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They never wanted me to find you
Told me you can't fight against fate
I get the feeling I've been lied to
Every time that we touch
I hear the angels cry
No, they don't want you to be mine
MAKE THE ANGELS CRY — Chris Grey
Silence.
The field of sand was plagued grey, the sky bleeding white. No trees were there to rustle, no wind dared to whisper. The earth held its breath. The Listeners perked their ears. Martyn stared in horror at the scene before him, white wings and pointed ears drooping. His hand shook, barely raised and reaching for something he could never have.
Grian’s breaths came in gasps and chokes, talons (claws, they will always be claws) gripping the fabric of Jimmy’s white shirt (notwhiteredredredRED). Purple pits mistaken as eyes stared wide at the grey dust of the ground, six pairs of feathered white hanging from his back.
The red vest atop his white shirt did nothing to conceal the blood coating the claws of The Fallen, the blood crying from the wound on The Canary’s chest. The sword was still there, green stained crimson yet glow not faltered. The Fallen’s breathing turned to sobs, tears of golden ichor dripping from his violet eye sockets. He leaned forward, shoving The Canary’s limp head into his shoulder and dragging his wings around the canary.
The audience did nothing but grin, listening to his cries, listening to his pain.
The Champion felt sick. “ Grian …I didn’t know They would — I didn’t mean — ”
The Fallen wailed into the sky, falling forward and dropping the body, shoving his forehead against The Canary’s still chest. His wings flared and shined, white melting into translucent purple, hands fading to grey and claws curling into the sand. A second pair of arms ripped out his back and clawed at his throat, freckles opening to familiar eyes dotting his face.
The hairs of The Champion’s neck raised as feathers sprouted from the cheeks of The Fallen, a yellow halo whirling around his head. The Champion’s hand fell limp, his own tears burning. I caused this.
This is it.
Eyes blinked into existence, a glow radiating from every purple surface on the Watcher. The Fallen’s wings barely folded, stretched out like a shield from the sky.
This is the monster They wished to kill.
The Fallen screamed and curled into himself, claws gripping his hair and spreading the blood of his brother. He sounded distorted, echoed and broken and grieving. The Listeners chuckled and giggled and grinned amongst themselves. “We told you, champion.” They whispered to The Champion. “We are no heroes, whether The Ones Who Watch be villains or not, we stand for what we wish and what we want.”
Cracks began to form in the sky, whispers and eyes illuminating what was once blank. Black liquid began to drip down from The Fallen’s neck as he continued to claw at the skin.
But…
This isn’t what I wanted. The Champion was forced to turn away from The Fallen, from the tears pouring down, from the blood frosting the ground. A piece of him withered when he followed Them through the portal, ignoring the screams and shout and begs from the ‘monster’ behind him.
It was engraved into his mind, burned like a TV without a screensaver. It was beautiful, in a sick and twisted way. Like a painting hung atop a warzone, dripping with blood.
He looks more like an angel.
(A fallen one at that.)