Grey Eagle - Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

His spirits were better after he had slept. The bath had been an incredible help and he felt in control of himself, if not his situation. He smiled wryly and shook his head, that he should take such grateful pleasure in what he would normally take for granted.

If only he could get out of this room he might find some way of...

He caught himself in mid thought, a whole new train of thought replacing it. They weren't trying to kill him, they were trying to use him. He didn't have to fight to stay alive, only to get away. A tiny smile crept onto his face... He frowned then - it was too simple, too obvious. Or would be to a human. But to a venator? With nothing to work with, any plan would have to be simple...

As mealtime approached, Arion sat quietly, listening for the first hints of footsteps. When finally he heard them he squatted down and began breathing deeply, deep breath after deep breath as the footsteps approached. Just to the door they were, and he stood up suddenly, nose blocked, mouth shut, blowing outward against the closure. He fainted.

...? ...Sharsa... Oh yeah.

Sharsa lifted him gently, giving him a sip of water, then laid him down again. Arion moved, crawling away clumsily, his balance not yet returned. He curled into a ball, his back to Sharsa. Sharsa came over, but didn't touch him. "What's wrong, Arion?" he asked, his voice illustrating his concern. "Do you hurt?"

"Leave me alone."

"I'll help you, Arion, but I need to know what hurts."

"As if you didn't know."

"Arion..." His voice was wounded. "What's wrong? I didn't do this."

"Just go away," he said miserably, his breath ragged.

"Look," he said, clearly accepting the situation and taking charge, "I didn't do anything to you, and if you're sick, we'll fix it. It would certainly make it easier if you'd cooperate." Arion didn't answer. "Your food is here. Would you like a little food, or something to drink?"

Yes, I'm starved and a drink would be wonderful, he thought wistfully. In answer, he moaned softly and moved away again, this time mimicking the clumsiness he had felt before. He noted with odd pleasure that he was trembling. In truth, it was from fear and excitement, but it fit in quite nicely.

"I'll be back in a minute."

No, take me with you...

Sharsa returned shortly with some medical equipment and Arion's heart sank. "I'm just going to check you over," he said gently, coming close. He took hold of his arm and Arion flinched, cringing.

He looked up at Sharsa, his face a mask of fear, pain and anger. "Turpa," he whispered with feeling and fair sincerity.

"All right," Sharsa said calmly, soothingly. "Just let me get your vitals..." He sighed. "I can't find anything wrong. Your pulse is high, but that's about it. Are you in pain?" He didn't answer. "Listen," he said firmly, finally showing a hint of impatience, "I know you don't like me touching you, but if you won't cooperate, I have to. Are you in pain?"

"Yes," he hissed furiously.

"Where?"

"In my gut. Now leave me alone." He rose slightly, to his knees, panting.

Sharsa hesitated, watching him. "Okay," he said gently, coming closer again. "Just let me look..."

"No," he said firmly, standing. Half a step and he froze, teeth clenched, his face pained. He fainted.

He came to, feeling shaky. He looked up at Sharsa's face, which was now highly concerned. Sharsa gave him another drink, and he took as much as he could without seeming too eager. He frowned then, rolled over and curled into a ball.

Sharsa stood. "Okay, listen to me. I have to get clearance to bring you out, but it won't take long. I'll be back just as soon as I possibly can and we'll find out what's wrong." He left and Arion lay still, planning.

It was actually working, but now he would have to make it count. It would be pointless to attempt a fight he couldn't win, so he would have to pick a moment to break away before Sharsa could stop him. Then a flyer, any kind of flyer, just to get some distance so he could hide.

He wondered if the tubers they'd been feeding him were easy to find. Well, I'll let You worry about that. My job is to get out of here. Then we'll see where I can go from there.

Sharsa returned, another venator in tow. "Gently, Arion," he said soothingly, as one would to a skittish horse. "He's going to pick you up and carry you to the lab. We're going to find out what's wrong, and you'll be just fine. Probably just some sort of allergic reaction to the food or something. It happens sometimes, but we'll find out for sure and you'll be just fine."

The venator knelt down and picked him up gently, carrying him towards the door. "No," said Arion, abruptly frightened.

Sharsa understood instantly. "It's off, Arion. It's turned off."

He relaxed only marginally, noting with interest that his true fear was helping him. Through the hated doorway, down the long hall, and out. Another hallway, and Arion's heart was crashing. Could this be the same one..? They stopped outside a room, and Arion was laid neatly on a gurney-like bed. "Okay, just relax now." Arion was breathing heavily, but it was making him dizzy, so he held his breath. Not much help.

The venator started inside and Sharsa turned to speak to him. Arion bolted. Sharsa lunged at him, but missed. Arion heard him shout instructions to the other, but didn't catch what they might be. He was behind him now, racing to catch up.

Through a door and down the hall. He knew he could outdistance Sharsa if he could only get enough of a head start. Ahead was yet another doorway, and beyond it, if he was right, was the front foyer and the door to the outside...

...His head sang with an excruciating headache... He rolled over and immediately wished he hadn't. Everything hurt, everything ached... He opened his eyes and gazed at the doorway as bitter resignation crept over him. Though unable to remember, he still understood that he had failed.

As time passed, the hurt subsided some, or maybe he just got used to it. He started to sit up, but his head protested and he stopped. There was nothing to get up for anyway. For a long time he simply stared straight ahead, at nothing. At last he rose, needing to move.

He wandered in circles, nowhere to go. He felt shaky, and he wondered idly if it was from the shock or hunger. Maybe both? Right now he was more thirsty than hungry. How long until mealtime? Or maybe he would be punished... I already skipped one, you guys... Time passed, but the room didn't care.

He heard footsteps finally, soft and light. Yavin came with the tray, slid it in, and left again. Fish! Tubers, biscuits, a fruit, and water, but fish. It disappeared quickly, for he was too hungry to linger over it. The fish was a very welcome change, but the pleasure was muffled beneath hunger and despondency.

Yavin returned and took the tray. He was being punished, he realized, not by being denied food, but by being denied company. That venat knew what it was doing all right.

The next day, or whatever it was, he felt less wretched, but certainly forlorn. Maybe Sharsa would come today. Please come... He paced then, angry that he was being forced to want the company of a venat.

He hit the wall with his shoulder, came off, lunging to the other side, hitting, feeling the shock of it; feeling something other than nothing. Back and forth, venting his anger. He sagged finally and sat. Time oozed by.

Yavin came. He ate.

And he sat.

Arion stared, spellbound, their eyes locked in silent recognition. The gryphus was a beautiful creature, resembling its mythical namesake. Sapient but shy, they would not mingle with humans.

Once before Arion had seen one, and he too had gazed at him as this one did now. The eagle-like head was regal, her feathers the golden red of a sunset. Her chest and shoulders were incredible, huge, supporting the massive wing muscles as well as the diminutive front legs.

She had no fur as her namesake did, but the feathers shaded to amber along her back, fading to snowy white at the feathered fetlocks. Her feet were neither bird's nor lion's, but more of a cross between the two - the longer toes of the bird perhaps, but heavier, stronger. The claws were impressive, curved and sharp. Arion wondered idly if she were the namesake rather than the other way around...

But the eyes! Just as before, the eyes drew his attention away from the rest, deep and fabulous, wild but knowing. They had not the physical ability to learn each other's languages, their mouths were too different, their sounds too unique. Even their hearing prevented them from learning to recognize each other's words.

The Gryphusani were reclusive, unwilling to endure the complications of other forms of communication. Someday, thought Arion, we shall meet in Marden, and then we will share our thoughts. But maybe someone like you would prefer the name Jamalim.

"No!" he cried out suddenly, seeing the venats coming. "Look out!" The gryphus raised her wings, startled, her eyes still on Arion. Below the left wing, a puff of feathers, and she staggered, the wing drooping.

Unable to flee, she turned to face them, but she had no defense against the long range killing power of the lasers. She went down, and the venators converged, laughing, cutting open her dead body, drinking her blood.

Sick, devastated, Arion watched in helpless agony. They saw him then, and started towards him, laughing, carrying a stein of blood. Horrified, Arion backed away, desperate, knowing they would force it down him.

His back hit the wall, and he turned to see what was blocking him. The wall. His eyes crossed over the commode and rested there. Out of context, it confused him. He looked back up at the venats, but they were gone.

Sliding down the wall, he sat, trembling. He remembered the beauty of the gryphus, relieved that she had not really died, saddened that he had not actually seen one again. And ashamed of what had come next, that it had come from his own imagination. Even venators wouldn't attack the Gryphusani. Why then had he dreamt such a hideous thing?

He was still sitting there, feeling numb, when the soft, light footsteps of Yavin sounded in the hallway. He listened, bringing his thoughts towards them. The food was delivered, but as before, he did not stay.

Arion ate slowly this time, trying to savor it. He noted the details, how the fish flaked, the crack in the biscuit. The strong fishy odor. The sweetness of the fruit. But there was no pleasure.

He washed his face, wishing he could wash his hair again. He gave belated thanks, having forgotten, but they were empty, insincere, and he knew it. He apologized, guilty, but for the first time in his life, he felt unforgiven. Confused, he avoided the thought, ignoring it.

He sat playing with the tray when the food was gone, spinning it on its edge like a coin, watching it wind down. He decided not to let Yavin take it back, or at least he would hang on for a bit, force him to stay awhile longer.

When Yavin came, however, he set something else on the floor, pushing it in with the stick. It was a mythra, a stringed instrument. Arion stared, pushing the tray in reach, barely noticing as Yavin left.

He picked it up, amazed, yet surprised that Sharsa did not deliver it himself if he were no longer mad at him. He stroked the wood, admiring it. Then, when he could no longer resist, he strummed experimentally, profoundly thrilled with the rich, vibrant sound. His skin tingled and his heart beat faster. He was fascinated that he could feel such awe, but nevertheless, it touched him in ways he would not have imagined.

Oh Aviel! Thank You!

He rehearsed the chords he had known with his cithara, testing, revising. While the cithara had six strings, the mythra had twelve. Though he had handled a mythra before, he had never seriously studied with one, and he was shocked by how quickly he learned, how easily he improved. The room forgotten, he played until he was exhausted, his eyes burning with fatigue.

Sleep receded, leaving him with an odd mixture of eagerness and dejection. Again he practiced chords, but they failed to please him as deeply as the day before.

He felt cheated as he recalled his dream, where he had heard once more the true fullness of music as it was aboard the Arlemagen. He had never been able to produce music like that, and now he would never even hear them again. He felt cheated a second time, robbed of the pleasure he had felt before he dreamt.

He leaned against the wall, wistful, and began to hum, finding the chords to match, trying to cheer himself up. The tune became melancholy, but it suited him and he continued, fitting it to lyrics he had started the day before. Then, softly, he sang to himself.

And I
Am just her memory;
I am fading with the past.
She set me free
To eternity,
Released to Avidan,
Delivered to Marden.

Aviel!
My soul is withering.
I am dying from within.
If I should die
While I'm alive,
Avigdor, where am I?
Avigdor, where am I?

Aviel!
Oh I have done my best.
I leave my fate to You.
Though I am naught,
Forsake me not,
Avigdor, here am I!
Avigdor, here am I!"

He sat quietly, feeling guilty though he wasn't sure why. Like a foot gone to sleep, in the throes of reawakening, his emotions floundered within him. Only they had nothing to reawaken to but the suffocation which had put them to sleep...

But no, he had the mythra. He stroked it, clinging to it like flotsam. He smiled sadly then, placing his guilt. He shouldn't be giving up, and he realized too that he had not. But what to do about it?

He stared at the doorway. He knew now that the shock, though painful, would not cause any serious damage. He wondered how long he stayed unconscious afterwards, and whether he could wake up before anyone noticed. His hallway was perpetually quiet, so the odds were actually quite good.

It was still early, so mealtime was a long way off. He rose slowly and stood still, not wanting to go through that pain again, but willing to if it would set him free. Mythra in hand, he took a deep breath and ran.