Chapter Forty One
The evening light looks especially exquisite through the stained glass windows.
Cautiously, I inspect the apartment – every inch of it is plastered in clutter and mess, the walls splashed with colorful, meaningless doodles. Even the ceiling is painted – smiling to myself, I recognize a starry night with flowers drifting up towards the heavens in a beautiful, allaying pattern that could easily lull me to sleep. From the ceiling, jutting from hooks set into the center of stars, dream catchers dangle lifelessly, some of the hoops containing Trees of Life instead of the ordinary webs. Still wind chimes cast eerie shadows over the walls.
In the very center of the room is a sitting area, the plush couches adorned with woven blankets and patchwork throws, a laptop glowing dimly in the low light, and a glossy flat screen TV. To one side of the apartment, there's a studio with skyscrapers of paint cans in every corner and the messiest working area I've ever seen, and to the other, there's a pleasant, moderately tidy living corner. A monster hammock piled high with stuffed animals of various sizes swings before the balcony's door, and a pair of bunk beds is stuffed in the far corner, the bottom bed stacked with hundreds and hundreds of hats, scarves, and gloves. A kitchen area sparkles cleanly through a doorway, and through a crack in the archway, I glimpse promises of an adequate bathroom. The floor beneath my feet is hardwood and immaculate, and several oriental rugs cover the areas.
The ivory wax of unlit candles shines in the bleeding light of the stained glass windows, their blackened wicks drooping mournfully. In themselves, the windows are rather eerie, the eyes of the figures standing motionlessly seemingly boring into my skull, but even I can appreciate the skill they were crafted with. An impoverished mother bends over her sobbing child, a graceful leaf holds droplets of dew as the dusk flares behind it, Black Wolf lunges upwards with his wings extended, fangs bared as if to swallow his sun. However, the largest stained glass window is beautiful, positioned so that the blue-tinged light it sheds falls over the bunk beds in a beautiful ripple of twirling color.
A magnificent dragon sleeps beneath the starlight's majesty, its likeness so similar to Bryon that I would be a fool to consider it anyone else. Heart pulling with sympathy, I study the beauty she'd incorporated into each and every detail of the stained glass window – instead of simple planes and shapes making up his body, painstaking detail had been sewn into every scale and spine. Perhaps she'd created it with such similarity on purpose – perhaps she'd just wanted to have Bryon curled up beside her as she slept once again, a lonely guardian to watch over her dreams.
I step forward cautiously, half-expecting someone to be awaiting me in the flat. Nothing stirs aside from the shadows of the dream catchers. Slowly, I approach the welcoming table in the front room, peering curiously down at its contents.
A sloppy scrawl of my name trails over an unclosed envelope, as if Audiat had been in too much of a hurry to lick the paper's seal. I turn it over in my hands, wondering if perhaps the hastily-packaged boxes it'd been placed on are for me. Deciding there's only one way to learn for sure, I turn the envelope onto its back.
The sound of rustling paper echoes eerily through the empty house. From the hammock, a stuffed monkey's plastic eyes gleam menacingly.
Dear Penryn,
I'm not certain if you'll accept my invitation and stay in my flat, but if you do, this letter will be yours to open, so don't feel like you're invading on anything.
Those boxes? Yours. Consider them welcome gifts and a makeup for all those Christmases and birthdays I've missed as your aunt. I know that money doesn't buy love, but currency is worthlless so – crap, this is pen and that was a typo. Typo? Do you call them typos when they're on paper?
What I was trying to say is that I'm incredibly sorry for not being there for you. Bryon taught me that family means standing by one another no matter what, and I've… I haven't been there. When I return, which I will hopefully do, I want to talk, you and I, girl to girl. But these will have to suffice for the meantime.
Open the smallish orange box.
Smiling as I set down the papers, I do as she instructs. The box, though relatively small in size, is heavier than I'd expected it to be, and bound in an orange bow. Carefully, I peel off the frilly tie and throw it aside, sifting the lid off the top.
Inside is a jar of paste.
I tilt the squat plastic cylinder from side to side, frowning at the unmarked substances with its glossy black lid. Unscrewing the cap, I sniff it, wrinkling my nose at the bland, artificial odor of the paste. Puzzled, I set the nasty looking yellow goo down and pluck the note from the paper.
It's Shea Butter of the best degree, in case you're unaware. All the she-angels have their own little jar somewhere, so I thought, since you seem to be spending so much time with Raphael – I am very interested in that, is he a lovebird? – you might need a tank of your own. It's for your mouth, face, and anywhere else exposed to the harsh weather we navigate. Helps with chapped lips and such. I still advised flavored lip gloss for kisses, but this is the best for any other time of the day, especially reapply before going on flights. Plus, it's travel sized, even if it is a little heavy.
Onto the next gift. Let's focus on the one with the blue R on it – blue because I didn't have any red on me.
The next one is fairly obvious – it's a brown leather jacket with furry padding on the inside and a fluffy collar. I stroke my hands over the soft insides, wondering to myself how Raffe's wings can even be softer than this. Slipping my arms through the sleeves, I marvel at the comfort provided by the jacket, even if it is slightly too large for me.
Sorry if it's too big – I tried my best to –
I flip onto the next page of her message.
– size it up to what I think you're like, but I could be a bit off, I was going by Thea's advice! Leather works as a good windbreaker, and the padded inside makes it a good insulator for the winter season. If it's too incorrectly sized, I can always make another one.
On that note, if you can fit into any of it, you're welcome to wear any of my clothes. Maybe you can wear a dress as a shirt or something like that!
I have some other things for you, of course, but the sizing is much more precise than a jacket needs to be. In fact, when I return, I feel entitled to pass on my loyal dagger, although Emilio tells me you already have his. I tried to make cookies, but I just pulled them out of the oven, and you'd rather not have them…
Just for a little knowhow, you can trust practically anyone at the she-aerie – we're a very close knit group with very, very few outcasts, and most of them like being outcasts. However, on the whole, your existence is even more furtive than Bryon's was back in the day, and we want to keep it that way. If you venture down to the training grounds, request either Maion or Ariel, no buts or ifs. At the library, keep to yourself and only associate with Metatron. And for God's sake, stay away from the catty "popular" group you'll see at lunch.
Being a teenager and all, I trust you to figure out who those ladies are.
So, I really am sorry for the mess. I don't have time to clean. If my stuff ever becomes annoying, just shove it aside. You have free range of practically everything. My only request is that you give a certain amount of respect to the paintings, the piano, and the flowers hidden behind all the coats in the closet – they're Bryon's glowing flowers. I've kept them alive all this time, and I would not appreciate them shriveling up or losing all their blossoms.
If you see Bryon… tell him I love him, alright? Because I do. I love him so very, very much, and I will never ever stop loving him. …Does he still love me?
This is a letter. Of course you won't be able to answer that. But with this being ink and not graphite, it's staying.
Sincerely,
Audiat
I set the note down gingerly, smiling amorously at the last paragraph she'd written. Our minds have brushed once, Audiat's and mine, and I have witness her past through Black Wolf's eyes, but for the first time, I feel as though she's forged a physical connection with me through this note and the gifts she'd received. With the edges of my lips lifted in a contented smile, I scoop up the gifts she'd so nobly granted and trot over to the sitting area. The empty room no longer looks quite so eerie, instead seeming fun and lively.
Throwing my jacket over the armrest of a puffy chair and setting Emilio's knife on the coffee table. Rubbing at my eyes with one hand, I trudge over to the nightstand littered with things and place the Shea Butter container on top of her digital clock.
My feet drag slightly over the floor as I find my way to her dresser, pulling out a pair of soft cotton shorts and switching them out for my jeans. I rejoice in tossing both the massive flannel and the sweaty T-shirt into an overflowing laundry basket. Flinging the incorrectly-sized bra after the grungy jeans, I slip on another massive shirt, this one obviously much too big to be Audiat's.
It isn't until I'm halfway up the ladder of Audiat's bunk bed that I realize it could be Bryon's old shirt.
Admittedly, such discoveries make sense, but I can't force my sleepy brain to ponder on them long. Collapsing onto her fully made bed, my nose is rushed with one almost familiar scent – spices. I stretch out on top of her comforter, breathing deeply, recalling memories of cooking amateurly in that crappy old kitchen we had in the World Before. Cinnamon and nutmeg and pepper and even a splash of vanilla. My gut wrenches so violently with nostalgia that I curl up in accordance with its brutal twist, burying my face into a bundle of her blanket.
Beside me, the sunlight seeping through the dragon's scales slowly dims, as if he's bidding me a slow, cascading goodnight. I could be mistaken, but, as the last drop of light fades from the room, a tear seems to slip from his closed eye, tracing down his cheek before vanishing entirely.
The gentle touch of Bryon's smile warms my heart from top to bottom. It's the age I see him most in during these dreams, in his period of stunning mid-twenties beauty. Sunlight dapples over his face, mottling his features gorgeously. On his shoulders perches the little toddler Hugo, his copper eyes nearly blazing as brightly as Bryon's bronze. Around them plod a mighty lupine herd, with proud, elegant women perched atop leather saddles.
Leading the pack of wolves travelling at a steady lope is Thea. Her face, however shadowed by the metal helm, is carved into an impassive expression brooding enough to put her son to shame. The wolf she rides, Cara, seems almost as ratiocinating, gaze roving over the forest warily, its silver eyes terrifyingly bright against the chocolate shade of its fur.
The wolf stops dead in her tracks. Cara's nostrils flare to the sky, her elegant head tipped upwards. Following in her example, the pack halts, each thrusting their muzzles to the sky as well. Wolves with all sorts of different pelts and eye colors search the wind for the scent their leader had detected.
Hugo's hands clench around Bryon's neck, the gregarious child falling silent as the animals around him sit in ominous quiet. Scruffy, only up to Bryon's shoulders, pants with misunderstanding, attempting to nibble at his fellow's lip but only getting scolded off. Bryon himself closes his eyes and breathes deeply – could he be smelling the air, too? Raffe hasn't mentioned anything about angels having supersmell, so that can't be it.
"It's a pack of angels," he reports a moment before the wolves all break into one, unanimous growl of certainty.
Thea casts her gaze back over her shoulder, the tumble of dark brown hair rolling over her armor. "How can you reach that far with your mind? That's uncanny, Bryon."
"Not now," Bryon murmurs from the side of his mouth, still furrowing his brow with concentration. "Two dozen angels, dragging human slaves in bonds behind them – maybe from a breakout? No, they need new recruits is all. They're coming this way. Raphael is among them."
A buzz of excitement passes through the women, causing them to raise angelic swords and cry out with bloodlust. The wolves shift their weight in agitation, grinning at one another with gaping pink mouths, as if anticipating the massacre coming.
"They're on a route heading for Secrem Domu." Bryon's eyes peel open, and his expression breaks into one of utmost panic. "Disengage! Disengage! Or, better yet, don't engage at all."
As all the ranks of warriors recalibrate, shooting one another confused glances and skittering between the trees, Bryon gingerly pulls Hugo from his shoulders and places him on Scruffy's little saddle. He strokes back Hugo's tousled hair, planting a kiss on Hugo's smooth forehead, before wheeling back and addressing the crowds.
"We can't let Raphael get anywhere near Secrem Domu. Run back, all of you, and alert them. Hustle them belowground, to the closest Chaza, and instruct them to remain hidden there until I give them the order to emerge. Don't fight these angels, please."
"Why not?" Daisy interrogates, striding forward atop a limping yellow wolf that looks blind, with milky, unseeing eyes sunken deep into its face. "Why shouldn't we annihilate the angels before they have the chance to annihilate us?"
"Because Raphael's among them." Bryon's eyes glint with desperation. "And if even one of his men, or God forbid, he himself escapes from the skirmish, they will hunt you down and stumble upon your children in the process. I'll hold them off long enough for you to evacuate. Any other time, I'd tell you to beat them to the ground. But now… now your children need you."
"Bryon?" Thea wheels Cara around, trotting up beside her son.
"Yes?" Bryon stares up at her with adoration, his smile soft and malleable.
"Make sure you come back." She kicks at Cara's side, jarring the wolf into a slow, rhythmic pace. "If the last thing a lover hears from you is a negative word… it's heartbreaking. If you were to die on this mission, I doubt your angel would ever forgive herself."
"Tell Audiat I forgive her, will you?" Bryon's smile grows slightly cocky. "It's not like I'll be in that much danger, mother. How many times have I escaped from the clutches of Raphael, again?"
My gut lurches, unprepared for the sudden yank backwards. Falling backwards, the world spins around me dizzyingly, before coming alarmingly into focus. Another dream, another time…
Bryon's feet slam against the pine needles, throwing up the jagged points in his wakes. So fast my uncle moves, I could believe that a trail of smoke could curl up behind him. Swiftly tailing him is not a plume of smoke but rather, the dark shadows of angels in his wake. The towering pines abruptly give way to endless green fields like abandoned farms, and Bryon is running alone, exposed beneath the glaring light of the sun.
His cloak flutters in his wake. The silky brown fabric snaps and cracks in the wind like a flag caught in a hurricane, a signal to the angels on his position. With their target so easily spotted, the angels pour on the speed, their feathers beating the air until their shadows.
Bryon's face is abruptly terrified as a pair of them swoop low to him in unison, the shadows of their wings overlapping atop him. Before he can fully succumb to the fear, however, his expression morphs into a fierce snarl. A triumphant fire burns deep in his eyes, partnered with fury and an adamant determination, so powerful it almost makes me terrified.
His powerful stride breaking for a few seconds, Bryon scoops up an old, decaying fence post peppered with rusty nails before returning to his sprint with new ferocity. The angels above him pirouette uncertainly, unable to comprehend the difference between a faltering run and a shift in direction.
As the angels swoop overhead again, Bryon grins wolfishly up at them, the fencepost braced in both hands. Then, without warning, he leaps upwards, and, as the angels attempt to slow, to react to his unpredictable strike, he slams the wooden plank between the legs of one unfortunate angel. Howling in agony, the angel circles slowly downwards – I realize with glee that the plank remains stationary, hinting that Bryon had driven the bent, twisted nails into the angel's dick.
The remaining angel in the pair roars with appalled fury, descending on Bryon with his sword braced in his hands. At the last possible second, Bryon halts completely, digging his heels into the soil. The angel crashes in front of him. Bryon leaps onto the angel's back, plants a foot between his wings, claps both of his hands over the angel's ears and snaps his neck.
A shiver goes down my spine seeing the ease Bryon had dispatched both angels with. True, they're not fatal wounds, not even this neck snap, not too angels – but it serves as a fierce reminder that Raffe's constant hunt of the Nephilim had sharpened my uncle into a trained angel hunter. If he had wanted, killing Raffe at any time would've been a routine maneuver.
Bryon doesn't waste time pitying the angel that he'd put out of action, instead turning on a dime towards a landmark in the far, far distance – a small gorge, I realize, with a decent sized creek roaring at the belly of the beast. As the angels turn with him, for the first time, I spot the snowy flash of Raffe's wings amongst the others – partially because he doesn't follow Bryon anymore, hovering and studying his path, same as I had, and veering off into the distance.
After seeing what'd happened to their comrades, the angels don't seem so eager to descend upon Bryon, instead attempting to wear him out – I don't know much about Bryon's endurance, but I'm willing to bet he's burning a lot more calories sprinting for his life when compared to the angels, coasting peacefully on air currents above him.
Not all of the angels seem so eager to stick with the program, however – a few gradually saunter downwards, finding safety in numbers as they converge around Bryon. Out of the ten still nipping at Bryon's heels, three tip downwards, their faces the most contorted with rage.
As they come into range of Bryon's powerful leaps, he smiles to himself, a grim, frightening smile, a smile baring his undaunted fortitude to them. Nearer and nearer grows the gorge.
Bryon leaps into the narrow ravine, his feet sending up a starburst of crystal water as he crashes into the creek. Tossing up spray in his wake, Bryon changes direction, running parallel to the creek along the sandy riverbed. Above him, the angels shift direction with ease, running into none of the calamities he does as his feet tangle with rocks and stones and brambles.
One of the angels smoothly dip downwards until their body is at the same level as Bryon's, his wings scraping the sides of the gorge and smacking Bryon in the back of the head. Grinning solemnly to himself, casting devilish glares at the angel that keeps whacking his head, Bryon waits and waits, his patience seemingly immeasurable as the angel draws only closer.
A line of rapids makes the creek shallow and spread out, the jagged rocks piercing through the white froth like talons. Instead of altering his path to stick to the riverbed, Bryon skips off a few of the jutting stones, dashing ahead of the angel until he's directly before the accoster, before jumping up straight in the air.
Bryon's feet collide with the angel's back, forcing his chest downwards onto the sharp rocks. A sickening crunch tells both Bryon and I that at least one of the stones has found its mark. Though Bryon doesn't take the time to study it, I see that one of the angel's wings have broken against the rocks.
Both bellowing furiously, both the closest angels swirl towards Bryon. Seemingly without glancing up, Bryon kicks off the broken angel's back and grabs the tips of both the angels' wings, dragging them downwards and cracking their heads together. Although only momentarily impaired, it provides the time for him to dash off.
Ahead, a bridge awaits, its shadow dark and dank with barely enough room to squeeze through. Bryon's gaze fixes on the bridge hopefully, seeing exactly what I find as I study the cramped space under the toll bridge – if he can somehow fit beneath the bridge, he could hide from the angels. If not accounting the angel's ample ability to merely rip up the bridge, the tight space would be a flawless method to escape them.
Baring his teeth and biting his tongue, as a last desperate gamble, Bryon slides beneath the bridge like a batter sliding to home plate.
His feet still remain exposed, causing the angels to dive with last desperate cries towards them, their hands outstretched. However, noticing these bellows of anger, Bryon pulls his legs under the bridge, squirming deeper into the recesses. Flipping his body around so that he faces the angry angels crowding at the lips of the dark space, Bryon inches carefully backwards, keeping a watchful eye on those in front of him.
Unknowingly, he also ignores the greatest threat at his back.
A single caramel arm snakes beneath the bridge, broad, powerful hand closing around Bryon's ankle, causing his eyes to widen with heart- wrenching terror; and, with one simple motion, the snap of a bone breaking echoes from under the bridge.
The angels roar with approval as Bryon yelps with pain.
Lips peeled back over his teeth, Raffe drags Bryon from out of under the bridge by his broken angle. When Bryon desperately clings to a stone beneath the planks, Raffe uses his other hand to snap Bryon's fibula. Using Bryon's momentary falter in strength to his advantage, Raffe heaves my uncle out from the shadows, flinging him into the creek so that his blood stains the crystal waters red.
Hopping over the bridge, Raffe's warriors huddle around him like a cheerleading squad on steroids, jeering at Bryon and goading their leader onwards.
Coughing up foul creek water, Bryon attempts to rise from the water, pushing himself up on his hands, but Raffe only proceeds to grab his other ankle and snap it as well in one brutal motion.
Bryon howls, casting back his head.
"Try running now," is all Raffe says to the crippled man before him.
Pivoting towards his warriors, Raffe grins triumphantly, laughing heartily. "What did I tell you, boys? More fun than babysitting Baelan's bitches, eh?"
They roar in agreement, stamping their feet on the sand redundantly.
"Agreed!" Raffe thunders, eyes glinting coldly. "Now, someone get this monkey tied up, especially tight around the ankles" – a cold chuckle rumbles through the men – "and another one of you, check on Yaoel – that was a cheap, cheap shot, but good God knows it's painful. The rest of you bastards, get back to camp!"
As the angels revel in their victory, pounding one another and their clever leader on the back, Bryon drags himself to the opposite bank. For the first time, his face is not blurred with his speed, and I can truly see the weariness in his eyes and the bruises mottling over his body – how long he's been running, I'm not sure, but there hasn't been any chance for him to sleep, and that's for certain. As he collapses on the sand, his lashes brushing the ground and his cloak fanned out around him like wings, I catch a glimpse of something I hope I never see on his face again.
Absolute terror.
Not the sort of terror you get when you're watching a horror movie or when a group of raucous men tail you through a dark alleyway, but fear in its purest form.
Here Bryon is, captured by the one responsible for murdering his sister and hundreds of other Nephilim, surrounded by the angel's lawless warriors, and without a hope of escaping back home to Hugo, to Ogden, to Audiat, uncertain if Raffe will plod onwards to his city and destroy his people. I see the basis of a childhood fear left to fester in the very back of his imagination – the emotion so powerful that, for seconds, I see it, flickering over my vision.
Raffe silhouetted by the flames, a gasping, tongueless Nephilim being engulfed by the hellfire behind him. Raffe standing over the lifeless body of a silver-eyed dragon Nephilim even smaller than Belle with a smoldering town behind him. Raffe shoving Sariel into the pit, sending him tumbling down into the blackness.
Bryon's breath starts to shudder. Tears pool in his eyes. My heart trembles as a single one overflows, plopping against the sand, with no one at all to pay any heed to his agony.
The moment the tear collides with the grains of coarse sand, I'm wrenched backwards – but I don't want to go, I don't want to leave Bryon all by himself. I don't want to add to my uncle's loneliness.
Red dust and red rocks is all I see – the sweltering heat from above forces a glimmering sheen onto the shoulders of all the pitiful souls caught beneath the sun's rays. An entire line of tied humans shuffle together, casting uncertain glances at the angels hovering above them and striding around them. A few miles away, a pearly white building had been erected, the same one that I'd seen Raffe perched on as he'd overseen the slaves in the mines. Not even a hundred yards away, a sparse collection of tents and shoddily built wooden cabins rest in the shadow of a massive marble coliseum. Beneath one of the tents' canvases, a familiar face watches the approaching slaves.
"Baelan!" calls Raffe as he descends upon the tent, landing besides Bay and folding his snowy wings against his back.
"Raphael," Bay purrs, focusing on Raffe with a cruel expression seemingly sewn into his face. They clap their hands against their forearms in a brief shaking of hands. "I trust you've brought me something good?"
Raffe nods, grinning cockily. "They should please you well enough, I'd wager. Plenty of healthy women for the aerie – they are running low on kitchen staff, aren't they?"
"That bastard Azrael keeps killing them willy-nilly if they miss a spot." Bay shakes his head grouchily, eyes burning with hatred. "Doesn't understand the use of a good cleaning woman that's not pregnant, that dick. But oh well. What else did you find?"
"Many males, most ranging from adolescent to age thirty." Raffe cocks his head to one side, grinning darkly. "Oh, and there's one male I'm going to have to have you break… he's more fiery than any of them I've ever encountered. Ran nonstop for three days before we finally pinned him down, this one did."
"Three days?" Bay's eyebrows shoot up. "I imagine he's exhausted, then. Shouldn't be difficult, even you'd be capable of it."
Raffe shrugs. "It's what I thought, too, but no – he was kicking and scratching the whole way back even with two broken ankles, and's been nothing but trouble since. Josiah got too close, that poor idiot, and he broke his wing by – get this – pinning the wing knuckle between his bound hands and clutching it to his chest. When Josiah pulled back, he did the breaking for the slave. Gave him a lashing for it, and he spit in my face. Burned his back with the tip of my sword in punishment for that, and he kicked a bucket of water onto the coals. The hot steam blistered my face."
"Is he the one with the cape thing blowing in the wind over there, giving Yaoel all that grief?" Bay points towards where an angel fiercely attempts to hold Bryon down by a rope tied to his bound wrists – my uncle is causing all sorts of trouble, entangling his rope purposefully through the legs of angels and humans alike, dragging the angel into tables, and "accidently" freeing a horse that'd been tied to a lonely post. It nickers and gallops off, a few cursing angels flying after it.
"Oh, Yaoel." Raffe shakes his head pityingly. "You wouldn't believe what that angel's been through with – "
He breaks off as a collective gasp goes around the clearing. Bryon had reared up as Yaoel had drawn too close, yanking his feet up and slamming them into the angel's stomach. Wrenching the rope from Yaoel's hands, he'd sent his captor flying backwards, collapsing himself in a mushroom of red dust.
Bay vaults over a table, his brow lowered ferociously. The once-busy tents are now dead silent, watching the angel take on the slave. It's incredibly fascinating, seeing how they interacted then when compared to nowadays.
Not even bothering to fiddle with the ropes around Bryon's wrists, Bay grabs a fistful of his gorgeous hair and yanks it brutally until Bryon is more or less standing before him. They stare darkly at one another, their eyes both saturated with the instant hatred a master feels towards a rebellious slave and a slave towards a constricting master.
"What is your name?" Bay inquires, his tone all too quiet.
Bryon whispers something so softly even I don't understand it.
"Simon?" Bay lifts an eyebrow. "Well, Simon, are you going to cause trouble at this camp?"
"Afraid I am." I flinch as Bryon gathers his saliva and then spits on Bay's face. "Oops. Sorry. Accident, I swear."
Bay's muscles tremble with the effort of staying calm. A beautiful pair of brown dappled wings clench against his back. His smile is creepily tranquil. "To the coliseum with you, boy. Shame, you would've made an excellent miner. But what can I do?"
Bay thrusts Bryon downwards, but, unfortunately, Bryon had been expecting such a maneuver. He scampers backwards a few steps to relieve the force of the shove, but then stands proudly, his shoulders squared like a noble warrior's.
"Point me in the direction of the coliseum barracks, will you?" he challenges coldly, his gaze just daring Bay to try and make a grab for his leash.
Raising his voice, Bay orders, "Someone direct this monkey to the stables. I've got a conversation to finish."
Turning his back on Bryon, which, as I know, is a much, much more dangerous idea than he seems to believe it to be, Bay strides back to Raffe, his jaw clenched and his fists balled furiously. Rage glints in his dark eyes, rage powerful enough to lay waste to entire civilizations.
"He has a way of doing that to you," Raffe acknowledges, nodding towards Bay. "It only lasts a little while; then you respect his spirit. Hell, I almost regret taking that one in. I almost don't want to see him broken."
The swift, jarring sensation of being ripped from a dream and being placed in another is almost routine by now – in fact, it doesn't take me long to orient myself, not long at all.
In the belly of the coliseum, it doesn't look nearly as impressive as it had from outside. Exteriorly, the coliseum seems grand and furnished, smaller than Rome's but just as ornate. Inside, its condition can be related to Rome's coliseum in my times, after it'd been defiled by angels. The sandy area inside is much smaller than I'd expected it to be, not equating to the rows and rows of seating. Everything is poorly maintained and cleaned – angels plop down wherever they desire, fights breaking out through the stands over saved seats and strangers plucking at another's popcorn-like dish. Bay and Raffe lounge in a roped off section in slightly better condition than the rest of the area, leaning over the railing with their wings casually unfurled.
"This is a petty gathering," Raffe notes, sighing to himself. "I'll see the wild one – Simon?"
"That's what he said," Bay grunts, shrugging.
"Well, I'll see Simon's breaking – or demise – and then be on my way." Raffe glances disdainfully around at the coliseum. "I've got more important matters to attend to than this dump."
"Suppose you would," Bay agrees, eyes twinkling. "Me? All the entertainment I've got is this dump. Sometimes, I even join in. Sure as hell beats watching other guys rip monkeys apart. Fights break out all the time in the stands, of course, but nothing can be done about that."
"They have to get their energy out somehow," Raffe agrees grimly. "When is it going to start? I'm standing up Ariel for this, that woman is a monster…"
"All women are monsters." Bay glances towards Raffe. "Stay away from them, my friend. I have yet to meet a female that's all she seems."
"Is it starting?" Raffe questions, leaning forward eagerly.
Glancing pityingly towards Raffe, Bay nods. "Simon's the third man we have scheduled for execution. You'll have to sit through two –" He breaks off with a roar of approval as an inching, tentative man slowly makes his way through the gates.
A bent sword is clutched in the man's hands. Opposite to Raffe and Bay, an angelic warrior vaults over the side, applauded frantically by the entertainment-starving angels. When the sleek, oiled armor of the massive angel is compared to the simple leather pads over the short man's chest, I feel a surge of pity for the man.
Onwards and onwards they go, the angel playing cat-and-mouse with his prey. Each time he gets close, angels holler with bloodlust. Each time the man gets away, they scream at their brethren to go after him. Throughout it all, the angel continues at a slow prowl, tailing the helpless man until his severed head rolls over the sandy floor.
A woman comes out this time, holding a cracked shield. She's much braver than the man, glaring defiantly at the angel and even going so far as to slam the rim of her shield into the backs of his knees like Captain America, but she falls sooner than he had, too.
At last, striding powerfully from the flaps guarding the stables or whatnot instead of being thrown through, comes my uncle. A metal bowstaff twirls in one hand, and, unlike the past weapons of preference, I can't see anything especially wrong with it. He wears no armor, no shirt, not even his atypical cloak – a shiny red scar on his chest suggests that he'd gouged it there himself not long ago. Though I don't understand it, a murmur passes through the stands as the angels clap their eyes on the puckering scar tissue. Evidently, the force translating the dialect of the past into a language I can understand doesn't extend to cryptic symbols.
"Dragon," Raffe murmurs, tilting his head to one side. "Dragon? Does he think he gets a stage name?"
Bay waves a hand dismissively. "They're loving it. If he wants to call himself something special, so be it. Now, pay attention, this will be most entertaining."
The angel begins his slow prowl towards Bryon, wings raised menacingly. Instead of wasting his energy fleeing like the first or making cheap shots like the second, Bryon plays the same game, slinging the staff over his shoulders and strolling amiably towards the angel. The crowd seems delighted with the strange new element of equality he adds to the game, the word dragon whispered around the stands. All seem fascinated with the new piece on the board.
Bryon takes it a bit further by turning his back on the angel.
For the first time, it's the angel that looks uncertain – his sole job is to capture the adoration of the audience as he slaughters his victims, but no one fancies a hero that sleazily stabs enemies in the back. And that, I realize, is the focal point in Bryon's appearance – an underdog, an anomaly after all the supreme angels. Even the cheesy nickname serves its purpose to the entertainment-starved audience.
Standing his ground, watching Bryon trail lazy circles around the ring, the angel seems to be contemplating his options, awaiting a moment to strike. He feigns charges and runs towards him, but Bryon doesn't so much as look his direction, earning the angel an excited whoop that ends in a disappointed sigh. Frustrated, stamping his feet against the sand, the angel watches Bryon helplessly.
As Bryon crosses in front of Raffe and Bay, he reaches up with his staff and smacks both of them soundly on the head, causing both of the VIP angels to snarl with anger, but causing a roar of laughter to echo through the stadium. Bryon addresses his adoring fans with a charming smile that could melt the wills of any teenage fangirl and a tip of the head. Evidently, the angels are much more similar to teenage fangirls than they'd probably be willing to admit.
In a desperate attempt to regain adoration, the gladiator angel charges Bryon for the real this time. As he reaches Bryon, my uncle grabs the railing along the edges of the wall protecting the angels from him as leverage and slams his feet into the angel's oncoming face, sending his helmet flying.
Stumbling backwards, the angel lets out a confused cry, his nose crushed against his face. His rage seems to increase by a tenfold, leaving all need for an admiring crowd behind, but Bryon carries on with his antics.
"You there, first row, tawny wings and stylish hat?" he calls, saluting mockingly towards the angel he addresses. "I could be wrong, but is that an apple you have in your hand? Ah, yes, it is. I'd love that apple – the food they give you here is awful. Would you…?"
The angel stands up, eyes glinting eagerly. "Catch," he rumbles, beaning the apple towards the gladiator.
Three things happen in rapid succession – the angel leaps for Bryon with a savage bellow, Bryon slams his hand against the angel's wrist, somehow knocking his sword from his grasp and snatching it from the air, and the angel's head pounds against the sand, joining the two humans he'd decapitated in death.
The angel's lifeless body thumps against the ground, his wings blanketing his dead body. Bryon glances down at the blood that'd splattered over his chest disdainfully and drops the sword, acting as if it'd grown too heavy for his hands.
As the crowd roars with confusion about the sudden and unexpected turnout, Bryon leans down, nudging the angel's limp body aside, and plucks the apple from the dirt. He rubs it against his pants, leaving a speckle of red and a smudge of sand. Turning on heel to face the angel that'd given it to him, Bryon lifts the apple, as if toasting him.
The angels quiet momentarily to hear him speak. "You, my friend, need to work on your aim."
As Bryon sinks his teeth into the apple again, he meets Raffe's gaze, smiling darkly as he chews. The crowd roars with both outrage and joy around them, but, somehow, neither beast nor monster seems to care. Raffe is aware that Bryon had been able to lift the sword, not merely redirect its path; however, Bryon is daring Raffe to enter the circle and prove his theory.
Winking once to the crowd, Bryon dashes forward suddenly, leaping through the air with superhuman agility until he's perched on the railing in front of the VIP seating. Raffe doesn't flinch as Bryon first forces the half-eaten apple into his bared teeth and then pecks him on the cheek with a kiss. Laughing thunderously, Bryon dances backwards towards the center of the ring, slinging his staff around playfully, the only indication of his dark intent the cynical twinkle in his eyes.
Sucked backwards, swirling backwards, thrust forward.
The hallway Raffe dashes down thunders with explosions, dust raining from the ceiling. A glimpse outside reveals that angels flap around fiery comets of red and orange, and each time the comets hit the skin of the earth, it trembles violently. Pathetic human servants stream past him on either side, attempting to escape the violence with ear-piercing screams, stumbling around him as if he's a leper in a crowd – all but one, that is.
Bryon steps in front of Raffe, nearly getting bowled over by his velocity. His annoyance is initially clear on his face, but, as Raffe's eyes find Bryon's face, he relaxes, clutching the shoulder of his servant and meeting his gaze intensely.
"Leave, now." Raffe glances up at the unstable ceiling skeptically. "It's too dangerous for you here."
"And for you," Bryon protests, glaring defiantly at Raffe. "I'm not that much more fragile than an angel – if you're going somewhere, I'm coming too.
"Get the hell out of here, Simon," Raffe instructs, voice not soft as one may think, but lacking the rough, commanding tones it would otherwise maintain in a situation of crisis. He glances back to where the last humans disappear. "Get out of my sight and don't you ever come back. Don't you ever let me see your face again."
Bryon glances up towards the crumbling ceiling, hesitating, then meets Raffe's eyes with definite softness there. "Yes, sir," he whispers, and then thrusts Raffe backwards.
Raffe cries out with anger and confusion as he slides back against the tile, wings spanning out to slow his fall – his cry quickly turns into a yell of alarm as the ceiling collapses, burying Bryon in stone.
Raffe sits there for a few moments as the hallway shakes, staring in mute horror at the pile of rubble. With a shuddering breath, he claps a hand over his mouth, shaking his head slowly. Though the emotion in his eyes isn't quite as intense, the shock is nearly what it'd been like the night at the aerie when Pooky Bear had first denied him.
Another angel bursts through a window along the side of the aerie, his golden wings tagging him as Gabriel. Roughly, the angel yanks Raffe to his feet, and practically shoves him out the window headfirst.
"Get moving!" Gabriel snarls, his tone leaving no room for argument. "This place is going to blow!"
And so Raffe flies off with massive flaps of his great white wings, glancing behind him as the building bursts into flame, burning whatever remains of Bryon that may remain.
I don't understand how Bryon could survive that – and, evidently, Raffe can't fathom a method, either. Swallowing down the agony in his eyes, he rejoins the aggregation of angels collecting outside the ruins, stomaching his pain to address the troops so in need of a ruler. Leaving Simon to burn in the ruins of the aerie. Leaving his memories of the loyal servant to slip from his mind like they all do.
Though my heart is still invested in the scene, though I'm raging with curiosity as to how my uncle survived that encounter, I feel myself being dragged backwards and another vision being shoved at me.
Bryon shivers in the corner of the overcrowded work room, curled up in a blanket as if making pretend that it's his magnificent cloak. Visible through the thin, frayed fabric and his loose, patchwork shirt are all of his ribs. Purple bags hug his eyelids, ringing them like a raccoon. With each rock of his painfully scrawny chest, his breath plumes out in front of him.
I recall what Ariel had said about Bryon going for a year without contacting anyone, a year when everyone thought he was dead – though I don't know any specifics, none at all, it would make perfect sense if this took place in that period of time. Not even the humans seem eager to approach him – the glorious beauty in his face had deteriorated as his muscle had faded away, leaving it looking gaunt and dangerous.
If I was a mother, this sickly man certainly wouldn't be the one I'd want to carry my daughters from the fire – I'd push him back in.
To make things worse, he seems to be fondling a small object – admittedly, to anyone else, it would appear creepy, pointing towards insanity. But it only makes my heart break slightly in my chest – his fingers gently massage up the length of a beautiful red feather, grooming it constantly, preening it into perfection. He never takes his dimly glinting eyes off of it.
The rest of the derelict room isn't that much better off – people murmur to one another, casting hopeless glances around the room. It's about half the size of my gym and packed with hapless people. Some are quarantined together, coughing up phlegm, the more recent castouts dragging the bodies of those deceased, murdered by the disease, to a steadily growing pile. Old women rock on their haunches, clutching religious figures, and babies bawl as the sickness claims their tiny lives before they've truly begun.
Suddenly, the angel at the door steps aside, and the hatch swings open, admitting Bay and Raffe.
"…it's not like I don't understand you wanting another manservant," Bay chats, striding to the center of the room, kicking people aside, "but that last one you had was particularly special – I've never known a monkey to give its life for its master. Besides, all these mangy creatures are sickly with the winter. They don't deal with cold well."
"Neither do we," Raffe points out, tailing Bay through the humans that quickly shrink away from them both. At the sound of his voice, Bryon looks up from his pathetic feather, his expression colored with dim, faint recognition. He does not move from his dark corner, however, or stir in the slightest. The only indication that he's paying attention at all is the weak, fluttering bronze gleam in his eyes.
"I want one with fire, with strength," Raffe informs Bay, peering out over the men. "Not one that's too shabby around the house, either; I've spent six months dressing myself, too, can't have that…"
"Poor baby," mutters Bay, rolling his eyes. "Now, we don't have any rough and tumble ones around here. The ones that've survived this long don't have that sort of spirit left." He shakes his head remorsefully. "Sorry, Raffe, you're going to have to wait until spring comes around and we can snag new, fresh men with hearts as strong as horses. There's no one worth looking at here."
"Alright," Raffe sighs, looking reluctant to leave. His eyes scan the crowd, almost as if searching for someone – and I know exactly who. Before he can reach Bryon's corner, his lips pinch as he seemingly scolds himself, refocusing on Bay. "Should we…?"
His head jerks up abruptly, almost as if catching an iridescent gleam from the darkness. Every muscle in Raffe's body goes rigid.
With one bloodied, cracked hand, Bryon reaches out for his old master, eyes almost adoring as he pleads for Raffe's attention. A savior, a light in the darkness, is all my uncle sees.
"Raffe?" Uncertainly, Bay shuffles his wings, squinting blindly into the darkness. "What's going on?"
Raffe shakes his head suddenly, breaking Bryon's gaze, squaring his shoulders and straightening his shirt nervously. "Nothing. Thought I saw a ghost. A weak, broken ghost, nothing like the man I knew."
Bryon croaks with agony, causing Raffe to pause again, turning back towards him. A single tear leaks down Bryon's face, tracing the sharp contours of his face, and his lower lip trembles with desperation. Whereas perfectly able men struggle to escape Raffe's presence, Bryon, the weakest of them all, strives with all his might to grow closer.
"Oh, my God," Raffe whispers, striding powerfully towards Bryon. Seeing Raffe return to him, Bryon lets out a soft, strangled call of something akin to pathetic joy.
Raffe cleaves through the sea of people, not casting them any glances to spare, his wings held out threateningly, only to wrap around Bryon. He falls to a knee before his past manservant and the weak creature he'd become, crawling desperately towards the only light in the mass of darkness.
Now that Raffe crouches before him, Bryon doesn't seem as anxious to escape. He only smiles at Raffe, eyes gleaming dully with faith. As Raffe studies his battered appearance, eyes lingering over the ribs as mine had, undoubtedly coming to the same conclusion – Bryon barely needs to eat at all. If he's starved, it's because his portion of food has been going elsewhere, willingly or unwillingly.
"I watched you die," Raffe whispers, shaking his head slightly. "How are you alive?"
Bryon smiles slowly, as if he knows a secret, as if he knows that, millennia later, Raffe will speak those same words to his niece, to me. Sighing in satisfaction, he half-closes his eyes somnolently, smiling as if dazed with happiness.
"Alright." Raffe shifts his weight uncomfortably. "Alright. Confidential, I get it. Come, now, it's time to go. Hold still…"
As Raffe leans forward, looping his arms around Bryon as if to carry him from the musty corner he'd nestled into, I feel myself fading from the vison, its sharp colors vanishing before my eyes – but not like the last ones had been, nothing like them at all.
My gut churns as if somebody stirs it with a wooden spoon, my vision fading into white, my hearing ebbing into static rather than Raffe's warm, soothing tones.
A slow, cold pressure builds in my brain, one like I've felt before. What had triggered it? What had triggered this?
Unlike the last time I'd felt akin sensations in my brain, the pain doesn't grow gradually – it surges forward in a sudden wave, torturing my mind. I try to scream, to bellow out my agony, to let some hoity-toity she-angel in the apartment next to me know of my agony, to get anyone to wake me up, but I can't. There is nothing but pain, pain and static, blanketing my mind and senses with the endless, endless anguish, an anguish that never seems to dull or grow distant, an anguish that has no escape in unconsciousness.
"Hush," a voice whispers through it all, warm and hospitable. I seek out the familiar sound, clutching onto something in the infinite endlessness. I reach forward almost physically, my hands fisting around silky, silky fabric.
"Hush, now," Bryon soothes, his voice growing closer and closer, as if I'm reaching out to him, reaching the plane he's on. "Shh, that's it. Can you hear me, Penryn?"
Gasping, I glance up towards him, my head pulsating with a massive headache. A pair of bronze eyes gleam in the darkness so foreign after infinity spent in a white, barren wasteland, blue lights swaying and bobbing behind him.
"Listen to me, Penryn," he urges – the more his world hones around me, the more undiluted grief I hear in his voice. "Listen. I don't have much time, and neither do you. There are things in this world, Penryn, things you don't want to meet – Penryn, I have meddled with the affairs of one of those creatures. I have done things, Penryn, things I do not – cannot – speak of. One of the creatures is there. Please, whatever you do, don't trust –"
The world explodes around me, slamming back into white, the last noise I hear in that little dream Bryon's scream of agony.
At last!
This story hit 15,000 views. That's incredible. Thank you so much, all those that've kept up with my fanfic this long!
POLL: Though the highest status Bryon ever reaches in Raffe's book is that of a loyal pet's – to be grieved over, but to eventually be replaced – it's different for Bryon. In what ways, why, and how does he think of Raffe?
Ciao,
~wolfluvermh