It didn’t matter how many times they came back. It didn’t matter what they did, how much they beat him, nor how close they brought him to the edge.

Eolh would not die. He refused death.

Usually, it was the Big One, that over-sized cyran soldier with his stupid, slack-jawed grin. Sometimes, he brought a friend, or two.

They were still paying off the prison guard, but the prison guard wouldn’t let them bring any weapons in. It didn’t matter. They would take turns on Eolh. Kicking him. Smashing their fists into his arms, his wings, his gut.

And if he tried to fight back, if he tried to kick and claw at them, they just made it worse.

So, he had learned to fake his blackouts. He had seen plenty of people die in the streets of Lowtown, and he knew all the signs of internal bleeding. When Eolh heard them coming, he would split open his wounds, and wipe the blood over himself, to himself look weaker. Closer to death.

This didn’t stop their beatings, but it took the fun out of it for them. The only one who kept coming back was the big cyran. Not every day, but almost.

Eolh figured the Big One must’ve been related to one of the cyrans he’d killed, out in the streets. An old friend, or something like that.

Good, Eolh thought. Good.

Over the last few days, the Big One’s simple rage had morphed into something else. There was a kind of sick hunger in his eyes when he stood outside Eolh’s cell. Staring down at him. Breathing too heavily.

Eolh had known more than a few cyrans like this. More than a few avians, too, though he didn’t want to admit it. And when the Big One was done, when he left the corvani crumpled on the floor, the Big One would walk out with a skip in his step.

Sometimes, he whistled tunelessly on his way out.

Those times, Eolh didn’t have to fake anything.

He would lie there, not moving. Barely breathing. Flirting with that dark edge, that last and final drop. Come on over, it seemed to say. It feels like nothing at all.

But he always pulled himself back.

Every morning and every night, the prison guard finished their shift by placing bowls of soup, filled with fish heads and tails and old, blanched vegetables, in front of each cell. Eolh always licked the bowl clean. It didn’t matter how bad it tasted, he refused to let any of it go to waste. He needed to heal, to be strong. The weak never escape.

Judging by the amount of bowls the guards carried, there were at least four other occupants in this block of the prison. One was right next to him, on the other side of the stone wall, though they rarely touched their bowl. The guards would often have to take the bowl back - still full - or else leave it to rot, and stink up the prison.

Why don’t they eat?

At night, when the rains masked his voice from the prison guards, Eolh tried to talk to his neighbor. Eolh would stick his beak through the bars at the front of his cell, and whisper.

“Hey, are you there?”

Silence.

“I know you’re listening. I just want to know your name.”

He never got an answer. Deaf. Mute. Or maybe he just didn’t want to talk. A shame. Escape was always easier with help.

More days passed. More rain. More beatings. He slept as much as he could, and dreamed of a better place. Of being back in Lowtown. Or, if it was a particularly good dream, of being back in the Hanging Palace...

Once, they caught him sleeping too soundly. He must’ve actually been asleep, because when he woke up, he was surrounded. There were three of them, and the Big One was at the head of the pack. He had smuggled in a club this time, a hard piece of wood lacquered in black. The Big One smacked it into his open hand, relishing the sound it made.

Eolh, still blurry eyed, said something he shouldn’t have. But it was just too tempting.

“You brought more help? How weak are you?”

“Keep talking, bird,” the Big One said. “I want to hear you scream.”

“Me? I’m nothing,” Eolh smirked, “You should have heard your friend when I shoved my dagger into his gut.”

The Big One growled, and smashed his club against the side of Eolh’s head. After that, he didn’t remember much. He wasn’t there, in the prison anymore. He was somewhere high above, flying over the city. Watching them kick at his body. If he focused, he could see the Big One sweating, his chest heaving from the effort.

They spit on him. Eolh could feel that. Warm, wetness sliding down his face. Disgusting creatures.

The Big One leaned down, slapping Eolh twice on the cheek, sending a jolt of pain through his body. Bringing him back down to the prison.

“I’ll be back. Don’t you worry.” He smiled.

The three of them walked out of the cell, and slammed the gate shut. Eolh screamed after them, “You know where to find me, you scaly fuck!”

But even that made him blister with pain. Eolh groaned as he rolled over. And gasped when he touched at his newest wounds. Everything hurt. It felt like a shovel was digging into his chest, cutting his lungs in half. When he coughed, it came up red and frothy.

Won’t have to fake the bleeding anymore, he thought.

Eolh lay where he was, in the middle of his cell, letting the waves of pain crash over him. Riding through him. A kind of heat that told him he was alive. Alive, and broken.

The prison guard came that night with his usual bowls of soup, carried on a metal tray. He didn’t look at Eolh, or if he did, he quickly bowed his head. Is that shame, or am I just seeing things?

Gods damned cyrans. Can they even feel shame? Or are they really all this sick.

Despite the awful smell of the soup, its scent made him salivate. And when he rolled over onto his stomach, he almost blacked out again from the pain. Something in his torso was fractured, maybe even broken. A rib? He propped himself up on his elbows, using his hand to claw his way towards the bars. They had taken Laykis’s hand off his wrist, leaving him with nothing more than a metal contact plate that was soldered into his bone. If he really wanted to, it might make a decent bludgeon, but now…

Now, it was all he could do to pick up the bowl, and tilt it up into the bars, gulping down the liquid. When it was empty, he turned it sideways and brought it inside, so he could lick the bowl clean. Then - and he was not proud of this - he licked the floor where the soup had spilled.

His neighbor’s bowl was sitting out. Untouched. Around the corner of the stone wall that separated his cell from the next. Just out of reach.

“Hey,” Eolh said, his voice coming out as a wet rasp. He swallowed, and tried again. “You going to eat that?”

There was a scuffing sound. A hand came out of the shadows. Bright, blue scales, and a pale palm.

A cyran hand.

Huh, he thought. So they lock up their own kind, too. Was everyone in here a cyran?

For some reason, Eolh thought they would have a xeno jail, away from the cyrans. Maybe they just kill the xenos.

Guess that makes me the lucky one.

The hand pushed the bowl across the floor. Tin, scraping on stone.

Eolh took the bowl, and said, “Thank you.” He tipped it up, and let the cool broth slide down his throat. It would be soothing, if it wasn’t so foul. But a moment later, the bowl was empty, so he slid it back.

If I can just get them to start talking...

“So,” Eolh said, trying to sound casual. “What are you in for?”

Silence. There was nothing shocking about that. Some people just didn’t want to talk.

But desperately needed information, and as far as he could tell, the other cell next to his was empty. So, he would have to keep trying.

“You a thief? What does it take for a cyran to get locked up?” Eolh pressed his beak against the bars. “Murder?”

There was a rustle from the other side. Interesting.

The cyrans didn’t exactly place a high value on xeno life. Which meant his neighbor - whoever he was - must’ve killed another cyran. Eolh had assumed the cyrans killed traitors. Well, he couldn’t be sure what his neighbor was in here for. Have to get him talking.

“That’s why they locked me up, too. Murder. Only problem is, I don’t see it that way. See, from my vantage, they were the murderers. They were, uh, interacting with one of the locals. You know what I mean. So I offered to help. One, two, it was done. It was so simple. It seemed like the right thing to do. Gods, I just got here. I was just trying to help her, and I got bagged on my first day on the planet. What do you think?”

Silence.

“Come on, talk to me. It’s too quiet in here. Tell me what you did.”

Not even the scuffle of movement. Eolh sighed, and leaned back against the bars. At least his stomach was full.

He closed his eyes, and nodded off.

When he woke up, the evening sunlight poured in through the window. It sounded like it would rain soon. He tried a few more times, but he was always met with the same silence. “What’s your name?” or “Where are you from?” or “How long have you been here?”

When he had the strength to stand again, he inspected the lock on his cell. He tried scratching at it with his beak, but the Big One had bruised the bone, and it hurt to scrape it on the metal. Eolh ran his fingers over the cracks on the wall, trying to see if he could find any mortar that had come loose. Maybe, if he found a stone, he could make a weapon…

His legs gave out, and he didn’t fight it. He slept where he fell. And though it was easy to fall into slumber, it was hard to stay there. Late that night, while the rain fell in curtains against the tin roof, high above, Eolh tried again.

“Look, I’ll start first. My name is Eolh. I’m from a place called Gaiam. There’s a city there, as tall as it is wide. They call it the cauldron, because it sits in the old crater of a mountain.” He spoke, with his back against the wall. Not caring if anyone heard him. He just wanted to talk. He just wanted someone to talk to. “What about you? Your name, that’s all I’m asking. You can make it up for all I care.”

Nothing but the tink-ing of rain, pattering on the leaves of trees outside.

The Big One came again in the morning. He was alone this time.

“Get up,” the Big One said.

Eolh was too exhausted to fight him, so he tried to feign his weakness again. He pretended he was blacked out, and couldn’t hear him. He even slowed his breathing as much as he could, keeping his breaths light and shallow. And when a huge hand hooked under his injured arm, and hauled him to his feet, Eolh let gravity pull him back down to the floor.

The Big One didn’t care. He spent the next five minutes kicking Eolh as hard as he could. His shoulder. His ribs. His legs. Eolh did his best not to flinch, hoping, praying that it would end. His head. That must’ve blacked him out, because when he woke up, he had no idea where he was. It took him a long time to regain his bearings.

There was a bowl of cold soup, sitting in front of his cell.

He was too tired to get it. Too tired to hurt. Too tired, everywhere.

He closed his eyes again.

And opened them, when he heard a scraping sound against the stone.

Another bowl was pushed up against the first. The cyran’s hand withdrew into the neighboring cell.

Eolh didn’t move. He just looked at it. Blinking. Not understanding.

“Eat,” a voice said from the other cell. Deep. But not a male voice. The cyran was a woman.

Eolh gasped as he pushed himself up. If he was hungry, he couldn’t feel it. Too much pain. Even rolling over wracked him with agony. And when he tried to drink, it was like taking shards of glass down his throat. But he drank anyway, because he knew his body needed it.

Eolh didn’t bother to wipe the soup off his beak. He put the bowl back down, and slid it back over.

“Thank you.”

She grunted, not really saying anything. But Eolh thought the sound was beautiful.

“What’s your name?” He asked.

Slow and deep came the answer.

“Agraneia.”