Chapter Seven
"He's always angry," critiques Bryon with a dubious expression, glancing towards Hugo. Long lashes bat as his cheeks with each blink. "You have Raphael's face down, but he always seems ticked at something, no matter which angle you draw him from. A face is supposed to display multiple expressions, not just one. Ameliorate that."
"You've been drawing pictures of me?" Raffe asks, voice deadly quiet and cold as ice.
Ignoring him, Hugo waves his hand around in the air. "Well, that's all that bastard ever looks like! Even when he's resting, he looks pissed at everyone and everything. If I had a word to describe Pigeon-Bat, it'd be pissed. There is this one. I caught him staring at Penryn once."
He slips a finger into the sketchbook, flipping to the right page. Proudly smoothing it out, Hugo gestures confidently towards the sketch, disregarding both Raffe's scowl and my scarlet blush.
Staring with wide bronze eyes and fanning lashes, Bryon slowly brings his hand up for a facepalm. In a quiet whisper that sounds as if he is stifling laughter, Bryon says, "He's angry in this picture, too."
"No," corrects Hugo feistily. Jabbing a finger at the picture of Raffe, he glances testily up at Bryon. "Look at his eyes! The eyes are the window to the soul! They're soft, soft and gentle. I used a soft-tipped pencil."
Bryon's deep sigh is like two heavy stones slowly rumbling against one another. "So, say Raphael only shows emotions through the eyes, which is not far from the truth. All of your other pictures have cold, angry eyes. There is no intelligence or thoughts behind the expression."
"I drew what I saw."
Bat wings propelling him off the ground, Raffe shoots from his rest, rising to his full height. In any other company, it would be a mighty sight – the powerful archangel splaying his demonic wings wide, rage sharpening his features and balling his fist, striding with purpose and lethal focus. His blue eyes are two sheets of ice. The leathery blanket of black frames his caramel skin, like the velvet cape in a regal king's uniform.
But here, amidst the old man's calloused hands and the battle-weary figure he walks with, amidst the massive wolf with slender legs and a long red tongue drooping through ivory fangs, amidst the company of the madman that tinkers with gears and oil day in and day out, amidst the company of giant with the eyes of a man that has seen tragedy and love and heartbreak and death a million times over, Raffe seems small. And, in his approach, the others seem to know that – here, together, it is their domain.
"Excuse me?" Despite the fractured ice in Raffe's eyes and poison in his voice, I still fear for him as Bryon pivots to regard him.
"Peace, angel," Bryon soothes. The hand holding his long wooden staff readjusts its grip. His face is now angled away from mine, so I do not know what his face reads, but Raffe's gaze is fixed on Bryon's. "His drawing and way of seeing you are both incorrect. But you can hardly blame the boy. He has sparingly been forgiven; those monsters that do not are dealt with oftentimes, but it would be your first step towards redemption."
"Redemption?" The skepticism Raffe speaks with is acid. "What do I need to redeem?"
"Your honor." Bryon rifles through the last pictures, either unknowingly or deliberately undermining the threat Raffe poses by refusing to look him in the eyes. He releases the staff, leaning it against the crook of his arm to use two hands on the sketchbook. "You may have a nice spot in the angelic ranks, but there are more than angels in this world. You've been a nuisance for centuries – if you're going to regain your placement among the other archangels, you must regain the good opinion of those who have long hated you."
"You're supposed to take me to someone that can fix my wings," Raffe snarls, stepping forward into Bryon's personal space, breaking the giant's calm façade, "not become my political director."
With deep, calming breaths, Bryon turns to Raffe, eyes hard. With exaggerated serenity, Bryon closes the sketchbook and hands it to Hugo. Hugo clutches it tight to his chest and retreats, getting out of the bomb radius.
"The thing is, Raffe," Bryon explains with a voice that is too neutral, "I am one of the other beings whose respect you need to gain. And so are the only beings that will stitch your wings back on. Raffe, we do not have to be on different sides of this war. I stand with the humans. The humans stand against the angels. That does not mean that we cannot forge a treaty, with you, Messenger, as head of the hydra. However, if it is clear that you will not cooperate, I will have no choice to treat you like an enemy."
"Raffe." My voice is quiet. "We don't know how many people may be in these woods that we don't know about. Please, be civil." I glance sharply at my sister. "If it comes to violence, I'm not sure things will work out nicely."
Bryon's eyes soften. "It'd never come to violence," he denies, waving a hand dismissively. "No one in this forest attacks unless attacked first. It's a peaceful land. The home of the last Aurumn Stags. Maybe we'll see some, they're quite beautiful creatures. No one would dare risk their safety, no one under my command."
"And we are to just trust you?" Raffe questions bitterly.
"It would seem so." Bryon tilts his head to one side. "I think of you with no kindness, Raphael, but I am willing to believe that anyone can change. Others will not be so lenient. And, even if you choose to make an enemy out of me, there are others you must impress in order to maintain the angelic race as a whole."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean that ever since the angels dethroned the Seraphim, ire and hatred has flared to life in the hearts of many, many creatures. You are the only real race that seems to hate humanity – we have all adored their company these long years. I, myself, love watching a child grow up to become something beautiful. It has taken them centuries to come to where they are now, with the loving care of many a race. We were the ones that cushioned their falls and clapped in awe as they amazed us all. It has irked many that you have shattered them."
"Any race that harbors little monkeys cannot be sanitary."
Bryon studies Raffe indignantly. "How can you be so blind?" he cries. "That mind of yours, so bright, and yet so stupid! Why must you destroy everything that displeases you?"
"The humans shot down Gabriel," Raffe growls.
"The humans were scared. It was a perfect ploy for someone else to man the gun. No one liked that dictator – he is even more despised than you. I suppose the shooter could not have formulated the primitive response they received from the angels."
"Why do you defend these filthy monkeys?" Raffe demands. "You may have the Prom King look, but it's not all style. Anyone smart that's been around for a while can tell you that."
"How can you not defend those 'filthy monkeys'?" Bryon stabs his staff into the skin of the earth, his anger slowly emerging, visible in the bronze eyes that glint like coins. "You angels! You think yourself superior because you have muscle, because you have brawn. You are nothing but warriors, and that does not make you superior. Because even the most beautiful, the sharpest, the most medaled warrior is nothing but a warrior. There is nothing to brag about there.
"But humanity!" Bryon's eyes shine. "Beautiful, silly, goofy, insignificant humanity! Even the smallest person, the smallest 'monkey' as you so discriminately title them, is beautiful! For a warrior is cursed to only destroy and take orders to destroy more. But a human can create. They can sing notes of beauty with their lips, composing it as they go along. Even those not gifted with a lovely voice, they can create a song! Those beautiful notes, gently played on an instrument, a beautiful work of art in itself. The crafters can sculpt and build and mold the world to their hands, to their tiny little hands. And the artists, the artists can see what the crafters have built, and they can paint it! They can combine pigments and dyes and – lord, I don't even know, and copy an image onto a blank page. Is that not beautiful? And then, Raphael, the author, the writer, the thinker, gazes upon such beauty and thinks that they must capture the image on paper and in odorous ink, they must write it down so others will understand the exact measure of their thoughts and senses. Think of it, Raphael! How can you disrespect such gorgeous nature? How can you destroy such a culture?"
"You neglect to mention those that sit in their homes without a thought of beauty," Raffe points out. "You neglect to mention their beautiful crimes and their dirty habits. The way they are driven blindly by instinct. The way one man rises and another man falls."
"Does every species not have its bad points?" sighs Bryon. "Must you see corruption everywhere except within?"
"One can tolerate a world of demons for the sake of an angel," whispers Hugo loudly, stroking Scruffy's ears.
"Do not bring Doctor Who into this," mutters Bryon from the side of his mouth.
"Must you seek to find beauty where there is none?" challenges Raffe. "Must you seek to misunderstand something entirely in your chase for goodness? Because only a fool believes that the world is his friend."
Do not insult the Dragon King's goodness, his willingness to find light in every soul. A voice rattles in my brain, bringing explosive pain to my temples. Bryon lifts his head, Raffe does the same, as does Ogden. Scruffy remains oblivious, and Hugo winces slightly. Paige screams and doubles over. I clasp my hands to my temples, fuzzy eyesight fixing on a pure form slinking from the mottled woods. He is the only reason you still tread upon this sacred ground, O Wrath of God. His words ring true. Your blood is a thirst of mine. To consider me pleased to have you here before me without injury or contusion is angering. The Dragon King is not my master – but I do as he advises. Do not make me break my word.
Shivering, I unfurl from the ball I'd rolled into. With a massive gasp for air, I fix my gaze on the shape that'd melted from the darkness of the tree's shadows.
A white wolf twice Scruffy's size watches me, two teardrop shaped wings folded tightly against its back. It's the color of freshly fallen snow, crisp and clean. It watches the scene a moment more before trotting back into the embrace of the shadows, snowy coat hidden by the blackness of the coming night.
"Jane," groans Hugo. "Scruffy, you retard, why didn't you warn me?"
Scruffy's mouth falls open and his tongue lolls out, his tail wagging in miscomprehension.
My world spins. I groan. A warm hand rests on my shoulder, two bright eyes piercing the swirling mass of beige and emerald. Gently, he shakes me shoulder, concern pinching his eyebrows together.
"Penryn?" Bryon presses. "Are you alright?"
"What the hell," I gasp, attempting to expand my muscles as best I can.
"Telepathy. You're doing surprisingly well. My first time and I couldn't speak for the rest of the day. But you are female, and that must be taken into account." Bryon leans down even further, scooping me up into his arms. "Paige, though, is taking it remarkably. She's just mildly dazed. You, however, should get to sleep. Your head will stop aching after relaxation." Then, in a loud, ordering voice, "Hugo! We're sleeping here tonight, prepare Penryn a bed."
With a slow, sweeping trod, Bryon steps forward, me cradled in his arms like a child. The inhale and exhale of his chest rocks my head, the rhythmic cycle setting a template for my own breathing. The unbearable spiral of colors makes my brain ache. In order to escape my demented vision, I close my eyes to crescents, only allowing myself to stare up at Bryon as he walks me across the clearing.
"Is she alright?" Raffe's concerned voice is not matched to a face, but lost somewhere in the swirl of colors. "Will the effects be long-lasting?"
"She may be a bit dizzy in the morning, but she has her mother's endurance," Bryon reassures. "Penryn will be fine, given a good night's rest. HUGO! HURRY UP WITH THAT!"
"Ogden!" Hugo yelps, voice muffled. "Help, please!"
"Who was that bitch of a wolf?" Raffe snarls.
"Jane," answers Bryon. "Do us both a favor and don't. She knows how to properly kill an angel, and that would just make my job that much harder. If you want to be useful, scope our surroundings. Telepathy attracts all sorts of nasties. I can't hear anything, but a lot are silent killers."
"Who…" My voice falters.
"Penryn?" Bryon questions, his voice as caress.
"Who is the Dragon King?" I wonder, blinking once before sealing my eyes shut once more.
The vibrations of Bryon's hearty laughter itch over my skin. "'Dragon' is the codename given to me by those that feel codenames are necessary when no one really knows who I am, anyway. I am the Dragon King because I… am a king. That is my explanation for the nickname."
"You're a…" My breath fails me.
"Hush," Bryon scolds. "We'll talk in the morning." He bends down, slowly releasing me, letting my body droop over a familiar saddle blanket. Something silky and warm drapes over me, like a blanket that I'd never truly had before. I snuggle deep into its fold. Peeping one eye open, I watch as Bryon rises and pads off, not able to truly hear the glorious tones of his speech.
Before my eyes shut and my mind drifts off into the gentle embrace of sleep, I do, however, distinctively note that his cloak is missing, and that my achieved blanket is a warm brown color.
Hugo's pencil itches over the paper, gentle lines softening the hard gradient figures. His eyes narrow with concentration. Fingers quivering slightly with the tenacity of his focus, Hugo bows over the sketchpad, gently coloring in the last of the gears on the final diagram.
"What is that?" Bryon husks, collapsing on the log beside him.
Hugo tilts the sketchbook to provide him a better view. "I'm working on a new design for the copper wings. One freestanding. You know, you don't have to strap it to your arms."
Bryon's mouth quirks. "Well, that'll be useful for some people, for sure. I'm stuck in my ways, only my pair will do. By the way, did you fix them?"
"Yep," confirms Hugo with a nod of his head. "I got Ogden to shape you multiple extras, since that one goddamned feather won't stay on there."
"Ah." Bryon smiles. "When he's back from foraging, I'll be sure to thank him. So, how does this contraption thing work?"
"I'm not sure yet," mutters Hugo, taking the lead to the paper once more. "That's why I'm working on it."
Raffe's heat is scalding, and, for the second time in a matter of days, I find myself pinned against the mass of firm muscle. My vision no longer pitches and sways. Aside from a small throb in my head, I feel normal – normal, but with an excessive need to take a trip into the woods and alleviate myself.
To alert anyone else peacefully slumbering in the circle would be a mistake, one that would invite more criticism to Raffe. However, a way to squirm from his viselike embrace is hard to discover. Instead of brunt tactics, though, I aim for finesse.
Scruffy's pelt is stained silver by the nearly full moon watching overhead, a lonely eye in the sky, surrounded by a thousand winking stars. The wolf watches me with his red eyes, blinking once, before his gaze is caught by something in the distance. With a whuff of concern, he leaps from his position perched upon a fallen log and lopes into the forest like a shadow.
Dismissing the wolf's odd behavior, I lift the only hand not caught in Raffe's embrace. Gently, I drape it over his own, aligning each tendon. His breath stirs slightly, but not with the punctured rhythm of a man rising from sleep. Slowly, I rub circles over the back of his hand with two fingers, massaging his tense muscles calmingly. As the circles continue up his arms, Raffe relaxes – a heavy sigh escapes his lips near the elbow, and his body seems to unclench.
With exaggerated tenderness, I lift Raffe's heavy muscled arm, shuffling out from beneath it. Accidently, though, as I try to squirm from his grip, I jab an elbow into his gut. Raffe's breath jars, and his muscles tense once more.
"What are you doing?" Raffe's voice, though drugged by sleep, is skeptical and amused in one acidic concoction.
"Trying to not wake you up," I murmur back.
"Strange, people don't often stab other people in the gut when they're doing that."
"I did not stab you," I scoff, voice a whisper. "I was just testing to make sure that you… weren't dead."
"Oh? What are your results?"
"You're not."
"Medicine is definitely the right career choice, Dr. Young. We might not even have to follow these idiots, if you keep on unearthing these pearls of wisdom."
"Stop it."
"You stop stabbing me in the gut."
"I didn't stab you!"
"With an elbow like that? You might as well have taken my sword and impaled me. I'm still gasping for breath."
"Shut up, the two of you," Hugo growls from the opposite side of Raffe.
"Get off me," I order in a slightly softer tone of voice, stabbing my fingernails irritably into the soft arm still wrapped around my waist.
"Why should I?" Raffe hugs tighter, pulling me against him despite my daggerlike fingernails embedded deep into his skin. "Don't you want to be kept warm against the cold of the night?"
"I have to pee," I threaten. "You might want to let me go."
"Ah." Raffe's arm releases me immediately, his silken voice losing its velvety richness. "Couldn't have mentioned that a smidgen earlier?"
"Nah," I explain, rising first on all fours. "I was stabbing someone in the gut."
The world spins as I stand up. The midnight blue leaves and jet black tree trunks swirl and pitch, moon a smear on a canvas of dark, hypnotic colors. I stagger drunkenly, nearly tripping on the folds of the saddle blanket. My breathing is ragged, and sweat breaks out over my forehead.
"Penryn?" It's not Raffe's voice, but rather Bryon's. He slumbers on the opposite side of Ogden, bronze eyes gleaming in the moonlight.
"I'm okay," I mutter through gritted teeth. "If I scream, come running."
"Count on it," Raffe vows, propping himself up on one elbow.
"Shut up!" hisses Hugo grouchily, curling tighter in on himself and clasping his hands around his ears.
And so, with two pairs of eyes locked on my back, I stumble into the darkness of the woods. In all honestly, it isn't so bad – the shadows stretch long, and the moaning breeze through the trees send them dancing, but the cool air is blissful and the night sky is beautiful. It's like obsidian, studded with diamonds and one fat pearl. The leaves rustle beneath my feet with every heavy trod – though it may be in vain, I struggle to wander far enough from the camp to perhaps evade Raffe's sharp hearing. I don't think he'd make a potty-joke, per se, but each day, the quality of his humor deteriorates.
It isn't long before I'm completely lost.
Resisting the urge to yell complaints at the moon I'd earlier so ardently admired, I stumble about in circles, finding myself getting absolutely nowhere. I can find my way through a forest as well as the next girl in the broad daylight – that isn't hard in the slightest, what with all the landmarks – but with night's soft voice singing at the very edges of my imagination and the shadows dancing like demons, I simply cannot find my way back to anything that looks familiar.
The wind howls like the wolf I know it is, biting quickly through my shirt and nipping frigidly at my skin. Shivering, I bow beneath the clawing branches of a low-growing tree, leaning against its snagging bark. Simply what I need at the moment – to be teased upon how I'd lost myself in the woods going to the bathroom. With a dejected shiver, I curl up into a ball at the roots of the tree, groaning to myself.
A branch snaps in the quiet clarity, somewhere off to my left. My head snaps up, pulse spiking. Stumbling clumsily to my feet, I rest my hand on the hilt of Pooky Bear, drawing comfort from its usual spice of rage.
Another twig screeches, this time drawing my attention to a place I'd thought had been opposite of the other. Here, I see long, quivering fur shining silver. Here, I see two bright eyes. But here, I see a figure, one that looks just about the right size and shape to be someone I know.
I let out a long breath, releasing the hilt of Pooky Bear and rolling my eyes. "Scruffy, boy, you scared –"
A lion's roar is issued from the maw of the creature. It bares its ivory teeth to the sky, rearing on its hind legs. Two crimson red eyes gleam in the darkness. Taloned feet slam back to the ground. It lowers its head and charges, and I suddenly am struck with an alarming realization – this is not Scruffy. Scruffy is nowhere to be seen.
My hand closes around the hilt of Pooky Bear, yanking her free, but not before the beast has approached. I see its paw whirl about before I can lift her. Crying out, I skid through the leaves. Pain erupts in my left shoulder, ribbons of agony sliced into my flesh. Warm, wet liquid oozes around my shirt.
Still, I scrabble backwards desperately, leaning on the injured arm and lifting Pooky Bear up to the sky as a warning. Once, it swipes at the sword, but recoils and hisses as I catch the soft underside of its paw on the blade. Leaves I pass leave trails of fire over the wound. The monster seems reluctant to approach, hissing at the weapon glinting cruelly in the moon and favoring its injured foot. But my position and its rapid chase on every move I make is not admirable – its courage will reinstate, and it will find a way to bat Pooky Bear aside.
Gathering oxygen, I release one scream to the sky – a single high note, shrieking for reinforcements. I gasp for air, refilling my empty lungs. Still shuffling backwards, I slam against the trunk of a tree.
My plan to twist hastily around the tree proves redundant as another creature snarls and bounds from the woods, meeting the beast in combat. Both are standing on their back feet, front limbs interlocked. There they stand in bitter battle for mere seconds, both reared and teeth bared. Teeth glint and eyes gleam. Snarls and growls are audacious in the air. Casting their shadows upon me, the two creatures grapple, wrestling desperately.
My savior howls with pain as the beast buries its fangs into his shoulder. But the snarl he retaliates with is only fueled by increased hatred – the strength in my creature's limbs pushes the other one back. The beast does not go willingly, ripping a chunk of flesh from the creature's shoulder instead of unlocking its jaws. But the hostile beast crashes to the ground with a snap like a bone breaking. With a mewl of pain, the monster rises and bolts into the distance. My savior snarls out a warning, a threat that hangs in the air as the beast fades into the distance.
His reflective eyes immediately turn to me, concern and pain candidly mixed. My savior takes two steps forward, howls in pain, crosses the rest of the distance, and collapses. I whisper his name and string my hands through his hair. His head is heavy in my lap, dark blood seeping from the deep wound to spill over my jeans. Eyes fluttering, he groans weakly.
"Help!" I bellow, gently massaging his weary face. "He's hurt!"
A hiss of leaves accompanied by the snap of wind to my face passes, so quick I can barely focus on the sound. It rasps past, quick on the tail of the beast. Another hiss follows sharply, but this one does not rocket past. Raffe appears beside the tree I'd stopped at, his blue eyes wide.
My tears blur my vision as I smooth his hair from his eyes. "Please," I whisper. "Scruffy – he's hurt, bad. He fought it off. Please."
Scruffy peels one eye open and whines at his name, tail twitching in a frail imitation of a wag.
"Oh, Penryn," Raffe sighs, falling to his knees beside the wolf. "What the hell were you even doing this far out?"
"I got lost," I explain lamely. "Quick, we need to put pressure on the wound. Do you have anything?"
"Not here." Raffe shakes his head quickly. "I would send Bryon back, but he called dibs to go hunt down whatever was attacking you. Do you know –"
"Can you carry him down to the camp?"
Those blue eyes blink in the night. "It may be hard for you to believe, Penryn," Raffe admits in a soothing, apologetic tone, "but I'm not Superman. I can't do everything, especially not pick up that sack of meat."
"What do we do, then?" I whisper, stroking his cheek. "Scruffy, boy? You okay?" He lifts one eye and whines again. "You're Paige's buddy, you hear? She loves you like she's had a dog like you all her little life. And now you've just got to hold on, you here?"
Raffe is silent for a moment. "You're talking to a dog," he states flatly.
"Yeah, well, shut up," I snap irritably. "Everyone gets emotional when dogs die, but they really don't give shits about smartass angels."
"I never said he was going to die," Raffe assuages, "and I bet you the entire theater would sob over me. Penryn, we've got to see if Scruffy can walk if we're going to try and help him. It may hurt him."
"Better he hurt than die," I growl. The world rocks slightly as I, myself, rise. Blood quits welling beneath my jacket and instead trickles down my arm, along the soft skin of my ribs, following the curve of my fingers. Raffe's eyes widen.
"You're hurt," he breathes, rushing forward. "Where?"
"It's okay," I reassure, shooing him off. "Doesn't hurt that much."
"We should be putting pressure on that." Raffe's voice is adamant. "The wolf died to save you, it's a noble cause. Now, we need to get you –"
Scruffy cuts off his statement with a furious snarl, twisting his head around as Raffe starts out over the leaves. His gaze is fixed on Raffe, determination as clear as day across his face. It's almost as if I can see his thoughts, see his will to prove this imprudent archangel wrong. And he does. Paw by paw, he rises from the leaves, towering above with slender limbs and scruffy fur.
"C'mon, boy," I murmur. I extend one shaky hand towards him, a hand that he soon presses his muzzle to. "Let's go."
Raffe watches skeptically as I take my first wobbly step. Then, on my second, he swoops in and picks me up. Those two leathery wings wrap around his body, as if they're trying to shield me against the cold. I slam my fist into his chest.
"I can walk," I insist.
"No, you can't. You can hobble, if you'd like, but do you know how many women I sweep up into my arms?" His eyes are glued to my shoulder, the concern across his expression not matching his cocky tone.
"I guess it'd be hard to catch them, considering they're always screaming and fleeing. On a nature documentary, I watched that wolves always choose the weakest link. You think you can pull something suave because I can't run."
"Maybe the wolf felt sorry for the ickle sheep. Who's to say fate's not on your side for this one, hmm?"
"Because the wolf sure as hell is stupid if he thinks I'm an 'ickle sheep'. And slow down, Scruffy's hurt, too."
I'm just looking at the word count right now. Before editing, it's 4,655 words. These are meant to be between 3-4,000 word chapters. This is just crazy. But… there's no way I could separate that into two chapters and maintain sanity. Update: now there's 5,053 words
POLL: Do you think Scruffy's hurt pretty bad or is he just milking the injury?
Ciao,
~wolfluvermh