Chapter 1 #2
“You do realize I’m trying to help you,” I say, crouching down to roll him over onto his back.
He winces when he lands. I wonder if he’s injured somewhere hidden beneath all those layers of mud.
First things first.
“Come on. Let’s get some food into you.”
His eyes fall on the stew, and even though most of his face is still covered in filth, I can see the hunger there. Raw. Desperate. It hits me like a punch to the chest.
But almost as soon as he looks at it, he stubbornly turns his face away.
“What? Don’t like stew?” I sit down in the bed of mulched leaves, the last rays of sunlight filtering through the trees overhead. I lift his head and prop it in my lap. “I can literally hear how hungry you are.”
“Come on,” I say, gentling my voice. “You’re going to take some sips for me.”
I lift the spoon to his lips. They stay stubbornly closed.
“Open your mouth.” I pour all the compulsion I can manage into the command.
Still, he keeps his lips sealed tight.
Frustration explodes through me. “What’s wrong with you! Do you want to die?”
His eyes flash up to meet mine.
He nods once.
Something cold settles in my chest. Something that feels dangerously close to recognition.
I grit my teeth and glare down at him. “Well, too bad, buddy. You ran into me on the wrong day. I’m not leaving until you eat this goddamned stew, and I don’t care if I have to force it down your throat.
I’m your fucking angel of mercy whether you like it or not, and you’re going to let me help you. ”
A sound comes from his throat—raspy, unexpected.
It takes me a moment to realize he’s laughing.
“Angel?” His voice cracks on the word. Those gray eyes lift toward me with a look I can’t quite decipher. Probably because his face is still covered in god-knows-what. But there’s something in that gaze. Something that feels like... wonder?
“That’s right,” I say firmly. “I’m your motherfucking angel today.”
I grab his jaw, tug it open, and shove a spoonful of stew into his mouth.
I expect him to spit it out. To fight me.
Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on mine as he chews slowly, then swallows.
His whole body seems to expand with the breath he takes after. Like he’s coming back to life, one swallow at a time.
How long has it been since he let food pass his lips?
I don’t give him time to reconsider. I push another spoonful to his lips. Then another. And another.
He eats half the bowl before I relent. It’s a large portion, and I don’t want it coming back up on an empty stomach.
“Good boy,” I say quietly.
Those large gray eyes just watch me. Silent. Assessing.
I have no idea how old he is. Can’t even confirm his gender beyond guessing from the width of his shoulders.
“Now let’s get you cleaned up,” I tell him. “Then we’ll get some rest.”
“Aren’t you hungry?” he asks. There’s more strength in his low voice now.
I smile down at him despite myself. “I’ll eat once you’re cleaned up.”
His eyes watch me warily as I help him crawl back to the water pump.
“Fair warning—this water is going to be ice cold,” I say. “Not pleasant.”
He doesn’t respond as I help position him under the spout.
I move the supplies out of the way, then stand to work the iron handle of the old pump. As I start pumping up and down, clean well-water pours over him.
He shivers violently but makes no move to escape.
At first, the water makes almost no difference to the caked mud. I lean down, take the bar of soap, and start scrubbing his face.
He allows it. His body stays mostly limp, pliant under my hands.
I’m shocked when the mud finally begins to loosen and wash away.
Holy shit, he’s young.
Way younger than I expected. He’s not some ancient, toothless beggar at all. He looks maybe in his mid-twenties, though it’s still a little hard to tell with the long, matted beard.
He’s so gaunt and bony I’m genuinely shocked he’s alive. His cheekbones jut sharply. His eye sockets are hollowed out. Every rib is visible.
His hair is too long and tangled to properly wash. I grab the scissors I found inside and start cutting away the gnarled mess, washing it again and again. The brown mud sluices away to reveal—
Blond.
Pale, almost white-blond hair.
I do the same to his beard, trimming it down to about an inch. I can’t remove it completely without the risk of cutting him, but this is better.
He starts helping me since the food seems to have given him strength, clawing layers of mud off his torso and legs. If he was wearing clothes at some point, they’ve long since disintegrated. How long was he out there sitting against that tree?
When he turns, bending modestly to wash between his legs, I gasp.
There, protruding from between his shoulder blades—
Two blackened stumps jut out of his back, with some sort of garish bronze-like metal covering them.
It looks like the metal was poured on while molten, because there are still now hardened drips of it burned into the flesh of his back.
Little white feathers stick out around the metal edges, as if what was once there is trying desperately to grow back but can’t because of the metallic cap.
What. The. Hell.
He turns his head to look over his shoulder at me.
We share a long, weighted silence.
He knows what I’ve seen.
“Are those—” I reach out instinctively to touch them.
He yanks away, standing up quickly with his hands covering his groin. “Do you have a covering?”
I stand too, my knees and shins soaked from the pool we’ve created under the pump. I hurry to hand him the large gray towel I brought.
Wings.
Those were wings on his back. Wings that were brutally shorn off and kept from regrowing by molten metal. If such a thing were even possible to survive.
“Here.” I turn my face away, giving him privacy as he wraps the towel around his waist. Wings. White wings, judging by the feathers. Does that mean he is—or was—an… My head can’t even wrap around what he might be.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
When I turn back, we face each other in the gathering twilight.
“I must leave you now,” he says.
I shake my head immediately. “No. You can’t. You’re not strong enough.”
Standing tall and lanky now—barely more than bones wrapped in skin—he looks painfully, heartbreakingly young.
“I’m poison to any who are near me,” he says, taking a step back. “You’ve seen the truth of what I am.”
“And what is that? An angel? A fallen angel?” I ask, taking a deliberate step forward. “I’m not easily scared off.”
He comes forward suddenly and bares his teeth—the movement would be menacing if he wasn’t swaying on his feet.
“You should be scared of me.” His voice drops to a hiss.
“I am the hunger in the darkness. I am the monster that separates crying babes from their mothers. I am slow death, the angel of Famine, a Horseman of the Apocalypse. Run before I steal all the fullness and life you’ve ever known, little girl. ”
I laugh in his face.
The sound obviously startles him. His attempt at menace crumbles.
“Oh, honey.” I reach out and pat his lean, mud-streaked cheek right before he can jerk away. “You’re adorable.”
His eyes widen.
“I’m a much bigger monster than you,” I tell him matter-of-factly. “Now come inside. You can barely stand on your feet. Let’s both get some dinner.”