Chapter Text
Xelqua felt its heart pounding against its chest— or what it thought would be a heart, if it had one. The sensation was alien, foreign, for its body had never belonged to itself. It wasn’t quite sure what it had inside, or what it was anymore. What it had been. Nor could it remember that last time it had felt something so vivid. Was this fear? Anticipation? Or just the echo of some distant past?
For the first time in… how long?— there was sound. The prison had been silent for what felt like eternity, but now noise flooded in. The crashing of objects striking stone walls and floors, the guttural rasping of fighting cries, and the sharp echoes of someone yelling for help. The noise was too much after a lifetime of silence. It pressed against Xelqua’s mind until it reeled, unaccustomed to the chaos. It didn’t know what was happening beyond its cell, and it hardly dared to hope.
The Watchers had sentenced it to eternal imprisonment, declaring it could only leave when it had “learned.” Whatever that meant.
Xelqua had no idea how long it had been locked away in the Watchers' prison. It hadn’t always been like this.
It remembered, faintly, the first months. Maybe years. Back then, it had been an honor to stand among the Watchers, to be invited into their realm, to be seen as one of them.
It had no memory of how it arrived. The Watchers claimed they had found it on the verge of death, shattered and beaten, dragged from the ruins of some forgotten world. They claimed they had healed it out of the kindness of their hearts, and in return, they gave it glimpses of something greater. They had taught it their ways— how to observe, how to truly see.
But for Xelqua, seeing had never been enough. It had grown fascinated with the other realms below, the fragile places crawling with powerless creatures that lived and died like sparks burning out too soon. It longed to understand them, to speak with them, to touch their fleeting lives, to understand what it meant to be small and finite. To the Watchers, this desire was hearsay. No one questioned. No one interfered.
It had challenged their traditions, and for Xelqua, that was enough to be condemned.
Now, it remained bound by the very magic it had once wielded. Chains of unyielding light stretched from wall to wall and pinned its form in place— six wings folded and useless, even the smaller ones circling its head restrained. Its sight had been taken, its hearing stripped away, leaving it in a prison of silence and blindness. Time had become meaningless, an endless stretch of emptiness. Even when the Watchers came to gloat, it no longer heard them. The silence had been so absolute that it had almost forgotten it ever possessed senses at all.
Immortality, it had learned, was no gift.
It had stopped waiting for rescue long ago. It remembered nothing of a past life, if there had even been one. Even if someone were to destroy the Watchers themselves, the prison would hold. Watcher magic was stubborn— woven with threads of reality itself.
But something— maybe even someone— was outside fighting hard enough to make the walls tremble.
Xelqua’s head snapped up at the pounding against the prison door. It hadn’t felt this kind of energy in what felt like forever. With a deafening crack, the door exploded inward, and chaos spilled through.
There was light. Too much light.
Xelqua flinched instinctively, its senses overwhelmed. Its eyes, or what remained of them, strained against the sudden brightness, and shapes began to form in the glare.
Two flashes of yellow darted into the room, cloaked in gold that flared like sunlight against the shadowed cell. One of them wore a strip of black fabric tied around his forehead, his hair catching the light like fire. The other bore enormous golden wings, gleaming as they beat the air in restless bursts.
“Grian,” cried the taller one. “You’re actually here!”
Its head simply tilted, confused. Who was Grian?
The name did not belong to it. The word felt wrong, as if it were meant for something else entirely. It was nothing but a shadow, a nine-foot silhouette of wings and violet light, stripped of its purpose and power. Surely they didn’t mean it.
How it wished for its sight again.
“Listen, we don’t have much time,” the other said, voice taut with urgency. He pressed both hands to the thick bars of the cell, molten gold bleeding from his palms, refracting in jagged lines across the walls.
The noise, the brightness, the sudden rush of movement— it was too much. Xelqua’s thoughts fractured, scattered into static. Then the chains broke.
The shock of freedom sent it crashing to the ground, wings hitting stone with a sickening crack. It didn’t even know how to move.
“I’m so sorry, Grian. You need to run,” the smaller one said, his voice cracking with something that almost sounded like desperation. “I promise we’ll see each other again. Everything will make sense, but not here. Not now.”
He turned to the other man. “Jimmy, we need to go now! We can’t stay together, they’ll find us.”
The one called Jimmy hesitated, eyes burning with something Xelqua couldn’t name. “We’ve missed you, man. Just wait a little longer? On my count, run as fast as you can. Get out of this realm.”
It couldn’t speak. Eons of silence had left its voice buried, forgotten. Questions swarmed, but no words formed. Before it could even think, they grabbed its arms and pulled. Its body stumbled after them on instinct, wings dragging like dead weight as the sound of pursuit thundered behind them.
All of its strength burned just to keep moving. The Watchers were close. A painful tear shot through its wings— white-hot, searing, as if the feathers were being stripped from its bones. The edge of the realm loomed, raw and open, and the pair didn’t slow.
“See you soon, Grian!” The winged one shouted, grabbing the other man and launching upward in a flare of gold.
And Xelqua fell.
It only heard one thing as it plunged, before the wind ripped even that away. The two remaining Watchers leaned over the edge, shadows bleeding from their forms, gazes sharp enough to pierce its soul.
“Fine,” one of them said, the voice echoing in its skull. “If this is what you want, young one.”
Then they twisted into darkness, shrinking to nothing as the realm broke apart above.
Wind tore through its feathers, its useless wings flailing like broken sails, every nerve burning with pain. It felt its form unravel, struggling to hold shape, to stay together. All parts of it screamed to break apart, to scatter into a million pieces.
Xelqua had nothing. No magic. No power. Nothing but the hollow rush of air and the terrible, dizzying sensation of falling.
An ever-growing sense of dread settled in Scar’s chest before he even opened his eyes. He felt the faint pressure of tiny paws kneading over his sternum and the warm rush of sunlight cutting through the curtains to kiss his face. Groaning, he rolled onto his side and reached blindly for the phone on his bedside table. A glowing screen greeted him with an overwhelming sea of notifications— twenty-five missed calls from Lizzie, ten voicemails from Joel (likely prompted by Lizzie), and 306 unread texts.
He winced. “Oh, Lizzie…” he mumbled, dragging a hand down his face. He loved her, he really did. She was the sister he never had, all tequila-fueled mischief and barroom karaoke in college, goofing off and pranking each other while tipsily stumbling back to their dorm rooms. Still, she had a knack for mothering that he could truly live without. He didn’t dare open the texts. He was almost certain they were mostly hers— maybe with a few scattered memes from Joel to lighten the blow.
Scar let out a tense sigh, the kind of exhale that came from too many days like this. He tossed the phone carelessly onto the mattress, landing with a soft thud beside him. Something in the motion tugged uncomfortably at his spine. He inhaled slowly, trying not to hiss.
He tried to ignore the pain, turning his attention to the calming pressure on his chest. Jellie was still there, in all her feline glory, curled like the royalty she was atop his chest. Her purring was rhythmic and unfazed as she kneaded with practiced determination, as if attempting to patch together whatever part of him had come undone. Scar gave her a weak smile and scratched behind her ears, fingers disappearing into soft tufts of silver-flecked fur.
“Hey, Miss Jellie,” he murmured. His voice cracked, caught between sleep and some unspoken ache. “What are we gonna do with me, huh?”
Jellie stretched into his hand with a trill, eyes half-lidded in knowing. There was mischief there, subtle and familiar, tucked beneath her purrs and fluff. Scar huffed a soft laugh. “Alright, alright, breakfast for the queen. How could I ever forget?”
The word breakfast had an almost magical effect. Her ears perked up sharply. In a fluid motion, she leapt from his chest and disappeared through the cracked bedroom door with a regal purpose.
Scar sat up with a grunt, arms shaking faintly as he braced himself. A dull fire lit along his back and down his legs— warning flares more than panic. Yeah, it was definitely going to be one of those days. He could move, just slowly. The kind not bad enough to warrant his wheelchair, just enough to make walking on his own a conscious effort; his cane was non-negotiable.
He reached for it on instinct, fingers brushing against the familiar wood, pausing when he caught sight of his alarm clock.
2:57 PM.
“Great,” he muttered to himself. “So much for breakfast… no wonder she was glaring at me with those perfect angel eyes.”
He really needed to invest in an automatic feeder. Jellie would worship the ground he stood on.
He heaved himself out of bed slowly, stretching just enough to crack something unpleasant in his back, and caught his reflection in the bedroom mirror. It was not a kind sight. God, he looked like a mess.
A faded Star Wars t-shirt from his university days hung off his frame, paired with ratty gray sweatpants, both covered in a thick layer of gray and white cat hair. His chestnut hair fell just over his shoulders, curling messily in every direction imaginable, resembling more of a messy mop at this point. There were shadows under his emerald eyes— the kind no rest could fix. His fingers subconsciously traced one of the many scars on his face; this one fell on his right jaw, trailing down his neck and shoulder.
Shaking his head at himself, he shuffled towards the faint sound of Jellie’s meowing into the kitchen, trailing the stiffness of sleep and disuse. The floor cracked as he moved, each step careful, the pain a quiet undercurrent. His body remembered things even when he tried not to.
Then, as he passed the window, he stopped cold. Outside, the sky was shimmering with a strange purple glow.
Not pink, not the warm fire of sunset— this was deeper, unnatural, like a bruise. A wrong kind of light. It painted the world in strange hues, the long shadows of pines bending at odd angles across the clearing.
Scar pressed a hand to the glass. Everything felt wrong. No birds, not even a chirp or the faint fluttering of wings overhead. Only stillness.
He blinked. The silence pressed against the cabin, dense and humming with something not quite there. A chill prickled slowly up his spine.
“Just a solar flare,” he whispered to himself, not quite believing it. “Or a weird storm front. Something explainable.”
Scar was quickly startled out of his stupor as he heard another meow of protest echo from the kitchen.
“Right, right, I hear you, girl,” Scar called, peeling himself from the window. “A royal meal for her majesty.”
He turned towards the cupboard and stretched for the top shelf, where Jellie’s food rested. Despite her age, she was a fickle thing and wouldn’t hesitate to gorge herself when given the chance. He chuckled faintly, recalling the time he had found her as a kitten asleep inside a bag of cat food, happily dozing away with a full stomach in a bed of kibble.
Despite the irrational unease from the eerie lack of wildlife around the cabin today, each day bled into the next. It felt like any old day. Time moved on without him— low, indifferent, and quiet. The forest offered peace, but not purpose. Jellie was the only sense of normalcy he had left, the thread that kept him tethered to something vaguely human. Still, the motions of his days blurred into repetition.
Wake up sometime in the late afternoon, brew black coffee strong enough to sting his foggy brain, and eat whatever he could justify— usually sugary cereal he knew was far from nourishing. Then, the mental preparation for a shower, fighting to get in, losing himself under the warm water, and toying again with the idea of cutting his hair to make things easier. He never followed through, though. Instead, he tied it up in a stubby ponytail or a haphazard bun, just tidy enough to keep it out of his face. Out here, there was no one to impress but himself… and Jellie.
Some days, he sat on the patio, listening to the forest’s quiet song. Other days, he focused on Jellie, making sure she got her fair share of exercise— flinging treats across the floor or tugging toys across the rug, if only to break the monotony.
But every day, without fail, he ended up at the same barstool in front of the same tired canvas. He’d peel off the dusty sheet like he was unearthing something sacred, only to be met with disappointment. Lifeless greens and browns choked the background— overbrushed attempts to conjure life that refused to appear. He could never quite bring himself to finish it. His hands shook whenever they touched a brush, muscles weak from disuse, or maybe something deeper. He’d sketch the suggestion of trees— void of the life that used to flow through his works— and then, frustrated, smother them under another thick layer of muted earth tones.
The forest should’ve inspired him. It was why he’d come here, but the silence never offered clarity, only emptiness.
He didn’t know exactly when the spiral had started, but he knew it was dangerous. It hadn’t crashed over him all at once. It crept in quietly, subtly, until everything felt out of reach, until he felt frozen while the world moved on without him. His body had begun betraying him years ago. Muscles weakening. Days spent leaning heavier on his cane, others trapped in a wheelchair. It wasn’t just the pain— it was the sense of slipping, of shrinking.
His friends were getting married, finding jobs, building lives. And Scar. Scar was here, painting dead trees. Watching dust gather on his reflection, drowning in the ever-growing pressure of needing to change, though his art and body fell behind. He hated these spirals, but they had become an ever-present part of his life for a while now.
A low buzz against his thigh brought him out of his whirlwind of unnecessary thoughts and memories. He blinked, hand drifting toward his phone. He winced at the flood of more missed messages from Lizzie and Joel.
So much for the peace and quiet in the woods.
The reasonable part of his brain nudged him to call them back, or at least shoot off a quick text to say he was alive, but as his eyes drifted back to the dull, lifeless mess of greens and browns, his thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind.
How could he text his friends if he couldn’t even finish a stupid painting?
It wasn’t like this was his first commission, far from it. But now, every time he reached for a brush, his hands refused to cooperate. The colors didn’t make sense anymore. Nothing did. He couldn’t name what was wrong.
He’d come out here to clear his head, just like Lizzie had suggested.
And he remembered the conversation vividly.
Joel and Lizzie had asked him to meet at a local bar in town, nothing out of the ordinary. Scar had slid into the booth opposite of them, trying not to notice the tension in the air. His legs stuck to the faux leather seat, tacky with summer humidity and quiet dread.
Lizzie was subconsciously twisting a strand of pink hair around one finger, eyes flickering from Scar to the window to Joel, like she was bracing for impact. Joel had one hand resting over hers, his silver wedding band catching the dim taproom light. His fingers danced along the tabletop subconsciously.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Scar’s stomach turned at the sight. That kind of fidgeting wasn’t casual; it was loaded. It meant something was coming.
Still, he smiled like nothing was wrong. Obviously.
They ordered drinks and made casual conversation in the meantime. Scar had done the best to derail whatever heavy thing they were trying to bring up. Talking about Meri, their adorable, slobbery puppy, was always a good distraction.
“And speaking of Meri,” he’d stated, grinning widely, “that beautiful pile of fur and kisses… I’m still the proudest godfather ever. Jellie and her really need to meet sometime. I mean, the two most important things in this world meeting? God, it’d be perfect.”
Joel glanced at Lizzie. “Scar…” he said softly.
Shoot. Not good enough this time.
“Scar, you know Joel and I love you,” Lizzie began, her voice taking on that too-gentle tone that made him wince. She always managed to sound like his mother getting ready to scold him.
“But well, frankly, something’s been off,” Joel cut in. “And hey, there’s nothing wrong with a rough patch. I don’t even want to remember Year 7. I dyed my hair red, man. What emotionally stable kid does that?”
Lizzie gave a weak laugh but leaned forward, her tone turning sober again. “That’s not really the point, though. You just seem… stuck. And it’s not like we’re expecting a miracle fix, but— Etho mentioned this old cabin out in the woods… mentioned something about it belonging to his grandparents at some point, maybe? Anyway, Bdubs stayed there once, during his, uh… self-reflection arc. Apparently, it helped.”
Scar’s brow furrowed. He didn’t like where this was going.
“We were thinking,” she continued, “maybe some time out there could help. Fresh air, nature. No pressure, just some space to breathe.”
“Guys,” Scar interrupted. “C’mon. I’m not crazy, stop making me sound like I’m crazy. You don’t have to stage an intervention.”
“We know,” Lizzie said quickly. Her fingers kept twirling that same strand of hair. “We’re not saying you are. We’re just… worried, Scar. That’s all. We miss you. Just— think about it. Please?”
Scar’s chest felt tight, like the air in the room had thickened. His heart thudded against his ribs, loud in his ears, and he prayed that the pair couldn’t hear it. He swallowed hard, trying to push the rising heat from his throat back down where it belonged.
“...Alright,” he muttered. “I’ll think about it. If it makes you feel better… Just don’t count on it, okay?”
And now, here he was. Two weeks later. In the exact cabin he’d sworn he wouldn’t step in, standing stiffly before an abandoned painting. Hundreds of unread notifications blinked accusingly on his phone, the little red bubbles mocking his silence. His chest tightened with the weight of all the unanswered messages.
He wondered how long it would take for Lizzie to get desperate enough to show up herself. Maybe she was pacing her own cramped house right now, phone clutched tight in trembling hands, wondering why Scar had left in an abrupt silence, or if he’d ever answer. He didn’t blame her. Part of him hated himself for hiding, for retreating back into solitude. What had he gotten himself into?
He shook his head and tried to scatter the memories like dust— fragments of arguments, laughter, slammed hospital doors that echoed in the hollow rooms in his mind. But they clung stubbornly, sticky and sharp, pricking at his thoughts.
“I’ll call them eventually,” Scar said weakly, trying to convince himself more than anyone else. He adjusted the curtain over the painting once more, smoothing the fabric with trembling fingers, then turned away and shuffled into the living room.
Outside the window, trees swayed gently in the wind— a slow, hypnotic dance that usually helped to calm him down. The soft rustle of leaves was a familiar lullaby. He opened the window a crack and breathed in deeply, letting the crisp, pine-scented air fill his lungs.
The worn leather couch squeaked beneath him as he sat down, and he leaned his cane carefully against the cushions. Usually, Jellie would be perched beside him, her tail flicking in time with the familiar chirping of birds. They would both watch the brightly colored songbirds flit by, occasionally munching on the birdseed Scar left out— of course, she likely had more murderous tendencies towards the small creatures than he, but it was a necessary break for the pair.
But today, there was nothing. No twitching tail. No songs. No chirping. Not even the faintest flutter of wings. There was just an unnatural silence that settled over the cabin like a suffocating blanket.
Scar’s eyes narrowed, scanning the empty branches beyond the window. The air felt still— too still. The breeze that usually teased the pine needles had vanished. Even the sun had vanished without a trace.
Jellie seemed to notice it too. She was stiffer than usual, her ears pricked and body taut as she paced the small room, restless and alert. Scar’s skin prickled with unease.
It was strange. It might have been silly, but he had become quite reliant on the little songbirds as of late. Somehow, these colorful birds— bright flashes of light against the muted green— had become one of his few sources of inspiration lately. Maybe it was their persistence to live, endlessly fluttering to stay afloat, or the way they cared for one another despite small fights over sunflower seeds. Whatever it was, his sketchbook had been filled with quick, lively doodles of songbirds midflight. Though no trained wildlife illustrator, Scar found in their flight a spark of life he felt slipping away from himself.
Then, without warning, a sharp, high-pitched burst of static ripped through the air, shattering the silence. The television flared to life with a sudden flash, a cascade of multicolored bars dancing chaotically across the screen.
“Sweet jeezums! What in the world?” Scar yelped, clapping his hands over his ears. Jellie bolted into his lap, eyes wide and wild, her small body trembling against him as the screeching sound filled the room.
And just as soon as it started, there was nothing— silence.
The TV now glowed dimly, flickering to a random weather channel.
“What the?” Scar muttered, heart hammering, “I don’t need to know about the chance of rain. What the heck was that?”
He fumbled under the couch cushions, fingers brushing the remote until he grasped it. A quick press and the screen went black, shutting off the weatherman mid-forecast. Scar sagged back into the couch, breath shallow and shaky.
He stroked Jellie’s fur gently, trying to calm her— and himself.
“You’re fine,” Scar muttered, voice tight. “Just some random weird solar storm messing with the electronics. Totally nothing out of the ordinary… explains why the birds are gone… yep, real normal stuff. Great job, Scar.”
His eyes flitted to the window, glancing towards the sky, the purple hue feeling more and more foreboding as the sky darkened.
Ah, that’s what was off. There wasn’t a single star in the sky, only the full moon providing some sort of relief as it glowed down on the nearby branches. The stars had been something he’d become more familiar with in the absence of light pollution out in the woods. Just another thing to add to the list of today’s abnormalities.
But there, out of nowhere, a sudden light tore through the sky. It reminded him of a meteor shower, except there was only one trail falling through the sky. It seemed to get closer and closer before disappearing behind the familiar canopy of pines and oaks. Then there was silence for a moment, before a crashing sound filled the air.
He didn’t know how to describe it, but Scar imagined that’s what a falling spaceship, or maybe a meteor, would sound like if it hit the ground. Something compelled him to investigate, to see what had fallen so close.
Without thinking, Scar grabbed his coat and bolted outside, cane abandoned and forgotten.
The pale outline of the moon burned silver through the dense pines, but it could not touch the unnatural glow pulsing deeper in the woods.
The forest was unnerving in its stillness. The breeze had died completely. The branches hung rigid and brittle. The tall pines cast shadows despite the eerie light emanating from deeper in the woods.
There was no sound except for the dry, red pine needles underfoot that crackled with every step. No crickets chirped. No cicadas sang. Even the night air seemed to hold its breath.
Every instinct screamed for him to stop, to turn around, but something inside him pushed against it. Not panic. Not curiosity. A pull. He didn’t stop. His feet carried him forward, heart pounding as he delved deeper into the oppressive quiet. The faint, brittle crack of burnt debris mingled with the whisper of something still smoldering as the ground darkened with ash.
The crash site unfolded before him like a wound in the forest. Trees blackened and splintered. The underbrush seared to ash. Tendrils of smoke curled low, swirling ghostlike over the scorched Earth. The air tasted sharp and acrid— burning resin mixed with something metallic, copper or ozone maybe, a scent that pricked at his skin and lingered like a whispered warning. Something was terribly wrong.
And at the center of it all, hovered a figure. Or something like one.
Massive wings, too many wings, wrapped themselves tight around a glowing core that pulsed with a deep violet light, shimmering like oil spilled on dark water. The air around it warped and bent, heat-hazy and rippling, painted with flickering purple shapes— particles, maybe? Eyes? Scar prayed they were nothing more than drifting embers caught in the twilight’s glow.
The creature’s head was framed inside a jagged rectangle of violet light, vaguely angelic in form but fractured and twisted beyond recognition. Black and dark purple feathers masked its face, flickering softly, as if breathing with a secret life of their own. But the most unsettling part was the skin beneath— a cracked, porcelain mask, glowing golden light seeping through the literal seams like a broken shell of a messed-up doll struggling to hold itself together.
As if noticing him just standing there, the creature let out a low, warbling groan that rippled through the air, vibrating deep in Scar’s bones. Instinctively, he stumbled back, his stomach coiling tightly.
It wasn’t just the wings or the unnatural glow. It was the way the thing moved— awkwardly, painfully— as if it was still learning how to exist in gravity’s unforgiving pull. It writhed with slow, trembling convulsions, each movement seemingly out of sync with the world around it. Even the wind bowed in strange defiance, bending and stalling as if caught in the creature’s disjointed rhythm.
He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, frozen, heart pounding in his ears.
Then, slowly, the wings curled inward. The shape convulsed once more, then collapsed in on itself, shrinking and folding. The glow ebbed slowly like a dying star. The forest held its breath in the heavy silence that followed.
And there, where the creature had been, now lay a man. Or well… something close enough to a man.
The tattered, once-fitted robes clung to him, swallowing the form whole. Jewel-toned feathers shimmered faintly in the moonlight, twitching with residual static. His face was human enough— pale skin, tousled hair— but from his back and where his ears should have been, wings curved in subtle arcs, their delicate feathers brushing faintly against the night air, fragile and alive.
Scar’s mind recoiled, struggling to reconcile with what his eyes showed him.
The man lay still, surrounded by pools of a liquid akin to blood, but not lifeless.
Scar’s breath hitched as the figure shifted faintly, just enough for his face to tilt towards the light. His eyes cracked open—
And Scar froze.
They were no eyes in any earthly sense. Just deep, endless pools of black with threads of purple light drifting inside them like stars caught in a never-ending void. Something ancient and unknowable gazed back at him. Not quite seeing him. Not quite not seeing him, either.
Scar’s skin crawled. A shiver ran down his spine, and the silence stretched between them, thick and waiting.
He forced himself to look away, his breath trembling. “Sweet heavens,” he muttered. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
Still, he stepped forward. Gently, Scar nudged the man’s shoulder with his foot. No response, but the steady rise and fall of his chest told Scar he was alive.. That was… something, assuming death meant the same thing to whatever it was.
Without giving himself more time to think, Scar crouched, hooking his arms under the stranger’s shoulders and knees, careful not to tangle in the enormous wings. “Alright, bird boy,” he said quietly, trying for steady humor. “You’re coming with me.”
He staggered to his feet, a familiar pain blooming in his joints. The weight was unfamiliar but not unbearable, surprisingly light, in fact, for a grown man. The feathers brushed softly against his cheek, warm and silky, strange yet comforting. Scar begged his mind to gloss over the bizarre nature of this all.
The forest said nothing as he turned and carried the fallen stranger home.
But the silence felt changed— no longer empty, but waiting.