On Wings of Passion

by M. D. Grimm

  Beyond the roaring of blood in Roland’s ears, he thought he heard another creature roaring in the distance. He frowned, his brain still mushy after the orgasm. Asagoroth went still and silent underneath him. His tension was tight, a predator about to pounce.

  The roar came again. Closer this time.

  Asagoroth sat up, one arm around Roland’s waist. Roland made a sound of frustration and clung to Asagoroth’s shoulders. He pressed his face into his chest.

  “It’s not,” he said softly, urgently. “We’re both hallucinating.”

  Asagoroth lifted a hand and covered Roland’s mouth. He cocked his head, intent on the noise. Another roar echoed in the thick air, and there was no mistaking it.

  “We are the last,” Asagoroth whispered roughly. “He and I are the last. The demons have reported true. It ends today one way or another.”

  Roland surged up and kissed him hard, wishing he could transfer whatever strength he possessed to his dragon. Then he pulled back and gripped Asagoroth’s face between his hands, holding his gaze.

  “Come back to me, Asagoroth. Come back to your angel.”

  The fierce light of love and pride blazed in those immense blue eyes, and Asagoroth grinned widely, showing off gleaming white teeth.

  “Your dragon will always come back to you.” He pressed their foreheads together. “Always.”

  They both stood up, and with a crack in the air, Asagoroth morphed into his natural shape, large and imposing, gleaming black and fiercely strong. He spread his wings and looked up at the only hole in the ceiling, a natural entry and exit point. But before he left he sent Roland a last glance, and dark clouds roiled overhead as thunder and lightning rumbled and struck in the ensuing darkness.

  Lightning the same color as Roland’s eyes.

  Roland swallowed his tears of worry and smiled broadly. “Do what you do best, my dragon. Then come home.”

  A hungry smile curled Asagoroth’s lips before he turned and launched out of the temple. The storm clouds dissipated as he soared away, swiftly disappearing. Roland had pounced after him and crouched on the temple’s roof. He stayed there for a long time, eyes locked in the distance, heart hammering against his chest.

  Now they would both learn if Asagoroth was, indeed, the Great Dragon. He would either rise or fall.

  Roland bowed his head, and a single tear escaped his control and splashed against the stone.

  THREE DAYS passed, and still no word. Roland flung himself into his art once again since standing around crying and worrying wouldn’t help in the least. Asagoroth would come home, and then they could finally live their lives free of the shadow of other dragons. Then it would only be the shadow of their disparate lifespans. He should have spoken about such things earlier, but the topic was sourly depressing, and he very much doubted Asagoroth would let it go too far before he distracted them both with sex.

  Roland sighed and stepped back from the wall. He absently cleaned his brush, looking over the mural, lacking any enthusiasm.

  “Roland!”

  He whipped around and gaped. “Bune?”

  Bune landed roughly on the floor and ran to him. “You need to leave, now!”

  Blood drained from his face, and he staggered in sudden weakness. “Asa—”

  Bune grabbed his shoulders to steady him. “The Great Dragon still fights. I saw it with my own eyes. No, I am here because of angels. I saw them as I came to report the battle to you, and they are not far behind.”

  “What?” Roland shoved Bune aside and flew out of the temple. He landed on the roof, and his eyes bugged out of his head. The glint and shimmer of starlight reflected on the armor of legions of angelic soldiers as they bore down upon the temple.

  Roland froze for the span of a minute, though his mind raced with thoughts. He couldn’t run. He couldn’t fight. They obviously expected to fight a dragon, considering their size, but all they would find was one angel artist and a single demon soldier, whom they would promptly kill.

  His reckoning had arrived.

  Roland tensed, and his sight went blurry. I’m sorry, Asa.

  “We need to fly, now!” Bune gripped his shoulder. “You can hide in the Lower Realm. They will not follow.”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  Roland stood and spun to grip Bune’s face. “Listen to me. They will hunt me to the end of all realms. I will not escape, and you can’t protect me. Not by yourself. You need to fly away, my friend. Find Asagoroth. If he is victorious, Light Bringer willing, tell him what happened. But also tell him this—angels live again. I will die, but I will also be reborn. Do you hear me?”

  Bune’s eyes were wide and round as he nodded.

  “I will return to him. I swear to the Light Bringer, I will come back. He can’t kill all the angels. If he does, I will never return.”

  “Roland,” Bune said, his voice cracking.

  Roland gripped him in a tight hug before pushing away a moment later. “Leave. Now. That is an order, soldier.”

  Bune’s eyes glistened as he nodded and launched away. He dove sharply and disappeared into the light-gray clouds that separated the Upper Realm from the Middle Realm.

  Roland stayed where he was and waited for his brothers and sisters to come for him.

  Chapter Twelve

  THEY WEREN’T gentle. They weren’t considerate. He was spat on, punched, shoved, and his arms were wrenched needlessly. If he hadn’t shimmered his wings insubstantial, he was certain they would have torn out his feathers. He was insulted and yelled and screamed at, and the flight back to Emphoria was the longest and most miserable time of his life.

  Through it all, he said not a word. What good would it do to plea? To beg? He would only be laughed at, jeered at. They’d already made up their minds. There would be no changing them.

  His fate was sealed.

  It was almost a relief to be tossed into a cell and left alone. He huddled on the bed and bent his knees to his chest. He wrapped his arms around them and buried his face. He wept in fear, in pain, in despair. He used to be loved and respected. They used to be his friends. Now they were strangers. All of them. After looking at Asagoroth and demons for so long, angels appeared foreign and strange.

  He wasn’t in the cell for long when the door creaked open. He tightened his grip on himself and scrunched into a smaller ball.

  Someone stepped in. The door creaked shut.

  “The prisoner is granted one request.”

  Roland glanced up. Commander Mykial stared at him, expression stony. Roland swallowed hard and cleared his throat.

  “I want to see Gabryl.”

  Mykial narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips in a thin line.

  “That is my request.” He paused. “I’m not sorry for my choices, Mykial. I was happy. I’m only sorry that none of you can understand.”

  Mykial said nothing. He spun on his heels and left. Roland wasn’t sure if Mykial would follow through with the request or not. Even if he did, Gabryl might not want to see him. He had to hope that their past counted for something and that at least Gabryl’s curiosity would compel him to visit.

  A considerable time passed before his cell door creaked open once more.

  “Ro.”

  Roland jerked his head up. “Gabryl. You came.”

  “By the cosmos!” Gabryl sat on the bed and tugged him into his arms, squeezing him painfully. “Of course I came! Mykial couldn’t keep me away. It’s so good to see you, my friend. To hold you. By the stars and planets, what happened to you?”

  Roland gasped and clung to Gabryl. His friend. Perhaps his only angel friend left, but for how long?

  “I heard others say…. Light, I can’t bring myself to repeat it. Tell me the truth, please.”

  “I love him,” he whispered.

  “Pardon?”

  Roland lifted his head and looked Gabryl dead in the eye. He repeated his words slowly.

  Gabryl gaped, blinking rapidly. “You l-love a… a… a monster?”
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  Roland sat up and pulled out of Gabryl’s embrace. “I love Asagoroth. He is a dragon, not a monster. And he’s mine. And I was happy. And now I’m going to die for it.” His voice cracked, and he bowed his head, shuddering as tears rained down his face. “By the Light, I’m going to die because I love him.”

  Silence fell, only broken by Roland’s hiccupping sobs.

  “All right,” Gabryl said.

  Roland looked up. “What?”

  With a grim and determined look, Gabryl grabbed Roland’s hand. “If he won your love, then he’s not a monster.”

  Roland swallowed his last sob and stared at Gabryl in wonder.

  Gabryl grimaced. “I don’t like it, but this isn’t about me. I can’t…. Light, I can’t save you. I can’t stop this insanity. But I have to do something. To give you something. Anything.”

  Roland squeezed Gabryl’s hand in return. “A spell. I need a spell.”

  “What kind?” he asked instantly.

  Roland quickly told him what he’d said to Bune. “I know Asagoroth will be victorious. I know it in my heart and my gut. He’s not just fighting for himself, but for me. He loves me, Gabby. Perhaps obsessively, with plenty of possession, and I have to hope that the possibility of me returning to him will stop him from burning all the realms to ash.”

  Gabryl paled.

  “Teach me a spell that guarantees that I will be reborn. That all of me will be reborn into a single angel, not scattered among several.”

  Gabryl chewed on his lower lip for a moment and looked away. Roland knew that was his thinking face and forced himself to stay silent. What felt like an age passed before Gabryl nodded and looked back.

  “Hold your intentions in your mind. Think of every particular thing you want the next you to be. But also to know. Do you want the next you to have your memories? Memories are power but also a burden. He might be chosen as a soldier or another profession not conducive to having a dragon for a mate.”

  Roland clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, thinking. Did he want to be an artist again? It certainly helped him to see Asagoroth in a different light than any other angel. But did he want that angel to have his memories? They would affect what he was chosen as.

  Or perhaps…?

  Roland popped his eyes open. He remembered Omael and the other unchosens. They had no place in angelic society. They weren’t wanted.

  Angels didn’t want Roland.

  “I have it,” he said.

  “Good. I will tell you the words. Don’t say them until they take you out of here. The spell will build as pressure inside your head. If you hold it for too long, it will disperse painfully. It’s usually meant for angels on their deathbed, right before they breathe their last. It will release when you take your final breath.”

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  Gabryl shook his head, his face twisted in misery, unshed tears shimmering. “Don’t thank me.”

  Roland kissed the back of Gabryl’s hands. “I already have. Not taking it back.”

  Gabryl blew out a breath and kissed his cheek. Then he spoke the words. They were an ancient form of Enochian. He listened intently, forming the words with his mouth but not giving sound to them, not yet. Thankfully it was a short phrase and had a rhyming pattern to it, easy to remember.

  A guard banged on the door to his cell, telling them their time was up.

  “Not yet!” Gabryl snapped and continued to help Roland memorize.

  When Roland nodded to indicate he had it, Gabryl stood and left without another word, his movements stiff and tense. The door creaked shut, and Roland closed his eyes, sitting silently and waiting, dreaming of the next life he would live.

  “Trust me, Asa,” he whispered. “We will be together again.”

  THERE HE stood. In front of the angels. In front of the executioner. Once Commander Mykial finished reading his charges, he led him forward to the ruby block. Mykial shoved him to his knees and then pushed his head down until it lay over the ruby.

  Roland had seen his sister. She stood off to the right end of the stage, next to the high chancellor, her expression blank, her eyes stony. By not one flicker did she show any recognition or regret or compassion. She listened to the crimes impassively, already disconnected from him.

  She would make a fine high chancellor herself one day.

  Roland closed his eyes when he felt the blade of the ax whistle slightly through the air as the executioner lifted it. Then the deadly whisper as it descended echoed with the hushed breaths of the thousands watching.

  He let out his last breath and, with it, the spell. And his hope.

  “LEGIONS OF demons at every gate, at every city,” Mykial spat as he returned to Gabryl’s side. It was only a day after the purification—a fancy word for murder—and it seemed the entire Lower Realm had vomited up every demon in existence. Perhaps it had.

  Gabryl watched the sky darken in the east, and his stomach was clenched tightly in anger and guilt. An intelligent darkness was gathering in the far distance, with howling winds, scything lightning, and booming thunder threatening to devour them. His lips thinned, and his knuckles popped as he clenched his hands into fists.

  He felt Mykial turn beside him as he, too, noticed the unnatural storm heading their way. They exchanged a look.

  “The purification will be the end of us,” Gabryl whispered.

  Mykial grimaced. “You’re lucky you didn’t join his fate. If anyone heard what you said about uniting with….” He shuddered, unable to say the word.

  “Uniting with demons seems a better fate than being burned to ash by a force of nature,” Gabryl said, anger seething.

  Mykial glared at him, but his expression faltered when he saw the onslaught devouring the distance to Emphoria.

  “Call Lucifr, Uryal, and Rafyel. I will have the high chancellor evacuate the city.”

  “And go where, with demons at every gate? Nothing will stop him. We just killed his one reason not to devour us.”

  Mykial scowled before flying off.

  Seeing his own death approach from the east, Gabryl would, nonetheless, protect all those he could. The more angels to survive, the more likely Roland would be reborn to divert Asagoroth’s wrath.

  All he had was hope, and he clung to it by his fingernails.

  “Come back to us, Roland,” he whispered as he flew away to follow his brother’s orders. “Come back and save us all from our own stupidity.”

  The storm would arrive. And so would their fates.

  Epilogue

  A millennium later

  THE BABY cried as he opened golden eyes, a few wispy gold curls dotting his head. His tiny wings were still furled to his back, a shimmery white that would be the envy of many an angel.

  Lavella held her youngest son close. It had been a hard labor, and she was exhausted, sweaty, and sore but delighted to hold the little life in her arms.

  “There you are, my love. Safe and sound.”

  The baby still cried, but the volume lowered from panic to discomfort.

  “What will you name him, Mommy?” Annalise said as she bounded into the room with Gabreld, her father, right behind.

  Lavella smiled at her daughter and husband and looked past them to see their other three children watching with curiosity.

  “I’m not sure,” she said playfully. “What do you think we should call him?”

  Annalise scrunched up her face in thought as she climbed onto the bed. She leaned over to look at her brother and smiled.

  “Trystan. I like Trystan.”

  Lavella quirked her eyebrow at Gabreld. He smiled indulgently and shrugged.

  “All right, then,” she said. “Meet your new brother, Trystan.”

  Gabreld stroked Lavella’s hair, brushing it away from her face as he leaned down to gaze at his son. “Beautiful eyes. He might be an artist.”

  “Or a knowledge keeper like me!” Annalise said with a giggle.

  “Or a soldier,” Lavella said, laughing. �
�Did you contact the seer?”

  “Yes. She will be here soon.”

  “She’s here now.”

  They all turned to acknowledge an older, wrinkled angel with silvery-white hair that matched her broad wings. Her eyes were a sharp, frosty blue, and though she was stooped with age, her clear gaze wasn’t to be trifled with.

  Gabreld picked up Annalise and respectfully backed away. Iaoel, the seer, leaned down over Trystan, frowning into his face. Seconds ticked by in silence. A troubled look flashed over her face as Iaoel straightened. She looked at Lavella, then at Gabreld.

  She couldn’t quite hide a wince.

  Lavella’s eyes widened, and she pressed Trystan to her chest, as if to protect him from Iaoel’s pronouncement.

  “No,” she whispered harshly.

  Iaoel flinched at the sound. “I am deeply sorry, Commander Lavella. I must say that your son is unchosen.”

  A low, dreadful groan rolled up from Gabreld’s chest, and he clutched Annalise to his chest, burying his face in her hair. She frowned, confused.

  Lavella’s bright eyes flashed in denial and terror. “You hag. You lie! Look again. I swear to the Light Bringer, if you do not tell me his profession, I will—”

  “Lavella!” Gabreld snapped. His face was pale and drawn, but he drew himself up, every inch the commander as his mate. “The seer has spoken.”

  Lavella crumbled, and she clutched Trystan, sobbing quietly.

  Having done her duty, Iaoel turned and left. The other children had fled just after the pronouncement.

  “Daddy?” Annalise said.

  He set her down and scooted her to the door. “Go play.”

  “But—”

  He gave her a look that had her hunching her shoulders. “Go play. Now.”

  Annalise fled.

  But later that night, when the household was quiet, she snuck out of bed and crept to Trystan’s room. Her inquisitive green eyes glowed faintly in the darkness, and her tall golden wings whispered over the stone floors. She rose on tiptoes and looked over the railing of the crib, gazing at her sleeping brother. Love welled inside her.