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It’s a brutal summer day, insects buzzing like a thousand tiny chainsaws beneath the blue void of the sky, shimmery inches of heat-haze rising from the dry grass.
Exactly the kind of day you could pass out and die from dehydration, sweating yourself cold in the middle of July – if, say, you did something fucking stupid like get lost in the ass-end of nowhere doing a routine pickup for some piece-of-shit gangster who isn’t even paying you all that much. The money was supposed to be in a bag under a rock shaped like a bird’s head. Guts has pictures on his phone, and the land out here is scrubby and almost bare, hardly more than desert, so you can see for miles, but there’s no sign of the damn thing, and now he’s well and truly lost.
If he was the superstitious type, he might think the number of misfortunes that conspired to strand him out here were some kind of curse. A ruptured gas tank, an absent phone signal followed by a suddenly and inexplicably dead phone, no GPS, and now he’s footsore, sweating bullets and squinting against the sun, road dwindled to a dirt track a couple hours back, without even a clue which direction he should walk in to get back to civilization.
Guts doesn’t know what the money is for, and nor does he care. The asshole who hired him just needed someone intimidating-looking to pick it up, and Guts needed enough cash to keep himself off the streets, so here he is. Wherever here is. Fuck, is he even in Midland anymore?
It feels like he’s been walking for hours. He’s almost out of water, and his head is starting to hurt. Even his eyes feel hot and heavy in their sockets, and so dry he imagines if you popped them out of his skull they’d be wrinkled up like raisins.
He trails to a halt. Looks around, again. There’s still nothing to tell him where he is, and after a moment, he sits heavily on a tussock of dry ground.
Just gonna rest for a minute, he tells himself. Just a minute. Then he’ll get back on his feet and find his way out of this shitshow.
But he must fall asleep instead, because the next thing he’s aware of is laughter.
It bubbles past him like a brook, a bright, silvery, delighted sound. When Guts opens his eyes, there’s a figure standing over him, haloed by sun so he has to shade his eyes to make out the stranger’s face. The guy’s pretty, is the first thing he notices – absurdly so, like an angel in an old-timey painting – and then the fact of having noticed it makes him blush to the tips of his ears.
He musters up his best scowl. “What’s so funny, asshole?”
The laughter stops. The stranger crouches, so that when Guts scrambles to prop himself up on his elbows, they’re face-to face. He tilts his head, regarding Guts with open curiosity. The look is steady, thoroughly unintimidated.
After a moment, he reaches into the pack by his feet and proffers a water bottle. “You must be thirsty.”
Guts eyes the water suspiciously – but, shit, if the stranger meant any harm, why bother to wake him up? He takes it and gulps greedily. The water is ice-cold, the best thing he’s tasted in forever. He can almost feel his overheated carcass springing back to life.
“Believe it or not, I wasn’t laughing at you,” the stranger says. “I was told I’d find something wonderful if I came out this way. I just didn’t expect it to be someone.”
That’s enough to bring Guts’ suspicion back full-force. Damn it, he knew he shouldn’t have taken this job. He thrusts the water bottle away. “Told by who?”
“Oh, the birds.” The stranger raises his eyes. There’s a breeze blowing up now; it lifts his silver hair in streamers of light. High above them, winged shapes circle, lazy shadows against the sun.
###
The stranger’s name is Griffith, and apparently he lives out here with what he refers to as “My Hawks,” whatever that’s supposed to mean. At least, he doesn’t seem like the kind of dumbass thugs Guts is used to dealing with – doesn’t seem like he’s about to pull a gun or suicidal enough to throw a punch. Guts managed to sneak a look inside the pack he’s carrying before they started walking. Nothing in there but water and sunscreen.
Griffith is the only living soul Guts has seen out here, and he keeps saying he can help, and who knows, maybe he’ll have a phone or something. So he follows the crazy bird-man home.
Thing is, Guts has run into crazy people before. Hard to avoid in his line of work. Griffith has none of the usual jittery anxiety, none of the huntedness in his eyes. His expression is serene as a plaster saint’s, and his gaze roams across the scrubby wasteland like he’s a king surveying his domain.
And when they get where they’re going, the place isn’t the falling-down shack or survivalist bunker Guts has been picturing.
It’s a church.
Crumbling and overgrown, sure, but unmistakable, the soaring falcon and double helix of the Holy See rising from its spire, still golden. There are maybe half a dozen outbuildings tacked haphazardly onto the main structure, chickens scratching in the courtyard, and a huge mural painted across one outer wall. A white bird rising from flames, its wings ablaze. The colours are so vivid Guts can almost feel the crackling heat of the fire.
There are real birds, too. Crows and doves and birds of prey with cruel, hooked beaks. They perch on the crumbling roof of the old church, on the walls and the spindly trees and the outbuildings and the washing-lines. Just sit there, staring, making no sound. The hairs on the back of Guts’ neck stand up. For a moment, he’s sure beyond doubt they’re staring at him, every one of them watching him with their beady, black predator-eyes, waiting.
“What is this place?” he demands, to break the silence.
Griffith turns a dazzling smile on him. “It’s where you’re supposed to be.”
His voice seems to loosen some tension in the air, like a held breath being released. A handful of the birds scatter with a clatter of wings. Voices filter through from the interior of the church, and a moment later, a dozen figures in mismatched clothing spill out into the courtyard.
Foremost among them is a woman with deep-tanned skin and the reflexive scowl of someone used to hiding her prettiness. She wears white feathers in her short-cropped hair. The rest of them do, too – even the young kid who follows behind her like a duckling, and the brick shithouse of a guy who even makes Guts look like a shrimp.
“My Hawks,” Griffith says, simply.
Guts huffs out a laugh of relief. At least the guy doesn’t literally think he talks to birds. Whatever kind of weirdo hippie commune this is, they must have a vehicle, a computer, a phone. Something that can help him get out of here.
But the flock of new strangers clusters around Griffith, and every time Guts tries asking one of them for some help, his questions seem to slide off them like beads of water.
Activity spirals out around them. Everywhere he looks, people are picking up gardening tools, collecting eggs, taking in laundry, talking animatedly. And every time he tries to catch Griffith’s eye, a Hawk swoops in with something urgent they need to tell him about.
The only time Guts is ever around this many people is in a bar fight. The voices and the bustle and the proximity of them all is making him itch.
The interior of the church looks shady and cool, and deserted. Maybe in there he’ll find something he can use.
He bolts.
The nave of the place has been gutted, the pews torn out and replaced with a circle of cushions on the floor. Guts scoffs to himself. This is probably where they sit and hold hands and sing Kumbaya and talk about their feelings. The walls have been painted here, too, more murals of birds in flight, and those, he has to admit, are impressive. He wonders whose work they are. Okay, he’s barely known the guy an hour, but it’s hard to imagine Griffith up a ladder covered in paint. He seems to float through the world barely touching it, like he’s on some higher plane.
Guts shakes himself, forces himself to focus. He isn’t gonna find anything in here. He spots a side-door and ducks into the dim corridor, sticking his head into each room he passes as he makes his way around the building.
There’s a kitchen, a pot bubbling away on a vast stove and a half-plucked chicken carcass on the counter. That’s a surprise. Somehow, he figured the Hawks would be a bunch of lentil-munching vegans.
The next door leads onto a dining-room, and the one after it an office – where the desk drawers are locked, there’s no computer and not even a damn landline or a charger. Shit. Maybe this is one of those places where they think Wi-Fi gives you cancer or turns you into a zombie.
A set of stairs leads to the upper floor. Upstairs are a couple of dormitories with mattresses on the floor, like a sleepover, or a squat. The door at the far end of the corridor is old, ornate, another of those soaring birds scrawled across it in white paint.
It opens onto a mezzanine that looks out over the nave. There’s an actual bed up here, one of those four-poster things, draped in gauzy curtains, and the murals that cover the walls are more intricate, painted with careful strokes. Some of them feature a familiar face with a blazing halo. A huge stained-glass window throws geometric blue-and-gold shapes across the room, like shards of a shattered jewel. Guts knows without a doubt this is where Griffith lays his head.
It’s weird and a little creepy being in a guy’s bedroom without his permission, but what the hell. Maybe he has a phone charger in here somewhere.
Guts tells himself that’s what he’s looking for – but he finds himself crouching over the nightstand, peering at the few personal effects scattered there, scrutinising them for clues as to who this man really is. There’s a kind of amulet – a weird, red, egg-shaped kind of thing on a leather cord – a handful of feathers, and a notebook. Guts has only just picked it up when a voice cuts the silence behind him, shaking with anger.
“You’re not supposed to be up here.”
Guts spins to face it, and is unsurprised when it belongs to the scowling woman. She’s been giving him the stink-eye since he got here.
He snorts. “Says who? Doesn’t look like this is your place.” The pillows are right in the middle of the headboard; Griffith obviously isn’t sharing his bed with anyone. Guts tries not to think about why he noticed that.
“We don’t come in here without Griffith’s permission.”
“Yeah? You do everything he tells you?”
The woman’s scowl deepens. “He needs solitude. To see the future. I was sent here to help him, just like you. Maybe you should get used to being helpful .”
She sounds so certain that Guts just blinks at her. “The hell? Look, lady, nobody sent me here. I got lost.”
“But you saw the vision. You must have. We all did.” But she sounds less certain now, wrapping her arms around herself like a child. “The world in darkness, and the white hawk soaring above us to bring back the sun…?”
She sounds perfectly serious, not like she’s fucking with him. Guts does not want to deal with this. “I dunno what you’ve been smoking, but I didn’t see anything like that. Your fearless leader, or whoever he is, found me and he brought me here, and I came along because I need a phone, or a car. That’s it.”
The woman looks at him like he’s making no sense. “That can’t be right. We come to him. We all had to come to him. If he came to you…” She sets her jaw. “No. It wouldn’t happen.”
“Casca.” That smooth voice, already so familiar, from the doorway. Griffith stands there, illuminated in a shaft of light, and for a moment he is so inhumanly bright Guts has to look away.
He moves toward the woman, cups the side of her face. “The age of miracles is almost upon us. We’ll need all the soldiers we can get.”
She lowers her eyes, her frown smoothing away. “Of course.”
“Go and gather the others. We’ll eat soon.”
Casca nods and leaves, and then Guts is alone in the blue spotlight of Griffith’s gaze. It’s merciless, heavy, makes the back of his neck feel warm.
“Whatever this is, I’m not getting involved,” he says. “When you said you were gonna help me, I thought you meant help me get home. I didn’t sign up for your fucked-up junkie visions.” He sounds too vehement, protesting too much, like a teenager trying to talk tough. Griffith just smiles.
“No. But you’ll stay and eat with us.” He cocks his head. “I doubt you care much for politeness, but you must be hungry. And in the morning, if you still want to leave, I'll have someone take you back to the city. "
He has been walking in the sun all day. And yeah, okay, he’s starving.
That’s the only reason he stays. Not the crystal blue of Griffith’s eyes, not the way his head seems to fill up with light when Griffith crosses the room to stand before him. He’s just hungry. That’s all.
###
There's chicken stew – actually pretty tasty – and chunks of bread that they tear off with their hands. No beer, which Guts probably should've expected, just this gross herbal tea. It tastes like burnt earth and licorice, but it's the only liquid on offer and he’s still a little fuzzy with dehydration, so he chokes it down.
People talk to him, which is the weirdest part. The kid, Rickert, wants to know everything about how Guts got here, what he was doing out in the middle of nowhere, what his life is like. Mindful of Casca's watchful gaze, Guts gives him the severely edited highlights – and, despite his best efforts not to give a shit, wonders how long the Hawks have been out here, if the kid grew up here, where his parents are. He doubts many of them have any other family. How else would you end up out here, chasing visions, praying for miracles?
The big guy, Pippin, touches Guts' shoulder to ask him to pass the bread. The unexpected touch makes his shoulders bunch up, like always happens, adrenaline rocketing through him, the urge to lash out right there in the tightening of his muscles and the prickling of his skin. Then he feels, more than sees, Griffith’s eyes on him, their gaze like a physical weight, steady and expectant.
He exhales, slow, and passes the bread.
At some point – could be after ten minutes, could be an hour, time is starting to get blurry – Griffith gets to his feet and addresses the room. The meal slides seamlessly into some kind of prayer circle-slash-storytelling session. Guts isn't even sure when the change happens, just that one minute the Hawks are eating and talking and laughing, the next staring up at Griffith with rapt attention. Their eyes glitter with devotion. Griffith seems to soak it up; is somehow more golden and unearthly now than when he found Guts in the afternoon sun.
He's dazzling. The room is too hot, the air thick and cloying. Guts feels, again, like his head is full of light, liquid sun, syrupy and thick. He can't think through it. His stomach roils.
He stumbles to his feet and out of the room, groping his way down the corridor toward fresh air. None of the Hawks turn to see him leave, but he knows Griffith is watching.
The air outside is a cool relief, the black of the night almost absolute. He leans against the crumbling stone wall and wills his head to stop spinning. When he looks up, the stars are scattered so thickly, like someone has drawn long, shining brushstrokes across the sky, and they swirl in slow shapes above him.
Griffith gives him time to catch his breath, to tug his sweat-soaked shirt away from the back of his neck. Guts is still facing away from the door by the time it opens, but knows without looking that it’s Griffith. “Shouldn’t you be holding court?” he says, and is relieved when his voice comes out sounding pretty normal. “Gonna disappoint your adoring fans.”
Griffith comes to stand beside him, close enough that Guts can feel his body heat in the cool night air. It’s closer than Guts would normally allow, and his pulse ticks up so he can feel it in his throat. He doesn’t move away.
“Casca can lead the circle,” Griffith says, with a shrug. “She’s been with me the longest.”
Guts looks at him sideways. “I don’t think she likes me.”
“That doesn’t matter. I do.”
Griffith takes Guts’ arm and tugs him so they’re facing each other. It’s the first time Griffith has touched him and he tenses, but the trapped-animal panic that rears up in him at an unsolicited touch gentles under Griffith’s hand. The adrenaline drains away and leaves him standing there, blinking. They’re so close he can feel Griffith’s breath.
And Griffith says, “I think you should stay.” Pauses. “No, that’s not right. I want you to stay.”
Guts knows he should answer, Fuck, no, you’re a crazy person, I’m out of here with the sun, but instead he asks, “Why?” It comes out shy and tentative and he wants to kick himself.
Griffith looks thoughtful. “The birds told me where to find you, but they didn’t bring you here. You found your way to me all by yourself. You surprised me.” The glow escaping the church door catches the curve of his cheekbone, the ridge of a brow. His profile is a thin line of light, like a sliver of new moon. “I don’t get surprised much.”
“You’re bored? That’s it?”
A slow smile, full of promise. “No. Never that.” Griffith’s hand slides up Guts’ arm, curls around the back of his neck, and another brief throb of alarm gives way to simmering heat beneath the skin. Griffith whispers, “Stay.”
“I got my own life. Stuff to do.” It’s supposed to be firm, but comes out sounding weak, like Guts doesn’t even believe himself. Griffith’s fingers rake through the short hair at the nape of his neck.
What does he have to go back to, really? A rented room with black mould in the tub. Busting heads and doing grunt work for petty crooks to make rent. And nobody, ever, looking at him the way Griffith is now – like he’s something new, incredible, a whole goddamn miracle all by himself.
It’s still somehow a surprise when Griffith leans up and kisses him.
Guts freezes, goes full fucking deer-in-the-headlights, and by the time he really grasps the fact that he’s being kissed – there are lips on his own, soft and warm and inviting, and Griffith’s eyes have slid shut like he’s savouring a delicacy – Griffith is already pulling away.
“Think about it,” Griffith murmurs, so smugly certain it would earn anyone else a smack in the mouth. “I’ll give you until morning. But you’ll stay.”
“Wait. I –” But Guts doesn’t even know what else he was going to say, and when he reaches out, Griffith is already beyond his grasp, walking backward toward the church.
“Look at the moon,” he calls, and Guts can only do what he’s told.
It’s one of those heavy, yellow full moons, low in the sky like a dying lantern. He feels hot all over and his head is still full of fuzz, and he won’t be able to say, later, when it starts.
But the moon is not the moon anymore. It’s the low, sickly red of an old sun, and a shadow crawls across its face.
The star-smeared night sky fades from view, obscured by boiling red clouds. Guts smells a sudden tang of blood, iron-rich and choking-thick in his nostrils. A dread grips him, deeper and stranger than any fear he’s felt in his shitty, brutal life. It wraps its tendrils around his heart and squeezes.
Again, he knows, without being told, what is happening. He knows the world is ending.
The world is ending, and the darkness is going to swallow him whole, and he’s going to drown here in this tide of blood like the gutter rat he’s always been, because that’s the end he’s been headed for his whole life.
A shard of white light splits the red dark.
Guts can’t even tell what it is, at first – it’s so far away he can barely make it out, such a tiny spark. He thinks it might be a trick of his own brain, sore eyes conjuring phantoms.
But it grows. Swoops closer. When it passes over his head he sees wings of light, like an angel, like a phoenix soaring and blazing, and peace comes over him gentle as spring snow. It’s going to be alright.
It’s all going to be alright.
###
For the second time in twenty-four hours, Guts wakes to sun in his eyes.
He's still outside, slumped on the ground, sitting against the wall with a jagged edge of old stone poking into his back. His head aches. It’s quiet. The birds are back, perched all over the old church and its outbuildings, feathers rustling, not making a single squawk.
Somehow, their staring eyes don’t feel eerie anymore. They’re level, waiting patiently.
Guts ought to try finding a phone again. The guy who hired him probably thinks he's run off with the cash. Maybe they've even gone to his place and turned it over by now, not that he has anything worth stealing. All of that seems so far away, though, his dreams from last night still more vivid than the real world.
He shoves himself to his feet, stumbles indoors. Nobody’s stirring. In the nave, he sees a handful of bodies slumped on the floor. Among them is Casca, snoring softly. Her face is a lot friendlier sound asleep. The Hawks all look dead to the world, like they won't move for hours.
Quiet as he can, Guts makes his way up the stairs. He's better at not waking people than you'd think. Spending the first eleven years of your life in a house with a stepdad who hates your existence makes you good at not reminding anyone you're around.
But he knows, even before he reaches the mezzanine with the stained glass windows, that Griffith is already awake.
Griffith sits up in his bed, white sheets pooling around his hips, like he's a god being born from seafoam. His shirt is open to the waist, the exposed triangle of skin glowing mother-of-pearl pale.
He smiles, holding out his arms. "Come."
His presence is a magnet drawing Guts to him across the room, through the squares of blue and gold light. Guts sinks onto the mattress, into his embrace.
"I'm staying.” He doesn’t know he’s going to say it until it comes out of his mouth.
Griffith kisses him again, feather-light, a benediction. "I know."