The way the Canaries arrange your return to your family falls somewhere between the way a warden on leave may be brought to their hometown, and the way they may deliver the remains of a deceased soldier who couldn’t be revived.
Your brother treats it more like the former, albeit with a tinge of quiet, confused sadness. He kneels by the bed you’ve been set in, his crutch propped on the wall and the warmth of his hands closing around yours.
Your parents... you would say they treat it like the latter, but it might be a little more like a third option. You suppose (distantly, without investment) that they may have looked at you the same way if you'd been returned healthy, intact, and dishonorably discharged. They step outside to speak with the commander, and that’s the last time you see them.
Your brother does come back. You hear him speaking to some people; he presents them with a schedule, a rate of pay. You hear him listing off foods you used to like, your favorite books - "I'm sure he's still in there," he says. You’re not sure if he’s right or wrong; you can hear him. You recognize the suggestions he’s giving. You don’t care about any of it.
For a year, that's all there really is.
You lie in bed. When you're awake, you rarely look away from the ceiling. The caretakers your brother hired come in as scheduled. They clean you, feed you, change your bandages and bedclothes, read to you. You recognize some of the books they read. They're following your brother's advice. It may as well be white noise.
Sometimes, your brother comes by, and his voice means nothing more than any other. You can tell he hopes that you'll speak, at some point. You never have anything to say.
Most days, your caretakers take you outside, and set you on a chair on the hill for a time. Once, a shepherd passes by while you're there, and the bleating of sheep cuts through to a part of you still raw and angry, and you need to find it-- then there are hands pulling you back, overlapping voices shouting and soothing in turns. It feels longer before they next take you outside, and this time the height of the sun feels different.
You lie in bed. When you're awake, you rarely look away from the ceiling. They take you outside, and set you on a chair on the hill for a time. They bring you back inside, wash you, and lay you down. And it repeats.
You remember something you need to do, but you can't focus. Someone comes in, a plate in hand, and feeds you whatever is on it, and your mind is still lost in what you're forgetting and how to bring yourself back around to it. The person feeding you leaves the plate and fork by your bedside while they go to retrieve a book to read to you. When they turn around, they shout, and two more come running. There's a commotion, hands pulling the fork from your hands and pushing you down when you struggle against them, holding you down with a whisper of magic that makes your body go slack while they wrap bandages tight around the fresh points of pain scratched along your thigh.
You lie in bed. When you're awake, you rarely look away from the ceiling. They take you outside, and set you on a chair on the hill for a time. They bring you back inside, wash you, and lay you down. They take your dishes out as soon as you're finished eating now.
Most days, nothing much happens. Your brother stops by. He tells you about people you both know, and you can tell he's hoping for a response. You have nothing to say.
Your caretakers take you outside. The grass rustles, and you catch a glimpse of scales glinting by your feet. You lunge, and then there's shouting and hands and soothing and they take you back inside. What you need isn't here. You try to leave again, and this time they tie you down. Your mind wanders, and, after some time, they untie you. You lie in bed. You try to focus, the one way you remember. Someone comes in and sits you up to wash you. There's no more screaming, when they check you over and wash blood from under your nails and wrap bandages around your arm and leg. When they're finished, they tie thick, soft cloths around your hands before lying you back down.
Sometimes, that anger flares up on its own, when you remember what you have to do - that you can't do it here. They push you back into bed when you try to leave. You try again, and they tie you down again. You scream and thrash against your restraints, and they come running with more bandages and another whispered spell. You lie in bed. Nothing much happens. Someone comes in to feed you. They untie you. You lie in bed.
When you're awake, you rarely look away from the ceiling. They feed you, take your dishes out as soon as you're finished, and you lie in bed. Eventually, they take you outside again, and this time you don't see any snakes. They take you inside. You lie in bed. There was something you needed to do. You can't think. Someone sits you up. You feel fingers in your hair, hear the quiet slicing of a blade through the strands. A gentle voice asks you a question, prodding for an answer, but you don't hear the words-- you see the glint of a mirror, and its light cuts through to that raw, angry core, and you snatch it away and crack the glass in your hands. The soft voice becomes a shout, and you grip the handle of the scissors with bloodied palms until more people come in and hold you down and magic slackens your hold. They wrap fresh bandages around your hands and arms and tie you down.
Most days, nothing much happens. You lie in bed. They take you outside, and set you on a chair on the hill for a time. Your brother stops by.
They try feeding you something they haven't yet. You recognize it, but it doesn't really matter. Your hair is long enough now that they have to tie it back while you eat.
You try to leave, and they tie you down. This time, it's long enough until someone comes back in that you can get free, and you start walking. You don't know how far you get before someone catches up to you, and you aren't sure how they did it until they tie your arms and pick you up and you glimpse your own bloodied footprints. They take you back home, and you can't make your body move any more.
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branchandroot
THE GOLD; CW: implied ableism, forced restraint/confinement, self-harm
Date: 2023-11-22 02:33 am (UTC)The way the Canaries arrange your return to your family falls somewhere between the way a warden on leave may be brought to their hometown, and the way they may deliver the remains of a deceased soldier who couldn’t be revived.
Your brother treats it more like the former, albeit with a tinge of quiet, confused sadness. He kneels by the bed you’ve been set in, his crutch propped on the wall and the warmth of his hands closing around yours.
Your parents... you would say they treat it like the latter, but it might be a little more like a third option. You suppose (distantly, without investment) that they may have looked at you the same way if you'd been returned healthy, intact, and dishonorably discharged. They step outside to speak with the commander, and that’s the last time you see them.
Your brother does come back. You hear him speaking to some people; he presents them with a schedule, a rate of pay. You hear him listing off foods you used to like, your favorite books - "I'm sure he's still in there," he says. You’re not sure if he’s right or wrong; you can hear him. You recognize the suggestions he’s giving. You don’t care about any of it.
For a year, that's all there really is.
You lie in bed. When you're awake, you rarely look away from the ceiling. The caretakers your brother hired come in as scheduled. They clean you, feed you, change your bandages and bedclothes, read to you. You recognize some of the books they read. They're following your brother's advice. It may as well be white noise.
Sometimes, your brother comes by, and his voice means nothing more than any other. You can tell he hopes that you'll speak, at some point. You never have anything to say.
Most days, your caretakers take you outside, and set you on a chair on the hill for a time. Once, a shepherd passes by while you're there, and the bleating of sheep cuts through to a part of you still raw and angry, and you need to find it-- then there are hands pulling you back, overlapping voices shouting and soothing in turns. It feels longer before they next take you outside, and this time the height of the sun feels different.
You lie in bed. When you're awake, you rarely look away from the ceiling. They take you outside, and set you on a chair on the hill for a time. They bring you back inside, wash you, and lay you down. And it repeats.
You remember something you need to do, but you can't focus. Someone comes in, a plate in hand, and feeds you whatever is on it, and your mind is still lost in what you're forgetting and how to bring yourself back around to it. The person feeding you leaves the plate and fork by your bedside while they go to retrieve a book to read to you. When they turn around, they shout, and two more come running. There's a commotion, hands pulling the fork from your hands and pushing you down when you struggle against them, holding you down with a whisper of magic that makes your body go slack while they wrap bandages tight around the fresh points of pain scratched along your thigh.
You lie in bed. When you're awake, you rarely look away from the ceiling. They take you outside, and set you on a chair on the hill for a time. They bring you back inside, wash you, and lay you down. They take your dishes out as soon as you're finished eating now.
Most days, nothing much happens. Your brother stops by. He tells you about people you both know, and you can tell he's hoping for a response. You have nothing to say.
Your caretakers take you outside. The grass rustles, and you catch a glimpse of scales glinting by your feet. You lunge, and then there's shouting and hands and soothing and they take you back inside. What you need isn't here. You try to leave again, and this time they tie you down. Your mind wanders, and, after some time, they untie you. You lie in bed. You try to focus, the one way you remember. Someone comes in and sits you up to wash you. There's no more screaming, when they check you over and wash blood from under your nails and wrap bandages around your arm and leg. When they're finished, they tie thick, soft cloths around your hands before lying you back down.
Sometimes, that anger flares up on its own, when you remember what you have to do - that you can't do it here. They push you back into bed when you try to leave. You try again, and they tie you down again. You scream and thrash against your restraints, and they come running with more bandages and another whispered spell. You lie in bed. Nothing much happens. Someone comes in to feed you. They untie you. You lie in bed.
When you're awake, you rarely look away from the ceiling. They feed you, take your dishes out as soon as you're finished, and you lie in bed. Eventually, they take you outside again, and this time you don't see any snakes. They take you inside. You lie in bed. There was something you needed to do. You can't think. Someone sits you up. You feel fingers in your hair, hear the quiet slicing of a blade through the strands. A gentle voice asks you a question, prodding for an answer, but you don't hear the words-- you see the glint of a mirror, and its light cuts through to that raw, angry core, and you snatch it away and crack the glass in your hands. The soft voice becomes a shout, and you grip the handle of the scissors with bloodied palms until more people come in and hold you down and magic slackens your hold. They wrap fresh bandages around your hands and arms and tie you down.
Most days, nothing much happens. You lie in bed. They take you outside, and set you on a chair on the hill for a time. Your brother stops by.
They try feeding you something they haven't yet. You recognize it, but it doesn't really matter. Your hair is long enough now that they have to tie it back while you eat.
You try to leave, and they tie you down. This time, it's long enough until someone comes back in that you can get free, and you start walking. You don't know how far you get before someone catches up to you, and you aren't sure how they did it until they tie your arms and pick you up and you glimpse your own bloodied footprints. They take you back home, and you can't make your body move any more.
You lie in bed.