Waking up from a troubled sleep, Hrafn clenched his hand and stared at his claws before looking back up at the ceiling. It was plastered with a slight texture that reminded him of frozen snow. He missed his home and he missed his planet. The world here was alight with grotesque smells and sounds from every direction. There was not a moment of quiet, not a held breath of pause. A constant cycle of barragment. 

It was nauseating. The feeling was something he remembered from first learning to fly, a constant tremulous sensation of never properly gaining balance with the fight for friction. That impossible overwhelming torrent that came with being a fledgling bombarded him all over again.

And he hated it. 

Sitting up, he raked a hand through long lavender locks and ruffled out his bangs. The outer shirt that had been abandoned on the armrest of the lounger was an itchy replacement to his original. Majority of his clothes had been ruined in his crash landing—and his host had been gracious enough to have replacements provided. Through broken and limited communication, Hrafn’s measurements and specifications to accommodate for his wings and legs had been taken. And while he appreciated not only the gesture but the care that went into procuring the new articles, they did not have the same feel as woven akkaelyd. The cloth was heavy and irritable, and even with his host's care to replicate the original style, they weren't perfect. The belts at his back to strap around his wings were too tight, and the trousers that needed a seam inward to accommodate for his knees that bent backward were too front facing. Perhaps he was homesick. This all felt too foreign to him. He took a deep breath and placed his hand on his chest, the soft fibers of his inner shirt calming him. It wasn't ideal, but his undershirt had survived his crash landing on this world.

The quadruped creature known as a “Charles” had padded out during the moment of high sun and came to nap beside him. It was an odd companion—it neither spoke in the way that he or the biped Haneul spoke, but there was a means of communication that was extremely endearing. 

A wag of a tail, a flop of the ears. Teeth, eyes, nose, paws. 

Each physical detail of the creature lended to its means of talking. Some were not so far from Hrafn’s own uses of his body. They both flashed their teeth when threatened, they snarled and snapped when angry. When happy there was a relaxment of limbs—in his case, wings—and in the Charles’ case, its floppy ears and tails. 

But then there was Haneul. 

A creature more physically like himself. Shorter by far, far more measurements. But hearty all the same. Broad shoulders and long legs. The other creature like Haneul had been shorter and far thinner, he wondered if there was a purpose to the difference.  

Standing up and carefully minding his wings so as not to knock down any of the decor, Hrafn maneuvered himself to where he’d seen his host last. A small room at the end of the hall, something that reminded him of a meeting room or a personal study. 

It was small and filled with books along with a desk at the far end. The memory of his own study haunted him, something filled with scrolls and tiles and notes of all kinds. Maps of the skies and maps of the other planets, it was his escape away from the demanding militant life of his homeworld. So a small pang of comfort twinged at his throat given the recognizability that some things don’t change across races. He knocked on the door, watching with intrigue as Haneul poured over a document with writing of some kind. His dark hair seemed near-ruddy in the artificial light, and his tanned skin seemed pale in luminescence, seeming almost like his own. Haneul gave him a surprised look—some stuff would always be universal—and chatted about something. Ah yes. The annoyance laced through his brow and he wondered how much of a good idea was this? They stood toe to toe. 

“I fear I must impose upon you,” he tried slowly. “I’m hungry again, the meal we had earlier was hardly suitable to sate me for long.”

 His host gave him an odd look, brow furrowed, and honeyed glance confused.

Hrafn tried again and pointed to his torso. “Hungry.”

The small creature rolled the word around on his tongue before snapping his fingers with a sudden and dazzling smile. It repeated another word before wandering out of the studying back to what Hrafn presumed was the food stores. There was a considerable amount of rummaging around within the large machine that radiated with colder temperatures. His host then pulled out another one of the trays that looked identical to the ones they had eaten from earlier.

He nodded his thanks before venturing away back to his seat with the food in hand. He didn’t want to bother more than he already had. The process of understanding his host was going to be a grueling one. 

Every day they continued their games of charades. 

Hrafn felt like a fool for acting out each one of his needs, however his host Haneul was not idle. It seemed he had a good head on his shoulders and a quick wit. For every word in his language that he conveyed to the biped, Haneul digested and translated it with continued improved speed each time. Within two or three sunsets—Hrafn was not wholly sure what that equated to in his planet’s time (and Bjarndyr’s distance was much further away at some variants, closer in others, nothing like the yellow sun that this planet revolved around), they were able to have the sparsest of conversations. 

Haneul would ask “Are you hungry?” in Hrafn’s language.

Then Hrafn would respond “Yes I am” or  “No, I’m not” in Haneul’s mother tongue.

Soon enough, their days progressed a little easier. 

Haneul, during the solar moments, often holed himself up in his personal library. He often conversed with other persons via various sorts of communicators. It seemed he was never short of those who contacted him. A faint wistfulness overcame Hrafn in these moments, and he recollected his subordinates. The warm seasons should still have kept his home planet fertile, and he wondered how his people were back home. Had they been allowed to carry out the harvest or were they forced to war the minute he’d been exiled? 

A sharp pang shook him. The fluttering wings of the workers in the field. Vegetation glimmering like opal in endless fields. Brief flashes of his friends in a calm lilac field glitched through his mind like a hunger pain, Trunadur and his mate Sigrún, and maybe even once-upon-a-time Arri. These things he envisioned so vividly at the forefront of his heart. Home. It lay abandoned somewhere far from where he now stood. Whether it was stars or galaxies away, he didn’t know. But there were few yellow suns that surrounded their star system, and even fewer that housed advanced life. If he were to sit and think for too long, he knew he’d find himself realizing that unless he figured out his coordinates fast, the possibility of finding home was slim.

Growling thundered furiously in his chest. A Drottnari’s council, no matter how fat and lazy, were no crowd to leave things half-finished. Sooner or later, the Star Warp would be repaired and he would be hunted down. He was certain of that. Alive, he was a threat to them. No matter how distant he was stranded. 

Hrafn tapped his claws against his forehead, a nagging ache shattered his thoughts further. 

As much as he did not particularly care for this little planet, especially from the scarce bit he’d seen from Haneul’s windows, he owed his host. From the food, to the accommodations, to the healing and care, and even the blatant secrecy of his presence—Hrafn could not pay such a great debt with assassins after his head. He needed to learn faster. Skills he’d acquired as a diplomat luckily came in handy but he would need to push himself harder.

Feathery ears pressed against the study door, Hrafn waited with flickering patience for the transpondence to silence. Once a quiet had settled, he knocked. It almost seemed rude to enter without permission but as he opened the door, Haneul’s voice lilted out for him.

His host sat at a desk, hand cradling his temple while visible fatigue furrowed his brow. 

The Drottnari felt terrible for some reason.

“What?” The tone was harsh and the man seemed to recognize that immediately. He coughed and offered an apologetic look. “Sorry. Need something?”

It was odd, hearing his language from Haneul’s mouth. The accent was thick and heady but the sound itself was not unpracticed. It was admirable in a sense. He stared at the bizarre writing that littered the hoards of papers on the desk. 

“This,” Hrafn gestured to the pages and then the individual symbols. “What is it?”

To his credit, the question was vague to begin with. So Haneul’s initial confusion was understandable. 

“The words, how are they…?” Now it was his turn to flounder and marvel at how juvenile his phrasing sounded from his own mouth.

“Oh!” The man caught on quickly enough. “Hangul. Our writing.”

“Hangul.” Hrafn repeated before adding. “Can I learn?”

While he may not have been the keenest on scholarly endeavors, he very much enjoyed learning. Being able to read and write annotations in Haneul’s language would also speed up what they could and could not communicate. His hand rested on his shoulder, and it grieved him to think just how limited he would already be with a major wing on the mend—meager measures away from permanent damage. He refused to be helpless.

His host gave a conflicted reaction as if weighing the options before beckoning him over. He pressed a button on the transponder he’d been previously occupied with—the little device vibrating before falling silent. Tossing the small machine to the side, Haneul prepared a piece of paper and something to write with. 

Rounding the desk, Hrafn braced his hand on the edge, signaling with a nod that he was ready

“Something easy,” Haneul said before writing slowly 하늘. “Han-eul.” 

Bending down, Hrafn studied the strokes that had been carefully placed. He wasn’t particularly sure what would be considered practiced penmanship, however, Haneul’s script was thin and rigid—each character lined one next to the other with practice.

“Your name.” Hrafn said. “And mine?”

Haneul’s face soured a bit, and he placed a thoughtful finger on his chin. The human rolled his name around a bit, messing and arranging the pronunciation. “Hrapn. Hra-pin. H-rah-pin. Heu-rah-pin…I don’t actually know. Maybe something like…” 

흐라핗느…

흐라핗ㄴ…

“I don’t like either of those.” Haneul decided with a frown before offering his writing utensil. “Go ahead and try. You can go slow. Be sure to go from left to right when you make the letter.” He mapped the direction of the strokes with his finger. 

Nodding, Hrafn leaned over Haneul’s shoulder and began to write their names. There was a sharp inhale from Haneul and Hrafn’s ears flickered. It wasn’t a gasp of distress, nor was it a sound of disgust (he didn’t believe his handwriting was that atrocious despite that it might be juvenile). When he spared a glance, the human’s eyes were wide, gaze flickering to the arm reaching over his shoulder. Hrafn wondered in confusion if Haneul was concerned with whether or not he’d be bumped with a wing.  

“Are you well?” He asked.

Haneul nodded and shakily said. “Do you mind? You’re a little close.”

He didn’t really understand the question, so he merely shrugged. Perhaps it was a comment to mind his writing and the proximity of the characters. Taking each stroke a little slower and spacing the letters out further, which in all honesty resulted in shaky and crooked strokes, he wrote out both of their names. Then after a hesitant pause, he wrote them once more—this time differently and far more familiarly to him. 

“Good job!” Haneul praised, hurrying in a fluster from his seat to the door. “I think that’s a good first lesson for today, don’t you?”

Hrafn once again offered a look of perplexion before tapping the paper. “Look.”

ᚺᚨᚾᛖᚢᛚ
ᚺᚱᚨᚠᚾ

Whatever anxiousness had previously overwhelmed Haneul seemed to slip away. He sidled back over to Hrafn’s side and looked down at the paper. He studied the symbols with a serious look that matched that of when he had been using the communicator earlier. Focused.

“Our names?” Haneul asked. 

“Yes. Haneul.” He pointed to the first name and then the second, “and Hrafn.”

Chuckling to himself, Haneul ran his fingers over the words with a fond look. “Well…I  guess if I’ll teach you, you can teach me—yes?”

“Yes.” Hrafn agreed with a smile.

He would make use of himself. He would not fail. Drottnari was no idle title to scoff at, and he would prove just how adept he could be. Prowess, intellect, and skill. Hrafn swore to stop wallowing in the bewildering uncertainty.