protection. No one should know about his existence.

Grian stares at the paper until the moon no longer offers its light, and even then, he holds it, heart hammering in his chest but his body unable to move. 

A bell rings. Grian blinks himself out of his stupor. His entire body aches and he’s not sure if he slept or not.

He drags himself up, tightens the ropes around his wings, and stuffs the paper in his pocket before rushing down the stairs to tend to the Watchers.

To his surprise, they’re gathered by the door and dressed in their fancier cloaks. 

“Do you have business elsewhere again?” he asks without thinking. The closest Watcher to him seizes his wrist, and he hears a pop. 

“Have you forgotten your manners?”

Grian grits his teeth at the pain and bows his head. “I apologize for speaking out of turn.”

“Good.”

The pressure on his wrist vanishes and Grian suppresses the urge to cradle it against his chest.

“Something has come up,” says another. “We will be back in the evening. The house must be swept, mopped, and dusted before we return. The fire will be lit and supper will be ready. You are not to leave the property.”

Grian does not move.

“Do you understand?”

He nods.

“You may speak.”

“Yes,” he says. “I understand.”

“Good. See to our carriage.”

Grian loads them into the coach and sees them off. He tucks his hands in his pockets and runs his finger along the edge of the paper. Whatever’s on it must be even bigger than he’d realized if the Watchers are making a spontaneous trip like this. The Watchers are hardly ever spontaneous.

A royal seal, a date, hybrid. But not a letter, just a card. What could possibly be written there that could throw a wrench like this into the Watchers’ plans? What does it say about hybrids? Why the date?

“Alone again?” says Pearl. Grian nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Where did you come from?” he gasps, turning to face her. She and Tilly stand at the edge of the property line. “How did you even know they were gone?”

“Where are they going?”

“They didn’t tell me,” he says. “I– something’s happening.”

“Good? Bad?”

Grian shakes his head. “I don’t know. They– they have this thing, this paper, but I don’t–”

He cuts himself off with a frustrated groan. 

“A paper?” says Pearl. She and Tilly tilt their heads in unison.

Grian digs it out of his pocket and holds it out to her. “What does it say? I know there’s a seal, and a date, and… what does it say?”

Pearl takes the paper and reads it. A smile creeps across her face. She chuckles. “Oh, they really didn’t want you to know about this,” she says.

“Know about what?”

“It’s an invitation,” says Pearl, “from the palace. ‘King Scar cordially invites the subjects of his kingdom to attend a royal ball in celebration of his birth. All are welcome, regardless of class or hybrid status.’”

It takes a moment to process.

“...Come again?”

“‘All are welcome, regardless of class or hybrid status,’” Pearl reads again.

“That’s not– is that real?”

“Looks real to me. No traces of forgery or illusion magic. Good paper quality, beautiful wax seal… It’s real.”

“But the part about hybrids welcome. That’s fake.”

Pearl shakes her head. “It’s real.”

“But…”

All hybrids welcome? There was no way. Hybrids, especially avians, were in constant danger of being sold or mutilated for parts. His parents… Grian’s own parents, they’d had their wings stolen, and they’d been left for dead, leaving him alone until the Watchers found him and took him in. It couldn’t be real. It was a trick. That’s why the Watchers kept it from him. They didn’t want him to fall for it.

Right?

“When is it?” he finds himself asking.

“This weekend. Three day’s time.”

She hands the paper back to him. Grian takes it with trembling fingers. He stares and stares. The words don’t make any more sense to him than they did before, but he knows what they say now, and that changes everything. 

“You might want to get moving,” says Pearl. “Before they come back.”

Grian tears his gaze away from the invitation and slips it back in his pocket.

“Thank you.”

Pearl gives him a curt nod and vanishes back into the forest.

Grian has three days to make a decision.

It would be foolish of him to go. The Watchers keep him safe, and they’ve always kept him safe. His wings put a literal target on his back. If he goes, he’d no doubt be mutilated and sold.

But… if what Pearl says is true, then he wouldn’t be in danger. Surely a royal ball would be staffed with guards protecting the guests at all costs, and competent guards at that. And if all hybrids are welcome, that means they’d be the guests under protection. So it would be safe.

Unless the invitation is a ploy to get people’s guard down. From what Grian knows of the outside world, he wouldn’t put it past the royal family to send out a kingdom-wide trick to get the maximum number of hybrids under one roof. A roof stationed with highly trained and competent guards.

Grian clenches and unclenches his fist, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth. He shakes his head to clear his mind and ducks back inside to start on his chores. He grabs the broom from the kitchen and gets to sweeping.

How big is the kitchen in the palace, he wonders? The Watcher mansion is massive, for sure, but in a palace, with so many people living and working there, it must be gigantic. Maybe there are multiple kitchens, even. How long does it take to clean those floors? How many people are needed?

Grian sweeps his way out of the kitchen and into the hall. He hums to himself as he works. There’s not a lot of music in the house, but it helps pass the time when he’s alone. He makes up songs as he goes. 

What do they play at a royal ball? Are there specific steps for each song that you have to learn? What instruments do they play?

How do you account for wings in a dance?

Grian grasps the broom handle loosely and sways side to side, letting his eyes flutter shut. His humming is the orchestra, the broom his dance partner. Back and forth, up on his toes and back down, stepping slowly in gentle circles. He imagines a hand on his waist, another holding his own. His wings twitch against the ropes.

The Watchers’ carriage returns just as Grian takes the stew pot off the fire. He sets it on the table and rushes out to greet them. They’re more collected today, but something still buzzes under the skin. Not excitement, though. Something else. Something… hungrier.

“Have you completed your tasks for the day?” says the first Watcher.

“I have,” says Grian, leading the group to the dining table and pulling out chairs for them. “I swept, mopped, dusted, lit the fire, and prepared supper. I tended the garden and started on the laundry, as well.”

He brings in the stew pot and ladles generous portions into their bowls, then sets a basket of bread on the table. 

“Is this the same bread from yesterday?” says the second Watcher.

“It is,” says Grian, apprehensive. “It hasn’t gone stale. It’s still fresh.”

The second Watcher reaches behind them without looking and seizes a fistful of Grian’s collar. They drag him down to face level, twisting the fabric until it squeezes against Grian’s throat.

“Do bakeries sell day-old bread?”

“I– no, I don’t think so?”

The grip tightens. Grian makes a choked noise.

“Do the king’s servants serve him day-old bread?”

“No,” Grian manages.

“Then why are you serving it to us?”

“I–”

“Don’t answer.” The Watcher shoves him back, releasing their grip. Grian sucks in a breath. “Take it away. Tomorrow, fresh bread.”

“Of course.” Grian takes the basket and runs it back into the kitchen. At least, maybe, he can take the bread to the attic. Squirrel it away somewhere, eat it when there are no dinner scraps leftover for him. If the Watchers don’t want it, after all–

“No, no,” calls the second Watcher. “It’s no good. Burn it.”

“What?”

“There’s no need to save it if we’re not eating it. Burn it.”

Grian just stares.

“Have you gone deaf?” says a third Watcher. “Burn it.”

Grian blinks. He looks down at the basket. Five, maybe six rolls of bread, baked only yesterday. Not even stale. He looks back up. Every Watcher at the table has abandoned their meal, gazes fixed on him. Their eyes aren’t visible. They never are, what with the hoods and masks and veils they wear. Grian can’t recall a single time he’s ever seen one of their faces. But he can feel the gaze all the same. It’s piercing. His skin crawls.

The punishment for disobeying will be worse than going to bed hungry.

Grian upends the entire basket into the fireplace.

After their supper, the first Watcher notices a few spots he’d missed while cleaning the floors and is none too happy. Grian is made to clean the table with three new lashes across the back of each hand. There are no dinner scraps.

What other hybrids would attend the ball? Other avians? Fox hybrids? Satyrs? How many of them even live in the kingdom? Would they even go to the ball, with the possibility of it being a trap?

It would be pretty obvious, though. If hybrids really are in constant danger, why would one simple invitation change their minds? No one in their right mind would believe that. And who would think that would work?

And yet, the invitation says it clear as day.

Of course, Pearl could be lying to him. He only has her word for it, and what does he really know about Pearl, anyway?

Then again, the Watchers hid it from him.

If it were a trap, wouldn’t they point it out? Use it as a teaching moment? And what would Pearl have to gain from lying to him? It's not like she knows he's an avian.

Grian knits his brow together, frowning as he scrubs at a spot on the tile with more intensity than it deserves. His knees ache from hours spent on the floor, his back screaming in protest as he hunches over. He scrubs furiously. He can’t stop until it shines.

The ballroom floor probably sparkles. It’s probably made of quartz or marble or something. The candlelight probably reflects in it like water. 

If it’s not a trap, if it’s real, what does that mean? If hybrids are welcome, why haven’t the Watchers told him?

If there’s nothing to protect him from, why is he still here?

He has to go.

He has to. He’ll never forgive himself if he doesn’t, always plagued by a what if. What if, what if, what if. He can hide his wings just to be safe, and if someone sees them, then he should still be fine if the invitation is true. If it’s not… Well, he still has to go. The need to find out itches under the skin, insatiable. He has to go.

The Watchers will be out tonight, presumably to meddle with partygoers or watch something they’ve set in motion. They won’t be back until very, very late. That’s enough time. It has to be enough time.

Grian digs through the attic in search of something, anything he could wear that’s suitable enough. His own clothes are simple, plain, and stained from years of housework. Finally, he digs up an old pair of pants. A bit too small, maybe, but black and at least somewhat nicer than his normal attire. He rubs at the dirt on his boots with a washcloth to clean them up the best he can. They’re more presentable than they were before, that’s for sure.

For the shirt, Grian finds a floral curtain panel, drapes and pins it along the shoulders, and secures it around his waist with a ribbon to act as a sash. It’ll have to do on such short notice. 

A summoning bell rings. Grian throws a cloak over top of his clothes to hide them and dashes downstairs.

“We are about to take our leave,” says the first Watcher. “Prepare for our return.”

Grian bows his head.

“What are you wearing?” says the first Watcher.

“This came from the attic,” says a second.

“And you’ve cleaned your shoes,” says a third.

“I– I thought I would make use of the fabric we already have,” Grian says. 

“For what purpose?” says the first.

The second and third break off from the first and wind around the room, forming a circle around Grian like vultures.

“I–”

“He has something in his pocket,” hisses the second. “Present it.”

Grian swallows. His heartbeat quickens, pounding in his chest.

“Present it,” the second says again. 

His hand moves of its own accord, reaching into his pocket and retrieving the royal invitation. His fingers tremble as he holds it out. The first Watcher snatches it from his hand before he can blink, snapping it up like a viper.

They chuckle.

“Oh,” they say, “how interesting. And how did you get this?” Grian opens his mouth to reply, but they cut him off with a wave of their hand. “By stealing from us, obviously.”

“We keep you safe and you repay us by stealing and lying,” says the second. “How pointless. We see everything.”

“It’s not safe for you out there,” says the third. 

“Even if you keep your wings bound, you will be singled out instantly. You do not belong in a palace.” The first steps forward and rubs the material of Grian’s shirt between two gloved fingers, tutting in disapproval. “Fabric from curtains. Old work boots. Disgraceful.”

They grab a fistful of Grian’s sleeve and yank . The pins pop out and the fabric rips apart. Grian stumbles forward with the force, nearly face planting on the floor. He can’t help the sound that escapes his throat.

“Just like that, a wing exposed,” says the second into his ear, seizing him by the hair and wrenching him back up. Grian yelps. A sharp pain shoots through his wings. Feathers flutter to the floor, dripping with blood. The grip on his hair makes it hard to think. His wing burns.  

The Watcher shoves him to the floor unceremoniously. Grian lurches forward and smacks his head on the end table as he goes down, whiting out his vision for a moment. He blinks, hard. Blood trickles from his nose.

“It will be much worse if you leave tonight,” says the third Watcher.

“Light the fire for us when we return,” says the first. 

Grian doesn’t lift his head from the floor until the door slams shut and the carriage rolls away, and even then, he lays there and forces careful breaths through his mouth, fighting to keep nausea down. His head hurts, his wing hurts, his nose hurts, his knees hurt. He can’t breathe through his nose. Blood steadily drips down his face, hot and sticky.

Slowly, he pushes himself to his knees. He squeezes his eyes shut, breathes some more, and steels himself to haul himself to his feet.

Fresh air. He needs fresh air.

Grian pulls the door open and stumbles to the garden. The night air is cool on his face. He walks without purpose until his legs stop working and he slumps to the grass, eyes stinging.

The breeze ruffles through his hair. The grass is itchy on his palms. 

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Grian whips his head around. Pearl stands at the edge of the property line, Tilly at her side. Her voice is low and soft,  her brow furrowed in concern.

“They did this to you,” she says, and it’s not a question. Her eyes trail over every injury he sustains.

His wings. His wings aren’t covered.

Grian’s stomach drops. He scrambles to pull the remaining curtain fabric around himself to cover them, but it’s useless. She’s seen them.

“You don’t need to do that.”

Grian stares.

“No, really,” says Pearl. She kneels. “I don’t care if you have wings. I kind of figured you were a hybrid, anyway.”

Grian’s eyes widen. He can’t make his lips form words.

“I didn’t always know, but I figured you were hiding something. And when you were so shocked about the invitation, it kind of confirmed my suspicions.” She holds up a placating hand. “But you don’t have to worry! I would never hurt you.”

Grian stares. Pearl stares right back. Tilly whines.

“Can you come closer? I want to see how much they hurt you.”

Grian can’t.

“Please? I promise I won’t hurt you. I just want to see.”

He doesn’t move.

“Grian,” she pleads.

“How do you know my name? I’ve never told you.”

“I’ll tell you if you let me see your injuries.”

Checkmate. Grian crawls over to her and sits cross legged at the property line. Pearl examines his face and wings.

“Nothing too bad,” she says. She pulls a handkerchief and a flask from within her cloak and pours some water on the cloth. “Let me get that cleaned up for you.”

She holds out her hands and stops before she touches his face. It takes Grian a moment to realize she’s asking for permission.

He nods. She smiles and cups her hand around his jaw, gently wiping the blood from his face with the handkerchief. His skin tingles at her touch. Her fingertips send shockwaves down his spine.

“All better,” she says. Grian sways forward involuntarily as she takes her hands away, chasing the touch. Pearl tucks her things back into her cloak and pulls out a bottle of glowing pink liquid. “Drink this.”

“What is it?” asks Grian as she places it in his hands. He tilts the bottle this way and that, watching the liquid inside swirl and shimmer.

“Regeneration potion. You’ll feel better.”

It tastes like strawberries and leaves a sickly sweet aftertaste in his mouth. The effects are instant. His headache disappears and the burning on his wing dissipates. Residual aches and pains dampen. Grian feels more awake than he has in months.

Pearl takes back the empty bottle. “Perfect. Already a better canvas to work with.”

“Canvas?”

She rises to her feet and offers a hand. Grian takes it, and she hauls him up. “We’re getting you ready to go to the ball, silly.”

“We’re what?”

“You heard me.”

“But– Pearl, I can’t.”

“None of that. You’re going, and that’s final. Now let’s get you fixed up.”

Grian waves his hands as if to wipe away the idea. “Stop, stop, stop. How? You live in the woods and I only have access to curtain panels.”

A grin spreads across Pearl’s face. “About that: I’m a witch.”

“What.”

“It’s true! Now, textile magic isn’t quite my forte. I’m more of a stars and frogs and wolves kinda gal, but I can sure as hell whip something up for your big night. Give me a second to think.”

She crosses one arm across her chest and rubs her chin with her other, frowning as she looks him up and down. 

“Got it! How do you feel about silver?”

“Um. Fine?”

“Great!” Pearl snaps her fingers.

There’s a gust of wind and a strong smell of pine. Grian shuts his eyes reflexively. It feels like snow settling on his body.

“You can look,” says Pearl.

He does.

Gone are his old pants and torn shirt. Instead, Grian finds himself wrapped in silks of blue and silver. His blouse loops high around his neck, leaving his back almost entirely exposed. It cinches in at the waist and cascades down, open at the front, ending just where his boots stop. The fabric glitters in the moonlight.

A breath of awe escapes his lips. He spins, watching the fabric shift and shine.

“Oh, Pearl…”

“That’ll do, I think. But we’re not done yet.”

“We’re not?”

She snaps again. There’s a flash of light, and his work boots have been replaced with shiny new tall ones sporting a small heel. Pearl examines her work, nodding.

“Now we just need accessories. Hold on a mo’,” she says, digging through her pockets. Grian takes the time to admire the shoes. “Here we are!”

Pearl hands him a pair of gardening gloves and a string. With another snap of her fingers, the gardening gloves become long, fingerless opera gloves, attached with a single loop around Grian’s middle finger. The string snakes around Grian’s upper arm and hardens into a silver cuff in the shape of twisting vines. Grian feels the sensation of snow settling once more, and a masquerade mask takes shape on his face, complete with a snow white feather on the side.

“And one more thing,” says Pearl. “Would you mind turning around for me?”

He does. Her fingers ghost over the ropes holding his wings against his body.

“May I?”

This is it, then. No going back. Grian nods.

Pearl pulls the ropes away.

His wings unfurl. He stretches them out to their full span, letting them flutter and twitch as they acclimate to being freed. They take up double the room he does himself.

“There you are,” says Pearl. Grian turns to face her.

“Why are you helping me like this? And you still haven’t told me how you know my name.”

Pearl grins and scratches Tilly behind the ears. “I’ve lived here for a very long time. You pick things up in the woods. Namely, magic. I dabble in a bit of everything, including divination. That’s how I found out about you. The Watchers are very good at staying hidden when they don’t want to be found.

“I may not understand their magic fully, but I do know this: there’s a charm on the house and surrounding areas that alerts them whenever someone enters or exits across the property line. It took a while, but Tilly and I found a way to disable it temporarily. It’ll wear off around midnight, but that should be plenty of time for you to go to the ball, as long as you get back before they notice.”

“That’s incredible,” says Grian. “I– how do I even get there?”

“That’s where Tilly comes in.”

Pearl whistles and Tilly bounds over to Grian, tail wagging. She leans down, front paws on the ground.

“Meet your ride,” says Pearl. “Don’t worry, she won’t let you fall. She’s a good girl. Aren’t you, Tilly?” she says, giving Tilly a pat on the head and a quick kiss between the ears.

“You want me to… ride Tilly to the ball?”

“She’ll have you there in no time!”

Grian takes a cautious step closer. Tilly’s tail wags harder.

“There you go, that’s it,” says Pearl. Grian places his hands on Tilly’s back and swings a leg over, gripping a fistful of thick white fur to keep steady. “Tell me everything when you get back.”

Tilly rises to her full height. Grian wobbles a bit, but manages to stay upright. He gives Pearl a fierce nod. “Of course. I– thank you, Pearl.”

“Don’t thank me yet, mister. There’s still a whole night ahead. And remember, be back before midnight. I can only maintain spells for so long.”

“I will.”

Pearl grins. Grian smiles back.

“Have fun!” she says, and Tilly takes off.

Instantly, their surroundings disappear in a blur of motion. Trees and bushes become streaks of green, each one indiscernible from the next. Wind flies through Grian’s hair. He holds on tighter and leans forward, pressing his face into Tilly’s fur. A laugh bubbles out of him, wild and frenzied. This must be how flying feels. 

Grian lifts his head and holds his face to the sky, letting the wind batter his face and ruffle through his feathers. He grins so wide his cheeks hurt.

All too soon, Tilly slows. She must have used some kind of magic to get them so far so quickly. The forest is long gone, replaced by buildings, all stone bricks and wooden beams and flickering candlelight. Carriages roll down the streets and all sorts of people push through the crowds, laughing and talking and singing.

Grian sits up straighter to drink in the sights of the city. Shops advertising clothes and books and magical components and candles and anything Grian could imagine line the streets, colorful signs hanging from their awnings. People lean out of windows, taking down clothes from hanging lines, or adjusting their potted plants, or yelling across the way to each other. Music drifts from a street corner.

And then there are the hybrids.

They’re everywhere. Wings of all colors, antlers poking through hats, flame-licked hair, swishing tails. Grian can’t quite comprehend it.

Tilly slows to a trot, then a walk, and finally comes to a stop. Grian looks up.

The palace rises above, silhouetted against a starlit sky. Its towers stretch to the heavens. Each window shimmers golden, glittering like a diamond necklace. Music and laughter pours from within. Magnificent arches and turrets span the length of each layer, with lanterns hanging from various points, as flowers and vines climb their way upwards. Moonlight casts the entire building in a silver glow.

Grian slides off Tilly’s back and gives her a scratch behind the ears. She licks his cheek and runs back the way she came, vanishing into the crowd.

Right. Now or never.

If he thought the exterior of the palace was impressive, nothing could have prepared him for the ballroom itself. It’s almost as if the room itself is floating. High, arched windows stretch from floor to ceiling, gilded with golden floral patterns. The entire ceiling is covered in golden embellishments that snake in between masterful paintings of angels and horses and fairies and elven forests. The roof is so high up, and the room so open, he might as well be outdoors. And he was right– the floors are marble, gleaming so brightly that they reflect the candlelight.

Glittering diamond chandeliers cast rainbows across the walls. Tables line the edges of the floor, sporting floral centerpieces and more food than Grian has ever seen in his life– cakes and pastries and meats and other things he doesn’t even recognize. There are champagne glasses and wines and who knows what else.

The patrons of the ball are just as, if not more beautiful than, the ballroom. Vibrant blues and purples and reds and yellows and greens weave their way through the dances. Enormous swishy hoop skirts and sparkling jewelry and fine suits and elaborate hairdos. Wings and tails and horns. Guests stand and chat near the tables, sharing drinks and food, or they twirl around each other in a waltz.

And, oh, the music.

A full orchestra is playing. Strings and woodwinds and brass and a grand piano and it’s beautiful. It echoes through the room, filling it to the brim and overflowing. It thrums in his chest and feet. 

Grian sways forward, pulled as if by a magnet. His shaking hands find purchase on the railing of the stairs and he starts his descent. Where does he even go? Does he ask someone to dance? Does he wait for someone to ask him? His eyes make another sweep of the room. Maybe he should head to the tables first, get his wits about him, and go from there. Yeah. Yeah, that’s good. That works.

He reaches the bottom of the staircase and takes a breath. He’s here. He’s really, really here.

Grian searches for the best path to the edge of the walls when something catches his eye.

Brilliant green eyes, windswept brown hair, and a handsome scarred face.

Grian freezes.

It’s the man from the woods. The not-hunter. Their eyes meet across the ballroom, and the man’s face lights up like a summer morning. Before Grian can react, the man all but rushes across the room towards him.

“It’s you!” he says. 

“It’s me,” says Grian. “I– hello.”

“Hello!” says the man. He’s even more handsome up close. The light cuts him a strong jawline, and his hair frames his face perfectly. His eyes are soft and his smile is ever so slightly lopsided. “I never got your name.”

“Grian.”

The man takes Grian’s hand and presses a kiss to the back of it, sending shockwaves up Grian’s arm. He flushes down to his toes. “Pleasure to meet you, Grian. I’m Scar.”

Grian’s mouth drops open. “You– King Scar?”

“The one and only!” says Scar, flashing Grian another blinding smile.

Grian rips his hand away and dips into a hasty bow, heart thudding in his ribcage. His face burns. “Your Majesty!”

Scar takes Grian by the shoulders and brings him upright. “Oh, none of that! We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“We are?”

“Well, why not?” says Scar. “I’d like to be friends, if you’d let me.”

Grian opens and closes his mouth like a fish. “Um. Okay,” he says. “We can be friends.”

If possible, Scar smiles even wider. “Wonderful!”

They stand there for a moment, Scar smiling politely and Grian fidgeting with his hands.

“Would you like to dance with me?”

“Excuse me?”

“Dance? With me?”

“I don’t know how,” says Grian.

“That’s okay,” says Scar. “I can teach you. Please?”

“Okay,” says Grian. “I’ll dance with you.”

Scar beams. He takes Grian’s hands and leads him further onto the dance floor. He laces their fingers together and places his other hand on Grian’s waist, pulling him close. Firm, but gentle. Each touch sends waves of heat through Grian’s skin, burning hot even through his clothes. Scar guides Grian’s other hand to rest on Scar’s shoulder.

“Perfect,” Scar says, voice low. “When I step forward, you step back, and vice versa. Like this.” He steps forward. Grian steps back.

They step back and forth together a few times. “Now like this: one two three, one two three, one two three.”

Grian adjusts, letting Scar guide him in any direction he chooses. One step, then two. Scar picks up the pace, and soon they’re spinning across the floor in a one two three, one two three. 

“You’re a natural!” Scar exclaims. “You’ve really never danced before?”

“Not really,” says Grian. He doesn’t take his eyes off their feet. He’s laser focused on stepping where Scar wants him to step. 

“You’re fantastic.”

Scar releases his waist and brings Grian’s hand across, spinning him under and out before pulling him back in close. Grian lets out a surprised laugh. Scar’s eyes light up.

Grian loses track of time. He can’t tell when one song ends and another begins, spinning and twirling as Scar wishes. His smile grows and grows until he feels like his head can’t contain all the excitement. He laughs, and Scar laughs with him, and eventually Grian lets himself look up from the floor and into Scar’s eyes.

He’s beautiful. He looks at Grian like something wonderful, like something to be delighted by. Grian’s heart is full to bursting.

“My feet hurt,” says Grian.

Scar laughs again. “Let’s take a break, then. Have you had any refreshments yet?”

“Not yet.”

Scar takes him by the hand and leads him over to the tables. The expanse of food is even more intimidating up close. 

“What do I take?”

“Anything you want!”

“But– how much can I take?”

Scar furrows his brow, still smiling. “As much as you want,” he says.

“But–”

Scar keeps smiling at him. Grian snaps his mouth shut and stares at the table, trying to make a decision, but his brain overloads with choices and he’s stuck standing there. He worries at his lip with his teeth.

A gentle hand on his back startles him, but it’s just Scar, giving him a concerned look. “Hey, it’s a lot of choices. I’ll help you pick stuff out.”

Scar hands Grian a plate and points out various things to try. He piles the plate high with bread rolls and pastries and cubes of cheese and fruits. 

“You can’t miss out on the apples, they’re divine. Oh, and these little cookies shaped like cats!” Scar ladles him a dollop of something. “Here, try the gray stuff. It’s delicious.”

Grian eyes it skeptically, but when Scar ushers him towards a free table and gestures at him to try everything, he scoops up a bit with his finger. He can’t place the taste, but it’s good.

Everything is good. It’s fresh and piping hot and more importantly, he’s allowed to eat it. 

“Aren’t you having anything?”

Scar shakes his head. “Oh, I’ve had plenty. Besides, you’re my guest!”

“I can’t possibly eat all of this, Your Majesty.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Grian tears apart a bread roll, slathers some butter on it, and holds it out. 

“Grian,” says Scar.

“Please,” says Grian. Scar falters. He rolls his eyes and props his chin up on his hand.

“Alright, you win.” He takes the bread roll and takes a bite, sighing pleasantly. Grian presses his lips together, hiding his smile with a bite of apple.

“I’ve never seen wings like yours,” says Scar.

Grian chokes. “What?”

“Oh, sorry, was that impolite?”

“I– no, no,” says Grian, taking a sip of water. “I’m not used to… compliments about them, I guess.”

Scar tilts his head, frowning.

“...Was that a compliment?”

“Of course it was,” says Scar. “Such a pure white. Gorgeous.”

Grian shifts in his seat, stomach souring. This is it. This is when Scar drops the facade.

“I mean, you’re gorgeous.”

The sour feeling is replaced with confusion. “I’m sorry?”

Scar smiles at him. “Would you like to dance again? Or maybe you’d like a tour of the gardens? More food?”

“Oh. Um, the gardens sound nice?”

“Wonderful!” Scar rises from his chair with a dramatic flair and offers his arm to Grian. He places featherlight fingers on the sleeve of Scar’s coat and Scar whisks him away.

The gardens are sprawling. Tall trimmed hedges line the stone pathways which wind around numerous flower beds and topiaries, as well as the occasional fountain. Lanterns hang from the branches of pink-leaved trees.

“This is beautiful,” breathes Grian.

“I wish the flowers were more vibrant,” Scar says. “They feel too sparse. Now the pink petals by the trees, those are nice.”

“Someday I’d like to plant flowers.” Grian pauses to admire a lilac bush. He trails his fingers over the sprigs of purple blossoms. “The– my employers don’t see a need for them.”

“Maybe potted ones? Somewhere they won’t mind?”

Grian shakes his head. “They’d find out. Besides, I have to do what they tell me. If they say no flowers, there are no flowers.”

Scar frowns.

Grian turns to face Scar and leans in close, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Anything,” Scar whispers back.

“I’m not really supposed to be here,” says Grian. “I’d be in so much trouble if they knew where I was.”

Another smile stretches across Scar’s face. “Rebellious!”

Grian grins back. 

Scar leads him around the gardens, pointing out his favorite features. He’s particularly taken with the sunflower patch. Grian imagines Scar sitting on the bench in the middle of the sea of yellow, basking in the sunlight. 

Eventually they wander back to the ballroom doors.

“Fancy another dance?” says Scar.

Grian opens his mouth to reply but is cut off by a sharp chime. 

A pit forms in his stomach. His heart pounds in his throat.

Another chime.

“Grian?” Scar says, but his voice is far away, muffled like he’s deep underwater. Grian’s ears ring. 

“I have to go,” Grian says. He pulls away from Scar, breath coming in short gasps.

Chime.

“Grian,” Scar says. Grian stumbles back. He looks around wildly for any sign of Tilly, a flash of white fur, a bark, anything, but there’s nothing. He needs to get out. Scar is reaching towards him with a concerned expression like he’s a spooked animal.

This was so stupid. This was so stupid. If the Watchers find out– if the Watchers find out–

Grian shoves past Scar and takes off like a shot through the ballroom. He doesn’t stop, up the stairs and through the hall and finally he’s outside and flying down the steps. Vaguely, he’s aware of Scar running after him, calling his name.

Another chime. How many has it been? How long does he have left?

Still no sign of Tilly. No sign of Pearl, either.

He’s out of options.

Grian casts a glance over his shoulder. Scar stands at the top of the steps, chest heaving, looking after him with wide eyes. He turns back and takes a breath.

He spreads his wings.

Scar races down the stairs. Grian’s long gone, somewhere up in the clouds by now. The clock hits its twelfth chime and falls silent.

There’s something on the steps. Small, shimmering.

Scar picks it up and holds it to the light.

A single white feather.

Grian drops out of the sky and hits the ground with an undignified yelp. He scrambles to his feet, dusting himself off. He landed in the pumpkin patch. Luckily, none of them appear to be squashed.

He runs to the property line.

“Pearl?” he whispers. “Pearl, are you there?”

“How’d it go?” she asks as she steps out from behind a tree. 

“There were so many people, Pearl! And the castle was so beautiful, and the music, and the food, and I flew, Pearl. I actually flew.”

Pearl grins. “That’s wonderful, Grian.”

Grian’s wings flutter behind him as he recounts every detail the best he can remember, his smile so wide it hurts his cheeks. Pearl listens with rapt attention until they hear the sounds of horse hooves and carriage wheels approaching. She bids him farewell and Grian rushes inside to change and start the fire.

He makes himself scarce once the Watchers return. He locks himself in the attic and stares up at the ceiling, but sleep doesn’t come. His thoughts are too full of chandeliers and bread rolls and gardens, and of gentle hands on his waist, to slip into dreams. He can still feel where Scar had touched him on the small of his back, and where his lips had brushed his knuckles, and where he’d pulled him up by his shoulders, and, and, and.

The Watchers aren’t any kinder the following week. Grian would go as far as to say they’re worse, even, none too happy with his behavior on the night of the ball and certainly not with his current daydreaming. But even saddled with pointless, tedious tasks, Grian can’t help but think of the palace, and the ballroom, and the gardens, and the king.

At night, he eats the scraps from the dinner table (which have recently become fewer) and lays by the fire, watching the flames dance as they die out, and imagines he can see the patrons of the ball among the sparks. 

The Watchers are out on business again. Grian keeps up the pretense of gardening until they’re out of sight, then runs to the property line, where Pearl is already waiting.

“Can you cast the spell again?” he says, breathless.

Pearl laughs. “I knew you had mischief in you.”

“Please? They’re gone until morning. I want to see the town again.”

“Hold your horses, Gri. I got you.” She closes her eyes and spreads her hands. Grian watches in fascination, but he can’t actually see anything happening. She opens her eyes again. “There. Now anyone can cross the property line without them knowing until sunset tonight.”

“Sunset? Why not midnight?”

“We’re starting earlier in the day! I told you, I can only sustain spells for so long.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Well, what are you waiting for? Get moving!”

Grian’s eyes widen. “Wait–”

Pearl ushers him towards Tilly. “You’re burning daylight, kid!”

“I’m going, I’m going!”

Grian steps over the property line.

Tilly takes Grian into the city again, giving him an encouraging (and wet) lick to the face before running off to who knows where. 

It’s different being on ground level. Tilly left him in the middle of a bustling marketplace, lined with stalls and carts and storefronts. Merchants holler out their wares while people push past each other and a bard plays a song on the lyre. A woman drops a few coins into his hat and he beams at her. 

Two children burst through the crowd, chasing each other with toy swords and screaming in delight. Grian jumps back to avoid being bowled over by them.

“Watch it!” someone behind him yells, and Grian just barely avoids being run over by a horse-drawn cart full of barrels. 

He grins.

He doesn’t have any money, but Grian takes his time perusing the stalls. There seems to be something for everyone, and some things that are probably for no one.

There’s fresh produce and hand-crafted jewelry and wind chimes and glassware and pastries and so much more that Grian has yet to see. He looks over a stand selling honey. Who knew there could be this many different kinds? 

His eyes scan the other vendors, so focused on scoping out his next destination that he’s not watching where he’s going, and he walks straight into another person.

“Sorry!” he yelps, blushing all the way to the roots of his hair. “Sorry, sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“Grian?”

Grian startles at the sound of his name. “Huh?”

He takes a moment to actually look at the person he’s run into. They’re tall, and wearing a cloak with the hood pulled up, but even so, it’s hard to mistake him for anyone else.

“Well, hello there.”

“Your Majesty?”

King Scar hastily holds a finger to his lips, smiling. “Shh! I’m undercover.”

Grian gives him a disbelieving look.

“I am!” Scar insists. “See, I have a disguise and everything.”

Grian purses his lips and decides not to bring up the fact that Scar has very distinctive features. Or that he’s the king.

“Okay,” he says. “But why?”

“I like to get in on the ground floor, see how people are actually doing! Check in without the pressure of seeing a royal official. You understand, don’t you?”

Grian does not.

Scar, not hindered by his lack of reply, offers his arm. “Seeing as we’re both in the area, would you mind joining me?”

“...Okay,” says Grian. He slides his hand into the crook of Scar’s arm, loosely gripping the fabric of his cloak. Scar pulls him close to his side.

“I was eyeing this pastry stand up ahead,” Scar says, and launches into a passionate recount of everything he’s looked at and bought and sampled. Grian nods along, trying to form any thoughts beyond being hyper-aware of where his arm makes contact with Scar’s. The gentlest pressure overwhelms his brain. His heart yawns like the mouth of a hungry pit, wanting, craving.

“How much for a raspberry danish?” Scar is saying. The vendor replies, and Scar hands over the appropriate amount of coins. Grian catches a glimpse at his coin purse and marvels. “What would you like, Grian?”

“Hm?”

“From the pastry stand. I’ll pay for you.”

“Oh, you don’t have to–”

“I’d like to,” says Scar, and he has such a fond look on his face that Grian can’t say no.

“I’ll have what you have,” he says, voice barely a whisper. Scar smiles.

He pays for another raspberry danish and leads them to a short stone wall to sit on. Scar unwraps his pastry and holds it up, looking at Grian expectantly. Grian unwraps his own. Scar keeps holding his up. 

Grian shifts his weight uncomfortably, giving Scar an utterly lost look.

Scar taps his pastry against the edge of Grian’s. “Clink,” he says. “Like a celebratory toast.”

“Clink,” echoes Grian. “What are we celebrating?”

“Me running into you again!”

Grian can’t stop the smile from spreading across his face. He takes a bite of his danish, and oh.

Scar laughs. “It’s good?”

“It’s good,” says Grian, mouth full. He takes another bite before he swallows the first one, relishing the flavor exploding across his tongue. It’s sweet, and creamy, and flaky, and warm. He eats the whole thing as fast as he can and licks the filling from his fingers.

When he looks up, Scar hasn’t moved, still watching Grian with a pink tinge to his cheeks. It is pretty hot outside, Grian supposes, especially with the cloak and hood he’s wearing.

“Have mine too,” says Scar, holding out his untouched pastry.

“Oh, I couldn’t,” says Grian.

“I insist,” says Scar.

Grian raises his eyebrows at him, unimpressed. Scar stares right back. The stalemate holds for a moment.

Finally, Grian gives in. “Fine,” he says, and takes the pastry. He takes a bite, savoring it this time. Scar watches him for a second, then turns his attention back to the market. He launches into a tale about one of his previous trips to the town square, involving a hay bale catching on fire and a mad chase through the streets, that has Grian laughing so hard he can’t breathe. Scar looks incredibly pleased with himself.

“Oh, you have– let me get it,” says Scar. He reaches forward– to wipe away crumbs, probably– but before he touches Grian’s face, Grian flinches away, eyes squeezing shut and his body curling in on itself. It happens in a blink. One moment, he’s at ease, and the next, he’s as far away from Scar as he can get, hands half-raised in an aborted move to protect himself.

Scar freezes.

“Sorry,” Grian chokes out. He clears his throat and forces himself to relax. “Sorry,” he says again, louder. 

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Scar says, voice gentle. “You had crumbs on your face. I’m sorry, I should have asked.”

“It’s fine.”

“Grian–”

“It’s fine.”

Scar searches Grian’s expression for something, eyes soft. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

Grian wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, brushing the crumbs away. “Where to next?”

It’s an obvious subject change, but Scar goes along without question. He gives Grian an easy grin as he stands up to look over the market.

“Let’s keep going the way we were headed. I saw some interesting stuff.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Scar offers his arm again. Grian tries not to jump at the chance to touch him.

Grian is fascinating.

Sure, he’s pretty, there’s no denying that. How could he not be, with soft waves of sandy hair and faint freckles across his nose, and those absolutely gorgeous white wings (that are hidden away today, for some reason), but that’s not the point.

He doesn’t seem familiar with most things. The marketplace is like a foreign world to him, and he gapes at things like potted plants and jewelry stands like he’s never seen them before. Scar’s happy to let Grian take the lead, dragging him to and fro different stalls and carts with a huge smile on his face. It takes some convincing, but eventually Grian caves to Scar’s insistence and starts trying the free samples being offered. After each one, he exchanges a look with Scar, eyes wide and sparkling.

There’s also the matter of his employers.  

In the other two times he’s met Grian, he’s mentioned them, each time with an undertone of distaste. Employers who don’t like visitors, and forbid him from growing flowers, and whom Grian has to sneak around to go to a ball.

Scar isn’t stupid. He can see the fading bruise under Grian’s eye. His split lip. The scars on the backs of his hands. 

It sets his blood boiling. The thought that this is happening to Grian, in Scar’s kingdom… 

“Oh, look at these!” Grian says, and Scar is smiling even before he sees what Grian does. It turns out to be a selection of woven blankets, each with their own unique patterns. Grian runs his fingers along the fabrics.

They manage to see every vendor in the town square. Grian’s particularly taken with a stand selling small glass figurines. And even after they’ve gone around a second time, with Scar needling Grian into letting him buy him snacks and pastries, they don’t leave each other’s sides.

Scar leads them back to where they’d stopped before, to have the danishes, and sits. He tells Grian stories about castle life, and times when he’s snuck out and come back to find his advisor Cub completely unimpressed by his escapades, and misadventures his cats have gotten up to. With a bit of prodding, Grian tells him stories right back.

He hangs onto Grian’s every word. He studies Grian’s face as he tells Scar about making friends with the birds in the garden, and about his secret hiding place in the attic where he stores precious things under the floorboards, and how one year he spent the entire summer slowly moving all the furniture ever so slightly to the left just to see how far he could get before getting caught. Grian’s nose scrunches in distaste at the memory of that particular prank’s reception.

The hours pass. Shadows stretch across the ground further and further. Finally, Grian glances at the sky.

“I need to go,” he says.

“So soon?” asks Scar.

Grian nods, giving him an apologetic smile. “If I’m not back before sunset, they’ll know. I’m not supposed to leave.”

“Ever?”

“Ever,” says Grian.

Scar frowns. Something sour curdles in his stomach, worry filling his chest. Grian stands and brushes off his trousers. Scar rises with him.

“Thank you for… everything, I guess,” says Grian. “I had a wonderful time. Truly.”

“Of course.”

Neither moves.

“Um,” says Grian, “I should– I’ll just–”

He gestures vaguely in a direction, shuffling his feet like he can’t bring himself to commit to leaving. Scar’s heart twists.

He takes Grian’s hands. Grian immediately stops moving.

“Come home with me,” says Scar.

“What?”

“Come back to the palace,” he says. “I can– I can protect you there. You won’t have to sneak around anyone ever again. Anything you want, you’ll have.”

Grian gapes at him, eyes wide, mouth ajar.

“Please.”

Scar rubs a thumb over Grian’s knuckles. He tries to communicate everything he can’t put to words with his expression. Grian’s eyes scan his face, searching.

“I can’t.”

“Grian–”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.” He gives Scar’s hands a gentle squeeze and lets them drop. “I can’t just leave. The Watchers– they wouldn’t let me. And they mean well, really. They want what’s best for me.”

Grian holds his gaze. Scar sighs.

“Alright. But, before you go, I have something for you. Close your eyes.”

Grian raises a skeptical eyebrow, but goes along with it.

“Hold out your hand,” says Scar. Grian does. He places an item in Grian’s open palm, then closes his fingers around it. “Okay. Open.”

Grian opens his eyes and examines his gift. He gasps, a smile lighting up his face.

“Oh, Scar, it’s perfect!”

It’s a white glass llama, small enough to conceal in a pocket, or under a floorboard. Grian rubs his thumb over its face. 

“I saw you eyeing it earlier,” says Scar. “Think of me when you look at it.”

“I will,” says Grian. He glances up at the sun, gradually dipping lower and lower in the sky. “Thank you. Goodbye.”

And he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd. Scar waves and calls after him. “Goodbye, Grian! I’ll see you again!”

Grian wraps the llama in a piece of cloth and tucks it gently into his hiding spot under the attic floorboards. The nights when he makes it back up to the attic, he takes it out and sits on the windowsill, tilting it this way and that, watching the moonlight glint off its surface and glitter in its glass fur.

The Watchers settle back into a usual routine. Their harsher treatment of him slackens somewhat, now that the incident surrounding the royal ball has passed. That doesn’t mean much, of course, though it does mean there’s fewer pointless, tedious tasks. No picking a pot’s worth of lentils out of the fireplace ashes, for one.

He keeps his head down and stays out of the way. When he’s alone, he thinks of the marketplace, and of the palace, and of Scar, and grins. He hums to himself while he works. He imagines he’s a servant in the castle. He imagines that once he’s done scrubbing the floors he can walk through the royal gardens. Visit the palace library. Walk down to the market. Take a nap in a room of his own.

Grian goes to sleep hungry, bruised, and sore. He wakes up with ashes on his face. He tends the garden with swollen fingers and cuts across his hands. He spends more time with a black eye than without.

But he takes a breath, and thinks of the king, and cradles the glass llama in his palms, and it doesn’t seem so bad.

“And after that, you have a meeting with the royal artificer, and dinner with the Lady Gem, and you’re not listening.” Cub sighs, lowering his paper. “King Scar, if you’re going to zone out, could you at least try to look like you’re paying attention?”

Scar starts. “Huh? I was listening!”

Cub raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, I wasn’t.”

Cub rolls up the paper and sets it aside. “What is it this time?”

Scar taps his fingers on the table, pursing his lips in thought. His brow furrows. “Have you ever heard of the Watchers?”

Cub thinks for a moment. “The name sounds familiar, but I can’t think of where I’ve heard it before. Why?”

“It’s something Grian mentioned. I don’t think he meant to say it. He’s always said ‘his employers’ before.”

Cub sits next to Scar. “This is the avian you met at the ball, right?” Scar nods. “I can look into it.”

“Thanks, Cub.”

Grian kneels in the dirt, ripping weeds from the vegetable beds and piling them up beside him. The temperature blessedly cools off as the sun dips lower. Still, he wipes sweat from his brow with his sleeve. 

A shadow falls over him. He looks up.

One of the Watchers stands before him, hood cloaking their face in darkness. 

This is unprecedented. The Watchers never approach him while he’s in the garden. When they need him, they ring a summoning bell. Coming outside to fetch him… something is wrong.

The Watcher seizes his arm and yanks him to his feet. Grian stifles a pained noise and stumbles as the Watcher pulls him along, dragging him with an iron grip into the house, up the stairs, and into the attic. They throw him forward and Grian falls to his knees.

He scrambles to his feet, whirling around to face the Watchers. There’s a number of them here, standing like statues against the wall, shoulder to shoulder. 

The one who brought him inside steps forward and backhands him across the face. Grian’s hand flies to his stinging cheek. He manages to stay standing, but only just.

Stalemate. Grian looks at them, breathing hard. They stare motionlessly back.

After what feels like hours, but is more likely only seconds, one speaks.

“You have been lying to us.”

Grian’s heart stutters in his chest. He schools his expression into careful neutrality, twitching his lips in a show of confusion.

“It is a mistake to keep secrets,” says a second.

Grian grits his teeth and stays silent.

“You have one chance to confess,” says a third.

He says nothing.

“So be it,” says a fourth. “You have betrayed our trust. You have twice left the protection of our house and gone out into the kingdom, then lied to us about it.”

“That’s not true,” says Grian.

“Have you forgotten to whom you speak?” spits the first. “We are the Watchers.”

“We watch.”

“We see.”

“We listen.”

“We have eyes everywhere. Nowhere is beyond our gaze.”

“I didn’t lie to you,” Grian insists. “I didn’t betray you. I didn’t leave your protection.”

The Watchers take a collective step towards him. Grian steps back instinctively, arms raising to shield himself. 

“You’ve grown bold,” says the second. “But do not forget who you are. So you’ve gone out with minimal consequence. This will not last. Only under our watch will you remain safe. Without us, you will be killed, sold, or worse.”

Grian laughs. It’s a sharp, ugly thing.

“That’s not true! You say people only want to hurt me, or use me, but I know that’s not true! You say I’ve been lying to you, but all you’ve ever done is lie to me. ”

Uncertainty ripples through the Watchers. It’s brief– only Grian would have ever noticed it, having lived his entire life with them, and even he thinks at first he hallucinated it, but no. They weren’t expecting that. 

The second slaps him, this time hard enough to send him sprawling. Grian can’t help the grunt of pain he makes when he hits the floor.

“You dare question us?” the second hisses.

“You know nothing of the outside world,” says the third. “Look at you. Naive, gullible. No one would have to try very hard to get you to do what they want.”

The fourth stalks forward, circling Grian like a cat ready to pounce. 

“Poor dear,” they say, “one foray into the world and you think you know everything. How easily manipulated you are! How quickly they get in your head and twist your thoughts, turn you against us.”

Grian squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “Stop it.”

It’s true. He still doesn’t know anything, really. He’s been to the palace once, and to a marketplace, and still, he knows nothing.

But he’d seen people like him. And Scar was so kind to him. Gentle, and caring, and wonderful, and Grian can’t accept the idea that it was all to trick him.

“Stop it,” he says again. He fixes the fourth Watcher with a glare, though he can’t see their face. “You’re wrong. I met someone, out there, and he’s nothing like you said. He’s nothing but kind, and generous, and he’s never once made me feel threatened or afraid, not on purpose. He doesn’t want my wings. He doesn’t want to hurt me, or anyone.”

The laugh that rises from the Watchers prickles down his spine like a swarm of spiders. The hair on his neck rises. His skin crawls. His face burns.

The fourth, behind him, grabs his hair and pushes him to the floor. Grian braces himself for another hit, one that will leave him sore for days. They tut disapprovingly.

“Caring. Generous, you say. Just as unsuspecting and gullible as expected.”

The first reaches within their robes as they speak and retrieves an object, small enough to fit in a palm. Shiny.

Glass.

Grian’s heart drops to his stomach. His mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. His tongue is mud, too heavy, too thick to move. Ice creeps up his skin.

“So trusting. Easily bought with gifts,” says the first, holding the glass llama to the light. “You should be grateful that we’re here to help you.”

They let go.

The llama shatters into a million pieces.

“No!” Grian cries. A scream rips itself from his throat, guttural and choked and broken. He’s on his feet before his brain can catch up to his actions. His wings flare open. 

Grian shoves the first Watcher as hard as he can, sending them reeling backward into the wall. He grabs at their sleeves, their hood, and pulls, nails digging into the fabric until they find the skin of the Watcher’s face. He digs, and digs, and his hands are wet and hot and sticky and he keeps clawing, scratching, and someone is screaming and he can’t tell if it’s coming from him or the Watcher. 

Hands grab at his arms, at his waist, but Grian holds fast. He makes one more swipe with his nails, catching something soft, wet. When the other Watchers finally pull him away, his hands are red. The one he attacked wails, covering what must be their eye with both hands, blood oozing through their fingers.

The Watchers holding him pin his arms to his side, his wings to his back. He struggles in their grasp. They’re shouting now, screaming orders at him, but Grian can’t listen. His mind is racing. The llama, the one thing he had from Scar, as proof that people were good, is gone. Forever.

There’s no going back now. The first Watcher is escorted out of the room by another, and Grian struggles.

“How dare you,” a Watcher hisses into his ear, voice venomous. “How dare you attack us. How dare you betray us.”

Grian twists in their grip and sinks his teeth into their hand. The skin breaks. Blood spills. He’s released with a cry.

A second seizes his wrist and whirls him to face them, holding his arm up so their faces are mere inches apart. They take his hand. Grab one finger.

The bone snaps.

Grian screams.

A second finger breaks. Pain flashes white hot, searing through his veins.

“You will be punished. Severely,” says the Watcher. They run their fingers over Grian’s feathers, so gently it makes Grian want to throw up. 

They grab a fistful and pull. Grian screams again, nauseous and burning. 

The Watcher pushes him away. Grian takes a step back and tumbles to the ground. Bloodstained feathers drop from the Watcher’s hand. His wings smart.

“Act out again, sneak out again, and your wings will have to be clipped.”

Horror grips Grian’s throat so tightly he can’t breathe. Nausea turns his stomach. He’s already begging before he knows his mouth is moving.

“No, no, no, no, please,” he chokes out, “you can’t. Please. Please. Please. Please.”

The remaining Watchers turn to leave.

“For your own good,” they say.

“Please,” says Grian.

They leave, slamming the door shut behind them. The lock clicks.

Grian presses his forehead to the floor, wings trembling, body aching, hand throbbing, and sobs.

“There’s hardly any trace of a group called the Watchers,” Cub says, dropping a stack of parchment on Scar’s desk. “A few mentions here and there, but no description, no list of members, nothing.”

Scar pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re absolutely sure?”

Cub sits across from him and leafs through the papers. “It seems like they have a wide reach. A number of noble families and organizations that otherwise aren’t affiliated with each other have mentioned something about deals with them.”

Scar takes the papers and flips through them, scanning for anything that jumps out. There really isn’t much– mentions of deals, like Cub said, or talk of meetings. 

“I don’t like it.”

“I know. But there isn’t anything we can do with the information we have.”

“You didn’t see him, Cub. His hands… his eye. I’m telling you, something terrible is happening in that house. Clearly, he’s getting hurt there, and he isn’t allowed to leave. Ever. They’re keeping him like– like a prisoner.”

Cub sighs. He rubs his eyes, pushing his glasses up to his forehead. Then he lowers his hands slowly, and Scar can practically see the arithmetic forming. “I suppose you’re well within your rights as king to check up on the safety of your citizens.”

“Yeah?”

“You have a valid concern. You’re the king. It’s your job to make sure your subjects are well.”

Scar smiles.

“This is why you’re my advisor, Cub.”

Scar could have sent out his knights to check up on Grian, but he wants this done right. He wants to see Grian safe with his own eyes. 

He rides his horse into the woods where they first met, slowing his pace as the brush thickens. It’s much more unsettling at night, with no rays of sun to dapple through the leaves. Instead, the trees rise from the ground like twisted sculptures, branches like skeletal hands reaching to grasp at his cloak. Wind creaks through the foliage.

A smidge of white flashes at the corner of his vision. Scar whips his head around, but there’s nothing there. He takes a deep breath and forces his heart to slow its racing pace.

Grian lifts his head from the floor. A headache pounds behind his eyes, red and raw. He has no tears left. He’s not sure how long he’s been curled around himself, but the sun has long since set, and the moon casts its silver beams through the attic window. 

Slowly, achingly, Grian sits up.

He can’t stay here.

He can’t, he can’t, he can’t. Not when his wings– when the Watchers threatened to– not when he could lose his–

Grian sucks in a breath through his nose. He can’t stay here.

The attic door is locked from the outside. 

He grasps the window and cries out at the pain of moving his broken fingers. He bites his lip to stifle any further noises and cradles his hand against his chest, breathing deep and slow. The throbbing fades. Not much, but it’s manageable.

He tries again, this time with just his uninjured hand. The window creaks open. It’s a substantial drop, but nothing he can’t handle. Using his wings to break his fall will hurt, with the state they’re in, but anything’s better than having them– than the Watchers– than–

Grian grits his teeth and shakes his head.

He swings one leg out, then the other, and perches on the sill. The ground beckons him.

He pushes off. His wings snap open.

The ground welcomes him with a soft thud. There’s no time to lose – if he’s going, he needs to go now.

Grian picks himself up. His heart pounds in his throat. His mouth goes dry, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t get a good lungful of air. 

One step.

Then another.

And another.

And another.

Another.

Another.

Grian breaks into a run. He tears across the garden.

He steps over the property line.

Immediately, the hairs on the back of his neck raise up– a sure sign they’re Watching him right now. Fear grips his stomach and he runs faster, nearly tripping over himself as he bolts down the hill. A bell rings from within the house. 

Pearl snaps her gaze away from the king to focus on the Watcher house.

Someone’s left the property.

“Tilly, stay here. Watch him,” she whispers. Tilly wags her tail and creeps closer to the king. Pearl casts one more glance at him– he’s slowed his horse to a stop now, peering into the trees ahead. His green eyes narrow.

She shakes her head and disappears into the woods with a swish of her red cloak.

Scar dismounts. 

This feels like the clearing where he first encountered Grian, but it’s difficult to say for sure in the dark. Everything about this unsettles him. But he can’t let the forest at night get under his skin, not when there’s so much more at stake. If he remembers correctly, the pumpkin came tumbling down the hill from the left–

The brush explodes as a shape bursts through. Grian trips, stumbles, and falls head over heels, landing in a heap at Scar’s feet.

“Grian?”

Grian yelps and crawls away backwards, eyes wide with fear. Scar drops to a crouch and holds his hands up in surrender.

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay! It’s okay, it’s me. I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.”

Grian’s chest heaves. He stares at Scar, trembling from head to toe.

He looks terrible.

Blood stains his lips and hands and his wings look like they’ve been mauled by a cat. Scar’s afraid to see the extent of the damage once they’re in a well-lit area.

“You’re okay. You’re safe. I’ll protect you.”

“They’re gonna–” Grian starts, then shakes his head.

Scar shuffles closer. “They’re gonna what?”

Grian squeezes his eyes shut.

“Grian, let me help you. What are they going to do?”

“Clip my wings!” Grian yells. “They’re going to clip my wings, Scar!”

Scar freezes. Something dark, something angry, something vex stirs in his stomach.

“What?”

Grian throws himself at Scar and clings to his cloak desperately. His entire body is shaking like a leaf.

Scar wraps his arms around Grian and draws him close, resting his chin on Grian’s head. He plays with his hair and rocks them back and forth. “You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

“Scar,” Grian sobs, and Scar’s heart breaks.

“Come home with me,” says Scar. “Please. I want to help. Let me help you.”

“Okay,” says Grian. “Okay.”

Scar helps Grian up. There’s something wrong with his hand– it’s all swollen and Grian winces whenever something brushes it, but there’s nothing he can do to help in the dark. His horse kneels and he helps Grian into the saddle, climbing up once he’s situated. Grian slides his arms around Scar’s waist and presses his face into his back.

A flick of the reins, and they’re racing out of the woods, towards the palace. Away from the Watchers. Towards something new.

Pearl’s shoulders slump in relief. The king has him now. He’s out.

She’ll keep an eye on Grian, still, of course. Tilly has a knack for sneaking around. She’ll get Pearl all the information she needs to protect Grian. For now, though, the king can handle that. Pearl needs to make sure they get home safe. That the Watchers won’t find them.

She rests a hand on Tilly’s head and closes her eyes. She pictures a dark shroud enveloping Grian and the king, blanketing them and the palace in shadow. Magic tugs in her gut and flows out on her breath. There’s a sensation of snow falling.

Her eyes open, and she smiles.

There. Hidden from Sight.

For now.

Scar paces back and forth outside the healer’s door. She’d made him step outside half an hour ago, his nervous energy distracting her.

He may have been a bit frantic when he brought Grian into the castle, it’s true. But in Scar’s defense, Grian had gone unresponsive and Scar had no idea what he’d just been through. Clearly, something shook him up pretty badly.

“Perhaps you should retire to your room until everything’s taken care of, sire,” says Cub. Scar waves him off.

“No. I need to be here.”

“He’s in capable hands.”

“I know.”

Cub sighs. “Your Majesty.”

“I know.”

“Scar–”

“I know!”

Scar startles himself with the force of his shout. He shakes his head.

“I know, Cub. I just can’t leave him right now.”

“Okay,” says Cub.

The door opens. Scar rushes forward. “Is he–?”

“He’s fine,” says Shelby. She steps aside to let Scar sweep into the room and drop into the chair at Grian’s bedside. Grian’s asleep, snoring softly. The tension in Scar’s shoulders unwinds.

“His body’s been through a lot of trauma. I’d wager he’s been getting hurt regularly throughout most of his life. And he’s extremely undernourished– I’d like to get his weight up sooner rather than later.”

Scar doesn’t take his eyes off Grian. “What about his state when I brought him in?”

Shelby huffs out a breath. “Not great, but not terrible. Most of the blood wasn’t his. Two broken fingers, feathers removed forcefully, bruising on the face. His wings aren’t in that great of shape, either. I would’ve done more, but I’m not as experienced with avians. They’re cleaned and bandaged, at least.”

Scar scans Grian’s face as Shelby talks. He notes the tenderness of his black eye, and the two fingers wrapped up and splinted. His nose scrunches up in his sleep. There’s a soft spattering of freckles across his nose, faint enough that Scar wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t so close. Scar’s hands twitch with the urge to brush Grian’s hair away from his face.

“I’m going to fetch some things to give him when he wakes up. You’re more than welcome to stay here, though, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you, Shelby,” says Scar. She bows her head and leaves the room. Cub takes her place, leaning against the doorframe.

“He’ll be okay,” Cub says. His voice is uncharacteristically soft.

“I know,” says Scar.

Grian shifts. The furrow of his brow melts away and he gives a quiet little sigh through his nose. Scar stays at his side, and doesn’t move.

It takes a few weeks for Grian to warm up to the palace. He’s well enough to move to a guest room after a couple days in the infirmary, so long as he keeps up with Shelby’s potions. It’s all so strange, having people check in on his health, and exchange pleasantries, and smile at him when they pass him in the hallway.

He isn’t expecting Scar to spend so much time with him.

Scar stops by his room every morning and takes his breakfast with him. He comes by every evening to make sure everything is comfortable. He encourages him to accompany him on walks and join him in the library. He seems to know when something’s wrong, always appearing with a concerned look and a soft smile.

Grian avoids as many people as he can. Shelby regularly checks on his food intake and Scar is Scar, but other than that, Grian doesn’t see much of anyone if he can help it. It’s too weird. He can’t stop himself from flinching when someone walks too quickly towards him. Guilt stabs through him when someone sees him and he’s not hard at work. His skin prickles when someone’s eyes linger on his wings for too long.

That’s the other thing.

Shelby sits him down a few days into his stay.

“This isn’t going to be a fun conversation,” she says. Grian purses his lips. “Do you keep your wings bound?”

Grian doesn’t say anything, but the look on his face must, because Shelby grimaces.

“Okay. There’s some damage to the feathers in certain areas more so than others. It’s nothing that won’t heal eventually, but if you want them to stay healthy, you’re going to have to let them breathe.”

Grian frowns. Under his shirt, his wings twitch.

“What I’m trying to say is, you need to uncover them and not bind them. Don’t worry about clothing– I’m sure we can get shirts and things tailored to let your wings through.”

“I can’t.”

Shelby gives him an encouraging smile. “It’ll be okay. I don’t know much about your previous situation. I know it wasn’t… favorable. But I promise you, no harm will come to you here. The palace is safe for you. We just want you healthy.”

The idea of having his wings on display, all the time… his skin crawls.

But the Watchers were lying. He went to the ball with his wings unbound, and nothing happened. He’s seen other avians in the kingdom. 

“I’ll try,” he concedes.

Shelby smiles at him.

What he likes about Shelby is that she always tells him before she’s going to touch him. She has to, to do her job, but it’s never unexpected. There’s no judgment in her voice, either. Just a simple, “I’m going to touch your hand,” and then she touches his hand, and she examines how his fingers are healing, and then she lets him go.

Her touch makes his skin tingle. His flesh burns in the wake of her fingertips. 

Scar finds him in the gardens. 

He’s tucked away in a corner between a bench and a tree, knees pulled to his chest and wings wrapped around his body. Scar doesn’t say anything– just sits on the ground next to him.

It boggles the mind. The king, sitting in the dirt with him.

Eventually, Grian unfurls. He stretches out his legs.

“Better?” says Scar.

Grian shrugs.

Scar hums noncommittally. Grian watches him curiously.

There’s a light breeze. It ruffles Scar’s already messy hair and knocks some distant windchimes together. The music drifts across the gardens.

Suddenly, Scar gasps.

“You haven’t met the queen!”

Grian frowns. “What?”

As far as he’s aware, there is no queen. King Scar’s never taken a suitor, and his parents have long since passed. Right? Or is that another thing the Watchers lied to him about? Or is he just making assumptions? Since when has there been a queen? Why wasn’t she at Scar’s birthday celebration?

Scar leaps to his feet and offers a hand to Grian. He takes it and nearly stumbles when Scar yanks him upright and pulls him towards the palace with a bounce to his stride. Grian’s hand burns where Scar’s skin touches his. That yawning hunger claws at him again.

Scar leads him through multiple corridors and up and down a few staircases. People stare as they rush past, and understandably so. The king, holding hands with some random avian refugee, practically running through the halls.

“Aha!” Scar says. He drops Grian’s hand and Grian tries not to feel horrifically and pathetically disappointed at the loss of contact. Scar crouches next to a cabinet and coos at something.

Grian has never been more confused in his life.

“Here she is!” says Scar. He reaches under the cabinet and pulls something out. He turns to face Grian, grinning that lopsided grin. 

Oh.

Oh.

The queen is a cat.

She’s such a pretty thing, too. Big, fluffy. Her fur is striped silver, with a white tummy and paws. She seems right at home in Scar’s arms, purring up a storm. Scar scratches under her chin.

“Come on, say hi!”

Grian cautiously reaches out his uninjured hand. The cat stretches her neck forward to sniff at his fingers and Grian jumps.

“It’s okay, she’s just getting to know you. Jellie, this is Grian. Grian, this is Jellie.”

Grian holds out his hand again. Jellie sniffs him, then licks his finger with a rough tongue. Grian jumps again.

Scar laughs. “It’s okay! She’s friendly, I promise. You can pet her, if you want.”

Grian nods. He shakes out his nerves and reaches out again. He touches the top of Jellie’s head.

She’s so soft.

He scritches behind her ears, gentler than he would with Tilly, and runs his hand over her fur. A smile breaks across his face. Jellie rubs the side of her mouth against his thumb and pushes her head into his hand, purring even louder.

“Hi sweet thing,” he says. “Oh, you’re the cutest, aren’t you?”

“Do you want to hold her?”

“Can I?”

Scar holds Jellie out and Grian takes her, trying to mimic how Scar held her before. He can feel her purring against his chest. He presses his nose into her fur.

“I think you two are going to get along just splendidly!” Scar says.

“I think Jellie’s my cat, now.”

“Wha– hey, no she’s not! She’s the queen, I’ll have you know.”

“Mhm. And she’s mine now. You’re never getting her back.”

“Grian!” Scar whines, and isn’t that something. Grian laughs.

“You shouldn’t have let me hold her if you didn’t want me to take her forever!” Grian says, and hugs her closer to his chest. 

There’s a yawning pit growing inside Grian. An endless abyss that collapses in on itself, in and in and in, wanting and yearning and craving. Every brush of the hand, every bump against the shoulder, sets his skin aflame. He wants to shove everyone away from him and never be touched again. He wants to press himself against someone’s side and cling to their arms. He wants to rip his skin off. He wants to be held.

Scar watches Grian out of the corner of his eye, pretending to be absorbed in the book he’s reading. Grian sits cross legged on one of the soft library chairs and fiddles with his wings. Shelby gave the go ahead to unbandage them, but heavily discouraged the continued binding and hiding of them. 

Someone clears their throat. Scar looks up.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Cub says, not looking sorry at all, “but the Lady Gem is here to meet with you, King Scar.”

“That was today?” Scar says, jumping from his chair. Behind him, Grian stifles a giggle. Scar shoots him a wounded look and Grian hides his smile in his sleeve.

“It is,” confirms Cub. 

Scar scrambles to make himself presentable. “Tell her I’ll be there in a minute, I just need to–”

“She’s already here,” says Cub, stepping aside. The door opens and Lady Gem walks in.

Gem has always had a commanding presence. There’s something about her that makes Scar straighten up and roll his shoulders back like he’s in trouble with a parent. She’s not even that tall– it’s the way she carries herself, full of confidence and poise.

Today she’s dressed in flowing green velvet, with her red hair done up in an intricate style incorporating golden leaves and vines that loop delicately around her antlers. She dips into a low curtsy.

“Your Majesty.”

Scar bows his head in return. “My Lady. Apologies, my mind has been elsewhere.”

“All is forgiven. Shall we– oh!” She turns to Grian. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Grian blinks at her owlishly, mouth open in a small ‘o’ shape.

“Lady Gemini Tay.” She curtsies again, though shallower this time. Grian’s eyes flick to Scar, panicked.

“Ah, this is Grian.” Scar smiles. “He’s a guest of mine. Grian, Cub, would you mind giving us the room?”

Grian shoots up from his chair and all but runs out the door, head down, wings tucked in tightly. Cub nods and follows.

Gem waits for the door to shut before she turns back to Scar.

“What’s the story behind the avian?”

“He’s… a refugee of sorts, I suppose.”

“Meaning?”

Scar sighs. “We’re working out the details. He was in a bad situation before– something regarding an organization or family that took advantage of him.”

“Anyone that I would know? I could help.”

Scar checks over his shoulder and lowers his voice. “Have you ever heard of the Watchers?”

Gem frowns and tilts her head. Her brow furrows. “I know I’ve heard the name before. Something about a deal they struck with a contemporary of mine.”

This could be huge. They have nothing on the Watchers, and Scar doesn’t want to force Grian to share what he knows before he’s ready to. If Gem can gather them intel…

“Would you–”

“--Be willing to do some snooping on the subject? Why, I’d love nothing more.”

“Very sneaky, Lady Gem!”

“I find it quite entertaining.” She sits on the edge of the chair Grian had been sitting in. “Now, about the original purpose of this meeting…”

“Right, of course!”

As it turns out, Jellie isn’t the only cat in the castle. Mr. Finnegan and Katy Bee are monsters. More than once, Finney has had to be extracted from where he accidentally trapped himself in a chandelier.

This is how Grian’s found himself chasing after both kittens, with only one sock on, as they race through the halls carrying the other. 

“Did you have to take it right off my foot?” he huffs. “There are plenty of socks in the drawers you could steal!”

The cats, unsurprisingly, do not listen.

Grian rounds the corner, doing his best not to slide on the waxed floors. Katy Bee dives under a cabinet, but Finney, the one carrying the sock, squeezes himself through a partially cracked door and vanishes.

Grian sighs and runs his hand down his face. He doesn’t want to think about how many people saw him running half barefoot through the palace chasing two kittens.

Oh well. It’s not like he has any dignity left. He knocks on the door. There’s a startled yelp from within. 

“Uh, yes? Hello?”

Grian cracks the door open. “Sorry,” he says, “did you see a cat?”

The man inside sits at a desk covered with bits and bobs – rings, gauntlets, necklaces, daggers. Tomes take up every remaining inch of usable surface area. There’s a mounted magnifying glass which the man is using to examine an earring up close.

“I– no? But I’ve been very busy, so I probably didn’t notice.” His eyes scan Grian, mustache twitching when he sees the single bare foot.

It’s an impressive mustache, though, Grian will give him that. The man looks like he’s usually well put together, but has been so hard at work that grooming has fallen by the wayside for the moment. His slicked back hair is starting to come loose and hang about his face in frizzy strands, and his clothes look like they might have once been pressed, but are now disheveled and rumpled. Dark circles line his eyes.

“What’s all that?” says Grian.

“Hm? Oh! The– it’s a bit of a mess right now, but these are all magical objects. Or, they will be. I’m the royal artificer. Mumbo.”

“Mumbo?”

“That’s my name.”

“Oh! Right, sorry.” Grian extends his hand. “I’m Grian.”

Mumbo wipes his palms on his trousers and shakes Grian’s hand. “Nice to meet you! You’re the king’s guest, aren’t you?”

“I guess that’s one way to put it. What does an artificer do?”

Mumbo lights up at the question. “Right! Well, I make magical objects. I infuse items with magic, that is. Most of the time, I do smaller objects that can be concealed on one’s person, like these pieces of jewelry, but I also make enchanted armor and such. I made the king’s bow and arrows, for example.”

“That’s incredible,” says Grian. He glances at the books on the desk. The words mean nothing to him, but he can tell from the small print and the intricate diagrams that it’s complicated stuff. “How does that even work?”

“It’s quite simple, really,” says Mumbo. “You can imbue existing items with spells, or infuse magic into them at the time of crafting, or any number of methods. Some materials take to magic more easily, and some are more resistant. I could enchant an iron gauntlet, but it would be more difficult and take more time than it would if it were made of something like bronze, because iron is naturally resistant to magic.”

“I… understood some of those words.”

Mumbo winces. “I promise it really is quite simple once you understand the theory.”

“There’s your problem,” Grian says.

“What brings you to the castle, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Grian shifts uncomfortably. His wings twitch. “It’s a long story.”

“I don’t mind listening. I need a break anyway. That is, if you’re willing to share.”

It might be nice to have someone to talk to that isn’t directly involved. Mumbo is friendly enough. And he’s a bit awkward, which Grian likes. He perches on an unoccupied chair.

“Have you ever heard of the Watchers?”

Mumbo listens with rapt attention as Grian explains the whole story, exclaiming in surprise or outrage where appropriate. He gasps, and laughs at Grian’s jokes, and wrings his hands nervously at tense moments.

“Wow,” he says. “That’s– I’m glad you got out of that.”

“Me too,” Grian says.

“If you’d like,” says Mumbo, flipping through one of his books, “I could make you something with a charm that wards off magical surveillance.”

“You can do that?”

“Of course. It would take a week or so to gather materials and all that, but it can be done.”

“I don’t have any money.”

Mumbo scoffs. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll just overcharge the king on his next order. He won’t notice. It’s not like he doesn’t have enough wealth already.”

Grian’s jaw drops. “What?”

Mumbo smiles. “You wouldn’t tell him, would you?”

Grian’s open mouth stretches into a grin. “Tell him what?”

A laugh bursts from Mumbo’s chest, high and sharp. “We’re gonna get along just fine, mate.”

They sit and chat until Mumbo’s candles burn down, swapping stories about their experiences in the castle and of pranks they’ve done and interesting things they’ve seen. The light outside the window grows dimmer and dimmer, and Grian’s stomach is aching for food, and his head is pounding from neglecting water, but he’s having so much fun talking with Mumbo that he doesn’t want to leave.

A small gray shape wriggles out from under Mumbo’s bed, sock clutched between tiny sharp teeth.

Grian gasps.

“Finnegan! I forgot why I came in here!”

“Is that why you only have one sock on? I was wondering.”

Scar can’t blow off all his kingly responsibilities, of course, but any free time he does have is spent with either Cub or Grian. Suspiciously, Cub has been baking more time he can share with Grian into his daily schedules. And Cub coincidentally had to attend to matters indoors when Grian came outside to join them at the archery range.

Subtle.

It’s a nice day out. Winter hasn’t yet sunk its chilly fingers into the earth, but summer is taking a leisurely exit. The sun beats down on Scar’s bare shoulders, made bearable by the occasional cool breeze. He raises his bow and pulls back the string.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

The arrow flies.

It whistles through the air and embeds itself in the bullseye with a thunk. Grian claps.

“Very impressive!”

Scar extends his arms and bows deeply. “Thank you, thank you,” he says, blowing kisses to an imaginary audience. Grian giggles. The sound warms Scar from the inside out. 

“Bravo, bravo! Encore!”

“What’s that?” Scar says. He cups a hand around his ear. “I get the sense the audience wants another performance.”

Grian whoops and claps louder. “Do it again!”

“I don’t know… You already saw it once…”

“It might have been a fluke that time!”

Scar gasps in mock offense. “Who said that? Which one of you audience members said that?”

He plants his hands on his hips and scans the imaginary crowd with an intense glare. Grian looks to his left and right, then shrugs.

“Seeing as no one will come forward, I’ll just have to prove you wrong! Prepare to be amazed.”

Scar nocks an arrow and draws the string back. He lets it fly.

Thud. Bullseye.

Grian cheers. Scar beams and takes another theatrical bow.

“Thank you, you’re a very kind audience.” He casts another glance at the target and tilts his head. “I wonder how accurate you could still be if you shot while flying… I mean, archery from horseback is definitely possible…”

“How would you even do that?” says Grian.

“Lots of practice, I imagine. Hey, one day, you might be able to shoot bullseyes from the sky!”

Grian snorts. “No way. I don’t know the first thing about combat, let alone archery.”

“I could teach you,” Scar says.

Grian blinks. “Huh?”

Heat floods Scar’s face, and he backpedals. “I mean, only if you wanted to. You have enough on your mind already, I don’t mean to–”

“No, no, that’s– I wouldn’t mind. Learning from you, that is. But… don’t you have more important things you should be doing than teaching me to use a bow?”

“Not necessarily,” says Scar. “It wouldn’t do any harm to take some time out of my day to spend time with you.”

Grian looks dumbfounded. His brow furrows and he tilts his head.

“...Really?”

“Of course,” says Scar. “You’re worth it.” He gestures for Grian to come over with a nod of his head.

Grian chews his lip, flexing and unflexing his hands. His wings twitch and flutter. Finally, he sighs and joins Scar at the edge of the shooting range.

“Here. You’ll want to stand perpe–perpadi– at a ninety degree angle relative to the target, feet apart.”

Grian adjusts his stance. Scar squints, then nudges Grian’s boot with his own to move it. Grian complies.

“Good, good! Now the fun part.” Scar hands the bow to Grian, directing him on how to hold it and how to nock the arrow. “When you draw the string back, you want to pull back towards your face.”

Grian does so. Scar steps back and looks him up and down.

“Um, almost. Try to– if you push your shoulders back, maybe… No, no. Relax. More than that. Here, let me– can I touch you?”

“What?”

“It’s easier if I can give you physical feedback instead of just telling you what to do. I’m not good with words, anyway.”

Grian purses his lips. He exhales through his nose, slowly. “Okay.”

Scar steps right up to him. Grian’s breath stutters, immediately stiffening.

“Relax,” says Scar. He reaches down the arm holding the bow and gently pries Grian’s fingers from their white-knuckled grip. “You’ll hurt yourself if you hold it so tightly. Really, you can be looser than you think.”

Scar guides Grian’s shoulders back. He places his other hand on the one holding the string, and together, they draw the string back.

“Close one eye,” Scar says softly. His breath ruffles the hair by Grian’s ear.

Grian’s skin is warm under his fingertips. His body fits perfectly in the curve of Scar’s. 

“Line up your aim.”

Scar’s heart is pounding far too quickly for the amount of physical activity he’s doing. Grian’s hair tickles his nose.

“Let go.”

The arrow soars. It hits the target – the outer edge, but still, it’s on the board.

Grian gasps. A delighted laugh escapes his lips and Scar’s stomach swoops. Grian lowers the bow and spins around, grinning from ear to ear. They’re still mere inches apart, close enough that Scar can see those near invisible freckles on Grian’s nose, close enough that he could count Grian’s eyelashes, if he wanted to. He doesn’t step away. 

“I did it!” Grian says. His eyes are dark, so dark they could be black, and so wide with excitement Scar feels like he might fall in.

“You did it!”

Grian glows. Scar smiles so wide his cheeks hurt.

“Do you want to try again?”

Scar instructs Grian through the motions again, this time giving verbal corrections while he keeps his hands on Grian’s hips. With each attempt, Grian’s shots get closer and closer to the center of the target. With each triumphant cheer, Grian’s smile burns itself clearer and clearer in Scar’s mind.

“Ah, Grian,” says Cub, “take a seat.”

Cub and Scar sit on the other side of the table, parchment and files piled high around them. Grian sits in the chair across from them. 

“We have a few questions we’d like answered,” says Cub.

“If you feel up to it,” adds Scar.

“Whatever you know–”

“Or whatever you feel comfortable sharing–”

Cub casts Scar a look out of the corner of his eye. “Any information you can give us will be helpful.”

“Information about what?” says Grian, but he thinks he already knows.

“What can you tell us about the Watchers?”

Scar winces at Cub’s brashness. Grian’s blood runs cold. His hands automatically grow clammy and his heart thuds loudly against his ribcage. His mouth is dry.

He swallows.

“What do you want to know?”

“Who are they? What do they do? Who do they associate with? Why did they keep you prisoner?”

It’s a lot at once. Scar nudges Cub with his elbow. Normally, the sight would have amused Grian, but he’s not in the mood to crack a smile at the moment.

“I don’t remember a time before the Watchers.”

“You don’t have to tell us, if you don’t want to–” starts Scar. Grian shakes his head.

“You’re trying to take them down, right?”

A nod.

“Then you’ll need whatever help you can get. I’m your best source.”

Grian flexes and unflexes his hands. He takes a slow breath and exhales through his nose. Cub and Scar sit silently.

Finally, he speaks.

“I’ve been living with the Watchers my whole life. Ever since I can remember, I’ve been working for them. They said my parents were killed for their wings and I was left alone to die, so they took me in. I owe them a life debt.”

Scar tightens his grip on his quill.

“I don’t know how many Watchers there are. I’ve never seen any of their faces. They have these masks and robes that hide them, and there’s a different number every time I see them. I know they have powerful magic, and they can See anyone or anything. You can feel it when they’re Watching, like a prickling at the back of your neck, and all your hair stands on end. They spy on people to gather blackmail and then trick them into making deals to gain money and power.”

Cub jots down notes while he talks. Scar looks at him with a soft expression. Grian can’t stand it. He looks away.

“They probably have half the nobility in their pocket, maybe more. There are tons and tons of files in the study keeping track of it all.”

At this, Cub perks up. “Did you ever see these files?”

Grian nods.

“How often?”

“Quite a bit.”

“Can you recall any names of people who have struck deals with the Watchers?”

Grian squirms in his chair.

“No.”

“No one at all?”

“No.”

Cub furrows his brow. “How–”

Grian shoots a desperate look in Scar’s direction. He startles.

“Cub, would you mind–”

Cub’s already out of his chair and halfway to the door. “I’ll be back in ten.”

Scar waits until the door swings shut before turning his attention back to Grian. “What’s wrong?”

Grian shakes his head. “It’s– embarrassing.”

Scar reaches a hand across the table. Grian takes it without hesitation.

“You can tell me anything.”

“I know.”

“I won’t judge you for anything. I’ll get you whatever help you need.”

“I know.”

Grian forces himself to look up. Scar smiles at him so gently it makes him sick. He doesn’t understand. He’s done nothing to earn Scar’s respect, or his kindness, and here he is, looking at him like something precious he needs to protect. It doesn’t make sense.

“I’ve seen the names on the files, but I don’t know what they say. I can’t–” Grian’s voice gives out. He blinks against the stinging sensation in his eyes.

Scar rises from his chair and crosses to Grian’s side of the table, dropping down to his knees. He squeezes Grian’s hands in his and catches Grian’s gaze with his green, green eyes. 

“I don’t know how to read,” Grian whispers.

“Oh,” says Scar.

“I’m sorry.”

Scar frowns. “What for?”

“If I knew, I could be more helpful. I can’t tell you what the files say because I don’t know, I can’t read them, but if I could–”

“Hey.” Scar cuts him off. He places a hand on Grian’s cheek and forces him to look him in the eyes. “Look at me. This is not your fault.”

Grian shakes his head. Scar takes his face in both hands and holds him, gently. 

“Grian. This is not your fault. None of this is your fault. The Watchers hurt you your entire life. They wanted to control you, to make sure you didn’t have a way to expose them or to learn anything that they didn’t want you to know. This is not your fault.”

Grian squeezes his eyes shut, but a few tears manage to escape. Scar wipes them away with his thumb.

“Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

“I just thought–” he starts, but chokes as a fresh round of tears spill.

“Grian,” Scar says, “as long as you’ll let me, I will do everything in my power to get you whatever you need. I’ll hire tutors to teach you to read, and to do anything else you want to learn. I’ll do anything you ask of me.”

Grian can’t form any words. He opens and closes his mouth a few times before he gives up and nods, face wet and sticky with tears. 

Scar places a hand on the back of Grian’s neck and presses a firm kiss to his forehead, lingering there for a moment longer before he finally pulls away. Scar runs his fingers through Grian’s hair. Grian lets his forehead rest against Scar’s. They breathe each other’s air.

“Mumbo,” says Grian. He’s laying on Mumbo’s bed, hanging upside down over the edge while Mumbo sits at his desk and tinkers. “Would you want to play a prank with me?”

“Who are we pranking?”

“Scar.”

Mumbo drops his tweezers. “The king?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh– I mean, won’t we get in trouble?”

Grian pulls himself upright. He winces at the headrush. “Probably not. He likes me.”

Mumbo gawks at him. 

Grian snickers. “You look so silly right now.”

“I mean, if you want to prank the king, let’s prank the king,” says Mumbo. He spins in his chair to fully face Grian and braces his arms on his knees. “Got something in mind?”

Grian smiles.

This is how Mumbo and Grian start competing over who can slip the most spoons into Scar’s pockets before he notices.

Mumbo leaves a meeting with Scar and gives Grian a meaningful look. “Three,” he says.

Grian catches Mumbo in the hallway after another archery lesson with Scar. “Five!”

Mumbo holds up six fingers when Scar glances in the other direction. Grian sticks his tongue out.

The best part is that Scar still hasn’t accused them of anything. Grian watches as he puts his hands in his pockets and frowns, then pulls out seven spoons with an incredulous expression. Grian quickly turns his laugh into a cough.

Nothing feels real. 

Grian wakes up this morning with a heavy blanket of fog in his head. Everything has a dreamlike quality. Any sound that pierces the cloud of cotton surrounding him is muffled, like he’s deep underwater. Everything makes him flinch – someone walking towards him, a door opening in his peripheral vision, the sound of his name. His entire body jerks in surprise. Unbidden, startled chirps escape his lips.

He’s sitting in the library, he thinks, and Scar’s there too, probably. The day’s been passing like dandelion seeds in the wind. Each memory dances out of his grasp and he’s left with the stem, limp in his fingers as he tries to picture what led him to this.

Scar’s talking, maybe. Grian isn’t listening, if he is. Instead, he’s examining his hands, squinting at the shadows and highlights on his skin, and on the raised scars on the back. His fingers twitch. There’s something wrong about it. It doesn’t look real. He doesn’t look real. The shadows are wrong, or something. It’s like he’s looking at a painting. 

“Grian?” says Scar, and it’s immediately too much. There’s a hand on his back, the fingers brushing his feathers, and it burns, burns, burns, and Grian is up and out of the room before he even registers the fact that he’s moving. It’s too much, too hot, too loud, too bright, too fake, nothing feels real, but it feels too real now with the phantom touch lingering on his wings. 

He’s not sure where he’s going or where he is. At times like this, his instincts take over and all his brain can muster up is hide, hide, hide, burrow, nest, nest, hide.

It’s dark now. Confined. Small. He hugs his knees to his chest and wraps his wings around himself like a cocoon. He can’t get a breath deep enough and his heart is pounding in his throat and his chest is heaving and he’s drowning, drowning, drowning and his lungs burn and his face is wet and sticky and when did he start crying?

Light pours in. Grian whines and hides his face.

“Grian?”

He shakes his head.

The light disappears. Someone – Scar? It has to be Scar, who else would it be – crouches in front of him.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says, voice soft. Grian flinches.

A hand brushes his arm and Grian cringes away so hard he smacks his head against the wall. 

“Don’t touch me!”  

Scar rips his hand away like he’s been slapped.

“Sorry! I’m so sorry!”

Grian’s head spins. His throat seizes. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe and his heart is pounding louder and faster and he’s going to throw up and his chest hurts and his face is slick with tears and, and, and–

Scar is– Scar is breathing. He’s breathing slowly and carefully and exaggeratedly. Grian stares at him and tries to suck in a breath. He manages one, a shaky, shallow one, before the panic comes back and he hyperventilates again.

“Hey, hey, G, look at me. Look at me, okay? Just look at me.”

Grian stares. Scar breathes.

And Scar breathes.

And Scar breathes.

And Scar breathes.

And Grian breathes.

And he keeps breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

Slowly, he unwinds. He uncurls himself, stretching out his legs and folding his wings behind his back. He wipes his face and sighs heavily.

“Back with me?”

Grian nods. All the energy drains from his body, leaving his bones heavy and his movements sluggish.

“What happened back there, songbird?”

Grian shrugs.

“Was it because I touched your back?”

Grian tilts his head. He shrugs again and makes a so-so gesture.

“So not just that,” says Scar, “but part of it. And other things as well.”

Grian nods. Scar shifts from kneeling to sitting cross legged on the floor. It’s at this moment when Grian realizes he’s holed himself up in a closet. And for some reason, the king followed him.

“I want to help,” says Scar. “Will you let me help you?”

“Why?” Grian says. It surprises them both.

“What?”

“Why?” he asks again. “Why do you– I’m not– I don’t understand.”

Scar shuffles closer. He offers a hand but makes no gesture to grab at Grian. Grian eyes him warily, then takes Scar’s hand in his. Scar rubs his thumb over Grian’s knuckles.

“I’m the king. It’s my responsibility to keep my citizens safe and cared for.” He smiles. “But more than that… I care about you. You’re… important to me.”

Grian shakes his head. “But why?”

Scar gives Grian a soft look. “Why wouldn’t you be? I love talking to you, and seeing you smile. I want you to be safe, G. Is that so hard to believe?”

“A little,” says Grian.

“Well, I’ll just have to work harder to make you believe it.”

They sit in the dark, on the floor of a closet, holding hands, for who knows how long. Grian focuses on breathing in slowly and evenly, and Scar doesn’t complain about sitting on the stone floor at all.

“I’m okay now.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I just want to go to bed.”

Scar smiles at him again and helps Grian to his feet. He opens the closet door like a coachman and bows deeply. “After you, kind sir.”

Grian rolls his eyes. Scar puts his hands in his pockets and frowns.

He pulls out three spoons.

“Where the hell– what–?”

Grian cackles.

“Grian!”

He turns. Mumbo’s at the end of the hall, running towards him and waving.

“I finally caught you! I’ve been looking all over, bud!”

Grian giggles as Mumbo skids to a halt and pinwheels his arms to stay upright. He pants like a dog. Not a big or intimidating dog, though – more like one of those small yappy ones that looks like it has perpetual allergies.

“Mumbo!” says Grian.

“Grian!” says Mumbo.

“What doin’?”

“Bringing you a present,” says Mumbo. “I finished it a few days back, but I haven’t been able to give it to you until now. I was all swamped with work and then when I went to find you, you weren’t anywhere I looked. But here you are!”

He digs through his suit pockets. It takes him a few tries to find the right one, but when he does, he fishes out the gift with a triumphant “aha!” 

Mumbo presses it into Grian’s hands. He holds it up to the light.

It’s a necklace, a simple gold chain with a small golden feather charm affixed to it. It shimmers with magic. When he clasps it around his neck, a sense of calm and warmth washes over him. The tension in his shoulders relaxes somewhat, and the urge to look over his shoulder fades.

“It’s enchanted to shield you from seeing-eye spells and other magical surveillance,” says Mumbo, “so the Watchers shouldn’t be able to find you anymore.”

“Oh, Mumbo,” breathes Grian. He brushes his fingers over the feather charm and desperately blinks away tears.

Before he can stop himself, he flings his arms around Mumbo and squeezes him tight. He pulls away before Mumbo has the chance to react, face burning. They stare at each other. Grian’s wings twitch. Mumbo clears his throat.

“Thanks,” says Grian.

“Of course.”

“Aw, look at you two bonding,” comes Scar’s voice. He appears, as usual, seemingly out of nowhere, filling the corridor with his cheerful presence. “I knew you guys would be friends!”

He bumps into Mumbo as he passes by and pats his shoulder.

“Oh, sorry! Clumsy!”

Mumbo frowns. He reaches into his pocket.

“Wait a minute–”

Scar snickers.

Mumbo pulls four spoons out of his jacket.

“Scar!” Grian yells. He laughs, and the stunned expression on Mumbo’s face only serves to make him laugh harder. His voice squeaks.

“I– what–”

“Goodbye, have a great time!” Scar calls, waving over his shoulder as he disappears down the hallway.

“Are you kidding me?” Mumbo says.

Grian laughs even harder.

The weather grows colder. The leaves turn red and gold and flutter down from their branches to cover the ground in a crunchy autumn blanket. The grass dries up. More often than not, the sky is overcast and rain patters down from the sky. Mornings come with the promise of fog.

That yawning pit hasn’t gone away. It’s stronger now, if anything. Grian’s chest aches at the thought of fingertips brushing over his cheek, of hands running through his hair, of arms wrapping around his waist. Nothing he does satisfies the craving. He preens his wings. He throws his arms around himself and squeezes. He closes his eyes and cradles his jaw and imagines his hand belongs to someone else.

A chill settles into Grian’s bones. He curls up in an armchair in the library by the fire, with Scar lounging nearby on a loveseat frowning at the book in his hands. The firelight flickers, casting Scar’s face in an orange glow. Grian’s eyes linger on the way the shadows carve out his jaw and highlight the scars on his eyebrow and lip. His chest aches. His skin burns.

Scar looks up.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” says Grian.

“What’s going on?”

And isn’t that infuriating. After years and years of practice hiding his emotions behind a carefully curated mask, Scar sees right through him.

“Nothing.”

Scar folds down the corner of the page he’s on and sets the book aside. He raises an eyebrow.

Or – he tries to. Grian snickers.

“What are you doing with your face?”

“I’m– what do you mean? I’m raising an eyebrow at you! I’m giving you a stern look!”

“You are not.”

Scar purses his lips and contorts his face as he struggles to get his eyebrows to move independently. Grian covers his mouth to stifle a giggle.

“Scar, no,” he says.

Scar pouts.

“Okay, fine. But I’m still giving you a very stern look.”

Grian rolls his eyes. “Sure.”

“So… what’s going on?”

“I told you, it’s nothing.”

“And I don’t believe you. Come on, G, you can tell me.”

Grian raises an eyebrow at him.

“That’s mean.”

He smiles, then lets it drop. He picks at his wings.

“Grian.”

“It’s nothing.”

“G.”

“Seriously, it’s nothing.”

“Songbird.”

Grian groans. It’s not like it should even be that big of a deal. What, he can’t go two seconds without someone touching him or he gets really sad? How stupid is that? But Scar won’t drop it if he doesn’t say anything.

“I think something’s wrong with me.”

Scar sits up fully. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like– I don’t know. It’s like I have this awful craving to be touched.”

A breath escapes Scar’s lips and words spill out of Grian’s mouth before he can stop them.

“I think about it all the time. I can’t stop thinking about how much I want someone to touch my hair or my shoulder or– and when they do it’s so much and I feel like I’m on fire but I don’t want them to stop even though it hurts because not being touched is so much worse.”

Scar’s already halfway across the room to him. 

“And I know it’s dumb because I shouldn’t be affected by this, but I want to– I need– I just–”

Scar pulls Grian into his lap and wraps his arms around his waist. He presses a kiss to Grian’s hair and brushes a few strands out of his eyes.

“I told you that you could tell me anything, silly goose. That includes stuff like this.”

Grian shudders. His skin burns. His heart races. His wings flutter behind him.

Scar pulls Grian closer and rubs circles into his shoulder blades. Grian buries his head in Scar’s neck and slides his arms around him, digging his fingers into the fabric of his shirt. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

Gem swirls her wine, looking through her eyelashes at her conversation partner. He’s an older man, his blonde hair streaked with gray. His cheeks have a dark flush from the alcohol coursing through his system and his wings flutter contentedly as he shifts in his seat.

These aren’t usually the functions Gem attends. She prefers dances or garden parties, and the occasional spar. These more conversation oriented events tend to draw in more of the older nobility, which makes a younger lady like her the cause of many a head turn. Tonight is different, though. She has a job to do.

“Lord Xelqua,” she starts, voice intentionally sweetened, “how did you come into such success? I had the fortune of being born into a noble family, but if I recall correctly, you rose up in the ranks fairly quickly, didn’t you?”

Lord Xelqua raises his eyebrows, impressed. “You know a lot.”

Gem giggles. “Oh, when I heard I might run into you, I just had to take a look at your history!”

“How flattering,” says Lord Xelqua. He takes a long sip of his wine. It’s his fourth glass – Gem’s been keeping track. Personally, she’s still nursing her first.

“I hope you wouldn’t mind spilling a few trade secrets to little old me,” she says. She smiles at him and wraps a curl of red hair around her finger.

Lord Xelqua sits up with a grunt. “Oh, alright. Can’t say no to a sweet girl like you.”

Gross.

“If you must know,” he says, lowering his voice, “I happened to strike a deal with a very helpful group of individuals.”

Gem widens her eyes. “Really? Would I know about them?”

“Oh, probably not. They keep to themselves, mostly.”

“Surely you could tell me something.”

“No, no, I shouldn’t. They quite like their privacy. Besides, a girl like you doesn’t need a deal like that.”

Gem rises from her seat and settles down next to him, carefully leaving only an inch of space between their thighs.

“Could you remember anything about them? I only ask because I’ve gotten a wonderful offer for a deal from a group I’ve never heard of before.”

The color drains from Lord Xelqua’s face.

“You don’t want that.”

“Are you sure? They may not even be the same people,” says Gem, lowering her voice as she leans closer. “They called themselves the Watchers.”

“Lady Gem, if you know what’s good for you, you won’t take that deal.”

“And why’s that?” she says, the flirtatious edge slipping from her voice.

“I can’t say.”

“I think you can,” she whispers harshly.

“The Watchers– I– if they found out I told you anything–”

Gem slips a hand under her skirts and grips the handle of a dagger. She shifts the fabric of her dress just enough that the light catches on the metal.

“I think you’ll find you have a much more immediate problem than the eventual wrath of some cultists.”

Lord Xelqua goes rigid. His breath quickens.

Gem smiles sweetly. “Start talking.”

“I made a deal with the Watchers when I was young and stupid and in desperate straits. My wife and I were starving. There was nowhere to turn. It was sheer luck we even saw the garden.”

Lord Xelqua shudders. His wings twitch uncomfortably.

“My wife was pregnant at the time. We couldn’t afford food. We found the Watcher mansion completely by accident and saw they had a massive garden. I thought I could sneak in and steal some rampion to feed my wife without them noticing, but they knew I was there before I could even make it back over the wall.

“I was sure they were going to kill me, or at the very least chop my hands off, but instead they offered me a deal. They’d forgive my stealing and even help me attain massive amounts of wealth and reputation, but at a price.”

He wrings his hands. He looks like he might hurl. Gem tightens her grip on her dagger and glares. Lord Xelqua swallows.

“They’d make me a lord, but only if I gave them our child.”

Gem hisses. At least Lord Xelqua has the decency to look ashamed.

“We had no choice! I gave them my word, and when our son was born, they showed up at our doorstep and took him away. The next day, we received a letter informing us of a mysterious relative who left me a massive inheritance and noble title. We’ve been coasting ever since, but not without their supervision.”

Lord Xelqua grabs Gem’s wrists with startling speed. She tugs against his grip, but he holds her firm. 

“They See everything. Everything. I’ve had that prickling on the back of my neck for decades now, that prickling feeling of being Watched. If I told anyone, or did anything, or went against them, or–”

He shakes his head.

“But recently, that prickling feeling… it’s gone. They’re not Watching me right now. I don’t know what changed. Lady Gem, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll turn that deal down.”

Gem rips her wrists away from Lord Xelqua and shoots to her feet. In one swift movement, she seizes a fistful of his hair and presses her dagger against his throat.

“You disgust me. You’d rather give up your child to those monsters than face the consequences of your own actions? Do you have any idea what harm you’ve caused? All for what? Wealth? Power?”

She shoves him away. He clutches at his chest, eyes wide with fear.

“You’d better hope the King shows you mercy when this all comes to light. But between you and me, I wouldn’t get too comfortable.”

Gem slides her dagger back into its holster, downs the rest of her wine, and slams the door shut behind her.

“And that’s everything I learned,” says Gem.

Scar digs his fingernails into his palm and grits his teeth, forcing the angry swirl of vex power back down. His eyes flash.

“Grian said–”

“They lied to him,” says Gem.

Scar pinches the bridge of his nose. Cub places a hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you, Lady Gem. You’ve done a wonderful job. You’ll be rewarded, of course,” Cub says.

Gem waves a hand. “Scaring the pants off that bastard was more than enough. Though, if you insist, I won’t protest.”

“I have to talk to Grian,” Scar says, rising from his chair.

“Woah, maybe take a moment to calm down first. Um. Your Majesty.”

Cub clicks his tongue. “She’s right. You’re in no state.”

Scar flops back down into his desk chair.

“What I don’t understand yet is why they wanted the child in that deal. What do they have to gain?” Cub muses.

“Beats me. I don’t have a clue how any of that magic stuff works.”

It takes a while for Scar to calm down, and even longer for Cub to deem him calm enough to break the news to Grian, but eventually he finds himself sitting next to Grian on one of the benches out in the gardens. It’s only gotten colder. The trees are bare and the air smells of potential snowfall.

“I had Lady Gem gather intel on the Watchers,” he says.

Grian stiffens.

“And?”

“And…” Scar sighs. “There’s no easy way to say this. She found your father.”

“...What?”

“She talked to him at some party or something, I don’t remember, but the main point is–”

“Stop, stop, stop.” Grian waves his hands, shaking his head. “My parents are dead. Remember? They were killed for their wings.”

“How do you know?”

“Huh?”

“How do you know they were killed, Grian?”

Grian bites his lip. He lets out a slow, careful breath. “The Watchers told me.”

Scar puts a hand on Grian’s thigh, rubbing his leg with his thumb. “I think they lied to you, G. Gem said he was caught stealing from them and struck a deal. He traded you for help from the Watchers.”

“That’s– that’s not true.”

Scar doesn’t say anything.

“It’s not. They told me– and they said– it was a rescue, they rescued me. Right?” Grian looks at him, eyes pleading. Scar gives him a sad smile.

Grian buries a hand in his hair and pulls.

“Yeah, right. Of course it was a lie. Everything else was a lie! Why not that, too? What, my parents would rather have– they’d rather– ugh!”

Grian pushes himself up from the bench and paces the pathway, wings flapping in irritation. 

“I thought at least, if nothing else, at least the Watchers were doing it all for my sake. They took me in to help. They only hurt me because they didn’t know how else to protect me. But that’s not true, is it?” He casts a desperate look in Scar’s direction. His chest heaves. His eyes glisten. “It was never for me. They knew exactly what they were doing. They wanted to hurt me.”

Scar’s heart breaks. 

Grian laughs. 

“That’s it, then. They only ever wanted to hurt me.” He laughs again, louder. And then he can’t seem to stop. He cackles like a witch, doubled over and clutching his stomach. Blood rushes to his face and he can’t get a breath in between bouts of laughter. Tears roll down his face.

Grian grabs his hair and screams.

Scar crosses over to him and pulls him into a hug. Grian presses his face to Scar’s chest, trembling.

The Watchers are getting weaker.

Pearl hadn’t noticed, at first. She’s been diligently focusing most of her magic on keeping the palace shielded from scrying spells, so she takes a few weeks to clock the difference.

The Watcher mansion has always had a powerful aura, what with its occupants constantly keeping an Eye on everything and the various charms and wards around the property. Pearl can feel the ripples of magic like soundwaves pulsing through the ground. Only now, it’s weaker. It’s as if someone had thrown a pebble into a pond instead of a stone.

“What do you think, Tilly?” she says. Tilly sniffs her nose and licks her face. “Yeah, me too. You’re such a smart girl.”

Pearl scratches Tilly’s ears and presses a kiss to her head, smiling as Tilly’s tail wagging increases.

The Watchers are losing power, and they’re losing it fast. Pearl can fully step inside the property line without being noticed. They can’t keep Watch on everything at once anymore. Instead, their magic is focused on one thing.

They’re still looking for Grian.

The streets are packed with people. Every window blazes orange, and a good number of buildings have enchanted garlands that twinkle with light. Candles line every windowsill. Music drifts from every street corner and merchants hawk their wares over the sounds of laughter and conversation. It’s the winter festival, and Scar has made absolute certain Grian experiences it all.

His hand is warm in Grian’s. Ever since he told him about the skin hunger, Scar has made sure to touch Grian in some way. Usually it manifests in holding hands, but Grian’s slowly getting used to more and more frequent hugs and arms slung around his shoulders. 

“You’re warm enough?” Scar says, grinning at him.

Grian nods, burying his nose in the scarf Scar had tucked around his neck and face before they’d left the palace. He’s completely swathed in a bulky wool cloak with the hood pulled up to protect his ears from the cold, though his wings are left exposed. If that wasn’t enough to keep him nice and toasty, the blinding smile Scar turns in his direction certainly is. 

Scar has a special smile just for him. He only noticed it recently. It’s soft and affectionate and lopsided and it makes Grian’s stomach all fluttery.

“Come on, I have so much to show you. Oh! Here, try this.”

Scar pays for two cups of a hot drink and presses one of the mugs into Grian’s hands. He takes a sip and his eyes widen at the taste.

Whatever it is, it’s thick and creamy and chocolatey and it warms him as he drinks it.

“Hot cocoa,” Scar explains.

“It’s good,” says Grian.

Scar intertwines their fingers again. “Do you have anything you want to see first?”

Grian shrugs. “You’d know better than me.”

Scar beams and tugs him along. 

The scene reminds him a lot of his first foray into the kingdom, where everyone was dressed up for the ball and the streets were alive with festivities. If anything, there are even more people out and about. Children weave through the crowd and couples laugh together and songs drift from tavern windows. A blaze hybrid blows on his friend’s mug of cider to warm it up.

“Weird,” says Grian.

“Hm?”

“Seeing so many hybrids. The Watchers always told me I’d be killed if people found out I was an avian.”

Scar stops walking. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Grian says, nodding, “that’s why I hadn’t left until I found the invitation to the ball. It said hybrids were welcome.”

“Well, discrimination is certainly still a thing, it’s hard to wipe out prejudice completely, but my father was making equality laws for years before I was even born.”

“I mean, yeah, but it’s still surprising.”

“Grian, I’m a hybrid.”

Grian’s jaw drops. “You are?”

“Yeah? I’m a vex hybrid. I get the glowy eyes and the wings and everything.”

“Oh, wow.” Grian’s experienced a lot of worldview altering things in the past few months, but this is something else. “That’s– woah.”

Scar laughs. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so silent in my life.”

Grian smacks him.

The festival offers a lot to explore and experience. Scar spends a lot of time convincing people to let him pay for things (he’s not in “disguise” for this) and Grian spends a lot of time putting spoons in Scar’s pocket when he’s busy sweet talking a vendor into letting him tip them. There’s a lot of warm and spicy foods at this time of year compared to the market they’d met at a few months ago – hot ciders and roasted ham and mugs of soup and cookies and potato cakes and wine. Colorful blankets and cloaks catch Grian’s eye, but he’s immediately distracted by beautiful candles shaped like different animals, and even further distracted by hanging glass sculptures that twinkle with reflected firelight.

One vendor smiles as his fingers ghost over the various hair accessories she has on display. 

“Would you like to try any of them on?” she asks. 

“Can I?”

“Of course! I have a mirror for you to see how it looks on you.”

Grian picks a clip that resembles a poppy. He slides it into his hair, pinning some of his fringe back, and examines his face in the mirror.

His cheeks are much fuller than they used to be. They have a ruddiness to them, and his eyebags are nearly gone. His sandy hair falls in soft, shiny waves. The hair clip shows off his dark eyes and accentuates the roundness of his face.

He looks healthy.

“What do you think?” he says, turning to Scar.

The dreamy look on Scar’s face makes Grian’s heart skip a beat.

“Hm?” Scar startles, cheeks flushing. “Oh! Good, good. Looks good. Very. Pretty. The hair clip. The hair clip is pretty.”

The vendor looks between them both with her eyebrows raised. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

“How much?” Scar says, clearing his throat.

“On the house,” she says.

“No, no, I insist! I don’t want special treatment.”

“Oh, it’s not special treatment. That was payment enough.”

“Hm?”

“Don’t worry about it. Have a nice day!”

They take a break to sit inside one of the taverns in the square to warm up. Scar crams himself into the same side of the booth as Grian, citing “body warmth” as the reason he needs to press his cold hands against the back of Grian’s neck. Grian shrieks and pushes him away. Scar laughs himself to tears.

Then he pulls nine spoons out of his pocket.

“Wh– Grian! When did you even put these in here?”

“I’ve been doing it all day! You’re not very observant. It’s easy.”

Scar scoffs. “I can’t believe this. This spoon thing has gotten out of hand, mister! I’m putting my fist down this time!”

Grian laughs. “What?”

“You know, I’m putting my fist down! That’s enough!”

“That’s not– Scar!” Grian covers his face with his hands, trying and failing to stifle his giggles. “Did you mean you’re putting your foot down?”

Scar pouts. “What? Fist, foot, same difference!”

Once they’re warm, they venture back outside to get cold again. Grian takes the lead this time, dragging Scar to where he hears energetic music playing.

A blonde man in a colorful get-up, feather in his hat and all, fiddles his heart out. A crowd of people lingers around the edge of a large, open area, no one quite brave enough to make the first move.

Grian squeezes Scar’s hand.

“Can we dance?”

“Huh?”

Grian turns to him, grinning. “Can we dance?”

“Whatever you want, G.”

“Well, I want to dance.” 

Grian pulls him to the center of the circle, holding both hands and spinning them around with reckless abandon. A laugh bubbles out of Scar’s chest and Grian smiles so wide his cheeks hurt.

There’s no steps for Grian to know or rules for him to follow. He pulls Scar close, one hand in his and the other around his waist, and leads them skipping around the circle. He tries to spin Scar, but he’s not quite tall enough to reach over Scar’s head and they only succeed in tangling themselves together in a mess of limbs and feathers. They giggle as they unwind and Scar lets Grian do whatever he wants, pushing and pulling and twirling and skipping and kicking. Only when Grian tries and fails to dip Scar does Scar take the lead.

A mischievous grin spreads across his face and suddenly Grian is spinning and spinning and spinning until he’s too dizzy to do anything else. He stumbles directly into Scar’s chest and smiles at the rumble of his laughter. Scar grabs Grian’s hands and they skip and twirl and Grian has never had so much fun in his life. 

The song ends far too quickly. They end facing each other, Scar nearly falling over at the abrupt stop. Applause breaks out, almost certainly for the brilliant music and not for their disaster of a dance, but Grian can’t bring himself to look away from Scar’s face.

“Hello there,” says Scar.

“Hi,” says Grian.

Something slips from Grian’s neck.

His hand flies to his throat and he frowns. He looks down.

“Oh no!”

“What is it?”

Grian crouches down and gathers the golden chain into his palms. “Mumbo’s necklace broke while we were dancing.”

“Let me see.”

Scar takes it and examines it, brow furrowed. “I think it’s just the clasp. He should be able to fix it no problem when we get back.”

Grian lets out a sigh of relief. “Oh, good. He worked so hard on it.”

Scar tucks it into his pocket. “I’ll hold onto it for now.”

“You just want to make sure I don’t put more spoons in your pocket.”

“Hey, I thought we established I was putting my fist down.”

“Foot, Scar.”

“That’s what I said!”

The sun disappears. Unfortunately, it’s too overcast to see the stars. Scar leads Grian away from the crowd.

“Close your eyes,” he says.

Grian does.

It takes a while for Scar to prepare whatever his surprise is, complete with a couple of curses under his breath. Grian suppresses a giggle.

“Okay, open.”

Scar’s holding two paper sky lanterns. The lights flicker gently, illuminating Scar’s face in a golden glow. He smiles that special smile he reserves just for Grian, all lopsided and wonderful. 

Grian is faced with the realization that he likes Scar much, much, much more than he ever intended to.

“Oh, Scar,” Grian says. His eyes widen, dark and round and beautiful, and he takes the lantern gingerly. All around them, lanterns are being lit and passed around. A hush settles over the square.

Grian smiles. Scar melts.

“Here, we’ll send them up together,” he says. Grian gives him a sharp nod.

They lift them into the air. The lanterns float gently on the wind, up and up and up, drifting without a care. Soon, despite the clouds, the sky is full of twinkling lights. Grian stares in wonder, eyes sparkling and beaming ear to ear. He’s glowing. Scar doesn’t ever want to look at anything else.

“Oh, oh, Scar, look!” he cries, pointing. 

Then again, he can’t deny anything Grian asks of him. He tears his gaze from Grian’s face and follows his finger to where the lanterns they set off dance around each other in the night sky. 

The whole world is golden. The sky glitters. Scar thinks he’s in love.

His heart swells with the realization. Warmth floods him from head to toe. 

Of course. Of course.

He’s in love.

How could he not be?

Scar turns to look at Grian again, to catch a glimpse of the unbridled joy on his face, to admire the curve of his jaw and the wave in his hair. To stare without shame. 

He’s not there.

Scar frowns.

“Grian?”

He scans their surroundings. They’re on the outskirts of the crowd, with most people packed in the center of the square, but Grian’s nowhere to be found. No red cloak, no white wings, nothing. Something cold settles in Scar’s chest.

“Grian?” he calls again. He makes his way through the crowd, searching for any sign of Grian, but it’s like he vanished into thin air. “Okay, don’t panic. No need to panic. He’s probably– he loves to wander off, it’s– Grian?”

Heads turn in his direction.

“I– have you seen Grian? Short, red cloak, sandy hair? White wings? Short?”

A few headshakes. Furrowed brows. Mouths twisted into frowns.

Scar’s breath catches. He swallows thickly.

“None of you saw him? He’s– you didn’t see him? Grian, where are you?”

A ringing pierces his ears. Scar shoves his hand into his pocket and pulls out a fistful of gold necklace chain. Broken clasp.

Grian had nothing to shield him from the Watchers.

Scar’s going to throw up.

He pushes his way back through the crowd, past concerned onlookers, back to where he’d lit the lanterns. His heart pounds in his throat. He wipes his palms on his cloak to no avail. His stomach rolls.

There. A broken feather. 

Scar’s legs give out. He drops to his knees, picking up the feather with trembling hands, and fights the bile rising in his throat.

Grian’s gone.

Snow begins to fall.

“You need to calm down,” Cub says.

“I’m trying,” Scar hisses. He curls his hands into fists, digging his fingernails into his palms. He grits his teeth. Anger churns in his gut. His eyes flash white.

“Listen to me.” Cub grabs Scar’s face and holds him in place, glaring. “You need to calm down. What Grian needs right now is for you to be level-headed. If you charge in there, vex powers blazing, you might make things worse.”

“They took him. I was supposed to protect him.”

“I know.”

“They took him from right under my nose, Cub!”

“I know,” Cub snaps, and oh, he’s mad.

Cub’s angry. Cub’s angry for Grian, he’s angry for Scar, he’s angry at the Watchers. Scar’s so taken aback that the vex inside nearly gives up.

Nearly.

“I’m not waiting for the guard,” Scar says, voice low.

Cub smiles at that. “I know that too. We just have to wait for–”

The door slams open. Mumbo bursts in, chest heaving. He holds his hand out triumphantly.

“Fixed! It’s fixed!”

Scar breaks away from Cub and snatches the necklace out of Mumbo’s hand.

“Clasp is all secure, and I even added an extra protection charm on there,” says Mumbo, unfazed by Scar’s behavior, but a bundle of nerves all the same. “You should wear it on your way there, then give it to Grian when you get him out.”

Scar fastens the necklace around his throat and grabs his bow. He’s out the door before anyone can stop him.

When Grian comes to, his head is pounding. The first thing he’s aware of is the pain. The rest of his senses return to him slowly.

Below him: old wood floors. They creak with the barest shift of weight.

Above him: high ceiling. Slanted.

Around him: the smell of must. Stale air. Dryness in his mouth.

His heart sinks. His surroundings are at once familiar and disturbing.

He’s back in the attic at the Watcher mansion.

Grian pushes himself into a sitting position and rubs his forehead with a grimace. He’s been stripped of his cloak and scarf, leaving him with no protection from the cold seeping in from outside. The wind rattles the window.

Despite the aches, the rest of his body seems to be unharmed. Grian flexes his wings. They’re unbound. Sore, but unbound.

The door opens.

Grian scrambles away as fast as he can, pressing his back against the wall as a Watcher steps inside and closes the door behind them. 

“Welcome back.”

Grian grits his teeth and says nothing.

“It took us so long to find you again. Many sleepless nights. We’ve been worried sick ever since you went missing.”

Their voice is coated in sweet honey, thick and dripping. It’s disgusting.

“I didn’t go missing.”

“Of course you did. That cruel king took you away from us.”

“He didn’t take me. I left.”

The Watcher tuts. “He’s been feeding you lies again to gain your trust. We’re looking out for you. We keep you safe. We were so worried about you.”

Grian bristles. 

“The only people who fed me lies were you. Do you think I’m stupid? I know you lied about hybrids. I know you lied about the world.” He clenches his fists. “I know you lied about my parents.”

The Watcher shakes their head.

“What do we have to do to remind you that we have your best interests at heart?”

“Well, you don’t, so let’s start there. You never wanted the best for me. You just want me to suffer. You– you’re sick.”

Silence. The wind howls.

“Is that so.”

Grian shrinks in on himself. The outburst felt good in the moment, but now the bone-deep dread is settling in. He’s gotten complacent. Too used to being coddled.

“You want us to be the bad guys? Fine. We can make that happen.”

The door slams shut. The lock clicks. Grian doesn’t need to check the window to know it’s been sealed shut with magic.

The gentle snowfall from earlier has whipped into a frenzy. Snow comes down in thick flakes, blown sideways by the wind and stinging as it hits Scar’s face. He’s already losing feeling in his fingers and he can’t see five feet in front of him. 

He wants nothing more than to spur his horse forward as fast as possible, but the wind and the snow and the cold forces him to take a slower pace, especially as he approaches the woods. 

His heart races. His breath comes short. His blood boils.

Grian needs him.

Scar urges his horse a tick faster. The wind batters his face and his hood has been useless ever since the weather picked up, but that doesn’t matter. Grian needs his help. Nothing else matters. 

Grian isn’t surprised when the door opens again. It’s a different Watcher this time, he thinks. Shorter, maybe. A different pattern on the mask. 

They cross the room to him. They seize his arm and force him to his feet.

“Thinking of your king?”

Grian glares back.

“He won’t come for you. You belong here. You belong to us.”

“I don’t belong to anybody,” Grian hisses.

The grip on his arm twists. He bites back a cry.

“Of course you do.”

With their free hand, they trail their fingers along his feathers. Grian fights the urge to vomit. A sharp tug. A flash of pain. 

Nothing he hasn’t felt before. 

“Do you know why you belong to us?”

“I don’t belong to you.”

“You belong to us because we need you.” The Watcher wiggles the feather they’d plucked in front of his nose. “You belong to us because you’re of use.”

Grian wants so badly to rip the mask off and spit in their face.

“You belong to us because you suffer so nicely,” they say, and drive the point of the feather into Grian’s hand.

He screams.

The trees offer cover. Scar leans forward and spurs his horse faster. Branches and foliage give way under pounding hooves. Twigs whip across Scar’s flesh. 

A blast of heat strikes his shoulder. The world turns sideways.

Scar hits the dirt with a thud. His head smacks against the frozen ground, whiting out his vision for a moment. He wheezes, trying to coax air back into his lungs.

Another flash of heat. Scar rolls out of the way just in time. He stumbles to his feet, reaching for his bow as he searches frantically for his attacker.

There – a dark robe against the white snow. He draws his bow and lets an arrow fly. The figure vanishes. The arrow embeds itself in a tree.

Fire crackles.

Scar whirls around. A plume of flame explodes towards him. He yelps and dives to the side, but he’s not fast enough. His cloak catches on fire. Scar rips it from his shoulders and stomps it into the snow, which distracts him long enough for the figure to shoot another spell in his direction. Lightning courses through his nerves. 

“Get ‘em, girl!” a voice yells. Both Scar and his attacker turn towards it.

A blur of white crashes into the figure. They go down screaming. The scent of blood fills the air. Flesh tears.

A new figure emerges from the brush, clad in red. She turns to Scar with a smile and extends her hand.

“Nice to meet you, Your Majesty, though I wish it were under different circumstances.” Scar accepts her help and she hauls him to his feet. She brushes the snow out of his hair. She doesn’t acknowledge the cries of pain from the attacker, so Scar doesn’t either. “I’m Pearl.”

“Well, hello there! I’m Scar, but you seem to know that. Thanks for the save!”

“Least I could do for you, after all you did for Grian.”

His heart skips a beat. “You know Grian?”

“For years. I’ve been trying to help him in any way I could, but my magic is only so strong against the Watchers.”

“Magic? Were you the one who helped him get to the ball?”

“That was me.”

Scar crushes Pearl in a hug. She squeaks.

“Thank you,” he says. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Stiffly, she pats him on the back. “You’re welcome? I didn’t do much, though. You were the one who got him out.”

“I would never have known anything was wrong if it wasn’t for you helping him sneak out. And you’ve been there for him for far longer than I have. If you hadn’t been there for him… Oh, Pearl, I can’t thank you enough.”

Pearl gives him another pat and extracts herself from his embrace.

“Tilly, are you finished, sweet girl?”

Tilly, who Scar assumes is the giant wolf who mauled that Watcher, looks up from her meal. Her white fur is caked in blood and meat. She bounds over to Pearl and licks her hand. Pearl scratches behind her ears.

“Good girl, Tilly,” says Scar. Tilly wags her tail and pants. Her fangs are stained red. “What big teeth you have!”

Pearl flashes him a wicked grin. “The better for ripping Watchers apart, my dear!” 

They’re using him as fuel.

Grian spits blood onto the floor. His ribs ache. His face stings. His head pounds. 

Around him, the Watchers whisper excitedly. Behind those stupid masks, they’re grinning. Buzzing with energy. Magic flows from their fingertips.

They never cared about him. They never wanted to protect him.

They hurt him because they feed on it.

Grian picks himself up and rises to his feet. He sways in place, dizzy. He’s only standing for a moment before he’s shoved back, his wings slamming against the wall. 

They hurt him because their magic relies on it. They hurt him because his suffering makes them stronger.

Grian grits his teeth and gives them nothing.

Shouting.

He frowns.

Outside, someone’s shouting.

The Watchers pause.

“Grian!”

A smile spreads across his face.

“What was that you were saying about the king not coming for me?”

A stupid comment, maybe, but the slap is worth it. He’s grinning too hard.

A number of Watchers peel off from the group and out the door. Grian pushes the remaining ones away from him and dashes for the window. It may be sealed with magic, but that doesn’t mean anything when he smashes the glass.

“Scar!” he yells.

He can barely see through the blizzard, but there’s no mistaking him. Scar’s here. And, there, next to him – bright red. Pearl.

Hands grab at him from behind, catching at his clothes, his hair. He chokes as his collar is seized and pulled tight against his neck, wrenching him away from the window.

Grian digs his nails into their hands. He kicks and screams and thrashes his wings and scratches at their skin. He’s not going down without a fight. Not this time.

Not anymore.

Outside, the sounds of battle. Grunts of pain. Triumphant shouts. Spells flying. Screams.

Grian drives his foot back into the kneecap of the Watcher holding him. They shriek and drop him. He snaps his wings open, sending the other two stumbling back, and makes a break for the window. 

Grian climbs onto the windowsill. Shards of broken glass dig into his palms. The wind batters his face.

He leaps.

For a moment, he’s free-falling. His stomach swoops. He’s weightless. He spreads his wings.

Scar is reaching for him. 

Grian reaches back.

A hand wraps around his ankle and rips him from the air. Grian goes down with a cry, hitting the snow in a heap. The Watcher behind him pulls him to his feet by his wings. Pain shoots through him. His nerves are on fire.

“Let him go!” Scar yells. His voice is rough, throat red and raw. 

“Scar–” Grian says, and a hand covers his nose and mouth. He struggles against the grip, fighting to get a breath.

“You belong to us,” the Watcher says. Grian gasps in pain as the bones in his wings strain under the pressure. 

Scar’s eyes cloud over. They shine white against the storm.

Vex.

The bones in his wing snap. Grian screams.

The pain is too much. He’s hurt, and he’s scared, and he’s angry. They’ve taken so much from him, and he’s done. 

Really, it’s the Watcher’s fault for putting their hand so close to his teeth.

Grian bites.

Hot blood fills his mouth. The Watcher releases him with a piercing screech, cradling their arm to their chest as they fall back into the snow. Their finger dangles loosely from their hand, nearly severed at the base.

Grian doesn’t process much after that. 

The rest of the Watchers aren’t much of a match for Scar, Pearl, and Tilly, anyway. Grian sinks to his knees and watches as blood and viscera stain the snow red. Screams. Flesh tearing. Wet. Hot. Cold. Bloody.

Scar kneels in front of him. Pearl and Tilly stand behind, soaked in gore. Scar’s hands are red, and his face is splattered with blood, and his nails and teeth are scarlet and dripping, but the white is fading from his eyes and he’s looking at Grian with love and adoration and it’s all Grian can do to fling his arms around his neck and cling to him for dear life.

“Come home with me,” Scar says.

And Grian does.

Shelby is a miracle worker. Scar makes a mental note to give her anything she ever wants with no questions asked until the day she dies. She lets him sit in the room while she works, cleaning Grian’s wounds and bandaging his cuts. She carefully sets his broken wing and wraps it up.

Grian doesn’t wake up for a while. Scar sits by his bedside and watches his chest rise and fall.

Eventually, he stirs.

He looks at Scar with those dark, dark eyes, scanning over Scar’s appearance with an expression that’s not all there, not yet, still bogged down with sleep. Scar doesn’t breathe.

“Well, hello there,” Scar says softly.

“Hi,” says Grian. 

“Danger vune,” says Scar.

Grian frowns. The cogs in his head clunk slowly as he unpacks what Scar just said. “...Deja vu?”

“That’s what I said.”

“...Okay.”

Grian rolls fully onto his side to face Scar. He says nothing. Scar examines Grian’s face. He’s bruised and battered, of course, but his cheeks are still full. His skin is still glowing. Some of the worry in Scar’s chest settles. It’s not all back to square one. Two steps forward, one step back. 

“Are you okay?” asks Grian.

“Why are you asking me that?”

“Because I know you,” says Grian, “at least I think I do, and I know you’re beating yourself up about this.”

Scar sighs. “Grian, I promised I’d protect you.”

“Yeah, and you did.”

“Did you hit your head?” Scar presses his palm against Grian’s forehead. “Maybe I should call Shelby back in here.”

Grian pushes his arm away, keeping a hold of his wrist. “I mean it.”

“...Maybe you have memory loss.”

“Scar,” Grian says, exasperated, “you said you’d protect me, and you did. How long did they have me?”

“A whole night. Maybe longer. It took me so long to get to you, G.”

“Only a night. You came after me. They said you wouldn’t come to get me, but you did. You got me back.”

“I guess.”

Grian gives him a Look. “Scar.”

“Okay, okay. I got you back.”

Grian stares at him for a moment, then relaxes. “Good.”

“Are you okay?”

Grian laughs. “No.” Scar squeezes his hand. “No, I’m not okay. But… but I think I will be. Eventually, I mean. If you’ll help me, that is.”

“Of course.” Scar takes Grian’s other hand in his. He presses a kiss to Grian’s knuckles. “Of course, songbird. I’ll be there for you every step of the way. Nothing like this will ever happen to you again, I promise.”

Grian smiles. Then he tilts his head, brow furrowing. “Are the Watchers even… alive, still?”

“Oh, not a chance.”

“Well, there you go.”

Scar laughs. Grian smiles at him, and Scar could drown in it. Without thinking, he knocks their foreheads together, breathless. Grian rubs his thumb over Scar’s hand.

Safe.

Grian spends a few days in Shelby’s care. The moment she clears him, Mumbo nearly bowls him over with the force of his hug. The next few weeks, if he’s not spending time with Scar, he’s with Mumbo.

They’ve been in Mumbo’s room for hours. Mumbo’s been explaining his latest project, all the technical terms going in Grian’s ear and out the other. He’s sure it’s quite simple to Mumbo, but Grian isn’t Mumbo, a fact which seems to be lost on him.

Grian likes seeing him so passionate, though. It’s fun to see him all awkward around other people, but he likes seeing him so comfortable and confident in his own element, even if Grian doesn’t have a clue what anything he’s talking about means.

“--And that all leads to, in theory, the possibility of crafting a bow that doesn’t even need arrows to fire indefinitely. I just need to get my hands on the materials…”

He trails off.

Grian looks up from his pad of paper.

“Grian,” Mumbo starts, apprehensive.

“Mumbo,” says Grian.

“What are you doing?”

“Drawing you,” says Grian.

“...Can I see?”

Grian turns the paper around for him to look. Mumbo stares at it.

“Grian.”

“Yes?”

“This is not what I look like.”

“It’s exactly what you look like!” says Grian.

It, admittedly, is not a good drawing. It’s composed of very simple shapes, most of which are unintelligible, but the most important thing is that the mustache is obvious. There should be no doubt in anyone’s mind that it’s supposed to resemble Mumbo, despite the complete lack of any other identifiable details or any manner of quality.

“Sure, bud.” He furrows his brow at the page. “Didn’t the king hire tutors to teach you to read?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe you should ask him to do the same for drawing lessons.”

Grian smacks him. “Hey!”

Mumbo laughs. “I’m just saying, and I don’t mean to be rude, but this drawing is the– it’s the wo- well, it’s the–”

“Just say it.”

“It’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Grian smacks him again. Mumbo cackles, dodging the onslaught of cat slaps Grian attacks him with. He only stops when he gets a good few hits to Mumbo’s head and messes up his slicked back hair. He slumps against Mumbo’s shoulder, and Mumbo wraps an arm around him without thinking.

“It’s good to have you back, bud,” says Mumbo.

Grian groans. “Oh, don’t get sentimental. I wasn’t even gone for twelve hours.”

“I can’t help it! It was scary! You’re one of my best friends, mate. And if the necklace hadn’t broken–”

“--if one more person blames themself for me getting captured, I’m going to kill them. Mumbo, they would’ve found me eventually.”

“I know, I know. It’s– sorry, I’m wording this all wrong. I’m glad you’re here, and I’m glad you’re safe now, and I’m glad those guys all got murdered.”

A laugh explodes out of Grian. “What? Dude, Mumbo!”

“What? I am!”

He has bad days. Days where everything feels numb, days where everything sets him on edge, days where he feels like he has to walk on eggshells around everyone, days where he hates himself for not being stronger. But no matter how many times he snaps, or yells, or screams or cries or locks himself in his room, Scar’s there. 

Scar calls Grian into the throne room one day. He’s beaming ear to ear.

“Should I be scared?” Grian says.

“No, never!” says Scar. “I have a surprise for you, that’s all.”

“That doesn’t make me any less scared.”

The door opens. 

“Sorry I’m late!” says Pearl, out of breath. “I was tricking some blonde idiot into trading me his cow for some beans and lost track of time.”

“A woman after my own heart,” says Scar. “Did you get the cow?”

“Oh, yeah. She’s outside.”

Grian manages to pick his jaw off the floor.

Pearl’s here. She’s swathed in her red cloak and her long hair is a tangled mess and she’s here. Grian tackles her in a hug, flapping his wings to counterbalance them so they don’t go tumbling to the floor. She squeaks.

“Grian!”

He buries his face in her cloak and breathes in. She smells like pine and earth and a little bit like wet dog. 

Pearl wraps her arms around him and holds him tight, playing with the hair at the back of his head, gently scratching his scalp with her nails. He squeezes her even tighter.

“Hey, Gri,” she says.

“Hi, Pearl.”

They pull apart, and Pearl laces their fingers together. “How are you doing?”

“Better. A lot better.”

She smiles. “Good. You look so much better, too. Look at you!” 

She pinches his cheek and ruffles his hair. Grian whines in mock protest and pushes her hand away. 

“What are you doing here?”

“The king asked me to come! And I couldn’t turn down the opportunity to see my favorite person.”

Grian turns around. Scar’s standing a respectful distance away, smiling at them. 

“I already thanked you, but I still don’t think I’ve done enough to show my gratitude for all you did to help Grian, or for your help taking down the Watchers,” he says.

Memories flood back. Grian turns back to Pearl, frowning. “Wait, did you help kill them all?”

“Me and Tilly, yes. I’ve been wanting to do that for years, Gri, you have no idea. Luckily, they were no match for the big bad wolf.”

“Woah.”

“Anyway, Pearl – can I call you Pearl? – Pearl, I have a proposition for you, if you’d be willing to hear me out,” Scar says, charm invading his voice. He’s about to make a sale.

Pearl gives Grian a skeptical look and he shrugs. She nods at Scar.

“You made Grian’s outfit for the ball, right? And you made it so his absence wouldn’t be noticed?”

“Yes,” says Pearl, “and I shielded you from view when Grian escaped. Simple spells, that’s all.”

“Very impressive magic, in my opinion! Hiding us from the prying eyes of what, ten, eleven Watchers all Looking at once? That takes some serious skill!”

Pearl blushes. “Aww, it’s really not a big deal.”

“Here’s what I propose. I’d love to work with you on a more regular basis, and I’m sure Grian would love to have you around. You’re an amazing magician.” Scar grins that salesman grin. “What would you say to becoming the Royal Witch?”

Pearl’s mouth drops open.

“Excuse me?”

“We can iron out details and payment later, of course. This is just an idea. We’d love to have Tilly, too, so no need to worry about leaving her.”

“I– that’s very nice of you, but I’m not– I just live alone in the woods with a dog. I don’t know if I’m really cut out for that.”

Scar thinks for a moment. He snaps. “You can live in the creepy abandoned tower that no one’s been inside for years because they all think it’s haunted.”

“Deal.”

Grian cheers.

It’s been a few weeks since Grian’s had a good preen. His wing is still bandaged up and he’s been too busy with other things to give his feathers a second thought, but it’s getting to be too much to ignore. They’re a mess, frankly. Feathers are out of place, grit has worked its way in, and everything itches. 

Grian twitters in annoyance as he twists his body to get at the backside of his wings. The left one is the usual amount of discomfort, but the broken one screams in protest as he contorts himself to get at the hard-to-reach places. He hisses in pain.

From his desk, Scar looks up.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” says Grian through a wince. “Just preening.”

Scar watches as Grian stretches his right wing a bit further, gritting his teeth as aches and pains shoot through his nerves. He picks at a few bits of dirt before he’s forced to give up and rest, letting the pain subside before he tries again.

“...Do you want help?”

Does he?

The only other people who have ever touched his wings are the Watchers. And Shelby, he supposes, but he wasn’t even conscious for those times. His skin crawls at the thought of the Watchers’ fingertips brushing his feathers, tingling with the anticipation of sharp, shooting pain. The last time Scar touched him near the wing roots, he had a panic attack.

But he can’t do this alone. It hurts too much. At this rate, he won’t finish preening for at least a few hours, and he’ll be tired and aching by the end of it.

Scar’s always been gentle with him. Grian wasn’t prepared for the touch, last time, but if he says yes now, he’ll know it’s coming. And Scar won’t hurt him. Not on purpose.

He needs to preen. Badly.

Who else would he trust, anyway?

And who else would Scar trust to take care of his songbird?

Grian sighs heavily.

“Would you?”

“Of course.”

Scar settles himself on the bed and pats the blankets in front of him. Grian crawls over and sits.

“What do I do?”

Grian tilts his head. He’s always just known what to do. Or, rather, he figured out a way to preen, and it’s worked well enough for him thus far. Over the years, it’s become instinctual. To explain it to someone else…

“You’re basically combing out all the dirt and stuff from in between the feathers and straightening the ones that are out of place. If there’s a broken one, or a loose one, pull it.”

“Like, just whip it out?”

Grian chokes. “No! Oh my word, Scar, no.”

“What did I say?”

“That’s not even what that word means, I can’t believe–”

“What did I say??”

“Nothing, nothing, it doesn’t matter.” Grian buries his head in his hands, face burning and ears glowing red. “Please work on your phrasing. Please.”

“Okay,” says Scar, cheerfully. “So brush out the dirt, fix the wonky ones, pull the broken ones.”

“That’s it,” says Grian, forcing his face to return to a normal color.

Scar’s hands ghost over Grian’s feathers. His wings twitch at the touch involuntarily, and Scar immediately pulls away.

“Sorry.”

“It’s– it’s fine,” Grian says. He’s suddenly forgotten how to breathe. His face is heating up again. “They’re just sensitive.”

“If you’re sure…”

“I’m sure,” says Grian. “Please.”

Scar touches his wings again. They twitch, but Scar doesn’t pull back this time. He eases his fingers into Grian’s feathers. Warmth and static flood Grian’s brain. It feels so good. Scar dislodges a particularly large clump of dirt and the relief is so overwhelming his vision goes fuzzy. His wings flutter as Scar works his way across the feathers.

Everything is soupy. Grian’s bones feel like jelly. He could close his eyes and conk out right here, right now. Scar rearranges a few feathers to lay flat and a chirp escapes Grian’s lips.

Scar freezes.

“What was that?”

Grian squawks. “Nothing!”

“That was so cute. You make little bird noises?”

“No I don’t,” says Grian. Scar threads his fingers through his feathers, eliciting another chirp. He laughs, delighted.

“You do!”

Grian crosses his arms and pouts. Scar giggles and presses a kiss against his shoulder.

Grian’s brain turns off.

The more Scar preens, the less Grian’s thoughts make sense. Relief and warmth fill him from head to toe. Scar is so gentle. His touch is soft, and even when he tugs out a feather, it’s done with care. Grian gives up repressing his reactions. He chirps and warbles and sighs. 

It’s warm.

It’s safe.

“G?”

Grian gives a sleepy hum. “Hm?”

“What should I do about the bandage?”

“Um….” Grian furrows his brow, trying to dredge up any coherent thoughts from the sludge that is his brain. “Do whatever you can with whatever you can reach, I guess. It already feels so much better, though.”

“You look a lot better. Happier, too.”

Grian hums again, slumping lower. His eyes slip shut.

“Are you falling asleep on me, G?”

“Mmm….”

Scar snorts. “I’ll finish up this last bit and you can go right to sleep, okay?”

Grian nods. Scar picks through the remaining uncovered feathers and smoothes them down. All too soon, his touch retreats. Grian whines in the back of his throat.

“You’re so needy like this,” says Scar. He pokes Grian’s cheek and Grian twists himself around to drape himself across Scar’s lap. Scar goes rigid. “Oh,” he says.

Grian warbles. 

Flock. Safe. Warm. Scar.

Scar eases Grian off his lap and places a pillow under his head. Grian grasps his shirt loosely, curling his fingers into the fabric. Sleep threatens to drag him under.

“I’m not going anywhere! I’m trying to make you comfortable!”

That’s dumb. He should be with Grian. In the nest. He tugs on Scar’s sleeve.

“Okay, okay, hold your horses.”

A warm body lays down beside him. Scar. Grian curls a wing over him.

“Hello there,” he says.

Grian makes another sleepy noise, nosing his head under the crook of Scar’s chin. He feels something press against his hair. Another kiss, maybe.

“It’s okay, songbird. I’ve got you.”

He’s out like a light.

Time passes.

Winter fades. Spring fights back the snow with sunshine and rain and new flowers. New growth dots the gardens. Green breaks through the dirt.

It’s been a few months, and Grian is going to fly.

Scar, Mumbo, and Pearl sit together on the grass while Grian perches at the edge of a drop-off. He closes his eyes, letting the wind ruffle his hair. He unfurls his wings.

Scar’s breath leaves him. He’s gorgeous. 

Grian pitches forward.

He catches the breeze and glides, wings extended to their full span. He laughs.

Mumbo claps. Pearl cheers. “Yeah, Gri! Look at you go!”

He gives his wings a powerful flap and soars into the sky. He laughs again, and the sound washes over Scar. He wants to hear that sound every day for the rest of his life. Grian rolls and twirls and flips and glides, whooping and giggling. He drops out of the air and snaps his wings open at the last second. He flies in loop-de-loops. He wooshes past his three spectators.

Scar can’t take his eyes off him.

Grian lands eventually, hitting the ground in a run. He stops in front of them, his smile lighting up his whole face.

“Did you see?”

Pearl squeals in excitement and throws her arms around him. Mumbo claps him on the shoulder.

“That was crazy, mate! You looked great up there!”

Grian breaks away from them and grins at Scar.

Scar can’t help but smile back.

“We have to get you back on archery, G! If you can fly like that, you’ll be hitting bullseyes midair in no time!”

Grian rolls his eyes. “Of course that’s your first thought.”

“It would be so cool!”

“I wonder if I could make a contraption similar to your wings that would allow non-avians to experience flight,” says Mumbo.

“Stop exploiting Grian’s flight abilities,” says Pearl. “Obviously, he should use them to collect potion ingredients for me that are hard for me to reach on foot.”

“Okay, all of you are terrible,” says Grian.

Grian closes his eyes and lets the sunlight wash over him. The grass is soft beneath his head. Next to him, Scar sits cross legged, picking at their selection of cheeses and fruits they’d brought with them. It’s a beautiful day, and Grian didn’t want to waste a single second of it, so he’d dragged Scar on an adventure to have a picnic. They found a nice clearing near a babbling brook, full of flowers and buzzing bumblebees.

Something presses against Grian’s lips. He cracks open an eye to see Scar insistently holding a strawberry to his mouth. Grian rolls his eyes and lets Scar feed it to him.

Scar studies Grian’s face, then smiles. He grabs a bundle of flowers – they’d picked them earlier, planning to make flower crowns – and tucks a few behind Grian’s ear. Lilacs and poppies.

And then Scar baps him on the nose and shoots to his feet, taking off at a sprint.

“Wh– are you five?” Grian says, sitting up. Scar laughs.

“Are you going to come catch me or not?”

Grian scoffs and gets to his feet. “As if! Get back here!”

He takes off after him. Scar dodges and weaves through the clearing, leading Grian in circles, nearly face planting numerous times. Grian circles back the other way to cut him off. Scar yelps and dashes for the trees.

He makes it about five feet when his foot catches on a rock. Grian trips on the same one, and they tumble into the brook. It’s freezing. Grian splutters and flaps his wings in surprise, splashing Scar with water. He yelps again.

Scar catches Grian’s gaze.

Grian cackles.

“You look like a wet cat,” says Grian. He shakes his head like a dog. 

“Will you marry me?”

The words don’t register immediately.

Grian stares. And stares. And stares. Scar stares back. He has to be mishearing things, surely, but Scar’s face is flushed and growing pinker by the second. 

“What?”

“That wasn’t how I meant to ask,” Scar says, and he’s off to the races, “I had this whole thing planned, there was going to be another ball and you were going to be the guest of honor and I was going to give a speech and we were going to dance and then I’d stop us in the middle of the ballroom and get down on one knee and it would be so romantic–”

“Scar, stop.”

“--but I saw you just now and I like you so much and I couldn’t help myself, the words just came out–”

“Scar.”

“--so it really didn’t go according to plan and this wasn’t romantic at all and it’s a mess so I understand if you don’t want to answer right now or if you say no but I–”

Grian grabs Scar’s face. “Scar.”

“Yes?”

“Did you just ask me to marry you?”

Scar smiles sheepishly. “Yes.”

“For real?”

“Yes.”

“You really want to marry me?”

“How could I not?”

Grian’s cheeks burn. His heart races. The cogs in his brain whir, trying to keep up.

“You want to marry me?”

“Of course I do,” says Scar.

“Why?”

“Wh– because I do! I love you,” says Scar. He winces. “Okay, I also had a better plan for the first time I said that, but it’s all coming out now. Can I try again?”

Mutely, Grian nods. Scar pulls Grian to his feet and leads him out of the brook onto dry land, then drops to one knee.

“Grian, you mean everything in the world to me. I want to share everything I have with you. I want to protect you, and keep you safe. I love you. Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” Grian breathes. “Yes, yes, yes. Please. Oh, Scar.”  

His voice cracks. Scar wraps him in a hug, rubbing circles between his wing roots.

“I love you,” says Grian. “I love you.”

Scar grins that perfect lopsided grin. “I love you.”

“I love you,” says Grian.

And he kisses him.

Scar holds him like he’s the most precious thing in the world. He smiles against Grian’s lips and Grian feels warm and safe and so, so loved. Grian loops his arms around Scar’s neck and Scar puts his hands on Grian’s waist and they kiss, and they kiss, and they kiss.

When they finally pull away, Scar presses their foreheads together. They sway to music only they can hear. 

“Come home with me,” says Grian.

And Scar does.

the end