DACRAN

Kiara lets out an annoyed sigh as she walks down the street. Evie hasn't given her much to go by, leaving her with nearly no chance to find her missing woman and missing President.

Lark. Maybe she wants to laugh. Truly, she hadn't expected Harry of all people to fall for a pretty woman and end up in a mess such as this. She can only hope he'll find a way to get himself out of it, because Dacran is a big city, and there's no way she'll find them without knowing the area they're in. If they're still in the city, too.

Now, it's fucking cold and autumn has come way too soon, and a cloud of vapour rises in the air with her every breath. A cloud. It's way too early for it to be this cold—especially because she'll have to find a job soon. Without Harry helping her from the Palace, she's very nearly screwed. And she's too far away from him, too. She worries—with good reason, apparently.

The sun has just set and the sky is of that forgettable shade of light blue-grey that makes it look like the universe has stopped trying. She definitely can't judge it, but still.

She enters a small shop close to where she's staying and goes through the isles, picking up all sort of foods that require no effort from her and a box of candy, because at this point she either drowns her worries in sugar or alcohol, and the second is less convenient and more expensive.

She should call Evie and ask for more information. She must know more.

Kiara doesn't like the thought of Harry being somewhere in the city with no protection. Sure, she knows he isn't the defenceless boy she used to know anymore and if someone attacked him she'd fear for them, not him, but worrying for him is engrained in her by now. Unfortunately he hates it when people worry about him, so she can do nothing but watch him from afar, a thousand miles away even when he was right on top of her, and hope he's well. Now it seems a little foolish.

She turns into a new isle and sees a woman. She's never seen her before and it surprises her a little, since it's such a small shop. She's pretty, but not in a doll-like, harmless way. It might be the way she walks around, with a sure step, aware of her surroundings, but Kiara is intrigued.

"Hey," she says, pretending to look at something on the shelf. She notices she's looking at eggs and steps closer. "The ones on top are better," she says, taking a carton from the top shelf and handing it to her. "Sometimes people break them while trying to feel the easily reachable ones. Animals. Who the hell even feels eggs?"

The woman chuckles and takes the carton. She seems to be around her age, maybe a couple of years younger. "Thanks."

Kiara smiles. "Oh, it's fine. I wish someone told me that when I first came here! What's your name?"

"Al," the other replies, and Kiara tilts her head.

"That's a peculiar name."

"It's a nickname," Al specifies. "I prefer it to my full name. It's too bird-y for me. Not that I dislike it, but it's exhausting to listen to people joke about it every time." She looks at her. "What's your name?"

Kiara lets out a faint laugh. This encounter might be the most interesting thing that has happened to her since she's moved to Dacran. "I'm Olive," she replies, because her real identity must stay a secret. "Do you live near here?"

Al lets out an enigmatic little noise. "Near enough." She glances out of the window and seems to notice the coming dark. "I should go, now. Thanks for the eggs."

She pays and leaves, and once again Kiara is the only customer in her favourite corner shop.

Only when she's walking down the street popping sugar into her mouth she takes in what the curious stranger said.

A bird-y name?

•     •     •

When Alouette goes back to the apartment, she finds Harry still in bed. She knows him well enough to know he isn't sleeping, but simply resting. Maybe, he's thinking of a way to make her accept his deal. Maybe he's formulating a new plan. There's certainly something going through that mind of his, and she wonders what it is.

After a moment, though, she realises that she prefers not knowing. The times he's let her into his mind are low, but they're enough for her to know she'd have a fifty-fifty chance of hearing something she doesn't want to hear if she asked him to share his thoughts. Not because she believes his head is a pretty corrupted place—she doesn't, though at times she wonders how can he think some of the things he does—but because of the cold, rational nature of it. She's prone to letting her heart show through her actions; he's the opposite. It seems, to her, as if the basic requirement to get him to make an action is to devoid the situation of any emotion. Feelings seem to freeze him: they leave him speechless, starting sentences he'll never finish, stumbling through a maze he can't find the centre of. It's a state in which he's vulnerable, which, she thinks, must be why he tries so hard to never be trapped in it.

Yet, he let her see that side of him, more than once. It leaves her to wonder whether he's afraid of his own vulnerability, or if he simply knows people would take advantage of it. Before knowing him, she thought he was a machine, something other than human, with no emotion nor weakness—a skilled computer you could obtain with electricity and a few lines of code. He seemed unstoppable, and yet now she wishes she could protect him from anything that threatens him, because choosing not to act on passing feelings doesn't mean he doesn't feel any.

Alouette stops in the doorway and looks at him. He's lying on his stomach, still undressed, the bedsheet covering him by half. His head is turned towards the window but the white curtain is pulled, so all she can see is the light of the advertisements flashing on it. Hot pink, cobalt blue, highlighter green. The sky is darkening outside, but they're their perennial suns.

She takes off her shoes and crawls on the mattress, on the side he's left free for her. He doesn't move, she can't even see if his eyes are open, but she knows he's aware of her presence. She crosses her legs, leaning her head on her hand and observing the way his naked back slowly falls and rises—not slow enough for him to be asleep.

She experimentally traces a line down his spine with the tip of her finger. He shivers, her hands are still cold from the autumnal air outside. She brings them to her lips and blows some hot air on them, enough to get rid of the freezing edge. She slides her fingers down his back again, this time he takes a deep breath. She stills, observing his reaction. It's so unexpectedly calm and free of second meanings that it makes her want to lie down beside him.

"Shard of glass," he says. His voice is so low that for a moment Alouette believes she's heard him wrong.

Then, she notices. While she was watching him, her hand unintentionally paused on the birdcage on the side of his rib cage. She can feel the ridged line of a scar beneath her fingers. It's about two inches long, and its width and raised edge despite it being years old tells something about the size of the shard and how deeply it was driven into his side.

She feels like apologising, but has a very clear sensation that he hasn't said it to hear an apology from her, or some words of comfort. Knowing him, he'd never speak of it again if she said any of it. "Window?" she asks instead. She's suddenly reminded of the leftover slivers of glass on the floor of the office one floor above his—as if someone had tried to sweep them away, but hadn't done it well enough.

"Desk."

For a moment, there's only silence. Then, Alouette goes back to grazing his back with her hand, up and down, slowly. He tenses under her touch but doesn't move away, in the same way a wounded animal would tense when petted, in the anticipation of a pain that never comes.

"Surgery," he breathes out when she brushes one on his shoulder. "Damaged muscle."

"How?" she asks. She regrets the question in the second it leaves her lips, and the way his muscles stiffen under her touch makes her fear he's regretting having shared.

The answer comes in choppy sentences. "Fell. Broken shoulder. I was young."

Alouette gives him a slow nod even though he can't see it. She knows there's more to it than what he's telling her—it's clear from the edge in his voice—but she doesn't pry. She goes back to brushing her fingers up and down his back. The next time her touch slides over a scar, one that runs beside his spine, the silence isn't broken as quickly.

"I don't remember," Harry says after some long seconds. "I don't remember most of them."

Alouette doesn't speak.

Another moment passes, and then he turns around. Suddenly, the hand that was on his back is on his stomach but he doesn't seem to read anything on it, his gaze is focused on the spot of the white ceiling where the colours of the advertisements mix in an artificial equivalent of the northern lights.

"You know," he says, but then he pauses again for some long seconds, nearly a minute, and Alouette glances down at the tattoos on his chest, relieving his face of the weight of her gaze. He continues then, but there's an unexpected sort of hesitation in his voice—the kind of someone that doesn't know if they're about to share more than what they're comfortable with. "Sometimes,"—there's an unsure edge in his voice, masked by the low evenness of his tone—"when people go through what, I suppose, you would call a traumatic experience, they can remember it in striking detail."

When he pauses there's tension in the air, as if the world itself is expecting him to back down. And maybe she is, too, because she hadn't expected him to say anything of it—he doesn't allow himself to share much of anything, usually, but maybe it's the moment. Maybe his defences are down and he still hasn't noticed, and he'll regret every word that left his mouth when he does.

She stays quiet and keeps observing his tattoos, the lines of them mixed with the lines of his body, the way her own hand is resting on his stomach. She doesn't dare moving it.

"That isn't the case for me," he continues, as if the silence and her apparent lack of attention are enough to make him say more. Maybe it feels like talking to an empty room—it's always too easy, and in the end you feel a little lighter. She isn't sure.

Harry clears his throat, and she nearly looks at him. She knows he notices from the way his breath stops for a moment. It takes some more seconds for him to say the next sentence.

"While I do know the gist of it due to its repetitive nature, I can't remember every word, every action, every..." His voice fades, and then comes back a little stronger. "I wonder why that is." He's finding it easier to talk now, and the next sentences come one after the other. "Is it because they were so many my memory fails at seeing them as anything other than the whole, as you'd remember seeing a flock cross the sky without being able to recall the singular shape of every bird? Or is it defensive in purpose, because my brain thought I could not handle remembering it all?" He lets out a sigh, so faint that she barely hears it. "I don't know, but I wonder."

Alouette isn't certain she knows what he's talking about, what he went through, so she can do nothing but listen. His next words are so strikingly intimate that she feels like she's overstepping, though he's sharing them willingly.

"The only thing I'm certain of is that I wouldn't be able to handle the sight of my body or someone else's touch on it, no matter how kind, if I could remember all those moments vividly." His finger is scratching the bedsheet next to him, and she focuses on that small movement on his part. "Even then, it was similar to standing in a dark room with a source of light in my hands. At any moment, I could only truly grasp the events near me. By the time a month had passed, I could barely recall a small percentage of them and the most were never committed to memory, not truly, at least. I could only remember the most important ones, and even then, they mixed with the ones from a month, a year, three years before. All I was left with was this overwhelming feeling, this knowledge of what would happen, this flock of crows in my mind. I knew what was going on, and now I also know, but sometimes it feels like my memories are what I was told that happened, and not the actual event. I remember few of those—maybe ten or fifteen—in detail, but they aren't many compared to the overall amount of them."

Alouette's finger grazes his. He stops scratching the bedsheet for a moment, seeming to debate whether he wants to say more or turn around and pretend he's never said a word.

"Perhaps it's defensive, after all." There's a dismissing edge in his voice, now. "Perhaps it's why I can hardly remember my childhood and all my recollections are jagged and dark-edged, and submerged in thick fog. Sometimes, I remember some forgotten moment, but it fades away into the memory of the whole again. I suppose it should be a positive thing that I can't recall them all, but the truth is, while their memories are subjected to fading, the feeling they left behind never does." He lets out a sigh. "No matter how long I've tried, I've never been able to come to terms with it. Ignoring it has proven to be more fruitful, though I can never do it completely. There's always a lingering something in the background. Sometimes I think it'd be convenient to put it all in a room and throw away the key. I have the sheer feeling my mind believes it to be the most opportune solution, too. It gets both easier and harder every year."

His finger hooks with Alouette's, but then lets go of it instantly.

"The human brain is quite the intriguing organ. Though I've learned to work with it, I've never truly understood the inner workings of it. Perhaps one day I will." He looks up, and Alouette realises only then that she's looking at him. There's a tense edge in his eyes. "Don't look at me like that. I do not want your pity, I don't know what to do with it, and the people involved have long since died."

The reprimand is harsh, but she doesn't let it touch her feelings. She knows he doesn't mean to be short, and that he might've just realised he said a little more than he was comfortable with.

"I don't let it guide my actions. Don't think I'm something I'm not."

Alouette doesn't think Harry is something other than who he is. She doesn't think what he's said has changed her perception of him, but she has the sudden feeling that, if she said it, she'd only anger him. It might be his position in society or the amount of money he has, but she has the sensation that he's been told every supportive sentence that exists in the world at some point in his life, and he might've just had enough of it. Maybe, all he wants to do for once is talk, talk until he feels a little lighter than before, without having to worry about the reaction of others.

She lies beside him. She turns his face towards her with a hand and presses a kiss to his mouth. "You're Harry," she whispers. "Only Harry."

A faint smile curves his lips. "Only Harry."

Her finger traces the line of his jaw, a pensive look on her face. His lips part and she has the sudden feeling that he might kiss her again, but instead, he speaks.

"Where were you?" It's an innocent question, but she hears the doubt that lingers behind it. He's wondering if she met with Elijah again, somewhere in the city. He doesn't know he left for the Revolution, because she hasn't told him. She doesn't know how she feels about it—Harry should know he's the only one for her. But the sky is dark now and she hardly goes out this close to night since they're too close to her organisation, and she can see why he's wondering.

"I went to buy some things," she whispers back.

"To make pancakes?"

She laughs and kisses him again. "To make pancakes." Truthfully, she's a little worried about the whole pancake thing—the actual pancake thing—because she knows by now Harry's taste is rather peculiar—which is a nice way to say quite expensive—and she might have faith in her abilities, but not that much. Hearing Elijah say her pancakes suck would be fine, but Harry doing the same thing would hurt her pride more than she'd like to admit. Maybe she burnt the eggs on purpose yesterday.

She slides her thumb over his bottom lip, studying the dark pink shade of it.

"You do know I don't like Elijah that way, don't you?" she asks him quietly. "It's only you."

He lets out a low hum. "You talked to him for quite some time."

"It's because he had a proposition—" She immediately sits up. "A proposition! From Ezra! Fuck, I forgot to tell you."

Harry gives her a dangerous look. "What kind of proposition?" He doesn't seem to be curious—just slightly annoyed, as if he's certain that everything that comes from the Revolution is a waste of time.

Without wasting time, Alouette explains the details of it as well as she can. His eyebrows rise when she mentions that other, mysterious group—she's suddenly reminded of how little he cares about it—and she conveys the real urgency of it, making sure to underline their spread and reach, the danger they pose to the country.

When she's done, Harry doesn't seem to be impressed. "Intel in exchange for who knows what they'd put in that contract? It doesn't seem much convenient to me."

"Intel and the Palace," Alouette specifies. "And the Revolution needs you, too, so you could bargain. Maybe they'd be willing to give more, or request less..."

"It could be a trap."

"I'm sure it isn't," she replies. "This is a real issue, and they can't solve it on their own. Then, you'd get to go back to the Palace, solve this issue and go back to your life. Wouldn't it be so much better?"

"I could go back to the Palace if you accepted my deal, too."

She sends him a glare. "I'm not doing that. And even if I did, you wouldn't have the Revolution. How long do you think it will be before they find another way to take you down?" She shakes her head. "No, this is an opportunity. Once, you said you make allies. Wouldn't the Revolution be a powerful ally?" There's a moment of silence, and then she adds something more. Something that is hardly said, but that will pique his interest instantly. "The Revolution doesn't only work in this country. We have ties all over the old continent and beyond."

Harry considers her words carefully. "I don't rush into deals," he then says. "I'll agree to a meeting with Ezra in a location of my choosing, on my terms. No weapons. At the first hint of betrayal, it'll be called off. Then, if the conditions of the agreement are to my liking, I'll consider proceeding." He thinks of something else. "Naturally, Ezra will come alone. There will be no other member of the Revolution but him and you." For some reason, Alouette thinks he wants her to his side more like his bodyguard than a member of the Revolution—and at the same time, maybe, also to instil a false sensation of safety in Ezra.

Alouette smiles. "I'll let them know, then." She makes to stand up to retrieve the phone from where she left it in the living room, but Harry stops her with a hand.

"Rule one of making deals: never seem too eager to accept propositions. It makes you look weak."

She chuckles. "I'll call in a couple of days, then."

I hope you enjoyed this chapter x
Miki