#im an animal trapped in a cage im shaking the bars

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 58 - The Bear and the Falcon

Chapter Rating: Explicit Chapter Warnings: Animal cruelty, Sexual Threat, Canon-Typical Violence (incl. Torture) Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fereldan Civil War AU  - No Blight, Romance, Angst, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Cousland Feels

Read on AO3 Or start at Chapter 1

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An ache in her arms; cool, damp stone against her cheek that held a faint, sour-animal odour; darkness. Her throat burned with thirst. The quality of the silence told her she was inside, and – after a few more careful breaths with her eyes still closed and tension forced out of her body – alone. Her heart throbbed, but the terror it compelled would be of no use to her until she knew more about her surroundings, so she swallowed it back and forced her attention elsewhere, to her arms bound behind her back and the pins and needles in her leg. Bruises, but nothing broken.

Finally, she cracked an eye and levered her protesting body up into a sitting position, flinching when her back met cold iron bars. Her oilskin and gambeson had been removed, along with her weapons, but as her examination passed from her self to her surroundings, she noted with a sick kind of relief that her shirt was still tucked into her breeches and the laces fastened neatly. Even so, it meant little considering who had taken her.

To distract herself, she examined her cage, and the rest of her prison beyond it. Light fell dimly through a grated door at the end of the room, just enough to reveal a narrow space with a low, vaulted ceiling above her, and more rows of iron bars stretching away from her into the darkness. Small windows were set high into the walls, but the pitch dark outside offered no help. It was night, then – but which one? Was it days, or merely a few hours since the battle at the cove? She couldn’t remember seeing Windcaller escape, only Cuno lunging for one of Howe’s soldiers, and Alistair –

No, she told herself firmly. Don’t think about it – either of them. She could worry about them later, once she had a better hold on her situation. Forcing a deep breath, she turned her attention back to her bound wrists, and the clink of the cuffs against the bars that told her she would never get them off. They still allowed a bit of slack, however, enough that if she curled her spine and wriggled, she might be able slip them down the backs of her legs and bring them in front of her. It wouldn’t be much, but it would improve her chances until she could snatch a key. 

As she worked, the nagging familiarity of her prison resolved itself in a moment part elation and part panic: she was in Castle Cousland, in the kennel run that stretched under the eastern side of the curtain wall between the keep and the Marl-land Tower. Cuno had imprinted on her in the whelping den at the end of the row. They were fools to bring her here. A childhood of running the roofs and hiding from Nan’s temper had given her every secret in the place, from the nooks in the ramparts left over from ages of building to the best handholds to climb the walls and reach them. Even if Windcaller hadn’t made it, a chance for Cailan’s plan still lay with her, and if nothing else, she would finish Howe.

She had almost managed to squeeze her arms past her hips when the bolt on the door snapped back and the latch turned. She threw herself back onto her side just as light spilled across the far wall. Heavy, booted feet made a slow approach, every step jangling with the telltale sound of mail, and she tracked it until it stopped outside her cell, behind her, and every nerve in her body screamed against the need to lie still, limp like a plucked daisy, and wait for a chance.  

Leather creaked as the guard squatted down. “My lady!” His voice emerged as a hiss, panicked and urgent. “Lady Rosslyn, wake up – there’s not much time.”

A hand reached through the bars to shake her shoulder, but when she kept still, whoever it was cursed and retreated, and then she heard a rattle of keys, something settled on the floor, and the door groaned inward. She waited. The guard loomed over her, hesitating.  

“My lady?”

As soon as his touch landed again she launched upward, throwing herself bodily against him regardless of the sharp jab of pain in her side as unprotected flesh collided with the sharp points on his armour. Before he could do much more than yelp his surprise she twisted, kicked out, braced her back against the wall of her cell so she could jam her boot against his throat.

“Please – my lady –” he gasped, clawing at her foot. “I’m here to help – help you –” His helmet fell back, revealing a round face and a mess of dirty blond hair.

“You’re Master Darion’s boy,” she realised, letting up the pressure in her shock. His name was Gareth. She had gone months thinking everyone in the castle had been killed in the attack, and yet here was a boy who had trained next to her in the lists, followed after her through the summer orchards. Blazing with the orange and white of Amaranthine.

He saw the moment her eyes settled on the Bear on his surcoat, and raised his hands as if to ward her away, but the cage door still stood open, unnoticed, and freedom just a few hundred feet beyond. She feinted towards him, got her feet under her. He flinched. She used the distraction to bolt for the door.

“No!” He tackled her before she made it three steps, bringing her hard to the ground with an impact that jarred all the way to her teeth.

“Traitor!” She spat, and lashed out hard.

A grunt of pain met her ears, but he didn’t let go. “You’ve got’a listen to us - Lowan’s sent for you, there’s not much time –”

“My parents were murdered by Howe and now you’re here in his colours, and I should listen to you?”

“It wasn’t just you! They killed everyone. Me Da, Canavan, Gilmore, all of ‘em what he thought would be loyal to you. Please – just listen –”

With a final heave, she kicked away from him and rose into a crouch, hating the limitation on her arms. “Get me out of these manacles,” she demanded. “If you are loyal.”

The kennelmaster’s son scrubbed a hand down his face, then across the reddened skin at his throat. “I canna. It’s a different key, Lowan’s got the only one. I’m sorry.”

“How are you still alive?”

He held up a hand again, asking patience. “After he killed the officers, the rest of us was given a choice – serve, or have the same thing happen to us. We knew you were out there, that you might need our help, so we let ‘im think he’d won, and waited for you to come back.” When she didn’t reply, he ducked his head and pointed to the lantern he had left just outside the cage. “I brought you water. And there’s some bread and cheese there, an’ all. It’s nowt fancy, but you’ve been out a few hours now. Can I –?”

After a moment of hesitation, she nodded, and he scurried across to pick up a small horn cup and a parcel of food wrapped in a napkin. As much as she disliked being fed like a child, her current state allowed for little choice. Some of the water dribbled down her chin as she gulped it down, more eager than she had realised for the rush of cool liquid, but Gareth held the cup steady against her lips and the spillage was minimal. When there was none left, she wiped her mouth on her shoulder.

“None of us knew what’a do when they said they’d brought you in,” he said as he unfolded the parcel of food. “Reckon you’re lucky Howe’s got a bigger fish fryin’ him right now.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.  

“Loghain, my lady.” When she stared at him, his eyes widened. “Din’ you know? He’s here with his entire army waiting out in the orchard by the west gate.”

“We thought he was still on the road,” she muttered. “That means the king is walking into a trap… Tell me, is Queen Anora here?”

He frowned. “Anora? I don’t know about her… but there was someone brought in ‘bout a month back and put in the southwest room on the top floor, guarded day and night. The servers take meals up, but they never see who it is – the guards take the trays and say bugger all that’s not snide comments. My lady, what’s –”

“Gareth!” A voice thundered from outside. “Is that bitch awake or not? What are you doing in there?”

“It’s Commander Lowan!”

“Get rid of the cup,” she hissed. “And the rest of the food.” The bread had been little more than a scrap of crust, the cheese sharp, but her empty stomach was grateful all the same. She watched as Gareth stuffed the evidence out of sight beneath a mouldy pile of straw, their time slipping away with every growing echo of boots along the corridor.

“He’ll think you’re still out of it, so you’d best –”

“Listen to me,” she interrupted. “I wasn’t alone when I was caught. I have over a dozen soldiers who will be coming up the secret passage through the pantry to help. No matter what happens to me, you must make sure the queen makes it safely away and that the king’s army can get in through the gate.”

He shook his head. “My lady, I can’t just –”

“Gareth!”

“Just getting her up – that bloody second-rate apostate kept her too far under!” he shouted as he knelt next to her and hooked his hands under her arms. “I’m so sorry. We’ll get you out, soon as we can.”

The door slammed against the wall. Gareth flinched from the sound, and squeaked an instant later as he was knocked out of the way by a hand clad in a gauntlet made of stiff, scratched leather. Rosslyn let herself sag as that same hand grabbed her shoulder and hauled her off the floor. The rough action tore at her joints, but she refused to stand under her own weight – if he wanted to take her anywhere she would bloody well make him work for it.

“On your feet. Teyrn Howe wants a word.”

She rolled her head back to look at him through heavy eyelids, a man with close-cropped grey hair and deep lines around his eyes, and a jagged, poorly-healed scar down the left side of his face. “I don’t recognise anyone with that title.”

“Too bad for you,” Lowan snapped as he dragged her into the corridor. “If he didn’t want to play with you himself, you would’ve woken up in far less comfort than you did, girlie.”  

“This day will end with his head on a spike and yours next to it,” she snarled.

That made him pause. He turned to her with a leer, his grip on her arm bruising as he leaned close enough for her to see the broken capillaries in his cheeks. “I told him he should’ve passed a blade across your throat before you woke, but with that defiance? It’s going to be fun watching him break you.”

Revulsion coiled in her stomach as he reached up to wind a lock of her hair around his fingers. Every inch of him radiated the smug superiority particular to those who think themselves untouchable, and her lip curled. Baudrillard had been the same.

“And maybe after he gets bored, he’ll let the rest of us have the leftovers.”

She lunged forward and headbutted him in the face.

“Fucking bitch!” he yelled, as Gareth came forward to catch her. Blood was already pouring from his nose. “Get her out of here.”

She allowed herself a moment to admire her handiwork before she was pulled away, an ugly smirk still lingering at the corner of her mouth. She might face retaliation for it later, but even a small victory sent a message; she would not be cowed, not inside her own keep.

“Been wanting to do that for months,” Gareth muttered in her ear. He guided her down the corridor to the room that usually stored harnesses for dogs, though now the nooks set into the walls were empty. More men in Amaranthine colours waited for her there, and none offered anything but blank stares as her gaze flicked between them, no sign they could be trusted. Apart from the soldiers, she recognised the scrawny, mousy-haired man standing in the corner as the apostate from the beach. Several days’ patchy growth of beard disguised the weak line of his chin, and his dark robes cut off at his elbows to reveal forearms wrapped in fresh bandages and criss-crossed with lines of pale scarring, some more faded than others. He looked anxious.

She turned her attention away. Voices were growing beyond the door at the far end of the room. One held a gravelled quality, clipped with irritation, while the other was a thin, nasally whine she recognised from years of backhanded disapproval and family dinners. Gareth tightened his grip on her shoulder as her face tightened into s snarl, and she remembered just in time that she was meant to be helpless.

The door opened as she was forced into a chair in the middle of the room, and the conversation cut short. Gareth blocked her view, catching her gaze just once as he linked her manacles to a chain set into the back of the seat, far more loosely than he should have done; her legs were left free. He gave her the barest nod before he scurried away, full of trepidation, a last flash of solidarity before the storm descended upon her.

“Well, well, Bryce Cousland’s little spitfire!” Howe cried. “Finally awake! All grown up and playing the soldier, I see.”

As her mother taught her, she straightened and wiped her face clean of emotion, of the hatred surging like fire in her blood. Her eyes fixed unfocused on the far wall, but she could imagine his smile, spreading like the spill of lamp oil over water. Before he could say anything further, however, Lowan clattered in pinching the bridge of his nose, a torn rag held over the bottom half of his face that did little to stem the mess of blood pouring from his nose. She must have broken it.

“What happened to you?” Howe demanded.

Lowan spared her a glance, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Nothing, Your Lordship.”

“Get out of my sight.”

Lowan’s scowl deepened but he did as he was told, ducking past his master with only a perfunctory murmur of deference to the man standing next to him. It was Loghain, Rosslyn realised. He looked terrible, hardly recognisable as the proud advisor who had stood beside the throne at every Landsmeet she could remember. His once military bearing was sunken, gaunt, his cheeks bloodless as tallow and his unkempt hair worn with grey where it wasn’t thinning completely. Only his eyes retained their vigour, but even then, when he fixed his gaze on her, something in them reminded her of the dead at South Reach.

“An interrogation now is useless,” he said, with only a thin veneer of patience. “There is nothing she could tell us we do not already know.”

“I disagree, sire.” Howe still had his smile. “And I’ll remind you she is my prisoner, to do with as I choose.”

“Your petty vengeances do not come before the task at hand,” Loghain snapped. “Cailan is already here, and only waits for the morning. You have until I have spoken to my daughter to deal with this, and no longer. Anything else will wait until after I have that fool boy in my grasp.”

“Of course, sire.”

The old general turned to go, only pausing in the doorway to spare Rosslyn a glance before whatever he wished to say was swallowed up by his better judgement, and he left without a word. Without him, Howe unfolded himself from his servile crouch, the sycophantic tilt if his head curdled into a sneer, and though she squashed it down, her fists clenched with the awareness of being surrounded by enemies commanded by a man who wished her nothing but ill intention. Only her rage kept her shielded against the chill in her spine, so she stoked it, channelled it, anything to keep the worm in her chest from clawing its way up her throat.

“Are you quite comfortable, my dear?” her enemy asked.

She gave him her most disdainful stare. “You should address me with my proper title, Arl Howe. I am the Teyrna of Highever.”

A muscle ticked in his cheek. “You are nothing, you’re the last of nothing. Your parents died begging, your brother’s body rots where no one will ever find it, and his brat was burned on the scrap heap along with his Antivan whore of a wife. There’s no king coming to save you, no prince charming.” At that, he grinned, and her heart faltered. “The way you threw yourself after him on the beach meant nothing, and in the morning, the last of those who claim loyalty to you will be swept from the face of Thedas once and for all. You’ve lost.”

She struggled to control her breath, and heat pricked at the back of her eyes, but she had learned her lessons well. She kept her voice level as she replied, “And yet you’re still scared of me.”

“What?”

“I count four guards,” she mocked, straightening. “Not including your right-hand, who you no doubt wanted present, and a blood mage. Why else would you need them all around one chained woman if you weren’t afraid?”

The soldiers glanced at each other. Howe saw it. He advanced on her, fury contorting his features, and though she saw the slap coming – braced for it – the strike sent her reeling, ears ringing, blinking away the sting.

“You are entirely at my mercy, you pathetic little whelp, and you will learn it sooner or later,” he spat.

She probed her cheek. Blood welled from a cut, but all of her teeth were still in place.

“The more you fight, the more I’ll enjoy it, but you will submit. And through you, my claim on these lands will go beyond anyone’s doubt.” The manic grin came back. “The regent will approve the match, no doubt.”

For an instant, cold terror held her in its grip, the knowledge that her only help lay beyond guarded walls twenty feet thick, that her crew was scattered, that Alistair was…

But she was the Seawolf’s daughter; she had faced down the dead. Rolling her shoulders, she turned away from Howe and casually spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor.  

“Don’t make threats you can’t keep,” she sneered, fixing him in her glare once more. “Everyone at court knows how your poor wife had to find her comfort elsewhere because her husband was impotent. The horsemaster, the cook –” Her lip curled. “And don’t think it went unnoticed how much Thomas looked so much more like the Vigil’s seneschal than he did you. We all knew, everyone knew, and everyone laughed at you for it.”

She saw it, the moment her barb struck its mark, in the wild flicker of his gaze around the room and the lift of a snarl over his teeth, and her battle blood rose in response. He wouldn’t win this battle of wills between them; she wouldn’t let him. And then, she would kill him. But even as she thought it, his shoulders lost their tension, and the scowl smoothed from his face as if she hadn’t scored a point at all.

“There it is, right there,” he murmured. “That damned look in the eye that marked every Cousland success that held me back. Your father would be proud. I, however, intend to wipe that defiance away once and for all.” He smiled, and her fingers itched for a weapon. “Bring in the animal.”

One of the soldiers nodded and hurried out. Rosslyn watched him go warily, aware of Howe’s smug expression and the anxious way the others shifted on their feet. Soon, a burst of shouted curses carried through, almost drowned out by the rattle of chains and the monstrous snarling of some enraged beast. Behind her, Gareth stirred in his place in the corner, as if to intervene, but his courage failed him and he stayed silent.

The wait took longer than it should have, but eventually two burly men in heavily quilted jackets with thick leather shields on their arms squeezed through door, dragging chains behind them. The creature on the other end was Cuno. He thrashed and snapped against the restraints cutting into the thick muscle of his neck, trying at once to twist free and attack the guards holding him captive, to fight, but two others hung on behind him, so that he couldn’t lunge in any direction without being wrestled back by the other three. Foam lathered in his gaping jaws, his breath wheezed from his throat in ever more desperate gasps as he threw himself against his enemies, and as she took in the blood staining his flanks, Rosslyn’s hatred of Howe set into a cold, hard ball in her gut.

“Put him over there,” he pointed, as if directing nothing more dangerous than a new piece of furniture. “And you,” he added, turning to Rosslyn, “will learn. there is nothing you can do but watch.”

“What are you going to do?” Gareth asked. His eyes were wide on the dog he had known since puppyhood, and who had now seen his mistress was in danger and broken into new ferocity as he tried to get at Howe.

“What is always done with uncontrollable beasts,” he replied as the first guard returned with a crossbow and a quiver of bolts. “Unless you want to tell him to be a good boy?” he asked of Rosslyn.

She stared at him. Her own thoughts were drowned out by the drum of her heart, Cuno’s mad barking, the desperation that surely there must be something she could do. He wanted her to beg. The glint in his eye told her it wouldn’t make a difference. Cuno launched himself forward again, jerked back by the end of the chains, his breath harsher than ever, trying to get to her, to help her, and her nails dug so hard into her palms she was sure they would bleed.

“Void take you,” she hissed, and spat in Howe’s face.

He grabbed her jaw. His fingers dug into her skin like claws as he moved within inches of her face, his eyes greedy in anticipation of what was about to happen. “I said, you will watch this. Hold it still.”

“Your Lordship, you can’t –”

“I’ll deal with you later,” he snapped at Gareth. “Take aim.”

For Rosslyn, the world slowed. Every click of the ratchet drawing back the string, the guards straining, the flecks of blood and saliva cast to the floor as the dog tried to reach her. The bolter raised the crossbow. Cuno roared. Her gaze turned to Howe, to his sneer and his eagerness and every line of cruelty held in the slack, sallow mouth.

The rage took her so quickly she didn’t have time to think. Past the first stirring of it, her mind went blank. She felt her body coil, felt the snarl curling at her lips, and before she registered the movement she threw herself at her enemy, blind instinct, raw fire, nothing but a snap of energy bent into pure vengeance. Greasy cartilage caught between her teeth. She twisted, tore her head away and kicked out in a spray of red and a scream. There was a thud of metal hitting flesh, a yelp. The chair back hit her legs as it fell over. It didn’t matter that her hands were still bound. All she could see was Howe, writhing on the floor, clutching the side of his head She was insensible even to the hands that grabbed at her shoulders to keep her from him, to keep her from ripping him apart with her teeth if she had to.  

“Get her out of here!” someone shouted. “And get a healer!”

She spat out his ear at his feet. “That was your last mistake. There’s nowhere you can go, nothing you can do that will save you. I’ll kill you.”  

The words caught hold of her, worked through her sinews like roots as the guards wrestled her back, out of sight and down into the bowels of the castle. She didn’t know where they came from, but they rang through her head, burned in her throat, reverberated in her bones like the clarion notes of a horn in an empty hall.  

“Whatever you do, I won’t yield!” she bellowed as they hauled her away. “Not until your head is mounted on a wall! There is nothing left you can take from me – run to the far corners of Thedas and I’ll find you! Set an army against me and I’ll slaughter them all to get to you! Even if you kill me, I will crawl back through the Fade over broken shards of glass to make sure you suffer. You won’t escape – do you hear me, Howe? You will never be rid of me!”

--

The screams echoed off the walls of the dungeon, distorted through the thick stone and hollowed until the words were lost beyond the guards’ curses. There was a lot of screaming these days. For those who had months since lost their hope, it made pity a distant thing. The noise disturbed the prisoner’s rest, that was all, and he resented being pulled from the meditative oblivion that these days came to him almost as naturally as his own breath as he waited for death to claim him. He shut his eyes in the near-complete darkness as the woman – more the shame – was dragged past his door, and with nothing else he could do he turned his head away.

Something moved on the other side of his cell. He could still hear screaming, but it was muffled behind doors and walls, and far more immediate was the sense of another body, betrayed perhaps by the rustle of cloth, or a breath, or the clink of a chain as whoever it was shifted into wakefulness, little more than a half-imagined outline in the gloom. A spark of curiosity lit in the prisoner’s mind. It was a novelty in itself, the first emotion to break through his despair in months.

“Who’s there?” A male voice, and then a groan. “Is someone there?”

The prisoner leaned forward, licked cracked lips, and in a voice scratchy with disuse, told the stranger his name.

[feynites]

@selenelavellan said:

poor fear   i laughed really hard at this though   fear is one of those cats who's tried to claw a hole through the bathroom door 100%   selene has talked to eight different vets about her cats anxiety issues   nothing has helped   she'd have to bring them in and fear is never going to get into a carrier lbh   they'd shift first   'NO NOPE IM NOT GOING IN THERE'

Much as I also like the idea of Fear giving them away, this went in a slightly different direction.

But hopefully still good! So have some more Cat Shenanigans:

Fear can tell that Selene is trying to get them to go into the Trap Box again.

 They have reports from the others on what happens when one gets inside, and is successfully closed-in. The first time the Trap Box appeared, Affection had rushed into with their usual eagerness, happy to find a new blanket and a toy in the back. Selene had closed them into the box, though, and taken them away - much to everyone’s distress.

 But Affection had returned a little more than an hour later, speaking of a trip and a strange place that smelled of many terrible things, but that hadn’t, Affection insisted, ‘been bad’. There had been another woman who had seemed to examine the health of Affection’s feline body, and had proclaimed them hale.

 The next to be taken in the box was Des, who elected himself to go. Des’ accounts were mostly the same, but Fear was not satisfied that these excursions were wise. It seemed like too many things could go wrong. What if the Trap Box was stolen from Selene? What if the Vetarinian proved treacherous? What if Falon’Din came back while one of them was trapped and unable to defend themselves from him?

 The Trap Box was too small and tight, turning into a larger form while inside it would not work. And the mesh bars at the front, and the air slits at the sides, were too small for even the tiny mouse shape that Fear could take, in a pinch.

 It was not safe.

 The others decided to go, against Fear’s cautioning. Even Deceit ultimately went, giving in for the sake of their favourite treat - dried salmon pieces - and visiting this Vetarinian.

 Fear had hoped that would be the end of it.

 But Selene keeps making attempts. So far she has tried toys, treats, and several tricks, including hiding the Trap Box in Fear’s closet and attempting to disguise it. When she pulls it from the front hall closet and sets it down onto the living room floor, Fear opts to retreat to the space at the top of the bookcase with some haste. Last time, Selene had gotten so far as to wrap them in a towel, and had nearly gotten them into the Trap Box before Fear had gone limp and shifted their shape just enough to slide out of her grip and out of the towel as well.

 Selene had stopped trying for a while after that, when she got Fear trembling in their behind-the-television hiding place afterwards. Instead she had spent several days imploring them to look less betrayed.

 “I know, I know, you hate the crate,” she says at them, gently. “But it’s not so bad! The others did fine, didn’t they?”

 Fear hisses.

 Selene sighs.

 “Alright, I guess there’s nothing left but to do this the hard way…” she mutters to herself.

 Fear does not like the sounds of that.

 “Please don’t hate me,” Selene asks.

 Fear also does not like the sounds of that.

 Selene leaves, and fetches the towel. The towel. The thick one that makes scratching difficult. Fear determines that the top of the bookshelf is not an ideal defense post, and makes a run for it. The bedroom window was open the last they checked, but it is closed now. They make their way under the bed; it is always hardest to catch them there, because Selene cannot reach from one side to the other, so Fear can simply move any time she gets too close, without leaving their cover. They call for Deceit, who makes a mental sigh but then offers to get into the Trap Box instead. But Selene shoo’s Deceit back out - not satisfied with that, apparently. She brings the Trap Box into the bedroom, and then she does the unthinkable.

 She calls Marassal up from the store, and into the private living space.

 Fear does not realize it until they see the familiar bare feet and ankle bracelets appear alongside Selene’s at the doorway to the bedroom.

 No! Now there are two elves to contest with! Their plan did not account for that. Fear weighs the odds, the bed no longer being an ideal defensible position, and decides to make a bolt for it. The door to the shop might be open, and the shop has many more ideal spaces to hide in. They rush the bedroom door, but they aren’t anticipating Marassal’s reflexes. Or that he has a towel as well.

 Foolish. Foolish of them.

 The heavy, thick fabric engulfs Fear before they can reach the door, and they panic.

 It is almost a blessing. If Fear had been thinking rightly, they might have changed shape, which would have blown their cover and ruined everything. But in the moment, they are too overcome to manage even that much logic. And so they hiss and yowl and try to scratch and bite instead, finding only thick, treacherous towel fabric around them, before they are shoved into the Trap Box.

 The swing of the door closing is like ice in their veins.

 “It’s okay!” Selene says. “It’s okay, you’re okay, it’s alright-”

 Fear shakes, and tries to think of a solution to this horrifying turn of events. This disaster. They are going to get cornered in here. Falon’Din is coming for them. The Vetarinian will vivisect them, like Ghilan’nain. The box will be stolen and someone will throw it into a river and Fear will not be able to get out, no, this is not good!

 Selene thanks Marassal, and then returns to cooing gently at them as she picks up the Trap Box.

 “It’s alright, easy, you’re okay,” she tells them again.

 Fear meows back plaintively. Perhaps if they can appeal to her better nature, she will let them out?

 Please let them out!

 Selene’s expression through the bars looks as though it is wavering.

 She presses one of Fear’s favourite treats through a side slot instead, though. The offering may as well be dust to Fear, who hunches themselves towards the back of the box, and breathes heavily. Deceit begins to meow plaintively too, and then Dirthamen. After a minute even Des joins in, following Selene as she starts to make her way towards the door.

 “I know, guys, I know, but it’ll be fine. We’ll be back in no time, okay? Then you’ll all be checked out and chipped and that’s safer for everyone.”

 Safer?

 What about this is safe?!

 “Trust me,” Selene asks.

 Fear stares up at her uncertainly through the box’s slats.

 They… they do trust her, they suppose. To an extent. She saved Dirthamen, after all, and she is a good elf. She gives them things and looks after them. It is not that Fear distrusts her, or thinks she has bad intentions. It is just that… so much can go wrong. And she does not have all of the facts. They do not know why she thinks this would make them ‘safer’…

 Maybe Fear does not have all the facts, either.

 They try.

 It is very hard to no be afraid. Fear does not succeed, but they focus on breathing steadily and watching everything they can see through the front door of the cage. Selene carries them back down to the shop, walking with Marassal, and then says goodbye to him. He wishes her luck as she takes Fear out onto the street. The day is sunny but not too warm. The outdoor scents are typical, but it is a very strange experience, to be publicly carried down the main roads. Selene takes Fear to a bench, and offers them a few more treats. She makes gentle noises and insists that everything is going well, but Fear does not like the loud transport machine that roars up towards them after several minutes. It smells of death, and is full of strangers. Selene puts a towel down over the door of the Trap Box, so that Fear does not see the bevy of elves around them. But they can still sense things.

 They can still hear the jangle of a collar, too, the distinctive sound of a noise sniffing nearby. One of Selene’s hands settles over the vent slit one the far side of the box.

 “Excuse me, sorry, but my cat’s a little anxious. Could you keep your dog from getting too close?”

 “Oh, don’t worry, he’s friendly!”

 “Yes, I’m sure he is. It’s just that my cat’s anxious…”

“Off to the vet?”

 “Mmhmm. Could you-”

 “We’re going to the groomers ourselves, and then to the new dog park they opened on fifty-second-”

 “Great.”

 The Trap Box moves, and Selene settles both arms around it, as Fear feels her put it onto her lap instead. They try to see what they can through the slits in the sides, and spy a small dog with a sparkly collar, and an older woman who keeps talking blithely about play dates and asking Selene if she’s a ‘cat person’ or just in animal lover in general. Selene hedges an answer, while someone else coughs and the monstrous transport rumbles, and Fear counts at least a half dozen threats and only gets more stressed at not being able to assess them all.

 It seems to take them a small eternity to make whatever trip they are on. Fear can feel every frantic thump of their heart, but eventually, they move again. Selene removes the towel from the front of the Trap Box, and carries them out of the wretched machine and onto an unfamiliar sidewalk, with lots of green grass beside it.

 “Fucking…” she mutters to herself. “Keep your damn dog away from my cat, is that so hard? ‘Oh he’s friendly!’ Well that’s not the point you self-centered dumbass…”

 There is a bit more muttering before Selene switches tones and then starts assuring Fear that everything will be fine, and that they have arrived at their destination. The building she carries them too does, indeed, smell awful. It smells of the things Selene uses to keep her bathroom clean, and like too many other animals. There is barking coming from inside, which Selene assures Fear is ‘fine’. They can only watch with wide eyes as they are carried into this, the realm of the Vetarinian. Vetarinia, they would presume.

 Many spirits whisper that this is a place where animals come to die.

 Fear is not a real animal, but that is still greatly concerning, for obvious reasons.

 Fear watches as they enter a strange room. The barking seems to be coming from another one. There is a counter, almost like the one at the shop. But perhaps more like a desk? Selene approaches it, and gives her name to a young elf behind it, saying that she has the ‘two thirty’. The young elf says it will just be another ten minutes, because the ‘doctor’ is with another difficult patient. Selene thanks them and then carries Fear over to a row of seats, and sits down with the Trap Box in her lap again.

 From where they are positioned, Fear can see the door, but not much else. They watch, vigilant. Waiting to see what will happen next. After a few minutes, the door swings open, and a vashoth woman enters. She has a young child with her, and a smaller Trap Box in her arms. There is a turtle printed onto the exterior of the box. The child looks around the room, and then spots Fear.

 “Kitty!” he exclaims.

 He moves as if to rush them. Fear retreats to the back of the box, the only possible defensive position. A child is not a danger but they have no recourse, here, even to unintended harm. Before the boy can charge over to them, though, his mother grasps his arm and pulls him back to her side.

 “No, remember?” she admonishes gently. “Some animals here are sick, sweetheart, we have to use our quiet voices.”

 The little boy looks chastened, but also like he would still enjoy running over very much. Selene puts the towel back over the door, then. Which almost makes it worse, as Fear cannot see what is happening, cannot tell if anything worse might be coming. There is a shuffling sound, and then Selene seems to drape herself over the top of the box, too. Or, no - that is her sweater, Fear realizes. She must have taken it off and draped it over, shrouding them in darkness.

 Leaving more of her own skin exposed.

 That is not good.

 But it does make the box smell slightly more of Selene, and less of the room around them. They hear a childish voice pipe up, asking if he can see the kitty, but Selene gently informs him that Fear is very anxious to be at the vet and is too scared to play with right now. The little boy talks avidly about his turtle, who is getting a ‘check-up’. Then something thumps at the box, and his small voice rings out in assurance that everything is going to be fine.

 His mother apologizes.

 “It’s okay,” Selene says, before letting out a long breath. “Of course,” she says, more quietly, afterwards. “The one time I bring you, it’s all kids and dogs, it couldn’t just be chinchillas like it was last time…”

 There is the sound of a door opening, then.

 A scrambling of paws on smooth floor and loud barking, heavy breathing, like a beast the size of a small dragon has just erupted into the room.

 “Oh no, Lady!”

 The Trap Box is rocked as something massive attacks! Fear hears the breaths so close that for a moment, they think the box is being swallowed whole. They yowl in alarm, digging in their claws and summoning up some magic, before they are jostled again.

 “SERIOUSLY?!” Selene exclaims.

 “I’m so sorry, miss, she’s friendly I promise, she’s just excitable! Purebred mabaris, you know, they’re too smart for their own good and they have all this energy when they’re young. She’s still just a year old-”

 “GET HER OFF!”

 “Yeah, yeah, it’s okay, I’ve got her. She won’t bite. Come on, Lady, let’s go…”

 Fear has no direction for their magic, yet. No target. But just as they’re about to blast the towel off of the door, so they can find one, the attack seems to come to an end. The scrambling claws are drawn further away. Barking becomes whining. The stranger jokes that ‘Lady’ must be very interested in whatever Selene has with her, while Selene suddenly goes back to saying calming things. She lefts the sweater and smiles down at Fear through the visible slat.

 “It’s okay!” she tells them. “We’re okay! Just a lot of visitors. Like at the shop!”

 Fear trembles. Ready for anything, now, but only in the worst way.

 “Selene?” Another stranger calls. “You can come in now!”

 “Thank fuck,” Selene murmurs. They move again, but Fear cannot see anything, now. They are just trapped in the dark box, jostling slightly with Selene’s steps. Until they are settled onto some kind of surface. Then the towel is taken from the door again, and a stranger peers at them. Elven. Smiling. The Vetarinian, they suspect. She makes a soft coo sound.

 “Oh, poor thing. You’re terrified, hm? Let’s get this over with quick then.”

 Fear tries to make themselves as small a target as possible.

 The door to the Trap Box is opened.

 Another trap, they think. They are meant to take the opening, and come out. But if they don’t, then they are an easy target, too. There is no way to evade anything in the box. They only have one chance, then. They bolt through the opening, only to be foiled again by the towel. The strange elf picks them up. Fear hisses in protest, struggling, but they have a very firm grip. Selene is nearby, saying something. They cannot hear it over the roar of blood in their ears, as they brace themselves and wonder if they will have to transform in order to attack…

 The Vetarinian settles them onto a smooth surface.

 Selene speaks with the Vetarinian. The towel is removed. Fear has troubles keeping track of what is said, as they focus keenly on how the stranger is moving, and try to find places to hide or escape to in the odd room with its silver floors and tan counters. Fear is poked and prodded and has lights shined on them, they do not like it; when Selene moves to hold them, they latch onto her. Consolidating them into a single defensive unit, so that if or when they need to use magic to summon a barrier or offensive spell, Fear can protect them both. They Vetarinian has brisk, firm hands, covered by gloves. Fear sinks their claws into Selene’s shirt, and dislikes it most when their mouth is opened and their teeth and gums examined.

 “You should put them down, they might bite like this when I put in the needle,” the Vetarinian says.

 Needle?

 What needle?!

 Fear summons up dim recollections of the others recounting a single, small puncture wound. Though they had not seemed to suffer ill-affects, Fear might be an exception. Something could go awry. Needles are dangerous, they have seen it on the Light Box!

 “It’s fine,” Selene says. “They don’t bite.”

 “Well…”

 “I’ll deal with it.”

 “Hold their head, at least.”

 Selene pets their head, and Fear turns as they hear something crinkling open. They do not see the needle. They feel something prick at their back, like an errant claw or a bug. When they hiss, though, the pain withdraws. Their claws sink into Selene’s bra straps, and her petting increases.

 “Good job,” she tells them. “Good job, what a good cat you are…”

 Fear glares at the Vetarinian, and refuses to be dislodged from where they have secured themselves against Selene.

 “Well, this one seems as healthy as all the others,” the stranger proclaims. “But based on what you’ve described, I think you’re right about it being Feline Anxiety. It’s not uncommon, even among cats who haven’t been strays. I’m going to give you a prescription…”

 Fear’s ears are so flat against their head that when the Vetarinian turns, they have troubles hearing them any further. They move towards a Light Box, and type in something that is printed out, like a receipt, except larger. Selene tries to coax Fear back into the Trap Box, which they are not going to do. They tear several holes into her shirt before she decides to put the sweater on over both of them instead. The warm, Selene-smelling fabric settles over Fear’s back, but leaves their head to peer up from the collar. Selene wraps an arm securely around them, and tells the Vetarinian she will ‘sort them out’, when the other woman asks if she would like assistance.

 Selene puts the large Prescription Receipt into her purse. She carries in and the Trap Box in her free hand, and then they go back out into the room they were in before. The little vashoth boy stares at Fear, while Selene makes some kind of transaction with the young elf behind the counter. At least until he and his mother and their turtle-box are summoned into the room. Then Selene carries Fear back outside.

 It is less harrowing to travel when they are not trapped.

 Fear closes their eyes as they settle onto the bench. Selene rubs their back through the sweater, and whispers apologies, and insists that they are a very good cat who is very brave and who will not have to do that again. She makes one more attempt to get them back into the Trap Box before another rumbling, monstrous transport comes, but Fear does not think that is a good idea. They keep their claws firmly embedded in her bra straps.

 Selene takes them onto the transport in her sweater instead. The driver protests that Fear should be in the Trap Box, but Selene assures him that they will keep a firm hand on Fear and after some cajoling, they are not waylaid further. The transport seems emptier this time, too. Fear keeps a watchful lookout, as the streets go by through the window.

 Somehow, they manage to make it home without any further attacks.

 As soon as they are in the shop, Fear lets go of Selene and runs off to find a good hiding spot. They climb up one of the tall bookshelves and wedge themselves into a shadow at the top, near the back wall of the most quiet part of the store. Selene talks with Marassal briefly, then goes upstairs. The others come down, eager to see Fear. Deceit launches themselves up the shelves and nuzzles at them, while Affection meows protests because they cannot climb so high. Dirthamen and Des remain at the bottom, too, simply checking. Listening as Fear describes the harrowing journey.

 Huh, Des says. That sounds much more interesting than when I went.

 Lucky me, Fear drawls.

 Selene comes back, then, and has a new toy and a small dish full of Fear’s favourite tuna. The fresh kind. They are wary of another trap, though, and do not come down. When Selene sets the dish down, and moves away from it a little, Affection eats the tuna. Selene scolds them, then sighs and tosses the toy up to Fear. Or attempts to. It slips and falls back to the floor with a soft jangle, only to be scooped up by Des.

 Selene scolds Des, too, but he carries the offering up and puts it with Fear and Deceit, and then Selene makes her sounds for when she thinks they are being endearing instead.

 Fear stays up on top of the bookshelf until it is closing time. They come down, reluctantly, with some cajoling from Deceit, but then dash swiftly back up the stairs and into the apartment. Rushing to their best lookout post in their closet, with its view of the bedroom window. They skip dinner, having no desire to eat right now. After a few hours, Selene comes and sets their bowl of food down in front of the closet, and sits on the edge of her bed.

 “Come on,” she says. “We’re back home, it’s alright. Come have dinner!”

 Fear declines.

 Selene is being unusually persistent, however. She scoops Affection up when they try and eat Fear’s dinner, and cuddles them in her lap instead. Then she does the same to Dirthamen, too - not that he seemed intent on eating Fear’s food anyway.

 She sighs when Deceit comes in, and admonishes them not to eat Fear’s food. Deceit just clambers up to the top of the closet, though.

 Just eat, they suggest to Fear.

 Not interested.

 She’s going to worry if you don’t. Living things eat food every day.

 I ate this morning.

 Deceit subsides, with a mental sigh. Fear presses firmly against their side, and waits for Selene to give up.

 Eventually she does. She takes the bowl of food and announces that it is Fear’s food, and that they can have it whenever they come down. Then she goes into the living room, to watch the last half of her favourite show. Fear remains at their post, and listens to the distant murmur of the Light Box, as Deceit opts to stay with them for now. Des and Affection play; Dirthamen, presumably, is in his usual spot on Selene’s lap.

 Fear listens, but after a while they find they are twitchy with not seeing. Still too highly-strung. They jump down, Deceit trailing after them, and make their way into the living room. Their tail swishes with lingering agitation. They have scarcely ensconced themselves in their Living Room Lookout post, though, before Selene nudges Dirthamen off of her lap and gets up. She comes back a moment later, though, with Fear’s food. They blink as she settles it on top of the bookcase with them.

 Persistent, they tsk.

 Told you, Deceit replies.

 Fear sighs, and makes their own capitulation. They keep one eye on the living room as they eat. The food is good. More of their favourite tuna, in fact. There is part of it that they dislike, though, which is a small white seed. Chalky, oddly sweet on their tongue. Fear spits it out into a corner of their dish, and finishes the tuna. When they are done, Selene comes and retrieves the empty bowl.

 She sighs at the chalky seed.

 “I guess that was a long shot, huh?”

 Fear does not know what she means. But after a moment, they suppose they can reciprocate the gesture. They know what it is like to be worried, after all. So they inch forward, and press their nose to her hand. Selene pauses, and then pets at their head. Fear nuzzles her palm. They know she did her best to keep them safe. Harrowing as that experience was… she succeeded, too.

 At least, provided that the prick of pain in their back was not some kind of long-acting flesh-devouring curse that will destroy them slowly over the coming months.

 They they withdraw closer to the wall again, and consider that possibility as they wait for bedtime to come.