ORIGIN

a long, slow drag, and then damask sighed it out, like a plume of cigarette smoke in the wind. ah, polaris, nothing short of wonderland. neon lights, crystalline attractions, that trademark thrum of energy pulsing through her nerves ... oh, she loved it here, for sure. quicksilver eyes skimmed over the terrain, ticking off boxes on an old, wrinkled list. that outcropping in the approximate shape of a ragged feather? check. the one that reminded her faintly of a crown? yeah, still there. the one that didn't look like much of anything, whose shape she nonetheless recognized? no change. no change at all.

she was headed out now, flying back — no, flying home (canis is home, don't you forget it) with a few souvenirs — heavy with them, struggling under the load. souvenir number one: the rabbit in her claws, tender, sizable, chosen with care. she could've gone anywhere for that, though, which brought her to souvenir number two: a thick swathe of fresh, fluorescent moss, pulled from the walls and looped around her chest like a countercultural scarf. finally, souvenir number three, a bona-fide polaris exclusive: four little clusters of radiant quartz. these she'd collected and woven into the moss. hey, guess what? you look ridiculous. correct, but — ... she was doing this for the kids. the bonebound had seen an abrupt influx in numbers, and for reasons that defied mathematical probability, all three of the new additions were helpless fledglings who couldn't yet hunt for themselves. someone had to feed those mouths, and at auré's encouragement, she'd accepted the task. ergo, grocery runs. it went like this: she acquired meat; she took said meat to the children, always otherwise supervised; she said a quick hello, keeping well away; she excused herself; and she left. easy, painless, businesslike. except, sometimes ... it wasn't just food. she'd brought feathers, flowers, scavenged trinkets — and all right, yes, maybe the very, very occasional thing that she'd carved. call it enrichment, novel stimuli for them to see and touch and toss around. damask wasn't cut out for being any sort of influence on those kids, but she knew they deserved better than bones. it was the least she could do.

and it made her feel a little (less useless?) more useful.

she pricked her ears, felt them swivel. what was that? a distress call, somewhere near the room's perimeter. it could've been nothing, yet ... a sweep of her wings, and she'd already lost herself to the cause. it wasn't far; she picked up the pace, angling closer. a small, black silhouette lay sprawled on the floor, panting hard. whoa. her catch fell to earth with a dull thump.

aching, wincing, she set herself down at the stranger's back. hey, you forgetting something? right, the mosses, the crystals. she shrugged them away — hastily, discreetly — and nudged them off to the side with a foot. this done, the bird of prey took one step, another, walking on eggshells. they're real little; get down low. let those talons click, so they hear you coming. easy, kid. easy. the distance closed to some five feet. "hey," she began — quietly, but not too gently. not embarrassing, not patronizing, casual was key. hold up, though. damask sidestepped, leaning left to get a glimpse of their face. blushing eyes and a stone to match, as she'd suspected. apprehension built in the back of her skull, conflicting, commingling. there was that unyielding compulsion to understand, make it better, get this right, but also ... a very real sense of (maybe don't) dread. that's — "wilder, yeah?"

she cast around for a moment, scanning for danger, some kind of trigger. nothing. the accipiter hovered in place, slack-jawed, brows furrowed. any ideas? what'll it be? ... are you okay, what's wrong, what happened ... seriously? if you're gonna try, then try harder, damask. "what do you need?" that all you got? well, no, it wasn't. with a soft flare of magic, she guided the breeze through the (half-)stranger's airways: in through her nose, out through her mouth. inhale, exhale. inhale, exhale. slow and steady, setting the pace. good enough. now don't screw it up.

ahh, the flinch at the outset ... damask had been hoping to avoid that. what an impression, right off the bat! we're off to a great start, folks! she backed off a step. it wasn't a retreat, but a willing surrender, almost an offering, space on a platter. silver eyes held steady, taking in the tells as her company spun around and hurried to stand. now, what have we here? go ahead, take a sec, this is a tough one. very unusual condition, hard to diagnose, you've never seen anything like it. hint: shock. the answer is shock. her breath caught in her throat — and why? because that's how you look when you have one of your ... things. frightened. vulnerable. weak.

she dipped her head low, peering up through her brows. a shadow passed over her face, somewhere between respect and concern, there and then gone — a deliberate, momentary letdown of restraint, features otherwise kept on a tight, tight rope. out came a voice, halting, gravelly, with an incomplete flash of recognition. of course she doesn't remember your name. surprising she remembers you at all. hey, now ... try not to take it personal. what's there to remember, with the caves' biggest hot-shots standing right next to you? she blinked it away and nodded once. yes, right, a judge, that was me.

then: "um, yeah. i'm wilder."

oh, i knew it! still, that confirmation became a cascade, information unfurling in sequence. one: wilder had appeared in the competition. two: she'd introduced herself as a member of the bonebound — despite damask never having met or heard of her. three: auré'd locked up at the sight of her, and pride along with him. her performance had been fairly impressive, and yet neither had given it so much as a word. four: by the time winners were announced, the cat was nowhere to be found. and five, last but the opposite of least: damask had asked after her. sidled up to it, practically tiptoed, but inquired nonetheless. and you shouldn't've. she could see it still, the way her father had shuffled his feet and grappled for an answer. "a childhood friend," he'd said, and something'd happened ... "but it's all right now." obviously, no, it very much was not. she'd dropped it. immediately.

and what a stroke of déjà vu that was, listening to wilder. "i'm okay." read: believe that i am. "i don't really need anything right now!" read: whatever would help, you can't give it to me. finally, "just backfired magic, you know? happens a lot." read: here is an excuse. please accept it. punctuated with the fakest smile she'd ever seen, crudely taped on and about to peel off.

another nod, rapid, sympathetic — yes, i do, and yes, it does — and damask let it go. any question would've been a bad one. instead, she turned the conversation elsewhere, smooth as anything. "listen, i remember your act. beautiful." the accipiter seated herself, tail sweeping 'round to settle over her feet. had to watch her step here. "the wisp you cast ... my father's partial to them, as well. something about them puts him at ease — reminds him that he isn't alone." off content alone, the comment might've come across as an unsubtle hint. yet, she delivered it with earnest curiosity, quiet and thoughtful, faintly puzzled — like a student poring over a difficult problem. "would you mind showing me one of yours again?" a little quieter, now: "i've thought about ... learning the spell, myself, for ... him."

too real, kid!, and cut!

damask's line of thought was careful and purposeful: a little bit of praise, a little bit of conversation, and a little bit of a nudge — disguised as a request for her own benefit, but underneath? it'd all been for wilder. this cat had made it very clear that she didn't want to talk it out, and even if she had, damask didn't operate like that. sideways was the way to go, and sure enough, sideways was working; wilder took to it with oblivious eagerness. but for (because of; in honor of; as a gift to) and him (as in her father, her best friend, and her ████, who had to be the one to break your bleeding heart) ... those two words were off-script and off-subject. a mistake, as was the infinitesimal cringe that followed. and you're very damn lucky she's not gonna catch it.

wilder's non-reaction bespoke a key point: she didn't have a clue about damask's affiliation, her family name, or her relation to auré. by her own admission, she hadn't been paying attention at the show, and evidently, she hadn't picked up on any other signs. what would those be, anyway? you certainly don't look it. which ... stung; it always had stung. by all appearances, damask wasn't much of a vita — bereft of color, no heat in her eyes, no glossy black drip at the base of her muzzle. but in this case, anonymity might be to her advantage. "right," she said trimly. "i'm damask." wilder, meanwhile, was looking better and better by the minute. man, was that a purr ... ? she hadn't heard that sound in a long time. "th-thank you!" the bird of prey mustered a smile in exchange. the result was belated, slight, not as real as the one she was looking at, but an effort nonetheless. it didn't last. "the other judges didn't like it much." wilder'd noticed, then. and it bothers her. it bothered her, too. she parted her lips — thought better of it — closed them. it was just an aside; best to let it lie, for now. they had another subject to discuss.

see, this cat seemed to know her stuff, but they disagreed on just one point. wisps, calming? not for damask, they weren't. aesthetics aside, they struck her more as blaring alarms: danger, danger. because that's what they mean when your daddy does 'em. at an obliging flash of blue and pink, she tensed, only to relax by forcible degrees. just a little conditioning to undo — make this stimulus reassuring, rather than a warning. "may i?" she looked to her company for approval, then stood and approached the wisp, pacing around it in slow, measured steps. a moment of focus — (she'd been working on this spell; like her eye for blood, but where that was primal, this was ethereal) — and ... there, perfect. the wisp fired up in her senses, not just in a way she could see, but in one she could feel. she had a pretty good idea as to where it came from, what wellspring to draw on; all she needed was a taste to confirm it. damask reached, reached, reached ... and in response: the magic reached back.

she'd been counting on the impression of a soft, warm light, the radiant energy behind her father's fireflies and picture shows. no. this was something else, all grasping fingers and slippery grins, whispering into her ears. remember me? ohh, yeah.

the spell cut out in the space of an instant. damask stiffened and recoiled, audibly inhaling through her teeth. a shudder lanced down her spine. "it's not how i expected. i-i've —" holy shit, damask! get it together! "i've never worked with that school of magic before." you're lying again. it didn't count! she'd used it once, and it'd been half an accident! forget it. back onstage. okay ... deep breath, straight face, no shaking. better. she fell back and steadied herself, speaking more evenly. "it only does what you ask it to, correct? nothing else? what happens when it backfires?" the parallel wasn't lost on her. a final, unspoken question loomed over the others, all but burning: this wasn't the magic that ... hurt you, just now — is it?

it took a moment, heart subsiding beat-by-beat in her ears. then, right on cue ...

you and your soft spot for damsels in distress. you big sucker. like you're some sorta kid in shining armor. who's the damsel now, hm? who's the one needs saving? who just made it all about herself again?

... there it was, that predictable wave of guilt, regret, frustration. should've spoken slower to head off the stutter; made her explanation sound less like an excuse; kept those questions to herself — and above all, she shouldn't've spooked over some petty little wisp. if only it could've been the kind of magic it was supposed to be — no, do you one better: if only you weren't you. if only. damask set her jaw and straightened up. all good, see? just a momentary overreaction.

now, to bring it back to wilder — who, for the record, still wasn't looking one hundred percent. let's see, no obvious tells ... look harder. no and no, still nothing ... correction, think harder. so, say somebody asks you to show 'em a spell — a favorite of yours, picks you up when you're down. you give 'em the demo they wanted, and get this — they act like you just hit them in the face! how would you feel, damask? what words come to mind? ... hurt, confused, dejected ... that's right. now, last question: what would you do?

she'd hide it — and wilder was doing that pretty well, actually, (much improved from her earlier attempt,) but the signs were there, now that she knew to look for them. that first, chuckling sentence, it came across as a little too casual; and her answers were sort of ... halting, worded softly, not so warm and genuine as she'd been a few moments earlier. subtle, yet just enough to prove damask's hypothesis. well done! you screwed up. and such good answers to your stupid questions! with a small huff of self-deprecating humor: "a headache. of course." she pushed her gaze back onto the wisp. it danced in her eyes, bright and pink, utterly harmless. nothing more than a little light. deep breath, here. "... wilder, i meant what i said." and she meant it now too, obviously so. the words came out quiet, heartfelt, slightly heavy with an unspoken apology. "your magic — it's beautiful."

when auré had shown her one of his for the first time, the sight of it had mesmerized her. she'd seen her father's lights before fire, before the stars in orion, long before the crystals and mosses here in polaris — seen them for what they were, not what she'd make them. she could reconstruct those associations, break down the bad, bring back the good. as for the magic? well — ... she knew it was coming now. just had to ... be prepared. never mind the sand in her throat, the rabbit-thump of her rising pulse, the knot amassing blackly in her gut.

she cinched on a roguish smile. it felt tight; didn't look it. "i just wanted to be sure before i gave it a shot." pick a spot, any spot, and she chose a point off to the left, affixing it with a razor-sharp glare. her instincts were screaming, frenzied, she didn't want to do this — and yet (buckle up and GO, COWARD!) she held her breath and took the plunge: headlong, headfirst into the arcana.


a silvery-white flare burst into being. the bird of prey staggered in place, then breathed for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, a great whooping gasp, lungs burning burning burning around her thrumming stone. the light was explosive, almost blinding as it bobbed this way and that with restless energy. was that thing supposed to be a wisp? her wisp? the ensuing spike of shock somehow made it brighter. she nudged at the spell in its careful little partition of her head — soothing it, but avoiding too close a connection. the wisp seemed to settle slightly in response. good, that was good. she let it hover there, casting a pallid glow on them both. blink, swallow, blink. damask arranged her features into a fine imitation of wondering astonishment, slowly turning to face her company: are you seeing this too? her eyes sparkled, lips parted just so — the whole nine yards, as if it were finally dawning on her what she'd just done.

but oh, everything in her skull was an aching, bleeding mess.

once upon a time, some nameless traveler had ventured into the misty marshes. he had been on the move for days, and he was by then rather tired, rather lonesome. walking among the trees, he heard the keening cries of hallowed callers. one of the callers seemed to take a particular interest in him. it was different from the others, pale as a bone with one crimson eye. when it came time for the traveler to move on, the special caller was a white shadow at his back. but he couldn't shake this feeling, as if his new friend was a little too friendly in all the wrong ways. he was being haunted, he realized, by an unholy ghost.

damask had never heard this story, much less lived it. chances were, it hadn't even happened. but in this moment — with echoes in her ears, phantom claws sunken into her neck, and this blinding-bright thing of hers dancing ballet over there — that traveler's exact frame of mind was her own.

although she kept her eyes on wilder, a semicircle of silver light hung in her peripheral vision. with delicate little touches of thought and intention, she tugged the wisp around to the left, bringing it further into her company's ken as she pushed it away from hers. "pretty," the cat was calling it, and wilder's phrasing almost made her grimace. pretty. sure, that was ... one word for it.

the accipiter mixed a splash of gracious diffidence into her expression — easing up on the whole delighted routine, as if she were trying to moderate herself and gradually succeeding. "i specialize in wind," she said by way of explanation, sidestepping the compliments with practiced dexterity. "that sort of magic, it has a playful quality to it. yours does too; they're not dissimilar." which wasn't — wrong, exactly, but it also wasn't right. as if she'd just compared a giggling child to one of those predators that hunted for sport. "working with it felt ... a little familiar, in that way."

hahah ... familiar. good one. her temples were pounding. that was fun, where we went just now. the classics never die. we should do it again sometime — how's about tonight in your dreams? another near-grimace. this wasn't helping. hey, hadn't wilder sounded sort of off just now? really off? are you surprised? back to the parallel, now: imagine the one who asked for a demo, imagine this total weirdo who acted all funny when you gave 'em what they wanted — imagine they tell you it was great, insist that they liked it, and then they do it themself, and it comes out perfect on their first try! once again, how do you feel? ... affronted, resentful, inadequate ... that's it. a furrow of unsheathed concern developed in the space between her eyes. you're not really that good at this, are you? you're not helping anybody. you're just looking for something else to think about. chasing something else to feel. somewhere else to live that isn't your head. "look —"

and her lungs filled up, and her lungs were on fire, and her lungs were overflowing with a flash flood of emotion —

and wait!, wait!, stop!, she hadn't meant to reach that far that fast, wait, had she even meant to reach at all? —

and it was enough to choke on, enough to drown in, an angry ocean with a burning knife and a hemorrhaging heart at its maelstrom core. she bit down, hard. the salty-sour taste of iron and nausea bloomed in her mouth; and she was hot and cold and dizzy all at once, fighting with everything she had to keep steady. the spell had gone wrong, that much was painfully (oh, so painfully) clear — this, this was her, but worse, no — close, but there was something different about it. if what damask had was an open wound — raw, bright red, bleeding with too much feeling — then this was necrotic tissue, an old infection left to fester.

both lesions were autoimmune in origin. both were presently in her possession.

hold still, damask. and she did, unblinking, blood welling up around her still-shut-tight teeth. see also: paralysis. see also: tetanus; colloquially, lockjaw. can't have you embarrassing yourself again, can we? take a second, now. just the one. nobody sees how weak you really are. you coward. you child. nobody sees. don't wait too long, don't allow any leaks, and don't you dare st-st-stutter, you nervous little wreck. time's running out, so what's it gonna be? what words of wisdom do you have for us today? "you don't have to hide, you know." oh, that's rich.

it sounded like her — a very, very good understudy of her, actually, nice and even, without too long a delay between this line and the last — but somehow, she was more ... hearing it than speaking it. she took her wisp over to wilder's, compressing it into the same smaller size. it gave its weaker counterpart a tiny bump! before floating around into orbit.

can you spell hypocrite, kid? it goes like this: D-A-M-A-S-K. no, really! those are the letters, kid! they changed it as of fourteen seconds ago, kid! you're making a real difference in the world, kid! you're finally important, kid, you finally matter!

"but you don't have to talk to me, either," amended the voice that was supposed to be hers. the light withdrew, then hovered in place. "would you like me to go?"

and it went up in smoke.