Chapter Text
Claudius grasped the pencil in his chubby little hands and drew little pictures of birds in the margins of his books. Claudius had never seen a real one, but he loved them in his books Ms. Teacher taught to him from. He was supposed to be learning letters with Ms. Teacher, however, today Daddy's angry voice echoed through the bunker walls, screaming about how could they let those "savages" and "traitors" drive them, the real sons of the Empire, back again. Calls them cowards that will never retake the Capital.
Ms. Teacher sometimes was called a conscripted savage by Daddy, her build more lithe, her ears pointier (she'd let him gently pull on them once to prove they were real) and no big round third eye like everyone else. She was trying to hide her trembling hands and quiet sniffles from the big soldier man watching them today. The others were mean to her when Daddy was mad.
The others like Ms. Teacher had run away a while back he'd heard, but Ms. Teacher stayed for him. And Claudius loves her best for it. Today he thought, perhaps he would draw her a new picture. Daddy threw away the one he'd done for him once, but Ms. Teacher kept all of his little gifts for her, taking them out when he had a bad day to show them how much she loved them. Loved him.
Claudius chewed on the end of his pencil, and decided he would draw her a flower today.
He'd drawn one broad line, the start of the stem, when the alarms started blaring and the world started to shake.
* * * * *
Everything was so loud. Everyone was yelling, the shaking wouldn't stop and Ms. Teacher was running while carrying him through the bunker halls, bundled up in the winter coat, gloves and boots he never gets to wear. He'd never been this far from Daddy's quarters before. Claudius tries to hold it in, but finally it boils out of him and he starts to bawl. It was all too much, too much. He felt a blast of cold, so cold, air hit his face when she wrenched open a door.
Turning his head at Claudius's cries, one of the soldier men bellows out "Hey, what in the hells are you doing!"
Ms. Teacher grips him tight, "The Eorzeans are attacking, I was ordered to get the Legate's son to safety."
"On your own? The Legate's pet savage? That's a load of shite... Stay right there."
Claudius feels her tense, and when the soldier man's attention is briefly off her, she bolts through the open door. A yell and then three horrible, horrible bangs rattle out and Ms. Teacher stumbles, rallies and keeps moving down the cold dark tunnel. The yelling behind them gets somehow worse (one day, when he wasn't so little, he would learn that they were sounds of battle and screams of death), and Ms. Teacher is gripping him so very tight as she just runs and runs as her breath gets more and more ragged.
At last they come to a set of doors and Ms. Teacher more falls into them than opens them up. As they stagger through the doors, she just... sets Claudius down and slides down the edge of the doorframe. In the cold of the bright outside he notices that his hands are wet and sticky. So is Ms. Teacher.
She looks up at him, "I... I'm sorry. I thought I could get you to safety, little one. But I don't... think... that..."
And she stops. And doesn't start again. A horrible, choking feeling crawls up from his heart into his throat. His ears ring and sparkles threaten to fill his vision. Something about it is so awful and familiar. Claudius wants to scream, wants to cry. But somehow it feels like it would do nothing. No point to it, to anything at all.
So he sits, and holds Ms. Teacher's hand as she and the world around him grow cold.
* * * * *
It's so quiet out here, especially as it started snowing, and Claudius is getting so very sleepy. He knows that is bad. He knows he should do... something. But it's hard to think and where would he go anyway? The snow is covering Ms. Teacher like a white, fluffy blanket. And if he doesn't think about it, he can pretend she is just sleeping.
Something flickers in the edge of his vision, and he slowly, painfully turns his head to look. And for just a moment, the pitch black feeling in his tiny chest shifts. It's a bird, and it's so, so blue! Just like the ones he liked to draw in his books. The bird is watching him with gleaming eyes on top of one of the boulders hiding the doors from sight.
He stiffly stands up, and toddles over, holding out his hand. Claudius thinks it will fly away but... oh. Oh! It lands on his outstretched arm, head tilted to the side as it watches him back. He uses his teeth to pull off the glove on his other hand, and slowly, ever so carefully, he reaches out and touches its feathery tail. The blue bird turns, and for a moment he thinks it is going to fly away, but it leans into his hand. So soft, so warm. He folds his arm in and cradles it... her... gently to his chest.
Claudius watches the little blue bird, and she watches him back as he carefully pets her head with cold fingers. It doesn't quite feel like his own thought, but, for some reason, he knows that somehow things are going to be okay.
* * * * *
The sound of distant voices snaps him out of his revere. The crunch of boots on thick snow, coming closer. Still clutching the blue bird, Claudius staggers to the doors, almost slipping and falling over in his haste, to hide behind the doors. It's colder in the tunnels, dank with no sunlight to warm his face. He isn't sure if he is shivering from fear or the cold as he tries to hide in the dark.
Finally close enough to understand their words, a soft spoken man's voice calls out. "Jullus, I... I think I've found your informant on the terrorist Legate. It looks like she almost made it to the rendezvous point. I'm sorry. However, these tracks..."
As words give way to whispering, Claudius starts to wonder if he should head back down the tunnel. But it's so scary down there. He freezes when the door swings open, briefly blinding him with the sunlight. He expects for one of them to grab him, and for there to be yelling. Everyone yells other than Ms. Teacher.
But none of that happens. Only one of the two comes through the doors, dressed in strange clothes. The man kneels down and in the same soft voice from before, "Hey there little guy. It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you. I know it's all really scary right now, but it's not safe for you here right now, especially when night falls."
The man reaches out a gloved hand to Claudius. And, shaking, Claudius tentatively reaches back, exposing the blue bird to view. The man's eyes grow wide as he looks at the bird. (And she looks back at him).
Claudius backs up a step, and manages, barely, not to stammer. "She... she's my friend, please don't..." He doesn't even know what he is asking the man not to do. But he has to try?
The man replies, his voice still gentle, but with a touch of something else to it. "That she is, she always does like making friends. I like to think she is my friend too, these days." The man takes a long, deep breath. "So, what is your name, child?"
"Cl... Claudius. Sir."
"Well Claudius, do you trust that friend of yours?"
It's not been long since she flew to his little hands, but he doesn't hesitate. He just knows. "Yes."
"Well let's see if she trusts me to keep you safe then?" The man waits, both arms now stretched out, palms up. The blue bird wiggles in his hands, so Claudius opens them up. She flits over to the strange man, still waiting, and hovers in front of him.
The man regards her, and seems to answer some unspoken question. "I keep my promises."
As if that satisfies her, she lands upon the man's shoulder and turns to look back at Claudius. Waiting.
And he shuffles forward, one step at a time. The man helps him get his glove back onto his cold hand, and scoops him up gently into his arms. Claudius is carried back into the light of day, past the man's companion who watches them go down the hill with a bemused expression. Through the snow covered plains and hills. Stopping at last to a bustling camp with strange soldier-men. Hours later sees him fed, warm and safely tucked into a cot. The strange man with the gentle voice is dozing in a chair beside him. The blue bird sits beside him. Watching. Guarding. And he drifts off to sleep, a song of hope in his heart.