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If Rhyss thought that after the whipping incident the neighbor would move on to other targets, he was sorely mistaken.
Very sorely…
This time he’s taken from the house when no one is home, and he’s powerless to prevent it. The neighbor comes with four hired men. They shove him into the back of a van and drive away.
When they park and get out Rhyss briefly thinks about trying to fly away, but too soon rough hands grab his arms and pull him forward and he stumbles to keep up.
Fight them off! DO something! His brain screams at him, but he knows, somehow, that that would only end with something worse than what he was already going to get. No one got away from this man. Not without consequences.
They're at a big, abandoned factory, nearly empty except for some big, rusting metal structures off to one side. The walls are covered in graffiti and half of the windows are broken. As Rhyss is forced to walk forward, he steps on a shard of broken glass. With a sharp gasp at the sudden jolt of pain through his foot, his leg buckles.
But his captors have no pity and yank him to his feet. Rhyss yelps and hobbles awkwardly, trying not to place pressure where he's pretty sure there's still glass in his foot…
The men throw him none-too-gently to the ground. Rhyss sits up quickly, backing away until his back is against the wall, nowhere left to go. He cradles his foot in one hand and examines it, trying not to think how this is far from the worst thing that will happen to him today.
Ow, ow, ow…
He grabs hold of the little shard and quickly pulls it out with a whine. It wasn’t in as deep as he feared, but the wound still stings and bleeds.
“That looks painful,” a cold voice says from across the room, and Rhyss freezes.
The door, the only way out, slams shut. Light pours in through the broken windows and Rhyss glances up and wonders, again, if it would be possible to try to escape.
“If you’re thinking about flying away before I allow it, stop right now,” the man says casually. He's holding a black bag. “My men will shoot you down before you make it ten feet. Understand?”
Rhyss shudders at the image of a bullet piercing his wing. He nods his understanding, too afraid to speak.
The man steps closer. Something in the bag clanks together. Whatever it is is metal, and heavy, from the way the bag sags. Rhyss's heart pounds in his chest, his breath quickens fearfully. No, please no .
Then the man is standing over him, and Rhyss pulls his knees to his chest, a hand over his injured foot, trying to protect it. The man smirks, enjoying his fear.
He wastes no more time, opening the bag and pulling out something metal and curved, like a cuff but wider. Rhyss can barely see it through the blur of tears.
“Hold its wings out,” the man orders two of his men. They each roughly take one by the end and spread them wide. Rhyss feels so exposed, so helpless, wanting to run, to fly, to fight back, but knowing that he can't.
The man pulls on the cuff and it opens, then let's it snap shut, and closer up now Rhyss can see that where the metal comes together there are flat parts to it, more of a clamp than a cuff.
He understands what's going to happen a moment before it does and flinches in anticipation. The cuff is secured over the top of his wing, around the bone and muscle that he lifts with, and then is released, the flat ends pressing painfully into the thin skin of his wing. He lets out a strangled noise. The wing jerks in his captors’ grip, trying in vain to shake off the foreign object.
Then the man lets go of his wing and it sags. Rhyss gasps sharply. The cuff...clamp...thing...is weighted . Not heavily, but enough that he can feel it when he raises his wing.
He's so focused on breathing, trying to relax in spite of the pinch of the cuff on his skin and the feeling of his wing being heavier that he doesn't notice the man moving to put another on the same spot of his other wing until it snaps closed on the skin and Rhyss cries out again with pain and surprise.
He has to breathe through the pain, eyes squeezed shut. Once they're on a moment it hurts less, but the feeling of them and the slight weight is uncomfortable, unwelcome. He blinks his wet lashes a few times and looks up to the ceiling, wondering if the plan is to string him up by them. His stomach churns with fear.
The man pulls out two more cuffs and for a fearful moment Rhyss thinks he's going to put them on his wings as well.
Instead, they're fastened around his ankles. When the man stands Rhyss lifts one foot a little, testing them. These are weighted too.
“Get up,” the man says, and Rhyss knows better than to disobey. He scrambles to his feet, hissing when he steps down on his cut foot, which he'd almost forgotten about. He sways and nearly falls over. The pain in his foot and the weights on his wings and ankles throw him off balance. He keeps the hurting foot lifted a little.
The man only grins while he watches Rhyss struggle. “You're free to go.”
What?
“W-what?”
No whip, no chains, no weapons at all? It's too good to be true. There has to be something he's missing...
“You'll have to get back on your own of course,” he adds. “By air or by foot. However you like.”
Rhyss's heart sinks.
Oh.
He lifts his wings a little, giving them an experimental flap. He can move them, but the weights make it difficult.
He looks down at his foot, at the spot of blood on the ground by it.
Now he understands.
The neighbor and his men are already leaving. They don't say another word, don't even look at him. He's alone, abandoned.
Rhyss closes his eyes and sighs, the sigh turning into a low whimper.
The first steps are the worst. There's nothing to hold onto between him and the door. He takes short, careful steps, gasping every time pressure on his cut foot sends sharp pain shooting through it. The heavy cuffs around his ankles aren't helping, making it harder to lift his foot and bringing it down to the ground more swiftly than he'd like. His wings droop behind him and drag through the dirt.
He gets to the doorway and outside and stops to give his poor foot a reprieve. It’s throbbing with pain and his legs are already getting tired...
Then he looks up and nearly cries.
Rhyss has no idea where he is. And the only paths leading away from the factory are gravel.
You can do this. You...you have to .
Rhyss begins the long, arduous walk up the path. Step - ow - step - ah - step - a-ah …
His legs nearly buckle several times, the pain absolutely searing in the bottom of his foot as gravel digs into the open cut, his ankle and leg growing more sore by the minute from the effort to walk without collapsing. He takes measured breaths, trying to keep calm. The ends of his wings drag across the gravel.
A sharp rock catches on the cut on his foot, sending a sharp new jolt of agony through him. He shouts, stumbles, and his balance goes completely, sending him toppling forward onto his hands and knees.
“O-ow…”
Why me?
Rhyss's head hangs forward between his arms and tears build up again. He can't do this, he can't walk another step, it hurts too much.
But what he has to do instead…
He let's a few tears fall, splashing onto the gravel, before he pushes himself up to stand shakily on his good foot, the other just barely touching to keep him balanced. He takes a deep breath.
Rhyss flaps his wings once, twice. He can feel the muscles in his wings and back strain from the weights, but he lifts up nonetheless.
And then he flies.
Every single beat of his wings takes so much effort, and it takes him twice as long as usual to rise above the treeline and look over the town.
He has to force his wings to keep beating, to hold him upright as he looks around. He’s pretty sure he sees what looks like Maria’s neighborhood. It seems so far away.
It’s agonizing, but he flies, and flies, and flies. He can’t fly fast, and the weight keeps making him falter, dropping unexpectedly and having to flap twice as hard to keep upright. Every little gust of wind makes him unsteady. The sun makes his head pound though it isn’t hot out. His breaths become labored and shaky, laced with the occasional weary whimper.
Not even halfway there and his wings are so tired, the muscles burning, and they aren’t the only thing. The hurt travels down to his back and shoulders, forced to bear a strain they weren’t made for. The weights on his ankles make him feel like he’s dragging his own body through the air. He’s heavy, lethargic, exhausted , and aching all over , and he can’t let himself stop for even a brief rest because if he does, he doesn’t know if he’ll get back up again.
He feels hopeless, miserable over the damage this man has done without laying on a finger on him. He could tear a muscle, he might not fly again for days or weeks after this. His wings could give out and he could crash to the ground. And all of it a punishment simply for existing.
Tears roll down his face as he makes the final stretch. He’s weak, shaky, his muscles feel like jelly, he’s tense all over and most of all he’s so, so tired . He just wants to stop and rest his hurting body and worn out muscles. Only desperation drives him forward now, to not crash and be hurt even worse.
Maria’s house finally comes into view and Rhyss gives a sob of relief.
Cole is out in the yard on the phone, pacing, and looking up occasionally. When his eyes land on Rhyss he says something Rhyss is still too far away to catch and then tosses the phone aside and hurries forward.
Rhyss enters the yard and remains hovering a few feet off the ground with the last of his strength. He’s panting hard, eyes glazed with weariness, face wet with tears.
“Hey,” Cole says gently, arms raised. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s safe, he isn’t here. C’mon...”
Rhyss’s body give out all at once and he drops.
Cole is there, catching him around his waist and carefully kneeling on the ground with Rhyss sprawled forward against him.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he keeps saying. Rhyss’s head swims; he closes his eyes and presses his tear-stained face into Cole’s shoulder.
His body feels like lead and he’s tense and sore from his neck and shoulders all the way down to his feet. He can’t move, can only quiver weakly in Cole’s arms. But Cole only seems concerned.
“That’s it...just rest, okay?” He holds Rhyss to him and reaches a hand up to pet his hair, because he’s seen Maria do it and knows it calms him. He remains like that for several minutes, letting Rhyss catch his breath and muttering words of comfort.
“I’m going to get these off of you,” Cole says after a moment, gently touching the cuffs on Rhyss’s slumped wings. Rhyss manages a small nod.
When Cole removes the first cuff Rhyss gasps at the movement where the skin was pinched painfully by the metal. The gasp turns into a long sigh of relief at the release of weight and pressure. Cole removes the other one, and Rhyss whispers a soft “ thank you .”
Cole runs comforting hands over the back of his sore wings. The muscle is cramped and aching and the touches feel so good, smoothing out some of the tension. Rhyss tries to lift the wings a little, but he’s all out of strength. He whimpers.
“I know, I bet they hurt...don’t try to move, alright? I’ll get you inside. Here…” Cole begins to lift him when he notices the cuffs on his ankles too. “ Seriously? That bastard.”
He sets Rhyss carefully on the ground and moves to his legs to remove the ankle cuffs. Rhyss can only lie there, arms and wings sprawled out, chest rising and falling shakily with his breaths. He’s...he’s so tired...
With the cuffs all off, Rhyss finally begins to relax. His eyes droop, his breathing slows, his weakened body succumbing to its need for rest.
But his mind doesn’t give in, not yet. Not until Cole gathers him up carefully and carries him inside, locks and bolts the door. Then, only then, does Rhyss slip gratefully into sleep.
*
He sleeps a whole day and then some. When he wakes, there’s food to strengthen him and water for his parched throat and a warm shower to ease the ache in his muscles. There are soft, clean clothes to wear and the cut on his foot has been cleaned and bandaged, soft slippers put onto his feet. They have cats on them, and it almost makes Rhyss smile.
There’s Maria, gentle and clever, helping maneuver him through the motions without hurting himself further. There’s Cole, steady and patient, lifting him when he can’t stand on his own.
He’s still weary down to his bones from the ordeal. And it’s not just his body, but his mind too. He feels the ache inside and out from being treated so poorly. But now there are encouraging words and kind touches, and they’re like a balm to his hurting heart.
At the end of the night he’s sitting on pillows on the floor in the living room, leaning back against the couch, a bowl of blueberries in his lap. Cole and Maria are on the couch behind him, each with a wing in their lap, tending to the sore, bruised places where the cuffs pressed cruelly into the skin.
“There you go, buddy,” Cole says, patting his shoulder. His hand pauses, lingering, and Rhyss glances curiously up at him.
“You’re still so tense,” Cole explains. “Do you want - could I - ?”
He makes a little squeezing motion with his hands, looking a little embarrassed.
“I think that’s a good idea,” Maria adds, and Rhyss...trusts them. So he nods.
Cole moves to sit behind him. He places his hands on Rhyss’s shoulders. “Tell me if you want me to stop, okay?”
Rhyss nods again.
Cole begins a slow massage, starting at the back of Rhyss’s neck, moving along his shoulders and down his back, working out the knots. His hands are big and warm, his movements careful. Tension eases from Rhyss with a sigh. Cole even gently, so gently, massages his wings. Oh, it feels so good ...
“Better?” He asks when it’s done.
But Rhyss can’t answer. He’s fallen asleep, his head leaning against Cole’s knee, one wing still in Maria’s lap, finally safe.