He was unbound.
He could escape!
Despite the exultation, he knew he had to flee before his captor returned. That urgency gave strength to his aching limbs, but even sitting up was a battle. He felt stiff, weak. As he struggled to stand, his legs nearly collapsing beneath his meager weight, the blanket that had been covering his form slipped to the ground.
Horror ensnared his entire body.
Pine-colored scales—monstrous and jagged in some places—coated the majority of his body, but turquoise swept down his chest, stomach, and the inside of each limb. A line of scutes ran down the backs of his arms, congregating on his elbows, and his green fingers ended in nails so sharp they looked like claws. Panicking, he traced his face with beast-like hands and found his jaw was wrapped shut. The soft texture gave him reprieve, but when he continued exploring and his hands found horns jutting from his head, he tried to scream.
His mouth wouldn’t move, tightly bound as it was.
Frantically, he reached for his changeling magic, attempting to return to his Evoir skin, but his magic didn’t respond. He couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything except the rough, monstrous scales that coated his body.
No! No, this can’t be happening!
He’d been running from this truth since he fled Rellaeria, and now, on top of everything else, he was forced to mourn the last scraps of his identity.
Choking on a sob, he dug his claws into his arm until it drew blood—the sight oddly soothing. Maybe, just maybe, he could tear the scales off and find his Evoir skin underneath...
“Lailoken!”
He froze at the sound of his name, as if slapped, and slowly looked up to find Ian Nolan staring down at him. When had Loken collapsed to the ground? No, that wasn’t important. What was important was how he’d gotten here. Last he remembered was courting death in Lestat’s lab. Why had Nolan brought him here? More importantly, why hadn’t he done away with the monster?
He could be in league with Lestat, his paranoia whispered.
Nolan spoke, and the reminder that Loken couldn’t understand him did nothing to calm him. He tried to stand, to face the potential danger like the warrior he was, but found his muscles underqualified for the task.
Nolan reached for him, and Loken flinched, jerking backwards and shielding himself. He may not have understood English, but he knew Nolan’s immediate response was a curse. When he realized Nolan wasn’t going to strike him, he dropped his arms. Suddenly feeling bare—he was, after all, wearing only loose pants—he reached for the blanket that had fallen to the floor earlier. Only when he was mostly covered did the panic in his chest begin to ebb.
Loken looked up when Nolan barked a word at him, and he gave the inventor a puzzled look when he asked a question. Or so Loken assumed that’s what it was, based on his tone.
After running a hand through his hair and looking exasperated, Nolan furrowed his brows in thought, as if trying to remember something. Then, he very carefully moved his hands. ‘You hurt,’ he signed.
Loken stared at the unexpected use of ASL. Face still furrowed in puzzlement, he stared down at his alien hands. As much as he hated them, at least he still had five fingers.
‘Yes,’ he replied, for lack of a better response.
Nolan wasn’t quite proficient with ASL, so communication became a mixture of charades as well. Gesturing to Loken’s face, Nolan said, ‘Broke. Heal.’
His jaw had been broken? That was likely why he couldn't move it, but why was it wrapped? How had it happened? He couldn’t remember. Regardless, it was healing, but the process was likely to be slowed. His physiology—was that even true in this form?—would help him heal faster, but it was his magic that reflexively expedited the process. Unfortunately, there was no way to communicate that to Nolan easily.
The language barrier was quickly becoming tiresome, and every minute Loken remained trapped in this hideous form was one too many. He wanted his magic back. He needed his maedir back. Loken felt crippled without it, felt its absence like a physical ache.
He couldn't breathe.
“Lailoken! Stap!”
Arms gripped his wrists, and he flinched but froze. The panic was slow to fade, but as it did, he felt the stinging of his arms and knew he'd once more gouged his nails into them.
When Nolan released him, Loken made the mistake of meeting his eyes, and the pity he thought he glimpsed made him ill.
Another voice provided Loken with a welcomed distraction. He looked towards Jeremy Valdes as he approached and felt his body tense. ALPHA. The agency was now a very real threat. Loken now not only looked like an extraterrestrial, he had no magic to serve them with. What if they decided he was much more valuable to study—to take apart?
For a second, he could see the madman standing over him, could feel cold hands conducting a vivisection.
Loken took a breath, trying to ground himself in the now. He took note of Nolan’s cologne and the bitter smell of alcohol that clung to him. Clearly, the man had been drinking. Perhaps he'd be willing to share with his guest (prisoner?). Pushing the musings aside, next, Loken splayed his fingers out on the ground, feeling the smooth, cold surface against his fingertips.
When he felt calmer, he looked to Nolan whom had been waiting rather patiently.
The inventor pointed to Jeremy, signed, ‘Heal,’ and pointed to Loken.
Jeremy heal Loken.
Jeremy had been acting as his healer? Well, that made sense; he was the most versed on Loken’s physiology. Well, his Evoir physiology.
Nolan pointed from Jeremy, signed, ‘See?’ pointed to Loken, and signed a question mark.
It took him a moment to decipher the question. Jeremy see Loken? He wanted to examine him? As patient and non-invasive as Jeremy had been with the last examination, the idea of being scrutinized in this form had his heart pounding.
Movement. Loken tensed and jerked his gaze to Jeremy. The healer was holding up his hands and approaching. Scarcely resisting the urge to try to snarl, he signed, ‘No!’
The frustration on Nolan’s face filled Loken with indignation. Did he think Loken wanted this? That he wanted to be trapped in a body he didn’t identify with, flinching at every movement like a beaten viln, being torn apart by anxiety and unable to trust his own mind?
He remained where he was, huddled against what he now knew was a bed, and listened as Nolan spoke to his phone. It talked back, answering his inquiry, and after a few moments, Nolan spoke.
“Lailoken.”
Loken scowled at the use of his full name, but he understood it was just to get his attention. He briefly wondered how they knew it, but the only possibility was that either he or Raaum had heard the first pilot—the one that had attacked the fundraiser—utter it.
Not caring that he was being childish, he fixed Nolan with a glare.
‘Want see?’ Nolan signed. Then he verbally added, “Danika.”
Danika.
His breath caught in his throat at the idea of Danika seeing him like this, though he had the foresight to recognize how much easier communicating with her would be as opposed to Nolan. In fact, Danika was likely where Nolan had learned what little ASL he knew.
When he didn't reply, Nolan continued. ‘She see. First—,’ he emphasized the word. Nolan pointed from Jeremy to Loken. ‘See.’
Loken took a moment to work through what Nolan was trying to communicate. Danika would see him...but Jeremy would see him first? Were they trying to coerce him into cooperating? Would they withhold her visits to ensure obedience?
He narrowed his eyes. There wasn't any way to ask. He supposed he could continue to refuse, to test if they would allow his refusal and allow visitation. Loken hadn't a clue if he was still a prisoner, and escape would be impossible while his access to magic was severed and weakness plagued his muscles.
It was too much. The despair, the anxiety, the uncertainty. Loken decided he would not be blackmailed into obedience. He got to his feet (ignoring the shake
of his limbs), picked up the closest object, and threw it.
His aim was way off, but they got the message when the clock exploded against the wall behind them. His strength was depleted, but a clock was no match for his fury.
Nolan didn't look fazed, but Jeremy said something to him in a hushed tone, gave Loken an encouraging smile, and left.
Though not sure of Jeremy’s intentions, Loken locked eyes with the remaining man and glared. Nolan sighed after a few seconds and followed Jeremy.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Loken lowered himself stiffly onto the bed and sighed in relief. Though he had to wonder if he was locked into the suite, if he was a prisoner, the idea of getting to the door to check seemed a daunting task.
With only his self-disgust as company, Loken battled the self-destructive urges that came to mind one at a time. He wanted to undo the bandages around his head and jaw (to see what was hidden beneath), wanted to peel the scales from his arms (to put action to his rejection of this body), break everything in sight (to make his surroundings match the whirlwind raging inside of him).
The door opened. His anxiety spiked, and seeing that it was Danika did not quell it. They locked eyes, though Loken feared what he’d find there—except she didn’t look at all shocked by his appearance. She looked relieved, genuinely happy.
“Hi,” Danika said, clearly a greeting. Perhaps she would have signed it, but her arms were full of bags. She called out to someone, and then Nora walked into the room, also carrying bags.
She looked as well as she had the last time he’d seen her. Loken wanted to stand, wanted to look her over. Last he’d known, she’d been on death’s door, and humans healed slowly.
How long had he been Lestat’s prisoner?
Danika and Nora took advantage of his shock to walk further into the suite, and he was left watching as they headed to the kitchenette. Nora looked uncharacteristically shy (but not necessarily fearful) as she began unpacking some bags and filling the mini refrigerator. Danika took out a strange cup-like contraption with a lid, put it on the counter, and then walked over to him.
Though he loathed for Danika to see him in this form, due to her lack of surprise, he realized she must have already done so. Who knew how many others had? The thought almost catapulted him into another panic attack.
Danika sat down next to him, smiling. “Lyall or Lailoken?” she said, stressing the middle word. Then she repeated herself, signing ‘or’ between the names.
‘Two,’ he signed, not sure how to say ‘second.’ Then, for the first time, he tried to speak without moving his jaw. “Loken,” he said, voice so raspy he didn’t recognize it.
Danika grinned so wide that Loken’s chest tightened in response. It brought him back to the months of friendship they’d shared, and for a second he felt like himself. It all came crashing down when he realized things weren’t the same, and they could never be the same.
He flinched when she touched his arm to get his attention.
‘You okay?’ she asked. Though she signed it, she also asked it aloud. Smart woman. She was trying to get him to associate the words to their signals.
Despite his appreciation for her brilliance, he didn’t answer.
She didn’t press for whatever reason. Pointing to his jaw, she asked, ‘Can I look?’ She signed a name by spelling it out, but Loken wasn’t familiar enough with the English letters to understand her. She must have anticipated that because she said the name, “Jeremy,” and spelled it out again. ‘Told me how check.’
Danika was doing their dirty work? The thought made him apprehensive because he still didn’t understand their intentions...but despite everything that had happened, he couldn’t believe Danika would betray him.
(Why wouldn’t she? She’s no better than anyone else. Scavengers, all looking for a way to slip close and use you.)
‘Yes,’ he signed before he lost the nerve. He cast a look to Nora, but she was cutting up fruits and vegetables—Smaug and Zree! If his magic had truly been repressed, it was likely they had been dispelled, for they were extensions of him. Loken had once heard it said that magic was crafting a lie and imposing that lie on the universe with sheer will, and he’d seen the truth of that statement. All spells, so long as they were active, were fueled by the will—the lifeforce—of their castor.
Danika gingerly reached forward, beginning to undo the bandages around his head and chin. They snagged a few times, but it didn’t hurt. He didn’t realize the bandages were getting caught on his scales until she’d finished removing them.
She grabbed his hands before he could touch his face, and he saw the moment she realized his arms were scratched up. A torrent of words erupted from her, but she quickly released his hands to sign. ‘You do?’ she asked, gesturing to his arms.
Loken shrugged.
Danika looked far from happy, but she didn’t sign anything else. Instead, she leaned in to inspect his jaw. Brows furrowed, she signed, ‘It heal for long time. Try speak?’
Loken dreaded hearing his voice, afraid that it was more than disuse that had changed it. “Danika,” he said, unsure why her name had been his chosen test subject. Then, encouraged by the lack of agony (though his jaw felt plenty stiff and achy), he turned to his first earthen guide. “Nora.”
She gave him a genuine smile and awkwardly signed, ‘Hello,’ echoing it with words. “Hi, Loken.”
Though he couldn’t understand English any better, the ability to speak restored some semblance of control. It helped him allow Nora to clean and bandage his arms (though it made his skin crawl to let anyone touch this form). As she did, Danika explained what she could with a mixture of sign language, butchered Rellaerian, and English names.
Nolan, Patrick Amaral, Eloy, and Raaum had all come to rescue him from Lestat. It had taken them a ‘long time’ to figure out who had him and where they were holding him.
‘Long time?’ he asked.
Danika looked apprehensive, pulled out her phone, and flipped through eight months on the calendar.
The blink of an eye for his kind, but to them it must have been an eternity. Life as Lestat’s prisoner had been excruciating, but he couldn't remember much of it. Nothing but a blur of agony and a longing for death.
A longing that wasn't quite gone.
He expressed none of that, but he wasn't sure how long he could hold it together. What he'd been running from was plain for all to see, and now that he was forced to face it—to somehow come to terms with the hideous truth of his origins—he wasn't certain there was a path forward.
“Maedir.” Danika pointed at him. ‘Hurt?’
Was his magic hurt? That was more complex than he could answer, but he settled for signing, ‘Yes.’ It was possible that whatever Lestat had done to him was interfering with his magic, but he wasn't certain how that was possible. It should have been beyond the skill of an earthen sorcerer. It might also be that he'd been so badly hurt for so long that his magic needed time to heal.
‘Sorry,’ she signed before sharing a look with Nora. She didn't need to translate because Danika had continuously translated the hand signals (for both of them).
It was clear that Nora and Danika had gotten closer since he'd last seen them, but it didn't bother him as it once might have.
After Nora and Danika used the chopped fruits and vegetables to make them all smoothies—a meal designed not to aggravate his aching jaw—Danika continued her questions.
‘Why hurt arms?’
It wasn't something he wanted to discuss, and the reasons were too complex to explain with limited hand signals, so he merely sipped his drink.
“Loken…”
The pain on her face twisted his heart. It wasn't his intention to hurt her.
(But that's all you do. She'd be better off without you. Everyone is.)
‘I scared for you,’ she signed, looking as if she was trying her hardest not to cry.
Lacking the words to express the complex events that had led to his current mental
state, he tried to recall the sign she used when referring to her foster family. Loken gestured to himself and signed, ‘Foster.’
Danika frowned, clearly working through his meaning. She signed a word he didn't know, and at his puzzled look, she looked thoughtful. In the end, she signed, ‘You have foster...parents?’
Loken nodded.
‘On—’ she signed, switching to verbal, “—Rellaeria?”
‘Yes. I—’ The truth caught in his throat, as if speaking it would somehow make it more real. “—Drakain.”
Danika paled.
(Now she understands. Now she sees the monster.)
‘You said they are—’ She raised both hands and made a snarl face. “Mahnstars.”
Loken wasn't sure what the word was, but he had an idea based on her gesture: beast, animal, monster.
It took all of his will to nod, to admit the truth. This was the moment he'd dreaded, the moment she’d understand he was a monster not fit for her company—for anyone's company.
(You should have let them send you back to Draferia.)
When she slowly raised her hands, he tensed. Then, she wrapped her arms around him.
He stiffened but was too shocked to shake her off—and, if he were honest with himself, he didn't particularly want to. He wanted her to look past the monstrous truth of his heritage. Yet even as he longed for her acceptance, he knew he hadn't earned it. After all, Danika had no idea how evil the Drakain were. It would be easy but wrong to pretend her judgment absolved him of his crimes.
He pulled away, too ashamed to let the farce continue.
‘I lie,’ he insisted. ‘Hurt many.’
‘Help many,’ she argued, still echoing their words aloud.
Nora spoke, telling Danika something, and after a contemplative look, Danika signed, ‘Who you hurt?’
Who hadn’t he hurt? He didn’t have the words to describe what had happened, so he had to settle for signing, ‘Many.’ Suddenly, he knew that if he could speak, he would have told her the entire story, no matter how it changed her opinion of him.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded from his mother, shaking off her attempts to touch him.
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