Let Down Your Guard (L.D.Y.G.) - Chapter 2
(3200 words)

Description:
War has been a staple of existence between the canine races of Petria and Volcania since the dawn of time. Territory disputes are constant between the stubborn ground-dwelling Petrians of the valley and winged Volcani of the cliffs. A border guard on the outskirts of Petria's soil apprehends a Volcani scout in the woodlands and is forced to restrain her in his abode. Despite his stoic and stubborn demeanor, the young winged female entrances him, and fills a deep lonely void that plagued his life. The Volcani scout, though flightless from a injury she sustained from their bout in the woodlands, finds solace and comfort in her captor. The two of them must navigate their race's prejudice towards one another, the growing relationship they have, and the juxtaposition love causes to the loyalty of their respective nations. A fantasy from its exterior and a romance at its core, Let Down Your Guard is a journey of young love, prejudice, and war.

☆☆☆

It approached the evening. Zale picked up his pace. The cold embrace of the fall made itself apparent from the sweat evaporating off his dense coat.

His prisoner remained in a constant battle with the chain that led her along. The ground was no place for a Volcani. She had trouble keeping pace and struggled with the limp in her walk. Her wing still dangled from her side. When she wasn’t focused on keeping with Zale’s stride, she’d attempt to move it every so often. Doing so sent sharp pains from the joint into her back. She mustered enough strength to keep her feathers from dragging in the gravel.

Cirrus stared and grimaced at her captor with seething hatred. Her head dangled low; her ears pinned to her head. If she wasn’t so focused on her breathing, working through the pain, she’d give a low growl. Cirrus watched Zale closely and searched her thoughts to find a means of escape.

She had picked up on the fact that Zale stood as a particularly large Petrian. His coat donned blacks and grays under his armor. He had a white underbelly and some hints of a pale brown similar in color to his leather straps. Cirrus wouldn’t dare to consider Petrian scum attractive, but his pelt felt gentle on the eyes. It shined in the escaping sunlight and seemed well-kept, except for the damage she inflicted on it.

The Volcani’s eyes traveled about. They looked upwards and around. The sky changed from clear to a quilted gray overcast. Rain was on the horizon; she could feel it. Zale could feel it too. He had all the reasons now to pick up the pace. Rain spat from the sky, the breeze picked up, and an ominous silence fell over the border wood as the fauna sought cover.

Zale drew her closer to whatever fate awaited with haste; whether that was a cell or the back of a prisoner wagon, her situation had become dire. Cirrus became desperate and had to act. The scout halted and dragged her paws through the mud. Zale responded with a yank of the chain, but turned slowly with his brow furrowed. He tilted his helmeted head and went to speak.

FFFFT

Cirrus spat in his face. Her Petrian captor shook his head from side to side in shock and in an attempt to free his eyesight from saliva.

All the while, Cirrus pulled and fought and yanked her body weight against the metal links. She reared like an untamed horse, grunting, growling, and struggling to no avail. She forced all her mass on the collar, stood upright on her two legs. Cirrus certainly had spirit, enough to jolt Zale, an immovable object in every regard.

It was a mere jolt. Zale whipped the chain downward and Cirrus’ light frame followed. Her face landed gravel littered mud of the path. Pebbles pierced her cheek.

“I told you already, I’ll break your other fucking wing! Give up!”
T
he chain pulled upwards. Cirrus’ head whipped from the ground, her head shot upwards. The she-wolf pinned her front two legs down, flashed her fangs while she pulled. Zale paid no attention to this. Eventually there was little resistance. Cirrus had exhausted herself. She returned to the slow march to whatever awaited her. Every so often, she glanced behind her in a painful woe.

***

Cirrus prayed for rain. Caked mud in her fur and clotted blood of her wounds was enough to unnerve her. Rain made any rescue from her fellow scouts or a ranger improbable. She wasn’t counting on it with how her luck had been treating her. Curious about her status within her unit, Cirrus pondered if her superiors even recognized she was missing yet.

The spitting rain crossed from phantom droplets to obvious dampness on her back.

“You must have a pretty thick skull bashing that tree like you did. Tell me; is that a feature of all Pets or just big stupid ones like yourself?”

Somebody had to break the silence. It got little reaction from her captor, maybe a labored breath, but that could of easily been his restlessness.

The path opened up, and the two canines were trudged up an incline. The sky blessed the valley with copious rain now, enough to soak their coasts throughly. Cirrus’ injured wing took the brunt of it and couldn’t lift itself off the grown as rain saturated her fur and feathers. As they reached the top of the small hill, Everwood revealed itself yet again. The town center and its colorful buildings twinkled as rain saturated them. Lanterns were lit early as evening was brought on sooner from the clouds above them.

It didn’t seem so bad. Cirrus didn’t find it menacing or foreboding. From the books she read as a pup, Petria’s capitol donned tall watch towers and stone structures that mirrored the stoic resolve of their people. The fabled dungeons were always an enticing challenge for the novel’s heroes to escape. This was no capitol, it was a mere village, and it wasn’t nearly as exciting as Cirrus’ fantasies.

One large house that stood out from the rest. It didn’t have painted colors or lanterns flickering in its windows. It felt just as dark, grey, and dull as her stubborn captor. Cirrus scoffed as they walked up a dirt trail to it. Clearly, she stood before the beast’s home.

The Petrian guard had a routine. This wasn’t the first time rain fell on the valley during his patrol. There were no umbrellas or protective wear to shield his coat from the rain, only an overhang that let the front door dry. He pulled his capture underneath it. Zale shook his body and his fur came to life. It pulled away from him and took the rain with it. He shook himself dry from his head to his tail with little regard for Cirrus behind him. Precipitation of his sweaty and filthy coat rolled off him and onto all his surroundings.

Cirrus inspected the porch to get her bearings. Who was this guy? Homes in the center of Everwood seemed new, this abode, however, seemed run-down, depressed, dilapidated. Oak boards that lent their strength to holding up the moss and ivy covered overhang seemed ancient. The flower pots that someone once cared for held withered saplings.

Her curiosity became interrupted with Zale’s wet coat leftovers thrown on her face and a yank of the chain forced her forward. Cirrus turned her head away in disgust as her captor unlocked the iron lock and dragged the captured scout through the door.

That was on purpose. Cirrus knew it. Before addressing her interest in the humble home, she had to enact her revenge. The Volcani had rainwater drenching her coat and dripped on the floor. She throughly shook the water off herself, from her head to her tail, and flung patches of blood stained mud soaked fur across his living quarters and across his things.

It pained her to do so. Cirrus’ broken wing flopped around pathetically and got no water off it in its limp injured state. It was fun, however, and a mischievous smile smeared itself across her face. Zale’s irritated gaze slowly burned a hole in her neck fluff. The lead was pulled again by the angry wolf guard.

“Quite dark in here, wouldn’t you say?” Cirrus said. She naturally spoke loudly but intentionally didn’t mind her volume. It echoed through the wooden corridors of the home, lit by a single bright lantern. “Wouldn’t want your Pet wife to see you dragging a wench like me through, now would you?”

“I live alone.”

The Volcani’s damp wing left a trail parallel to the Petrian’s large wet paw prints on the parched pine floors. Her head swiveled. She had thought maybe this was a guard post because of his open floor design. The room they stood in felt much more like a hall than a living quarter. The atmosphere contradicted itself. Banners hung from the upper deck, like those on Petria’s towers and castles, but tired couches and tables laid about with an inch of dust resting upon them.

Cirrus inferred a family lived here at a time, or so it seemed; hence why she made the wife comment. Perhaps with further inspection, she could learn more from this dumb Petrian and his home life, but she was led to a spiraling set of wood steps.
“You’re going to keep me in a cell? You have plenty of room up here, you could probably use the company.”

“Quiet, Vole.” Zale’s voice echoed off the stone walls at the bottom of the staircase. They were in the abode’s equivalent to a jail. Two adjacent cells were lit by a dying torch in the middle of a hall. There was a workbench on the other side of the cellar, a few bookshelves stocked with trinkets, and storage chests. There wasn’t much to look at aside from sprawling cobwebs. It was dingy and had an unforgiving musk.

The scout was led into one cell, her wing dragged behind her.

Only for a moment did their eyes lock as the metal bars slid closed. They had matching blue eyes. They stared at one another to guess at the other’s worth. Cirrus boiled with animosity. This was the stubborn brute who stole her right to fly. Zale reflected with uncaring and emotionless demeanor. His lip curled downward and he huffed hot air from his nostrils. Cirrus was nothing to him but the enemy and a plight on his home, his land, his country.

Zale turned away to make his way back up the spiraling staircase and her beaming eyes followed his motion.

***

The Volcani felt like a caged bird in her new enclosure. She paced back and forth anxiously between the bars. The goal was to plot her next move, but her mind was clouded. Capture was an experience she was yet to conquer, ponder, or work her way around. It wasn’t like the adventure novels she read as a pup. There wasn’t a convenient tool to unlock the cell door. Even if she could reach the lock, she did not know of how to work the pins.

Every so often, she’d allow the patter of rainfall outside to comfort her. Sounds bounced off the spiraling stairway and from some unknown opening within the basement. Upstairs was eerily quiet. Silence allowed her mind would clear for fleeting moments, then anxieties would attack again. Reality of her situation landed on her repeatedly.

The biting chill that had settled into the basement worked itself past her dense coat. At least pacing and worrying helped keep the wolf somewhat warm.

Cirrus forced herself to focus, and the first thing to address was her injuries. Her folded wing dried quickly, her broken wing did not. It hung loose and useless. The wing paced the floor with her like a damp mop. Enough soot and dust and motion eventually freed it of the water it carried. Time had marched forward into the late evening. Cirrus finally inspected the damage of her beloved feathed extension.

Even the thought of lifting it induced piercing pain. The joint was swollen and out-of-place. Bone that once supported the might of her wing was cracked and bruised. If she was ever to fly again, Cirrus knew that her joint would have to be put back into place.

There was no skill more important to her than her aptitude in flight. The Volcani mustered the strength to move her joint upwards. It contorted oddly and she grimaced in misery. It only partially returned into place with enough agony and willpower.

The walls of her cage were made of stone. They spoke to her and gave her an idea. To prepare for this, she took a deep breath.

The Volcani scout threw her side and its hanging wing into the wall and screeched with pain. She felt the cracked bone shove itself into her back, not into the socket she aimed for. The fleshy elastic bands that typically held her wing in place stretched themselves further out of place.

Her head fell like a rock. She twitched with pain, her back arched like a stunned animal. Cirrus panted hot breaths at the damp floor below her. A creeping thought worked its way out of her subconscious; would she ever fly again?

Evening in Volcanis, it was a personal holiday. The roof of the world donned magnificent hues of the settled sun. Crimson, orange, purple like royal robes, and sleepy tones of twilight spilling themselves across an evening canvas, imposing their will on the clouds that stretched over the valley. Cirrus soared with open wings and her father followed closely behind. They’d race each other, partake in unspoken challenges of gracefulness; they danced around one another like an airborne ballet. Birds sang their final songs for the day, Cirrus and her father laughed about ironies, quips, and the absurdity within their lives.

Memories of a lifelong passion for flight. Memories that were etched into her outlook on living. Memories that defined her spirit, her culture, and moments that glued her father’s soul close to her heart. Now they filled her mind to mock her; they reminded Cirrus of cost and consequence. No flight, no celebration to her airborne elegance. She was to be grounded in the habitual dull uninspiring drudge of life on Earth rather than in the grace of the heavens.

There wasn’t much to quip about now. Nobody to laugh at them, or give annoyed sighs. Her situation held no irony. What she faced wasn’t absurd. Her reality was set and cold, and nobody made light of it.

Tears welled in Cirrus’ eyes as she watched the puddle on the floor give way to her labored breaths. Her reflection stared back at her and mocked her, laughing at how pathetic she was. Cirrus gritted her teeth, grinding the sharp edges against one another. Tears filled her vision. Her chest caved into the void that was opening in her soul. Sobs broke free out of her maw while droplets broke the liquid glass below.

Cirrus took sharp breaths. She initiated a staring contest with her reflection, grinding her teeth, keeping her face tense, refusing to let emotion overtake resolve, but eventually she gave way. She shoved her eyes closed and squeezed out more tears. The muscles in her face broke to the weight that pulled down on them; heavy gravity took control of her mind, of her soul. Sobs echoed back off the stones of the wall and filled her ears. A symphony of mockery, a flightless bird, and a pathetically lost soul. Focused and composed breaths were a luxury.

Lost in her misery, there was nothing that could pull her out of it, no peaceful rain or hopeless planning.

The boards came to life again. Each step creaked and vibrated under a coming weight. Cirrus’ sobbing softened. Her ears twitched and her watering eyes stared upward.

The Petrian had found his way down the basement and stepped softly out of the stairway’s shadow. Her eyes carried waves of emotion but still focused still on him. Rage welled up again as he made a slow approach.

He seemed stoic and uncaring. Why would he care? Cirrus couldn’t expect this dense Petrian to understand what he had done to her.

It was quite the opposite from Zale’s point of view. Cirrus really looked pathetic. The basement was cold; she was damp and was shaking out of sadness or cold numbness. There was no emotion he could muster deep within him other than sympathy.

There was a hawk that circled the woods that donned similar gold colors and brown accents like the Volcani before him. She reminded him of it. While it was a pest that remorselessly fed on weak prey and their offspring with shrieking calls, it was beautiful, majestic, and part of the ecosystem in its own right. While knowledge and awareness brought this particular creature into the fold of a faction that oppressed his people, what stood shriveling before him was a scared young woman. Zale sighed. His face reflected his sympathy, and Cirrus wanted none of it.

Cirrus turned away from him. Her broken wing was on full display, facing him as she sniffed away her sadness and tried to gain some composure. Zale could finally inspect the damage he inflicted. He had been directly above her and had heard her failed attempt to fix her wing. A glance at the damp imprint on the otherwise dry walls painted a picture in his mind, confirmed what he figured.

“Hmm.”

She said nothing. She had nothing to say. Cirrus tried pretending her captor wasn’t standing there witnessing how broken she felt.

Zale broke the silence with a heavy breath. He fixed his eyes on the disfigured joint. The young guard knew nothing of wing anatomy on a Volcani, but could recognize when something was out of place. Twisted and disfigured, the joint swelled, twitched, and was in motion with Cirrus’ rising and falling chest.

There were only a few meters between them, the only separation was the iron bars. Zale focused in on the wing. He pointed his muzzle at it. Cirrus hopelessly looked up at what he was doing.

A dim aura encompassed the joint and snapped Cirrus’ wing back into place.

She howled with pain, bucking in the cell and smashing herself against the cell bars. This time there was no overextension. Elastic bands yanked the bone back into its socket despite the surrounding swelling.

Zale’s head raised and the aura vanished. It was telepathy; commoners magic, but the strength of it was immense. It did the job she couldn’t.

The Volcani huffed and panted. She looked back on herself, looked forward, and then back. She shot her gaze at Zale. Maybe she’d expect a grin or a grimace. His face was neutral. Soon he was turning the other way and walking towards the back of the basement. The oversaturation of emotion left her confused, she wasn’t sure how to feel. Cirrus stared at the ground, at the reflection looking back at her. Without hesitation she attempted to fold the wing but whimpered with the motion.

Zale returned to her using the same magic to levitate a worn blanket and a roll of bandages. Both could be worked through the bars without the need to open the cell door. “The bone is broken, or at least fractured. I’d wrap it up.”

“The hell do you know?”

“Nothing,” Zale said. “I’m not a medic, but most broken things can be fixed with patience and tinkering. What you were doing was brash and stupid.”

Cirrus huffed at him. The large figure turned to make his way back to the staircase after gently placing the bandage and blanket beside her.

“Petrian...”

Zale stopped.

The Volcani picked up her head and stood more composed. “Thank you.”