Chapter Twenty Four
No sooner had Bryon pelted across the cobblestone than another had sped after that lone golden angel, this one mounted atop a magnificent canine clad in leather armor.
There is something eerily familiar about the female, though I don't have the time to study her for long – the oak-brown wolf she rides, though, is proportionately more like Scruffy, small and quick. It seems to me, however, that there's considerably more muscle packing the wolf's shoulders and hindquarters than Scruffy maintains, and significantly more of a warrior's charge in its pounding gait.
Both Bryon and I are quickly outstripped by the riding female, her wolf's paws a rapid drumbeat against the street's tiles. Upon catching sight of his new pursuer, the angel's flight differs – no longer does he fly just over the roofs, jeeringly waving the hat from side to side. Instead, he swiftly cuts upward, wings beating hastily, as he believes if the wolf can't reach him if he's safe in the air.
As the angel soars upwards, the wolf accosts accordingly, leaping onto the roof tiles with a savage growl, brown fur just a bolt of lightning over the shingles.
I slow my jog into a brisk walk, panting, realizing that either this wolf is going to snag the angel and drag him back to down to the ground or the angel will escape, unscathed, with Bryon's hat. Nothing I do will change either of those possibilities. I am left to watch.
The wolf scrambles up a church steeple and pauses at the very top, mere feet from where the angel frenetically attempts to soar further into the sky. The female rider flings herself from the back of the wolf, her leap ameliorated by the wolf's momentum. Alongside the entire street of awed Nephilim, I watch as she slams both hands around the angel's torso, and drags them both back to land.
Initially, the angel struggles, managing to beat his wings frailly twice before her surprise weight causes them both to plummet back to earth. I cry out, eyes wide and heart in my throat, as they spiral together towards the ground like suicidal lovers.
A fountain further down the street explodes upon their impact, spraying everyone in the square with water. Even if somehow, they'd been able to find comfort in the water in a shallow pool, I'm not sure how much it cushioned their fall, and, evidently, neither is anyone else – a worried scurry rushes towards the plaza, all eyes round and locked on the pair in the cement fountain.
Circling the fountain are the masses of alarmed Nephilim; they unknowingly block my path, and, without Bryon's ability to cleave through his subjects, I find myself pressing between two burly Nephilim to see through the wall of bodies blocking the angel and the female off. My curiosity is raging as thickly in my veins as my horror.
Laughing with a melodic, cheerful cadence, the female sits up first, brandishing a soggy beanie to the sky. Her brown hair is dripping with water, sopping all over her leather body armor and the fine pair of bronze swords on her back. Her wide, friendly grin and rounded face seems almost familiar, as if I had seen it before.
"I won!" she gloats, peeling herself from the drenched angel's chest, unfolding his grip from around her. Water cascades from her back as she stands unsteadily in the shallow pool. Tucking the hat under her arm, the woman extends her hand towards the golden angel and where he lies, groaning softly, in the cracked cement.
"You did," the angel laughs breathily, grasping her offered hand with knotted, hard fingers that've seen much work, allowing himself to be pulled from the water by the woman without a fuss. "You won, fair and square. And you couldn't have chosen a more complete way to do it, either."
"Thank you, by the way." The woman leans forward as the angel regains his balance, pecking his wet lips. "If you hadn't had turned at that last moment there in the plummet, I would've been broken on the sidewalk. And you took the brunt of the fall because of it."
The angel's grin reminds me all too much of Bryon, with his broad face and whiskered chin, and the long metallic blonde locks now soaked with fountain water. He sweeps up the woman into his arms, dipping her low as if they're in the middle of an intimate dance number.
"That was a very, very bad idea," he murmurs silkily, voice quiet and deep. "Pulling me out of the sky like that?" He tsks teasingly. "Don't you know I always get the upper hand, one way or another? Haven't you learned that by now?"
Her alarm and realization is rather amusing to watch as the golden angel releases her, sending her slipping back into the water. Although most of the laughter begins the moment she hits the waves, I find myself noticing that his does not until he's certain that she'd fallen without injury. When it does join the chorus, it quickly overrules all other voices, with a thunderous beat and choppy rhythm.
Spluttering water, the woman rises like a swamp creature, swearing colorfully and calling for "Cara" repeatedly. At this, the angel visibly worries, and tries to take to the sky again. He doesn't get very far with his droopy feathers and heavy clothes, though, and those laborious flaps he does take are lopsided and sloppy. When he falls to the ground gracelessly, the woman is lifting herself into the giant wolf's saddle, cursing vividly at him. True fear pales the angel's face as she tosses Bryon's hat at a Fallen angel I identify as Baelan, and prepares to charge at her foe.
Off the two go, rolling and tussling and preying upon each other's weaknesses like feral dogs. Neither of them ever seem too mad, though – it's more of a show, to keep the game running, and both of them are always displaying hidden concern for the other's wellbeing before continuing their game.
Bay lifts Bryon's hat. "Who does this belong to, exactly?"
"Me!" Bryon calls over his rumbling laughter. Stumbling through the crowds while gripping his stomach as if his chortles could cause his belly to split open, Bryon reclaims his soggy hat, snuggly fitting it over his perfectly dry head.
"I should've guessed," Bay smiles. As I wrestle my way through the departing Nephilim crowds to reach the pair of them, I can't help but drink in Hugo's boyfriend's appearance – the snug black T-shirt accents the muscles he might've been trying to hide, and brightens his previously dark red skin marginally. His face has the classic angelic beauty, but there's something awry, something different from any other angel I'd truly studied before. It isn't cruelty as I would've expected from a frightful Fallen angel, but rather, a sort of softness around his eyes and lips, a leniency in the way he holds his sleek black wings.
As I approach the pair, Bryon's reflective bronze eyes single me out from the crowd, and he beams in my direction, wringing out his hat and stuffing it in a pocket. Over the heads of hurried Nephilim, my uncle shouts, "So, how was your first experience with your grandparents, eh?"
Grandparents.
The word sends a tremor through my insides, and simply refuses to click with the faces I'd seen. Stumbling up to the pair of tall men, I blink twice.
"No way."
Bryon grins broader. "They don't exactly fit the classic grandparents stereotype, do they? No, I'm afraid Theophilia doesn't carry around pockets full of decade-old sweets, and Sariel is rather lacking on that one story that is always repeated over dinner. They're my parents, though, and your grandparents, so they're special in that regard."
"Theo – Theoph –" My eyebrows purse together. "Isn't that Thea?"
"For those that wish to go the short way around it, yes," Bay purrs, his dark eyes showing faint hints of emotion, but nothing more.
"She Wolf and Lion! The famous pairing of elite super-killers that spawned the Wouldn't-Hurt-A-Fly son!" Hugo crows, waddling up from a shop on the side of the road, both arms clutching a giant bouquet of commendably colorful flowers. He winks at me and holds a finger to his lips, a warning to keep quiet.
"Well." Bryon cocks his head to one side, smirking playfully. "I guess that's one thing to call me. Most people choose something a tad simpler, though."
Hugo snorts. "I am not most people. In fact, most people" – Hugo's eyes go large, and a strange, almost tender expression settles over his face, something I'd never seen before on the bitter merchant – "wouldn't have remembered their 648th anniversary with their boyfriends happened while they were climbing through icky tunnels, and would've completely blown it off. I, however, have remembered, and…" Hugo trails off, suddenly looking like he wants to bury his head in the flowers he'd purchased.
Turning on heel to see Hugo's bouquet, Bay smiles, the softness I'd glimpsed earlier in his eyes spreading throughout his entire body. He wraps up Hugo in a monster hug, squishing the fragrant bouquet between their bodies, and nearly lifts the boy's feet from the ground. Pressing soft, gentle kisses to the parts of Hugo's face he can reach, Bay whispers something in Hugo's ear only for the two of them to share.
Normally, such a blatant display of homosexuality causes conflict on the streets – those against the rights of the gays would quarrel with those supporting the poor lovers, and the arguments would become fierce enough to wrench the couple apart. But here Hugo and Bay are met with quite a different approach: people aggregate at the edges of the square, gregarious faces appearing to be even mildly impressed as they clap for the pair. A few people shout out that they should just get married already. Bryon pounds them both on the back, grinning from ear to ear.
"Seriously, though," Bryon pipes up after Hugo and Bay exchange a heated kiss, "why haven't the two of you busted out the rings yet?"
"You know," Hugo chatters almost nervously, "I almost thought that I was going to surprise you with that question once, but then we got in that massive argument and… I don't know…"
Bay wraps the arm not holding the bouquet around Hugo's shoulders, cradling the scrawny boy to his muscular chest. "I don't want to give too much away," Bay says with an extensively casual voice, "but I do think that our 650th would be a lovely time to start taking things seriously. Hugo?"
Hugo, who's blushing with pleasure, nods hurriedly. His eyes sparkle with excitement. Wriggling from Bay's protective grip, he frees a hand, and shakes a scolding finger in front of his boyfriend's face. "You know what that means, Bay. There are two more years for you to get into trouble, two more years for you to try and be a hero and get your head cut off. Promise me, for two more years, you won't get yourself killed?"
Bay nods crisply, determination blazing in his gaze. "That goes for you, too. But if both of us are together in two years' time…"
Their gazes meet, soft and sweet, and their hands find each other. It seems almost a scene from a gay romance movie, the way they stare at one another with unparalleled adoration. And I can't help grinning with slightly embarrassed, slightly pleased euphoria.
"Bravo!" I whisper to no one in particular.
Hugo is the one to break the amorous stare, his opalescent eyes gleaming with a new ecstasy. "So, other than stealing Bryon's hat back from your father and/or grandfather, what have the two of you been doing? Penryn, I thought I heard something about you getting lessons from Emilio today."
"We cancelled it so I could show Penryn the town," Bryon answers for me, glancing my direction fondly. "It's understandable, of course – she's been on the go for quite a long time, I'd want to rest, too."
"Really?" Hugo's eyes scintillate with excitement, dismissing the tales of my woes without batting an eye. "You're touring Sercem Domu? I take it you've already been through the Downtown, area, then."
"Where are you headed next?" Bay rumbles, cocking his head. "The W-squared" – seeing my bewildered expression, he elaborates – "uh, Watchers and Wives have just returned. They're everywhere, and many of them don't know how to stop talking. I can tell you if there are a lot of them down where you plan on heading next."
"Hmm." Bryon's eyebrows pinch together. "Have many of them headed to the temples? I want to show Penryn everything there is to see in those halls, she's shown particular interest in the Clockwork Angel."
"The Clockwork Angel?" Hugo cries as Bay answers, "No, most of them head towards there by nightfall to pray for safe-passage and such. You should be fine.
"The Clockwork Angel?" Hugo cries again, but, in the same heartbeat, Bryon says, "Good. If all the chambers are filled to the brim, it's difficult to see anything, though usually it diminishes the icy drafts problems."
With a slightly annoyed expression, Hugo waits a few seconds before, for the third time, shouting, "The Clockwork Angel?"
"Yeah." I smile wryly at him, mildly certain I'd been the only one to register his dilemma. "Why? Are you something of an expert on her folklore or something?"
Hugo stands straight, smiling crookedly at me, adjusting his aviator's jacket and smoothing out his floppy dark tie. "As it so happens, I am. Did Bryon tell you I'm trying to recreate those time-travelling, free-standing, steampunk-themed wings of hers?"
"Not him, but Ogden," I recall, thinking back to Ogden's forge in the heart of the Nephilim tunnels. "He said something about you wanting to be the one that created her wings. That true?"
"Sure is," Bay chuckles.
"Point of the matter," Hugo elucidates, elbowing Bay with a roll of his eyes, "is that if you've got any questions on lore and myth, I can help. I've analyzed all artwork and all scriptures, heard thousands of first-hand accounts. I can tell you all I can about the mysterious clockwork lady."
"Have you seen her yourself?" I question, eyebrows raised.
Hugo grins wolfishly. "I have. I have. From a distance, true, but I have."
"I've had multiple encounters with Black Wolf," Bay pipes up. "That is one lean, mean he-wolf – and it is a he-wolf, that story of them all being sisters is complete bogus."
"Shh!" scolds Bryon, glancing around at the passing Nephilim. "The believers are quite fierce in their defense of their theories. Come now, let's walk in a normal, unhurried fashion as quickly as we can towards the temples."
Complying with what he'd instructed, we all walk in a long line, with Hugo and I at the middle to allow for an exchange in information. In a hushed voice, he continues to whisper things into my ears, filling my brain with stories and legends, murmuring her secrets on a crowded Nephilim street for only me to hear.
"Despite what some may say," Hugo whispers, his voice a secretive hiss in my ear, "the Clockwork Angel's tale is one of sadness, one of gloom, and one of a curse that never ends. Contrary to the popular belief, the problem didn't emerge when the Angel first obtained the wings. The sisters did not fight over a pair of glorious metal wings, two of them had flesh and blood wings, for Christ's sake. No, the Angel had wings for some say centuries before the turmoil began. Her tale didn't start out as a sorrowful thing, but rather, one of tender, tender love and the first love triangle to ever have been.
"Nothing is specific in all these legends, mind you, so I don't have exact dates or precise descriptions or even correct names in all cases. So, you know, bear with me, I've pieced together the puzzle as best I can.
"The Clockwork Angel was born allegedly in a time of strife and war. Many believe that time has yet to come, and she just visits the past with the help of those clockwork beauties. In this time of strife and war, whenever it was or will be, she attracted the attention of a dashing archangel – nobody's certain who, all that's known is that he had a pair of white, white wings, white as freshly fallen wings." Hugo snorts rudely. "Really narrows it down, doesn't it? There's got to be thousands of archangels with white wings… Okay, not thousands, but still…"
"We're almost ninety three percent sure it's not Raphael," Bay adds helpfully, with a sympathetic glance my direction. "He's too rough, too hard, too testosterone pumped. Even the Black Wolf has a limit."
"Right, right, right!" Hugo flails his arms as though he's swatting invisible insects. "Don't steal my thunder, Bay! Anyway, so this white-winged archangel falls in love with this human woman. It's, like, true love and stuff, because he literally can't make himself leave her alone, despite all the war and strife going on in the background. And, for her part, the human lady loved him with all her heart, all her soul. A lot of people say that, towards the end of their golden era, they had a beautiful baby girl, but many, myself included, question as to where that little girl –"
Breaking off with a string of vulgarities, Hugo begins to dance and writhe, bucking violently to throw something from his shoulders. Though I'm initially confused by his abrupt disturbance, the fog clears at Belle's scree of terror. I leap forward, arms outstretched, and she leaps for me, a trembling roly-poly ball of fear.
Quivering, she wraps her tail around my bicep and coils around my neck, cool scales catching on my hair. Her breath circles over my cheek, like the frailest zephyr to ever blow, and her entire body quivers, scales clinking against one another.
"Hugo!" Bryon barks sharply, his eyes dark.
"Sorry!" Hugo yelps, abruptly guilty looking. With large, pleading eyes, he turns to Belle. "Sorry, I thought you were some genetically engineered spider!"
Mane pricking, Belle spits with distaste.
"I don't think comparing her to a spider brightened her spirits," Bay grunts incredulously.
"Fine! Fine, fine, fine!" Throwing his hands up, Hugo rolls his eyes, seemingly determined to be difficult. "Alright, so, we were at daughter. Yeah, I don't personally believe in the daughter theory, it was only rumored in Africa. There's also a big question that isn't answered in any variations of the legend – if this daughter existed, what the devil happened to her? She isn't mentioned again, spoke of at all. It's my firm belief she was fabricated to show how perfect life was for the archangel and the woman.
"Actually, it wasn't completely perfect. I lied, I'm sorry. Every night that the archangel wasn't in her immediate company, the woman was haunted by a demon. An archdemon, to be precise. Try as he might, the archangel couldn't stay with his wife every night to ward the demon away, not without suspicion and rumor spreading throughout his ranks. He did not want his love to suffer from the archdemon's tortures, but neither did he want her ripped apart, screaming in agony for mercy, by the men under his command.
"Again, there is much variation to how she was treated by the archdemon while her hubby was away. Many claim he was just there to whisper to her, to pace around her bed, all night long without pausing, driving her mad with the sultry gazes he gave her as she tried to sleep. A surprising amount of people say that it was her bedroom, and he was a lawless demon scared of only her husband, so when she was alone…" Hugo clears his throat awkwardly. "Anyway, my theory isn't that, because there'd be some creepy demon spawn that never actually is recorded in any myth. My theory is physical pain – I've seen her once, from afar, but those that've seen her up close say that she's covered in scars. I think the archdemon came every night to rip up her flesh. Of course, the raping theory is plausible as well if they weren't compatible, but it's simply not what I choose to believe in.
"Another thing popularly debated is why. Why did the archdemon do it? Two main possibilities: she either made a deal with the archdemon when she was younger and naïve, or the archdemon had an old feud with the archangel she loved and chose to let it out on his wife. This, though commonly debated, really isn't something that I think matters all that much, so I haven't truly researched it to the lengths others have. Either version seems credible to me. The first would explain an occurrence later on, the second would explain exactly why the archangel and archdemon are at each other's throats since the beginning."
"Does anyone know who the demon is – or, ah, was?" I interrogate, rubbing a finger between Belle's horns like I'd seen Bryon do.
"No." Annoyance flashes in Hugo's coppery eyes. "No, actually, we don't. I wish we had more complex descriptions of what they looked like before they turned, but we really don't. We're only certain that he had black Fallen angel wings – again, not much help. So, back to the story. It's unclear how long he haunted the woman, how long the archangel struggled in vain to rid her of his influence, even giving his wife his sword to help her fend him off, but we do know that one day, the archangel snapped, and would have the demon's troubles no more. Unbeknownst of his wife, he set a trap for the archdemon, and hovered over her as she slept until the demon arrived.
"When it did arrive, it began to treat the woman in its usual fashion, however that might be. Upon hearing his wife's scream, the archangel tucked into a dive, his sword braced in his hands. Brazen fool, he tried to fight the archdemon, right before the wife's very eyes. Unable to escape the archangel, the archdemon fought just as hard and just as vicious, like a cornered rat. They were equally matched in power, and both wielded tremendous power. In fact, they demolished the city around them. In an effort to minimize the damage to one place, many, myself included, believe that the Clockwork Angel would beat her wings against the clouds and send them to a new time and place with the help of the eclipse above her. The males hardly noticed, brawling it out far below her."
With Hugo's words and tones, I can almost see the woman fiercely pounding a pair of metal wings, watching in horror as her lover and her monster battle far below, trying to aid her husband in the little ways she can.
"Eventually, it reached a point where the Clockwork Angel could bring them back no further in time, because there was no more time to retrace. And it was here the archangel skewered the archdemon through the stomach, winning at last the deadly duel. But before he could escape triumphantly, the archdemon ruptured the angel's chest with the serrated blades on his black wings, locking them together as they bled out in a sort of metal embrace. Some people say that it was the other way around, that the archdemon hooked the archangel first, but, again, doesn't matter all that much.
"As they died, the woman foolishly ripped the archdemon's wings from her lover's chest, unknowingly speeding the process of his death. As he gasped for air in her arms, an eclipse like the one they'd left behind at their own house and in their own time formed behind her. Upon his last dying breath, the moon and sun fell into position together. And, oh, how that woman cried, screaming out at his dead corpse that she could've put up with it, that she could've dealt with it, that he had been stupid to give himself up when she could've been suffering instead.
"And, as she said these things and willed him back to life, something was listening, it seems. Here we go, branching out on all theories, just so I can cover all the bases. Some religious freaks, like this nutty benevolent ascetic" – Hugo playfully cuffs Bryon – "think it was a gift from God. Others say it was her own power, a power pumping in her veins that drew the archangel to her in the first place. I, personally, would like to believe that it was her love, so pure and strong, that brought a swell of power that pounded life back into her dead lover.
"No one's really sure why the demon came back as well – it's a mystery, no way around it. Those that believe that it was a deal she made with the archdemon say it was part of the bargain, but I find that a bit strange. Truth is, nobody knows for certain. But we do know that she resurrected the two of them, and thick, coarse hair grew over their contorting bodies, fangs burst through their jaws, and that they grew to gargantuan sizes."
"According to myth," Bryon adds with a charming smile, "those were the first two wolves as well. They say that, even today in honor of those first two, all wolves have a smidgen of a dead person's soul lodged in their brain, and that all wolves used to be people. They can't remember it, of course, but their personalities are the same, and they're drawn to people they knew in past lives. That's why some wolves get along with people great and others… don't. Kinda creepy, isn't it?"
"Not really." Bay smirks, his eyes landing on a building not far down the street. "Scruffy isn't exactly the most threatening being in the world, is he?"
"True," Hugo comments ruefully. "I got the least frightening wolf in all the world. But that's okay, I suppose. Maybe he was my little brother in a past life!" Hugo beams, grinning with all his teeth like a deranged shark. "Family lasts forever…"
"Where is Scruffy, on that note?" Frowning, I turn about, brow scrunched. "Isn't he usually, like, Hugo's third leg?"
"Usually, he is," Hugo concedes with an amused smile. "But, if you care to notice, there's a lot of muscly men and women missing from the town as well. They went to work and dig an underground labyrinth off in Nevada desert somewhere for the human relocation, and one of the work-wolves wasn't cooperating. Naturally, I volunteered Scruffy. He'll be tired tonight, but it's for a good cause."
"I sent Raphael out there, too," Bryon adds with an almost guilty tone of voice, his eyes watching me cautiously, as if assuring I won't rip his throat out. "We needed a gruff, tough guy to replace Emilio. It took a bit of coaxing, but he's gone to help. They'll be back by eight o'clock."
I'm not that pissed – in fact, I'm not pissed at all – but I am enormously intrigued by what sort of bribes Bryon had used.
"How did you get him off to work in a sweaty desert all day without a fuss?" I wonder, utterly perplexed. "He'd through a fit if it were me, ranting about tough archangels being too fragile to do grunt work…"
"He did rant." Bryon's lips twist in a dry smile. "He ranted a lot. But I ranted more. Truth be told, it probably was a good option for him. Working side by side with Nephilim will help abolish dislikes on either end of the bargain. It can't hurt to have Daine's good opinion of you, either."
"He needs to tan, too," Hugo adds. "Honestly, did you see it, Bay? Well, no, of course you didn't, but he had the farmer's tan. Ugh. Absolutely awful on angels, let's not even discuss archangels."
"He did not –" I protest, but Bryon cuts me off by announcing, "We're here. Try to talk as little as possible, please."
The building before me vanquishes all thoughts of Raffe's nonexistent farmer's tan. Cool grey marble shapes the temple into beautiful cups and curves, sending elegant spires to the sky and bold columns descending downwards. Vaguely familiar to a cathedral, the stone building holds an eerie sort of majesty. Instead of the atypical flowerlike stained glass at the window, it holds another depiction of the Clockwork Angel and her two wolves, only this time, she's clutching a cross, as if to prove that it is indeed a place to worship God.
"There are two wings," Bryon whispers for only me to hear, his voice a whisper over the groaning creak the massive wooden doors emit as they swing apart. "One of the wings is for the other things people can pray to – saints, Watchers, Wives, the Clockwork Angel, even me, would you beliee it. The other larger wing is a monument to the sole King, the Lord our God. I dislike physically worshipping anyone but Him – I pay my respects to my mother and father when available by offering their shrines incense sticks, but I refuse to do anything else."
I'm unsure of how to respond to such claims, but fortunately, Fate smiles and Bryon doesn't require an answer. He shoves apart the wooden doors, allowing a warm flush of air to flood us, and quickly is absorbed shaking the hand of a rickety old man with a lazy eye and a limp by the name of Alerion.
After exchanging many a cheerful greeting, even scratching Belle between the horns, the old man practically skips down one of the wings, holding an ornamented candle in his quivering hands. He prances all the way down the hall, leading us between the silent figures of Wives and Watchers, the couples across from one another. Bryon pauses at his parents' shrines to light incense sticks. Despite the fact that no one is in the halls beside our little group, many incense sticks are already laid before them, burning brightly and illuminating their faces in quiver orange light.
The high ceiling is painted with a scene of the sky, with the moon and the sun chasing around each other, a thin strip of brown buffering the two of them to illustrate the dawn and dusk of times. I swear that it slowly moves, so lethargic any change is hardly visible.
As we pass Bryon's statue, his metal cloak caught in a whorl around his feet, I almost feel tempted to pause by his side and light one of the incense sticks to show my respect as he'd done to both of his parents, if only to see his chest swell with emotion, if only to watch as tears glint in his eyes, if only to feel his arms around me as he whips me up into a strong yet gentle embrace. But before I'd fully contemplated the idea, we'd whisked past the tall monument, leaving both it and my ambivalence behind us.
Ending the corridor and swallowing the wall is the Clockwork Angel's shrine. In the center of the wall is an alcove dedicated to the Angel herself, her coppery bronze wings spanning around the curve of the concave and her hair tossed in a beautiful storm. Before her, several lit candles quiver instead of incense, their sticks ranging in heights, widths, and colors, like little individual prayers flickering with the temple's drafts.
The old man slips his ornate candle into a slot on the wall, shedding light onto the shrine, and frolics back to my side.
"Does the little Princess know the legend of the Clockwork Angel, hmm?" he wonders, misty eyes sparkling with joy. "Does she know of the Angel's sorrows, her pain?"
"Please, call me Penryn," I offer, somewhat freaked out by the man's roving eye. "And, yeah, I know of her two lovers."
"Ah, yes." Alerion smiles with thin, wrinkly lips, a hidden sense of sadness in his eyes. "One of such valor, such love, to last every day! Every night, she is plunged into darkness's cruelty, and every day, she cries onto light's waiting shoulder. The endless cycle, poor, poor girl…"
I stare at him without comprehension, seeking explanation, but it doesn't matter to Alerion. He's off the hall with a loony lope, galloping around the corner before anyone can issue a proper farewell.
"What was he talking about?" I question, turning to Bryon instinctively for knowledge. Smiling and leaning on the tip of his staff, he waves towards Hugo, whose already puffing up for another big speech.
"Well, that's what we didn't have time for. I got distracted by shipping Pigeon-Bat and Scruffy Mutt off to the middle of nowhere. It's the tale most people are familiar with – every night, the White Wolf with his demonic wings, would taunt and torture the Clockwork Angel, just like he had as a demon. I personally believe it was more out of misery than actual malicious intent – something to do, someone to blame for his eternity as a wolf. I mean, it'd kinda suck to just wake up as a wolf when you thought you were done with life, and have to be a simple entity for all of time. Because White Wolf now symbolized the moon and the night and moved accordingly with the daily cycle, he was only allowed to ever be in nighttime – no sun, ever. He walked around the planet in eternal night. Demon or not, I'd miss the sun after a while. It was only later that the Clockwork Angel discovered she could rip them from their quotidian tasks and send them on errands, so, in those agonizing years, the White Wolf would make them both depressed and glum. She would try to escape him through glowing flowers, but they would soar into the sky whenever she got near him."
"Sound familiar?" Bryon chuckles.
Ignoring Bryon, Hugo continues, "It was only her lover, Black Wolf, who could dispel the darkness's grip with his sunlight. And so Black Wolf would charge ahead, his broad shoulders pounding with every stride, tugging his sunlight along with him. And once he arrived, the Clockwork Angel would be so miserable she'd curl up against his shoulder and sob, begging him not to ebb away with the fading sunset, not to abandon her to the wrath of White Wolf, despite the knowledge that he couldn't prevent it. Eclipses were the only time that Black Wolf had the ability to take out all his pent-up rage, to avenge his wife's agony. Like I said, sometime later, she freed them permanently from their duties of racing one another around the Earth, and they only drew their powers from their celestial elements – plus they only ever felt safe in day or night accordingly.
"The naturally donned eclipses are still bloody, terrible times, and when most of the sightings occur. Unnatural or unexpected eclipses are signs that the Clockwork Angel is harnessing her time-travel, and that the two wolves are being bound by her to bring their elements together. It's the one time they get along, answering her call. Even White Wolf seems to obey her for some reason."
For a moment, everything is quiet as Hugo's story laps at the lavish walls of the temple, reflecting off the eyes of the two wolf statues. Though I know it's rude, though I know I probably should keep silent, I can't help piping up, "That sounds like a great heap of folklore baloney."
"You did ask for the legend," Bryon points out. "According to many legends, I am an old hermit with metal orbs in my eye sockets, with a staff of harnessed evening light and a cloak woven from sunbreak's tears. It might be that the Black Wolf and White Wolf were bound by a truce that made it so they couldn't fight except for eclipses or something. There might be nothing supernatural about it."
"Probably more likely than sun and moon dogs," Bay approves, stepping towards the miniature shrines on either side of the Clockwork Angel. "People pray to them, all the same." Approaching the rightmost shrine, he places a single index finger on the ivory carving's snout, tracing the fragile wolf's intricate designs lightly. "White Wolf is known for being the master of madness, of clever games, and of sickness or disease. It's said that he brings plagues and insanity. People pray to him for intelligence, for safety from sickness or irrationality, for a merchant's knowledge, or for the chess master's wisdom. He reaps plenty of candles unless it is war time, as it happens to be."
I study the carving of the sitting wolf and his lean, knobby limbs, strangely drawn by his black eyes with only a slit of red through the center. His black wings drape over the top of the shrine, beneath each of the curves in the batlike limbs a different scene of death and sickness. I decide that I wouldn't want any sort of protection from such an eerie canine.
"I wouldn't pray to him," Bryon hums disapprovingly. "He could offer me nothing, that lonely wolf, even if he had the power to grant wishes. No, only my God could give me what I wanted most of all."
"Oh?" Hugo murmurs loftily, cocking his head towards Bryon with a smirk over his face and lifted eyebrows. "Care to enlighten us on what that was, O high and mighty disciple?"
Bryon develops a sudden interest in the starry ceiling after a rapid glance towards me, swallowing down any emotions. He doesn't seem eager to respond, but Hugo isn't letting him off the hook without reprimand. With a rabid grin and devilishly squinted eyes, the boy studies Bryon, clearly anticipating an answer.
"And the Black Wolf?" I ask to dispel the awkwardness, stepping closer to the considerably larger wolf. Belle trills softly upon seeing the statue, the emotion influencing her gentle tone a mystery to me. Perhps it is because of the statue's appearance itself – though his lupine face is more regal and elegant in a godlike fashion, a fashion perhaps meant to repel mortals, there is something proficiently more welcoming in his broad appearance, his obsidian mane fanned out, and his magnificent white wings held proudly. His crisp, clear sapphire eyes hold mystery, but – could I be imagining it? – a hospitable warmth, a fire ready to burn away any fears I may maintain.
"Black Wolf." Bay's voice is grimmer than it had been previously. "Glory in battle, success in war, the ability to be absolutely ruthless. Wrath, rage, berserker instincts. Family ties, blood ties, the bitter fairness of war. Brawn, strategy, tactical mind. Courage, loyalty, and leadership. Chaos. Bloody chaos. As you could imagine, many people are lighting candles for him – no one wants this to come to war, and yet the drums have begun to beat. They cannot halt their song before their time is due."
Courage. Loyalty. Leadership.
Those words echo in my mind. I stare into the stone eyes, their glinting facets making the obsidian wolf seem almost alive. I have no will to tear my gaze from his.
"Shall we go?" Bryon questions, his warm voice distant and inviting, as if coaxing me to emerge from my stupor. "There isn't much to see aside from these, though they are beautiful." He taps his staff on the ground twice, as if impatient to leave.
Hugo replies muffledly and follows suit. Soon enough, the two of them are striding down the hallway with slow, swinging steps, leaving the eerie shrines behind them but leaving the ornamental candle bringing light to the desolate chamber in its peg.
I cannot tear myself from Black Wolf's mesmerizing bue gaze, even as Bay steps beside me, an uncomfortably lacking amount of distance between the two of us. His warmth spans the meager separation, heating my prickling skin.
My fascinated thoughts exit quite swiftly as Bay leans down to my ears, his chin brushing my hair and sending tickles of unease down the back of my neck. I recoil away from his lips, even as he whispers to me.
"Bryon didn't want to admit to anything under Hugo's cheeky interrogation, but he was praying for nieces, and nephews," Bay breathes, "since he'd never have children of his own."
And, leaving me to ponder that in the dark corridor, he pulls the intricate from the candle slot, then heads after Bryon and Hugo with a proud, warrior's stalk. Mouth slightly hanging open, I watch him join the others with a light greeting. The continued murmur of soft conversation is the only interval to mark the time I sit crouched there, and it is not that long a span. Together they await me at the very end of the wing, bathed in the light of the stained glass window, three tall men: one with wings, another with a staff, and a third with two speedy legs.
Almost as if I'm waiting for something to goad me forward, to shove me into action, I turn back to the Black Wolf, meeting his jeweled gaze. Instead of welcoming me to curl at its feet, it seems encouraging me to leave its presence, as if it believes I should not only follow the men, but exit with a bang.
Courage.
The Black Wolf is giving me courage, that's what he's doing; whether he's mythical or not, the mere notion that some supernatural force could be looking over my shoulder is enough to bring a warm, courageous glow to my heart.
Swiping an incense stick from a basket against the wall, I hold it up to the flickering wick of one of Black Wolf's candles. Once it catches fire and burns with its own flame, I march back up the aisle, ignoring the curious gazes trained on me from the opposite end.
Careful to leave it perfectly straight and erect, I lay the incense stick at the Bryon statue's feet, slipping it into a little metal cylinder made for the sole purpose to hold my stick. Of course, there are other offerings in the cylinders, other burning incenses and a few wildflowers poking from the ashes dusting the bottom, but it somehow feels private, laying the stick before my uncle's feet, as if it is a privilege reserved for me alone. I bow my head once to the statue, unsure of how to depart respectfully.
The heat flushing my cheeks is nowhere near as bold as the tremendous warmth of Bryon's gaze.
Daine holds his breath, shadowed by the arches of the castle courtyard. The little girl, having finished with her examination scheduled for today, had been eager to return to her sister. However, Penryn, it seems, had been trekking around Sercem Domu with her uncle, and an exact position of the two has been hard to come by. Relief reached Daine when her grandfather, the tall, stocky angel by the name of Sariel, had strode in through the courtyard. As soon as the word "grandfather" had left his mouth, Paige had started to trot eagerly towards the angel.
Shaking his head like a dog to spray water about, Sariel wanders around the courtyard, oblivious to the little girl's wobbling steps towards him. He flexes his mighty wings, sending golden flashes over the tiles. The only things that don't shimmer on those proud feathers are the very tips, where crescent moons of purest white loop. Paige pauses, transfixed by such glamorous wings.
This causes Sariel to take notice of her. He pauses, frowning down at her, shoving his long metallic hair from his handsome face. Blinking with his bright, reflective eyes, Sariel studies the courtyard, as if searching for a parent to equip the child with.
Upon finding no one strolling on the hot tiles aside from himself and Daine, Sariel drops to a knee before the girl without hesitation. "Hello," he greets simply, his friendly tones somehow benign despite their deep, booming notes. "You lost, kiddo? What's your name, darling?"
Paige locks up, as if suddenly frightened, nervous at his being so close. She mouths her name as best she can, beginning to tremble slightly.
"What was that?" Sariel questions, inching back slightly, still smiling toothlessly with warm, welcoming eyes. "Didn't quite catch it. My name's Sariel. You can call me Saw if you feel like it."
Daine's stomach leaps, and he feels the need to intervene. Striding across the sunny courtyard, he greets the two of them with little more than a nod of the head.
"Sariel, this is one of my patients, Paige Young," he explains, studying the large angel critically. "She's been stitched up by the angels, experimented on, quite awful stuff. She really does want to get to know her grandfather, but, as it so happens, she's also skittish around wings in general."
Sariel's comprehension seems to have quit directly after the key word that'd turned Paige's attention elsewhere as well.
"Wait," he rumbles, soaring up to his full height. His golden eyes have golden gears working beneath the scintillating veils, piecing the picture together. "Paige Young? Grandfather?"
"Yes," answers Daine crisply, stomaching his glee with immense difficulty. "As best we can tell, she's the younger daughter of your second son. Penryn Young, the older daughter, is out and about with your son."
Sariel's eyes have never been wider. His mouth drops open. But it doesn't take him long to recover; abruptly, he grins, raw delight glinting boiling with the gold. His breaths are shaky and shuddering, as if he doesn't wish to give himself false hope, but he simply can't hold it back.
"Are you sure?" he inquires breathlessly, excitement causing his fingers to jitter together. "Are you absolutely, completely, utterly sure?"
Daine's eyebrows raise, and his demeanor crumbles, allowing a smile to puncture his calm. "Would you like to see the birth certificates?"
Trembling more violently than Paige ever had, Sariel turns his gaze back to the girl, his shivering smile somehow more beautiful than his beatific grin had been. He slowly kneels, wings practically shaking all their magnificent feathers out, bringing himself back to Paige's eye level. It seems as if the world is holding his breath, waiting for the predator's reaction to his grandchild.
Slowly, the golden angel smiles, blinking tears from his eyes. "Forget Saw," he whispers quaveringly, grinning tenderly. "You – you call me Grandpa, you hear? Grandpa."
So. So, so, so.
Back from backpacking – it was a load of fun, but I missed getting all my reviews. You all blew up my inbox, so thanks! It was a great welcome-home surprise!
POLL: Sariel and Paige... you think that she'll take to him the way she took to Bryon, or will their bond be something different?
Ciao,
~wolfluvermh