swan-flight, firm and free
[for @morimenswrite day 30, free day/au. on ao3 here]
They'd known that Awakeners could sometimes turn to small creatures when injured enough or stressed. Marsh had seen it happen once or twice before, even — after all, Ogier was a good child but sometimes forgot his limits, and Lotan liked to push hers, and they both had been at Mythag since before Marsh had ever stepped foot on campus.
But this, this — somehow seeing it like this hurts. Somewhere deep, somewhere sharp.
Shaking, carefully reaching out hands to scoop up the little bodies, Marsh cups the two downy cygnets that had been Castor and Pollux in hands steady enough that one would think Marsh were calm. (They're not. They can't be. What had happened to these two—?
The Sacred Heart. That ritual Juliette had promised was sign of the holiest child, that thing that the fellow followers of the Lantern Faith had thought was a blessing. No, Marsh knows what did this.)
"It's alright." They say softly, trying to smile for these small, small little cygnets that sit so sweetly and so timidly within Marsh's hands. Trusting, with how they both settle at the words. Scared, likely. Injured, they must be, to be cygnets and not children.
Marsh inhales, and hates that the scent of candle-smoke is so thick here. Hates that it's so familiar to them (cigarette smoke they'd accept, they'd never been able to kick that habit, but they'd never had candles burning at every hour of the day before all of this). "It's alright." They promise again, pulling their hands — and their two small, small sons — closer to them. "Just stay quiet, alright? Just stay quiet and don't move. I'll —" their voice breaks. A moment, to compose themself. "I'll get us all out of here."
This is, after all, the best chance Marsh has gotten in — years. Castor and Pollux are old enough, large enough, to not need constant fussing the way they would have as infants, but still small enough to be easily hidden, to be concealed, for Marsh to just — pick them up, and spirit them away.
So that's what Marsh does. Waits till it's early morning, packs their normal bag that they always have them. Carefully, carefully tucks the two cygnets within, makes sure they're padded and comfortable. Brings rations, but also things that they would never go without for daily travel — a journal, mostly blank. A few pens, a bottle of ink. Some unlit candles and incense. A matchbox. Gauzy purple fabric, which they always carry on them now.
They don't leave a letter, to Juliette, to explain themself. If they stop to do so, someone will think something is wrong. Marsh has left for days at a time before, to go gather supplies or simply to . . . wander for a while. (Juliette used to send watchers, to ensure Marsh wouldn't leave, but she hadn't done that in two years. They both knew that Marsh would return, too unwilling to leave their sons behind. Marsh can use that.)
They walk out of the cavern beneath the lake, and no one stops them. It isn't until three days later, Marsh thinks, that someone finally may have been sent for them. Marsh has the benefit of a head start, though — and their sons are still small, carefully tucked close in their bag, and Marsh knows how to hurry.
It takes several close calls, several times when Marsh has the abandon clothes and hunker down, change their hairstyle and accent and don a different name, but finally finally Marsh is in Londinium. The train still runs to Mythag's campus, and Marsh still has their Silver Key, the one thing of their past that not even Juliette had been willing to tear away from them when they'd joined the Lantern Church. The fog mist is just as Marsh remembers, and they can feel the tension sliding off their shoulders as they step onto campus, as they're finally safe.
There will be time to sort out identities and formally beg assistance and obtain housing and care for their sons in the future, Marsh knows. But for that moment, just that moment — Marsh sits on the grassy ground, still wet with dew, and carefully extracts their dozing cygnet sons from within their bag. (Their plummage is still so downy and gray, no flight feathers — even the beginnings of flight feathers — to be seen. Their eyes are still so wide and full of stars.)
It hits like a tidal wave against shore, like the sudden downpour of a storm, like Tulu's tentacles dragging Marsh down onto a bed where all Marsh could do was mutter about being forced to sleep. They're safe now. Finally, finally, it's over.
Marsh sits, on the ground, small sons in their lap — and they put their head in their hands and cry.
