Stricken Angels clutched by fate

Puppets all, despite their hate.

Pain.

A burning spike being rammed into the side of his head, over and over.

Reeves woke slowly, groaning.

At first, all he could see through his blurred vision was a wash of grey, slashed through with a hazy lance of white from somewhere above, as though the light were the source of the spear in his head.

He squeezed his eyes closed, but the pain did not subside: it only become worse. Cracking them open again, he pushed himself up.

It was a mistake.

The room spun so wildly that he rolled off the bed, his stomach attempting to heave up its contents. But there was nothing in it, so he merely retched emptiness onto the floor.

For a minute or two he remained on his hands and knees on the cold flagstones, quivering, waiting for the dizziness and nausea to subside. When it did, he sat on the floor with his back against the bed.

Someone was standing outside the row of iron bars opposite him, leaning against a dark stone wall, arms folded. She was a Human woman with the physique and outfit of a soldier, perhaps thirty-ish, her hair a striking blood-red colour, falling just above her shoulders. She was dressed in simple leather armour and a crimson cloak. A long, unidentifiable bundle was strapped to her back – perhaps a weapon, tied up crudely with belts and a blanket.

She stared at him.

Her eyes were like chips of steel set on fire.

Reeves let his gaze wander deliberately away from her, partly to allow his vision to refocus, examining the cell he was in. It was definitely not the Black Pyramid, that was quite apparent; this was a stone-walled gaol cell, and a particularly grim one at that.

Humans, Reeves thought in disgust. At least Angels had the decency to house their prisoners with some measure of comfort and dignity.

He returned his gaze languidly to the woman's and held it.

"Who the hell are you?" he said finally.

The woman continued to stare at him. "My name is Carmine Vandaris," she answered quietly.

Then Reeves remembered where he had seen her before.

Reaching behind him, he grasped the edge of the bed and pushed himself to his feet, slowly, tentatively, wincing as the pain slashed through his skull and down the back of his neck. He gripped his head, feeling a bandage there.

"Ah," he said, smirking, "you're the one Mekka was spying on."

Her blink of confusion was gratifying. "What?"

Reeves laughed softly, moving over to the wall and leaning against it. "Watching you from afar. Quite the admirer you have!"

Colour rose to her cheeks, and sparks to her eyes. She shoved forward and gripped the bars with both hands. "Why did you attack him?" she demanded.

Reeves regarded her, thinking it was possibly the most idiotic question he had ever been asked. "For fun," he sneered.

The woman glared back. "Why did you attack him?" she repeated, insistently.

Reeves snorted. He looked at the beam of light spilling from a small grille set high in the wall, the only source of light in this decrepit dungeon. "Is he dead?" he asked, ignoring her question.

She was silent for a moment. "No."

Reeves continued to stare at the light. Then he spun abruptly, slamming his fist into the wall.

Goddess damn him! he raged silently. I HAD him! I was SO CLOSE!

He leaned his throbbing forehead on his arm, noting as he did so the missing silvertine gauntlet. That his armour had been stripped off him a second time by ancient magical forces was infuriating. "Where am I?" he hissed. "What is this filthy hole I've been dropped into?"

Carmine regarded him. "The Freeroamer Guard House at Watchroads," she replied. "In the Outlands."

"Freeroamers?" Reeves snorted in disgust. Rolling onto his back against the wall, he closed his eyes, placing his fingers against his bandaged forehead. "That Centaur woman is the only competent one," he remarked. "The rest are idiots." Opening his eyes, he peered at the red-haired woman, looking her up and down. "Are you one of them? You don't wear their uniform. What are you doing here?"

"I'm not one of them," the woman replied. "Answer my question."

Reeves smiled, watching her from beneath the strands of blond hair that had fallen across his eyes over the bandage. Pushing away from the wall, he stalked over to the bars and placed his own hands on them, just above hers, leaning close as though to impart some great secret. "Our dear friend Mekka," he whispered, "is not only a danger to Angel society, but to the entire world."

Carmine pushed away from the bars. "That's ridiculous!"

Reeves held her gaze, still smiling. "Is it?"

Her grey eyes narrowed. "You're pathetic. Just another one of those lunatics determined to persecute your own people over a nonsense prophecy!"

"And has anything about that prophecy proven to be untrue?"

Her eyes burned in the silence.

"Of course it has!" He laughed softly. "Because it has not yet come to pass!" His blue-green eyes scoured hers. "Did you think that the prophecy had been fulfilled, four years ago, when Mekka brought ruin to Fleetfleer? Or even with the fall of Caer Sync?" He shook his head. "Oh no. It will not be fulfilled until he has destroyed Excelsior itself!"

Carmine stared at him. "I have no idea what you're talking about!"

"Of course you don't!" He pulled back from the bars. "You ignorant Human child!"

She stepped up to the bars again, fists clenched. "I don't care who you are or what you're Commander of," she hissed. "If you go near Mekka again, I will rip your wings off."

Reeves laughed. "Charming! I invite you to try!" He grinned, gesturing with a hand. "But may I point out that it was Mekka who came looking for me?" He slouched against the bars. "I happened to be carrying out my own affairs, harming no one, merely searching for someone to translate a book! Then that accursed Black Pyramid appeared out of nowhere, assaulted me and my men, snapping our minds like twigs—" he snapped his fingers in front of her face, "—then imprisoned me for no apparent reason. Then your black-winged Angel friend baited me with his own silvertine daggers for the entertainment of watching my intended failure as his watchdog Pyramid stripped them from me!" His eyes narrowed. "The only reason he refused to fight me was because he knew he couldn't win!"

There was a long pause in which Carmine stared at him incredulously.

"So… that's what all of this is really about?" she exclaimed. "A… a stupid exchange of egos?!" With a disgusted snort, she whirled away, heading for the stairs.

"I'd watch yourself around him if I were you!" Reeves called after her, "or you may find your own sanity twisted into a perverse spectacle!"

She didn't reply, her red cloak swishing through an upstairs door, which slammed behind her.

Smirking, Reeves reached out absently to preen his feathers.

He froze.

The silence that filled the gloomy basement cell of the Guard House was long and profound. A lonely beam of light pinned the white-winged Angel in place; a deathly-still statue clutching his own wing.

The scream that finally erupted could be heard in the streets above.

Carmine leaned against the wall, fuming. She knew that the Sword of Healing could not be used to inflict harm, but she fought an urge to rip it free of its bindings, stalk back down into the dungeon and smash it into that Angel Commander's face, just to test the theory.

She couldn't remember the last time she had felt so angry.

The feeling brought with it a powerful sense of relief, almost gladness. The rage was bright and clean and simple; it burned away the pall of despair and uncertainty that had clung to her ever since she had woken up, bizarrely, in a ruined infirmary with a silvertine Sword stuck through her – or at least, ever since Lieutenant Raemint had explained how she had come to be in that state.

It made Carmine feel like a real person again.

Here was someone that she could unconditionally despise.

It made a nice change from hating herself.

Who the hell does that bastard think he is? Commander of the Sky Legion? I've never even heard of them! And she hadn't understood a single word that had come out of his mouth.

Black Pyramid? Excelsior? Something about a book? What was any of that supposed to mean? Raemint had never mentioned such things!

Carmine felt more confused than ever, and she was getting tired of feeling confused.

She wanted to know what the blazing Gods was going on. She wanted to hear it from Mekka.

It was hot and stuffy in the wood-panelled hallway. Sunlight poured down it like molten syrup from the open casement at the end, making her damp and sticky beneath her leather armour and cloak, but damned if she was going to take them off. There was no air. During her short visit to the cells, the wind had died away completely, as though it just couldn't be bothered any longer. Dust floated up from the street below, hanging glittering and listless in the burning light. The shouting and yelling and general agitated noises from outside had increased. Amongst it all, she heard Freeroamers calling out urgent orders.

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Everyone was annoyed. Everyone was angry. Everyone wanted to lop someone's head off.

The whole town felt like a slowly boiling pot.

There was an unnerving quality to the tension; something inexplicable. Carmine had felt it as she pushed her way across the crowded square from the Guard House to the inn where Mekka was being treated. It had caused her to pause, glancing involuntarily up at the sky. She had the strangest impression something huge was up there, looming over the city, watching, but she had seen nothing except a hazy blue sky and some grey clouds gathering off to the west.

Just a storm approaching, she thought. That's all.

The door beside her opened, releasing a pungent odour of herbs, as well as a tired looking middle-aged woman in a blood-smeared smock. She carried a basket full of tinctures and dried powders, needles and thread, red-soaked rags and a bowl of crimson-coloured water.

Carmine straightened at once, her anger and irritation dissipating instantly at the sight of all that blood.

"I have done what I can," the healer informed her in a quiet voice. "His wounds are deep, but clean. I have stitched them, and given him something to help him sleep. But he has lost a lot of blood, and is weak and feverish. If the fever breaks, he should recover with enough rest and time. If it does not…"

She left the sentence hanging.

Carmine gripped the healer's arm with both hands, half in fear, half in gratitude. "Thank you… for everything you have done," she said tightly.

The woman placed a sympathetic hand over Carmine's, gave her a sad smile, then turned and headed for the stairs.

Carmine watched her go, forcing back sudden tears and a tightness in her chest. I'm carrying a damned Sword of Healing around on my back and no one here is capable of using it!

Whirling, she shoved her way into the room.

Raemint was there, taking up half the room with her sleek black equine body and shining spear strapped to her back. She was staring anxiously down at the bed.

Mekka lay on his side with his back to the door, facing the wall. His black wings were ragged, full of missing and sliced-off feathers. His torso was bare, criss-crossed with bandages, the lower half of him covered with a blanket. He appeared to be unconscious, though his feathers quivered and there was a sheen of sweat on his skin.

Two ethereal bright blue wings extended from the sides of his head, like some kind of eerie, ghostly headpiece, their light glowing upon the walls and bedding.

Carmine realised that she wasn't breathing. Taking a deep lungful of air to steady herself, she moved slowly over to the wooden chair beside the bed and lowered herself onto it. "What," she whispered, swallowing against a throat gone dry, "what is that?"

She had caught a glimpse of the winged headpiece earlier, when Mekka first arrived, but had been too shocked at the time to ask questions.

Raemint shook her head. "I do not know," she replied softly. She hesitated. "The healer was… reluctant to treat him, to say the least. She required some… persuasion in the form of coins. Magic is not well regarded here, and the recent incident with Lady Araynia has placed the townsfolk dangerously on edge." Her brow furrowed. "Mekka shall have to be moved, as soon as it is reasonably safe to do so. Perhaps to the Guard House." She shook her head. "I had hoped not to have to lock him away. The accommodation there is not particularly comfortable."

Carmine snorted. "Oh, I don't know, Commander Reeves seemed to be enjoying his dark and slimy cell just fine."

Raemint turned to her with a quizzical look. The joke had flown straight over her head.

Carmine sighed. She supposed Centaurs didn't really appreciate sarcastic humour.

Or perhaps Mekka and Hawk had just been terrible influences…

She looked back at the glowing wings. "So it's some kind of magic, then?"

"Yes," Raemint replied. "But it is not like anything that I have ever seen or felt before." She closed her eyes, her frown deepening. "It feels old… ancient. It is… similar… to the bite of a trigonic blade… but softer…" An involuntary shiver twitched through her body, and her tail flicked. Her hooves shifted nervously on the wooden floorboards. She took a deep breath. "Not the same. A coldness… but not of ice. Not of death. A… type of life. Void life… without feeling, but not emptiness…" She seemed to struggle to find the right words. "The opposite. Too… much. A flattening of many souls… into a lack of identity… a dissipation that comes with… becoming one with everything…" She gave up, with a sigh of frustration. "I am sorry. It is very difficult to explain."

Carmine swallowed. "It feels similar to… trigon?"

"Yes. But it is not." Raemint gestured at the wounded Angel. "I supervised the healer during her examination. There was no trace of a black infection upon him. I am quite satisfied that there is no trigon. Mekka is not a wraith."

Carmine looked back at Mekka, gazing sadly at his ravaged wings, at the bandages wrapping his limbs. She had never seen him in such a disastrous state before. He sometimes got into fights… well, often got into fights – but… nothing like this. It wasn't like Mekka to go looking for trouble. He generally went out of his way to avoid it.

Tentatively, she reached out a hand and touched his black feathers. He twitched a little, but did not wake. She stroked the feathers, very gently. "But… how did he end up like this?" she murmured, half to herself. "You said he was taken to Caer Sync?"

"That is what I was told," Raemint replied. "That he was arrested and sent for Judgement. But then the Holy Tower collapsed. I do not know where he has been since then." She paused. "Perhaps Commander Reeves may enlighten us."

The only thing he'll enlighten you with is a faceful of bile, Carmine thought, but didn't say so. "He was raving about something called a Black Pyramid. Do you know what that is?"

Raemint frowned. "No. I am afraid I do not."

Carmine sighed, continuing to stroke the feathers. "Maybe Reeves is afraid of those glowing wings, and that was why he attacked Mekka."

The Centaur was quiet for moment. "Perhaps that is so," she replied uncertainly.

A silence fell between them. The sounds outside had dulled momentarily to a restless murmur. The open window near the foot of the bed did nothing but let in more hot air, mingling with the cloying scent of the poultices and potions that the healer had used, and the metallic tang of blood.

The strange feeling of something enormous pressing down from above remained, even inside, raising the hairs on the back of Carmine's arms. Sweat trickled uncomfortably over her skin. She felt like a mouse trapped in a hole with a cat waiting for her to step outside, crouching there with its immense claws and invisible, luminous eyes…

She took another deep gulp of air. It was hard to breathe in this room.

Raemint was restless, too. Her tail swished back and forth. Her black hide was shiny with sweat and her jaw was tense. She stepped up to the window and looked out, regarding the packed square below.

Where had Mekka come from? Carmine thought, remembering his abrupt arrival. The Angel had simply dropped out of the sky. But he couldn't have flown far in that condition, carrying Reeves…

She shook her head. Why had he even gone to the effort, if the two of them hated each other so badly?

A sudden recollection made her go still. A peculiar detail, aside from the weird headpiece…

Carmine rose from her seat, peering over the Angel's body.

He was turned away, his eyes closed. The right side of his face was uppermost, the left mostly hidden. The glowing wing-thing on that side was not obstructed by the pillow, but went straight through it as though substanceless, casting its eerie, cool glow over the bedding, lighting it up from within like a lantern. Mekka's skin was pale and drawn and damp, looking even more sickly in the unnatural light, his dark hair stuck to his cheek. A long, red and swollen, stitched gash was just visible following his left jawline. His eyelids flickered in an uneasy sleep.

His eyes…

"Raemint," she breathed. "His eyes. The left one was damaged. He used to wear a patch over it."

The Centaur looked over at her in surprise. "Oh!" she said. "Of course. You were not there, at the time, and remember nothing of subsequent events, or meetings with Mekka." She took a breath. "By the Gods. You truly remember nothing of the last four years!"

It was Carmine's turn to look puzzled, and slightly annoyed. "What?"

"Mekka was healed," Raemint explained. "By the very same Sword you bear on your back. By the Sword that healed me. By the grace of its previous wielder, Lord Requar, the sorcerer."

"And this sorcerer is… dead now?"

Raemint turned away, her expression sad. "He is."

Carmine slumped back onto her chair, putting her head in her hands. "He was a powerful sorcerer, carrying a Sword of Healing around and saving everybody's lives, and he couldn't save his own?!"

It was meant half as a joke, half a vent of frustration that such a magic-user was not here right now to work any further miracles on Mekka.

But the effect it had on Raemint was profound.

The black Centaur whirled, her spear suddenly in her hands and pointed at the red-haired woman's chest.

Carmine jolted back in her chair in shock.

"You will not speak ill of him!" Her voice was hard, her dark eyes fierce.

Carmine's heart pounded. "Raemint," she gasped. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean—"

"Lord Requar gave me another chance at life! He allowed me to see my Cairan again! If he had not come along, I would have become a demon-wraith, forever to wander a lonely stretch of road taking the lives of any travellers unfortunate enough to cross my path! And I had not the opportunity to repay him for this blessing!"

Carmine felt ashamed. It was the kind of stupid thing Hawk would have said. She shouldn't have been so quick to judge. She knew nothing about Requar, after all, although his name seemed familiar, and a strange sense that she had known him once, somehow, passed through her. But the sorcerer had died shortly after she had gone to the Middle Isle, after she had turned into a wraith. It was not possible that she had met him.

She swallowed. "Forgive me, Raemint," she whispered.

The Centaur lifted her spear and returned to the window. She stood there for a long moment, staring out. The anger drifted from her features, turning to melancholy.

"He left his mark upon our town," she said in a quiet voice. "At the entrance to Forthwhite, a large patch of scorched ground scars the plain. Nothing grows upon it; animals avoid it; Humans feel unsettled crossing it. But Centaurs…" She sighed, closing her eyes. "We are sensitive to magic; we feel it intensely. Neither Cairan or I will set a hoof upon that scar. We tried, once, and only once."

She was silent again, for another long moment. When she opened her eyes again, they glimmered. "Grief, and loneliness, and regret, a well of it deeper than a living person should ever have been forced to drown in. And that was but a shimmer of his true experience.

"Requar committed a grave atrocity," she went on, her voice barely above a whisper. "And he dedicated the remainder of his life attempting to atone for it." She shook her head. "But he sought no recognition. He did not want anyone to know what he was doing. He knew that nothing could erase what he had done. He did not seek forgiveness. He simply sought to achieve small kindnesses, here and there, enough of them, perhaps, that eventually the world might be made a little better than it was before he had come to be cursed to live in it.

"All of this I came to infer, from the stories told to me from those who had crossed his path, and from the sadness now dried within the ashen dirt. And I came to understand him, in the echo of his death."

Tears spilled from the Centaur's dark face. "Near the end, he achieved a measure of peace, but that was revealed to be a lie, and it was taken from him, and he died a shattered man. But he saved his son, and a beautiful Dragon. Perhaps, that was enough.

"But his magic, his legacy, lives on," Raemint continued, "in a young woman. I did not believe it at first, until I witnessed her power for myself. And especially—" she turned to face Carmine again, "in your salvation."

Carmine just stared up at her, unable to speak.

"This is why I must reunite the Sword with Lady Araynia. The magic must survive. It is precious; nothing is more important. It is our only hope amid the darkness and horror that is rapidly coming to enshroud us all. I shall protect the Lady, and the Sword, with my life. It is… the least that I can do." She bowed her head.

Carmine stared bleakly at the stricken black-winged Angel on the bed beside her. "And what of Mekka?" she said, her voice quavering, tears hovering at the edges of her own eyes. "Doesn't he deserve to survive, too?"

Sighing, Raemint came over to stand beside her. "I am afraid that this Angel's life rests in hands other than our own. He is held fast by a power that we do not understand."

Carmine swallowed back the ache in her throat.

The Centaur placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. "He has survived much worse," she said. "I do not think we shall lose him just yet."

Carmine just nodded, not knowing what else to do.

Raemint's hand slipped away. "I apologise for my reaction," she said ruefully, sheathing her spear. "It was unwarranted."

Carmine shook her head. "I spoke foolishly." She glanced up at the Centaur. "Thank you for telling me about Lord Requar."

Raemint gave her a nod.

Carmine hesitated. "He was… tall, wasn't he? With white hair, and very handsome."

Raemint blinked in surprise. "Yes, he was indeed!" She looked at Carmine curiously. "How did you know that?"

How DO I know that?!

"I… I don't know!" Carmine's eyes widened. She hugged herself, feeling suddenly scared.

"Perhaps you overheard someone speak of him?" Raemint suggested. "Perhaps you retain some memories from the last few years?"

No, it isn't that. Gods, I hope it isn't that! I don't want to start remembering what I did when I was a… a monster. No. I HAVE met Requar! I know I have! But… how??

She spoke none of this aloud, but forced a smile instead. "Yes. That… that must be it…"

The Freeroamer looked at her with concern. "You should rest. It has been a stressful day, with your visit to Everine, and now Mekka. I can ask Sergeant Wolfrun to monitor his condition—"

"No!" Carmine insisted. "I want to be here when he wakes up!" She took a steadying breath. "I'm… fine!"

Raemint considered her a moment longer. "Very well." She turned to leave, but hesitated at the door. "I shall continue my journey east, tomorrow morning," she said. "I must find Lady Araynia, Sergeant Hawk, and Sergeant Flint. You must decide if you would like to accompany me, or not. But regardless, I will need to take the Sword of Healing."

Carmine blinked. "Oh. Yes. Y-yes, of course." Reluctantly, she began to unclip the buckles holding it in place.

Raemint held up a hand. "You may keep it, for now. Decide tomorrow. I have some things to attend to now, but I will not be far away, if you need me." With a smile, she opened the door and went out into the corridor.

Carmine listened to her hooves retreat down the hallway and stairs.

She was left alone, with a deathly shivering Angel, in a room stuffed with too-hot air and a head suffocating in far, far too many questions.

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