#uaaaagh

Gandra held her breath as she pushed the heavy metal door open, wincing as it scraped loudly against the brick floor. Leaning out into the hall, she quadruple-checked that there was no one there. 

She knew Heron’s trust in her would greatly lessen if she knew her new favorite student had visited. 

Waiting, heart in her throat, to make sure no one was there, she eventually stepped inside the room, not letting out a breath until she had the screaming door shut. She triple-checked she still had the correct key, that she could get it open again. 

Getting trapped in here would likely ruin everything. 

Taking in another deep breath, Gandra turned around. 

He lay facing toward her, but he couldn’t see her. In the dim cold light let in from the small barred window he looked even worse. Thin and sickly, feathers matted, a hollowed face, waxy skin where his feathers were missing. 

Gandra took a few steps forward, standing over him. Forcing down her horror, she knelt, touching his shoulder. 

Despite being unable to see or hear her, he didn’t jump. He didn’t move. 

He was blindfolded and gagged, and his ears were covered. He was left entirely unable to sense his surroundings, as his arms were bound tightly in front of him, and his feet lashed together at the ankles behind him. Even if he was able to change position, he didn’t look strong enough to. 

Gandra knew the only reason Heron hadn’t cut out his tongue was because she had much worse planned. 

Gandra knew the only reason Heron hadn’t plucked out his eyes was because she had much worse planned. 

Reaching up, Gandra gingerly slipped off his ear coverings, and reached to undo the muzzle tightly clamped around his beak. It was purposefully too tight- paining his teeth and his jaw as he was forced to harshly bite down. 

“Mads?” she whispered. He was breathing, but he didn’t feel alive. His body was frigid to the touch. 

“Gand-” he broke off, coughing. It wasn’t the usual clearing of a throat after being unable to speak for several hours, rather a guttural, full-body cough that sent tremors all the way to his talons. Curling slightly in on himself he coughed for nearly a full minute, Gandra gently holding the back of his head, one of the only places he looked safe enough to touch. 

When he was finally able to speak his voice sounded rough and strained, and physically painful. She moved to tug off his blindfold, and he tilted his head away from her. “Don’t.” 

“Why not?” Her hand went back to his shoulder. 

“It’ll be too bright,” he pointed out. “‘S this a rescue?” 

Though she knew he couldn’t see him, Gandra smiled slightly, sympathetically. There were tears in her eyes. “Not yet. I will get you out of here, we’re just- we’re just not ready yet.” It felt like an admission of failure. 

“Where’s Fenton?” 

Gandra let out a breath as she recalled the former king of what was once Duckburg, forced at the foot of St. Canard’s king’s throne, hands bound and a chain around his neck. Their king’s new prize for finally overthrowing the other kingdom. Treated as nothing more than a trophy. “He’s… he’s been taken. He’s in better shape than you, though.” 

“And Blue?” 

Gandra’s heart dropped. 

Since returning with an intent to get Mads out of here, she hadn’t heard any word of the Blue Phantom, who had been taken even before the Mad Ducktor. As she was now Heron’s favorite the instructor told her everything, and she had never mentioned Duckburg’s former royal wizard. They weren’t in any of the cells, they’d just disappeared. 

And Instructor Heron’s new magic color was a familiar ice blue. 

Gandra leaned down, kissing his forehead. “I’m so sorry, Mads.” 

He was silent. 

There were too many things to say, too many things to explain, to apologize for. Gandra knew she could never say it all, there wasn’t enough time. A hand still on his shoulder, she couldn’t help but examine him further, unable to tear her eyes away. 

The most noticeable signs were the bruises across his face. His entire body was littered with them, but they were mostly concentrated there. She wouldn’t be surprised if he had dark black eyes beneath his blindfold. 

There were dozens of cuts lashed into his back, the recent ones ranging from a few weeks to a few days old, layered on top of the scars left from years ago. Left untreated, none of them had healed properly, Gandra had to force her gaze away from the visible infections there as her stomach churned. He’d been branded with the official sign of the assassins at least three different places, also untreated, his feathers melted to his skin. 

His arms were bound at the elbow, the end of his left arm plucked bare of feathers and left still bleeding in several places. Gandra noted the feathers on the ends of his right-hand fingers were crusted with dried blood as well, looking as if he’d been clawing at something. The position looked incredibly uncomfortable, and his elbows were rubbed raw by the metal manacles. 

His hair had been unevenly and crudely cut, he was left with nothing but a collection of purple tufts on top of his head. 

In addition to all of this, he looked painfully thin. Skin clung to his ribs, his shoulder blades jutting out harshly, his legs nothing more than skin and bone. Gandra wondered the last time he’d tasted anything other than his own blood. He was visibly sick, his breathing ragged. The room was ice cold, Gandra was already shivering, and it left his body freezing. Other than when she’d touched his forehead- his fever was burning him alive. 

Gandra was knelt next to his stomach, his arms extended out in front of her knees. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, hardly audible over the sound of his breathing. “Mads- Mads I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for getting you in this situation, I’m sorry for not being able to rescue you yet, I’m sorry for giving you away. I’m sorry I couldn’t- I couldn’t stop this, I’m sorry after you saved me I took away your entire life. I’m sorry.” 

He swallowed, a forced, painful wetting of his throat. “It… this was inevitable.” 

Gandra broke. 

Bursting into tears she leaned down to hold the back of his head, lightly resting her forehead against his temple as she sobbed, tears wetting his feathers. Her quiet sobbing mixed with his breathing, echoing throughout the stone room around them, reflecting their pain back on them. There was a bruise on his cheek she was careful to avoid touching as she kissed his temple. “I’m sorry.” 

He didn’t reply. 

Gandra stayed in the cell as long as she could get away with, curled up next to him on the cold stone floor for hours. They lay there in silence, clinging to the quiet company. Gandra was only able to touch his shoulder, everywhere else looked too painful.

They were moving him tomorrow to a cell suspended over the city’s main square, to be jeered at by the crowd passing below. A box too small for him, specifically designed to trigger his claustrophobia. This was the last moment she’d get with him.