Chapter Thirteen

Bryon takes my hand, swinging me down from the ledge and catching me easily in his muscled arms. He laughs heartily at my frightened grip on him. "Honestly," Bryon chuckles, "do you think I'd let anything happen to little Miss Young?"

"Wait, does the whole 'Young' thing mean that Sariel has a last name?" Slowly unfurling my arms from their strangling grip around his torso, I look into my uncle's eyes with a question. "I didn't think angels would be much into that sort of thing."

"He isn't. Actually, that's a funny story." Bryon marches across the stairs we'd slid down to, testing the next slope. He's been leading me down to the main street again through a rough and rickety path crisscrossing the grooves on the sides of the cavern, sliding from stairwell to stairwell, vaulting off the roofs of buildings to the levels below. Scruffy follows a pace behind us somewhat less nimbly than Bryon's sinuous grace. Without his expertise, I would've tumbled down the steep cavern's walls long ago.

"Careful," Bryon adds over his shoulder as I tail him down the slope, in a surfer position like him as I glide down the steep hill. Bryon catches me again – this time, however, the momentum I'd gained sliding down the slick rock had slammed my body into his, sending him stumbling backwards and nearly sending the two of us off the cliff. "That wasn't very careful," he scolds.

"Yeah, well, there's not exactly safety precautions for me to follow." Shoving hair from my face, I look up into his expressive gaze. "Why is the name 'Young' a funny story?"

"Because it started out as a nickname." Instead of sliding down the next drop, which is practically vertical, Bryon trots down the stairs, his cloak fluttering behind him. He twirls his staff in one hand expertly, spinning it around his fingers. "As soon as my father escaped from the Pit to find my mom, he started calling her Little Mrs. Young, because she was still… young. Because of my blood, you know? It stuck, and, when last names became the thing, she kept it."

"You picked it up?" I laugh, just a hair behind him, feet smacking the stone steps in rapid succession.

"Well, sort of. I mean, I use it on passports and such, but just call me Bryon."

"I thought I was supposed to call you Uncle," I remind him, smirking at the back of his head, triumphant at the shivers shaking his shoulders.

"That'd be a novel thought, wouldn't it?" he sighs, a wistful tone shaping the cadency. "Uncle. No, unfortunately not – the connection between you and I, the human's hero and the Dragon King? That wouldn't be wise to make, especially with Raphael about."

My skin crawls abruptly as I duck beneath a low door, entering the long waterfall room a breath behind Bryon. Anxiety gnaws at my heart, and a cold stone settles deep in my stomach. "Do you think he'll… abandon us if he finds out?"

"Raphael is sensible." Bryon's warm shoulder brushes mine, the tingling heat lifting my spirits. "He may try to brutally murder me once he realizes that I'm the Nephilim that's escaped him every time, but I have a hard time believing he'd just abandon you. He may feel betrayed, confused, maybe even disgusted, but something tells me he won't leave. You are, after all, a Daughter of the Angels instead of a Daughter of Man."

"I want to be a Daughter of Man." My voice is quiet. "I want to be just an average human."

"I'm going to be frank with you." Like two coins in the darkness, Bryon's conciliatory bronze eyes fix on me. "You are practically the average human. Your father never had many angelic traits to pass on – him having six limbs practically consumed my father's end of the bargain – and it seems you didn't inherit a one from him. Well, I take that back. You can pick up angel swords." He gestures towards Pooky Bear generously.

"Raffe said –"

"He was wrong," Bryon dismisses. "If his theory made any sense, she would've rejected you to return to him. I made up some excuse as to why I was able to hold his sword, and, for some miraculous reason, he believed me. Actually, it's quite extraordinary that he hasn't connected the dots already and figured out I'm Nephilim."

"It's probably because you're so docile," I estimate, trailing two fingers through the cold cave water gushing from the falls. "I mean, from what he's described Nephilim himself, he seemed pretty sure you were monsters. As awful as demons."

Bryon exits the waterfall chamber, tapping the end of his staff on one of the lily pads as he departs, sending it caterwauling over the water. Once he's clopped down a few steps, he pauses, eyes searching for another place to drop a level. "Well, in his eyes, we probably are," Bryon mutters, resting a hand on my shoulder to steady me.

Glancing furtively at his handsome face, I question, "Why would he do that?"

Bryon laughs. One of his feet coast down the steep drop, pausing in a nook in the wall. He sets his staff on the ground. "It's not like we had the best relations. He hated me, the dragon Nephilim. I was a creature that he couldn't kill, one that seemed to get away every time. On top of that, in his eyes, I stole his Watchers from him. He simply did not understand love, and I do not believe he does now, either. I suppose, under certain circumstances, the Nephilim are monstrous." Rocks tumble down the cliff from his next step, glancing off the wall. "This area looks risky. I can carry you down."

I glare at him with a judgment balancing inside. Frantically, I try to gauge whether I should trust my uncle, or whether I should do the logical thing and attempt to descend at a better point. Bryon's eyes swim with amorous certainty, his outstretched hand held with a gentle offering. His face is so immaculately trustworthy and his smile is so benevolently soft it seems a sin to refuse him.

"Alright." Blushing furiously, I slip my hand into his. His other arm twists around my waist, lean muscles lifting me without effort. He grips me tightly and holds me against him with one arm, and, to assist his hold, I wrap my arms around his neck and link my ankles around his back.

Bryon's head swivels down, his eyes meeting mine. "Hold on tight, here we go…"

Releasing my hand, Bryon drags his fingers on the hill as he slides down on an invisible skateboard. The next flight of stairs approaches much too rapidly for my liking as we slide vertically, the sharp edges of each ledge like daggers from the earth sent to impale us. With my ever tightening grip, I pin his cloak to his back, but it flutters and snaps around his legs and mine like a dancing butterfly.

At the very last moment before we slam into the stairs, Bryon's free hand catches on a rock, and he holds it tight – we dangle for a few seconds. His grip on me loosens. Receiving the hidden message there, I unravel my legs from his torso, feet hitting the ground uneasily. With slightly rocking steps, I back away from where Bryon will have to fall to the ground, retreated several paces. He falls without trouble, sending a few more stones rolling into the depths of the cavern.

Bronze eyes graze my figure, the sweet concern there melting my heart. "Anything bruised, anything broken? I wouldn't think so, but just in case…"

"I'm fine," I assure, smiling back at him. "Your fingers are probably all bloody."

Bryon chuckles, his jovial amusement released in a roll of the eyes. "I've got callused hands, Penryn. It's not like I pick daisies for a living."

"True." Craning my head back, I squint at the tip of the staff peeking over the ledge. "How are you going to get that back?"

In response, Bryon whistles – the high two-note song quickly draws the attention of our little follower. Scruffy's head appears in the window of the waterfall room, his tongue lolling from his mouth like a fish hanging from a grizzly's maw. With quick, excited strides invigorated by my laughter of recognition, he pads over, tail thrashing violently from side to side. Pacing back and forth above us, he anxiously yips for our attention. On one of his go-rounds, his paw clips the staff, sending it tumbling down the hill.

Bryon scoops it from the hill without a thought wasted, twisting it in one hand to lose the momentum. Leaning on it once more, he whistles to Scruffy again.

The wolf makes a sound halfway between a growl and a mewl, taking one hesitant step over the cliff and slipping. He retreats and whines pathetically, tail tucked.

With a sigh prompted by amusement rather than irritation, Bryon waves an indifferent hand. "Meet us at the bottom, alright? We'll be fine."

As if he understands Bryon's words, Scruffy smiles beatifically and continues plodding along some twenty feet above us, disappearing into another building. Bryon chuckles, swinging his staff about and continuing down our walkway.

"Funny little wolf, isn't he?" Bryon shakes his head. "Good thing he's healing up okay. Hugo would be shattered without Scruffy."

"He said something along the lines of… 'The day he dies is the day I die' one night," I recall with a nod. "I suppose that, through thick and thin, the wolf's always been there with him."

"That's certainly true." Bryon's smile widens. "They're associated with each other. If you see the wolf, the merchant's nearby. If you see the merchant, the wolf's nearby. The Nephilim love him and his snarky sense of humor, love him so much that he's got fanart galore."

"The Nephilim…" Curiosity mounts within me. "You said there were entire cities, towns, of Nephilim. They obviously don't live here anymore, but where did they all go?"

Bryon chuckles, the melodious chords like silk and velvet against one another. "Out and about. Saving people, hunting things, the family business. There's actually a large group aggregating not far from the female aerie, which is where we'll be headed, eventually. There's another smaller group located not far from here at all – by the time we reach its borders, I want Raphael to be fully educated on true Nephilim."

Staring at him sideways, I question, "Is it really a good idea to take Raffe near his hated enemies, even if your peace-making plan works?"

Bryon waves his staff in a dismissive gesture. "You've got ahold of Pooky Bear, and I'm just as good a fighter as him with weapons. I'd have a town on my side as well, not to mention the oldest Nephilim and the wolf and merchant. I'll make Raphael listen to reason, you watch. Oh, he'll try to kill me, but I'll talk him out of it."

"You'll talk him out of it?" I snort, smothering all out laughter. "What are you planning to do, sit him down and have a long discussion about life decisions?"

"Actually, I believe that my usual strategy will serve me well. Ducking, dodging, and battering him with cold hard logic." Bryon winks, long lashes waving with sweet salutations. "If you're on my side, I doubt that he'll last very long, anyhow."

My stomach bucks at that, my cheeks warming like little infernos. Hurriedly, I question, "So… uh… how are you going to dodge Raffe? I mean, he's a pretty fierce fighter."

"I know." Bryon chuckles darkly, a livid gleam dancing in his eyes for less than a second. "But I've found a way to counter his fighting efficiently. Swing at me with Pooky Bear."

It takes me a moment to fully process what he'd said, and another to clasp my hand around the hilt of Raffe's vicious sword. I've been avoiding her touch recently – if I so much as glance at Bryon, passionate hate colors our bond. Now, she revels at our connection, hissing at me to slice him up. If I swing at Bryon, I have no doubt she'll drive my strike into his heart somehow.

"You sure?" I ask hesitantly, waiting to draw Pooky Bear until the last second. I peek over the edge to where the next flight of stairs looms, jagged edges grinning broadly at me. "This isn't exactly a prime place."

"Don't worry." Bryon's smile is so much more inviting than the malicious smirk of the steps. "I won't let you fall."

"That wasn't what I was worried about," I mutter, but I draw Pooky Bear. With a hiss of leather and metal, she kisses the air, her silver tooth shining in the darkness of the cavern like a beacon of heaven in the pits of hell. Bryon grins at her, but he doesn't settle into a ready stance like I do, even cast his cloak aside to spare it from her merciless blade. His grip on his staff, however, does tighten, and his muscles do flex.

Hesitantly, not putting full strength into the blow, I strike. Pooky Bear's eagerness sends it lashing forward like a snake's bite.

Bryon moves in sync with me, and Pooky Bear clashes against stone with a bitter snarl of hatred. He now stands half a step from the place he'd been, simply sidestepping the cut.

Putting more energy into Pooky Bear, I swing again, a wide sweep meant to slice him in half.

Bryon pulls a Matrix-like move, bending back and dropping beneath the blade, letting it sweep harmlessly above him. Without ever touching the ground with his hands, Bryon pulls back, grinning devilishly.

Ignoring my sword's pleas to stab Bryon through the heart, I attempt a beheading maneuver, and Pooky Bear sings.

Bryon's staff pauses her blow. It slams against the wood with a screeching halt, not even denting the mottled surface. With a cocky smile as Pooky and I both sit dumbfounded, Bryon flicks his staff and rips her handle from my grasp, sending Pooky Bear clattering to the ground.

"Of course, you are an amateur," Bryon admits, leaning down to pick Pooky Bear up for me, "and Raphael is one of the elite, but the game will be somewhat the same. If Raphael is considered a god among warriors, I am a god among those that needn't fight at all."

"Don't get too big a head," I scold, but I'm too impressed to give him the beat down he deserves. "I take it I'm not a slightest threat to you?"

"Few things are," Bryon apologizes civilly, approaching half a step. "Are you injured in any way?"

I laugh in amusement. "You didn't hurt me. Why do you keep asking that?"

"Because I've hurt people before," Bryon responds ominously, gaze slipping from mine and resting on the floor. "In the most unlikely of places. If I had harmed you in any way, it would've been best had I known immediately."

"Oh." Awkwardness wrenches my gut, pulling it into a taut knot. As I gaze into those gleaming eyes, those discs of regal bronze, I find myself recounting his words. Of a beast. Of a monster. Residing inside of him. Breathing with every inhale and exhale of his lungs. At that plunges us both into a silence that seems to stretch onwards forever, draping story after story of descent in thick awkwardness.

As silence overwhelms the sensation of company, I find myself pondering simple matters and complex alike. Bryon is the center of my deep thoughts, and Raffe the king of the petty. Raffe had seemingly taken an attachment to Penryn, Daughter of Man – could he do the same to… what was it he'd said? Daughter of the Angels? What does that mean? The blood of the filthy birdbrains that'd shattered my world runs through my veins, circulating with each heartbeat? Or, instead of the world of the humans, do I belong to this fantasy palace built around me, carved from stone and sculpted by the hands of a man who believed himself a beast?

And Bryon. What kind of a man is the one that claims he is no better than the common demon, but all his actions point to him being a saint? What kind of a man claims that he has hurt people in the most simple of situations, but bows before the little child crisscrossed with stitches and blue with bruises as if she is his queen? What kind of a man admits to hating an angel that's destroyed his entire world with sadness in his tongue, as if his inability to forgive is a sin of the most grievous fault?

What kind of man is my uncle?

Surely there is no monster residing in this peaceful giant, though his bronze eyes gleam like a demon's. Surely this is Bryon, not some bizarre creature. As we slink down from level to level, I spy on his polite gestures and the modest love filling his eyes – not just for me, but as if the entire world around him is his friend. It's unsettling, to see the candid trust clear across his face as he relies on me to help him down as we reach the bottom stories.

The last level to from the end is finally where Bryon strikes up the conversation. "I do hope I haven't driven you off. Scared you or anything. I wouldn't do a thing to harm you or your sister, and it has been a very many years since I've harmed anyone at all. I fear hurting those who mean much to me, and that makes me overprotective. Don't be afraid of me, I beg."

"I'm not afraid," I claim, unsure how much of what I say is truth. "I'm just trying to figure out what world I'm entering. I mean, I'm technically a Nephilim, right? Angel and human blood?"

"True." Bryon's gaze is molten bronze. "If you're worried about Raphael turning on you, he'd never do that."

"That wasn't what I was worried about," I sigh, "and I don't think you can be so sure. Raffe's tough as steel. He'll do what he thinks is right and not bat an eye about it."

Bryon chuckles, trotting down the last staircase. "You may know a side of Raphael that I do not believe I will ever become acquainted with, but do not think that I do not know him at all. The first rule of war is to know your enemy. No one is invincible, no one can harden themselves completely to the world. I've known Raphael for enough years to know that it's true for angels as well as the rest of us."

I glance at him sideways, brow folded. "Why do you try to find good in everybody?"

Bryon is silent for a long time, eyes skyward. "Because if someone had given Janiel a hand in her madness, there is a chance that she would've been able to fend of madness's barbed offers. Because if maybe a random stranger would've tipped their hats to deformed Ogden as he passed in the streets with regards to his injuries, maybe he wouldn't be so shy, so self-conscious. Because perhaps if someone had given Ariel the respect she deserves, she wouldn't have sought out monsters to mar her skin and scar her flesh to show that she is indeed equal to what is in fact a lesser sex. If you see that even the most damaged of people is still – well – human, then you will find the world do be a much more wretched place. It is all I can to do help those that need me."

I whistle in awe. "You're like a new version of Jesus."

"Not quite." Bryon's smile is grim. His feet hit the ground level at last, and he continues with broad strides over the main street. "Jesus was very different than me. Would you believe it, we did not get along."

"Of course." Sighing through my nose, I roll my eyes. "My uncle knew Jesus. That's perfectly normal."

"Hush," Bryon shushes, extending a splayed palm behind him to silence me. "They're only in the other room, and I wish to sneak up on Hugo."

The memories of how Hugo had distracted the shirtless Bryon to allow Ogden to slink up behind him by the creekbed flows back vividly. I smile with all my teeth, the soft brush of my feet against the stone growing even softer.

"Where are they?" I murmur, eyes probing the shadows for a sign of brazen flickering fire peeking through one of the windows, or the silhouette of a man against the gentle illumination of the glowing flowers.

"The next room over, against the wall. Keep quiet. They'll be listening. And, at a certain point, I'll signal you. Stop there."

With a nod and an exchange of gazes, we plunge into the darkness with a fervor not found before. The fall of Bryon's feet seemingly does not happen at all, his staff hitting the ground with each stride but not a sound emerging from the contact which had before created the clack-clack-clack. His cloak sways, fabric my only incentive upon where my elusive uncle may be. I follow the swish of brown silently as I can, awaiting eagerly Bryon's attempt to spook Hugo.

It isn't long before the arch leading to the next cavern looms overhead, the thousands of jewels and precious metals studding its surface catching the slightest light and sending it gleaming back at us, like little eyes in the darkness. Bryon strides proudly through without faltering, gesturing for me to do the same. Settling into a stealthier walk, I slink behind him.

The orange flame tints the floor around it. Against the fire, Hugo's figure is coiled and graceful, like a lynx flexing its claws over the neck of his little guitar. Ogden is barely visible, the only thing I truly catch wind of the front rag of his oily apron and his muscled arms fiddling with metal scraps before the embers. Paige's pale form is against his side, hugging one arm with wide eyes. Upon first glance, there is no Raffe – unless you look beyond the glare of the flame to see him pacing back and forth restlessly, casting a fearsome shadow against the walls.

They seem to be in deep conversation, but I'm too far from them to catch what they may be saying. I wonder how Bryon's going to pull this gig – his vigorous pacing drones out any of the noises he may make, but Raffe's sight can penetrate the darkness Bryon uses as a shield. Maybe unintentionally, Raffe will give my uncle away. But, as I study his position more, the more I am convinced it can be done. In his agitated pacing, Raffe is not surveying the shadows very well. His own bloated shape dancing over the wall is enough distraction. A fire also separates Bryon and Raffe – it's difficult to see beyond a light into darkness, especially if the things lurking there don't want to be seen.

Bryon's hand twitches. I pause, feeling vulnerable in the middle of the open floor. There isn't a stone for me to crouch beside or a wall to lean against. But I freeze, letting stillness perform its duty.

From here, I can catch the conversation, echoing off the stone.

"– just saying," Raffe's voice comes, irritated quality thick in each syllable, "it would be an easier task to listen out for them if you weren't killing cats over there."

"Killing cats?" Hugo barks indignantly, his head swiveling from side to side with each of Raffe's turns. "I am making music. Your pacing was driving me mad! Why are you listening out for them, anyway?"

Raffe freezes for a second, turning to Hugo. In the same heartbeat, Bryon pauses in his crouch, completely invisible to all except me. For a moment, his extended silence makes me believe that Raffe has spotted Bryon creeping up on the group, but he continues same as ever.

"I don't know. There's something about this place that's not right. Like it was never inhabited by anything other than ghosts. I don't like them out there."

"Oh?" Hugo's form straightens, as if the bantering had taken an interesting turn. "I can't imagine why you'd be uncomfortable about them alone in the darkness. Alone in the darkness, surrounded by hundreds of houses and comfy little rooms. Concealed from prying eyes, hidden from the Wrath of Wraths. Bryon comforting her, being her shoulder to cry on, helping her limp home with a smile at his lips. Maybe a smile isn't the only thing at his lips. No, I can't possibly comprehend it, Pigeon-Bat. Why are you so uncomfortable with Penryn and Bryon, all alone in the darkness of this beautiful tourist attraction?"

Disgust muddles the pit of my stomach. Perhaps it is only to toy with Raffe in a catty superiority, but the idea that Hugo knows he's my uncle and still dangles me before Raffe sends queer shudders of repulsion through me. I search for Bryon, to see his reaction to Hugo's licentious ploys, only to find that he has been lost in the sea of shadows, shrouded from my eyes.

Raffe's reaction, though quickly claims my attention.

He snarls like an animal, black wings quivering threateningly on his back. But instead of pouncing, he continues pacing, slightly more vigorously than before. If he hadn't that adamant will, he might've leapt on Hugo right then and there, scythes unsheathed and fists hungry. I don't have a doubt that Hugo's been at this for ages, irritating Raffe in each chance he receives.

"Look," Hugo offers, "if you're getting so uptight about this, I can just use my foolhardy Bryon-calling tactic. It always works?"

"Oh?" Raffe sighs. "What is that?"

"The Spirit soundtrack." Hugo steadies the guitar in his lap, plucking at some strings intuitively. "'Homeland', 'Reunion', and 'Here I Am' usually work for that little fucker."

Raffe sighs wearily. "If it makes you happy."

And, at those words, Hugo's hands glide up and down the guitar in a softly romantic melody, one that carries both beauty and weight. Carried by the drifting tune, I blink, relaxing in the darkness. Though it's not obvious, I see Raffe's shoulders release their tautness as well throughout the length of the beautiful song.

Upon the last note, Raffe questions, "So… where is the giant?"

"That usually does draw him out," Hugo murmurs thoughtfully, brow furrowing. "I wonder if…"

"He's right behind you?" Bryon seems to rise from the shadows, liquid form solidifying into ice. Hugo scrambles backwards, lashing out with his guitar. It would've hit Bryon in the jaw if he hadn't ducked quite so quickly. Disdainfully, Bryon watches as it swings through the air. "That could've hit me, you know."

"Jesus Christ!" Hugo yelps. "You almost gave me a fucking heart attack!"

"I hope your heart attack doesn't engage in intercourse." Bryon reclines beside Hugo, humming with smug content.

"Oh, you think you're hilarious, don't you, smartass?" Hugo snarls, waving his hands in the air. "You're not! You're really fucking not!" Hugo holds a hand up to Bryon's face. "Don't you dare."

Raffe, who hadn't truly reacted to Bryon's appearance, seems to scan the shadows. He steps closer to the flames in attempt to draw nearer towards my general direction, allowing me a scintillating view of his anxiety as he searches. My heart splutters briefly as his gaze claps against mine and his expression momentarily softens before it hardens into Adonis-like marble beauty once more.

I rise and stride towards the flame, refusing to break the tentative eye contact until the fire's wrath becomes too great. With each stride in his direction, I'd like to believe that Raffe gets a little less tense. Ignoring Bryon's and Hugo's playful bickering, I walk until find myself next to Raffe. The heat of the fire kisses my skin, and light dances across my face. Leaning against the hard stone wall, I relish the cool stone versus the fire's warmth with absurd pleasure. Heaving a guttural sigh, Raffe eases against the side of the cavern beside me. Not once glancing my direction, he does gently brush my shoulder with his elbow.

"Where have you been?" he mutters, voice not carrying above the spirited conversation. Glancing once in my direction with glittering eyes, Raffe admits, "I've been worried. There's no telling how much trouble you can get yourself into."

"I guess I can always count on Feathered Armor to scoop me out of trouble." I poke his elbow, smiling up at him. "You shouldn't have been worrying, though. Bryon was just showing me some artwork, and the history of this place. It was so boring it was relaxing."

Raffe chuckles darkly. "Nice, safe places are rather dull, aren't they? Not at all exciting. Nothing to pump the blood."

Laughing to myself, I turn my eyes up to Raffe's. "There are plusses and minuses. At least in here, there's no killer cherub angel things."

Accompanying my laugh with his, Raffe meets my gaze. "I don't know, the 'killer cherub angel things' would've made it worthwhile. Imagine how boring life would be without challenges. No, if it had been just me, I do believe I would've taken my chances."

I do not laugh at this, I do not dare laugh. For if he had been on his own, he never would have been in that sort of a situation. He would've never been involved in such a fiasco if it had just been him. He would've flown off, far from the area before the cherubs could reach him.

I look away from his gaze, falling silent.

I again dream of the white-haired angel – Audiat.

Except this time, she's in danger.

I had joined the dream too late to see how the beautiful she-angel had managed to get herself ensnared in the messy folds of barbed wire and spiked thorns set up. It seems as if it'd been created to catch the graceful arches of an angel's wings in its serrated jaws, each tooth curved to impale.

Desperately, she claws at the wing that'd been entangled by the iron trap, glancing fearfully over the horizon from where sounds of dogs barking and men calling echo. A gunshot hisses. Spooked by the sudden noise, her hands slips, and her arm falls onto another of the spikes. She screams with alarm as the fangs slide effortlessly into her flesh and wails as barbed wire wraps around like containing arms.

Baring her teeth, she kicks at the mess of wire and spikes, flapping her free wing vigorously. High-pitched sounds of exhaustion begin to whine from her throat, but her determination only seems to grow with each new strip of barbed wire that twines around her various limbs. The dogs grow nearer and nearer as she struggles to escape.

Crying out with frustration, Audiat slams the heel of her boot into the heart of the mess as people cross over the distant hill. They're dark brown against the horizon, a bitter change from the mossy green of everything else in the forest. Audiat howls in pain as her foot is captured by the snare. Breathing heavily, she strains one last time against the trap, but only manages to send a barbed spike all the way through her forearm, and to sink one even deeper into her ankle.

The men begin to laugh and catcall as they approach, lifting bizarre, futuristic guns over their heads and jeering in strange tongues. Their savagery is obvious to me as they slink closer to the injured she-angel, the primitive hunger in their eyes frightening. I have only seen little Audiat in two dreams, and, in both, I've found myself fearing for her.

Before the toothy-grinned men can reach her, though, a shadow moves among the forest, a much brighter shade of brown than the musky hunting clothes of the humans. It dances like a shadow as a figure races down a steep hillside, perpendicular to the approaching humans. I know who it is before he bolts into the light, know the flutter of that brown cloak enough to recognize his approach.

Bryon slams on the breaks as he enters Audiat's little clearing, his bronze eyes wide. In his prime, his lower twenties, his dashing handsomeness is again like a slap to the face – it seem surreal to have him as an uncle of all things. The sunlight filters from above, fusing his brown hair with chatoyant gold and bronze. The only thing missing from the picture is a staff twirling in one hand.

Audiat whips around, her red eyes wide. Shrieking in alarm, she tries to smack him with the broad of her free wing. Bryon ducks effortlessly, allowing the red roan feathers to sail over his head. Not allowing her the time for another blow, he bolts forward, fingers roaming frenetically over the barbed wire. After undoing a few coils by hand, he curses and pulls out a pocket knife from one pocket.

"What are you doing?" Audiat yells, hitting the back of his head with her wing.

"Duck," responds Bryon with his signature voice like church bells, swiftly throwing an arm over her shoulder and dragging her to the ground. A bullet whistles over their head. Without even registering it, Bryon continues to hack at the wires trapping Audiat. The wires popping and quivering into place, he frees her arm before moving onto her wing.

"Who the hell are you?" whispers Audiat, flexing her hand experimentally, but then grimacing in agony. "Why are you doing this?"

Bryon glances back at her wounded arm, wincing in sympathy. "Ouch. Try not to move that, I'll stitch it up later."

More bullets scream overhead, burying themselves deep into the trunks of trees. The men draw closer, not even a hundred yards away. Their dogs bay at the ends of their chains.

"Who are you?" the she-angel repeats impatiently. With a twang, her leg comes free. Tenderly, Bryon helps her slide the barbed hooks from her flesh with steady hands and a slow touch. Audiat cries out softly, but he calms her with a stroke down her shin.

"I am Bryon." Rising into a crouch where the peak of his back is visible over the mesh of wires, he hacks savagely at the wires disgruntling Audiat's magnificent red feathers. With one hand, he slices, and with the other, he straightens her feathers and inspects wounds.

Cursing colorfully, Audiat watches the men approach with wide red eyes. "Well, Bryon, I'm grateful for your chivalry, but if there's any way you could hurry, it'd be great."

"There." Bryon releases a slow breath and cuts through the last piece of barbed wire, removing his bruised hands from the mess. His own blood trickled down his fingers, landing on the ground in heavy crimson drops. "Can you ease it from the spikes quickly? I do not think there's the time."

"Oh." Audiat's high voice impossibly skyrockets to another octave as she grimaces painfully. Her hand gropes for something to squeeze as she starts to pull her wing from the barbs, allowing me my first glance at its grotesquely splintered appearance and the unnatural bend in its frame. Bryon allows her to grip his hand with a squeeze I know can't be pleasant for him to endure. "Oh. Oh, God, oh, God Almighty."

She sighs with relief as the last barb slips from her skin, tension leaving her shoulders. But Bryon does not relax at the new development. Instead, he turns rapidly, snatching Audiat into his arms. Her two wings hand between his arms. He cradles her tiny form like a child against his chest, heedless of her struggles.

"Trust me," Bryon thunders as she raises her fist to smite him. "Please. Just trust me." His bronze eyes glow as he rises to his full height, rocketing down the hill at full speed. The men holler at him primitively, shaking their guns in disappointment. A few shoot at him. Most bullets ricochet off the surrounding terrain, missing Bryon's swiftly fleeing form by a wide margin, but one finds its mark.

Bryon stumbles as a projectile buries itself in his shoulder. His breath catches, and Audiat's eyes widen.

But still, he runs onward, legs pounding against the earth, until he's far beyond the reach of the hunters' weapons, escaping into the green woods with the wounded she-angel cradled in his grasp.

My eyes snap open, revealing nothing but eerie darkness and the flicker of dying embers. There is no one up but Scruffy, his reflective eyes gleaming in the darkness. Gaze landing on the slumbering Bryon, curled up with his cloak and staff, I can't help but wonder what happened after that. I don't have a doubt it's where he first met Audiat, but I wonder if it's also where something much more important than that began as well.

Humming quietly beneath my breath, I sigh and snuggle into my musty blankets, warm beneath their coarse fabric and content in the circle of those I know will protect me and my sister.

First and foremost, very sorry for not updating for so long! It seems like it's been ages, and I realized just how much I've missed your reviews! I've been so weighed down by school and other activities that I haven't had the time to type. When I do, it's too late to really jot anything down but utter crap. Bear with me, I beg!

POLL: Bryon hates Raffe – it's said, it's done, it's known. But do you think he's the sort of fellow that may highly disapprove of a relationship with Wrath of God and his niece? The sort of fellow that may do something to stop it if it grows too potent?

Ciao,

~wolfluvermh