Chapter Sixty Six

"Oh…" In the midst of a busy subway station, Bryon stops, gazing worriedly down at a little girl. "Hello… where's your family, huh?"

To my mortification, I realize he's talking to me. A teeny weeny five-year-old Penryn Young, standing in the center of the bustling crowds of some subway somewhere, holding a bright pink suitcase under her arm. I look up at him blankly for a few moments, and I can see the dilemma playing out in my little kid eyes – friend or foe? After all, he seems nice, but they drill the no-strangers rule into your head at that age.

Evidently, I decide that he's friendly.

My lips peel back eerily far. It's like I'm ripping my mouth open as far as it will go, baring my gums and fangs at him. The corners of my eyes don't crinkle – instead, I widen my eyes, too, looking up at him like a psychopathic dog baring its teeth.

Bryon laughs, sounding startled. "Well, hello to you to."

I continue to grin as if I'd never even heard what he'd said.

"Oh, my, you're going to keep doing that, aren't you?" Bryon chuckles to himself, warm affection causing his bronze eyes to blaze. "Where are your parents? You didn't get left behind, did you? It's dangerous to be alone."

Still, I grin in silence.

"Good talk." Lifting his gaze from me for a few seconds, Bryon scans the crowd for my family – his happy expression falters for a moment when he spots them. When it returns, it's seasoned by a touch of guilty reluctance. "Hey, sweetheart, your dad's right over there – can you see him?"

That invokes the first response from me: a stark, mechanical nod.

"Why don't you skedaddle, then?" One of his eyebrows arch condescendingly. "Your father will be a mess if he realizes he's lost you." After a moment, he realizes his tidings weren't met with acceptance. Rolling his eyes with amusement, Bryon bares his teeth back at me, copying my expression perfectly – he looks comically like a clown.

I collapse in a fit of giggles in the middle of the subway square, capturing my dad's attention, and subduing my uncle's affections. Glancing awkwardly towards my father, who still isn't aware of his brother's presence, Bryon begins to walk off, fading into the crowd.

He stiffens, and whips around rigidly, cloak snapping in his wake.

"Mom!" he nearly shouts, clapping hands on his parents shoulders and swinging them around violently as they emerge from a tunnel. "Dad! Hey! Look what I found!"

My father, kneeling by my side, raises his head. Terror gleams in his eyes, then a sort of thankfulness. Though little kid me wouldn't have been able to see a thing, I can – and I watch the quiet nostalgia in his eyes as he sees his brother at last, the first time in what must seem like centuries, still keeping his family safe. With a quiet word to me, Dad ushers me towards the arriving train, herding our family through the doors.

Bryon continues to explain to them in great depth just exactly how the good old 90's advertisement caught his eye, detailing how genius it is to have a toothpaste commercial on the inside of a subway station. The hands firmly holding his parents into place tense as the train bings a final warning, and then slips off as the cars begin to move on the track, hissing on their way.

Confused, Sariel and Thea exchange a look as Bryon laughs with relief and runs his fingers through his hair.

"Uh, son?" Sariel grunts.

"Hmm?"

"I'm no idiot. What's up?"

Thea cocks her head to one side, eyes gleaming shrewdly. "Your brother was here, wasn't he? You were distracting us so he could get away."

"Never could lie to you, mother," Bryon says cheerfully, doing a happy twirl in the middle of the station. "I saw your granddaughter. Oh, good God in Heaven and all his choirs of angels, mother, you should've seen her. She's going to be beautiful one day."

"You saw her?" Sariel is so spooked he flexes his wings on the inside of his leather jacket, freaking out more than one commuter. "What was she like?"

"She looked like Thea, except she had her mother's eyes," Bryon sighs happily, taking off through the station. Chuckling to himself, he shouts over his shoulder to them, "I'm also certain she's going to grow up to become a serial killer! She'll fit right in!"

As if my heart was not already breaking in my chest, I feel myself being yanked from my dream, only to be placed in another.

"…Thank God for you, Bryon," I hear my father whisper as he shuts the door to the kitchen of our childhood home, closing it off from the family room hall. "Not that being… different is a bad thing, but I didn't want my sweet girl to be picked on for snarling. She's already got a mother like…"

He trails off uncomfortably, meeting his brother's eyes with all the explanation necessary.

"Of course." Though slightly tainted with sorrow, Bryon's smile greets my Dad's awkwardness. "I'm here for you if you ever need it – or either of them." He hesitates. "…Tell me a bit about them, please? About…" He breathes in painfully. "About my nieces?"

"Oh, Bryon," Dad sighs despairingly. "I wish – I wish I could let you meet them." He swallows. "But you can't, alright? They won't be like I was growing up. I won't let them… be tainted and stuck-up because they're adored, like me. We've got a good life here, brother. Not the best, but good. I'm not going to teach them about angels and demons, or about the truth of you and me."

"And I understand completely." Bryon leans forward and squeezes his little brother's shoulder comfortingly. "There's no need to explain yourself to me. I want you to know that I am so, so proud of you for all that you've done. Who ever would've thought that little Wolf Pup becoming a man, then a father?"

"Not me, certainly," my dad laughs. "Pleasant surprise, I suppose." He studies my uncle pensively, then sighs, staring off into space. "…Penryn is my oldest daughter. She's headstrong and independent. Takes strongly after our mother. Never watches female programming, and only uses her Barbies as slaves."

"Oh, really?" Bryon grins. "That does sound a lot like Mom. You'd better watch out, or else she's going to fall for an angel by accident, or an incognito Nephilim."

"Trust me." Dad cracks a wry smile. "I'm prepared to whack off any guys with a stick once they realize she doesn't have cooties. If I need your help with anything, any problems she gets herself into, that stubborn girl, I'll let you know. If I can't scare them, you will."

"Hmm." Bryon's lips quirk. "Here I was, under the assumption that you were going to be a lenient father. Go figure, I suppose."

"My daughter is not going to be one of those teenage whores," my father says darkly. "She's too smart for that, really, but you can never be too careful. I do plan on being a good, lenient father, though. They can make their own decisions. I'm not going to dictate them like that shithead of a –" He glances awkwardly towards Bryon.

My uncle chuckles. "You don't need to censor yourself in front of me, I'm well aware of your dislike of Sariel."

"Right." He tilts his head to one side. "I'm going to let them do what they want. Figure things out on their own. It builds independence, and, well, they can never have too much of that. You've got to figure out who you are for yourself. I want to help them do that. And," he adds firmly, "I'll support them, no matter what."

Bryon studies his brother silently for a few seconds. "It's one thing to allow your children to make their own decisions, and it's quite another to abandon them. Fine line, very fine. I only advise that you make sure that your parenting scheme involves actual parenting, punishments and groundings included. After all, with all their talk of wanting to be independent, children are always looking for help to assist them in walking on their path. They depend on you to chart that path out for them."

Speechless, Dad stares at his brother, shaking his head slowly. "You know, Bryon, there are times that I wish you'd been my father. That you could be the one fathering my daughters."

"Now, now," Bryon scolds lightheartedly. "You're a perfect father, and Sariel… is a simpleminded man."

Sighing, Dad shakes his head, crossing his arms and biting at his lips. "…I wish there was a way I could introduce them to you, Bryon, I really do. I see – I see how much this hurts you, despite that smile you pull. More than anything, I wish my girls could get to know the great man they have as an uncle."

"Oh, I doubt they'd see me that way," Bryon chuckles. "Penryn – she'd be old enough now to be suspicious of me, and where the oldest goes, the younger follows." He snorts, and playfully nudges Dad with his staff. "Most of the time, at least. They'd see me as a man that never bothered to visit them or write or anything. It's… it's heartbreaking, but I'd rather not know them at all than be hated."

"You don't know that," my father tries to coax. "Like I said, Paige is almost exactly like you. She's got your personality to a point. I'm sure Penryn will warm up to you eventually."

"Brother, if she's like our mother," Bryon chuckles, "she'll look for someone to blame. The only way she'll not despise me is if I tell her that you kept me away. Then the hatred would be transferred to you, and I couldn't bear that. Therefore, I won't even enter the picture. You'll be her one and only daddy."

My father, lost in thought, chews on his knuckles. "Okay, yeah, you're probably right about that. Plus, I don't want them following any trail you might accidentally leave behind in their youths. But what if you come back later, when they're older? On Paige's eighteenth birthday, maybe?"

Bryon quirks an eyebrow. "What are you proposing?"

"Look, I know it seems like a long time from now," my father hastily explains, "but that way, they'll both be old enough to make their own decisions. You could claim to be a monk, explaining the flowing cloak and why you've never come to visit. Penryn will be mature enough to hate neither of us by then. And, who knows? Maybe one of them will dig deeper into your identity. They might even claw their way back to the Nephilim. Then you'd be able to show off your nieces to everyone else."

Bryon's eyes sparkle with hope, and a fear of getting shot down. "Do you really mean that? I mean… I really might get to meet them?"

My father leans forward, clapping his brother upon the shoulder. "There's no one I'd rather have them meet, Bryon. Just a few more long years, and then you'll see. We'll get these complications sorted out between us before then, I hope."

"Of course we will, you're my brother." Grinning like an idiot, Bryon leans his head back and closes his eyes. "God, thank you so much. You don't have to do this, you know. If you're perfectly happy without me, I can manage without them."

Dad snorts. "Don't be stupid. I've missed you more than my wings, and that is saying something. And I told you, I want you to teach my children, even if it is a little late for imprinting."

"Then I will teach them all I know." Bryon sniffs, shaking his head, still beaming. "Oh, mercy me, I'm such a sap – look, I'm crying with happiness. I don't understand how someone as tough as you can be related to someone like me. You realize this is going to be the longest few years of my life?"

"You are a sap," my dad chuckles. "Don't worry, Bryon, they're going to love you. You'll be a part of my family again, alright?"

"A part of your family…" Bryon smiles softly towards the wall, as if he's hearing things from the other side, and simply pauses.

I remember being a child when my father locked himself in the room, my mother muttering about reptiles from somewhere behind me. I'd been watching a movie on TV, brought home by my dad and his mysterious collegue that, until now, I'd never even thought of. Paige was curled up by my side, fast asleep, and I was enraptured by the movie. Spirit, I recall. I was watching Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron.

Turning back to my father with a smile holding back tears, Bryon laughs quietly. "I can't wait to be their uncle. And… and I can't wait to brag about my nieces to everyone I meet. Annoy all my friends talking about them." The corners of his eyes crinkle as his laughter grows slightly louder. "Good Lord in heaven, I'm going to be that weird uncle, aren't I?"

"Don't you worry." My father pulls a jaded smile. "They'll love you, Bryon. It's hard not to."

"Penryn."

A hand gently shakes me from my slumber. Mumbling softly, I start awake – the only thing that keeps me from falling off of Raffe's lap are his encircling arms, keeping me grounded. "We should head back to the camp," he murmurs in my ear, lips brushing against my skin. A tingle runs down my back. "The sun is rising."

"Oh." My uncle is dead, that's right. "Oh. Okay."

"Let's get moving." Raffe sighs, nudging at a flower that'd encircled the base of the log he'd chosen for us, watching as it disintegrates into ash. "Shame those are going away. They would've been comforting to those still mourning losses. Can you get on your feet by yourself, or do you need me to carry you?"

"I've got it." Rubbing at my eyes, I swing my legs down, standing up slowly. "Ugh. I don't… I…" Tears sting at my eyes. My uncle is dead. "I need Paige."

"She's safe, Penryn," Raffe says softly, wrapping wing and arm around me. "Come along now, we need to get back on the move. Let's find Hugo and then find a nice, cozy place to hole up for a while."

I notice he doesn't say anything about Bryon. Probably because my uncle is dead. "Okay, Raffe."

The trek through the forest isn't nearly as difficult as I'd remembered it, nor as long a walk. The midnight plants dissolve at the slightest touch of a feather or finger, forming almost a sort of path with their ashes. It's a wistful sight, seeing beautiful flowers shrivel in the sunlight, but… also, I can't help but see a bit of metaphorical value in the ashes swirling around our feet.

Some of the ashes, I notice, don't seem to be the same as the lightly-colored plant-flakes. Not long after I start seeing these specks of darker colors than the reek of burnt flesh fills the air. Raffe clears his throat, shaking his head slowly, but his stride doesn't falter.

I glance towards him. His face is a stony mask, impassive and unyielding – but there's something I can't quite understand about it, too. Something perhaps so tiny, such a small, small difference he isn't aware of it. However, when I look at Raffe's perfectly impassive face, I see only reluctance, only dread.

I don't understand it at all. What's done is done, and there's no use in being reluctant to see damage dealt. Raffe's made it quite clear that he's seen his fair share of wars, of battlegrounds. This scene is in no way unfamiliar to him.

Maybe he's just now realizing that my uncle is dead.

Maybe that's it.

A lump forms in my throat, causing my breath out to sound more like a choke. Raffe casts a piercing glare towards me, his eyes filled with vicious scrutiny. Swallowing down the lump, I stare at my feet, unwilling to meet that gaze I'll surely crumble beneath.

My uncle is dead. I don't have any choice but to move on. There… there's no time for me to grieve, no time for me to shed tears, no time for me to pay final respects. Audiat will be a mess. Paige will be a mess. Hugo will be a mess. Probably Raffe, too, for that matter. I can't afford to be weak. I can't… I can't let myself grieve.

My heart stutters painfully in my chest. Tears threaten, but they escape my eyes – I can't cry over Bryon. He's dead now. He's dead. He's dead, he's dead. Tears won't help a dead man, or any of my family… My living, breathing family…

"Penryn!"

From the middle of nowhere in the woods, a coppery flash bolts towards me. I barely have time to recognize him before he's upon me. Shrieking with joy, Hugo flings his wiry arms around me, wrenching me from Raffe embrace to rock me back and forth in his own hug.

"Oh, God, I thought I'd lost you, too." Hugo pets at my hair, murmuring things in different languages every now and then. "Thank God you're okay. Dear Lord, I have decided that I shall believe in you, because you have returned Penryn Young safely to me… Hail Mary full of fucking Grace…"

I bury my face into his scrawny shoulder, feeling the thin, scrappy muscles that come with being a thinker rather than a fighter stir with each of his movements. After a moment of Hugo's scent rolling around me, I relax in his arms. My walls do not fall and I do not weep, but I physically unclench the tension held in my body.

"How's Emilio?" I whisper, more afraid to hear the answer than not. "I mean, I saw him… I saw him fall."

Hugo is quiet for a moment, and, beneath my palms, I catch the nearly imperceptible shiver of horror. "…Not doing so good, Penryn. Last I heard, he's going to need me to fashion a makeshift amputation wing-thing. Also… an eye-patch." I hear him swallow. "He's… he's going to need an eye-patch."

I squeeze Hugo tightly against me, wishing I could strangle the life out of him without having to worry about Bay's rage. "…And his mother?"

"He said she's dead." Hugo sighs heavily. "I think he's in a state of shock, to be honest. His family is dropping like flies around him. He's the last one left, the last one out of all those he loved. …I'm not sure if he's going to be able to come back, Penryn. His sanity is taking some blows."

"No angel was meant to be grounded," Raffe agrees with a harrumph. "Even if he's half-angel, the idea of having to rely on a metal crutch to help him… be free is constricting. Maddening. That said… if he's lost an eye… even if he gets that wing back, he'll never fly again." Raffe's voice grows quiet. "You can't detect depth without two eyes. Any attempt of his to fly would be a death sentence."

"Right, right, I forgot about that." Hugo recoils from our embrace slightly, propping me up against his side, allowing me the first glance at his haggard, sooty face. "If you lose an eye in service, you get the choice of living life as a burden or being slaughtered with your name forever remembered in glory up in the angelic bastard ranks, right?"

"I won't deny it. That's how it works in the armies of heaven."

"Well, it's not how it works here on the ground." Hugo rakes a hand through his hair, glancing nervously towards me. "I – I want to help him. We're…" His voice softens like melted butter. "We're his family now. We've got to help him."

"Right." My heart heavies. "More family. Great. Hugo, where's Bay?"

"I…" Hugo's breath hitches in his chest, and he saws anxious at his lower lip. "I have no idea, Penryn. Oh, God." A rattling breath exits his lungs. "Oh, God, I hope he's okay, I hope he's okay… Now I lay me, down to sleep, please be fucking okay…"

Raffe reaches forward and grabs the boy's shoulder, giving him a quick squeeze. "He'll be fine, don't you worry about it. Your boyfriend used to be one of those elite few, you know. Just because he's Fallen doesn't mean he lost all the tricks he picked up as an angel."

Sniffing, Hugo smiles brittly at Raffe, true gratitude shining in his eyes. "He's a warrior. A warrior is always fine." Curling around himself and blinking tears from his eyes, Hugo repeats that to himself, looking like he's trying to convince himself of the truth.

"Let's look for him," I suggest, wanting to help in some way. "How – how are the fires?"

Hugo rubs at his eyes, shaking his head. "I dunno, I'd be careful… And, y'know, if he's got the strength, he's probably down in Hell… I dunno…" Gnawing at his knuckles, he tries to shove a fist in his mouth. "I can't. I can't. Oh, God, Bay, please be okay. You… you can't leave me."

"He's not leaving you." Raffe raps Hugo across the forehead. "Look alive, monkey. If you keep moping about, we won't find him."

I find that a bit heart-warming, Raffe comforting the boy he's more or less hated for so long, but Hugo hardly seems fazed. He nods with dull, glassy eyes, his mind elsewhere, perhaps thinking back to his boyfriend's last few seconds together. For Hugo's sanity, I pray that Bay is alright – Bay is a warrior. He is always fine.

"I think – I think you should take a seat, Hugo." I swallow, numbly alarmed by the hollowness in my own voice. "We'll find Bay for you if he's still around. If not, he's nursing his wounds."

"And he'll be back before you know it." Raffe shoves Hugo forcefully down onto a log. Startled, Hugo lands on his ass, blinking up at us but not saying a word. "Take a seat." Raffe glowers at him, waving a finger like he's spouting a lecture. "Stay. There. Now, Penryn, on my back."

I glance up at him, confused. "…What?"

"Did I stutter?" He crouches in front of me, gesturing towards his back with a scowl. "Piggyback. Now."

Awkwardly, I clamber onto his back, trying to avoid his wings. My arms wrap around his neck, and my chin settles in the hollow of his collarbone. His heartbeat thuds against my throat. As he soars upwards and I lose my sense of balance, I can feel his wings shifting beneath me and his leather jacket. Perhaps I'm another covering for them, another shield, another way to disguise what would give him an instant crucifixion around here.

"Bye, guys," Hugo calls dully. "Fine my bae."

I wave halfheartedly. He attempts a smile in response, but it looks so much like a failed ruse that he lets it crumble.

Once we're out of earshot, I lean down and whisper in Raffe's ear, "How likely is it that Bay is still… still okay?"

Raffe opts not to answer my question.

"Okay." I sink in a little closer on myself. "That's what I thought, anyway."

"Stay strong, Penryn," Raffe sighs, nuzzling against my arms with his nose. "You're so strong. Just be strong for a little while longer…"

"I'll try," I whimper as the burnt-out remains of our camp come into vague view, the plumes of smoke having a grounding force. "Can – can you hear anything? Or see…?"

He nods slowly, his hair tickling the side of my head. "They're stripping the bodies of those that've lost their lives, and piling them up. I assume they're going to have a massive funeral pyre. Not everyone is… happy about it." Sighing, Raffe noses my arm again. "A lot aren't ready to say goodbye yet."

"I can understand." Swallowing with difficulty, I nestle closer against Raffe, cautious not to accidentally knee his wings in my shuffling. "Do we – do we have to walk around through the place, or can we just… just find him immediately? Use your angel senses?"

"Don't talk about my angel senses." Raffe hugs my legs tighter against him, and I can feel his displeasure with our entire situation. "If anyone finds out who I am, you're dead by association. But… I can't fly to scope him out. There's too much noise for me to hear him. Sight is virtually useless when there's this much ash in the air. I don't have a bloodhound nose."

"Sure you can't taste him?" I laugh dryly.

Raffe's nose nudges me for a third time. "Laugh for me again, Pooky Bear."

Hearing a domestic word like "love" escape Raffe's lips does invoke another peal of laughter, this of delighted shock. "Anything for you, angel," I croon.

"That's more like you." Raffe's quiet approval sends a chill down the back of my neck. "Hold onto that. No matter what you might see, alright?"

The lump returns to my throat as my mind inevitably flickers with images of what I might see – burnt corpses, people with black, empty eye-sockets, children staggering around with scarring burns covering half their bodies, old men crying in piles of ash that used to be their wives. Maybe, just maybe, there'll be one there with bronze eyes as dull as a dead fish's, his cloak burnt to a crisp, his body eaten away at by the flame.

My stomach plummets to the ground.

"Can we… approach from a different angle?" I request faintly.

"Sure thing." Raffe alters his course immediately. "Why? Is there something –"

He staggers mid-stride, head snapping in the direction of the little stretch of land before the shooting lanes, the little place where a small aggregation had watched a great man take his last breath. I don't feel him breathe for a fully thirty seconds. He stands there, frozen, staring without words.

Raffe's shoulders rock harder and harder. His breathing grows more and more shallow. Still, he does not move.

I bury my head in his neck, knowing precisely what he's seeing. They probably haven't even moved him. Haven't bothered to drag him away from the embers, pillow his head, whisper words to ease him to sleep. No prayers shall be muttered over his body to send him into the arms of a false God.

"Let's move," Raffe orders curtly, something essential missing from the inflections his voice. "Now. Now, now. Let's go."

"Raffe, it's –"

"I don't want to talk about it," he snaps, and I realize the thing missing in his voice is the courage – suddenly, Raffe sounds very, very afraid. "I thought I saw someone. I didn't, though. And I – we're not going to talk about that right now."

"'S okay, Raffe, angel, baby." I use his own tactic against him, and feel him relax slightly beneath me. "We're – we have to be okay. We have to."

Clearing his throat, he shakes his head, nuzzling against me as he does so. "We don't have to be anything. But – but Baelan. We need to – I need to focus. Let's… find Baelan."

I stay quiet, letting him lead me into the camp without another word, simply because Raffe can't handle anymore. Stress radiates from him; I can feel it beneath my hands. Already, he's been pushed and pushed and pushed. Losing his wings, forced to rely on the help of a Daughter of Man (later revealed to be a princess of his hated enemy), getting bat wings, relying on snarky Hugo and silent Ogden (later revealed to be a traitor that hates his guts), learning to accept Bryon, learning to like him, learning all about my uncle.

I don't understand why Raffe's acting this way, though. Surely, what with Bryon being his nemesis for most of their lives, their bond must be relatively recent?

Keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer.

My heart sobs out a pathetic pulse in my chest. I wrap my arms around Raffe's neck, his pain tangible, his confusion thick in the air. Of course – it's because Bryon was his nemesis for most of his life that Raffe's acting this way. What does he do now? Does he grieve an enemy or the best of friends? A brother or a monster?

"I'm sorry, Raffe," I whisper into his ear, my breath catching. I lean against his head, swallowing down more tears. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this."

He carries me towards the camp silently for a few more strides, the ash becoming greater with each step towards the ruins. "…I don't know what I saw. You're making me paranoid and – he can't be. He can't. Hugo would be a wreck."

I don't bother to mention that Hugo is a wreck. Raffe knows already.

"There."

My own voice surprises me – I jar myself from my own stupor, and fully focus on the thing that my mind has selected from the austere greyness of still-smoldering embers and ash-covered bodies. Frames of houses crumble and collapse around a single concrete box located more or less in the center – no one's really gone far in enough yet to get to it, and it seems like the fires there were quenched very recently. Against the side of the building, a small smudge of red can be seen – not black like charred flesh, but red as freshly fallen blood.

"That's him," Raffe confirms quietly.

He breaks out into a jog towards the red smear against the concrete, leaving puffs of ash in our wake, stirring up our own personal fog to hide us from prying eyes. I can't tell if the ash is from the buildings or from the remnants of dead flowers and I'm not sure I want to. Instead, I focus on the Fallen angel bedded upon it, a light scattering covering his skin like dust upon an old porcelain lying abandoned on a shelf.

I wriggle off Raffe's back the moment we draw close enough for me to see him, truly see him – my feet sink a few inches in the ash, and, throat clogging with emotion, I wade towards Baelan.

His dark, beautiful wings are in tatters around him, like two delicate silk sheets shredded by the wind. Pockmarks left by embers dot up along the bone, and slices carved out by blades leaving a fringe to fan out over the ashen carpet. The moment my feet hit the ground, he beats with them futilely, as if I'd startled him. They bat at the ash and stir up a cloud, dusting him in more pasty grey.

"Calm down," I soothe, easing up next to him. Slowly, the wings whip around with less disjointed ferocity, quieting like a caged animal listening to the sound of a lullaby. "Hush, hush, Bay, it's just me… I'm here… You're going to be okay…"

A hoarse growl comes from the direction of the living corpse before me. He shakes with a coughing fit, and I only then realize it was his attempt at speech. With each time his body convulses with his coughing, a fresh pump of blood stains the ash around a gaping wound in his stomach, and another in the right side of his chest.

I freeze, horror strangling each beat of my heart, as the wounded angel again attempts to speak.

This time, his voice is a quiet, two-pitch whine. He stares up at me beggingly with dark eyes set on a dying, sallow face, a film already forming over their surface. Lower lip trembling, Bay extends a hand to me, a plea so potent it doesn't need words.

I lope forward and string out fingers together, kneeling before him in a puddle of sticky, blood-soaked ash. His hand is warm, and his grip is comfortingly firm – maybe he's not as bad off as he seems.

Panting, Baelan turns to me with wide, dark eyes, his face filled with a thousand things he wants to say. Slipping out first is the one that means the most to him.

"Hugo," Bay wheezes. A tear spills over his eyes. "Safe…?"

"Yes, yes." I nod a few times. "He's fine. Curled up a few yards away from the camp. Are you okay?"

He nods painfully. "Burnt. Hurt. Ow. Okay."

"You're burnt and it hurts but you'll be okay." Raffe lets out a breath behind me, sounding relieved. "Excellent. You truly are a remarkably Fallen angel, Baelan. I don't think I've ever told you that."

"Still… angel." His lips quirk weakly, and his poor burnt thumb gently caresses the top of my hand. "Hugo…?"

"Wallowing in blame as we speak," I tell him, smiling wryly. "He's going to be so glad to hear you're alright. God, Bay, I'm so glad you're okay. I thought for sure…"

"Tougher… than I thought." Bay closes his eyes and sighs, wilting against the side of the building. "Get him…? Please…?"

"I'll do that," Raffe volunteers, flashing me a dazzling, relieved smile. "Stay there, and I'll –"

Bay flails his wings around again, puffing up the air. He shakes his head vigorously, seeming upset with something Raffe had said. I freeze, wincing as he accidentally hits me in the head with his awkward flapping. When at last he stills, Bay is still rocking his head from side to side.

"Safety… together." He jabs a finger towards me. "Can't protect… both. Go… with him."

"I can protect us," I soothe. "Raffe, give me your sword, I'll –"

"No." Smiling sadly, Bay shakes his head again. "Not against… your own people. You won't. …Can't. Safety together. I… m'fine."

Raffe rests a hand on my shoulder. "He's saying that he doesn't doubt your ability to protect him, but he doubts your resolve to stand up against fellow humans. His argument is basically mine – if anyone hostile sees you sticking up for him, you're as dead as he is."

"No… choice," Bay adds weakly.

"He doesn't want you to have to choose between protecting him or your own people, too."

"Got it." I stand on shivering legs, turning back to Raffe. "Thanks, Bay. You're so brave, you know that?" I smile shyly down at him. "One of the bravest people I know. Listen, Raffe and I, we'll get Hugo, and be back in a snap, okay?"

"Okay." He curls up in on himself, sighing contentedly with rattling lungs, murmuring Hugo's name once to himself like a prayer. Bruised, tired eyelids seal shut on his dark eyes, and, with one last heavy sigh, Bay presumably continues to sleep peacefully against the husk of a dead building.

"Quickly, now," Raffe whispers in my ear, scooping me up into his arms. "Let's move."

If I thought he pounded up a fog when we arrived, it doesn't compare to the trail we leave in our wake as he speeds off towards Hugo – his heart throbs right against my ear with each scoop of ash he throws into the air. I realize my heart is racing, too – this time, I see more, I see more blood and more injured men and more carcasses burned beyond recognition, but I no longer really care. My thoughts soar upon the opportunity of reuniting two lovers in this hell.

Someone, after all, should be happy.

It makes sense for those two to be Bay and Hugo.

…It certainly won't be me.

My uncle is dead.

"I should tell you," Raffe murmurs as he bursts back into the forest, beelining back towards Hugo, "that Bay is doing a remarkable job just being alive. He may suffer from permanent psychological damage, though – he went up against Michael himself to buy Hugo a little more time. God knows only dead men dare do that."

Floundering a bit in his arms, I bite my lip worriedly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Raffe sighs heavily, "that Baelan was to Michael what Josiah is to me now, only more reverent, respectful. Baelan worshipped the dirt on Michael's feet. He disobeyed Michael in every retrospect to escape. Being abused so harshly by his boss, tossed aside like… like nothing… could have some damage on him."

I shake my head against Raffe's chest. "Maybe that's for the better. Hugo's own little mental state after this is going to be… not pretty. They can heal each other."

Eyes swimming with emotion I don't even try to put a label on, Raffe watches me for a long few seconds, before glancing off into the pasty forest. "Yeah, I suppose they can. At least if they help stitch each other up, they'll grow closer."

"They'll know each other even more than they do already," I agree quietly. "Inside out and backwards."

"Inside out and backwards," he repeats, nodding.

I pull myself close to Raffe, feeling secure wedged in his arms, and he holds me tightly against him. We lapse into as comfortable a silence as possible whilst walking through a forest of dead beauty. In the corner of my eye, I see more bewildered and jaded people staring at us from logs, from beneath makeshift shelters, watching with sunken, uninterested eyes – they do not disturb us, and we don't cross paths with them. The silence is preserved.

The only small interruption in Raffe's stride occurs as he jogs past the shooting range again. A confused blend of pain and tenacious disbelief flickers in his eyes for a brief second, but he presses onwards without a word to me. Still, I tap my fingers comfortingly against his chest, doing my best to keep him calm.

At last, we stumble upon Hugo pacing back and forth before the log we'd left him at, murmuring shrewdly into his phone. With his scrunched brow and scowl, I can tell he's not enjoying the conversation very much. The moment he sees us, he hangs up and shoves the phone back in his pocket.

"That was the Nephilim guarding your sister," Hugo explains quickly, loping up to us. "They're still all loyal except one, who got executed after a little panic attack that revealed his true intentions. We'll talk with them more later and figure out the plan. …How was your search?"

"He's okay, Hugo." Grinning from ear to ear, I wriggle from Raffe's arms and launch myself at the boy in a wide, earnest embrace. "He's okay, and – and Paige, and – God, thank you for calling…"

"Where is he?" Hugo demands, pulling me back, his eyes sharp as glass. "Where is Bay? Is he alright? Is he… is he missing any fundamental body parts?"

Raffe grunts, shrugging. "I'm not going to lie, he's in less pieces than I expected him to be. He won't be able to fly until his wings heal, but his wings will heal. But all and all, he'll be fine."

Releasing his breath in one quick puff, Hugo practically collapses against me, knotting his hands in my hair. "Oh, thank the fucking Lord. Jesus Christ. I'm going to warn you, the moment he croaks out that cute little 'Okay, Hugo' I'm going to fucking lose it." His arms clutch me tight. "Thank fuck. Thank fuck."

"Stay calm, little man," Raffe grunts, patting his head awkwardly. "If you – just… keep your head on your shoulders. Baelan is… not his prettiest at the moment."

"Mmm," Hugo hums, his voice rumbling against my neck. After a moment, he unlocks his arms from around me, and approaches Raffe. Linking his arms around Raffe, he looks himself around the torso of my angel, holding on like – well, like a monkey. "Don' worry about that. You should've seen some of the stuff he's been through on Lucifer's vendettas. See, I have this tradition with him – for each scratch or scrape or bruise he's got, I put a bow in his hair. Like, I take a little sprig and I pull it up in a ribbon. Don' tell him I told him. He's got this weird thing about his reputation…"

"Alright, Hugo." I give both him and Raffe a squeeze in the same hug. "Should we… go?"

"Quickly as possible," Raffe agrees, flashing me a terse smile. "Hugo, you'll be able to get him down to hell, to some infirmary? Or some help?" He murmurs something that sounds like a confirmation against Raffe's chest. "Alright, because, Penryn, you and I need to get out of here, quickly." He lifts his head, eyes uneasily grazing the surrounding wilderness. "There's unease."

"Unease?" I loop our fingers together, rubbing a thumb over the back of his hand. "Give me Pooky Bear, I'll watch our backs."

"You go, Penryn," Hugo says, his voice muffled. "Defend your man."

Rolling his eyes, Raffe furtively hands me his sword, seeming reluctant. He pulls me close against him for a second, and placing his lips beside my ears, whispers, "Don't let anyone see that. Their suspicion will go through the roof if you have an angel sword on you."

"How bad is it?" I murmur.

"Bad. We need to get to Baelan, and get the hell out of here. They've found more guns."

Punctuating his quiet hiss is a gunshot that echoes through the woods – a few people scream, and something stirs in the distance as a squirrel leaps into a tree, but nothing else happens. Raffe lifts his head, scanning the area again like a deer watching for predators. I wait for him to tap my arm and goad me forwards.

"Quick, quick," he urges softly. "That was a warning shot. Let's not find out whether or not that warning was heeded."

I don't waste time – splitting off through the forest, my legs pound after the trail we'd left in the ash leading back to the injured warrior. Raffe effortlessly keeps pace with me. Through the small space between us, I can sense his overdrive of awareness, but I can't determine whether it's paranoia or if there's things moving that I can't see, things happening that I can't hear.

Somewhere along the way, I hear Hugo burst into quiet, sniffling tears against Raffe, and almost stop to comfort him – the heel of Raffe's hand gently shoves me forward as I slow, urging me back up to a full pace. Around my mountain of anxiety for Hugo, my heart feels warm when my archangel instead comforts him.

"He's dead, he's dead, what am I going to do – fuck – fuck – he's dead –"

"Calm down, Hugo. Breathe. Breathe. It's going to be alright. I promise. I promise. Deep breaths. Hush, shh…"

A leader's gotta be tough, but I suppose that he's been through his fair share of casualty, too, and… no one helps another heal better than a survivor. I really don't know anything about archangels, but if they're like the dads of the flock – well, then, Raffe'd make a really great dad.

I shake my head dismissively, gritting my teeth for ever having thought like that. Now is not the time to be dwelling on the excessive beauties of Wrath of God. There are more important things to dwell on.

Like, for instance, the fact that my uncle is dead.

A sharp pang stings my heart. Abruptly, Hugo's sobs become that much louder in my ears than Raffe's soft-spoken comforts.

Another shot sounds over the horizons, followed quickly by another couple. The eerie silence that follows is perhaps the worst yet. I freeze like a deer in the headlights, scanning the area as I've seen Raffe do, absolutely terrified. I swear my heart is beating in my throat, each pound of it throbbing through my body like the smash of waves on a rocky shore, constant, crushing, absolutely brutal –

Raffe nudges me. "Keep moving. We need to keep moving."

"Right." I jog forward again, but, this time, I make sure it's not in the silence of a prey animal being stalked by a predator. "Raffe, what's going on?"

"…I'm not quite sure." I can hear the troubled frown in his voice. "A bunch of humans have found an emergency stock of weapons. They aren't happy, that's for certain. And… I'm also fairly certain there's nothing but humans in the area."

My mind leads me easily to what that could mean – humans firing upon humans. As if our problems weren't huge enough.

"I am going to wring Michael's neck," Raffe growls, startling me. "I'm going to have to find you another relatively-stable monkey group to get satisfied in before I leave now."

Right. A monkey group. Because my uncle is dead. And Emilio is hurt. And Paige is God knows where.

"You just focus on getting the angelic bastards out of here," I sigh heavily, "and we won't have to worry about Michael being a problem. I can always hole up alone somewhere."

"Yeah, well, you humans get even more ornery when you're all by your lonesome. You'd be a sight to behold considering your irritation levels are already pretty high."

"You paint me as a moody bitch."

"That's right," Raffe corrects himself, "you definitely scale more on the stoic bitch range, don't you?"

"Shut up, you arrogant angel dick."

He laughs quietly. "I never said that was a bad thing, Penryn. In my eyes, it's not a bad thing at all."

My heart flutters pathetically in my chest. Goddammit, I do not need more hormones in this situation – I need to be cold, ice cold, hard as a rock, detached. I need to be a stoic bitch. Which, according to Raffe, isn't a bad thing at all.

A shot rolls through the forest, sounding closer this time, and the fluttering teenage girl heart gets the boot. I jolt forward with twice the speed, heart racing. I can see the ash-caked buildings now in the distance, see their lonely burning spires. A sigh of relief empties itself from my chest, a sense of panic leaving with it.

"Penryn, stop."

I freeze, doing as Raffe instructs. Peering around cautiously, I roll my thumbs over Pooky Bear's hilt and await his command. His head is cocked like a dog's, his eyes raptured and distant, caught in something he can hear but cannot see.

"Shit." He stamps his feet twice like a cornered animal bracing itself for a fight. "Penryn, we need to – shit, Penryn, move!"

"What?" My hands tighten around Pooky Bear's hilt, but there's nothing for me to swing at. "Where is it, Raffe? What's –"

"We are not the ones in trouble," he growls, shoving me forward. "Run. Run."

My heart beats in my throat.

Dear God.

Without wasting another moment, I bolt through the undergrowth. Lungs burning, I dart between trees and jump across ravines Raffe had swerved to avoid. I take shortcuts and almost slam into more than one family lying hidden in the soot-covered bushed. Pooky Bear, sensing my distress, shoots adrenaline, pure and unbridled, into my veins. It fuels every step of my sprint.

Frantically, I dive underneath a halfway-fallen tree, startling a couple of birds. I can't lose anyone else. I can't let Hugo lose Bay. I can't lose Bay.

For all I know, Raffe could be nipping at my heels as I hurl myself into the rubble of the human camp, but I feel incredibly alone as I brave the ruins. My dash staggers as my feet fall improperly over stone and singed wood. Not alone in the sense that this forlorn wasteland is unhabited, because I can hear people, hear their jeers and cries of anger echoing through the ash that falls like snowflakes, but alone in the sense that I, myself, am on my own and facing a crowd.

I don't quite remember the way, I realize, tripping over a body burned beyond recognition, my nose wrinkling at the terrible scent wafting into the air. Stumbling around blindly through the streets, squinting through a fog of ash that'd evidently been whipped up, I search for a path, any path. Any incentive of where Bay lies vulnerable.

A small group of teenage boys, sneering and scoffing, suddenly splits through the fog. I start and skitter back, trying to both hide Pooky Bear and hold her in case they serve as a threat. Their scowls are not meant for me. Triumphant cackles are exchanged, proclamations on the glory of humanity, about how the winged bastards cannot possibly hope to stand against us forever. They talk about a victim not having a chance, recall the fear in its eyes, and cheer on humanity's victory.

Their wolfish grins and predatory eyes plant a small kernel of fear in the pit of my stomach. I don't move, terrified that they may spot me and force me to spend more time away from Bay. Luckily, though, they don't give two bothers about the girl crouching in the fog, and thank God for that. The moment they leave, I head in the opposite direction, trying not to dwell too much over the realization that the jeers and cries of anger have silenced.

I know this path. My eyes hungrily trace Raffe's footsteps in the ash and destruction. I've been here. I know where… My eyes follow the line of our footsteps to the heart of the mangled camp.

And then there he is, leant up against the side of the concrete building.

He is still. Just like he was when we first approached. So completely still. Just like he was. Only this time, I am still, too, frozen by the threat of what could be. And I cannot for the life of me move from my spot, rooted here, watching that still face.

The ash spirals like snowflakes between us. They hold a certain sense of beauty, of poignancy – for all they look like snow, perhaps they could be just innocent little dollops of winter's gentlest aspect, circling down in lazy coils. It almost seems pretty, those grey flakes. It's so easy to forget that this isn't snow come to blanket the world in its lovely white – it's the heavy tears of homes and lives reduced to tinder in the maw of a spiteful inferno.

I hear someone approaching, wading through the ash, and Raffe's heavy breathing echoes in my ear. Subconsciously, I lean towards him and his warmth until my shoulder bumps against his chest. As Hugo wriggles from his back, hitting the ground with a mushroom of ash and closing the last of the distance between his Fallen angel, Raffe does not anywhere but closer to me.

We are both locked into position, staring silently. The same numb shock probably dulls his senses, too, for, although Bay had been still and all signs of life had not been visible from this far away, there had not been so much…

So much…

Red.

"Bay!" I hear Hugo shout distantly. "Oh my God, Bay, fucking hell, are you bleeding? What hurts? Jesus fucking Christ, man, I'll get you to help, baby, I'll get you – Bay?"

With blind, groping fingers, I reach out to fist Raffe's shirt, holding him close to me, unable to look away as Hugo crashes to his knees beside the far-too-still, far-too-red angel.

"Hey, Bay, look at me when I'm talking to you. Bay! …Bay? Man… no, no, no… you're freaking me out. Bay. Bay. Bay… Stop."

The angel's head lolls back as Hugo shakes his body, and every motion of the angel's limbs have a stiffness to them. The boy sinks onto his haunches beside his angel, sitting in the sticky, blood-soaked ash encircling his Baelan.

"Please. Pl – no. No. Please, Bay. For me. Don't… don't be dead. You can't… you can't be. You can't be dead."

Questions whispered to unhearing ears cannot be answered. The dead do not talk back.

Hugo cuddles against Bay's side, shifting himself closer, staining his special steampunk outfit red with the life essence that no longer holds life. He presses his forehead against the shoulder crushed and mangled as if he'd been stoned by the rocks lying around them, wiggles beneath the wing that'd been pulled and ripped until only a few tendons connect it to him. He cups that cheek torn open by any number of things, caressing the bruises under the milky, dead eyes upon his boyfriend's face. Sobs sounding more hollow than emotional ripping from his chest, Hugo cuddles against his boyfriend, laying a hand over a heart that should be beating.

"This is our fault," I realize. My voice sounds more crippled than I'd expected, and it causes me to lean more heavily into Raffe's touch. "Us. This wasn't the angels or demons or anything. We… we killed Bay."

"Penryn…" Raffe wipes a thumb over my cheek, and I notice that I'm crying, that tears are streaking down my face despite the lack of anything going on in my chest.

In my moment of weakness, I turn to him, looking up into his eyes. Stomaching a sob, I whisper, "Raffe, if we do things like this… if we kill people like that… do we even deserve to be saved?"

Raffe has no answer.

"It's okay, Bay," Hugo sobs in the long, hallowing silence. "It's okay. You're okay. It's… okay."

Guest: Okay, man, you win this round, haha...

God, I made myself cry with this chapter.

I'm sorry it took so long. This killing off character thing… is excruciating. Especially Bay… I love him.

But so did a lot of other people. And if they weren't pissed off by Bryon's death… well, they're pissed off now.

POLL: Someone is especially going to be displeased with this. They're going to bring down hell. Two someones, actually. Any guesses as to who those two someones are?

Ciao,

~wolfluvermh