As a sirin, Kuzma had a particular image he had to enforce wherever he was. Especially as a raven sirin.

He was to be strong, intelligent and ruthless. He was to be swift, obedient towards his clan's authorities and he was to be loyal to his blood. He was to never be afraid, he was to never cower and he was to never lose, for to not be any of those many qualities was to be a shame to his kind.

'For what good is a weak soldier?' Kuzma remembered his clan general's words like they were etched into his very brain. It may have been years ago, Kuzma could not remember. He wasn't even sure what age he was supposed to be, or how long he had been in that cage.

All he could vividly remember from the day the life he had known came to an end was the smell of the baker's morning batch of fresh sweet bread. Then came the choking stench of burning flesh mixed with the screams and cries of the people he loved as lightning rained down on them from the heavens. Cursed by the gods just for being what they were made to be.

"Would you like some hot chocolate?"

Kuzma nearly jumped at the sudden sound of the human's voice, turning around to pin the short, old man with a glare.

From his messy head of brown locks to his stubby beard and hairy arms, he would've been the most unappealing man his clan had ever seen. To Kuzma, his only redeeming quality was the scent he seemed to always carry, under the smell of dried sweat. It was the smell of warm brioche bread, familiar and comforting.

Other than that, Kuzma thought the man needed a good shaving. Maybe a cleansing.

It was unsightly to be seen with that much body hair, the growth of hair on the head was an exception. Even a small amount anywhere else was considered unclean.

But what do those old customs and rules matter when the followers are all dead?

Kuzma shook his head, getting rid of that stray thought.

We are not dead. I live so we are not dead.

The human stood there with his half-lidded eyes and large clothing, a yellow ceramic mug in hand and the smell coming from said mug was making Kuzma's stomach let out an embarrassing sound.

"I'll take that as a yes. Here. Careful, it might be a bit too hot," the human said in that soft though slow way he spoke. The sound of the man's voice still confused Kuzma. It put him on edge.

He had gotten rather used to loud shouts and mocking laughter before the whips and iron rods began to add to his torture.

The human's voice was an odd, familiar change but Kuzma was not sure what made it so familiar.

Is it the kindness? Da. Like Master Iosif. He was too kind for a raven.

So kind that he risked his life to save me instead of running away, Kuzma thought, biting his lip as the images of his master burning alive flashed through his mind.

He grabbed the cup, wanting to distract himself from his past with something, anything. Kuzma brought it up to his nose and sniffed it out for drugs or anything that could make him sleep or writhe in pain. Finding nothing, he brought it slowly to his lips and took a sip of the strange but also familiar and enticing liquid.

And his taste buds sang.

The soup had been divine, a spicy taste he hadn't had since his childhood, but the drink brought on flushed cheeks and wide eyes, reminding him of the sweet-tooth his peers used to tease him about.

It took everything in him not to cry like he wanted to with each time that soup made contact with his tongue.

What felt like an eternity of having drugged, stale or rotten food stuffed down his throat, keeping him alive but weak enough to not cause trouble and, almost like a dream, he was enjoying things that made his mouth water for more.

He finished it in seconds, stretched out the cup towards the odd human and said, "More."

The human's somewhat full lips quirked up for a moment, barely noticeable, before returning to his unsettling blank stare, taking the mug with his beefier fingers.

Kuzma flinched away when he felt their hands touch, his body prepared to feel pain when foreign skin came in contact with his.

The human blinked at him, mug in front of his broad chest, before he side glanced to his right, humming under his breath.

Kuzma noticed he did that a lot. That and sighing and he wondered if they were indicators that the human was getting annoyed.

His tormentors usually had indicators for several occasions. One when they were in a playful mood, another for when Kuzma's sharp tongue was bringing them closer and closer to rage and many others, all of which was painful for him in the end.

"Would you like to sit down? You've been standing here for over an hour. All I've got are books. The new television won't be here till tomorrow so sorry for the lack of entertainment," the human said, his voice soft, welcoming and kind, but his face void of emotion and only showing exhaustion.

Kuzma was patiently waiting for the human to name his price for allowing him to stay in his...warm home. He did not think the soft clothing, the delicious food, the caressing bed or the overall alien treatment was just of the kindness of the human's heart.

What being would be kind without having a motive?

The people that had locked him away, they had taught him that fact as well as many other things about the world he had previously viewed using his once naive mind.

"Would that add to whatever it is that I owe you?" Kuzma asked bluntly.

He hated not knowing what was to happen next.

The human's thick eyebrows furrowed, head tilted to his right like a confused child.

"Owe?"

Kuzma rolled his eyes at the poor attempt to draw him into a false sense of security.

"Let's not play those games. Would you want me to be your slave for wearing your clothes, eating your food and resting on your bed? Or would you want me to put my hand in fire as many times as you wish, as punishment for destroying your home? Name your price so I may know if I am to leave or not for I didn't escape one hell to be tortured in a different one. I will not be imprisoned again. By a human no less."

"...You were imprisoned?" the human asked, throwing Kuzma off guard.

Why would he care about that? Is that all he heard from that? I know the humans are weak but are they stupid as well?

"...Da?" Kuzma responded, sounding as confused as he felt.

The human looked sad again like he had in the kitchen, and Kuzma could not begin to guess the reason why.

"Are they..." the human started, trailing off. "Are they the ones that did that? To your neck?"

Kuzma's hands immediately flew to his neck, trying his best to cover it from sight. Even wrapped up, he knew it was disgusting and the fact that it existed brought disgrace to his clan, disgrace to the Korona Sirins.

It brought disgrace to his very name.

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to bring it up! Uh...uhm. Listen," the human said, taking a small step forward and making Kuzma tense up. "You don't owe me anything. As long as you need, you can stay and I'll try and help you the best I can. I...I haven't a clue what's going on and a part of me is probably still in shock at having a winged man bleeding on my couch but whatever. I don't even know what you are and where you came from or even how the world actually works. I am sure, however, that I need a strong cup of coffee. Or beer."

The human pressed his fingers to the bridge of his slightly narrow nose, taking deep breaths before speaking again.

"You've obviously been through a lot and since fate was feeling like having a good laugh and making sure it was my apartment you crashed into, I've taken it upon myself to help you out. Call it my conscience sounding suspiciously like my Gran or my hero complex acting up again or whatever. So...pick out a book from the bookshelf, sit down and I'll make you more hot chocolate, okay?"

Kuzma understood most of that and did not believe it. Not a word. He had been too quick to trust in the past, believed he was among friends that were going to help him. He had been naive and he knew better.

But he nodded either way and walked towards the bookshelf on the right of the glass screen he had broken, picked out a book about four sisters in a gone era and sat on the chair, the human humming away a tune as he worked away in the kitchen like a dove sirin.

He was going to go along with the human, enjoying the food too much to not do so, but as soon as he sensed an attack, Kuzma was going to let his voice be heard.

Even though he jumped at the slightest touch, felt tears in his eyes when he saw his own shadow, had night terrors that left him paralyzed even when awake and felt the whips and smacks and slashes and burnings, even though he knew at the back of his mind that it was in his head, that he had escaped, that he was finally, finally free.

Even though his greatest fear was going to sleep and waking up back in that dark cell with his arms bound to the wall, that damned collar around his neck and digging into his flesh, Kuzma kept his head high and did his very best to not shame his heritage more than he already had.

He was a sirin, a soldier of the great Korona clan, a raven. An elite among elites and he was never, ever, going to be chained again.

I cannot let what little is left of me be broken. I can't. I just can't.