Fragment III - Anchored

“Sing for me, my little songbird.”
 
Many things can rot passion.
 
It does not always die loudly. Sometimes it simply bends, reshaped by expectation, until what once felt like flight becomes performance.
 
When he was enslaved, he found quiet rebellion in the music he was forced to give. They could dictate the hour, the tempo, the applause – but the breath was his. The tremble beneath certain notes was his. The slight delay before a chorus, the soft swell where none was requested – those were his.
 
For a time.
 
But the song is tainted now. It carries memory in every measure. Every melody echoes of silk chains and watchful eyes.
 
And Songbird doesn’t know if he wants to sing again.
 
~*~*~*~*~*~
 
“You saved me. You could’ve saved him.”
 
It was the first time someone had spoken to him so directly without lacing the words in blame or orders.
 
The astral elf’s voice had been quiet. Sad. Heavy with something like regret. But not accusation.
 
Songbird had braced himself anyway. His shoulders had drawn tight, wings pressed instinctively against his back as though awaiting a blow that never came.
 
Fynn had looked at him as if he were a person – not a malfunctioning tool. His gaze held something else: recognition.
 
As though Songbird had chosen.
As though his choice had mattered.
 
No one had ever allowed him that before.
 
~*~*~*~*~*~
 
“Stop them!”
 
Obedience lives deep in his bones. It is older than memory, stitched into him – thread pulled tight through skin and marrow.
 
At the time, he had been terrified – of being caught, of being dragged back, of the sharp crack of consequences. Running was not allowed. Running meant suffering.
 
And then Armitage had thrown him over his shoulder – decisive and unyielding – as if he weighed nothing at all.
 
The world had lurched and jostled as the Giff ran, but Songbird did not struggle.
 
He despaired.
 
Because running was not allowed.
 
And yet – they kept going.
 
~*~*~*~*~*~
 
“Get me back my property!”
 
Property.
 
What was it like to be your own person? To exist without belonging to someone else? To wake without being accounted for?
 
He had never known.
 
He cannot remember such a time.
 
Owned things are reclaimed.
Owned things are returned.
Owned things do not get far.
 
Sometimes he wonders if even now, somewhere in the dark, someone is reaching for the chain that still loops unseen around his throat.
 
~*~*~*~*~*~
 
“Stick with me, kid.”
 
It was strange.
 
Armitage was not someone that Songbird would call comforting. He was broad-shouldered and booming, built like something meant to break down doors. Downright intimidating.
 
When the Giff had looked down at him in Liza’s Big Drop, there had been nothing soft in his expression.
 
It had not been kind.
 
And yet –
 
The words had wrapped around Songbird differently than commands usually did. Not sharp. Not punishing.
 
Anchoring.
 
It had not been ‘stay because you must’.
It had been ‘stay because I am here’.
 
The sensation is unfamiliar.
 
Perhaps safety does not always look kind.
 
~*~*~*~*~*~
 
“I don’t even have a crew.”
 
Oh.
 
The words had landed strangely.
 
He would not have called himself crew. He was extra weight. An uncertain liability. Something smuggled aboard by circumstance.
 
And yet the statement left a hollow ache within him.
 
Why should the absence of belonging feel like loss?
 
~*~*~*~*~*~
 
“You’re free.”
 
How he wishes Fynn were right.
 
The astral elf says it with conviction. Freedom sounds different in Songbird’s head.
 
Freedom is fragile. Temporary. Like a borrowed coat that will soon be reclaimed.
 
Wishes are dangerous things.
 
And Songbird does not possess the captain’s bright, defiant optimism.
 
Hope feels like something that might be ripped away the moment he lets himself touch it.
 
~*~*~*~*~*~
 
“Hope to see you all again soon.”
 
Commander Razorleaf had said it to everyone.
 
But his eyes had found Songbird.
 
Held. Not long enough to be improper. Long enough.
 
There had been something in his expression – something unreadable. Not command. Not dismissal. Not indulgence.
 
Something warm. Curious. Intent.
 
There had been calculation there – not cold, but careful. As if weighing something. As if deciding whether to say more.
 
Songbird felt the pause stretch like a lyre string pulled too taut.
 
He had looked away first. His heart had stuttered in his chest, wings twitching in reflexive unrest beneath the fabric of his cloak.
 
He is used to being observed. Appraised. Judged.
 
This was different.
It did not feel like evaluation.
 
It had felt like being seen.
 
And that is far more frightening.
 
Because if someone sees you clearly… they might reach for you.
 
And he does not know yet whether he fears being taken –
 
Or being wanted.
 
~*~*~*~*~*~
 
“Stop!”
 
Orders.
 
He follows them. He always has.
 
He does not like speaking of before. Of the cage and the stage and the velvet-lined prison dressed up as privilege. But when told, he speaks. The old reflexes rise easily.
 
Orders have never benefited Songbird. They are simple exchanges: obedience in place of punishment.
 
And yet – after his brief words with Armitage, something had shifted.
 
Armitage listened when he spoke. He did not look at him like he was a thing.
 
Songbird feels…lighter.
 
It frightens him.
 
~*~*~*~*~*~
 
“He owned me.”
 
The words had left his mouth before he could stop them.
 
Afterward, he knew they were wrong.
 
Not wrong in fact – but wrong in tense.
 
He owns him.
 
Present. Active. Ongoing.
 
Songbird is property, even while running. Even while breathing free air. Even while standing on a deck that does not belong to his master.
 
He had seen the expression on Armitage’s face and found he did not have the strength to correct himself.
 
There was no escape.
 
Not truly.
 
No matter how far he runs, the collar – ornate and delicate in appearance as it may be – remains at his throat, the invisible chain attached to it forever tightening.