Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Goodbye, cruel world. That was my final thought as I lay upon the cold, blood-soaked ground. I would finally meet my mother in the afterlife. My poor heart could no longer endure the deafening sounds of bullets and the agonized cries of men as young as me—or younger—falling to their deaths. 

My leg was gone, severed by the explosion, and I could no longer feel my arm. It must be the adrenaline, I thought. Yes, adrenaline. My blood pumped furiously, my heart thundering in a painful rhythm, and my head pounded as if it sought to escape my skull. A cruel symphony of sensations, rightfully so.

Even as the excruciating pain coursed through me, I found solace in the thought that my suffering might soon end. The angel of death would come for me, I was certain, whisking me away from this wretched battlefield. Death would be my liberation, my peace. I was happy—happy that rest would finally claim me. Soon, I would see her again. My mother. A woman so kind, so gentle, so fragile. Her face was the only light in the darkness that consumed me.

But the world has never been kind. No, it has always been cruel. And I was a fool to think that death would grace me with its mercy.

I did not die.

I cannot die.

Instead, I woke to an existence far worse than death itself. My body, mangled and broken, was returned to me. A grotesque reminder of the war I had survived, though I had no desire to survive. I lay now in a bed of guilt, sorrow, and anger. My heart, shattered into pieces, mirrored the ruin of my body. I had come back—unwhole, unworthy. My arm and leg were gone, and my left eye was a hollow void. Yet I lived.

My father stood beside my bed the day I returned. His face, oh, his face. At first glance, it was unreadable, a mask of stoicism. But I saw it. I saw the disappointment lurking in his eyes, the sorrow etched into the lines of his face. He did not want me here. Not like this. Not shattered, not broken.

I knew his pain. I understood it. My father had lost everything that mattered to him. He had lost my mother, the love of his life, and along with her, he had lost his heart. And now, here I was, his son, returned to him not as a soldier, not even as a man, but as a shell of both.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, his voice heavy with a weight I could not bear. His eyes lingered on me, full of sorrow, pity, and something else I dared not name.

"Yes," I rasped. My voice was foreign to me, hollow and broken like the rest of me. My stomach was empty, painfully so. For so long… I had known only starvation, gnawing hunger, and the cold steel of a gun. There was no comfort in war, no warmth, no humanity. My stomach growled as he turned to leave the room, his shoulders hunched under the invisible burden he carried.

I stared after him, a cold numbness spreading through my chest. It was not the physical pain of my injuries, though they ached fiercely. No, it was the deeper pain, the unbearable weight of my failure. I had failed the country that had sent me to fight. I had failed my comrades who had fallen beside me. And worst of all, I had failed my mother.

As I attempted to sit up, my body protested violently. Every movement was agony, but I could not remain idle. The silence of this house was oppressive. I had grown used to the noise of war—the whispers of frightened boys in the dead of night, the constant hum of fear that bound us together. Silence was a cruel mockery of life, and I could not bear it.

I reached for the crutch my father had given me. It was crude, brittle, and splintered. It could barely support my weight, but it was all I had. A punishment, perhaps? My father was not a poor man; his wealth could buy comfort, luxury, even beauty. But he had given me this fragile thing, as though it symbolized his feelings toward me. Resentment, disappointment, perhaps even regret.

Oh, how I wanted to cry. To weep at his feet and beg him for something better—not just a crutch, but a sign that he was not ashamed of me. But I could not. The phantom pain of my missing limbs was a cruel reminder that I no longer deserved such comforts.

I dragged myself down the cold, wooden hallway, my bare foot brushing against the floorboards. The sound of clattering pots and pans drew me toward the kitchen. For so long. I had dreamed of returning to this house, but now that I was here, it felt foreign to me. The maids who once filled it with life had long since gone. They left when I was sent to war, returning to their own families, leaving my father behind in his grief.

I understand now how lonely it must have been for Father, living alone in such a vast, hollow house. The silence must have been deafening, the echo of every footstep a reminder of what he had lost. I can see why some families have so many children, why they fill their homes with laughter and life. One child is not enough. I am not enough—not enough to bring happiness to my father, who has lost his wife and, perhaps, even his dignity. All because his son returned alive from the war.

“Father,” I rasped, my voice barely audible. I watched as he turned to look at me, his face a mask of unreadable emotion. But his eyes—they betrayed him. They lingered on the empty space where my thigh and foot should be, on the stump where my arm had once been. His gaze flickered briefly to the bandages wrapped tightly around my head, over the eye that was no longer there. The oppressive tightness of the bandage seemed to grow with his stare, wrapping itself around my skull like a vice, sending sharp, pounding pain through my head.

“I was about to bring your breakfast, Dark,” he muttered, his voice low, almost hesitant. He held an empty bowl in his hands. For all the noise I’d heard earlier—the clatter of pots and pans—there was no food in sight. He must not have planned to bring me anything at all.

Another punishment, I see. I do not take it to heart.

This foolish son of his deserves such punishment. And this foolish son can pretend he has not seen it.

This foolish son will lie, so his father’s pride may remain unscathed.

“No,” I murmured again, turning my gaze to the window. The sun was beginning its slow ascent, casting golden light over the horizon. I could hear the birds chirping, their melodies unbothered by the turmoil in my heart. The world, it seemed, did not care for my suffering.

“I wish to go outside,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper. “To sit on the porch where Mother used to.” Without waiting for his response, I began hobbling toward the door, leaning heavily on my brittle crutch. The door was worn and creaked as I pushed it open, revealing the world beyond.

Father said nothing. Not a word as I stepped outside.

The sun kissed my skin, warm and gentle, a stark contrast to the cold emptiness I carried inside. The air was fragrant with the scent of blooming flowers, their beauty untouched by the horrors of war. This place—this house—was my mother’s sanctuary. She loved it deeply, just as she loved my father and me.

I lowered myself onto the chair that had once been hers, the one she had always favored. Pain shot through my body as I sat, a sharp reminder of all that I had lost. The medicine must have worn off. My body ached, and I felt a deep, burning desire to cry out, to tell my father how much it hurt. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. My pain would only deepen his despair.

I am an embarrassment of a son, and I understand why.

My remaining hand moved instinctively to the empty space where my other arm had once been. The absence was unbearable, an endless reminder of my inadequacy. I could no longer build the wooden planes I had loved as a child, nor could I hold a pen to write letters to my dearest friends.

Oh, what a useless creature I have become! I am incomplete—a man stripped of everything essential. I have lost an arm, a leg, and an eye. Each of them, things that require a pair.

What use am I now? To this country? To this beautiful home? To my father?

My chest heaved as a wave of despair crashed over me. The realization struck me like a blow: I am no longer of any importance. Oh, how I wanted to collapse into tears, to sob at the sheer idiocy of my existence. But even that, I could not bring myself to do.

“Dark.”

The sound of my father’s voice startled me. I turned my head slowly, my neck stiff and aching. He stood in the doorway, his eyes dark and dull, the weight of his grief apparent in every line of his face. He looked at me, and I saw it—the truth I had been avoiding. While I had lost parts of my body, my father had lost his other half. My mother. His wife.

“Father,” I said quietly, my voice trembling. I wanted to rise, to stand before him, but my body refused. The pain was too great. I was ashamed to admit it, but I could not even turn my head fully to face him.

“Your soup is prepared inside,” he said curtly. His tone was clipped, indifferent—yet I could feel the weight behind it. Without another word, he turned and disappeared back into the house, leaving me alone once more.

The sun was still warm, the flowers still fragrant, but their beauty no longer comforted me. The ache in my body grew worse as I forced myself to my feet. My crutch wobbled beneath me, threatening to give way, but I held firm. I knew better than to go against my father’s wishes.

I stepped back into the house, and the warmth of the outside world faded instantly. The air inside was cold, heavy, and unwelcoming.

My father stood on the kitchen island, alone. The dim light cast shadows over his face, deepening the hollows in his cheeks and the lines that time had carved into his skin. His hair, unkempt and streaked with gray, clung to his forehead in oily strands—he hadn’t cared for it in what seemed like years. He hadn’t cared for much of anything since before I was sent to war. That was the man I had left behind—a man already crumbling under the weight of his sorrow. And now, I had returned to find him almost unrecognizable, a ghost of himself.

He had always been like this, I realized. Even before. A man trapped in his own grief, unwilling to move on, unwilling to let go. My mother had been gone for years, and yet he still clung to her memory as if she were only in the next room, as if she might walk through the door at any moment. He refused to entertain the idea of another woman. I remember the time one of our maids—an older one, desperate and lonely—had tried to seduce him.

I hadn’t thought much of it then, just as I hadn’t thought much of anything beyond my own selfish, youthful pursuits. But now I can see it clearly. My mother, had she been alive, might have smiled at the thought of him finding another woman to ease his pain. She had always wanted him to be happy, even if it meant moving on without her. But not my father. He had thrown the maid out the very next day, her belongings scattered on the cobblestones, her shame trailing behind her.

At the time, I didn’t know what to make of it. I had felt a strange mixture of pride and sorrow. Pride, because he had remained loyal to my mother even in her absence. Sorrow, because I knew it wasn’t loyalty that kept him bound to her memory. It was something darker, something heavier. He couldn’t live without her. Not truly. And so he didn’t. He existed, but he didn’t live.

“Do you like it?” he asked, pulling me from my thoughts. His voice was low, his eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my stomach turn.

I glanced down at the bowl of soup in front of me. It was thin, watery, barely more than hot water with a faint yellow tinge. It smelled of nothing. Tasted of nothing. It wasn’t food—it was a punishment. Another one of his tests, I realized. He wanted to see if I would complain, if I would break under the weight of his silent judgment.

No. I thought to myself. No, I won’t give him the satisfaction.

“It’s very good, Father,” I lied, lifting the bowl to my lips and drinking greedily. The liquid ran down my throat like ash, but I forced myself to keep going, gulping it down as if it were the finest broth I had ever tasted. I could feel his eyes on me, watching, waiting. And then, to my astonishment, he smiled. It was small, almost imperceptible, but it was there. A soft curve of his lips that I had not seen in years.

It should have warmed my heart, but it didn’t. It filled me with unease. He hadn’t smiled like this before I left. It wasn’t joy—it was something else, something I couldn’t name.

I didn’t understand him. I had never understood him. He was an enigma, a puzzle I could never solve. And because of that, I had always felt like a failure. A failure of a son. A failure of a man.

My mother had been different. She had been light where he was shadow, warmth where he was cold. I remember how she used to laugh at the smallest things—how the sight of a butterfly could send her into fits of giggles, as though it were the first butterfly she had ever seen. She would play with the wooden planes I carved as a boy, running around the garden with them in her hands, making “wee wee” sounds like a child. She was joy incarnate. My father was not.

He was hard, unyielding, a man made of stone. He didn’t coddle me—fathers weren’t supposed to coddle their sons. Fathers were supposed to be stern, to teach their sons the realities of the world. And he did. But not with words. Not with lessons. He taught me with his silence, with his punishments, with his absence.

He had sent me to war, and in doing so, he had beaten me worse than any father ever could. He had beaten me until I had lost my eye, my arm, my leg. Until I had lost parts of myself I would never get back.

And now, sitting here, I felt the last part of me slipping away, too. My heart.

I wanted to cry, to scream, to rage at the unfairness of it all. But instead, I sat there, drinking my tasteless soup, pretending everything was fine. Pretending I was fine.

There was a part of me—a small, shameful part—that wished I had been born a woman. If I were a woman, I could have escaped all of this. I could have married a handsome man, borne his children, and cared for them with the same gentleness my mother had shown me. I could have been soft. I could have been loved.

But I was not a woman. I was a broken man with a broken body, sitting across from another broken man who happened to be my father. And no woman would ever want me. Not like this.

I was useless. I was nothing.

And yet, as I sat there, staring into the empty eyes of my father, I couldn’t help but wonder—is this what he wanted for me? Is this what he had hoped for when he sent me away? Or was he just as lost as I was, fumbling in the dark, trying to find his way back to a life that no longer existed?

I didn’t know. I would never know.

But in that moment, I realized something.

We were the same, my father and I. Two men who had lost everything. Two men who didn’t know how to live. Two men who were already dead, but somehow still breathing.

And that was the heartache I would carry for the rest of my days.

This night, just like every other night, I lie awake. The crickets outside scream louder with every passing second, their cries growing closer, as if they know I am here, as if they mock this sleepless body of mine. The blinds of my window are open, letting the pale moonlight spill into the room. It illuminates everything—my bed, the floor, the empty walls—and settles on the rifle I brought home from the war.

That rifle. My constant companion. I have lost half of everything—my arm, my leg, my eye—but the rifle remains whole. Untouched. Perfect. It stares back at me, gleaming under the moon’s rays, almost mocking me. It makes me wonder: why has this object, this tool of death, escaped punishment while I have not? It is I, after all, who pulled the trigger. I, who killed boys, men, and children alike. And yet, it is I who has been punished by God, not this beautiful, unbroken rifle.

Perhaps this is as it should be. Perhaps I deserve it. I have been marked, I know. Marked by the horrors I’ve seen and the sins I’ve committed. Punished by God Himself. And soon, I will meet the angel of death.

The room is cold, colder than it ever used to be. My bones ache like those of an old man, though I am only eighteen. Eighteen. Just a boy. Yet I feel the weight of years pressing down on me, the tiresome burn behind my single eye refusing to fade. In a few months, it will be my birthday. Once, as a child, I would count down the days with excitement, eagerly awaiting the cake, the gifts, the laughter. But now, I dread it. My birthday feels less like a celebration and more like a countdown to my death.

And yet, I am happy. Happy because I know my death will bring relief—to me, yes, but also to my father. This useless body of mine, this shattered shell of a man… it is a burden he should not have to bear.

Sleep refuses to come, as it does every night. My mind is loud, filled with the echoes of gunshots, the cries of the dying, the screams of the ones I killed. I close my eye, but it is no use. The memories are as vivid as the moonlight. I cannot escape them.

Tonight, however, the sky is beautiful. The stars shine like scattered diamonds, their brilliance unmarred by war’s smoke. Even with one eye, even with this broken body, I can see how breathtaking they are. The moon hangs high, glowing softly, a silent witness to my torment.

It is beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.

If I were to die tonight, my only wish would be to be reborn as a bird. A creature of the skies, free to soar far away from this world, from its pain and its cruelty. I imagine my mother as a bird now, her soul free and unbound, flying through the heavens without care or tether. That is the life I wish for her—a life unburdened by me, by my father, by anything.

I would give up another eye, another arm, another leg if it meant she could be free. Free to fly, free to laugh again. My father loves her too much, I think. His love keeps her tethered to this world, even in death, and I can see that she longs to escape. I am not angry at her for this. Not sad, nor sorrowful. If anything, I envy her.

My heart feels as though it’s about to burst. The reason I left the house—this suffocating, hollow shell of a home—is because I could no longer bear the weight pressing against my chest. The ache inside me is unbearable, far worse than the pain that courses through my broken body. But even so, that ache has driven me into the night, under the moonlight and the stars, as if their distant beauty might offer me some fleeting comfort.

My body protests with every movement, each step a battle I’m not sure I can win. My crutch wobbles beneath me, creaking as though it will shatter at any moment. This useless thing—it mirrors my existence perfectly. Useless. Just as I am.

I make it as far as the porch before my strength gives out. My legs, or what’s left of them, tremble violently, refusing to carry me any further. With a heavy sigh, I drop down onto the wooden stairs. The cool night air brushes against my skin, but it does little to ease the fire burning in my chest. I lean my crutch against the railing, its presence unwanted, a cruel reminder of what I’ve become.

Sitting there, I feel the weight of my body, of my thoughts, pressing down on me. I can’t carry it anymore. I’m so tired. The moonlight casts its pale glow over the yard, illuminating the world with a soft, ethereal light. The stars above glimmer faintly, scattered across the inky sky like fragments of a shattered dream. They’re beautiful, impossibly so, and yet they feel so far away. Untouchable. Just like everything else.

I rest my head in my hands, my fingers trembling as they brush against the rough edges of my scars. My chest heaves with the effort of holding it all in—the pain, the anger, the shame. It feels as though my soul is unraveling, thread by thread, and I can do nothing to stop it.

The night grows quiet. Painfully quiet. Until I hear it—the sound of wings. A rhythmic beating, strong and deliberate. Closer, closer. Then, the creak of the roof above me, as if something heavy has landed upon it. My eyes snap upward, my heart pounding.

I stand, though my body protests. My broken crutch wobbles under my weight, and I sway like a tree in a storm. My hair falls over my eye as I tilt my head back, straining to see. And then, I see him.

At first, I don’t understand what I’m looking at. A man? No, not a man. His hair is long, flowing like silk in the moonlight. His eyes are piercing red, glowing like embers. And behind him—oh, behind him—are wings. Vast, impossible wings, feathers shimmering like molten silver under the moon’s gaze.

I am frozen. Awestruck. He is beautiful. Terrifyingly beautiful.

“How strange,” he says, his voice a low rumble, like distant thunder. “A man with no leg, no arm, and only one eye. What purpose do you now serve in this war-ravaged world?”

His words cut through me like a blade, but I am too mesmerized to care. My lips part, my voice trembling as I ask, “Are you here to take me away? From the land of the living?”

He pauses, tilting his head as if amused by my question. A faint smile curls his lips, though it is not a kind smile. It is twisted, unnatural, stretching too far, as if he does not know how to smile properly.

“I am no grim reaper,” he says, his tone laced with confusion.

I blink up at him, my heart racing. He is standing on the roof, too far for me to see him clearly. I want to move closer, to see the details of his wings, to confirm that he is real. “Then… are you an angel?” I whisper, breathless.

His smile widens, grotesque and beautiful all at once. “An angel? You flatter me,.”

He spreads his wings then, and they are massive, spanning the width of the roof. They block the moonlight for a moment, casting me in shadow. And then, with a single, soundless movement, he descends.

I expect noise—the rush of air, the crash of movement—but there is none. He lands before me with a grace so perfect it feels unnatural. He stands tall, towering over me, his presence overwhelming. There is something ancient about him, something that speaks of empires risen and fallen, of wars fought and forgotten.

“What are you?” I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper. A strange, irresistible pull courses through me, urging me to step closer.

He looks down at me, his crimson eyes gleaming. “You can call me Chosen,” he says. “I have no name for what I am.”

“Chosen,” I repeat, the word slipping from my lips like a prayer. I whisper it again and again, staring at him as if he holds all the answers to my suffering.

He is not human. He cannot be human. No being should have wings, yet here he stands, magnificent and terrible.

“Your name… will you tell me your name?” Chosen asks, his piercing red eyes fixed on me. His voice is calm, yet commanding, and I nod idiotically, as though my very life depends on answering him. Yes, my name—I must tell him. I must be respectful, a proper gentleman.

“Dark,” I say at last, my voice shaky but steady enough. “You can call me Dark. Your name is beautiful, just as your wings.” The words spill out of me, unbidden but sincere. My crutch creaks beneath my armpit, and my body aches more painfully with each passing moment. I know I’ll need more medication soon—or tonight will be another endless battle for sleep.

Chosen’s lips curl into that crooked smile again, and he lets out a strange noise, something between a chuckle and a pleased sigh. “My wings, yes. I have cared for them since I was a child. You are right,” he says, his voice carrying a hint of pride.

I watch, breathless, as he spreads those magnificent wings. They are breathtaking—more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen. They remind me of the planes I used to build, the ones I obsessed over in my younger days. But these wings are alive, shimmering under the moonlight, each feather perfect and pristine.

“I must go now, I am glad to have seen you,” Chosen says, his voice softer now, almost wistful. “It is nice to know that I’m not the only one who appreciates the night. Good night… Dark.”

And with that, he crouches slightly and leaps into the air. His wings flap with a powerful force, sending the dirt around me swirling. For a moment, I stumble, clutching my crutch tightly to avoid falling on my back.

I laugh—an uncontrollable, joyous sound—as I watch him ascend. He looks down at me, his wings a blur of movement, and offers me a salute and a grin before flying higher, higher, until he is but a silhouette against the stars. He soars gracefully, like a plane cutting through the heavens, disappearing into the vast expanse of the night.

“Amazing,” I whisper, rubbing my single eye. I pinch my cheek, the sharp sting confirming that I am awake. That this is real. It wasn’t a dream. I had truly seen him—Chosen, the beautiful beast with wings.

Suddenly, something catches my eye—a single black feather, drifting softly in the wind. Without thinking, like a fool, I reach for it. Both hands stretch out instinctively, forgetting the cruel reality of my body. My arms are not as they once were.

Still, against all odds, I manage to catch the feather. But the effort sends me crashing forward, face-first into the dirt. Pain flares in my chin as it scrapes against a jagged stone. My body screams in protest—my leg, my shoulder, everything aches—but I don’t care.

Because in my hand, I hold the feather. It is real. Chosen is real. He exists. My heart races with exhilaration as I clutch the soft plume, ignoring the sting of my scraped chin and the throbbing in my body. I met him. I met a man—a free man—with wings that could carry him across the sky like a plane.

I am not dreaming. This is real.

“Dark!” A furious yell cuts through the night, shattering my reverie. I snap my head toward the sound, squinting through the moonlight. Standing on the front porch is my father, dressed in his nightwear. His face is pale, his expression a mix of anger and terror as he rushes toward me.

“F-Father,” I stammer, my voice trembling. The excitement still courses through me, making my heart race, but my father’s presence fills me with unease. His panic, his fury—it is unnerving.

He reaches me in seconds, picking up my crutch and pulling me to my feet with rough but steady hands. “Dark, oh Dark, what are you doing?” he demands, his voice breathless, his eyes wide as they scan me.

“Father, I’m fine,” I say, though the words feel hollow. His reaction is strange, unsettling. It’s as if he cares. Truly cares. But I know better. This must be another one of his tests, another way to see if I will break.

My father’s face twists into something unreadable—a mixture of anger, worry, and something else I can’t place. “Boy, you’ve hurt yourself. Look at you—dirty and pathetic,” he scolds, his words sharp as he grips my arm and begins to drag me back toward the house.

“Yes,” I mumble, clutching the feather tighter in my hand. Yes, I am dirty and pathetic. His words sting, but they do not crush me. Not tonight. Not after what I’ve seen.

Because I met something extraordinary. I met a man with wings. A man who could soar through the sky, untethered and free.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel quite so broken.

Chapter Text

I remember the first time I truly disappointed my father—and my mother too. I was just a foolish child, reckless and unthinking. Oh, how idiotic I was, and how little has changed. Even now, I feel like the same child who burned my mother’s beloved garden to the ground.

I thought I was helping. I had overheard the other children talking about weeds—how they choke the life out of flowers, devouring their beauty if left unchecked. They said the only way to rid a garden of weeds was to burn them, to reduce them to ash. And I believed them.

With a trembling hand, I struck a match, watched the tiny flame flicker to life. I thought I was being clever, doing something good. The fire licked hungrily at the weeds, and for a fleeting moment, I felt proud. I had saved the flowers from their silent killers.

But pride turned to horror as I realized the fire didn’t stop with the weeds. It spread faster than I could comprehend, consuming everything in its path—the weeds, the flowers, the soil itself. Flames danced violently, turning my mother’s years of labor into a smoldering ruin.

I remember screaming as I ran to the house, tears streaming down my face. I burst through the door, crying for my parents, barely able to explain through my sobs what I had done. My father rushed past me, grabbing a bucket of water, his face a mix of dread and determination. My mother stood frozen, her hands clutching her apron as if it were the only thing tethering her to the ground.

My father burned his hand that day, trying to save the unsalvageable. But no amount of water or frantic effort could undo my mistake. The fire claimed everything. The weeds, the flowers, the memories—all gone, reduced to ash.

I remember standing there, my small fists clenched at my sides, watching my mother as she tended to my father’s injured hand. Her face was pale, almost ghostly, and her hands trembled as she applied the ointment. She didn’t cry, but her silence was deafening. It was a silence thick with grief and disappointment, and it crushed me.

I wanted to fall to my knees, to bury my face in her lap and sob until my throat was raw. I wanted to beg for forgiveness, to promise her I would never hurt her again. But I couldn’t move. My guilt rooted me in place, a disgusting, suffocating weight in my chest.

“What happened, Alan?” my mother asked, her voice trembling. “What caused the fire?”

I looked at my father, hoping, praying he would let me confess. But he shook his head. “It was my fault,” he said softly. “I must have left the gasoline and matches out. It must’ve sparked somehow.”

I stared at him, stunned. He was lying—for me. He was covering for my foolishness, shielding me from my mother’s heartbreak. But I could see it in his eyes. He was disappointed. Deeply, profoundly disappointed. And somehow, that was worse than if he had scolded me or told her the truth.

I had become the very thing that hurt my mother.

That memory feels pale and distant, stripped of the weight it must have held at the time. It’s strange how even the sharpest recollections can dull, as if they understand they cannot compete with the present. I am no longer a boy—just a man who has lost every part of himself, piece by piece, until only this hollow shell remains.

After I had burned my mother’s garden—the garden she had spent years coaxing into life—my father wasted no time hiring gardeners to restore it. When they were done, it looked pristine, more beautiful than I ever remembered it being. A perfect composition of symmetry and color, a portrait painted by strangers’ hands.

But my mother wasn’t glad. I could see it in her eyes. Her hard work, her devotion, was gone. What stood in its place might have been more beautiful, but it wasn’t hers. It wasn’t the garden she had cultivated through endless seasons of sun and frost, through aching hands and sweat on her brow. It was a stranger’s garden now, a monument to what she had lost.

I sit in the garden now, watching my father toil where she once did. He brought me a rickety wooden chair to sit on, one leg shorter than the others so that it wobbles with every movement. My crutch lies on the ground at my feet, useless without someone to place it in my hand. When it’s time to go home, my father will grab it, steady me, and help me stumble back to my feet. He’ll bear my weight as if it’s nothing, though I know it must be crushing him.

For now, though, all I can do is sit here, helpless, watching as he continues her legacy. The garden is beautiful, undeniably so. Hydrangeas spill across the soil in bursts of color, spreading like the weeds that once overtook my mother’s old garden. But it’s not the same. It never will be.

“Dark,” my father calls to me. His voice breaks the heavy silence. He’s wearing his old, worn-down green gloves, the fabric stained with dirt and fraying at the edges. A cap shields his face from the sun, its brim casting shadows over his lined features.

He brought an umbrella for me, a large one that shields me from the heat. A small mercy I don’t deserve. “Yes, Father?” I reply, my voice soft, barely above a whisper. My hand rest limp in my lap, useless like the rest of me. I should be out there with him, tending the soil, carrying on the work my mother started. I am their only son, yet I contribute nothing. I can’t even stand on my own two feet.

“Do you want to come to the market with me today?” he asks. His voice is different—hopeful. Too hopeful. The sound of it makes my chest tighten. I don’t understand why he wants to drag me out there, why he insists on showing the world his broken son.

Shame creeps over me like a shadow. I picture the stares of strangers at the market, their pitying glances as they see me, slumped in an old wooden wheelchair, my father pushing me like some burden he cannot set down. My throat tightens, and my vision blurs. I turn my sight back to the hydrangeas, their colors swimming through the haze of unshed tears.

“I’m tired today,” I say softly, my voice cracking. “I want to go home.”

My father says nothing at first. He doesn’t meet my gaze, doesn’t even sigh in disappointment. Instead, he steps closer, bending down to pick up the crutch lying on the floor. “Yes,” he finally murmurs, his voice quiet like the rustle of leaves in the wind. “Let’s go home for now. It’s too hot. Even I can’t handle this heat.”

I let him help me back to the house, his hands firm but gentle as he steadies me. The journey feels like a long, silent march. By the time we make it inside, I’m back in my bed, lying there like a bedridden invalid. My body aches, not just from the phantom pain of missing limbs but from the sorrow that weighs me down.

My father moves about the room, his footsteps soft but constant, like the pitter-patter of rain on an old roof. He doesn’t stop; it’s as if he’s trying to busy himself to avoid looking at me for too long. Yet, everything he does feels oddly pointless. He adjusts the already perfectly folded sheets, straightens the books on the shelf, fixes things that don’t need fixing.

“Dark,” he says suddenly, pausing in front of my rifle.

I watch as he stares at it, his hand hovering over the weapon. There’s hesitation in his posture, a silent war playing out in his mind. Finally, he picks it up, holding it as though it might explode in his grip. Without a word, he carries it to the closet, burying it beneath a pile of clothes that haven’t fit me in years.

“Yes, this is a better place for it,” he mutters, more to himself than to me. “You don’t mind, do you, Dark?”

He doesn’t turn to look at me, doesn’t wait for an answer. His voice is light, almost casual, but I can hear the weight beneath it.

I let out a small hum, too tired to argue, though my chest tightens. I know what this is. Another punishment. I know that he’s disappointed in me. He doesn’t want to look at the rifle, doesn’t want to see the object that I had used, a weapon that I had used to kill… To sin.

“Yes, Father,” I manage to say, my voice flat. “It’s a good place to put it.”

He lets out a deep sigh, one so full of relief that it feels like a weight has been lifted from him. It’s a beautiful sound, in a way, and it makes me hate myself even more.

He moves to the window, peering through the glass at the garden below. “The sun is no longer shining,” he says after a moment. “I must go to the market now for your medicine.” He turns to me, his eyes soft but searching. “Do you need anything else?”

I glance down at the stump of my arm. The bandages are wrapped tightly across my chest and shoulder, biting into my skin. The empty sleeve where my arm should be hangs loose, a cruel reminder of what I’ve lost.

For a moment, an ugly thought crosses my mind. I want to scream at him, to shout profanities at the top of my lungs. I want to blame him for letting me live, for keeping me in this broken body when I should have died. But I push it down.

“No,” I reply curtly.

He nods, silent again, and leaves the room just as quietly as he entered. The door closes with a soft click, and I’m left alone in the heavy stillness. Guilt churns in my stomach, a sickening knot that tightens with every beat of my heart.

I’m the worst son imaginable. I know he’s trying—trying to test me, trying to draw something out of me—but I feel like I’m failing every single test he’s given me.

“Oh, Father,” I whisper to the empty room. “I’m so sorry. This son of yours is nothing but a fool.”

I don’t know how long I lie there, staring at the ceiling. My eyes are heavy, my body aching, but my mind won’t let me rest. Then, faintly at first, I hear it—a strange flapping sound outside the house.

My heart leaps. It’s familiar, too familiar.

It’s been so long since I’ve seen him . Chosen. He hasn’t come in the mornings, and at night, I’ve waited and waited, staring at the window in vain. But today… today is different.

I sit up, trembling from both pain and excitement. My hand shakes as I reach for my crutch, and I force myself upright. The loud thump-thump-thump of the crutch against the floor echoes through the house as I make my way to the front door.

When I push it open, there he is.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Chosen says, his voice smooth and rich, like warm honey. He’s seated in my mother’s favorite chair, his dark, enormous wings awkwardly folded to fit the small space. “This chair is quite comfortable, you see.”

I lean heavily on my crutch, my breath caught in my throat. “You’re back,” I manage to say, my voice trembling. Cold sweat pools at the back of my shirt as Chosen looks up at me with a smirk.

“Yes, I am,” he replies, standing and stretching his arms above his head. “And now I understand why the word loneliness exists.”

He steps forward, offering me the chair with a dramatic flourish. “Please, sit. You deserve it far more than I do.”

I let him help me, my body too weak to protest. “Yes… yes, thank you,” I stammer, sinking into the chair with a sigh of relief. My arm, leg, and the hollow where my eye once was all throb with unbearable pain. If I could cry, I would. But I know better. A man does not cry. To do so would be to lose whatever shred of dignity I have left.

“You must be wondering why I’m here,” Chosen says, settling himself on the porch steps.

“Yes,” I reply cautiously. “The sun has risen. Anyone could see you with wings as dark and large as yours.”

He chuckles, unfurling his wings and letting them drape across the porch floor. “Yes, yes you are absolutely right. But I’ve tried to come back before, many times. Each time, though, your father was always by your side, watching over you. It made me wonder why.”

He turns to look at me then, his gaze piercing.

The question sends a chill down my spine.

Chosen must have noticed my reaction because he quickly looked away, waving a dismissive hand as if brushing off the weight of his own question. “Ah, that must be too personal. Never mind!” he said with a carefree chuckle. “I’m just glad I was able to catch up with you once more.”

A small, shaky sigh of relief escaped me, and I nodded weakly. “Yes, you’re right. I’ve missed you, too. I hope life has been good to you, angel.”

The word slipped from my lips before I could stop it. My face flushed hot with shame as Chosen’s amused gaze met mine, his ruby-red eyes sparkling with mirth. He laughed, a sound so rich and full it seemed to fill the empty cracks in the air. His head tilted back, and I watched in awe as his feathers ruffled, trembling with his laughter.

“My, have I not told you I am no angel?” Chosen teased, his grin widening as I shook my head, stammering an apology.

“Yes, forgive this foolish idiot,” I muttered, my voice barely audible.

This only made him laugh harder, his amusement spilling over as if my self-deprecating comments were a delightful joke.

“I must admit, I’m honored,” Chosen said after his laughter subsided, a softer, more thoughtful smile replacing the grin. “To be considered something so… otherworldly. No, I don’t mind being called an angel at all.”

He turned to face me fully, crossing one leg over the other as he leaned forward slightly. The sun caught the glint of his eyes—ruby red, glowing faintly like embers in the dimming light.

“It’s not every day I see your kind,” I blurted, my cheeks heating again under his gaze.

“You’re right,” Chosen replied, nodding. He lifted a hand and pointed to the sky. “My kind tends to live up there, in the clouds.”

I followed his gesture, my eyes tracing the expanse of the sky. The thought made perfect sense, of course—creatures with wings belonged in the heavens, not tethered to the earth like ordinary men.

“I see,” I murmured, my voice wistful. “It must be so beautiful.”

Chosen laughed again, though this time it was quieter, tinged with something I couldn’t place. “Oh, yes. Terribly so,” he said, his tone light but his eyes darkening. “It sickens me to stay up there. The land is much better than the sky.”

There was something unreadable in his gaze, something that sent a ripple of unease through me. How could he, a creature born for the freedom of the skies, prefer the weight of the earth?

“Is that so?” I said uselessly, unsure how to respond.

A pang of envy shot through me as I studied him. He had the freedom to soar above the world, unshackled by the limits of flesh and bone, yet he chose to remain here. I, who longed for even the simplest freedom, was bound here, broken and grounded.

Chosen’s eyes flicked to my missing arm, then to my face, before trailing down to the empty space where my leg should have been. His gaze lingered, soft but piercing, and when he spoke, his voice was low and heavy with emotion.

“You must be in pain, yet you are still here. Oh how I look up to you, very much,” he said softly.

The weight of his words pressed against my chest, bringing an ache I couldn’t name. I didn’t understand his tone, the raw emotion behind it. How could he, untouched by war, by chaos, speak as though he understood? His hands were smooth, his face unlined by suffering. He was unscarred.

I forced a bitter smile, my voice sharp and cutting when I replied. “This pain, I will bear it until the day I die.”

The bitterness bled into every word, bitter and angry and sorrowful. I was envious—envious of the boys who had been spared the horrors of war. Envious of those who had never been forced to march into hell, to hold a rifle with trembling hands, its cold metal searing into their skin.

I had followed orders, done what was expected of me. And in return, I had lost everything—my arm, my leg, my peace, my humanity. I wanted to scream at the injustice of it all, to cry out to whatever god would listen. Why me? What could I have done to deserve this punishment?

Chosen’s hand reached for mine, his warmth a stark contrast to the cold bitterness in my chest. His touch was gentle, his expression earnest. “You don’t have to do it alone,” he said, his voice so full of feeling it made me flinch.

I pulled my hand away, the warmth unbearable.

“Thank you,” I said, my voice hollow. I forced a smile, but it was empty and brittle, a mask that barely held together. His words weren’t comforting—they were suffocating. They only deepened the ache, the envy, the sorrow. I didn’t want to hear them, not from him, not from anyone.

Chosen withdrew his hand, his carefree demeanor returning as if nothing had happened. “Yes, anytime, my friend,” he said, his tone light once more. Then his gaze shifted to the horizon, his eyes lighting up with sudden excitement. “But I must go now. Your father must be on his way home.”

My heart sank. My father would be coming back soon, and if he saw me outside… I gripped my crutch tighter, my knuckles whitening.

“Yes,” I said quietly. “He never dilly-dallies.”

Chosen stood, offering me a hand. I stared at it, shame welling up inside me. “One hand, remember?” I said with a forced tease, trying to mask my embarrassment.

Chosen snickered, withdrawing his hand. “Of course,” he said, watching as I struggled to stand on my own. My leg trembled beneath me, my body screaming in protest, but I forced myself upright.

Chosen didn’t move to help me. He simply watched, his sharp eyes studying me as I fought to steady myself. There was no pity in his gaze, only quiet observation. I appreciated that more than I could say.

“Go,” I said, forcing a smile that felt like it would crack my face. “Before my father sees us. I’m sure he’ll lose his head!”

Chosen laughed, shaking his head as he stepped off the porch. “It’s been so long since I’ve appeared to anyone,” he said, glancing back at me with a fleeting smile. “You may be the first one in years.”

“I feel special already!” I say, my voice carrying a faint thread of disbelief.

“Oh, you must be. There’s certainly something special about you,” Chosen replies, his tone light but laced with something deeper.

He winks—a gesture so clumsy and awkward that it looks like he’s struggling to dislodge a speck of dust from his eye. It’s almost laughable, painfully so, and yet I can’t stop myself from snorting softly. A snicker escapes, and I shake my head at the absurdity of it all. He truly is a magnificent beast, in all his flawed glory.

“When will I see you again?” I ask, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. I shouldn’t have asked, but I can’t help myself. He’s the first person who has spoken to me as though I’m whole—as though I’m not broken.

Chosen pauses, his expression shifting to something thoughtful. His wings twitch subtly on his back, the feathers fluttering and stretching as if they have a mind of their own. I watch, entranced, wondering if those feathers would feel soft beneath my hand. The thought is shameful, but the curiosity burns within me all the same.

“Soon,” he finally says, his lips curving into a knowing smile. It’s the kind of smile that suggests he knows something I don’t, a secret he’s unwilling to share.

I don’t respond. My throat feels tight as he unfurls his wings, the movement smooth and deliberate, like a grand curtain being drawn open. In one powerful swoop, he takes to the air. The wind rushes past me, ruffling my hair as I stand on the porch, my gaze fixed on him.

Up he goes, higher and higher, until he breaks through the clouds with a graceful spin that leaves me breathless.

“Marvelous,” I murmur, the word slipping from my lips in sheer disbelief.

And then, as though the moment was too much for me to bear, I retreat into the house, my steps quick and unsteady, like a frightened dog with its tail tucked between its legs.

Inside, my leg aches—a dull, persistent throb that I’ve grown used to. I lean heavily on it, compensating for my inability to use the crutch properly. The strain on my healthy leg is significant, but I don’t ask my father to replace the crutch. I know this is one of his many "tests," another challenge I’m expected to endure in silence.

Reaching my room, I sink onto the bed with a sigh. The mattress creaks beneath my weight, and I feel the familiar tension in the air as the door creaks open behind me. My father’s footsteps are soft but deliberate, his presence unmistakable.

“Dark,” he calls gently, his voice carefully measured.

“Yes, Father,” I reply, my tone even, dutiful—the perfect son I’ve learned to pretend to be.

He steps into the room, his movements careful, almost hesitant. His eyes are downcast, his face pale, and though he forces a smile, it is hollow, empty. My chest tightens as I watch him set my medication on the nightstand, an act of care that feels more like a ritual. He busies himself with small tasks, avoiding my gaze as though the sight of me is too much to bear.

“The market was beautiful today,” he says conversationally, his hands trembling slightly as he prepares the small white tablet. I know it will do little to dull the pain, but I don’t tell him that. I don’t want to add to his burdens.

“You should come with me next time,” he continues, his voice tinged with forced cheerfulness. “It’s lively, full of colors and sounds. You’d enjoy it.”

“I’ll think about it, Father,” I reply, lying through my teeth. The truth is, I have no intention of going. The thought of being out there, surrounded by people, fills me with dread. “I’m just so tired because of the medicine,” I add, another lie to shield him from the truth.

His face falls slightly, the lines of worry etched into his features deepening. He looks paler now, as though my words have sapped what little strength he has left. “Yes, yes, of course. It must be incredibly hard for you,” he murmurs, his voice soft, almost apologetic.

The unease in my chest grows. I turn my head away, staring out the window, wishing desperately for Chosen to swoop in and carry me away from this conversation. But the silence stretches only briefly before my father speaks again.

“Do you remember that young man who was sent to the war with you?” he asks, his tone careful, testing.

I remain silent. Too many young boys were sent to the front lines, faceless and nameless in my memory. They were all the same to me—unwanted, unloved, sent to die.

“I heard he was discharged,” my father continues, his voice barely above a whisper. “Sent back to his home.”

He moves closer, fussing with the thick blanket draped over me, ensuring it doesn’t tangle around the stump of my leg. 

“I see… Good for him,” I say quietly, my voice barely audible.

My father freezes, his hand hovering over the blanket for just a fraction of a moment before continuing his mindless task of smoothing down the fabric over my leg. His movements are deliberate, almost mechanical, as though focusing on the task will keep him from saying too much—or perhaps from feeling too much.

“Yes, good for that boy,” he murmurs, though the words feel hollow. There’s an edge to his tone that I can’t quite place, but it stirs a strange unease in me. I can’t shake the feeling that he’s doing this—hovering, fussing—because he knows. He knows that I’ve seen through his tests and punishments, and now he doesn’t know how to face me.

A sharp, stinging pain blooms in my eye, and I close it tightly, willing the sensation to fade. My head pounds in tandem with my heartbeat, and I feel the beginnings of a pressure building behind my temples. Still, I refuse to look at him. I can’t. The weight of his presence is suffocating, and I’m afraid—terrified, really—that if I meet his gaze, I’ll burst into tears.

A sudden wave of nausea rolls through me, and my stomach churns violently as though something inside is clawing to get out. My chest feels impossibly tight, like a heavy stone has been placed on it, and the coldness creeping through my limbs feels unnatural.

“Dark?” My father’s voice cuts through the fog of my thoughts, tinged with alarm. I feel his hand on my cheek, warm and rough, but it only amplifies the coldness in my body.

He gasps sharply. “You’re burning hot! Oh no—oh no—” His words dissolve into a frantic murmur, but I can no longer focus on them.

My gaze drifts hazily to the window, my breaths ragged and shallow. The pain in the stumps of my arm and leg flares unbearably, a searing fire that consumes what little strength I have left. My father’s voice fades into the background as if swallowed by the oppressive weight pressing down on me.

And then, without warning, I am left alone.

Alone with my pain. Alone with the suffocating stillness of the room.

Strangely, though, I find myself raising my eyes. Through the haze of fever and agony, I see something—or someone—perched atop my chest. At first, I think it must be a cruel trick of my fevered mind, but the vision sharpens as I focus.

There, in all his impossible glory, sits Chosen.

He is utterly at ease, his legs crossed as though my heaving chest is nothing more than a comfortable chair. His wings are folded elegantly behind him, their feathers shimmering faintly in the dim light. His piercing eyes meet mine, and his expression is unreadable—relaxed, perhaps even amused, as though he’s been waiting for this moment.

I must be dreaming. I must be sick in the head to see him now, when I had only just seen him moments before.

“Angel…” I try to say, but the word catches in my throat, coming out as little more than a strangled whisper.

He doesn’t respond. He simply stares, his gaze heavy and inscrutable, as though he can see every thought I’m too afraid to voice.

I don’t remember closing my eyes after that. The world tilts, and my body feels heavier than ever, sinking deeper into the mattress. Breathing becomes harder, each gasp a struggle against the crushing weight pressing down on me.

And then, there is nothing but darkness.

Chapter Text

When I was sick, my mother would always fret over me. She never allowed the maids to come near me during those times, let alone care for me. It was always her, and only her, who tended to me. She would prepare the most delicious soup—a magical elixir, it seemed, capable of chasing away any illness in just a day. Then, she would sit by my side, her soft hands threading gently through my hair, lulling me into a peaceful sleep.

The pain of my sickness would fade into the background, almost forgotten, and by the next day, I would wake feeling as good as new. This was the rhythm of my childhood illnesses, as predictable and comforting as the rising sun.

But now, it is different.

“Doctor, how is it?” My father’s voice, usually a commanding presence, carries an unfamiliar edge of worry. He stands at my bedside, alongside a man in a crisp white coat—a doctor. I don’t fully understand what’s happening. My thoughts are muddled, my mind a foggy mess, and my body feels as though it’s been plunged into molten lava. Every movement sends waves of pain rippling through me, and my chest feels burdened by an invisible weight, as if smoke fills my lungs.

The doctor’s voice cuts through the haze. “It seems, Mr. Becker, your son has developed an infection. Have you been cleaning his wounds properly?” His gaze shifts to my father, who stammers—a sound so foreign to me that it jars my senses. My father never stammers. He is a proud man, a man who commands respect. To hear him falter like this is unnerving.

“I—I have been cleaning his wounds properly,” my father replies, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

They talk as though I’m not lying right in front of them. But I understand why. I can barely hear them through the pounding in my head. I feel like a ghost in my own body—present, but detached.

My father’s stammering unsettles me. Is this some kind of test? A punishment? Is he trying to show me how greatly my condition has diminished him? Has my sickness made him pitiful?

Oh, dear me. Please, Father, enough. I am already broken. My mind is in tatters, my body a wreck. I can barely breathe, and a part of me wishes I had died in combat—at least then, all you would have left of me would be that cold rifle I clung to so tightly.

The doctor’s voice breaks through my spiraling thoughts. “Injuries like this are always prone to infection. Your son must not leave the house for now. Thankfully, you called me early enough. Had you delayed, it could have been much worse. For now, what he needs most is rest. Let’s discuss his treatment outside.”

My father nods and leads the doctor out of the room without sparing me a glance.

I’m left alone in the suffocating silence, my breaths labored and uneven. My chest feels as though it's being crushed under the weight of a hundred elephants. Tears spill down my one remaining eye, unnoticed at first. The other socket burns—a cruel reminder that even without an eye, my body can still weep.

I want to call out to my father, to beg him to soothe my sickness the way my mother once did. I want him to sit by my side, run his hands through my hair, and watch over me until I fall asleep. But shame ties my tongue. What would he think of me—a nearly grown man crying like a helpless child? I can’t bear to show him such weakness.

I feel so small, like an ant destined to be crushed underfoot. Weakness consumes me, and sleep comes only in fitful, feverish snatches.

Later that night, I awaken to a soft glow. My father has returned, placing a lantern on my nightstand. He carries a bowl of soup in his hands, and a chair from the kitchen now sits by my bed.

“Father,” I rasp weakly, my throat dry and raw.

His face twists into an odd expression, as though he’s swallowed something sour. The sight makes my chest ache even more. Without a word, he stirs the soup with the spoon, the movement slow and deliberate.

“You must eat so you can take your medicine,” he says at last, his tone even but strained.

I don’t want to eat. The thought of food turns my stomach. But I know better than to defy him. As he feeds me spoonfuls of soup, I feel a deeper shame settle over me. My father—proud, resilient—is reduced to this: caring for a son who can’t even lift a spoon to his own lips. What a burden I must be to him. What a failure I feel like.

Tears silently streak down my face. If he notices, he says nothing. Gently, he wipes them away with a cloth, as though they were nothing more than a stray drop of soup. When it’s time for the medicine, the tablet is so large I nearly choke on it. He helps me drink, his hand steady as he holds the cup to my lips.

“The room is too hot tonight,” he mutters, rising from his seat. He moves about aimlessly, his eyes scanning the space as if searching for something to fix. Finally, he props the window open just enough to let in a cool draft. The cold air washes over me, soothing the fire raging in my body.

“This is better, yes?” he asks.

I nod weakly. “Yes, very much. Thank you, Father.”

He switches out my heavy blankets for a lighter one, folding the thick fabric over his arm as though it weighs nothing. “I’ll wash this first thing in the morning,” he murmurs.

The sight of him carrying that large blanket makes something in my chest tighten. He looks smaller somehow, diminished by the weight of my illness.

“Do you need anything else?” he asks, his voice tinged with hope.

I part my lips to answer, but no words come. How can I voice what I truly want? What I want is for him to stay. I want him to sit by my side and run his hand through my hair until I drift to sleep. But shame silences me. I can’t bear the thought of disappointing him further.

My father’s face pales at my silence, and I wonder if he can sense the unspoken plea in my heart.

“No, Father, I do not need anything,” I whisper, my voice barely audible, laden with shame that courses through my veins like a silent storm. He nods in response, his face impassive, his silence heavier than words. 

He leaves me alone once more, retreating from the room without so much as a goodnight or a get-well. Not even a glance back. My chest aches, a deep, consuming pain that feels as if it could swallow me whole.

I lie motionless in my bed, helpless as the hours stretch on. The lantern on my nightstand flickers weakly, the flame slowly dying, its light mirroring my own dwindling spirit. My eyes burn from exhaustion, my body yearns for sleep, but it eludes me. How can I rest when everything—my body, my mind, my very existence—seems to conspire against me tonight?

The pain is relentless, gnawing at me like an unseen beast. I do not remember when my eyes finally closed, but at some point, the veil of night lifted. Morning arrived not with peace but with the loud, sharp chirping of a bird perched on my windowsill. The sound pulls me from the haze of a restless, tortured sleep.

A beautiful black bird stands there, its feathers shimmering faintly in the early light. It chirps incessantly, as if it alone carries the duty of waking me from the fitful, pitiful dreams of the war-torn wasteland that plagues my nights.

“Beautiful bird, thank you for waking me,” I say with a faint hint of jest, my voice hoarse. The bird simply tilts its head and replies with more tweets and chirps. I manage a hollow laugh, closing my eyes for a moment, as if to savor the absurdity of speaking to a bird.

“Is it always that you speak to birds?”

The familiar voice startles me, and my eyes snap open. There, at my window, is Chosen. His dark wings are folded tightly against his back, and he grips the frame of the window with one hand, the other resting against the edge. One foot is already propped inside, as if he is moments away from entering.

“Angel,” I breathe, my voice catching in my throat. I push myself up with trembling arms, intent on greeting him with the respect he deserves.

But before I can say another word, Chosen slips into my room, his movements as fluid and seamless as liquid pouring into a narrow crevice. “Don’t move,” he says gently, his voice firm yet soothing. “I can come to you, my dear friend.”

He takes a seat on the worn chair beside my bed, the one Father left there last night and had not taken out. “Angel,” I murmur weakly, a faint smile tugging at my lips. “I thought we wouldn’t meet again for a few days at least.”

Chosen snorts at that, a sound that holds equal parts amusement and disbelief. “Ah, yes,” he says, leaning back slightly in his chair. “Well, I heard from the town’s doctor that there’s a certain boy soldier who’s fallen ill from an infection. And now, I see who it is.” His lips curl into a sly smile.

I can’t help but let out a breathless chuckle, though it costs me. “Yes, that would be me,” I admit, my voice tinged with both humor and resignation. “It seems I’ve gotten myself into a bit of trouble.”

Chosen’s expression shifts momentarily, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before he settles back into his usual smile. “My, my,” he says lightly, though his tone carries an edge of concern. “You really should learn to take better care of yourself.”

I cough at his words, a bitter grin forming on my lips. Take care of myself? The thought feels absurd—as if I could possibly repair this broken body of mine. What’s the point? It’s like trying to carry water in cupped hands, only to watch it slip through the cracks. Futile. A waste of energy.

But I don’t say any of this aloud. Instead, I force a small, strained smile. Chosen’s kindness unnerves me, his words feeling too soft, too tender, as if he’s testing me in the same way my father does.

“My father,” I begin, my voice breaking as I cough softly. “He’s in the room next to mine. It’s dangerous for you to be here. He’ll wake soon to wash my blanket, and he’ll see you.”

Chosen doesn’t seem the least bit concerned. He smiles, a calm and confident curve of his lips. “He won’t,” he says, his voice steady. “I made sure to check on him before coming here. He’s in a deep sleep, as if he’s utterly exhausted.”

His words strike a chord in me, and guilt rises unbidden, coiling around my chest.

“Oh, well,” I say softly, my tone distant. “Let the poor man sleep.” In truth, I don’t want Father to wake. I’m savoring this rare moment of peace, this fleeting reprieve from my misery. Somehow, Chosen’s presence eases the weight of my illness, as if his very existence is an antidote to my suffering.

“I hear,” Chosen says, leaning closer, his pale hands brushing against the fabric of my thin blanket, “that you can no longer go outside.”

I don’t respond immediately. Instead, I study him, my eyes tracing the inky black wings that adorn his back. They fascinate me, and I fear I’ve developed an unhealthy obsession with them. Finally, I nod. “Yes,” I whisper. “I’m not allowed outside—not until I’m well. I must stay inside.”

Chosen frowns, a quiet hum escaping his lips as he processes my words. “That’s a pity,” he says after a moment. “I know how much you prefer the open air to being confined in these walls.”

His words settle over me like a cold, damp cloth, sending a shiver down my spine. I let out a shaky laugh, though it’s more out of fear than amusement. “I’m worried,” I say, my voice trembling. “You seem to know far too much about me in such a short time.”

Fear courses through me, sharp and electric, as I stare at him. 

Chosen finds amusement in my words, a quiet snicker escaping his lips. “What can I say? You’re like an open book,” he replies, his tone laced with playful mirth. His dark eyes glint with mischief as I shoot him a disbelieving look.

“Unbelievable,” I mutter, shaking my head theatrically. “You still make jokes in front of a sick, bedridden man.”

“Ah, but isn’t that what makes me such delightful company?” Chosen says, his grin widening. His wings twitch slightly, feathers shifting as though they, too, share in his amusement.

I let out a faint laugh, my voice weak but genuine. “You’re insufferable,” I say, though my words carry no venom, only warmth.

“Yes, yes,” Chosen says, waving a dismissive hand, the amusement in his expression never faltering. “It must be dreadfully boring, lying in bed all day with nothing to do. Tell me, what would you have me do to entertain you? Shall I dance and make a fool of myself? I’m afraid I’m not much of a dancer.” He shakes his wings with exaggerated flair, as if to punctuate his statement.

The sight sends me into a fit of laughter, louder than I expect, echoing in the stillness of the room. For a moment, I don’t care if my father hears me. Let him.

“Oh, my angel, I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that,” I reply, my laughter subsiding into a soft smile. “You are no fool.”

Chosen tilts his head, a curious but pleased look on his face. “Then what would you have me do, my friend?”

“How about a story?” I suggest, my voice bright with sudden enthusiasm. “As a child, I loved hearing stories. There’s something so comforting, so magical, about listening to someone weave a tale.”

Chosen’s face lights up at my words, and he nods eagerly. “Yes, you’re right. I’ve always loved stories too. Let me think.” He taps his chin thoughtfully, his head tilting back and forth like a bird pecking at seeds.

And now that I think about it, he really is like a bird. He moves with such grace, such otherworldly elegance, that I wonder if he is more bird than man. Perhaps he’s not an angel at all, but something entirely different. A strange and beautiful hybrid. I long to ask him about his creation, about how he came to be, but I keep the question to myself.

“Do you want to hear the story of the boy who saved me?” Chosen asks suddenly, breaking my thoughts. His voice is soft yet deliberate, as though the question holds great weight.

I blink in surprise. “A boy who saved you?” I repeat, curiosity blooming in my chest. “Of course, I want to know. Please, tell me everything.”

Chosen’s wings ruffle with excitement, the movement mirroring the expression of joy that spreads across his face. He clasps his hands together like an overjoyed child. “Ah, I’m so glad you’re excited to hear it!” he exclaims, his happiness so genuine it makes me blush.

“This memory,” he begins, his tone shifting to something softer, more nostalgic, “is both recent and yet feels so old. But I remember it vividly. It was during the war, when things were at their worst, wasn’t it?”

I nod solemnly, the weight of his words pressing against me like a lingering shadow.

“I met a man then,” Chosen continues, his voice dipping lower. “Not like you. No, he was... different. He was astonished by my wings—so much so that he begged me to give him some of my feathers.”

I frown at this, unsure of where the story is leading. There’s something about the way Chosen speaks, something heavy and painful, that makes my heart ache.

“So, I gave him some,” Chosen says simply, his tone tinged with wistfulness. “And when I came back, he asked for more. And more. He couldn’t stop wanting.”

He pauses, his gaze distant, lost in the memory. Slowly, he unfurls his wings. For the first time, I notice a patch near the base of his back, where the feathers are mangled and sparse. It looks as though they’ve been violently plucked, each one torn out with force and cruelty. How had I not seen this before? Had he been hiding it from me?

“Oh, my dear angel,” I whisper, my voice trembling with sorrow.

Chosen runs his fingers over the damaged area, his touch gentle yet deliberate. “This man,” he continues, his voice quieter now, “grew obsessed. He didn’t want me to leave his side. So, he chained me, told me that I am now his,”

My breath catches in my throat. The image of Chosen, bound and helpless, is almost too much to bear.

“It was terrifying,” he admits, placing a hand over his chest as though the memory still weighs heavily on his heart. “It hurts here, in a way I can’t describe. He kept demanding more—more feathers, more pieces of me. But I couldn’t give him what he wanted. I am no god, you see. I am just a man with wings. My feathers are nothing more than feathers, no matter how much he believed they could grant his wishes.”

He sighs, the sound heavy with resignation, his eyes briefly meeting mine. “I am no different from you. I cannot grant miracles, no matter how desperately someone might want me to.”

My chest tightens painfully as I listen, my heart breaking for my friend.

“But,” Chosen says suddenly, his voice brightening as he straightens in his seat. “It wasn’t long before I was saved. A kind and beautiful boy saved me!”

At this, I can’t help but laugh, though my voice is still shaky with emotion. “A boy, you say? Who saved you?”

“I will get there, patience, my friend,” Chosen says, his wings twitching with barely contained excitement, as if the story is too much to hold within his chest.

“He is a boy,” Chosen begins, his tone growing softer, almost reverent. “A boy with two beautiful eyes like polished obsidian, strong hands that carried his rifle with ease, and sturdy feet that bore me away from that terrifying man.” His gaze lingers on me, strange and longing, as if he’s reliving the memory with every word.

“Does this boy not realize that you have... strange appendages?” I ask, the confusion in my tone evident.

Chosen’s face falls at my question, his smile fading into something wistful. He shakes his head slowly. “No, I believe he didn’t. It was night—so dark that my feathers blended into the shadows. The stars and the moon had abandoned us that evening. He couldn’t see me for what I truly am, but still, he saved me.” He places his hands over his chest, holding the memory close like a precious jewel.

The sight fills me with a bittersweet kind of happiness. It seems my dear angel did find his happy ending after all.

“That is beautiful, angel,” I sigh wistfully. The story isn’t like the ones my mother used to tell me—tales of princes rescuing beautiful princesses from evil captors. But in this story, I like to imagine Chosen as the princess, saved by the boy who carried him to freedom.

“Yes, yes, it is beautiful,” Chosen agrees, his voice brimming with a quiet joy. “But for a long time, I’ve been searching for him, you see.”

“It seems like you haven’t been very successful,” I remark gently, and Chosen shakes his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. Though he stares at me strangely, as if the question amused him greatly.

“No, I haven’t,” he admits. “I don’t recognize his face—I can only remember the color of his eyes, the touch of his right hand...” his tone is unreadable. It is as if—he is lying, but surely he isn’t… Right?

“Why only his right hand, angel?” I ask, my curiosity piqued.

Chosen laughs, the sound light and melodic. “Oh, well, in his left hand, he carried his weapon! Ah yes, I remember his rifle vividly. It was terrifying. For a moment, I worried I might be next after my captor.”

I laugh at his realization. “You must have met a soldier, then!” I say with a grin.

Chosen perks up at that, his wings giving a small flutter. “A soldier? Yes… yes, that sounds right. He did have the touch of a soldier—rough, but careful. Gentle, even, as he carried me away from that prison”

I hum quietly, a soft smile forming on my lips. “I’m glad you’ve found your happy ending, my angel,” I say sincerely.

Chosen’s smile grows, his face radiant. For a moment, it’s as if he has seen something extraordinary, something that fills him with hope. “Yes, you are right—”

But his voice is abruptly cut off by the sound of heavy footsteps outside my door.

Both our heads snap toward the sound, my heart pounding painfully in my chest. Chosen rises instantly, his chair falling to the floor with a loud clatter.

“Dark? Is that you? I heard something fall—I’m coming in,” my father calls, his voice sharp and filled with suspicion.

“Quick, you must go!” I whisper urgently, waving Chosen toward the window.

“I will see you again soon, my friend,” Chosen says, his voice soft but resolute. With one swift movement, he leaps out of the window, his dark wings spreading wide as he disappears into the morning light. A flurry of feathers is left behind, drifting slowly to the floorboards and even onto my lap.

The door bursts open just as the last feather lands.

“Goodness!” my father exclaims, his face pale as he takes in the mess—the fallen chair, the scattered feathers. He rushes to the window, peering outside, his features twisted into a sneer as his gaze falls on a flock of birds settling into a nearby nest.

“Birds!” he spits, almost shrieking. “Ah, these damned birds! You should have called for me, Dark.”

“F-Father,” I stammer weakly, my voice trembling. “The birds have done nothing. I just wanted fresh air.”

“Nonsense,” he snaps, his face darkening. “These birds will make a mess of your room. I’ll deal with the nest before I let this window open again.”

He storms out, only to return moments later with a broom. He sweeps the feathers off the floor with frantic, jerky movements, muttering under his breath.

I slump back in my bed, heat rushing to my body like a fever returning with a vengeance. My breathing feels labored, as though the air has been stolen from my lungs. My chest feels impossibly heavy, like a weight is pressing down on it.

My father pauses in his cleaning to check on me, his hand brushing fleetingly against my forehead. “You’re still not well,” he mutters, his voice quieter now, almost nervous. 

“I’ll prepare your breakfast so you can take your medicine.”

He flits about the room like a frightened bird, setting the chair upright and cleaning until the floor is spotless.

I sniffle pathetically, unable to find the words to speak. Yes, I feel worse than before—but I didn’t feel this way when Chosen was here, close to me. His presence had been like a balm, soothing the ache in my chest. Now, with him gone, I feel as though my misery has returned tenfold.

“Dark,” my father whispers, his voice softer now, as he comes to stand beside me again.

“Soup must be boring you by now. What do you want? Tell me, and I’ll make it for you. If I can’t, I’ll go to the market and get it,” he whispers, his voice hushed, as if he’s sharing a secret too fragile for the world to hear. The softness in his tone is almost childlike, vulnerable, as though he’s afraid someone might overhear his offer and judge him for it.

“Soup is fine, Father. I want soup,” I reply weakly, knowing my words are useless. As soon as they leave my lips, he bobs his head enthusiastically, a smile lighting up his worn face.

“Of course, of course! I’ll make what you want,” he says hurriedly, his excitement overtaking him. Before I can utter another word, he’s gone, rushing off to the kitchen like a man on a mission. I’m left behind, shivering in my bed. The thin blanket draped over me feels like nothing more than a whisper of warmth, inadequate against the chill that seeps into my bones. I turn my head slowly, my gaze falling on the shut window. I see the sun shining down on me, yet I feel cold, and beyond it, the world remains inaccessible to me. My heart aches terribly, a dull, persistent throb that no amount of warmth or care seems to soothe.

My mind drifts, untethered, to Chosen’s story—the tale he shared with me. How he was saved, rescued from the chains of that evil man. I can’t stop myself from imagining it: the thrill of being liberated, the rush of air as freedom sweeps over you. How I wish someone would come and save me from this prison I call home. How I long to escape these walls that feel tighter with every passing day. I yearn to go outside again, to feel the sun’s warmth on my face, to breathe in the crisp air of life.

Oh, how I despise that idiotic doctor! He keeps saying I’m sick, but I’m not—I’m not sick! I’m lonely, that’s all. So terribly lonely. The isolation gnaws at me, eating away at my spirit, my sanity. It’s the loneliness that’s making my heart falter, my body weaken. If only they could see it. If only someone could understand. I don’t want to stay in this bed. I don’t want to die here, confined and forgotten.

I dream of being like the princesses in the old tales, the ones who are saved by their brave princes from the clutches of evil. But here, in this story, my father is no villain. He’s no captor, no tyrant. He’s just a man, tired and desperate, trying to keep me alive. And yet, I can’t help but resent him. 

Father, why must you punish me this way? Is it because you know I’ve discovered the tests you’ve been giving me? Those little trials, those endless measures of my strength? How can you punish me simply for existing, for breathing, for trying to live?

Please, Father, believe me. Believe your foolish son. I never prayed to live. Never prayed to see another sunrise. I am not strong like the others. I wish that the war had taken me, like it took so many of the other boys. It would’ve been simpler that way, wouldn’t it? Easier for everyone. Now, I’m just a burden—a broken, hollow thing that you’re forced to care for.

Tears spill silently from my eyes, even the empty one. The sockets burn, my chest heaves, my face feels as if it’s on fire, and my head pounds with unrelenting intensity. My injuries throb, inflamed and searing, a constant reminder of the fragile state of my existence. Every breath I take feels like a battle, every inhale a sharp, stabbing pain. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to live.

I writhe silently in my bed, my body trembling with suppressed sobs. From the kitchen, I can hear the loud clatter of pots and pans as my father busies himself. The noise feels overwhelming, like a hammer striking my skull. My stomach churns, a sickening wave of nausea washing over me. And then, suddenly, the noise stops. The silence that follows is deafening, heavy with anticipation. For a fleeting moment, I think my father has left—walked out, perhaps to the market as he promised.

But then, I hear it. A familiar melody floats through the hallways, soft and haunting. It’s a song from the past, a song I know too well. Years ago, Father bought a record player for Mother. They used to dance together to the music she loved, their laughter echoing through the house. 

But this song was her favorite. The one she played over and over again, as if it held all the joy and sorrow of her soul.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are gray
You'll never know, dear, how much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away

The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms
When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken
So, I hung my head and cried

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are gray
You'll never know, dear, how much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away

She used to sing it to me when I was sick, her voice soft and soothing, a lullaby that wrapped around me like a warm embrace. But now... no, it’s different. The tone that once calmed me, that once made me feel safe, now haunts me. It twists and turns in the air, ghostly and mournful, pressing down on my chest like a weight I cannot lift. The melody, so familiar, feels almost cruel in its beauty. My chest grows tighter with every note, the ache spreading through me like poison.

Listening to it now is unbearable. The tune, so haunting, so painful, drags me deeper into a pit of despair. It feels like a reminder of everything I’ve lost, everything I can never have again. Each note seems to echo the emptiness inside me, a soundless scream reverberating through my soul. I can’t escape it. I can’t escape her absence, her memory, her love that lingers like a phantom just out of reach.

I lie there, waiting for my father to return, though I don’t know why. Every part of me hurts—my body, my heart, my soul. It’s as if the universe itself is punishing me, as if this pain is some grand retribution for my existence. I can’t tell if it’s my injuries or my loneliness that burns more fiercely. The lines between physical and emotional agony blur until there’s no distinction. It’s just pain, endless and consuming.

I continue to weep silently, my tears falling like a steady rain. I don’t even bother to wipe them away. What would be the point? They’re the only thing I have left—this quiet, unrelenting grief that seems to mark my every breath.

I close my eyes, praying for the end. Hoping that death will come soon and take me away from this torment. Perhaps then, I will find peace. Perhaps then, I will see her again.

Chapter Text

I am no fighter; I am an artist. My love for drawing planes has always been strong—so strong that even as a child, long before the war swallowed me whole or before my mother passed, I would lose myself in their shapes and designs. I built wooden planes with small, clumsy hands and drew their forms over and over again, as if by etching them into paper, I could carve them into my soul. I wanted them to stay with me forever, as permanent as the air I breathed.

But now, I am forced to hold a rifle. Its cold metal is foreign to me, its weight a cruel reminder of the life I never chose. Every moment, I must raise it, aim it, and fire it at another living being. My hands tremble with fear and disgust. I am unclean now; I have killed. Again and again, I have killed! Oh, what a sinner I have become—dirty, damned, and broken. The boys around me look up to me, admiring my skill. They whisper about my precision, my ability to hit a target so effortlessly. They are right—I am good. Too good. I was good at drawing. I was good at crafting wooden planes. And now, I am good at holding a gun.

Was I born to be a killer? Is this my purpose? Why does war exist? Why am I still here? These questions gnaw at my mind, relentless and cruel. I want to burst into tears, to scream, to slam my head against the wall just to silence the chaos within. The sorrow inside me is deafening, so loud that I can hardly breathe.

Another night has fallen. Chosen hasn’t visited for days now, and my world has grown duller and more painful in his absence. Most hours, I am asleep—not resting, but trapped in the dark trenches of my mind, a prisoner of the war that never really ended for me. My dreams are no refuge; they are a battlefield.

It took my father several days to arrange for the removal of the birds’ nest that had settled on my window. I mourn for those beautiful creatures. Their black feathers reminded me of Chosen, whose wings were just as dark, just as striking. I hope they have found a new home. My father didn’t mean to harm them.

“Dark, I’ve opened your window,” my father says as he steps into my room. His voice is soft, almost hesitant, as he carries a bowl of soup in one hand and my medicine wrapped in a white cloth in the other. The pills are too large to swallow and too bitter to bite, and the thought of them churns my stomach. I don’t want to eat; I don’t want to do anything. I just want to sleep.

“Yes, I’m very glad,” I reply weakly, watching as he unlatches the window. The stale heat in my room is instantly replaced by the crisp, cool night air. My father glances at me, the moonlight casting sharp shadows on his face. He looks older than I remember—paler, with deep lines etched beneath his tired eyes. A streak of white now threads through his dark hair.

He’s aging, and yet he’s the one caring for me. This useless, broken shell of a person. It should be the other way around—I should be caring for him.

“Is it too cold?” he asked after he had fed me my soup and medicine, his voice as frail as mine. It aches to hear him like this.

I shake my head, inhaling deeply. “No, Father. This is perfect. Thank you.”

He forces a smile, and it pains me to see how much effort it takes. “Good, good. It was the right decision to get rid of those birds. Now they won’t bother you, won’t wake you up with their noise.” He turns and leaves the room before I can respond, his steps hurried, as though staying even a moment longer might break him.

I sigh heavily and turn toward the open window. The moonlight spills onto my lap, cold and silver. It’s late, far past the hour when I should be asleep, but rest eludes me once more. My mind is restless, my body heavy.

Then, I hear it—the faint rustle of wings. My heart leaps. It must be Chosen!

I sit up slowly, ignoring the ache in my limbs. My health has been unpredictable; some days I feel almost normal, but most days I am a prisoner to my own weakness. Yet now, hearing the familiar sound of his arrival, I feel a spark of energy, a fleeting sense of relief.

“Hello, dear friend,” Chosen greets me, his voice warm and teasing as he peers through the window with that same mischievous smile.

I manage a small smile of my own. “Angel, it has been far too long. Do you have any new stories for this poor, bedridden fool?” I jest lightly as Chosen slips gracefully into the room, his dark wings folding behind him. They shimmer faintly in the moonlight, majestic and otherworldly.

“Stories?” he echoes, settling into the chair beside my bed. “Of course, I have many. What would you like to hear?”

I hum thoughtfully, studying his face. The faint glow of the lantern on my nightstand softens his sharp features, giving him an almost regal appearance. “I don’t know... Tell me whichever one you like best. I’m not a picky man.”

Chosen chuckles, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation. “You’re impossible,” he mutters playfully, shaking his head.

“Well then,” I say with a grin, raising a hand to stop him. “I’ll ask you something instead.”

His expression shifts, curiosity lighting his eyes. “Ask away,” he says, leaning forward.

I hesitate, my voice dropping to a whisper. “That man... the one who took you. Why did you go back to him, even after he took something so precious from you?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy and unspoken. Chosen’s face pales, his wings twitching restlessly. For a moment, I regret asking. My body feels feverish, as though my sickness has returned with a vengeance.

“That question...” he murmurs, his voice barely audible. “Why?”

I swallow hard, shame pooling in my chest. I had thought about this for a long time—about his choices, his pain. How could he return to someone who had treated him like an object, who had plucked his feathers as if they were mere trinkets? How could he endure such cruelty and still find it in himself to go back?

But Chosen doesn’t answer. He leans back, his gaze distant, lost in thought. His silence is louder than any words he could have spoken.

In truth, I’ve thought deeply about Chosen’s decisions. To me, they seem foolish, almost incomprehensible. Why would he willingly return to that man—the one who plucked his feathers as though they were mere toys, treating him like an object of desire rather than seeing him for who he truly was? Why would Chosen willingly chain himself to such cruelty?

There is a strange sensation in my chest, a want. I want to take Chosen away and save him like that boy that had saved him once back then.

“I wonder only, angel. I do not wish to hurt you,” I murmur, though the words feel like a half-truth. My curiosity burns brighter than my restraint. I want to understand him, this beautiful and enigmatic being who seems riddled with mysteries I cannot begin to unravel. He is full of holes—gaps in his story that my human mind struggles to comprehend.

Chosen’s expression grows weary. He lets out a long, pained sigh, and the sound twists something deep in my chest. “I understand,” he replies, his voice soft and resigned. “I cannot blame you for asking. I suppose I am not a very good storyteller, am I? There are many details I’ve omitted, things you should have known by now.”

The sorrow in his voice wrenches at me. I didn’t mean to hurt him, my dear friend, with my clumsy, thoughtless curiosity. “No,” I whisper, reaching out despite the pain that radiates through my body. My hand trembles as I grasp his. “I should be the one apologizing—for asking such a question.”

But Chosen shakes his head, his expression one of quiet pity. “No, not so,” he says, his tone gentle as he cradles my hand in both of his, like a mother soothing her child. His touch is warm, calming. “Even I ask myself why I did it.”

His gaze drifts to the window, and a wistful look overtakes his face. “You see,” he begins, his voice quieter now, almost reverent, “I told you before that I live in the skies. I used to live there.” My heart gives a painful thud at the words, sensing the weight of what was left unsaid.

“You call me an angel,” he continues, his voice tinged with bitterness. “But I haven’t been one for many, many years, my dear friend.” Slowly, he unfurls his wings, the black feathers glinting faintly in the moonlight. They move with an eerie silence, like shadows given form.

“So you are an angel,” I whisper, the words escaping my lips like a secret meant for the dark.

Chosen laughs, a short, mirthless sound. “Did you not hear me? I am no longer one. I am just a man now—a man who bears this heavy weight on his back.”

I swallow hard, my curiosity burning brighter still. “Then... how does this connect to the man who chained you? The one who used you for his gain?” I ask, hesitating as my gaze drifts to his wings. They are magnificent, otherworldly. I want to touch them but do not dare. Sensing my hesitation, Chosen moves closer, guiding my hand to his wing.

The feathers are soft, smoother than anything I’ve ever touched, yet cold—like dipping my hand into the depths of the ocean. The sensation is oddly calming, as though the very act of touching them could lull me into a dreamless sleep.

“Yes, yes,” Chosen teases, his voice laced with playful exasperation. “You are as impatient as ever, aren’t you?”

I sputter, embarrassed by his words, but he only laughs. “Very well,” he continues, his tone turning more serious. “I have not met any of my kind on this land, but I believed—no, I hoped—that if I could change a man, truly change him, I might be allowed to return to the skies.”

He pauses, his gaze distant, his voice tinged with regret. “That man... he was obsessed with treasure. Greedy. I thought I could sway him, show him the error of his ways.”

“It seems you were unsuccessful,” I say, my voice soft, not wanting to wound him further.

Chosen barks a bitter laugh, nodding. “Yes, you are correct. It turns out it is far harder than I imagined. That man had long since lost all hope. He was consumed by his nature, and no matter how I tried, I could not save him. It was the first and last time I ever attempted to change one of your kind.”

I let out a hollow, breathless laugh of my own. “I understand,” I say softly. “We are greedy. We are cruel. We are vile creatures, full of flaws. It does not surprise me that even you, an angel—” I pause, correcting myself, “—a former angel, would find us beyond saving.”

Chosen’s expression darkens, his face pale and sorrowful. My words seem to strike him deeply, as though they cement a truth he had long resisted.

Silence falls between us, broken only by the sound of my labored breathing. My body feels heavier, weighed down by the turmoil in my mind and the ache in my chest.

“You really are an angel, Chosen,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. I look at him—this breathtaking, beautiful being who once walked the skies. "Such a beautiful and majestic being,"

Chosen’s eyes widen slightly, surprise flickering across his face. He opens his mouth, as though about to protest, but then he huffs softly, shaking his head in quiet defeat.

“An angel,” I repeat, my voice filled with awe. “While I am still alive, I have met an angel.”

Chosen clasps his hands together, the gesture almost like a prayer. “I am no amazing being,” he murmurs. “In all my years as one, I did nothing remarkable. Nothing worth remembering.”

But as I gaze at him, his dark wings casting shadows on the walls of my dimly lit room, I feel a deep sense of wonder. “No,” I say firmly, my voice trembling with emotion. “You are remarkable. Simply being here, with me, is remarkable.”

I let out a shaky breath, the weight of my sins pressing heavily against my chest. It pains me to let an angel come so close—a being so pure, so far removed from the darkness that stains my soul. I am a sinful man, a killer of many, a harbinger of death even under the guise of war. Regardless of the reasons or justifications, blood is still blood, and my hands are drenched in it.

The silence between us stretches, broken only by the faint chirping of crickets in the distance. My breathing begins to steady, the tremors in my chest easing. “I wonder…” I say quietly, testing the fragile air between us. “What is the reason you have fallen?”

Chosen tilts his head slightly at my question, his soft ruby eyes reflecting the faint moonlight. A small smile tugs at his lips, though it carries no warmth. “That, my friend,” he begins, his voice calm and steady, “I no longer think about. I’ve been like this for far too long, you see. I no longer care if I should return home.”

He pauses, his gaze drifting upward, as if the stars held answers even he could not reach. “Yes, it is sad that I can no longer see my friends. But I am better here, now. I no longer carry the traits of an angel.”

His words feel like a wall, barring me from the truth. A dodge, a deflection. I resist the urge to frown, sensing that pressing further would only drive him away. Whatever he hides, he has buried it deep.

“You are still very angelic, angel,” I say softly, hoping to soothe him, though it’s clear he no longer cares whether he is one or not. To my surprise, my words amuse him. His wings flutter lightly, a faint shimmer catching the edges of his feathers. “You’re a charmer,” he teases, his voice carrying a rare playfulness. I chuckle, a smile—equally rare—forming on my own face.

The moment feels fleeting, and soon, Chosen prepares to leave. He turns to me one last time, his expression unreadable. “My friend, how about tomorrow night? I will take you out,” he says, his words slow and deliberate.

A small gasp escapes me. “Is that true, angel? Yes, of course, I want to!” I clutch the thin blanket draped over my lap, my chest tight with excitement. Chosen smiles faintly, and with a single beat of his wings, he takes off. This time, no feathers flutter down, no sign of his departure save for the faint whisper of the wind.

That night, for the first time in what feels like eternity, I sleep peacefully. My body feels lighter, the aches and pains that have haunted me seeming to fade.

By the time the sun sets the following day, I feel almost entirely renewed. My father notices too, though his reaction is far from what I expect. His pale face betrays his unease as he watches me standing by the window, a crutch tucked under my arm. I watch the birds outside, marveling at how they build their nest in the same spot where my father had heartlessly taken down their old nest.

“Dark,” my father calls sharply, his voice weary and strained. “What have I told you? Stay in your bed.”

His words are laced with frustration, but I pay them little mind. My body no longer feels confined by the frailty it once bore. I pace my room like a restless beast, unable to stay still. Even my father’s stern, almost fearful gaze cannot deter me. Tonight, for the first time in so long, I will leave this prison.

Still, I relent for now and take a seat. My father places a bowl of soup in front of me, his hands trembling as he feeds me in silence. I notice the odd taste of the broth but say nothing, though a thought lingers: has he finally tired of his endless tests? Does he no longer wish to punish me now that I’ve grown stronger?

He remains quiet, his eyes distant and glistening as if holding back tears. I do not ask why. I finish my meal quickly, eager for the night to fall. My father leaves the room without a word, his steps heavy and deliberate.

When he returns, his composure seems stronger, though his face remains pale. He moves to the closet, rummaging through my clothes until he pulls out my rifle. My heart lurches as he shuts the door and turns back to me.

“Dark,” he says hesitantly, his voice trembling, “do you wish to hold your weapon again?”

I flinch at his words, my breath catching in my throat. The rifle feels cold and foreign in my lap as I meet his gaze, searching for answers in his pale, trembling face. I don’t understand.

This must be another test. I think to myself, though I cannot grasp its purpose. My father’s behavior has grown increasingly erratic. Just a few days ago, he had brought back that strange doctor, the two of them whispering in hushed tones behind my door like conspirators. Later that night, I heard my father weeping softly in his room. The sound still haunts me.

“Father… I don’t understand,” I say at last, my voice barely above a whisper. He shakes his head, his expression unreadable. Without another word, he rushes out of the room, leaving me alone with my confusion.

When he returns, it’s with the old wooden wheelchair, its wheels creaking loudly as he pushes it to my bedside. His movements are hurried, almost frantic, as he helps me from the bed and into the chair.

“Sit down, sit down quickly,” he growls, his voice taut with suppressed emotion. “I’m taking you outside, like you’ve been wanting.”

His tone is sharp, almost angry, but there’s something else beneath it—something raw and unspoken. I clutch the rifle tightly as he wheels me out of the house, my mind racing with questions.

He stops beside my mother’s favorite chair, his hands trembling as he grips the handles of the wheelchair. His breath shudders, as if he’s carrying a weight far heavier than my own.

I look up at him, the cold metal of the rifle pressing against my hands.

“What’s wrong, Father?” I want to ask, but the words catch in my throat. His pale, weary face reveals so much, yet so little.

What have I done now? What is happening?

“Father…” I whisper, my voice trembling, but I am cut off as my father lets out a loud, guttural sob. His head drops low, and his shoulders quake violently as if a great storm has overtaken him. “I have done everything, everything !” His voice is raw, cracking as he wails like a mother mourning her lost child.

I stare at him, bewildered, unable to comprehend what is unfolding before me. My father—who had always been a fortress of unyielding strength—now seems broken, more fragile than I have ever seen. His cries ignite a painful tightness in my chest, constricting my breath and leaving me weak.

Shakily, I lift my trembling hand and place it on his arm, unsure, hesitant. “Father… what is wrong?” My voice is faint, barely audible, quivering with uncertainty. I don’t know how to console him; I’ve never seen him like this before. My father, a man who never shed a tear, not even when he and Mother quarreled, not even when she passed away—what could possibly reduce him to this?

“Dark…” he whispers, his voice soft, broken. He clutches my hand tightly, as though he fears I might slip away. Tears stream from his eyes in ceaseless rivers, hot and unrelenting, and he leans forward, pressing his lips to my hand in a kiss so gentle it feels like it might shatter under the weight of his sorrow. Droplets fall onto my skin, mingling with the warmth of his touch as his sobs fill the air.

“I have done everything…” he chokes out, his voice trembling, his words punctuated by sharp gasps. “I cannot bear to lose another.” His confession cuts through me like a blade, and my heart aches as I watch him crumble. I don’t understand him. Is this some kind of punishment I cannot fathom? A test I have failed without knowing?

The rifle in my hands feels cold, unbearably so, as though it is leeching the warmth from my very skin. I clutch it tightly, but the weight is unbearable. My father’s sobs grow quieter, though they still shake his frame. “Dark,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, “you wouldn’t leave me, would you?”

The question freezes me. His words strike something deep within, chilling me to my core. My body trembles violently as a shiver courses through me, unrelenting. I cough, my breath hitching painfully as heat floods my body. My grip on the rifle falters, my strength leaving me, and it slips from my grasp, clattering loudly onto the hardwood floor.

“Dark? Oh, Dark.” My father’s voice is thick with worry now, tinged with guilt. He bends down, picking up the rifle with trembling hands. “It was a mistake to bring you out here… I shouldn’t have…” His words trail off into silence, broken only by the sound of his sniffles.

I can only shiver, my body weak and unresponsive. Fear grips me tightly—fear of my father. It feels as though he knows my thoughts, knows what I’ve done, knows what I’ve planned. His gaze pierces through me, and I am utterly terrified of him.

My father kneels beside me, his large, calloused hand covering my own. “Dark… oh, Dark,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “Do you want to see your mother’s flowers again? I’ve been taking good care of them.” His bloodshot eyes meet mine, and I can see the depths of his sorrow written plainly in his face.

I only nod weakly, unable to speak. My sickness, which had begun to subside, now returns with a vengeance, spurred on by my father’s words. He lifts me with ease, carrying me down the porch as though I weigh nothing at all. He places me gently in the wheelchair as he easily brings it down the porch, his hands steady despite the tremor in his voice, and begins pushing me toward the garden.

The vibrant colors of my mother’s flowers come into view, their beauty undiminished by time. They are as radiant as I remember. “They’re beautiful, Father,” I say, though my voice is faint, pathetic. My gaze lingers on the blossoms, but my strength is fading fast.

“I know,” he replies softly, hurrying to grab an umbrella to shield me from the sunlight. “I’ve worked so hard to keep them this way. You’ve been gone so long, and now that you’re back, you’re sick… ill. Forgive me, Dark. Forgive this useless father of yours,” he whimpers, his voice breaking as new tears spill from his eyes.

His words twist painfully in my chest. I don’t understand him. Why is he apologizing for my mistakes? I have failed him, utterly and completely, yet he blames himself. Is this some kind of punishment? A cruel trick? My mind reels, desperate for answers.

Saliva pools in my mouth, thick and heavy, and a nauseating wave rolls through me. Before I can stop it, bile rises in my throat. I lurch forward, leaning out of the wheelchair as vomit spills from my mouth, hot and acidic. It burns my throat, and my eyes sting with tears as my stomach heaves uncontrollably.

“Dark!” My father cries out in alarm, his voice sharp with panic. He rushes to my side, his hands steady as he holds me upright, brushing my damp, sweat-soaked hair away from my face. His touch is gentle, comforting, but it does little to ease the shame and weakness coursing through me.

I can feel his hands trembling as he whispers, “I’m here, Dark. I’m here.” His voice is a fragile thread, barely holding together, and I can hear the weight of his helplessness in every syllable.

Chapter Text

Chosen gazes at me with an unreadable expression, his eyes steady and unwavering. Behind him, his wings flutter gently, a soft whisper of movement that seems almost surreal. As he places a hand on my cheek, his touch startles me—the smoothness of his skin feels otherworldly, almost too perfect. 

A shiver wracks my body, and I can’t tell if it’s from his touch or the relentless sickness that has left me so frail. Ever since I vomited earlier, I’ve felt worse—far worse. My body aches, and my mind is clouded with pain. Every movement is a trial, and our plan to leave the house has failed because I can barely lift myself without agony gripping me.

Earlier, my father tried to coax me to eat, offering me warm soup with trembling hands. But my stomach betrayed me—I couldn’t stomach it. He then tried to give me my prescribed medicine, but it was no use. I vomited it all back up, my body rejecting even the smallest reprieve.

I remember the look on his face, pale and stricken with grief, his tear-streaked eyes silently pleading with me. He continued to sob, his shoulders shaking as he sat by my bedside. I could only watch him, powerless to ease his pain. I wanted to comfort him so badly, but I couldn’t find the strength. I couldn’t even help myself.

“Oh, my friend, what has happened to you?” Chosen’s voice is soft, tinged with sorrow as he breaks the silence. His question feels heavy, weighted by his concern.

“Angel… I’m sorry,” I whisper hoarsely, my voice weak and trembling. “I’m so terribly sick. I’ve been hiding from you how I really feel.” My throat burns, as if I’ve swallowed molten lava, and every word scrapes against it like sandpaper. Cold sweat drenches my body, clinging to my skin, and the aches in my injuries flare with every shiver that wracks me. The convulsions feel like they’re tearing me apart from the inside.

Chosen sighs softly, his expression tender as he sits down beside me on the bed. It’s large enough for two, though I’ve grown so thin I barely take up any space at all. He watches me for a moment, his wings folding neatly against his back. “I do not mind waiting, my friend,” he says gently. “We can go outside another day, when you are well again. I will wait as long as you need.”

“Really?” I manage to ask, my voice barely above a whisper. There’s a pathetic, almost childlike hope in my tone, though I can’t help it.

He nods, a faint smile gracing his lips. “Yes, truly. I can always wait. And when you’re ready, I’ll take you to the bed of roses I discovered just a few days ago,” he admits, his cheeks flushing lightly as he speaks.

For a moment, I’m struck by the sincerity in his voice, and I can’t help but laugh—a sorrowful, broken sound that escapes me in a soft wheeze. My laughter feels hollow, but it’s all I can muster. The mention of roses twists something deep in my chest, stirring a bittersweet memory. My mother had loved roses, adored them with all her heart. She used to compare the deep red of my hair to the petals of her favorite blooms, telling me how much she loved the similarity.

“Yes,” I rasp, my voice cracking as a harsh cough interrupts me. “I want to see roses… one more time.”

We both fall silent once more. My body feels like a battleground—hot and cold at the same time, waves of fever and chills warring within me. Every breath is a struggle, shallow and labored, as if the air itself has turned against me. 

I feel incredibly sick, so much so that the thought claws its way into my mind: I will die .

“I will die, oh Angel. I am dying,” I cry out, my voice cracking and weak. The words tumble from my lips like a desperate plea, and I toss my head from side to side, unable to escape the pain that grips me. Chosen lets out a long, heavy sigh, his eyes filled with quiet sadness. He leans forward, placing a cool hand on my fevered forehead.

“You will not,” he says firmly, his voice steady, but I shake my head, weak and pitiful.

“I will! I will! I am dying now, can’t you see? I am weak, I am ill. I cannot breathe—it is so hard to breathe, Angel,” I sob, my chest heaving as the tears flow freely. But crying does not ease my suffering—it only makes it worse. My lungs feel tighter, and it’s as though my very tears are drowning me in sorrow. My whole body trembles, wracked with grief and fear.

Then, Chosen does something unexpected. His hand moves slowly, gently, through my sweat-soaked hair, the way my mother used to when I was a child. The gesture is so tender, so familiar, that it momentarily silences my sobs. It carries with it a comfort I haven’t felt in years, a fleeting memory of safety and warmth.

“You will not die, my friend,” Chosen says softly, his voice like a soothing balm. “You will live to see another day.”

I sniffle, ungracefully, like a child clinging to his mother’s dress, hiding between her legs for protection. Shame burns in my chest—shame that Chosen is seeing me like this, reduced to a sniveling, trembling wreck. I used to be strong, able to withstand so much. 

But lately, I’ve been crumbling under the weight of everything, and now, my tears are not just for the present—they are for all the sorrow and pain I’ve buried deep in my heart. All the things I’ve never allowed myself to feel.

“Do you really believe that?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, fragile and uncertain.

Chosen smiles then, a small, quiet smile that holds no mockery, only sincerity. “I do. You promised me that you would come with me outside,” he says simply, as if that promise alone is a tether strong enough to keep me anchored.

I cough harshly, my body convulsing with the effort, and shake my head. “I am scared,” I admit, my voice trembling. “What if I die now? Or tomorrow? I may as well die later,” I cry again, the fear consuming me. It feels like a shadow looming over me, inescapable.

“Bring me to that bed of roses you speak of,” I whisper, my voice raw and broken. “Lay me there when I die.” My breaths come in sharp, uneven gasps as I speak, each word dragging itself painfully from my throat. 

Chosen falls silent. His face grows unreadable, his eyes distant. He does not reply to my request, does not give me the promise I so desperately want. His silence is heavy, like my father’s, a refusal to acknowledge my plea.

“Angel—Chosen, please,” I beg, my voice rising as I burst into tears once more. 

“Promise me,” I cry, my sobs shaking my frail body as though they might tear me apart.

Chosen hushes me softly, his arms wrapping around me in a gentle, protective embrace. He cradles me as though I am a child, fragile and precious, and for a moment, I feel something I thought I had lost—safety. In his arms, I feel as though I could climb a mountain, walk through fire, survive the impossible. But I do not say this aloud. I do not admit it.

“I promise, I will take you to a bed of roses. I promise to watch over you, okay? Calm down, my friend.” His voice was soft, a whisper that cut through the storm raging in my mind. He hushed me gently, his words a soothing balm to my fraying nerves. 

Then, he began to hum—a tune unfamiliar to me, one I had never heard before. It was haunting and beautiful, a melody that seemed to wrap itself around my aching chest, cradling the pain and lulling it into submission.

Tears continued to stream silently down my face, my sobs muffled against the steady rhythm of his breathing. He cradled me as though I were something fragile, my head resting against his chest while his arms encircled me like an impenetrable shield. His embrace felt like armor—strong, unwavering, a barrier against the darkness threatening to consume me.

That night, I fell asleep in Chosen’s arms, his presence a haven of warmth and safety. But when I woke the next morning, he was gone.

And now, at my side, stood my father, his figure framed by the soft morning light spilling through the window. His face was pale, drawn tight with an expression I couldn’t quite decipher as he bent down to gather something from the floor. Black feathers. They were everywhere, scattered like remnants of a dream shattered in the night.

“The doctor will come today, Dark,” he said, his voice steady but strained, as though each word carried a weight too heavy to bear. He lingered in the doorway, his hand gripping the frame for support. “He’ll come once more.”

I lay there, motionless, my body betraying me. My breaths came shallow and labored, each rise and fall of my chest a struggle. Strength had abandoned me entirely—I couldn’t lift my fingers, couldn’t turn my head. Even blinking felt like an insurmountable effort.

“Why, Father?” I whispered, my voice barely audible, fragile as the wind. My throat burned with dryness, and the words felt as if they might shatter under their own weight. 

“Am I not getting better?”

Confusion clouded my thoughts, wrapping them in a suffocating haze. I had done everything they asked of me—taken my medicine, eaten the bland soups, followed every instruction without question. And yet, here I was, weaker than ever. Shouldn’t I be improving? Shouldn’t I be healing?

My father froze at my question, his knuckles whitening as he tightened his grip on the doorframe. For a moment, the room was silent, the only sound the faint rustling of the curtains swaying in the morning breeze. The stillness was deafening, and unease began to creep into my chest, settling there like a stone.

Then, suddenly, he broke. A sound escaped him—raw, guttural, like the cry of a wounded animal. Tears spilled down his face, unchecked and unguarded, as though something deep within him had finally fractured. Without a word, he turned and fled the room, the echo of his sobs trailing behind him like distant thunder.

I watched him go, my eyes following his retreating figure until he disappeared from view. The room felt colder in his absence, emptier. My chest tightened painfully, and I let out a trembling breath, the exhale wavering as it left my lips. His grief unsettled me—so sudden, so vast. What had I said to cause such a reaction? Why did my simple question seem to cut so deeply?

“Father…” I whispered, the word barely forming as exhaustion began to pull me under once more. My body was too weak, too heavy, to call him back. I wanted to ask for forgiveness, to tell him I hadn’t meant to hurt him. But instead, I succumbed to sleep, restless and fitful.

When I woke again, the doctor had arrived. He stood by the door, his expression unreadable, though there was a shadow of pity in his eyes. It clung to him like an ill-fitting garment, awkward and out of place. My father stood beside him, looking worse than I had ever seen him. His face was ashen, his eyes bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles. His hands trembled visibly, and his shoulders sagged under the weight of an invisible burden.

“Alan…” the doctor began, his voice low and heavy. He placed a hand on my father’s shoulder, a gesture meant to console but that only seemed to deepen the despair on my father’s face. “I’ve done all I can.”

The words hung in the air like a death knell, their finality suffocating. My father’s knees buckled slightly, and for a moment, I thought he might collapse. But he steadied himself, nodding once, though the motion seemed to cost him everything.

They left as quickly as they had come, the door closing softly behind them. And once again, I was alone.

The silence pressed in around me, suffocating and absolute. Pain rippled through my body, a dull, unrelenting ache that refused to abate. Misery settled over me like a heavy shroud, and I could do nothing but lie there, helpless and broken.

Why did my father cry? What burden did he carry that he could not share with me? And why, despite everything, did I feel as though the end was drawing closer with each passing breath?

I closed my eyes, the weight of my unanswered questions too much to bear. Darkness crept in, and I let it take me, too tired to resist.

Today, time seemed to slip through my fingers, faster than ever before. The day passed like a fleeting dream, and now it is already night. It feels surreal, as if the hours earlier were nothing but the remnants of some hazy illusion.

Chosen is here again.

He stands silently by my bedside, his wings fluttering faintly in the stillness. The soft sound they make is like a whisper of the wind, a lullaby for a restless soul. His presence feels almost otherworldly, a painting brought to life in shades of moonlight and shadow.

“My friend,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible. He leans closer, his face just inches from mine as he kneels, reverent, like a worshiper before a deity. “Angel,” I manage to say, though my voice is weak and trembles with exhaustion. My hand feels numb, my head heavy with pain. “I feel… like I will die now… or later. Is it today?”

Chosen’s face contorts with anguish, his expression raw and vulnerable. He takes my hand in his, his touch gentle, as though I might break beneath his fingers. “Do you not believe me?” he asks, his voice a soft plea. “I was once an angel, was I not? I am here to protect you, to watch over you. I can still be your guardian angel.”

His words make me huff a weak laugh, though it comes out more as a ragged cough. “I thought… you said you were no longer an angel?” I jest, though the effort it takes to speak leaves me breathless.

The moonlight spills over his face, illuminating him in a pale, ethereal glow. His ruby-red eyes glimmer, like the finest jewels my mother used to wear, nestled close to her heart. He smiles, though it is bittersweet, and whispers, “Perhaps. But I will go back to the heavens if I must. I will plead with those above to let you live.”

His voice is a prayer, a vow, and I laugh again—though this time, it sounds more like a sob. “Is that so?” I say, my voice trembling. “We’ve only just met, yet you speak as if you’ve known me for a lifetime.”

His face twists in pain once more, and I feel something stir in my chest. “Maybe so,” he murmurs, his gaze soft as he looks at me. “Your hand… It feels familiar. Just as your eyes do, boy soldier.” His voice quivers with emotion as he presses a tender kiss to the back of my hand.

For a moment, silence falls between us. In that silence, memories I thought long buried begin to surface, piece by piece. A realization dawns on me, like the first light of morning breaking through the darkness.

Could it be? Could he be…?

Yes. Yes, I remember now. He is the one.

The boy I once was, the soldier I had become—I saved him. I saved him from that cruel, monstrous man. The general. The sinner I was sent to kill. I hadn’t gone there to save Chosen; I hadn’t even known he existed. My mission had been simple: to eliminate a man who had sinned more than I ever could. But in doing so, I saved a broken angel.

“Angel… Angel,” I whisper, a sudden joy lighting up my voice. “You’re the one I saved, aren’t you?” My words tumble out, breathless and giddy. How had I not realized it before? The moment he spoke of it, I should have known. The way he tells it sounds like a fairy tale, but mine… mine is more like a nightmare. His version is radiant, a story of salvation. Mine is drenched in blood and shadow. But still—I had saved an angel.

That must be why I’ve survived so long. Through all the horrors of war, through all the near-deaths and endless battles, something— someone —must have been watching over me.

Chosen. My guardian angel.

Though he may no longer be a true angel, he has protected me all the same.

“Do you see now?” Chosen asks, his voice tender. He rises to his feet, cradling me in his arms as though I weigh nothing at all. His gaze is resolute, and for a moment, I wonder what he intends to do.

“Where are you taking me, Angel?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. My body feels so fragile, so small in his embrace.

“To the roses,” he replies softly. “I will take you now.”

Before I can ask what he means, his wings unfurl with a grace that steals the breath from my lungs. Up close, they are even larger than I imagined—vast, powerful, and breathtakingly beautiful. In one mighty swoop, we ascend into the night sky.

The rush of air against my face is cold, and my thin dress shirt and trousers do nothing to shield me from the chill. I shiver, trembling slightly, but I do not care. Chosen’s arms tighten around me, his warmth an anchor in the freezing winds.

I am flying.

I am flying.

Mother, can you see this? I am soaring through the heavens!

The stars stretch out before me, infinite and dazzling, closer than I’ve ever known them to be. The sky embraces me, vast and eternal, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I feel alive.

The roses glowed with a vibrant red, their color almost otherworldly under the soft silver light of the moon. The air was crisp and fresh, carrying with it the heady fragrance of roses that seemed to saturate the atmosphere. 

Chosen descended gracefully, his movements as fluid and deliberate as the wind itself, and carefully laid me down amidst the sea of crimson petals. The scent hit me instantly—a smell I had long missed. It was the scent of my mother, a bittersweet memory I had almost forgotten.

“Thank you, angel. Thank you,” I rasped, my voice fragile yet full of emotion. “This… this is beautiful, you see. It’s the color of your eyes,” I added, gazing up at Chosen’s face.

He let me lean heavily against his chest, his arms cradling me with a tenderness I had never known. My body, weak and trembling, threatened to collapse, but Chosen held me as though I weighed nothing at all.

Gently, I reached out and plucked a rose from the ground. To my surprise, its stem was smooth—devoid of thorns. I turned it over in my trembling fingers, marveling at its perfection. “Strange,” I muttered, though I didn’t ask why. Some mysteries were better left untouched.

“Is that so?” Chosen asked softly, his voice warm and steady.

“Yes, yes. Look!” I brought the rose closer to his face, holding it just beneath his eyes.

 “Your eyes—they’re just like this rose. The same shade of red. Beautiful,” I said with a weak smile. I was right. His eyes, deep and piercing, reflected the exact hue of the rose in my hand.

Chosen’s face softened. He smiled—no, he brightened . “You’re right,” he murmured, his voice tinged with quiet joy. “My eyes are the same as this rose. And your hair… it’s the same color as well.” He reached out, his fingers brushing against a strand of my hair, tangling it gently around his fingers as though it were the most precious thing in the world.

“Thank you so much, angel, for bringing me here,” I whispered, my voice faint as exhaustion began to creep over me. My hand loosened its grip on the rose, and it slipped lower until it rested against the palm of Chosen’s free hand. 

I leaned back against him, my body sinking further into his steady embrace. The night air, cool and invigorating moments ago, now felt heavy, lulling me into a dreamlike haze. It was as though an invisible blanket had been draped over me, warm and comforting.

But it wasn’t a blanket—it was Chosen’s wings. They unfurled silently, encircling me with their soft, feathered expanse.

“Beautiful,” I murmured, my voice barely audible. Chosen’s arms tightened around my waist as his wings shielded me from the chill of the night.

“Is that so?” he murmured, his voice low and soothing, the sound brushing against my ear like a gentle breeze.

“Yes,” I replied faintly. “Very much so.” 

“Are you tired, my friend?” he asked, his tone softer now, laced with concern.

I hummed weakly in response. “A bit, I’m afraid. But it’s nice… so very nice to be here, in your arms,” I confessed, my voice tinged with wistfulness. “I’ve dreamed of holding you, but it seems the opposite has come true.” My words drew a quiet laugh from Chosen, his chest trembling beneath me with the sound.

“Is that so?” he teased, his voice light. “I hope it’s not as disappointing as you feared.”

I shook my head slowly, a faint smile tugging at my lips. “No, not at all. In fact, it’s better than I ever imagined.” For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt free. The invisible chains that had bound me—chains forged by my father’s expectations and the suffocating memories of a home that once held joy—had fallen away. Chosen had done for me what I had once done for him.

I had saved him from the man who had chained him in that wretched house. And now, he had saved me.

“That’s good,” Chosen murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. He pressed his face into my shoulder, holding me tighter as though he feared I might slip away.

For a moment, we fell into a comfortable silence. The night surrounded us, filled only with the quiet hum of crickets and the rustling of the wind through the roses.

“When you said you hadn’t found the boy you saved… you already knew it was me, didn’t you?” I whispered, breaking the stillness.

Chosen chuckled softly, his breath warm against my skin. “Yes,” he admitted. “I’ve known for a while now that it was you. Ever since that day, I’ve searched for you. Night after night, I scoured the skies, hoping to find the one who saved me.”

Something in Chosen’s tone makes my heart clench, a pang of both sorrow and tenderness swelling within me. To think, all this time—he had searched for me, high and low, across days and nights, skies and lands. My chest feels tight, as though my emotions were too vast for my fragile body to contain.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to remember you,” I whisper weakly, regret lacing my voice. The words feel heavy, as if they carry the weight of all the years we had lost.

Chosen only nods, his expression soft and patient, his arms never faltering in their hold on me. “It does not matter, does it?” he replies gently. “You know now. That’s all that matters.”

His words are simple, but the tenderness in his tone is enough to make my heart tremble. As he cradles me lovingly, I feel a fragile sense of peace settle over me, though it is tinged with uncertainty. I do not know if I will live to see tomorrow. I do not know if my father has already discovered my absence, if he is searching for me even now. But for this moment, none of that matters.

For now, I will savor this fleeting moment with my angel.

Slowly, I let my eyes drift closed, surrendering to the warmth of his embrace. My body grows heavier, but I trust him completely. I trust him to hold me, to carry my weight. I trust him to keep me safe.

That night, I dreamed—something strange and unfamiliar to me. I never dream. Not since... I can’t even remember when. But tonight, I dreamt.

In my dream, I sat atop the same bed of roses, though the world around me was bathed in daylight. The sun was warm, its golden rays cascading over me like a lover’s caress, wrapping me in a tender embrace.

I was seated in a wooden wheelchair, and though my body remained incomplete—an arm, a leg, and an eye still lost to me—I felt different. My once frail, skeletal frame was now filled out and healthy. For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt strong. Whole. Happy.

The air was quiet, save for the distant rustle of leaves and the occasional chirp of birds. It was serene, almost surreal. I inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of roses and the warmth of the sun on my skin.

Then, I heard footsteps.

Startled, I turned my head to see Chosen standing behind me. His presence was radiant, like a beacon of light in a world already so bright. He wore unfamiliar clothing—white robes that draped over his body with an effortless elegance. 

His skin was smooth and unblemished, and his hair, usually tied back, now cascaded freely around his face. His wings were spread wide, their feathers shimmering like a wall of light behind him.

But what struck me most was his expression. He wore a smile, but it was a painful one. His eyes, though calm, held a depth of emotion I couldn’t quite place. His hands were clasped behind his back, as though he were holding something he wasn’t ready to show me.

I stared at him, my breath catching in my throat. And for the first time, I realized—I could breathe. Truly breathe. There was no heaviness in my chest, no sharp pangs of pain coursing through my body. I felt free.

“Hi, angel,” I said softly, my voice steady and clear for the first time in what felt like forever.

Chosen’s eyes widened slightly at my words, as though he hadn’t expected them. But then, his expression softened. He tilted his head and gave me a closed-eyed smile, one so gentle it made my heart ache.

“Welcome, Dark,” he said, his voice as soothing as the breeze that rustled through the roses. His words carried a weight, as though he were welcoming me not just to this place, but to something greater. Somewhere beyond pain, beyond fear, beyond all the burdens we carried in life.

But I didn’t care where I was. All I knew was that I was here. And so was he.

The dream lingered, wrapping me in its warmth even as I drifted deeper into sleep. That night, for the first time in what felt like eternity, I slept peacefully. I slept well.

Chapter Text

Today, I asked my mother for a story. She gave me a warm smile, her eyes twinkling with a familiar mischief. “Have you ever heard of the Angel of Death?” she asked, her voice soft yet teasing. I shook my head quickly, uncertain but curious. Laughing lightly, she reached out to ruffle my hair with a careless affection.

“It sounds scary, Mama,” I whimpered, clutching her side as if she could shield me from the mere thought of such a thing. My voice trembled slightly, betraying my unease. She only laughed, shaking her head as though amused by my fear.

“Oh, but the Angel of Death isn’t supposed to be scary,” she said gently, her hand now stroking my hair to soothe me. Her words confused me, though. I frowned, pouting up at her. How could something with a name like that not be frightening? Didn’t it mean… dying?

Before I could voice my thoughts, she spoke again, her tone calm and reassuring. “The Angel of Death is the one who carries you upward, my dear. They take you to a peaceful place.” She pointed toward the sky, her finger tracing an invisible path to the heavens. Dutifully, I followed her gesture, my young mind trying to grasp the meaning of her words.

“I don’t understand, Mama,” I admitted with a sigh, shaking my head in frustration. My thoughts felt tangled, like a knot I couldn’t undo.

She smiled softly, her hand tenderly cupping my cheek. “You will understand one day,” she murmured, her voice filled with a mysterious warmth. I didn’t press her further; instead, I let my head rest on her lap. The sun bathed us in its golden light as we sat in peaceful silence, the moment stretching out like a timeless lull.

After a while, curiosity bubbled up again, and I couldn’t help but ask, “Mama, are the angels of death beautiful then?" My question must have amused her, for she let out a bright laugh that made her whole body shake.

“Oh, yes,” she replied, her voice full of certainty. “They are very beautiful. Their void-black wings and ruby-red eyes…” Her words sent a shiver down my spine. That did not sound beautiful to me at all! In fact, it sounded terrifying.

“Mama, that’s horrible!” I cried out, my voice rising in disbelief. “Angels can’t have black wings!” My image of angels was all wrong now—what she described seemed more like a nightmare.

But she only chuckled, her hand moving to pat my head. “Oh, my sweet child,” she said fondly, shaking her head. “They are the kindest beings you’ll ever meet. Those black wings? They’ll wrap them around you, keeping you safe. And their red eyes? They’ll watch over you, guiding you to the skies.” Her voice was so full of conviction, so gentle, that I almost believed her. Almost.

I frowned, my lips pressing together in defiance. “Mama…” I began, unsure of what I wanted to say. But she hushed me with a soft hum, her hand brushing over my hair once more.

“Now, now,” she said with a playful smile. “How about we take a trip to the market? Your father has been gone far too long. He’s probably gotten lost deciding what to buy!” She giggled at the thought, and her laughter was infectious.

Excited by the idea, I jumped to my feet, nodding vigorously. “Father must have! Let’s go, Mama!” I exclaimed, tugging on her hand eagerly. She laughed again, her voice ringing out like a melody, and together we set off toward the market, the thought of angels—dark wings and all—lingering in the back of my mind.

End.