ORIGIN

the words died in her mouth and sunk heavily to her lungs, rasping and wheezing around the knife in between. okay, hold steady. oxygen in, CO2 out — hey, wait ... that's a little better. damask's nose turned softly into the breeze. a shiver sent her feathers ruffling as her airways let up, and she tossed her father an appreciative look. no thank you, no you're welcome, no acknowledgment on either side — exactly how she wanted it. instead, he launched into his reasoning, and it did not impress. "qualifications don't play into it"? well, they should've; someone's education would be on the line, and the bonebound had better to offer than her. auré was hiding the real motive, but it wasn't hard to guess. in terms of its origins, the idea wasn't his. giggle thought that she had a confidence problem — what, are you saying you don't? ... and that this would help. as for auré himself ... it's the best he's got. he doesn't know what else to do with you, and he's grasping at straws, because:

"with draco on the horizon, i want to delegate duties."

... that's right. the meeting. it's coming up and i never told him. i've gotta tell him.

that thing she'd thought so hard about — kept a secret, even halfway to herself. damask started, snapping to attention, gears turning in another direction. hold on. maybe an apprentice made more sense than she'd thought. competence, caretaking, leadership: all very relevant skills, and auré was giving her a chance to develop them. a chance, and a gift. still, that flare of automatic apprehension; but teaching wasn't parenting, and as long as nobody crossed that line, this might just work. "i'm in," she said. "thank you." here, her eyes darted away, jaw working, talons rapping clicka-clicka-click — stop it!, and she did. inhibitions, where you at? here's how you look, and here's how you feel: like shit. you're not thinking straight, your composure just cracked, you are not in control. you sure you wanna do this now?

but if not now — when?

"listen," she began. "regarding delegation. there's something i've been meaning to discuss with you." whoa. was that her? no pause, no stutter, not the slightest hint of a tremor, she didn't even have to try, and it caught her off guard. whatever it was, she let it take over, a certain intensity pressing its way into her sentences. all of a sudden, she was on her feet, pacing in a tight, unwavering circle as she continued. "several weeks ago, you told me i could be whatever i wanted to. you never made it into a question, but i did, and i've been asking it ever since. i've taken the time; i've assessed all the options; and i have the answer. short of you, nothing is more important to me."

damask stopped and sought her father's gaze. despite all those sleepless nights, her eyes had gone clear — not hollow, but hungry, and brighter for it. her chest rose and fell in a deep, mustering breath, spine straight, shoulders back. finally: "i'd like to be k —" (WHAT ARE YOU DOING STOP RIGHT THERE AND STICK TO THE SCRIPT DO NOT SAY THAT WORD TAKE THAT K AND TURN IT INTO A Y DO IT DAMASK DO IT NOW) "— your next of kin."

one, and done. two, i'm through. three, four, five ... that came out pretty good, right? besides the stammer? i did this right, and it's out in the open, i was — i was honest. this is a good thing. he just needs a sec to process. ... six ... wait —

a heavy sigh left his lips, and in that moment, damask's heart was scarcely beating. whatever leonine power had possessed her, it didn't anymore. she clung tight to herself, utterly frozen — save for the nystagmic jitter of her pupils as she watched his mouth move, riding out the successive waves of his reaction. "okay," and once again, "okay." he sounded stiff, tired, faintly troubled: not one sign of joy at this news, not in his voice or his face or anywhere else. hey, now, is that really what you expected? no, but she'd been hoping. a tufted ear flickered back, willing away the noise. it's another load on his shoulders, and that's the last thing he needs. told you the timing wasn't right, this was a mistake, whatever chance you had it sure is ruined now, should've kept your mouth shut, should've told no one at all kept it the dream it's always gonna be — no, stopstopstop —

"sorry, sorry — that's just quite a thing to spring," oh, had she sprung it?, she hadn't wanted it that way, built up to it and everything; a tiny wobble prodded at her posture, her composure, but: "take your time," she said quietly, urging him on in spite of her instincts —

"i won't announce it at this meeting. but we'll work on it, all right?"

and there it went: the last of her energy, each and every drop. damask tried to catch herself, clamped her teeth before they could part; but she had neither the mental nor the physical strength to stop her shoulders slumping. goodbye, bravado — and hello, exhaustion, seeping back in force, every lost hour of sleep written plainly in the lines of her face. all right, she mouthed, nodding quickly at the floor, almost more to herself than to him.

count the seconds, six of them, a perfect replica ... (what's wrong, kid? didn't get the cake and confetti you wanted? your dad let you down like a crying hatchling, and it still wasn't gentle enough for you? what happened to it being his day, huh? how's it always end up being about you — sweet, stupid, selfish you?) ... and then, total whiplash, screeching wheeling one-eighty running on fumes and strung-out static.

"enough about me," she managed, with the faintest, fakest color of a chuckle. that supposed to pass for a segue? are you seriously this out of it? sure was, and increasingly sick, at that; but she forged ahead, wove a step forward. "more than enough. are you feeling up to walking home? or flying. your choice, of course. i'll bring you up to" — coughing jag! — "to speed, on the" — pant, pant — "on the way. everyone will be" — where's my air where did it go please please don't do this now aahh it hurts come on breathe breathe breathe — "so happy to see you."

she cinched her features into a smile, eyes narrowing from the bottom up, puffing through her nose as quiet as she could, bubbles of pressure and saltwater just-withheld in her throat.

her father drew closer, wings outspread, and damask's smile faltered. closer still; it faded. she jerked her head to the side, a flare of reproach, of — of fear? — in the motion. under other circumstances, she might've let him have this, respected his day and his wishes over her own idiosyncratic aversions; but now, now the danger of breaking the levee was far too high. he knows better, we have an understanding — and then he stole another inch from her. she recoiled outright, almost lost her footing, teeth flashing, snapping high and fast and small: "don't touch m —" why NOT? huh? freak? her voice cut away, ebbing into another fit. she fell still, blinking at him. chastened. he wasn't even going to do it.

and yet ... he let it go. the outburst, the confession, all of it. at least for the moment. and that was all she wanted, needed — i'll get over this, i will! it's fine! it's cool! — a moment, an hour, maybe a day at the most, and they could come back to it. just ... not now. walk — they'd walk. that was fine. she nodded, sidling back to let auré pass. so you're having one of your things, and he doesn't want to fly, he doesn't want to talk. you don't think there's anything suspicious about that? of course there was, but no hiding, no denying it anymore: damask couldn't afford to refuse. she began to turn after him —

"i know you just said, but ... i'm happy for you."

... only to stop, eyes squeezing shut.

a long pause followed, silent save for the rattle in her chest. when she did speak, the words swum in her ears, as if through water or a dream. "ah, almost forgot," and cough. "i have something for you." she opened her eyes. "just — just sit tight for a second, all right? i'm sorry. s-sit tight." you're a wr-wr-wr-wreck, damask, a wreck. she swallowed and reversed the turn. it took some momentum this time, and on takeoff, the imbalance was alarming — but she wouldn't have to go far. the wall was close, the ledge itself not too far overhead. only barely out of earshot and sight.

---

her feet hit the shelf, and that was it, that was all she could do — she doubled over, barking, every convulsion a pressing knife between her lungs, pains and chills and shudders rolling up and down her frame, leaking tears thick as blood; but she fumbled through it, this fog in her eyes this roar in her ears, sifting through the nook in the wall with claws that shook — where is it, which one, why did it take me so many to get it right? — garbage, worthless, all wrong — is this it? — it was, or at least she thought so; feel, feel, that's the one, try number five — but it's stupid, this is so stupid, he'll think it's stupid, just like his daughter who wants to be a king — !, and right around there, she would've thrown up, except that there wasn't anything to pitch. just bile and spittle. a mess, nonetheless. retch, wheeze, pant — calm. everything hurt, and then everything didn't. was this dying? no, not dying. but you're not in control, and is that so much better? no food, no sleep, messy emotions running wild, this is what happens. back behind the wheel. now. right, she took a moment: recollected the memory of breathing. clean up your face. okay. pick up the thing. okay. and take it to him. okay. she pushed around, faced the room, braced herself for one last flight. her wings trembled like paper in the wind.

---

with luck, auré wouldn't notice the dizzy stagger on the landing, the ruffles in her feathers, or the lingering smell of something sour around her muzzle. he would, by some miracle, overlook all the aftershocks. instead, he would hone in on the objet d'art that she carried in her claws.

it was a little wooden carving, born of the overgrown treehouse she'd found by the spire. making it'd been a matter of trial and error — a lot of trial, a lot of error. she couldn't've gone for something simple, and attikias had only shown her how to do it the once. but here it was: a troop of whittled mushrooms, blooming from a base in the shape of her father's footprint. damask had fussed over every detail, down to the impressions of gills and of three talons' points. all exactly to scale.

she held out the thing, looking as if she'd stolen it and been made to bring it back. all that time and it's still not good enough. i could've done better. one of the caps had a chip in it. one of the stems, a crack. "still needs to be painted, polished, but —" shut up and look at him. she cleared her throat and lifted her eyes — put a real thrust of cheer into it when she said once again, "welcome back, dad."

just a little thing made of wood. two starving, sleepless weeks, and that was all damask had to show for it. it'd felt so right at the time — his footprint, his fungus, memorized and reiterated slice by careful slice; something thoughtful, something she'd made with her very own claws — but now? if it weren't too late, she'd've thrown it to the wall until wind and stone sheared it to splinters. this had been a tree once, alive and green and self-evidently perfect. and it should've stayed that way. blood rose to her face as she tracked her father's appraisal. up came a foot — let him, just let him, you don't get to keep your walls after what you said to him — but ... no, and out came his claws, upturned, the width of his talons apart. give it up. and she did, less a thief now than an out-and-out child. her wings snapped at once to her sides — no, further, digits shuffling underneath, like a guilty pair of hands crossed behind her back.

"beautiful," huh? talk about telling her what she wanted to hear. okay, look, is that really what you think of him? are you blind? don't just stare through him: look at him. but the moment she brought her sights into focus was the moment he lifted his own — the moment his smile thinned, infinitesimally or not. ... that's me, that's me, that's because of me ... she couldn't take the heat; averted her eyes, hid them and the sockets they lived in.

"thank you, damask. i love it." you know what's coming next. "i love you."

and just like that — KEEP IT TOGETHER, KID! — she was choking up, muzzle twitching, threatening at twisting with the impossible effort of containing a sob. after her gaze, her head followed suit, straining not to bare teeth at the floor. why did he have to be so soft, so sweet, so good? what had she ever done to deserve this? what was there to love? nothing. say it back. unthinkable: those three words were dangerous, a tune she danced to but never ever sang, hoping against hope she could show their significance any other way. no. yes. no. but she couldn't — say it back, you coward piece of shit, or he's gonna get hurt.

"... and you," damask mustered, the confession crackling low in her throat.

oh, she was tired, in every which way. she had to get out of here, out of this place, out of her horrible, horrible head. the accipiter ducked away, breathing, breathing, compass needle swinging unsteadily towards the exit — and found ... a feeble, floating light, a ways off, just barely discernible. one of her father's. she gravitated towards it, a planet to a star, tiptoeing. (even then, her feet crisscrossed a little; hard as she tried, she was not passing any sobriety tests today.) up close, the wisp's phosphorescence played in her eyes, along her feathers, turning them close to white and blue. she paced around it, alarms in her ears, a crease in her brow. that's his self-soothing spell. just the same as alpha's eye for blood, and for her, that — that one, the magic with her voice, that she'd been — practicing, ah ... kind of a lot, as of late. back on task. auré used it when he needed a distraction, a comfort; she'd only caught him in the act once or twice, but it was too transparent to miss. meaning: something's wrong. then: it can't be my fault, not this too. it has to be something else. has to.

one more circle, and she switched from the wisp to her father's eyes, features fallen into unsheathed concern and dismay. "what is it?" she said quietly.

the test. "oh." damask let her eyelids close. auré's answer should've added weight to her shoulders. instead — if only for a moment — it made them lighter. this new problem, (or maybe it wasn't new, maybe, more likely, you were too damn stuck in your head to see it,) it wasn't her. for the first time since he'd woken up and staggered to his feet ... he was letting the spotlight fall onto him. not a single you in his mouth.

that relief was not long-lived.

don't feel better when he's feeling worse. exit self; enter empathy and memory. the here and the now had ousted all else, so it took her a moment, adjusting bandwidth in limited supply. a few seconds of buffering — query to retrieval and imminent results. with a friendly ping! and that little punch of effort, pictures reeled across her vision with all the jagged impatience of an amateur flip book. an owl's looming, shadowy form ... rabbits staged in a twisted horror show ... darkness, darkness, page after page. fast forward to her father in red, broken wing limp on the floor, facing off a beast about to burst. triumph at last, and then the image that haunted her most. it invoked a flash of déjà vu, doubled in time. he didn't look it anymore, but coming out, he'd been a dead ringer, minus the slick of fungus and blood: barely with her, falling to pieces. he was going to sleep, he'd said, and she couldn't have known what kind — only that on a scale of transience to permanence, phobic her was bound to assume ten out of ten. recall, recoil. all right, that's enough. more than enough. damask had been (scared to death?) close to crushed that day, and that reaction was only secondhand. of course the real survivor was struggling, whether he said so or not. she'd accepted it before, but this time, auré's promise was harder to swallow. sounds like something you would say. something you did say.

she jerked her head a little to the side with a squint, somewhere between teasing and not. "holding you to it," damask said. an undertone of darker warning: i'll know if that changes.

"are y —" am i what? ready? finished? okay? don't you dare flip that question again. "... let's go to orion."

she nodded once and cut off the exit, glancing narrowly at auré behind her. let me lead, even knowing he'd long since outpaced her in terms of lucidity. one foot in front of the other, across the core's widest diameter. sure, it sounded like a lot, but hey ... it was an hour. that was doable, right? her eyes shot down at the floor. do the math, one pace forward, one print apart — envision the tracks — make it happen, counter the weave, too stiff and too careful to let the shakes show. there. almost a straight line. very convincing, all things considered.

she heron-walked ahead, roughly counting out the steps, those elapsed against those remaining ... and then, once she knew that (one,) he was following and (two,) she could multitask: "here's what i don't understand." no change in speed, nor the downslope of her head or the march-and-flick of her gaze. "you passed the test, but for what? emuh said there was more." why was this so hard to articulate? damask coughed a little, listed to the side, stumbled, corrected — tried another angle. "transcendence. that's what all this was all about." beat. "dad, do you ... feel any different?"