• Angel

    The angel carried the girl close to his chest as he buffeted along the harsh winds of the Arkana Plains. He coasted low, his mottled feathers dipping in and out of the river that weaved through the rocky mountains and ran along the wide grassy fields. The angel pressed himself closer to the water protecting the girl from the air above— far too frigid for a mortal— and his left wing shuddered and flapped impatiently in protest as it dipped deeper into the icy waters. Without warning, and to the angel's surprise, the feathers ceased to move and hardened, stopping the air from flowing through, and his wing drew in tightly against his back. Immediately the angel fell, his right wing beating frantically to keep them aloft, but it was no use. Hastily he turned, angling his body between the girl and the water and let out a piercing, guttural cry that came from deep within his core. He was not afraid as his hollow bones would not let him drown; the pure desperation sounded was for the mortal's sake whose heavy bones would surely sink her in a matter of seconds. He could perhaps keep the girl aloft using his body, but then his wings would be trapped beneath them and weigh them down at once.

    As the angel struck the water, his wing shuddered, unable to ignore the command, and extended itself once more, pushing down and up rapidly so that the angel was no longer cradled by the water and soon up in the air. Both wings were now drenched and heavy and the angel let out sound so low and menacing that the clouds thundered, and rolled above their heads at a rapid pace. The angel scolded his wing, and what was left of his ragged feathers twitched sulkily and would not settle; they chattered angrily through the wind and the sounds the air made in passing through each individual feather. But his right wing whimpered, and the angel took pity and sent away the clouds.

    He veered sharply to the west as the water changed direction, thickening out into two forks, relying on the river as his guide home to Rithral. Already he was beginning to forget the path that was the link between the mortal ream and demigods, one he'd flown through since childhood. Ts'ar's punishment would soon find him lost and banished from the sacred grounds, left to rot and suffer among the mortals. But not die. No, that would be to kind of the god. The angel's wings were dying, many of the feathers broken and stained with an ugly darkness that clung to them and buried itself within each of the feathers strands, and would not wash off no matter what he tried. Once, he had sat down and plucked out the bad feathers, only to realise that they would not grow back the pearly silver-white they once were. As soon as he pulled out a feather, it slowly grew back stained darker than before. Frantically, he had plucked and plucked until his wings were naked red stumps and he was surrounded by piles of bloodied feathers. They had screamed pitifully when he had done so, and he wept, sorry for what he had done, and filled with grief when they returned a deep unforgiving black. The angel shuddered as he remembered that day, and closed off his thoughts, focusing intently on the land before him.

    It took the angel less than two hours to fly the hundred and ninety miles to the edge of the Arkana Plains. From here the land stretched from fields into a deep valley shadowed by forests that pushed the mountain ranges outwards into the borders of Tarrin. The air was considerably warmer outside of the plains , and so the angel rose in altitude though would not allow himself to fly pleasurably amongst the clouds, for fear air that high above ground would kill the girl. Instead, he stretched his wings as far as he could and tilted them every so often so that he could rest and simply coast along on the wind.

    For the first time in a while, the angel looked down at the girl. A thought crossed his mind that perhaps using his body as protection from the Plains had not been enough and alarmed, he cocked his head close to hers and listened for breath. He relaxed when he saw her chest slowly rise and fall, but his eyes flashed dark when he saw the paleness of her skin, and the garish circles under her eyes. The girl's brown hair was plastered to her forehead and cheeks and her eyes were still closed as they had been for weeks. He frowned. The angel's body was neither warm nor cold and he could not tell if the body he held was still icy from the Plains. Rithral was still many days away, and with the fear that she would die before then, the angel headed to the north towards Tarrin, to a place where he had often played when he was young, and the home of an old friend.

    When the angel arrived he circled wide arcs over the forest, before he tucked in his wings and descended head first, landing softly on the ground. His legs trembled, not used to the sensation of solid earth beneath his feet, but it felt good to be on land again and they soon steadied. Across from him, some thirty metres away and hidden by trees was a small opening in the cliff, one of the seraph angel's rock-bound home. The angel tucked his wings behind him, the centre of them resting against the small of his back. Though they were now hideous and near-death, they still spread over six foot, and the tips dragged along the ground, trailing in the dirt as he headed towards cave.

    The chamber was well-lit, and there Ysobel stood, tall and slender, her long golden curls tied into a hasty bun. The seraph was bent over a clay fireplace, tending to a cauldron filled with some sort of liquid. She did not turn when the angel entered, but her smooth wings fluttered as the angel leant against the wall still holding the girl protectively, though his arms ached horribly.
    "Hello Gabriel," she said, facing him. Gabriel allowed a small smile, and stepped forward. If she was surprised by the state of his wings, she did not show it.
    "Ysobel," he murmured.
    Both angels were exceptionally striking, though neither would acknowledge each other's beauty. Ysobel was stunning and Gabriel was handsome with his blonde curls and brooding golden eyes. His face was strong, but his features were delicately crafted, and his body muscular and tanned from hours of flying in the sun.