Chapter Text
Golden the eyes, golden the hair and golden the blood. A child asked to paint an angel shall only reach for the golden dyes, even if one has never graced their sights.
‘The winged ones always descend with the Sun God’s judgement, not Their message’ an old wall of a crumbling temple read.
"They were birthed by the sun, but carry only ice in their veins!" a street performer narrated to a group of wide-eyed children gathered around him.
"Just a gaze alone can reveal all of one’s sins! And your mischief!" a young mother scolded her unruly child.
"They wear our skins and stroll in our streets to test our faith, our virtue. And see our vices. Prick their fingers with a needle and their true golden blood shall flow." A preacher warned a gathering of the faithful.
"When you hear no winds and no songs of the birds, the gold you see in the sky will not be of sunlight." An aged lady offered her words of parting to the departing traveller, "Leave as fast as you can, then!"
'They descend as heralds of the Everburning One’s wrath, casting kingdoms that have sinned and slaughtered into flames of gold, toss the heretics into pits of burning iron!’ a torn, yellowed page dances around in the wind.
...
‘Oh, Khaslana. ’ A divine being’s voice echoes, ‘If your heart cries not for your brethren up in the skies, but the dusts that cover the earth below, what need do you have for those wings? ’
The sunfire tears through his back with its golden-white blaze.
And Phainon falls from the heavens.
“4000 Balance Coins.” The stall keeper haughtily offered for the heap of bear hide that Mydei placed on the table before him.
“You speak as if you don’t have eyes.” Mydei scoffed, “This is the pelt of a mountain bear, not the fur of some mutt that shits in front of your door, Hapries. 70,000 and nothing less.”
“That’s daylight robbery, Sir Mydei.”
“Fine.” Mydei shrugged, scooping up the bear hide like it was nothing more than a folded bed sheet, “I shall find plenty more traders who shall offer me a fairer price.”
“Ok – wait, wait!” Hapries called out, “Here’s a deal – I can’t flesh out all of that in a single day! So, I shall pay a sum for it in installments – alternating between 9000 gold and 18000 each month. You shall have your dues at the end of three months!”
“…Huh?” Mydei frowned, going over the numbers in his head.
“Makes us both the winner, eh?” the trader clapped his hands with a cheery grin, “Allows me a bit of time to collect the gold, and gives you the whole amount plus a bit of interest!”
Interest ? There was interest as well? That didn’t sound like a bad deal, in the long run-
“He’s conning you again, De!” a small girl’s voice suddenly appeared behind him, “If he only pays for three months, it never actually sums up to what you’re owed.”
Mydei turned around, looking down at Tribbie standing behind him, who was glaring up at Hapries.
“Lady – Lady Tribbie, it’s not fair of you to hamper my business like this-”
Mydei whipped back around, glaring daggers at the man until he shut up, cowering.
And then he sighed.
“Let’s go, Lady Tribbie. I shall trade my wares elsewhere.”
“I…I shall help you if you’d like.”
“I will be grateful for that.”
This is why Mydei did not enjoy coming down to the village and dealing with its people. They never hesitated bringing out the numbers to befuddle him whenever negotiations did not go their way. He preferred bartering much more – there was no arithmetic involved in that. Just the mutual understanding of an item’s value; something people often struggled to manipulate him with.
But unfortunately, not every thing of need could be traded for another. Not every merchant wanted pelts or firewood or dried herbs, which made Balance Coins a mandatory middleman. And Mydei needed the money to commission some new boots to replace his worn ones.
Tribbie accompanied him for the rest of his errands. She painted an odd picture with him – a tiny child with a head of red and clad in white, trotting alongside a tall, burly man that most villagers looked at with caution, the blood of beasts still fresh under his nails. She haggled for him like a tiny diplomat, while Mydei loomed in the background.
It earned and saved him more gold than he had originally bargained for – it left him with a sack containing a fat roll of binding rope, salt, a new whetstone, a little doll made of yarn that he couldn’t help buying from a little child selling her crafts near the fountain. And his pockets remained heavy with coins with the bear hide and forest herbs Tribbie managed to sell for him.
As always, his walk always had him eyeing down the valley that the Everdream village perched along the upper slope of, followed by a brief swathe of greens before the main city and its adjacent towns started.
Even when Mydei didn’t particularly enjoy being in the village…he also did. The city of Janusopolis was a fine place to dwell in, stretching along one side of the mountain and spilling into the valley and up the neighbouring mountain. Small villages dotted its peripheries, with their stone houses and their tilted roofs scattered over its expanse like pebbles nestled between mosses and wildflowers, connected by winding paths and stairways carved by its natural rocks.
From the edge of the path just off the morning market, one could gaze further down the mountain slope below, the houses that descended its slope, their tops kissed by the morning sunshine. Hear the breezes that made the chimes gently sway, the layered rustles of clothes being put up to dry and the creak of windows being thrown open which strolling down the quaint paths, observing the old bricks littered with faded murals and tiny handprints,
Just sometimes, Mydei enjoyed letting himself be in the village, despite his preference for solitude. Keeping himself tethered to the little joys of human presence, even if he kept himself far away from it. Just enough to remember without becoming a strong part of it.
“It shall rain soon,” The girl stated suddenly, staring at the valley.
“Today?” Mydei stared up. There were no clouds in the sky, and he could see the sun stare down at them from miles and miles above. He could see a tiny hint of the crack at its side; a fracture that Janusopolis shall soon face after some months, casting it into evernight.
“You don’t seem too happy, De.”
“Hmph – I’m not too keen about the rain, and the month of Strife should not be seeing the season for it.”
“Really? Won’t those tomatoes of yours grow nice and healthy because of it?”
“…Well.”
“Ohhhhh! It’s that roof of yours being leaky again!”
Mydei clicked his tongue. He had just fixed it last week when-
“Bubbles got into a fight with Fig Stew and they ended up crashing into the roof. Hell knows how they ended up there.”
Tribbie turned around at the mention of his pet chimeras with a grin on her face. And then her eyes widened, filled with shock as she stared up at the sky, her eyes travelling downward-
Mydei paused, the perplexity in her stare also making him turn around. He nearly missed the flash of flames that disappeared into the thicker cluster of trees further up the mountain.
Pale, golden flames - that was what stood out most to him.
“De…” Tribbie suddenly spoke. Mydei did not need her to finish her thought.
“It fell close to my house.”
“…Are you going to check it out?” The child looked up at him, seemingly lost. But there always was something too old in her gaze – carrying a hint of understanding that Mydei didn't need to dig deep into. Her patron angel did leave a mark on all the children that she blessed.
A few villagers had also turned towards the direction of the soundless crash, sharing fretful glances and hushes, scattered whispers. It was obviously difficult to miss something like that fall from the skies. Mydei found himself wishing he had turned around earlier, if only to have gotten a better look at it.
With a quiet grunt, he hoisted his sack over his shoulders, his decision made. Whatever it was, there was fire involved and his chimeras, cat and goats were alone at home.
“It can’t be an angel though.” Tribbie stared absently at the cobblestones beneath her feet, “It wasn’t as bright as one – they don’t descend like that either.”
“Right.” Mydei already knew that.
“It looked too small…and weak.”
Mydei thought about what to say to that when he feels a single drop of water hit his arm – and then another and more, as rain suddenly poured down upon the village, drumming against the stone paths, pattering against the leaves of the flowerpots.
Mydei turned back towards to stare at the horizon above the slope of the valley.
How had the skies turned dark so quickly? Mydei had barely noticed the change – had the muted radiance of that thing even blinded him to the darkness creeping in?
“Lady Tribbie – please instruct the locals to not approach the forest. The rains will douse any fire that spreads, but-”
“It fell rather close to your house. And you don’t like visitors.” The child finished his thought and he gave her a small smile. Tribbie sighed and turned towards the skies that had been draped with grey so quickly – only minutes ago it had been covered with soft blues and mellow golds of morning.
“It might still be another one of the sun’s tears.” She spoke to no one in particular, “They might not rain fire upon us anymore, but pieces of Them still crack and fall upon us.”
Mydei did not answer that, for there was nothing to be said.
...
By the time Mydei made it out of the main parts of the village and into the outskirts of the forests, the rain had already started to lessen – reducing into a steady drizzle softening the narrow forest path. It made his boots sink in further with each step – he couldn’t help but click his tongue at that. They were already battered enough and he was sure the next time he scrubbed them clean, they would simply fall apart in his hands.
He walked, idly observing the runnels of brown water racing down the familiar paths, dead leaves, dried twigs and an occasional flower carried along with the weak currents – scraps of colour in the dulled sights. Once the rain stopped, the forests would look even brighter.
And then when he had almost reached his dwellings, there was gold.
Mydei stopped.
Just a tiny hint of it that could easily be missed by anyone who did not possess the eyes of a hunter.
Mydei continued his journey, observing the gold – just thin strands of it mixed in with the rainwater. The undergrowth turned denser with his progress, just as the gold became clearer and thicker, staining the pools of water dotting his path.
Golden the blood.
An angel. Was that what had fallen here?
The glimmering trail continued, winding along the paths Mydei has taken countless times, leading to his cottage. He stopped again, softening his breathing by instinct. His hand brushed against the hilt of the dagger hanging from his waist; it was old habit that he saw no benefit in ridding himself of.
They hadn’t been spotted in years.
Why now? Had they finally decided to seek him out - after all this time?
Carefully, Mydei approached the clearing surrounding his cottage, hoping Mydeimeows the Second and the chimeras hadn’t been playing around in the yard when the crash happened. The golden trail ended up winding around the house, leading further towards the trees at the back.
The rain had washed away most of it but Mydei could pick up and recognise the stink of scorched flesh anywhere. It had a tendency to stick even when scrubbed away.
A sweep of his yard showed no sign of his pets. He inched close to the window, tapping at it. And almost on cue, he heard the soft ‘woos’ emerge from the other side of it, while Mydeimeows popped his head out from beneath the curtain, behind the glass, and Mydei sighed from relief.
“Be good and stay put, all of you. I won’t be long.”
Taking a small detour, he approached the shed in the bigger clearing behind the house and stuck his head in. His goats were also fine – he had worked on the shed well enough to keep the rain out. Kokopo the Third chewed at a bit of rope peacefully, while Goateros stared back at him, a wad of grass stuffed in her mouth.
Alright. All the things that mattered were still here and unhurt. That thing hadn’t crashed into his house either; Mydei had already grown sick to death of fixing the roof all the time.
He set his sights back onto the trail and followed the streaks of the gold-stained undergrowth, until the path abnormally widened, the surrounding flora singed off. It was as if something had gouged through the forest itself, broken trees bent over the new clearing, steam hissing from the broken bark and burnt moss.
And at the very center of it all, almost buried in the soil, was a young man.
Crumpled and motionless, looking tragically forsaken with the silence around - not even the sound of a bird chirping or a squirrel's scuttling.
Short pale gold hair, matted with blood and grime, clung to his face and neck in damp clumps. His body was laid bare and mangled, bleeding profusely golden, the dirt barely washed away by the rain.
Even in a state like this – bloodied and torn and nearly buried in the ruins of his fall – the sight of him scrapes deep inside Mydei’s chest like a shard of a broken arrowhead. He didn’t need to take a clear look at him to understand it – understand the beauty sculpted by the angular lines of his face and the well-built muscles of his body. Whatever was hidden by his hair would be ethereal to behold, Mydei understood. It makes his throat turn dry and fingers itch. Irritation, mostly, because it frustrated Mydei to no end - it was a sight utterly horrifying to behold, yet that creature’s beauty still made itself known first.
Carefully he drew close. The closer he got, the more its golden hair seemed to be blending into platinum. The angel breathed still, each breath shallow and hardly hearable, only making itself known with the weak rise and fall of his sides. His fingers twitched when Mydei stepped on a twig.
And then he knelt beside him.
Scrappy pieces of fabric stuck to his skin, soaked with blood and grime, its original colour pretty much impossible to learn in its current state. Whatever of his body was visible was covered in torn flesh and lacerations of different lengths and depths. The gold covered branches Mydei had seen earlier gave him the answer to that; the trees had butchered the creature as he had crashed into the forest.
But none of it was anything close to his back. Raw and red from the burns covering the whole of it. The stench of burnt blood had already made Mydei’s stomach turn, but the source of it was even more sickening. Two charred cavities, bracketing his spine and symmetrically curving a little up towards his shoulder blades, with the skin surrounding them being frayed and blackened, golden blood steadily pouring out of them.
The wings were gone. Not just gone – burnt off, viciously, right down to the very stem.
Mydei felt his stomach twist. It was not sympathy that he felt for this angel, but the brutality of it still filled his mouth with disgust. Whoever – or whatever – did this did not want this angel dead. They had wanted him to suffer, to break, to be flayed of every inch of his pride and identity and wanted to make it as painful as they could. And Mydei was not a man heartless enough to feel no disdain at such wanton displays of sadism.
With strangely gentle fingers, he observed the rest of the cuts on him. Too messy and flimsy to be from a blade, so they could only have been acquired from the branches. Only the burns were deliberately, consciously inflicted.
The angel stirred beneath his hands again. Barely alive, and pitifully so.
It took him just a moment but the deliberation over the decision is just as heavy. Mydei pulled out his dagger. The kindest thing he could do was put him out of his misery.
An angel with its wings reduced to such a state was better off dead anyway.
The man suddenly made a noise – raw and broken, like an animal weakly drawing its last wail. Mydei hovered over him, his blade poised over his back. Normally, human weapons could not injure an angel, but with this one's divinity so dented, even tree branches could gore him. One clean stab to the left, below the shoulder blade, would grant him a quick, painless death.
He made another noise – something between a gasp and a whimper. So far, far away from the air of prideful invulnerability that all angels carried. Mydei hated how it made his hand falter.
And then the angel opened his eyes. Just by a sliver, like they were about to flutter shut again, but it is enough for Mydei to take in the brilliant blue of them; the shade bringing out the platinum-turned-white colour of his hair even more.
Blue the eyes. White the hair. Angels did not look like that.
There was something off. Something too…familiar about that creature. Was it the stubborn gleam in his eyes, or the shape of his battered shoulders – the shape of him, that tugged at buried memories? A shape with too many pieces missing for him to put together an answer.
The man blinked. And his gaze shifted sluggishly. Towards Mydei.
His resolution felt even heavier on his conscience now that the target of it was looking at him. Mydei wanted to shut his eyes and go for the kill, as he has done for the animals he has hunted in the forests, for the ones cruelly mangled by the snares set out for them by poachers.
But those damned eyes – they kept him pinned in place as if it was Mydei who was on the ground then, battered and helpless to the other’s blade. Leaving him unable to even look away. There was no strength in those eyes, nor was there any plea. Just agony but also…a sense of observation?
And a faint force; a weak, defiant glow of a life not willing to be taken away.
It fogged Mydei’s mind, enough to make him reach out and brush his thumb against his jaw, swiping away at a streak of golden blood mixed with soot.
There was something about the curve of his jaw, the sweep of his pale lashes that pulled at a trail of memory he couldn’t follow. And with the broken body that lay before him, Mydei did not want to follow that trail, complete the missing picture.
Was angel blood supposed to feel this warm? Were they not creatures that were utterly frigid to touch, devoid of any compassion to heat them up?
“Pitiable fool. Who did this to you?” Mydei uttered for no particular reason, expecting no particular answer.
He got a soft, strained exhale as an answer.
The rain suddenly picked up again, showing no signs of wanting to stop.
Mydei gave himself a few more seconds.
Then he stuffed his dagger back into his sheath.
‘How weightless you feel without your wings.’ Mydei mused as he lifted him gently into his arms before walking back to his cottage.
The warrior raised his spear above the fallen beast, fury simmering in the amber eyes – the only part of his face visible beneath the shadows cast by his galea.
The angel’s wings twitched pitifully in his shadow, bleeding golden blood from the daggers he had hurled at them to drag her out of the skies. A barbaric tactic, he has been told, but this creature had descended bearing orders of judgement and the warrior had intercepted her when she had been busy razing farmlands. And this was the only way his blade could sink into her flesh easier.
There is no clemency that the warrior finds for her in his heart.
And right when he is about to plunge the spear in-
“Stop.”
His arm stilled mid-air. That was strange. Never once in his life had that warrior’s blade faltered.
The warrior turned to face the second angel that had appeared, hovering several feet above them in the sky.
An angel with his body bare, veins of light cracking across his chest like molten gold beneath broken glass. Black leather-like scales stretch over his skin from waist down, loosely concealed by the fabrics of blue and gold and white billowing around his legs. Two wings bursting out of his back – one gleaming with pale gold, the other forged from deep obsidian. A halo hovered over his golden hair while his golden eyes, ancient and unblinking as expected, settled on the mortal warrior below.
“Cease this bloodshed.”
The warrior’s gaze upon the angel remained silent and unwavering, his spear forged from earthly metals and shaped by human hands, remained clenched in his grip. Tendrils of crimson and golden blood coiled around his arm and into the dented plates of his gauntlets. His armor, forged from the same ore, dulled and marred by ash and dents and scratches, caught the glint of the being’s radiance – heavenly light meeting coarse stone.
“Khaslana, my dearest child, my finest creation.”
There was a divine voice echoing around him, splitting from one to hundred to a thousand – more distorted and unintelligible with each split.
“̶…̴y̶o̵u̶…̵d̷e̷s̴t̷r̵o̴y̶ ̷t̵h̵e̵m̸…̸f̴o̸r̵ ̶m̴e̷?̷”̷
Words entering his ears and splintering into countless, repeating ones.
“̴L̷o̵o̷k̷…̴…̸d̵i̷d̴ ̷t̶o̶ ̵m̵e̴…̵s̶p̴l̸i̶t̵ ̸a̶p̴a̶r̸t̶…̷…̴w̶o̶n̴’̴t̵…̸c̴a̸s̶t̷ ̴j̴u̵d̶g̶m̷e̶n̷t̸ ̷u̶p̵o̴n̴ ̶t̶h̵e̸m̵ ̶o̸n̵ ̶m̸y̶ ̴b̷e̸h̸a̷l̴f̷…̵?̵”̴
The voice ringing through him like a smith’s hammer striking metal, the gentle murmur somehow also piercing his eardrums like a baby’s shrill cry.
It burned. Each time the voice echoed, it seared his mind a bit more with it.
“̵Khaslana,̵ ̷t̶h̸i̵s̶…̵o̷r̵d̷e̵r̷…̸t̶h̶e̴m̴ ̵t̴h̸e̷ ̵w̷r̶a̷t̵h̸…̵”̷
…
…
“….w̵̖̄h̵̤͛à̵̧̼t̶̰͆ ̴̬̘͋̚ǹ̶̹͙̆ȩ̷̳̐͘ẹ̸͒̾d̵̩͠…̴̢̥͛t̷̻͛ḧ̵̨̰́o̶̲̞̾s̴̜͍̊ē̷̜̭̃ ̴̼̏̚w̸͔̹͛i̵͚͛ń̵̨͂g̴̤̮̔̕ṡ̷̛̪͎…?”
It burns it burns it burns it burns it burns -
Something crackled and fell apart – it wasn’t the divine being’s face; it was his wings. His wings – his wings were burning, melting, crumbling to ash all at once-
It burns it burns it burns it burns-
The ground breaks beneath him and Phainon falls.
Keeps falling, falling, falling-
It burns it burns it burns it burns-
The skies are no longer around him – only the winds that viciously cut into him like blades it burns it burns They ripped open the newly formed blister wounds on his back and made them burn and burn and burn and burn-
Phainon kept falling. Why didn't it stop? Why won't he fly up again why won’t it stop burning -
The force of the descent was relentless, the winds howling in his ears louder than his own screams, the agony ripping through him making time flow torturously slow-
Pitiful, how he tensed his back by instinct, willing his wings to unfurl and glide him through the sky, back up into the clouds.
But Phainon kept falling, kept burning.
And he fell – crashed through the branches, lashing at his limp limbs – a gnarled one hits his shoulder – another thick one catches him in the middle and Phainon heard something within break, the rest cracking and splitting part, tearing into his robes and flesh until the wet thud against the sodden ground felt like mercy.
His cheek sunk into the soft mud and moss, black spots slowly bleeding into his vision; the agony of broken bones and split flesh and the burns it burns it burns it burns still fresh all over his body.
The rain poured down on him mercilessly, each drop icy cold but not a single one easing the scorch of his flesh. The ground stayed damp and freezing, uncaring that he was once a divine being of the skies.
Phainon watched the moss soak up gold as he lets his eyes flutter shut-
...
Phainon woke up with a broken gasp.
Each breath brought out a hoarse sound out of his aching throat, each shallow heave of his chest seemed to thread in more pain than air into his lungs. He was lying on his stomach, the sheets beneath him felt like sandpaper rubbed all over him and there is a faint sound of rain pattering against wood.
A roof. Phainon was on a bed, inside someone’s house.
It still burned. Perhaps it was duller than before, or perhaps he had just grown numb to it as it settled upon him like a second sheet of skin. The pain still scattered his senses, clouded his divine clarity – what was once an effortless grasp on the spirit and shape of the world around him. Perhaps his divinity was overloaded with physically preserving and healing him. He didn't know. Phainon did not want to think about the divine; he can only take in the scent of petrichor mixing with that of blood, old wood with burnt flesh. Feathers turned to soot; branding his back with the memory of punishment.
Phainon took in a deep breath that ends short. A pained groan rose in his throat but he stopped himself; he couldn’t risk making a sound without properly assessing his surroundings first.
He just wanted to know where he had fallen.
Where were his wings why weren’t they here, why did his back feel so weightless-
Bracing himself on his hands, Phainon slowly pushed himself up, raw pain tearing through his body as he does and he gasped-
“Stay down.” A voice suddenly cut through the haze of pain, “Do you want to rip your stitches open?”
Phainon froze. And then stubbornly, he forced himself through the last stretch of it, finally turning around to weakly sit up. Every muscle and bone in his body screamed and the pain nearly made him pass out, but the exasperated ‘tch’ that he hears from the other person in the room kept him weirdly grounded into consciousness.
Feathers were melting, oozing down his back, the boiling liquid leaving behind raw, blistered skin-
His eyes swept around the room until they landed on the figure standing at the opposite end, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
Golden hair. Golden eyes.
Phainon blinked.
Another angel?
It burns, it burns, the skin of his back was splitting apart to let his wings drop lifelessly-
The man took a step forward and by instinct, Phainon commanded a barrier around himself in his mind. Only in his mind, for nothing physically manifested around him like it should have. It only made a dull pain throb in his head.
Crackles filled his ears, light breaking, flesh turning to tar-
“Lie back down,” The man spoke again. His voice was deep and heavy, a hint of coarseness in it. It was nothing like the smooth silk and cold gravity that coloured an angel’s timbre. Something between commanding and grounded. And something about it scraped at the back of Phainon’s mind – the stillness of an immovable boulder, the voice of a man who refused to kneel and cower beneath judgement and flame beyond his mortal comprehension.
And at second glance, the gold of his hair bled into more of a natural orange, like a soft sunset. His eyes had more amber than gold, as they stared down at him impassively. Deep down, he knew that colour, has seen it before, but the divine being’s splintered visage smears ink across his memory.
“A mortal.” Phainon breathed out. He should be no threat to him, but instinct compelled him to draw a barrier around himself again, fruitlessly.
His powers did not heed his command – Phainon felt like he was drawing from a well of divinity that had long dried up.
Wings melting, burning, abandoning-
“What did you do to me?” he asked.
The man slowly tilted his head to the side, “What I did to you? I dragged you out of the wilds and saved your life, when I could have just left you out to bleed out and die instead.”
Phainon paused. He felt the rough scrape of bandages wrapped all over his body, the weak sparks of divinity surging through his veins, healing and mending his bones and flesh.
It still burned, the winds were still shrieking around him, cutting him open each time he healed-
“So why didn’t you?” He asked, without thinking much.
The question did seem to catch the man off-guard, from the slight shift in his brows, but he did not allow himself to look much perturbed.
“Rotting corpses attract the kind of animals I’d rather not have anywhere near my goats.” The man returned.
“…Your goats,” Phainon repeated, blankly.
“Yes.”
All he needed was for his wings to spread out and flap, taking reins of the punishing winds but they wouldn’t – they couldn’t no matter how much he pleaded-
Something about it made laughter bubble deep within his stomach, which also instantly made him flinch with pain.
The man clicked his tongue again.
“If you really insist upon tearing your stitches and bleeding out to death, feel free to do so, but get off my bed before that.”
Phainon opted for silence instead, observing the man before him. The tall and well-built body showed a warrior honed for battle, but his clothing gave him the look of a forest dweller – a hunter. From his long years of observing humans, Phainon could argue there wouldn’t be much difference in physique between the two, but solely from the way the man held himself, he felt like he was walking into a fight.
It was like he could almost imagine the body wielding a blade in battle, his movements deadly and unyielding as they blitzed through the battlefield. He could imagine it so vividly – the flash of steel, the swing of fists – it blurred the lines between imagination and recollection.
Why weren’t they moving why weren’t his wings moving why did he keep falling-
A sleeveless leather tunic, fashioned from black leather, tightly hugged his frame, with golden blood splattered across his chest ( that Phainon spent a little too long staring at ). Aside from the mane of yellow hair, the most striking thing about him was the scarlet tattoos coiling around the skin of his arms and neck that his shirt and gloves did not hide, a small strip of red lining the underside of his right eye, extending to his cheek.
Phainon had seen and observed plenty of beautiful humans from a distance but this one was…quite a fine specimen.
The man moved towards the bed and Phainon willed himself to not tense up - for this man wasn’t just strikingly handsome, but also dangerous.
“Lie down.” He repeated, “And not on your back – it took me long enough to patch up the fucking mess that it was in.”
Why were his wings burning why wouldn’t they stop burning-
“Shouldn’t I at least get to know the name of the man I’m about to turn my back to?” Phainon smiled – he knows it did not really reach his eyes and there was a vague feeling that this man realised it too. He felt like he had asked for a name long before-
“…Mydeimos,” The man answered, after a short pause.
“Mydeimos,” Phainon repeated. The name felt nice on his tongue, and he is sure he has never heard in his life, “Mydeimos…Mydei.”
“I do not recall giving you permission to shorten it.”
“I have a vague feeling that the other humans call you that too.”
“That would make it a privilege only for said humans.” Mydei bended down to stare at him right in the face, “Would it not?”
Phainon held his gaze calmly, “You…know that I am not human?”
Mydei blinked, looking a little dumbfounded before he jerked his thumb towards his chest, towards the golden blood staining it.
“Hard to miss.”
“Ah…right.” Phainon coughed, embarrassment flooding in. Obviously. This man had seen him bleeding out there, in a pool of his own blood, had seen the wings-
The wings the wings the wings
…No. Not the wings.
“Won’t you tell me your name? Mydei asked while Phainon tried to lie back down again.
“...Phainon.”
“Phainon,” Mydei echoed, letting the first syllable drag a little longer than it should and Phainon found himself a little fascinated by it, “A strange name for an angel.”
Angel. The way the word escaped the man’s mouth made heat crawl up Phainon’s cheeks. And it was so stupid, because it was nothing special; he was just stating what Phainon was and it was nothing more than -
Or was he?
Where were this angel’s wings then?
Phainon laid back down. It didn’t make a difference, turning his back to this man or facing him – if he wanted to kill him, there was little he could do in this state to stop him.
It didn’t matter anyway, because it wasn’t like there was any place left for him to fly back to anyway.
Even if Phainon died, the doors of heaven would not open for him anymore.
So he might as well let himself rest while the earth accepted him still - as Phainon, a fallen angel, sheltered beneath the roof of Mydeimos, the forest dwelling hunter. And nothing more.