Flight School: Predator - Chapter 37: Chapter 37

No one was awake at this hour; at least no diurnal prey was so foolish enough to be, at the expense of their safety and the mercy of a stifling curfew. The night breathed a chill outside his window, its touch icy against skin, bare. He thought he heard a whisper.
Slayne rose to draw the blinds. He wouldn't have had the will to act upon a thing so trivial, not if the wind was calm, serene. It tugged at the edge of his papers, turning the pages of his book to the next and the next and the next and then it was the end of his book and all of a sudden, there was nothing left to be read and he'd lost the page he was looking at.
The quill was replaced and he'd yet to prepare himself for the painstaking task of relocating that page but the wind was incessant and had charged into his room through the open window and caused a row of books, standing, to be knocked over—toppling his bottle of ink.
The owl cursed, rose so abruptly that his chair scraped the floor with a shriek, and piled a stack of napkins on top of the spill. A natural instinct of his followed suit and that was to close the windows.
Anyone would have closed the windows.
But then he heard a sound that didn't seem so much to him as a whisper of the wind, and he stopped all that he was doing to listen.
The window was half-shut and his arm remained on the latch that begged to be pulled for there was a battering against its entire pane and it struggled against the increasing force of nature, far too strong for an ordinary gust of wind.
Half-shut, he listened.
It was a tune.
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He fell in love with it—the tune.
At first, he hadn't thought very much of it at all for it was an ordinary progression; a harmony that could be found elsewhere in the world and there was nothing special about its existence. Yet the creature within was lulled before it could instruct the windows to be shut and the wind, ceased.
It succumbed to a pause, waiting for the tune to sing its sorrows asleep—unable to resist the comfort of its caress, so kind.
Because it went on for the night and the next, and the one after, and the one after that, Slayne was beginning to think it a figment of his imagination; the characterizing of the wind. There was no one to ask if they heard what he did, or if they knew where it was coming from.
All he knew of the tune was its existence, perhaps unseen and forgotten by the rest of the world. He liked to think that it was something only he could hear. Something that belonged only to him.
*
The owl only learnt of its origins a week later, seven whole nights of a song he never seemed to tire of, a melody he found playing at the back of his mind whenever it was blank.
It followed.
Even more so when he came across a pair of hawks laughing in the middle of a hallway, one in which he needed to cross before he could arrive at the most anticipated class on his timetable: homeroom. In the middle of the day.
"What do you think of the one last night?"
"Which one?"
"The one leading the school song. Never seen him before."
The owl could hear the entire conversation from across the hallway, and it was already invading his thoughts as he neared the pair, hoping that they had the bare minimum of common sense to move out of his way.
"It's a first year, that nightingale."
"No wonder I like him."
"What's there not to like about fresh prey?"
"This one's special," said one of them, an unsightly smirk upon his lips. "But I'll take my time...there's plenty to choose from. I heard he's singing again at the predator's ceremony next week." The owl's feet came to a halt just meters away from the oblivious hawks, who continued in their conversation without so much as a glance in his direction.
It irked him.
It irked him very much.
There wasn't a distinction he could make between the itch in his cage and the burn in his chest. He assumed they were part of a larger entity; a simple anger of being ignored by a bunch of predators who decided to put their attention elsewhere, on some measly prey. He'd seen enough of this phenomenon—something that seized the hearts of many at the start of every school term. So much so that he could feel himself expect it, with increasing ease, as his time spent on the island lengthened and dragged on with every passing second.
Slayne was never interested in the trend. It felt to him like fashion; a change of clothes. The recent runway being the all-new welcoming ceremony for the prey—a fancy name for a night so dark.
The owl didn't take these things very seriously. After all, they never seemed to stay.
They come. And they go.
Came. Went.
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I'll wake at night
The singing had begun as it always did, unchanging. It did not sound any less ethereal than it did before, when he had first heard it. It would begin at the same hour, on the exact same note. It was always there.
Slayne had took to moving his desk a little closer by the window, faced in a different direction from before just so that the wind would no longer be an enemy or a distraction. Where he sat, the melody was crisp and clear. Sometimes, he would hear a shallow breathing—as though the night was a song itself.
Come morning
He waited for the word, quill paused in action as it scratched the surface of his parchment paper—dry. The word did not come.
Puzzled, he rose.
The chill of the night crept into his room in wisps, entering from the gap between his window panes and brushing against the surface of his skin. Slayne began to register a consuming dread that accompanied the empty silence without a voice to fill his night.
Urgent, he leaned over the ledge and peered into the darkness. His face felt as though it had been hit by shards of frost dancing in the wind but still, he forced the windows of his soul to open to a light and was rewarded. Immensely.
At first, he'd seen no one. There was not a soul under his window, nearby, not left, not right and the voice certainly did not seem to be coming from above. The owl's room was tucked in the far corner of the predator's Hall, facing the edge of an open field where the grass was tall and unkempt. Slayne had the privilege of a view and a space—considerably wider—all to himself, and the reason for this was only because V had taken a liking to his performance in flight. It was rumoured that the owl was in line to be one of the Hearts.
"Oh!"
The gasp was soft and subtle, almost inaudible had it not been for the ears of a Nocturne, let alone the snowy owl. He brought his attention to the tree down below, its canopy within reach.
Slayne's room was only a floor above ground and it shouldn't have been too hard if he so desired to climb out of his window and land on a sturdy part of the tree. The only reason he decided against this was that he would disturb the voice.
The voice was otherworldly; its song defined, caressing even the blades of grass would have pierced the skin of something so easily destroyed.
Soft, there was a rustling of leaves in the wind and as though the very sound had willed him to turn,
Slayne finally found what he had been looking for.
He saw him, a blossom, lithe, gentle under the light of the moon. His gaze was raised, affixed on a star in the sky.
Slayne did not know what he had seen. The boy who sat under the tree was staring at the part of his sky that now seemed to him a little darker than before the shooting star he'd seen had passed. Snapping out of his reverie, he hastily laced his fingers together and appeared to be making a wish.
The owl was not aware of this. In fact, he remained fairly puzzled—perhaps enchanted—by the scene before his very eyes. He discovered that he hadn't really considered the gender of the voice. After all, its beauty was far too extensive to be categorized by anything at all, let alone something as trivial as gender.
The boy unlaced his fingers and lowered his gaze, as though having made his wish and received some form of content. It was only then that Slayne noticed the odd manner in which the boy was seated: kneeling. He was prey, too. There was no explanation for this.
Knowing was a matter of instinct and a predator's was, undoubtedly, flawless.
But the very next thought did not seem very characteristic of the owl, or even any predator at all—he could listen to him forever.
It wasn't 'he's prey'. Neither was it 'I can own him', or anything along the lines of identity or appearance, status or rules. In truth, he knew that the boy was breaking the rules to be out at such a time; a diurnal in the night, ignoring the consequences of a curfew yet, seated in such a disciplined and artful manner. Almost as though he was waiting for something to happen.
Waiting.
He could listen to him forever, but what Slayne had failed to realize was that the boy was not even singing at the time such a thought crossed his mind.
He could listen to him forever, but the boy was not even singing.
What then, was he listening to?
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It was a nightingale—or so Slayne had specified the following night. To himself, in his mind, as he stared out of the window and observed the sole existence that now seemed to define what a night was. What he would wake to.
To the best of his knowledge however, the owl was mostly certain that nightingales were diurnal and not the kind to seek adventure and risk in the middle of the night. Was this one therefore braver than the rest? What was he?
Absurdly foolish, was all he came up with on instinct. First thoughts came and went; he qualified the answer and turned it into, naïve. Still, the question remained and the desire to give the prey full credit for bravery did not falter very much. What was the nightingale thinking? Coming every day, singing, without fail, in the heart of the darkness where the shadows were most unforgiving. Someone as frail, as fragile as he; what could be his purpose, his reason?
Come morning light.
Everything was now closer to the window. His desk, his chair, couch, bed—everything. He existed solely for this time in the night, windows open and wider than ever. October was nearing its end.
The cold was inevitable but the owl found himself forgetting about it all and sometimes even wondering if the prey sitting under that tree by his window could withstand such harsh conditions and still sit, disciplined, in such a firm and orderly manner. Sing, whole, in a manner so otherworldly.
What sort of strength did that require? Or perhaps, entail?
Even he, a Nocturne (a snowy owl no less), was fazed by the uncertainties of nature and its bouts of rage, cold winds that swept him off his feet. In fact, nature was not the only thing that would give pause to his actions; Slayne detested many things on the island.
Loneliness.
Something he'd never admit to feeling. It was unnecessary and absurd and weak. What else was he supposed to be? Surrounded and worshiped like some predators were? Jeremiah Reyes. Prey talked about him as though he was the epitome of perfection to the point of god. Lucienne Deveraux. Abigail Volt. It disgusted him but at the same time made him so undeniably jealous of them all; mere names, faces. That was it.
The concept of friendship was simply non-existent in the hierarchical order. In fact, the closest he had come to experiencing it was in the form of text—a mere concept in a novel he found inexplicably foolish.
Here in Flight School, he would remain known as 'the snowy owl' and never by his name. Not Slayne Jarron Castor, but owl. Nocturne. Third-year. Who was he, anymore? What constituted as himself?
Slayne was never really a thinker in that sense. He never arrived at an answer to the questions he asked and thus remained in the well that he'd been thrust into; deeper, darker than ever. The loss of his Self had begun a long time ago and yet, there was no inkling of such knowledge within.
He ate, drank, slept, breathed for survival and that was it.
And so the owl would return, to his room, tired and empty. That was before he would sit by the window on his couch, or perhaps lean on the desk he'd moved even closer to the light of the moon and listen.
There was only one thing keeping him alive and it was the spark of the creature within, still moving. Lulled. Caressed by the hand of serenity almost as though he had come home to something—something that was always there, waiting. Waiting for him.
It made him feel a little less lonely.
He didn't have a name for the unknown identity, that nightingale, but in his mind he had a name. There really wasn't anything he meant by the name. There was no condescendence or ill-intent, for Slayne was for all intents and purposes a very simple human being.
The boy was a companion.
A pet.
Because he made him a little less lonely.
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Perhaps it was because he'd only seen his pet at his strongest, most determined state every night under the shadows of a tree so huge in comparison to his lithe frame that it came to him as a surprise when he heard a quiet sob instead of the nameless tune one chilly evening.
Slayne had returned to his room a little later than usual, having attended a briefing about the predator's ceremony that was to be held on the very next day. The sound was barely audible, almost non-existent had the owl not been purposefully seeking out its existence.
Coming home to the sound of tears was not something Slayne had experienced, ever before, and so found himself treading on waters unknown.
He peered out of the window, mostly confused but acknowledging the fair bit of anxiety within his cage.
If Slayne hadn't heard the occasional sob, soft, trembling like a blossom in the wind, he would have thought his pet the same as ever—still, waiting to sing. Even in sorrow, the nightingale was proper and disciplined; grace, not a single angle of his head awry with weight. He sat in the exact same manner as he did every other night. Kneeling by a root of the tree. Watching the sky.
The creature in his cage paced in circles, searching for a solution only to arrive at none. Sending his Avian down would only scare the poor nightingale. Calling out to him would make matters a hundred times worse. In fact, any interaction at all was doomed to end their non-existent relationship for no good things came out of interaction between predator and prey.
Only fear and instinct.
And so the owl remained still and kept as quiet as he could, waiting together with his pet for the latter's darkness to end and the day to come.
*
The night of the predator's ceremony was excruciatingly endless and yet it seemed to Slayne as though it almost never arrived. He wanted it to start and end as quickly as possible—to get things over and done with so that he could return to his room and listen, again, to the night that was whole.
He came well-dressed, entertained some predators who congratulated him for being assigned to the same table as Jeremiah Reyes and Meryl Bell. He didn't remember their names, let alone the meaningless conversations that they'd held for no particular reason. Only formality.
It was not until the beginning of the evening that he felt all of a sudden compelled to actually see. The ceremony had begun on a familiar note, and by that he meant quite literally for the hall had rose in unison for the school song and the one person who was leading the choir onstage was none other than his nightly companion. Lo and behold.
Slayne was staring. He couldn't help it; his eyes refused to turn away.
Now that he could see his features, the curve of his lips and the light in his eyes; the fairness of his skin and the slightness of his nose—his pet seemed all the more surreal and inhuman. Otherworldly.
How was it that he possessed every bit of gentleness in his frame? Something so perfect was nearly impossible, Slayne was having trouble conceiving his existence.
The song came to an end and there was a tremendous applause for the nameless lead, who bowed at a generous degree, head low. Slayne waited for some sort of introduction, an announcement of the nightingale's name or at least his status, his class, whether or not he was taken. For the first time in Flight School, the Nocturne regretted his absence from the prey's ceremony where the nightingale would have otherwise been presented.
"The nightingale's good."
He looked to his right. "Who?"
"The nightingale," the predator beside him jerked her head in the general direction of the stage. "The one who sings."
There wasn't a need for a name because no one a really bothered to know what it was. After all, there was only one of his kind, one nightingale in the school, and that was all they needed to know. In fact, even if there were a hundred nightingales, a thousand, a million—he would've been addressed the same. A title of his breed without a name.
Slayne had established that as a solid fact and although it was certainly not pleasant to his ear, he could not find so much as an inch of disapproval in his being to dispute the conjecture. To him, there was something worse than his companion being addressed without a name and that was him being adored by the rest of the world. Desired.
"What do you think?" Someone on his left had whispered to another predator just after the song was sung and dinner was served. Slayne tried very hard to shut them out but the gaps between the bars of his cage did not allow for such a luxury.
A low laugh.
"I think...I want one of that."
*
DISGUST. He felt it in his veins as he returned to his room and locked everything away before he destroyed it all. The owl heaved, slow, heavy, and felt the anger rise once again to the very top of his head and overwhelm his being for the third time of the day. A fist was raised and slammed into the wall.
It hurt.
He thought the voice his own. He thought the voice belonged to his ears only and his song, for him. Private. Exclusive. His.
Now, it was for everyone and everyone desired him in a manner so impure and unsightly. One of that? No—his pet was the only one, so special and unique that they did not understand, did not see him for the beauty that only he could see. The world was looking at what he thought was his and it was driving him insane.
Of course they would.
He was beautiful.
Slayne wondered what else he could have expected from a world so disgraced by raw instinct and desire, forgetting any streak of humanity they once had. Perhaps even now, it was his turn. He too, would have succumbed to the forces of order, the ease of the pyramid, than fight a losing battle. In fact the owl found himself almost halfway there.
The night was empty; an abyss of darkness if he were to look beyond his window. He sunk into his couch by the ledge, waiting for the heart of the night and for his song to begin.
But the nightingale did not come, and the night remained empty in its silence.
Blank.
It hit him, just then. He thought: perhaps he had enough of singing for the day. Maybe he was tired and wanted some rest and went back to his room for the night. After all, his pet was diurnal and that would not have been surprising to the owl in the least.
Still, something within was telling him that it wasn't the case. His nightingale would be waiting under the tree, always. Always. And so the creature inside began to raise the alarm that something just wasn't right and without a second to waste, the owl grabbed his coat and stepped back into the night.
*
Taking on the form of his Avian, Slayne searched the campus grounds—circling, first, around the predator's Hall to ensure that he had not missed his pet wandering towards the usual spot facing the forest. No sign of him.
Determined, the owl swiftly moved on to the next building and combed that, too, surveying corridors and empty hallways before finally beginning to realize the near impossibility of the difficult task that he'd set for himself. It was no walk in the park. How was he to search for a being so small on an island so large? It wasn't as though he'd covered lavatories or had access to the private rooms of every prey, unless...
Voices. Slayne paused, landing on the edge of a building's roof to observe what it was that he had heard.
"—out here?" A commotion.
He could see the bridge that connected the predator's halls to the central tower from his point of vantage and at first, very naturally, took it with a pinch of salt. It was likely to be one of those childish fights that Nocturnes often got themselves into in the middle of their classes at night, which weren't entirely uncommon, per se—
"I...I was going to return to my room." The voice was familiar and it was all it took for Slayne to give the commotion a second glance; this time with heed.
"Sweetheart you have such a nice voice, don't waste it by lying."
Nocturnes. They surrounded his pet.
"I'm not lying," said the nightingale, whose voice trembled in the darkness.
His gaze was lowered, and although he tried to shift from right to left and search for some form of escape, the four predators that surrounded him did not offer a luxury as such. Almost at once, the owl was making his way over. What was his pet doing at a place where Nocturnes would gather? The rest of them—did they follow him? What have they done, already?
"You're lying through your teeth sweetie but go on," one of them stepped forth, too close for comfort. "At least I can masturbate to your voice."
The lowest blow of disrespect came not only in the form of verbal abuse but physical assault. The remaining three Nocturnes had their Avians in the poor nightingale's face, feathers in his mouth. Invading.
DISGUST. Here, Slayne felt it once more—a foul stench of rotting flesh that made him sick in the gut and hit him, wave after wave.
He dived; a single beat of his wings giving him the necessary burst of speed that he needed to close the distance in a second. His talons were raised, as though he was about to land but in actuality was headed for the Nocturne's arm; the one who had not bothered to treat his pet with a single ounce of respect but then, his claws were meant to scare for within a fraction of a second, Slayne had shifted back and was using the momentum that he'd gained to gut the Nocturne with a fist, balled.
"Fuck—"
The predator doubled back in pain and could not seem to stand. The remaining froze before their heads turned, in unison and at an uncanny angle, towards the snowy owl. He stood over the other Nocturne, breathing hard. He glanced in the direction of his pet. He was safe.
It didn't take long for one of them to lash out. "The hell is your problem, little—"
"No! Stop," the predator crouched over the floor heaved, reaching out to grab the other's arm. "He's one of V's favourites. She'll kill us if we touch him."
A glance. Slayne returned it with a gaze of his own, unblinking.
"V wouldn't know if—"
"She's the headmistress, you stupid fuck. Of course she'd know," spat the Nocturne, tasting blood for some reason. It was all very unfamiliar. "I'm leaving." He shifted after some difficulty, unable to regain his balance until one of the Nocturnes decided to help.
The retreat proceeded to unfold very quickly, seeming as though none of predators were foolish enough to return the owl's challenge. One of them was so courteous as to throw him a middle finger before shifting and taking off from the ledge.
Oddly enough, Slayne did not feel the least bit satisfied with the resolution that had been forced upon the conflict. For all intents and purposes, it was an escape and an escape wasn't even close to the definition of a resolution. He wanted an apology—written or verbal, anything that would make his pet feel better.
"U-um." Soft.
Slowly, he turned to face the nightingale. For a moment there, he was afraid that all he would do was scare. "Are you okay?"
The boy appeared to have missed the question. His wavering eyes suggested uncertainty and a disposition that was rather shaken. Slayne found that he would do anything to steer him away from the abyss of such emotions. He repeated the question.
"I...yes. I'm alright."
"That's good," because you're mine—he almost said that. For some reason, it felt right. Of course it did, Slayne was a predator and prey were meant to be owned. That was it, surely. That must it...wasn't it?
But little did he know, the kind of possession that he felt then was not of ownership.
In fact, though it felt very much as though he owned the caged nightingale,
it was the nightingale that owned his creature within. The one inside his cage.