Feathers

Fallen into darkness,
Forgotten by our kind,
Our suffering is ageless,
Our pain both soul and mind.
Beasts from the Ether,
We hunt by day and night,
Searching for a feather,
A spark of Angel’s light.

The blackbird hopped through the gap in the cracked window, using dark feathered wings to slow its fall. Landing softly, it peered through the darkness of the night, the gloomy shadows that collected in the corners of the run-down and abandoned house. It shimmered and twisted, animal form warping into a pale-skinned humanoid, with matted silvery hair.

“Blackbird, singing in the dead of night…”

He hummed softly, drawing a long, curved knife from under his coat. It still glistened with golden blood, dripping onto the dusty floorboards. Using a rag, he wiped the blade, head cocked slightly to the side.

“Take these broken wings, and learn to fly...”

He surveyed the room with dark violet eyes, calm and controlled, the knife sliding through the cloth between his fingers, matted with the thick blood of the Seraph. He continued humming the tune, in a soft voice, until the blade was clean and a shadow stepped from the wall, moving into the halo of light that filtered through the grime-covered window.

The demon watched silently with eyes like dying embers, twisted ebony horns protruding from his forehead, a dark furred leonine tail flicking behind him. Its claws were retracted, so the pale fingers that it extended to the Blackbird looked deceptively human. The demons skin burned with feverish heat, its gaze impassive and seemingly calm, a perfect mask for the maelstrom underneath.

The Blackbird smiled at the face of chaos.

“Hyrazun Emberheart,” he murmured, watching the anger flare in the demon’s molten eyes at the mention of his true name. A hungry tongue slipped over the demon’s lips, but he was incapable of answering. Fallen were doomed to silence.

The Blackbird slid the knife back into his belt, letting the rag fall to the dusty floor, and turned towards the worn stairwell, beckoning for the demon to follow. They walked down the fissured steps of the ageing house, in almost total silence.

The Blackbird followed the hall, sliding the key in a door with cracked cream-colored paint. The room beyond it was small, little more than a cupboard. Improvised chains of black iron fell from holes in the ceiling, ending in cruel iron hooks. The hooks pierced the flesh of angelic wings, puncturing them below the bone to keep the figure suspended in the air.

His arms and legs hung limp, rivulets of golden blood pouring from the gashes in both wings, pooling in a slick puddle on the floor. His eyes shone slightly with angelic fire, but they had less strength than candle flame. Once white feathers, now greying, covered had fallen into the pool of metallic blood. Each one flickered slightly, with a spark of angelic power.
The demon shivered in hunger and apprehension, his eyes swirling with flames, and stumbled forward.

“Have your feathers,” the Blackbird said softly, opening the door wider. The demon snarled and pounced, almost feline, on the suspended figure. Long thin claws tore at flesh, droplets of golden blood spattering on the walls and floor. The Blackbird winced, leaving the room, and closed the door behind him.

He brushed a feather off his coat as the sound of ripping flesh grew harder to ignore, watching it flutter to the ground with a sigh.