No Charge for Freedom - Chapter 8: Lior's Eyes

No Charge for Freedom - Chapter 8: Lior's Eyes

continued from Chapter 7

The silence stretched, soft as the fire's dying glow, and Lior remained in the center of it all—standing, breathing, alive in a way that felt both fragile and fierce.

The Scotsman's hand lingered on the back of his neck, thumb resting just above the collarbone, a steady warmth that seeped through skin and shirt alike. It wasn't demanding, wasn't retreating; it simply was, like the hearth's low crackle or the faint scent of woodsmoke curling in the air. Lior noticed it fully now—the subtle pressure, the faint callus on the man's palm, the way it anchored him without pinning him down.

Kelly's sleek Siamese body pressed warmer against his calf; his purring was a low, continuous rumble that vibrated up through Lior's leg. Selene's wing still draped across his shoulders, feathers cool and impossibly soft. Tears had dried on his cheeks, leaving faint salt tracks that tightened his skin.

His lungs expanded, deeper this time, drawing in cleaner air . The ache in his ribs had eased, not gone, but loosened—like knots slowly unraveling under patient fingers. His shoulders dropped, eased, the tension bleeding out into the floorboards.

He tested it, almost afraid to disturb the quiet, a small lean into the Scotsman's touch, barely more than a shift of weight. The hand didn't move away.

The room held its breath with him.

Then, softly, the words slipped out before he could cage them again. "What... what happens now?" Lior didn't like being touched, but this wasn't like the others. He didn't know what was different.

His voice was rough, quieter than the fire's snap, but it carried in the stillness. He didn't look up,not at the Scotsman's face, not at Kelly's knowing blue eyes or Selene's steady gaze. He just let the question hang there, open, like one of those windows the man had spoken of.

Kelly's purr deepened, a resonant sound almost like approval. Selene's wing tightened briefly, then relaxed, as if to say: Good. Ask.

The Scotsman exhaled a chuckle, and with a slight smirk said. "Now?" voice laced with that familiar curl of accent. "Now, lad, you decide if you want another breath here... or if you're ready to carry this one out into the alley."

No pressure in the words. No rush. Just the invitation, gentle as the hand still resting on his neck.

Lior closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the room around him. He kept his eyes closed a little longer, letting the words settle in the firelight. The hand on his neck hadn’t moved; it was still there, patient as stone worn smooth by a river. He felt the shape of the question he’d asked echoing inside him—What happens now? and for once it didn’t feel like a trap. It felt like a doorway he’d cracked open himself.

When he finally opened his eyes, he didn’t lift them to the Scotsman’s face. Instead, they drifted downward, to Kelly’s sharp blue gaze fixed steadily on him, and then to Selene, whose dark eyes held the same quiet encouragement. The room seemed to wait with them.

“I…” The word came out smaller than he intended. He swallowed, tried again. “I think I want to stay. Just… a little longer.”

The admission surprised him at how easily it slipped out, how little shame followed it. It wasn’t a surrender. It was a choice.

The Scotsman’s chuckle was softer this time, almost fond. “Aye. That’s a fine answer.” The hand on Lior’s neck slid away slowly, not abrupt, not reluctant, just giving space. A moment later, the man stepped back, gesturing toward the worn armchairs angled near the hearth. “Come sit, then. The fire’s got a few good hours left in it, and there’s tea if you want it.”

Lior hesitated, but only for a breath. Kelly uncoiled from his leg and padded toward one of the chairs, leaping lightly onto the arm as though claiming it for him. Selene’s wing lifted from his shoulders with a gentle rustle, folding back against her body, but she stayed close, a silent shadow at his side.

The chair welcomed him when he sank into it. For a second he froze, half-expecting the old panic to surge: too comfortable, too safe, danger. But it didn’t come. Only the crackle of logs, the faint scent of pine resin, and the steady presence of the others.

The Scotsman lowered himself into the opposite chair, long legs stretched toward the flames. He didn’t speak right away. Instead, he reached for an iron kettle resting on the hearthstone, pouring steaming water into two waiting mugs. The aroma of something herbal and faintly sweet rose between them.

He offered one mug to Lior, handle first. “No obligation to drink. Just thought it might warm the hands.”

Lior took it. The ceramic was almost too hot; he cradled it carefully, letting the heat seep into his palms. He risked a glance upward then, but enough to catch the Scotsman’s eyes: calm, crinkled at the corners, watching without demand.

Silence folded around them again, but it was different now, it was friendly spacious. Kelly curled on the arm of Lior’s chair, tail draped across his thigh like a living scarf. Selene settled on the floor between the chairs, wings tucked, head resting near the Scotsman’s boot as if this were the most ordinary evening in the world.

After a while, minutes, maybe more, Lior found his voice again, small but steady.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to… do with this.” He gestured vaguely at his own chest, at the wider space still expanding there. “It feels… good. But strange. Like I’m waiting for it to be taken away.”

The Scotsman nodded slowly, turning his mug in his hands. “That’s fair. You’ve had plenty taken before. But tonight, nothing’s being asked of you. Nothing’s being taken. You’re just… here. And that’s enough.”

Lior’s brow furrowed. He set the mug down carefully on the small table beside the chair, hands wrapping around his knees instead. The fire popped; a spark drifted upward and died.

“I don’t…” He stopped, voice barely above the flames. “I don’t understand what that means. Just here.”

He risked a glance upward this time, longer than before. The Scotsman’s expression hadn’t changed—open, steady, waiting.

“I’ve always had orders to follow,” Lior said, the confession slipping out rough and small. “Someone always told me where to stand, what to say, what to… do with my body. What I was for. Even when it hurt, at least I knew my role. My place.”

The words tasted bitter, but saying them didn’t burn as much as he’d feared. Kelly shifted on the arm of the chair, resting his warm head against Lior’s upper arm. Selene lifted her own head from the hearthrug.

“If there’s no role,” he continued, quieter, “no orders… then what am I supposed to do with myself? What’s expected of me here?”

The Scotsman leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. The firelight carved gentle shadows across his face.

“Nothing’s expected, lad,” he said, voice low and kind. “That’s the whole of it. You’re not here to perform, not to serve, not to earn the right to take up space. You’re not a tool tonight. You’re a person, sitting by a fire with a cup of tea you didn’t have to beg for.”

Lior’s throat tightened. He looked down at his hands, fingers knotted together.

“But if I’m not… useful,” he whispered, “then why let me stay?”

Kelly’s purr deepened against his arm, a steady vibration. Selene rose gracefully and moved closer, resting her winged forehead lightly against his knee, an unspoken because you are wanted, exactly as you are.

The Scotsman let the silence sit a moment, giving the words room to land.

“Because you’re allowed to exist, Lior. Full stop. No conditions. No transaction. Some nights, the hardest thing a body can do is simply be, without apology, without purpose beyond breathing. That’s plenty.”

Lior’s eyes stung again, but differently this time. He blinked, watching the flames blur and sharpen.

“I don’t know how,” he admitted, voice cracking on the last word. “I’ve never… practiced that.”

The Scotsman smiled, small and warm. “Then tonight can be practice. No grades. No punishment for getting it wrong. You sit. You drink your tea if you like. You watch the fire. You listen to Kelly purring. You feel whatever comes...fear, emptiness, relief, nothing at all. And none of it makes you less welcome.”

He leaned back again, giving space.

“That’s the only ‘order’ I’ll ever give you here: stay as long as you need, leave when you’re ready. Everything else is yours to choose.”

Lior exhaled, shaky and slow. The widening space in his chest trembled, uncertain, but it didn’t collapse.

He picked up the mug again, cradling it between both hands. Took another sip, warm, gentle, tasting faintly of honey.

Lior’s fingers tightened around the mug, the heat almost too much now, but he didn’t let go. He stared at the flames as if they might spell out an answer.

“The Exchange,” he said at last, voice barely louder than the low hiss of burning wood. “That’s what this place is called.”

The Scotsman gave a small nod, waiting.

“I looked it up once,” Lior continued, eyes still on the fire. “An exchange is… a trade. Something for something. Equal value.” He swallowed. “So if I’m just sitting here, taking up space, drinking your tea, breathing your air… what am I giving back? What do I give any of you?”

The question came out raw, edged with the old terror that if he offered nothing, he would be nothing.

Kelly lifted his sleek head from Lior’s arm and butted it firmly under his chin, a deliberate nudge, the way Siamese often insist on attention. Selene shifted closer, one wing unfurling just enough to brush his ankle—like a quiet reminder: We’re still here.

The Scotsman set his own mug aside and leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, voice low and steady.

“You’re giving us exactly what you’re afraid you have none of,” he said. “Your presence. Your trust, thin as it is right now, it’s still here. That’s no small coin, lad.”

Lior shook his head, almost imperceptibly. “That doesn’t feel like enough.”

“It’s not about enough,” the Scotsman replied. “It never was. The Exchange isn’t a shop where we weigh souls on scales. It’s a place where people bring whatever they’ve got left—rage, silence, questions, tears, a single honest sentence, and we trade it for the right to keep breathing another day. Sometimes the currency is a story. Sometimes it’s just letting someone else see you’re still alive.”

He paused, letting the fire speak for a moment.

“Tonight you gave me this: you stood in the middle of that room and let yourself be witnessed while you cracked open. That takes more courage than most people ever spend in a lifetime. And courage, Lior, it’s rare. It’s precious. You just paid for a hundred cups of tea and a thousand nights by the fire.”

Lior’s breath hitched. He looked down at Kelly, those sharp blue eyes fixed on him with unapologetic affection, then at Selene, then—finally—at the Scotsman’s face.

“So I’m… not in debt?”

The Scotsman smiled, soft and crooked. “You’re square, lad. More than square. Some nights you’ll have more to give, words, help, laughter, whatever comes when the weight lifts. Some nights you’ll walk in empty-handed and bleeding, and that’ll be all right too. That’s how it works. No one keeps score here except the people who’ve never been broken.”

Lior let that settle inside him, testing it the way he’d tested leaning into the touch earlier. It felt too light, too easy, almost like a trick. But nothing in the room shifted to punish him for believing it.

He exhaled, long and shaky, and the space in his chest widened another fraction.

Kelly gave a low, throaty Siamese yowl, conversational, and resumed his deep, resonant purr. Selene rested her head across Lior’s feet, warm and solid.

And for the first time, Lior let himself sit in the quiet without bracing for the bill to come due.

Author's/Artist's Note: As a disabled survivor using assistive technology, which changes day by day pending health and that day's needs- (#zebralife), I pour these chapters from my own experiences and the people I've met along the path of life. Assistive tech helps me myriad of ways present my message. If Lior's eyes reflect your shadows, reach out—resources like RAINN or Support for Men at 1in6.org are lifelines. What's next? Comments welcome, always.