eachdraidh | FORWARD-dated to the evening of July 18

[The creaking of wooden wheels accompanies the sway of the wagon. The very air crackles with electric tension -- magic in the air and upon the shackled burden resting uncomfortably in the wagon. There is little to be seen: heavy chain wrapped around the viewer's body gives little slack and all that is in front of him is the wooden plank of the wagon. The wagon stops and the noise of the creaking wood gives way to business-like speech and heavy, booted footsteps.

The chains shift, pulling at feathers and fur alike but there is no movement, for the mage who cast this paralysis is talented. Aubri can only breathe and nothing else. When chains pinch, there cannot be reaction. He cannot recoil against the pulled feathers.

And he cannot do a damned thing when one wing is grabbed and forcibly extended over the low side of the wagon. The sound comes first: the metallic slide of shears snapping through feather; the pain follows on quick steps, for they are none too gentle with their clipping. The primaries are messily clipped, some yanked free, some twisted and bleeding by the time that wing is done -- and then it's left hanging awkwardly (painfully) over the edge of the wagon.

(Wait. Wait. Just wait. The spell will ease and there will be blood. If I meet my end here, then I will bring them all with me. It's the litany that runs through Aubri's mind and it grows ever harder with anger and humiliation and self-recrimination.)

The chains shift again, not gently, and Aubri's other wing is extended by force -- and it hurts this time, bending a little far back and straining the muscles. This time, Aubri makes a sound -- a soft huff -- and the wing twitches. The spell is wearing thin. Someone laughs, grabs a feather, twists, and yanks -- and then drops the mangled feather just in front of his beak. At the sound of the shears once again, Aubri closes his eyes and resolves to wait.]

[ooc;; this broadcasts only a short time after this thread so don't expect Aubri to be in the best of moods]]

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[He wants to say yes. He wants nothing more than a friendly presence and a willing, helping hand to ease his hurts -- literal and not. At the gasp, he remembers himself and turns his head away. (And his vision swims a little at the movement.) He hesitates before answering.

He wants her there, but he will not endanger her.] No. I will not ask you to put yourself at risk.

[He's so tired. Just the thought of doing this alone weighs him down.] Please, do not, Ariadne.

[ It hurts her, not being able to help -- not being there. Her hands ball into fists and she takes a deep breath, sighing when she exhales. ]

Promise me you'll stay safe, then. Until I can see you.

[He ducks his head, carefully shifting to find a more comfortable position. (It's a futile try.)] When the threat is gone, I will come to the Station.

[Please be there goes unsaid.]

I'll head out first thing in the morning.

Thank you.

[Pause; he shifts again, the brand above his eye just visible before he turns again.] I am sorry.

Shh. It's not your fault.

[ Her head drops as well, shaking once. ]

Don't blame yourself.

It has been too long since I have seen war. I was careless.

You don't know that being more careful would have changed anything.

[He huffs. Pauses.

Makes a show of poking at the locket.]

What memory did it show?

[He knows exactly which one it was. He just doesn't want to talk about this any longer.]

[ She knows. But she lets it go; there will be plenty of time to talk to him when she sees him at the Station. ]

You were on a wagon. They were clipping your wings.

[There's a definite undertone of sheer crankiness.] A word of advice: never attack a mage straight on.

I'll remember that.

I told you of the general who betrayed us, yes? Did I tell you that I was the first to discover his betrayal?

No, you didn't. [ Pause. ]

... Is he the one who...?

He turned me over to them. [He shifts again and finally gets somewhere sort of comfortable: head resting on forelegs and the locket propped up on a rock. It's taken a bit of doing -- he's sorry for the jostling.] I was a token given in honor of a new partnership.

[ Her eyes flash, but with no outlet for her rage, no general for her to scream at, there's nothing she can do. She shakes her head instead, sorrow replacing the anger. ]

How did you get away?

Chance. A friend had taken upon himself to end the damned war by assassination. [Cut off the head, right?] He stumbled upon me and we finished the job together.

Sometimes luck is on our sides. Or karma.

[ Karma. She knows he doesn't want to talk about it, but she has to ask -- has to know. ]

Aubri... do you know who did this to you?

[There's enough of a pause that she might think that he will not answer. His gaze flickers away from the locket and he turns his head, to keep the scar over his left eye out of sight. (Out of sight, out of mind. He wishes that were so, but it throbs, burns. It is quite the reminder of his encounter.)]

I don't know his name. He seeks a jewel called a silmaril. [There's an undercurrent of pure hatred in his voice, hardening his accent. He's never sounded quite human, but now he sounds like a predator.

He remembers the words a little too clearly: "If the Silmaril is not in my hand within seven days and nights, I will make such war upon every life residing in Caer Glaem that it shall scar the earth."] I am charged to take a message to Caer Glaem. They won't like what he says.

[ It's almost frightening, the hate and malice in his voice. Almost, but Ariadne is angry herself.

Worse than that, though -- worse than that is the knowledge, the words adding detail to her suspicion. She has to speak to Celegorm, should have done it before now. She will not make the mistake of waiting again. ]

I think I might know him, [ she sighs, sounding lost. ]

[Aubri hisses at the revelation: it's uncomfortable for a number of reasons. Will she take it upon herself to speak to him? Will she defend the madman? (He doesn't think so. He hopes he's right.) It's obvious she's been put into an uncomfortable place herself.

He sounds more weary than when he began this conversation.] Ariadne...

This shouldn't have happened. [ Her comment is sudden, firm. No matter who did it, this should not have happened -- not to him, not to Legolas, not to anyone else. ]

As glad as I am that you're alive, no one deserves to be tortured. He could have had you send a message without this. He could have been reasonable about the Silmaril to start with. He-

[ Her voice cracks, and she has to pause, to furiously shake her head. ]

[It's then that he decides that he doesn't want to tell her about anything else that happened: not about the bolts in his wing, or the way Celegorm had kept up his assault until he was satisfied that Aubri understood the message, or that he'd ordered him beaten to unconsciousness. There's enough hurt and anger; he doesn't need to see more.]

Don't. [He's so tired. There's no energy left to soothe ruffled feathers.] What's done is done.

It shouldn't have happened, [ she repeats, exhaustion suddenly seeping in. There's nothing she can do to change what happened to him, she knows that. All she can do is try to keep it from happening again -- and then, later, to meet him at the Station. ]

I'll see you soon, though. I'll straighten up your feathers again. And we'll try foods from a world that's more like mine.

[Wearily:] As soon as I can.

Soon.

[ Her poor, poor bird. ]

FORWARD-dated to the evening of July 18 - open to both courts; video

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