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We were just above the tree line now and on track to crash at any moment. He wrapped his arms around me, and all sense of my awareness was disoriented as his wings embraced our tangled bodies in a feathered shield. He twisted in the air, tucked his head low above mine, and tensed until his physique was a hard stone around my own.
We hit hard. So hard my teeth knocked and rattled my brain inside my skull. The feathers around my back made the collision jarring but softened the crash significantly. We hit the ground once, then twice, skipping across the wasted earth like stones in still water, until finally skidding to a stop.
Rubble fell around us, cluttering the silence. Slowly, Azriel unfurled his wings and unwrapped us. Whimpers of misery slipped from his lips as his head fell back in surrender to the agony. I still clutched his chest, trying to blink away the stars in my vision and focus him into clarity. I discovered myself on top of him, his back on the ground, wings lying limp across the grassy field.
If I hadn’t known the color of his feathers from endless hours of admiring them, I would have never known they were originally silver. Grey dust stuck to the slick crimson, matting his feathers and saturating their surface. They used to shimmer under the moonlight, but now they glistened with thick, gurgling blood. Though he bled everywhere I looked, it was not copper that filled my senses but decay, of the sweet scent of rot. His wings twitched pitifully, fluttering at an odd angle before falling back weakly to the dirt.
“Your wings,” I whispered. “They’re broken.” I tried to conceal the horror in my voice as I watched him suffer, but the fracture in my words exposed the fear behind them. Azriel’s breathing grew labored beneath me, his chest rose and fell in great heaves, wheezing echoing each exhale.
“You have to go. They’re coming,” he managed to say in a pained effort.
I shook my head viciously at the idea. “I’m not leaving you—”
“You have to, Arya! You have the leystones in your pocket, and that’s what they’re after. I can slow them down, I can distract them, but I’ll never outrun them. That’s a job only a mortal can do, right?” His lips twitched in a pathetic smile, attempting to reassure me.
“I can’t…” My mind spun, trying to think of a reasonable excuse, but my heart knew he was right. The problem was, I couldn’t find the strength to stand, didn’t have the power to leave him behind, bleeding and broken for the Dark Army to find and destroy. I laid my head on his chest and tried not to weep like a pathetic child, but my grief was too heavy to carry with grace.
“Arya, remember what you said to me. You are not a helpless damsel, and I am not your knight,” he growled. I raised my head, now damp with tears, and found his lifted to meet my gaze. “You’re the gods forsaken huntress, and you are stronger than this. We both will do what were created to do—I will defend you, and you will run.”
I bit my lip and nodded, swallowing back any lingering reservation in my heart. He flexed underneath me, curling his stomach against the dead weight of his wings in a sorry attempt to sit up.
“Help me sit,” he commanded, reaching out his arm. He grabbed my shoulder as I slipped my arms under his, and together, we lifted his back off the dusty earth.
“Why did you want to—” I started to ask but was cut off by his face smashing into mine. It was quick, hard, claiming, and final. It silenced my thoughts, interrupted my breath and disrupted the fear of leaving him as his lips consumed my sorrow.
He pulled away, a shadow of regret cloaking his gaze. “Your eyes remind me of the old world,” he said in a breathless voice. “The same shade as the sky when the sun was at its highest, same shade as the shallowest part of the ocean. They drown me every time I look at you. It’s the sweetest death I could ever ask for.”
His words grazed the edges of my mouth, teasing the last time I’d ever feel his lips on my skin. “Our story was short, but it was the adventure of a lifetime. Never forget that, Arya”
“I know,” I whispered against his cheek. “I’ll always be yours, Azriel.” The small hairs in my ear twitched as rotted roots snapped in the distance, warning us of the soldier’s impending arrival. I glanced hesitantly in the direction of the sound, noticing the shadows charging in the mist separating our tangled figures. If I left now, they’d never see which way I’d gone. It was my only viable option, my only rational choice, and I really hated only having one good choice.
“Go, Arya,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Roman will find you. Just back track to where we first started. I know you remember the way.” I slowly stood, letting my hands glide from his shoulders as my fingers trailed his skin. They lingered for a moment, saying goodbye in their own language, before finally slipping completely into the space between us.
The sounds were getting closer, metal clashed from the awkward rush of thick bodies in poor fitting armor, but I took one more second to burn his face into my memory. I needed to remember with excruciating detail the lines and curves, the monotonous color scheme to the work of art that was Azriel the Watcher. I could always make up for lost time during the run, but I’d never get this moment back.
“Thank you,” I said. He smiled because he understood the loaded appreciation behind two simple words. Not only for saving my life this time or the first time, but every moment in between.
I retreated from his body, feeling my reluctance sink into the soles of my feet and weigh down each step, every stride I took was one of purpose and required all my willpower. The ground shook slightly as the patrol advanced closer—I was officially out of time.
I turned and ran, and I never looked back.
15
Emotion could always be usedas extra fuel during a difficult run. As runners, we typically took advantage of the feelings that spiked our adrenaline and gave us an extra boost. Anger, frustration, excitement, happiness, were all passion in their pure forms and, in turn, gave us something we could draw from. Grief, however, was a parasite. It drained me of motivation and strength. It made it difficult to breath or focus on my pace. My steps quickened, my stride stretched, desperately trying to separate me from the hurt of what I left behind.
Sharp pain shot through my ankle an hour later, and I let it scourge through my body to distract me from the ache inside my chest. Physical pain, real pain, was easier to understand and justify, and therefore, easier to endure.
But after distracting myself with more somatic matters for the better part of the run, my ankle started to fall apart underneath me. One step too far, and it completely gave out. One minute, my gaze was on the horizon, the next, it was in the dirt. I hurled through the darkness, blindly feeling for anything to slow my fall.
My knees skimmed the sharp-pebbled path, sending a spray of rocks washing against my forearms as I braced my landing. I lay there for a moment, letting the hurt of my injury and the sting of my pride provide an accelerant for the fury building inside me.
I pushed myself to my back and stared feebly into the night sky, glaring at the heavens in a vain attempt to burn them down with my disdain. Every star mocked me with its beauty, and I wanted to rip every single one from its home so nothing beautiful ever existed again. I wanted the universe to feel my pain, to experience the ugliness of a world without its most beloved feature. I didn’t want anything to exist rivaling Azriel’s beauty, nothing to remind me of the feeling of admiration he created in me.
I would never look at the moons without seeing the silver of his eyes again. Every star that shone was a painful reminder of the glimmer in his feathers, as if I could reach above me and still feel his wings in the cosmos. I would be eternally haunted by moonbeams and starlight. I needed to rid the world of night, if only to rid myself of his memory.
My hands twitched with the desire to tear something apart, to hurt, to destroy. My grief was replaced by something darker—a bitter taste on my tongue I’d never known before. It was an overwhelming urge that grew with every throbbing pulse of my leg, stealing my logic and coloring my vision red.
Revenge.
