a broken crown: a crippled canary - 834 words

"...and what does a pretty little thing like you do in a place like this?"

 

Conall pushed himself off the frigid wall. The person stiffly lying on the lower bunk of the two beds on the opposite wall drew his attention. They attempted to rest on their side. Held their arms crossed on the bed, their body facing the cell itself. Back firmly against the cold concrete wall. The lycan saw the strange, neon-thing's ear flick once, but got no other reaction for his inquiry - or that's what he thought at first.

 

"Get lost." Caspian didn't bother to open his eyes. A peculiar veil of tiredness and annoyance cut through his face like a knife.

 

The other chuckled. Took a few steps closer in the small space. His claws scraped the floor as he walked. Only the lifelessly gray layer of paint dulled their sharp sound. "There isn't really anywhere to get lost to."

 

The shifter raised his shoulders halfway to his ears. He let out a sound that was a mixture of a huff, and a vexed growl. The wrinkles on his face deepened. Caspian felt the mattress give in next to him. He opened his eyes. A piercing, amber gaze stared back at him. Half-open. Determined to get what it wanted.

 

And it was way too close.

 

Conall had no time to say anything more. Not really. All of it got stuck in his throat, encapsulated in a hoarse wheeze. His upper back slammed right at the wall he had leaned on only moments earlier. The impact emptied his lungs in an instant. In the wake of desperate gasps for air, it squeezed his eyes shut.

 

When he opened his eyes next, he saw two things in front of him: the cyan-accented beanpole breathing through his pointy teeth right at the lycan's face, and a dark red blade uncomfortably close to his right eyeball.

 

Where did he even get that?

 

"The fuck--" There was no use in squirming. Conall realized it as soon as he felt nothing under his feet. The stranger wasn't that much taller than him. There was no way.

 

Still, he had the werewolf pinned just high enough to leave him dangling. Caspian's forearm pressed the beast's collarbone almost exclusively. The radiating pain of Conall's wailing bones mocked his losing position against such a slender frame. The guy looked more like a burnt stick than a man.

 

Caspian corrected his grip around the crystalblood dagger in his hand. It made the scruffy-looking man pull his head back as far as he could - which wasn't that far. The wall behind him made sure of it.

 

"I'm not in the mood right now. Don't make me break any more spines today," the eternal exhaled through an animalistic growl.

 

Conall's gaze narrowed slightly. So that was what he was doing here. Must've been a rich bastard. No one gave a shit about deadbeats and the poor. He scoffed, looking away. "Hmph. Humans are so fragile."

 

Caspian pressed down harder. The temporary melancholy melted off the lycan's face faster than a wax candle in an incinerator. In an attempt to prevent his collarbone getting snapped like a dry twig, Conall sunk his claws into the forearm that held him up. At the same time, he tried to push the dagger away with his free hand.

 

That arm, tense like a loaded spring and armed with an odd blade, barely budged. Despite Conall's inner objections, his face started to shift into the territory of visible fear.

 

There was something royally wrong with this twink.

 

"Anything else, wise guy?" Caspian spit through a snarl, inching his face closer to the other's twisting visage.

"N-no," Conall struggled to reply from underneath the sound of his strenuous breathing. To his horror, instead of letting go, the eternal only wound his armed limb back. The werewolf pinched his eyes shut as he prepared for the pain of getting stabbed wherever.

 

The pain never came. He heard something smash into the wall right next to his ear, and almost instantly after, the pressure on his collarbone subsided. Conall stumbled as his feet hit the ground, but he was able to stay upright. In the middle of the few involuntary coughs, he lifted his eyes to see what had almost hit him. The realization pinned his ears back.

 

The red blade jutted out of the wall.

 

The goddamn concrete wall. Conall turned back to the shifter.

 

What he saw froze his tongue right where it lied. He stared at the man's back as he crawled back into the bunk, and slumped onto the mattress, now facing the wall.

 

Tens of wounds - probably close to a hundred, at least - each deeper than the last. There were clear signs of healing, but they were still fresh enough to bleed. Or perhaps they got torn open during the commotion.

 

Maybe there was a reason for something being royally wrong with this guy.

 

On the other hand - there was always a reason.

 

Wasn't there?