Zhapaja

[Lyrima]

She wakes yet again to the snapping of fingers.  Uncurling from her protective ball, she wearily floats upright.  The Teir'dal narrows his eyes at her lackluster appearance.

'Fix it!' his harsh voice demands.  The short, blue skinned male turns in annoyance from the tarnished cage.

The tiny jail hangs at his face level.  When family descends on him for inspection, they curse the cage as it bangs into their foreheads.  The tiny Fae caught within is often bruised when the annoyed visitor smacks the cage out of the way, causing it to swing wildly on its chain.  Even with her agility, the green haired little one endures a painful beating as the bars of the cage catch her body swinging back and forth on the chain.  Sometimes she is able to grab ahold of the bars and hang on for the ride.  Other times, she falls to the floor, black and blue, half wishing never to recover from the injuries as the swinging slows to a sickening sway.

The lighting in the dank, dingy home of the Teir'dal is chilling.  A cold, magical light brightly illuminates her cage as he draws near.  Most of the time, there is a gray light that never leaves.  It allows her owner to watch her from any place in the room.  His dark red eyes stare at her as he enters or sits in silent contemplation.  The only respite from observation is when he is required to leave his two room home to complete a task from the OverLord.

Once, to punish her, he removed all light.  The darkness, whilst at first terrifying, it slowly became comforting.  She was frightened, not knowing where he was or what his next move might be.  Her active imagination brought him close;  his dirty fingers seeking through the cage bars, his fetid breath choking her.  The darkness slowly became comforting when her other senses informed her he was not near enough to be detected.  She found a privacy of a sorts and the sudden realization of freedom.

After her experience with darkness, the constant, cold light overhead became a conscious weight.  The light provided by the Teir'dal gave her a vague, encompassing headache and bowed her shoulders.  He was unhappy with his experiment with darkness and refused, after trying once more, to remove the light ever again.  Dim or bright, the cold grey light was a part of her every moment.

Knowing there is no escape, she retreats to her private corner.  This corner is private only because it faces the wall.  She turns her back to her owner, attempts to pull herself together.  Shutting her eyes a moment, she seeks and finds her inner balance, a faint memory of golden light, warm blue over head and a healing green underfoot.  She isn't sure if she has conjured the images from a desperate dream of if she truly saw these things with her own purple eyes.  It was too long ago to ever be sure.

Inhaling deeply, she slowly releases, her arms gracefully following the flow of her exhalation: hands pulled in front, palms out.  Her open palms move down and out as her exhalation ends, creating a truly graceful and cleansing moment.

She turns and looks for her audience.  She is filled with the knowledge that she has power over him.  Her dance enchants him.  While her body moves, flowing through the air in a series of lithe twirls and twists, his eyes never leave her, his breath catches.  And that magical moment, when she tumbles into the ball, smaller and smaller, her wings sheltering her, she pops out.  Never able to stay completely aware during the heartbeat of being other, she pops back in, arms wide in her finishing move.

He never allows a different dance.  The same movements are what he craves, that moment of panic when she disappears, only to reappear, still his prisoner.  He is addicted to the dance, the disappearance, the relief of her return.

[Lyrima]

It was the surprise that jolted her conscious mind from the rut of depression.  He arrives, a yaowling sack in his hand.  His intense red gaze unnerves her and should have prepared her. 

Even the knowledge of his addiction had not been able to lift the growing black from her soul.  The demand for the dance, "Lil'alure!" * in the tone that threatens could bring no more than a desultory mix of movements.  Hope is draining away and, with it, her memory of golden yellow, cool blue and healing green.  In its place grows a black lake.

Narrowed red eyes and a clenching of his jaw are his only reaction to her usual apathy.  There was a time when her fearful huddling or defiant howls amused him.  He is frustrated, for if she died, he would be alone.  So alone.  Her dance made him feel alive.  The loss of his adrenaline surge when she disappears only to return a breath later was a festering injury.  Neither his painful punishments nor vile insults could reach her.  She is becoming lost  and he knows it.

"Noamuth ** are you..." he snarls, "We'll see how noamuth you are, now!"

With a vicious yank, he opens the sack and a cat lands nimbly on its feet.  A shiver runs down the cat's back as he looks about with interest.  His ears twitch back to the Teri'dal behind, but the wide green eyes rove the room with interest.  With a complete lack of concern, the cat minces about, bending to sniff at one or another interesting scents.

As the cat acclimates, the Teir'Dal drags over a wooden chair and stands upon it, reaching high over his head.  His fingers can barely reach the hook in the rocky ceiling.  After some fumbling, he carefully lowers her cage, resting it on the table next to his favorite armchair.  He sits down next to her and settles back with a satisfied sigh.  Now, he would see some life return to her....

With enough notice of his intentions evident, the tiny Fae braces herself for the swaying trip to the table.  As he settles back, her deep purple eyes are riveted on the prowling cat.  She becomes immobile, the barest of whisper of a breath escaping. 

The cat sniffs without interest at the cage and looks to the provider of food.  A hungry yowl conveys his need, and the Teir'dal gives up his entertainment for the moment.  Just watching her fear again was deeply satisfying to him.  Chirruping to the cat, he moves off to the kitchen, followed at his heels by his new pet.

Her dances became more animated as her fear drove her darkening inner soul.  Maybe if she dances for him, he will remove the threat.  Now, even when he is gone, there is little peace.  The cat does not take much notice of her; maybe because whenever he arrives, she becomes immobile.  Just another decorative piece, no more, no less.  Alas, no matter how graceful her dance, the Teir'dal equally enjoys her fear when the cat appears.  A new addiction is formed as he never knows when the cat will wander in, making the little one stop and stand immobile with terror.  He never minds if she stops mid dance, hovering just above the floor of her cage.  The constant anticipation of her fear and the cat's interest is nearly as satisfying as her disappearance and return.

A note is shoved under his door one day.  The Teir'dal reads it and mutters softly, "L'elamshin d'lil Ilythiiri zhah ulu har'luth jal," *** and his harsh laugh fills the room. Abruptly turning to his pack, he fills it before heading out the door, the lock snicking into place.

After several days, the need for food and a break from constant surveillance of the cat over takes the small Fae.  She can see the cat is starting to get desperate too.  The sharpening of claws on the furniture has turned to desperate digging, trying to tunnel under the door and out of the empty rooms.  The cat rarely glances at the cage, and she grows as desperate as the cat.  Death by depression she had accepted, but the death by starvation somehow ignites her will to live. 

Knowing she needs help, her small face turns toward her former enemy with speculation.  How can she get his attention?  The cat walks into the room, caterwauling his hunger and outrage.  Her tiny voice has a hard time competing with his racket.  She starts to time her calls between his howls, slowly engaging his curiosity.  Bright green eyes finally settle on her cage, where she dances and calles out.

Leaping up to the table, the cat crouches down next to the cage.  Intent on learning more, his whiskers and nose investigate before a curious paw slips between the bars, claws extended.  Terrified by her success, the little Fae leaps back.  The sudden movement brings the paw from the cage.  The cat and fae consider each other through the bars.


* Lil'alure! – Dance!
**Noamuth – Lost
*** L'elamshin d'lil Ilythiiri zhah ulu har'luth jal - The destiny of the Drow is to conquer all

[Lyrima]

Suddenly furious and desperate, the one within howls defiance at the one without.  The cat fluidly rises to his feet and paces about the cage, curious and determined.  A forepaw tentatively reaches in again, only to be smacked in rage.  At the sharp pain, the cat retracts his paw, but the curling claws catch on the bars of the cage.  His strength of surprise drags the cage toward him and the cat panics.  He backs up, claws reflexively tightening.  His attention completely on the large tarnished enemy stalking him, he forgets he is on a table.  One misstep later and he is falling, twisting in the air, yanking the cage from the table.  As he lands on his feet, his ego injured, the cage tumbles after him, bouncing several times.  His leap back in surprise topples the table down on top of the cage and himself.  Furious and terrified at this point, the cat tears away, hair on end, ears laid back.

Too shocked to think as her jail is dragged along the table, the tiny prisoner is knocked about. Once the chaos is over, she cautiously raises her head.  A mental check reassures her she is no more injured than usual.  Bruises will bloom on her fair skin, but for now, nothing is seriously damaged.  She tries to rise to her feet, but she discovers the table has flattened a goodly portion of the cage.  Several of the bars have broken, ragged edges of sharp metal poking along one side of her jail. 

Sudden hope bursts as she rushes forward in a crouch.  Can she pull back a bar far enough to allow her escape?  Surges of adrenaline and strength, determination and terror lend themselves and she swiftly yanks back the broken bar.  Wasting not a moment, she eases past the jagged edge, her leg and foot scraping painfully.  She ignores the injuries and flies up toward the rocky ceiling.  Surely there is a means of escape from the rooms; she simply has to find it.

[Lyrima]

Dedicated to Xolita/Chika whose original idea this is.
I just grabbed and ran with it. 
Thank you, beloved friend!
*hugs tight*