Archive of Our Own

Rain drummed on the canvas roof of the command tent, the ground turning muddy underfoot as water seeped up and spread, three days of incessant storms taking their toll. He should be glad, he'd been told, that it wasn't hurricane season. Yet.

"And don't think we're going to pack up and go home when that happens," Colonel Whitman had growled at him just that morning, one blunt finger jabbing at the map of Wutai spread out on the central table, prodding unit markers around the board. "We'll just dig in and wait it out--so if you've got any brilliant ideas, General, now's the time to be putting them to work."

He didn't, though. Have any brilliant ideas. The ideas he had were straight from the textbook, and though they were satisfactory after their fashion, they were far below what was expected of him. Hojo would be--

Sephiroth stilled his hands, his fingers' restless turning of a marker that had been removed from the board. Staring through the open tent flaps, he watched the rain come down in sheets, took in the tired sway of canvas in the grey and blue world outside, the few soldiers he could see huddled up and miserable. The rain was supposed to break tomorrow, but that made no difference to the fighting happening this very minute. Fighting he'd given the orders for himself.

He didn't know why it didn't feel natural that he wasn't there to see those orders carried out, but dissatisfaction was a constant prickle at the back of his mind. He should be out there, not sequestered in a tent as if they thought he'd run.

They'd released him practically in the heart of Wutai, after all. Where did he have to run to?

He blinked back to the present as a broad shape blocked the view of their half-drowned encampment, Colonel Whitman ducking inside with water streaming from his helmet and shoulders, harsh features grim with annoyance. "Fucking rain," the man grumbled, pulling his helmet off and shaking it with a grimace, a patter of droplets falling to the floor. "If I die out here, I want you to ship my body to the Gold Saucer area. As a favor, General."

Sephiroth considered that in silence for a moment before nodding. "That shouldn't be a problem. I heard that you're from Midgar, though."

The Colonel's startled look made him regret his words. Obviously he'd said something unexpected, perhaps inappropriate. It was hard to know what was permissible with the men technically under his command; if he treated them too formally, they complained that he was overconfident, that he gave himself airs. When he attempted to bridge the gap, however, either his youth made them disrespectful or he found himself talking at cross-purposes, never quite in step with the conversation as they understood it.

"Born and bred," Whitman said with an uncomfortable grin. "Never mind. Just tell me you've got something I can use out there; they're bringing up reinforcements at points Fifty-Six and One-Thirteen, and the last thing we need is our eastern flank collapsing."

Eyes dropping again to the map table, Sephiroth felt the tugging of a headache as his brow creased in a frown. 'Reinforcements' only told him so much; he couldn't picture the land from looking at a map, couldn't know how strong or skilled the men at his command would be from a dry list of numbers. He couldn't know war from the pages in a book or from inside a tent.

"I don't belong here," he said without thinking, wondering if everyone had moments like this, hovering on the verge of some understanding greater than the sum of what you knew.

"Hm," Whitman said slowly, noncommittal but reserved. "Giving up already?"

That dragged his eyes up again, surprise lifting his brows. "No. I meant that I don't belong here. In a tent. I should be out there."

"You're a valuable resource," the Colonel reminded him, though without the emphasis Hojo or the President would have used.

"With little experience," Sephiroth countered, taking refuge in fact. "I need to learn. I can't do that from in here."

Whitman was silent for a moment longer, giving him a considering look Sephiroth couldn't interpret. No stranger to measuring glances, he held Whitman's eyes steadily as he waited for the verdict, though part of him was beginning to wonder whether he should push. They hadn't brought him here merely to plan. They'd brought him here to command.

"All right, sir," the Colonel said at last, "we'll try it your way. But if you're going to go slogging across Wutai like the rest of us, you're going to need legs."

Puzzled, Sephiroth contemplated that odd turn of phrase and decided it made no sense at all. "Legs?"

Whitman couldn't quite stifle a groan.

"Don't tell me they didn't teach you how to ride."

His talons shredded the earth as he dodged and spun, a green crackle like cold lightning missing him by a feather's breadth. Hemmed in by the largest pack of wingless he'd ever seen mustered in these mountains, he found himself checked at every turn, their machines churning the air above him, their sheer numbers on the ground making up for their lack of speed or skill.

They also had the blood of the Planet with them, and if it weren't for that, he might yet have escaped.

Another sizzle of power, a second burst coming fast on its heels, and he jumped, flared his wings for a brief moment of near-flight and snapped them back to fall like a stone, legs pistoning as he threw himself sideways just in time to avoid a lasso. He knew they didn't want him dead, but that was worse. He didn't want to be caught. He wanted his freedom.

Avoiding another noose distracted him from the hiss of magic that caught him from behind, his vision going black as if someone had thrown a wing across his eyes. It terrified him that they could strike him blind at will, though the panic was less than the first time it had happened. He couldn't run now, but he could still fight; if he kept his head and held out long enough, the blindness would wear off. This time he'd be canny about it, pretend to still be sightless, and hope they'd misjudge him enough to let him run.

If he could just force his way out of their circle, they'd never catch him again.

Hearing their shouts ringing in every direction, he laid about him with beak and talons, daring anything to approach. Some of the wingless hunted him mounted, but he hardened his heart against the shrill, nervous whistles of his brethren, certain they would understand and forgive. Even the farm-bred had pride.

Though he heard the next spell coming, he couldn't duck it in time. It hit him like a kick between the eyes, disorienting him and leaving him stumbling as his talons touched earth again. For a moment he thought they'd decided he was too much trouble, that they'd killed him in revenge, and he almost didn't mind the weakness in his legs, the heavy lethargy that sent him crashing to the ground, neck stretched out in a helpless curve across the grass. He only wished their next victim better luck.

Voices babbled nearer as the world slipped away, the wingless tongue mostly incomprehensible to him, but the voices of his kin were ominously silent. They didn't know his name so they couldn't sing him on, but even the unknown dead deserved some respect. Blinking tiredly as the blindness wore off at last, he saw a silent ring of yellows staring back at him with sad, grim eyes, the truth coming home to him at last. The wingless hadn't killed him. They'd only found some new way to trap him, without ropes or nets or stinging darts.

They won't keep me, he promised himself as sleep crept up to claim him. They won't--

But as everything went dark once more, he found himself very much afraid that they would.

Sitting his mount with casual ease, Colonel Piper looked out across the rolling hills of Wutai's lowlands and breathed in the crisp scent of the breeze coming off the mountains. A week of rain had washed everything clean, and the clear, sunny days that followed had baked the earth hard again, thin shoots of new grass already pushing up where mudslides had changed the face of the land. Not that it mattered to them. A good man on a good bird didn't need a road; a direction would do.

Kveldulf warned him with a rolling click of tongue against beak, the dusty black's crest lifting with a desultory flick as a messenger sprinted up on his near side. A lone man on foot was hardly worth getting excited about.

"Sir! Colonel Piper, sir! You're wanted on Landing Point," the soldier said, panting a little while sketching a belated salute.

"Thank you, trooper," Piper said gravely, inclining his head a fraction. "What's the word, then?"

"They didn't tell me anything, sir," the runner said with an uncertain shrug, "but I think it's about the chocobo Headquarters sent for the new general."

Sleipnir help them. Someone had finally gotten around to sending the boy a parade mount, from the sound of it, something flashy that'd bolt at the first hint of fighting. Not that he expected their so-called general to see much of that. What those fools in Midgar meant by sending a boy into battle was beyond him, especially a lad as quiet as that Sephiroth. He looked like the bookish sort, or else he'd had the spirit beaten out of him proper; knowing what he did of that vulture Hojo, Piper strongly suspected the latter.

Too quiet, too sober for his youth, with the sort of face no sporting man should ever see looking back at him over a hand of cards--it was a damned pity, was all Piper could say. Maybe having a bird to coddle would put some life back in the boy, assuming Sephiroth took an interest in the beastie at all.

Really, a damned pity.

"All right, then. Carry on," he said, trying not to sigh too obviously at what was sure to come. The finest cavalry division in what was left of the old army, and here they were, delivery boys shooed off to bring a new pet to a boy soldier. It was enough to make the Valkyries weep.

Kveldulf turned under him to the pressure of leg, loping downhill with swinging, unhurried strides. The Flying Chocobos preferred to make camp away from the main force, claiming it was for the comfort of their birds, but a man didn't last long with the Chocobos if he didn't prefer being left to his own devices. Approaching the clutter of tents, trucks and troops, Piper smoothed away a frown, felt his chocobo's businesslike stride become a fancy, high-stepping swagger without being asked for it. They were Colonel Piper and Kveldulf, and it was in their own best interests if they looked the part.

"Colonel Piper," someone called as they approached the chocobo pens, and Piper had to erase another frown when he saw the wrangler waiting for him. Shultz was known for always roping his target, even if it took a full battery of materia to do it. The chocobos he brought in were always outstandingly fine, but half of them were spooked useless for anything but breeding. "Over here."

"Mr. Shultz," Piper greeted the man cautiously, allowing a hint of stiffness to creep into his tone. "I wasn't aware you'd sent for me."

"Just the messenger," Shultz said modestly, though his crooked smile included Piper in that equation as well. "The guys upstairs have a delivery they want made to the star general, and they figure you're the only man who can do it."

"Is that so?" He wasn't sure he cared to know why his name had come up; just how terrorized had this new bird been, and what horrible joke were they playing on the boy meant to ride it?

"That's what I told them, anyway," Shultz said with an edged smile, "right before I washed my hands of this demon. Good luck, Colonel; I may have bagged the thing, but breaking it to saddle is your problem."

Taken aback by the man's tone, Piper said nothing as the other man turned sharply on his heel, ignoring the bustle of camp as he stalked away until a shrill, defiant whistle put a hitch in the man's stride. Schultz wasn't afraid of any bird, but it wasn't respect that hunched the wrangler's shoulders with defeat.

Staring after the man, Piper stroked his own bird's neck with an absent hand, fingers digging into the soft mass of grey-edged black feathers. The contact usually calmed him, helped him think, but not today. The rigid arch of Kveldulf's neck snapped his attention back to his bird, and he found the chocobo staring intently across the length of the pens to a small enclosure that had been set aside for a single mount.

"Is that him, Ulf?" he asked, shifting in the saddle and trying to catch a glimpse of the infamous creature through the heavy planks that walled it in. Kveldulf made a scratchy sound deep in his throat but shook himself a moment later, padding forward without hesitation and picking his way through the flock to reach the lone chocobo that waited for them. Black, Piper noticed; the new bird was black, though he couldn't tell what shade or how solid until they were almost on top of the creature, and then--

Ebon without a hint of red or grey, the bird was an inky statue whose feathers rippled with an oily, blue-green sheen when it moved, true black like Piper hadn't seen in years. Massive, power and speed in every line, the new-caught chocobo would be a mounted soldier's dream if it lived up to even half its promise. If anyone could ride it, that is. Judging by all the trouble Shultz had gone through to keep the bird, Piper wouldn't wager a shed feather on it.

Hobbled with so little slack it was a wonder the black hadn't fallen over yet, the bird stood hooded like a hawk, head jerking towards each sudden noise with predatory swiftness. As if the hobbles, the hood, and the high walls weren't enough, they'd double-tied it as well, lead ropes pegged into the ground with thick wooden stakes. Wild as a phoenix, this one, and no wonder.

"Good gods, that's a chocobo," the Colonel breathed devoutly, feeling a touch of guilt for admiring another from the back of his own mount. Kveldulf seemed to agree, eyeing his cousin with a dubiousness that left Piper oddly chagrined. There was a definite pecking order in any flock, and he got the feeling that if it came right down to it, his own bird might come out just a little behind. "I suppose it can't be helped," he muttered to himself, "seeing as you're meant for General Sephiroth, and all."

It was still odd to refer to the lad as a general, though he'd obviously had the schooling for it. Sharp as a whip, that boy, but warfare required more than a good head for tactics. A general wanted courage, the force of will to lead men into danger. Even if Sephiroth managed to acquire those things, there was something about him that didn't sit right with a man. His coolness in the face of everything that was thrown at him, his blind willingness to follow orders from above without question or comment...it almost didn't seem human, and the men wouldn't stand for that for long. Perhaps that was why they were keeping the boy away from the thick of things. Only from the looks of it, all that was about to change.

This was no parade mount, a pretty bit of fluff and feathers; this was a warbird, bred to the bone. Apparently the command tents were no longer large enough to contain their fledgling general.

"Poor old son," Piper said with a sigh, shaking his head at the hooded black. "You've got your work cut out for you, you do. First they pull you out of the wild, and then they give you to a boy who's probably never even seen a chocobo up close--and he's like to get himself killed with you under him the way they've ruined the lad. They've got no use for spirit, not from the likes of us, my friend. But maybe you'll be a good influence on him, hey?"

The bird almost appeared to be listening to him, and though part of him was convinced it was pure wishful thinking, the superstitious side every rider worth his salt possessed conquered embarrassment every time. He had no other explanation for how Kveldulf sometimes seemed to know his mind better than he did himself, and any of his riders would say the same of their own birds with enough drink in them to loosen their tongues.

He always felt a strange reluctance to dismount, the feel of earth under his feet disconcerting until he took a few steps to reaccustom himself to it. Approaching the fence, he paused before slipping through the slats, watching the big chocobo's head swivel to track him unerringly. "Easy, lad," he said, stopping at a respectful distance, not quite close enough to be kicked or slashed with that wicked beak. The way they had the bird hobbled and tied, that'd just be cruel, tempting the black to attack--and fail--or barging in under his guard when the poor beastie couldn't enforce it if he wanted to.

Inky wings shivered at his nearness regardless, but the black stood poised just on the edge of motion, perfectly still. Piper shook his head with an admiring sigh.

"That idiot Shultz doesn't know a damned thing about riding," he announced, not coming any closer, letting the black get used to him being there. "There's no 'breaking' about it. Not going to try riding you either, my lad; the way I see it, if you're meant for the boy, you'll have yourself a rider fair and square. And if you're not, then Sleipnir speed you, son, because I'm not going to chase you back. There's too few like you left in the world.

"Too few of any of us," he added wistfully, not so much talking to the bird anymore; it was just that the birds spilled no secrets. "It's an ugly thing, son, to watch things die like this. If it's not the war, then it's the reactors, and the gods know what they're doing in Midgar to make boys like Sephiroth and those SOLDIERs. We're better off running, you and I, only soon enough, there'll be nowhere left to run; they'll have stripped it bare, and that'll be the end of us."

The black hadn't relaxed, not quite, but stood with his head cocked in a clear listening stance, patient as only a chocobo could be with a man's foolish ramblings.

"Well. I know what's expected of me; they think I'm going to saddle you up while you're trussed like a turkey for the spit and ride you into the ground, hand you over in a week with all the fight taken out of you. Isn't that right?" He had to laugh out loud at the sheer foolishness of it, because he was Colonel Piper, and he commanded the only double division in the entire mite-ridden army, his birds as tough and as loyal as his men. "I'll saddle you, at any rate, because if you don't like the looks of our young general, I doubt anyone will get close enough to do it twice. But that sack they've got on you has to go."

Stepping up slow and calm, he didn't flinch as he heard his own bird whistle sharply at his back. Reaching up one-handed, he tugged at the buckles pulling the dark hood tight to the black's head. The bird's neck stiffened, beak tilting up as if preparing to slash at his eyes, but he kept crooning low under his breath, "Easy, boy, that's a lad...you want this thing off, don't you? There you go, son, there you go...."

Crest stiffening in warning, the bird shook himself free as Piper was pulling the hood off, and though he'd meant to back away as carefully as he'd advanced, when he looked up and met fierce gold eyes, he forgot to move at all for a long, breathless moment. "Good gods," he muttered again, struck by that stare, all the wildness and brilliance and heart of every bird he'd ever admired staring back at him, caged but uncowed. In that moment he hated Shinra more than he'd ever hated anything, hated himself for not having the sense or the stomach to let this creature go. They'd find Sephiroth another. It'd matter to no one but him.

"I'm truly sorry for this," he said, his voice as pained as the ache behind his ribs. "Just try not to kill him if you have to run, lad. They'd shoot you where you stood for certain."

Even Kveldulf seemed subdued when he mounted again, ready to go find a saddle and muster his men for the masque he was about to put on, ready to find a boy general who wouldn't have the faintest clue that he was about to be offered up as a sacrifice. The odd thing was, as much as he'd like to see the black escape, he still found himself hoping Sephiroth would surprise him. The boy clearly needed something, and maybe this bundle of fierce pride and spirit would be it.

He hesitated at the fence, meeting watchful gold eyes as he gathered up the reins.

"I'll tell the lad your name is Draugr," he heard himself say, having no clue where the name had come from...but then again, he never did. It wasn't something any rider ever questioned.

Draugr tested the new name he'd been given as he watched the strange wingless ride off, finding it not half as dissonant as he might have expected. It had something of the trill of his nest-name, the name his father had given him, but that was hardly the only shock he'd had from the man. Since his capture, he'd found he could decipher bits and fragments of wingless speech, mostly when they were in the grip of some strong emotion: anger or fear, for instance. That one, the rider of the bird now called Kveldulf, had spoken to him in a way he could understand, the sounds he made only there to give wings to meaning. He hadn't realized the wingless could do that.

He hadn't realized that not all birds who suffered a rider did so from fear or lack of spirit.

"Don't move," Kveldulf had warned him with an edgy whistle, fierce and heavy with threat. "My rider's trying to help you; hurt him, and the ravens will be lining their nests with your feathers."

"What are you--?" he'd begun to ask, but then he'd felt a tug on the fastenings of that hated hood. Pride had forced him still, suspecting that bound as he was, even a farm-bred yellow could do him a shameful amount of damage. He'd been reeling still over being able to understand the wingless at all, and when he'd looked down into those sad blue eyes--

Him too, he found himself thinking, wondering if anything about the world was the way he'd assumed. They caught him too.

And now he was to be...given to some boy, some fledgling wingless Kveldulf's rider worried about, pitied, but not so much that he'd hand the fledgling Draugr's freedom. It made no sense at all.

You've got your work cut out for you, Kveldulf's rider had said, and Draugr wondered incredulously how anything to do with any of the wingless could possibly matter to him after what they'd done; why would he lift a talon to help one of them?

He rattled his wings uneasily, shifted carefully in the hobbles, and settled himself down to wait. He'd look at the boy first, he decided. He wanted to see the face of the creature for whom he'd been taken from home and flock and everything he knew.

If they were going to kill him anyway--and that was the one thing he had understood from the man who'd caught him and tied him here, that if he ran, he was dead--he wanted to know who had killed him.

Sephiroth looked up as a man slipped inside the command tent, but that was for politeness' sake. He'd heard the sentries outside snap their salutes, the officer's gruff: "At ease, lads," and knew already who to expect. Colonel Piper brought with him fully half the army's intelligence, his reports delivered in an oddly pleasant drawl that was a strange mix of formality and familiarity.

A lean man in his late thirties, the Colonel always looked surprisingly neat and well-groomed for someone who slept under the stars with his bird more often than not. His dark hair was already going grey at the temples, but his eyes were cool and clear, as far-sighted as one of his chocobos. Sephiroth had never seen the man grow excited over anything, never lifting his voice no matter what provocation he was given. Despite the reputation for unflappability, he and his men carried out their orders with a flair that was the envy of the rest of the army, and open slots in the ranks of the Flying Chocobos never stayed empty long.

"Ah, General," Piper said by way of greeting, touching two fingers to his brow in an odd gesture it took Sephiroth a moment to decipher. Really, it needed a hat. "Just the person I wanted to see. It looks like you ordered some legs, son; do you have a moment to come try them out?"

"Yes," he said, putting down his pen and closing the folder on the supply request he'd been tallying up. As he rose to his feet, he cast the Colonel a considering glance and asked, "Do you have a request for remounts before I send that in?"

"Remounts, General?" Piper asked, arching a puzzled brow. "Not in my division; my boys already have their own. We rotate them, see," he added when Sephiroth said nothing, "so no one bird gets worn out too quick. Why?" he asked at last. "Has someone been pulling your chain about the birds?"

"I just wondered," Sephiroth replied as he ducked out of the tent, "why they sent me one from Midgar when there are plenty of chocobos here."

"Well, I wouldn't say they sent this one from Midgar," Piper drawled with a faint smile, a certain glitter in his eye. It looked like admiration on the surface, but there seemed to be undercurrents Sephiroth didn't quite know how to decipher. "He's a fine piece of work, though, General; just wait until you get a look at him. Name's Draugr."

Sephiroth frowned at that, memory teasing him. That was the language of the Ancients, wasn't it? A...phantom, a ghost, or the walking dead. It seemed an odd name for someone's mount. Perhaps it'd be a broken-down creature of bone and feathers, something that wouldn't take him very far from the watchful eyes in these tents.

"I see."

He didn't know what to make of Piper's sidelong look, worried and a little strained, so he ignored it. Piper was at least polite in testing his authority, and Sephiroth wouldn't presume to tell the man anything about chocobos; they weren't his expertise.

They didn't have far to walk, just down to Landing Point and a little ways past the regular chocobo pens. He wasn't sure what it meant that the Flying Chocobos were already waiting for him there, gathered in a tight circle around something in their midst. It had to be the chocobo he'd been commissioned, but a living wall of troops, feathers, and long legs shielded the bird from sight.

"Now, I don't know if you've ever ridden before, General," Piper was saying as they approached, "but the trick to getting on and staying on a chocobo is don't kick the wings, and be ready to hold on. Bird's going to bounce you right into place the minute you hit the saddle, and if you're not ready for it, you're going to go right over his head. After that, just grip with your legs and try to listen to what the bird's telling you--I mean his body language, son. I never did get much out of 'wark' and 'kweh' myself."

Sephiroth nodded once, wishing he'd had more time to seek out training. He had the notion that riding a chocobo took as much practice and skill as riding a motorcycle, perhaps more; he'd seen troopers take spills off of both, and while the motorcycles often involved greater speeds, a motorcycle wouldn't wheel around to peck or kick you for good measure. The idea that he'd set himself up to look a fool wasn't a pleasant one. Hojo would be--

He tightened his jaw, lifted his chin. If he kept his wits about him, Hojo would have nothing to complain about.

"Well, sir?" Piper asked as they stood outside the circle of chocobos. "Are you ready to meet your new ride?"

"Yes," he said, steeling himself to see how bad it was without reacting. If they'd sent him something useless, he'd already decided to take matters into his own hands. If they didn't want a general, they should never have given him the rank.

When two birds parted just enough to let him slip through, he did so with his head held high, ready for anything.

He wasn't prepared to be confronted with an immense black chocobo that looked like something off a propaganda poster, flashing-eyed and pacing like a caged beast, crest stiffened in what he could only assume was meant to be threat or extreme displeasure. He'd only ever seen those feathers lying smooth before.

Taking a few more steps away from the silent ring at his back, he stopped when he judged himself far enough away from his audience to not look afraid, far enough from the chocobo to be in no immediate danger from its talons or beak, its greater mass. He would undoubtedly be stronger, but he'd never fought a chocobo before. Somehow it had never come up in the lab.

Still, the creature was very striking, very...fine, as Colonel Piper would say. Sephiroth had never seen its like, and something made him keep still, not entirely out of caution. Its strength and power as it moved were on blatant display, but under that was a grace he'd rarely seen, a fitness and a rightness to its movements that was a kind of...pleasure to watch.

How strange. He wished he had someone he could ask about that, whether it was his lack of experience making too much out of something commonplace for others.

After a moment the bird stopped pacing, stopping in its tracks to look at him with great golden eyes, wary and watchful. Caged.

He knew that look, though the thought, like the expression these days, never made it to his face. It occurred to him slowly that he was the one who had, all unknowing, infected another creature with that look when he'd made a simple request for a riding beast. He had forgotten that things were rarely simple at all.

He needed 'legs,' but not this badly.

"Colonel Piper," he said without looking behind him, pitching his voice to carry without shouting.

"Yes, General?"

"Pull your men back."

"Sir?"

Sephiroth allowed himself a tiny smile, imagining the look of shock on Piper's face.

"That's an order," he said calmly without taking his eyes off the riderless bird before him. Someone had gotten a saddle and a bridle on the beast, but chocobos were said to be endlessly ingenious about getting out of traps and snares. He doubted Shinra-issue tack would cause the bird much trouble.

"Yes, sir," Piper said after a moment, some odd mix of incredulity and pleasure turning his voice gruff. "You heard the General, boys; fall back."

Like shadows, the circle of yellow and rose, green and blue, melted near-soundlessly away, leaving nothing between the black and freedom. Sephiroth arched a brow when all it did was stand there, until at last he shrugged.

"Go if you're going," he told it, a heartbeat from turning in the other direction and walking away.

Before he could move, the chocobo beat him to it, but it started walking towards him rather than bolting for escape.

Watching the beast in puzzlement, he tried to read its stiff posture, the way its flared crest relaxed to a still-bristling half-mast, but he didn't know enough about chocobos to guess what any of it meant. He knew the birds were used in battle, not just on scouting expeditions and as transportation over rough terrain, but he wasn't certain what their fighting postures looked like. Levrikons, he knew, snaked their necks out and flared their wings, but they were carnivores, resembling chocobos only superficially. He didn't know how far the mimicry went.

He did suspect that taking a threatening stance himself would only antagonize the bird if it meant no harm, so he stood perfectly still, relaxed, and waited for what would happen next.

Draugr hadn't been pleased about having the wingless' ugly tack strapped to him, but he'd submitted to the indignity with the understanding that he wouldn't be allowed out of the pen without it. He hadn't enjoyed being trapped in a circle of his fellows, either--fine birds, all of them, who would have bought their lives dearly if it'd been worth it to fight. They'd have crippled him eventually, but he'd have done it for pride's sake if he'd truly believed in the possibility of escape. But lurking just past their ranks, he'd seen the very group that had brought him down, the man that Kveldulf's rider had called Shultz fitting a red globe into a band of metal on one arm. They'd caught him once, but this time he imagined they'd be aiming to kill.

He hadn't known what to expect when he heard Kveldulf's rider approaching, speaking with someone who answered in terse fragments, brief words Draugr could understand as clearly as the other man's. He hadn't heard enough of the wingless to be able to guess for certain, but the other's voice sounded lighter, younger; this might be the fledgling who'd set those hunters after him, had him brought here.

When the ring of birds briefly parted, it was to let in a boy as unlike his fellows as Draugr was to a farm-bred yellow.

All the wingless looked strange to Draugr, but there was something oddly unfinished about this one that told him the boy was tall, not grown. There was almost no color to the fledgling at all; he was pale, silver-maned and dressed in black, but he had the slit green eyes of a hunting cat, and that was strange even for one of the wingless. Flat to begin with, his features were curiously still, not contorted into any of the exaggerated grimaces the wingless tended to make. All he did was stand there, calm in the face of Draugr's aggressive display. Draugr barely knew what to make of him.

Though it unnerved him, the silver wingless' calm spread eventually to him as well. It seemed foolish to pace out his defiance before someone who only watched him without puffing up or circling him in return. Bracing himself to move if it turned out to be a trick, he stopped at last to match the boy stare for stare and saw something in those strange beast-eyes that threw him into confusion. The boy had started out by eyeing him as if he'd never seen a chocobo before. Why did he now look like he understood?

Colonel Piper, said the boy--Kveldulf's rider had called him Sephiroth--tone as relaxed as his posture.

Yes, General?

Pull your men back, Sephiroth told him, and Draugr felt something odd shiver just under his feathers.

Sir? Kveldulf's rider asked, sounding as surprised as Draugr felt. The boy couldn't mean--

But the boy's face had twisted just slightly, and even Draugr could hear the grim amusement in his tone when next he spoke. That's an order.

Yes, sir. You heard the General, boys; fall back.

And all at once there was nothing between him and freedom, nothing but the certainty that if he made that dash for escape, he'd go down fighting after all. And while that would be a fine death, a fitting song to end his name, he had the nagging feeling that it would be the act of a coward.

It was a puzzle he didn't understand. The boy had him; did Sephiroth really intend to let him--

Go if you're going, the boy said, and Draugr found his legs after all.

And went to the boy, step by uncertain step.

It was madness, he told himself. This was one of the wingless; they were incomprehensible, unknowable. He'd be a fool to read finer feelings into that unexpected gesture, the offer of his freedom, if it'd truly been an offer and not some terrible game the wingless were playing with him. But the boy didn't come to meet him, didn't reach for him when Draugr halted at last right in front of him, did nothing but watch him with those strange eyes that looked as unsure of what was happening as Draugr felt.

They stared at each other for a long moment, Draugr cocking his head as he watched the boy's uncertainty fade, replaced by curiosity. Perhaps Sephiroth hadn't seen a chocobo before. And they were giving the boy to him?

"Well?" Kveldulf asked from somewhere over Sephiroth's shoulder, and Draugr's eyes snapped up warily to meet the off-black's amused stare. "Are you going to see if the boy can ride or not?"

Draugr dropped his eyes to Sephiroth's once more, a shiver of mischief ruffling through his wings.

That sounded like a wonderful idea.

"Sir?" Dickens asked on his left, and Piper raised his hand with a beatific smile, cutting the man off.

"Now, son. Let's not interrupt," he said, sitting back with real pleasure to watch the show. Clearly he'd underestimated the boy. That was fine; he was man enough to admit it. No...it went rather deeper than that. When Sephiroth had ordered the lot of them back, he'd seen in that moment someone he'd be proud to follow, youth and book-blinkered lack of experience and all. Maybe there was still some spirit left in the boy after all, enough to recognize a fellow detainee, at least. If the bird had flown after that, he'd have lost all faith in gods and men.

But the black was still here, still waiting for the boy to make a move, and after all this, Sephiroth was going to get in that saddle if Piper had to boost the boy up there himself.

"Go on," he called when Sephiroth continued to hesitate, not out of nerves, he suspected, but from not knowing what cues he should be looking for. "Climb on up, sir. Just remember what I told you about the wings."

Sephiroth nodded once before moving around to the bird's side, considering the problem of height and distance like a question of mathematics. He seemed to realize at once that stirrups alone weren't going to get him up there. Bracing his hands at pommel and cantle, he glanced once at Draugr, who was watching him with a jaunty lift to his crest an experienced rider wouldn't have trusted at all.

Vaulting into the saddle with unexpected grace, he managed to miss catching his boot on Draugr's wing as he threw a leg over. Twisting with the ease of a cat, he settled for a perfect landing, Draugr shrugging him into place as if the black had carried a rider before.

Sephiroth hadn't quite managed to gather up the reins when Draugr decided to move.

Bounding suddenly to the right, the black landed with a jarring bounce that immediately took him airborne, spinning like a top. If there'd been enemies beneath him and any talon involved in that, there'd have been soldiers in bad shape underfoot, blinded or bleeding out. Sephiroth looked startled at the maneuver, but he clung to the saddle like a burr, not quite as surprised when Draugr hit the ground and did it again. It was a good thing they'd pulled back, Piper thought as he watched the black at work; with that kind of room to move, Draugr was sheer poetry. No wonder Shultz had walked away from this one; there was no way that idiot could have captured a bird like this without materia, and materia was no help at all in the saddle. That took guts and skill, two things Shultz lacked in abundance.

Who would have thought that Shinra's boy general would have enough for the both of them?

Draugr was a whirling black dervish, tireless and never still, but as Sephiroth continued to stick with the bird, he seemed to almost relax. It might not have looked like much to the casual eye, but Piper spotted the change the exact moment Sephiroth figured out how to move with his mount by the change in his seat. He was letting his knees do the work now, learning to feel the weightless hole in the pit of his stomach as his bird pivoted in midair, knowing exactly where they would come down and where Draugr would launch himself next. He'd wager Draugr could feel the difference too; the wicked spark didn't entirely fade from yellow eyes, but it lightened until it was barely noticeable at all.

When Sephiroth gave a light tug on the reins, Draugr listened, spinning to a halt that kicked up a whirlwind of dust all around them.

"Now, that's the stuff, General," Piper called with a grin as whistles broke out all around him--from the men, not the birds. Draugr flung his head up in patent affront, wings beating the air as he whistled right back at them, high and piercing and letting all of them know what was what. A hand on Draugr's neck calmed the bird right down, amazingly enough; Piper hadn't been sure the boy had it in him to be affectionate, but he was more than happy to have been proved wrong twice.

If Kveldulf minded giving up his spot at the head of the flock, Piper couldn't feel it in his bird's relaxed stance.

Colonel Whitman gave him an odd look later when the man had to track him down in the makeshift stable behind the command tent that night, gave him an odder look when he had to wait for Colonel Piper to finish explaining the finer points of grooming a creature with feathers, but the man said not a word, even when he had to give his report while Sephiroth was still brushing. Sephiroth didn't like trying to guess what others were thinking, realizing all too well how often he was wrong, but he could see the thought Whitman was trying not to voice as plain as day.

It was true; they did have people to do this sort of work. Only Sephiroth didn't intend to spend much time in places where grooms and stable hands would be readily available, and he'd been taught to care for all his weapons himself.

Besides...once he started, he realized the process was unexpectedly...soothing.

He wasn't sure what to make of Colonel Piper, who was standing around with his arms crossed over his chest and an grin plastered across his face. He was merely grateful that the man was willing to give him the training he needed, and he always preferred to learn from the best.

Draugr gave an odd trill as he worked his way up the bird's neck, and Sephiroth's brush hand hesitated, uncertain what to make of the sound.

"Try scratching under the feathers just at the base of the skull," Piper offered, smile turning fond and oddly nostalgic.

Switching the soft-bristled brush to his right hand, Sephiroth reached up and did as he was told, a little surprised to realize how warm and thick the feathers were. Draugr trilled again, the sound unexpectedly content, and a thin inner lid Sephiroth had never noticed before draped itself across the eye he could see.

"They do that when they're happy," Piper explained without being asked, unfolding his arms to hook his thumbs in his belt. "A chocobo's a pretty friendly thing, son; there's a lot of heart in these birds, enough loyalty to put a dog to shame. He's mostly going to tell you what he's feeling if you learn to listen. Might try talking to him, while you're at it. I know Kveldulf's heard more of my troubles than my own mother has...of course, I see more of him anyway."

Sephiroth blinked at the man, uncertain. Talk to his chocobo? He remembered hearing jokes made about one of the scientists who talked to both her plants and her white mice; he'd assumed there was something wrong with the habit, foolish or perhaps shameful. Only Piper had been right about everything else....

"Do I have to do it in public?" he asked, willing enough but wanting to know the boundaries.

Piper's laugh was startled, but the words that followed it were sympathetic, their tone an odd sort of promise.

"What a man says to his chocobo is between him and the gods," Piper assured him solemnly. "The birds don't spill any secrets."

"I suppose not," Sephiroth agreed, examining the curious tilt to Draugr's head with interest. It was an odd concept, the idea of airing his frustrations aloud, pretending there was someone to listen. Draugr seemed intent enough on him when he spoke; the illusion was a good one.

"Well. I'll leave you two to get acquainted, General. Give me a shout if you have any questions, and I'll see to it someone brings by greens for the lad in the morning."

"Thank you, Colonel," Sephiroth replied, pausing in his scratching to watch the man go. He regretted being suspicious of Piper earlier, but he'd learned people didn't like it when he apologized for such things. He'd simply have to learn to trust the man better, that was all.

Once Piper had gone, Sephiroth turned back to Draugr with a frown, finding the bird watching him almost expectantly. "I don't know what to say," he admitted after a moment, finding it unexpectedly frustrating. "I'm...not used to talking, I suppose; I give orders, or I make reports. I don't imagine you require either."

Draugr made a questioning noise, half a "wark," and Sephiroth shook his head.

"It's pathetic, really...they expect me to win a war for them, and I can't even talk to a bird. What are they going to do with me in peacetime? They could shoot me, I suppose, but it'd be a waste of funding." He trailed off helplessly, eyes fixed on a future he couldn't even imagine, left hand stroking mindlessly over velvet-soft feathers. Draugr just watched him, gold eyes bright, crooning deep and low in his chest.

Sephiroth blinked back to the present a moment later, looked up and gave the bird a final pat, wondering if a smile was supposed to have any effect on the process. On the one hand, it seemed rather foolish; on the other hand, he'd managed to find his tongue after all, and it did make him feel...curiously lighter.

"Well. Perhaps there's hope for me yet."

The next time Kveldulf saw Draugr, they were gathering to show Draugr's rider what a scouting mission was all about. The silver wingless was a surprisingly good fit in the saddle, Kveldulf had to admit, but it was Draugr who showed the real change, the wildness in him not tamed but focused. Already those two moved like one being, and that told him plenty; he couldn't resist asking anyway, just to make sure.

Shultz the Butcher was gone, after all, sent away to haunt other ranges, hopefully to die in the mouth of something unpleasant. Even a true-black like Draugr couldn't cross the deep waters of the ocean, but there were other flocks; if he chose to run now, he could live a long, happy life if the wingless left anything behind after their senseless fighting. No one here doubted that Sephiroth would let him go.

"So?" he asked as his rider and Draugr's met at the head of the column, Piper explaining the terrain they'd be crossing while Sephiroth devoured every word with a hunger to learn that was almost frightening. "You staying?"

Gold eyes slid his way as Draugr flicked his crest sharply. "I'm staying," he agreed, and the fierceness there wasn't resentment; it was possession. Draugr had a rider, and nothing in the world would take the boy from him now.

"That's the stuff," Kveldulf said, laughing when Sephiroth reached to smooth Draugr's ruffled feathers without thinking.

Those two were going to be an excellent match.