Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He walked through glass, parting the shards as they waved in the magnetically charged wind. Around him, a cacophony of metal on metal, wires hissing, the air scented copper – its metallic tang a stark reminder that this place was death for him.

Where once it had been alive – teeming with life, blooming with steady evolution, vines and boughs and river carving canyons – it was now the hard metal of a not quite death. Instead, it was a changed thing, and in its chromatic cradle heaved an enormous beast of glass and mercury. When it shifted its wings, platinum barbs rustled, a memory of feathers – a cruel caricature of wings – and it stared at Vash with headlamp eyes and a mouth of razors as it took a step towards him, brave in its mockery.

Where Vash was life and longing, this thing was fantasy and whimsy; it should have faded with the twin suns light, but it had not. It had carved a place for itself here, bitter with want, hungry with need. And Vash would dig it out by its foundation, plying apart the layers of cement and rebar if that is what it took.

This was his land – this glade of technological decay did not belong here.  

The thing that shouldn’t be grinned at him, razors upon razors, eyes flashing atop an impossibly long neck. It was a skyrise to his cottage. It hissed steam, creaked gears, unhinged its deadly jaws, and lunged.

Vash danced aside, dodging wires that snaked out to ensnare him, hungry for the life he offered. He had no intention of being a sacrifice on this night… perhaps in another thousand years when he had grown tired enough, sick enough, too fed up to continue fighting… perhaps then. But this was not that night; this thing had chosen the wrong place to build.

With deadly precision, Vash found a handhold on copper pipes, valves twisting in his hands, black oil slicking down his chest and thighs as he climbed, seething curses between sharp ivory teeth as he went. His organic nature fought to neutralize the chemicals bathing his skin; it hurt all the same as the filth was burned away. His eyes were brilliant stars, tracking the thing’s movement as it skittered away; rubber treads and iron gears churned – lanterns flickered as vital fluids leaked across the field. It shuddered once, twice, and the lanterns blinked out. An undead thing now dead in its entirety.

He would not mourn it. He would not offer a prayer for its life, for he would offer no platitudes for something it never had a claim to in the first place.

Vash let out a breath, relieved it had not been too difficult, and smoothed down his disheveled silken robes, stained darkly along the hem. He had places to be, and this was not supposed to be one of them, but he could not ignore it. Not when living death had brought so much pain and permanent death with it.

He opened his eyes, pale blue stars beneath a halo of sunshine and spun gold, and he walked, pulling up metal, wires, rebar, feet covered in oily muck; it all had to go. All traces must be removed, or they would find it and send another. He held his hands out before him, willing the portal into being, and curved his back against its pull, digging toes into ruined earth, tugging space, folding time – funneling what was left of it to a more suitable location – and, once the thing was thoroughly devoured, he released his hold. The portal snapped shut with a pop and petrichor. With that nasty business concluded, Vash held out his hand and materialized his scepter. Wings of white-gold spread out from Vash’s shoulder blades, the long feathers trailed behind him; a cape against the cold, bound as they were in precious stinging metal. He continued the pilgrimage. Without its completion and proof of its doing, his brother would never accept him as a challenger for the throne.

*****

On either side of the granite path down the courtyard's center, snarling faces were met with Wolfwood’s cold, leveling gaze. Armed and armored, ten knights stood, five in a row on either side of the makeshift arena, waiting for their chance to prove their worth. To take their chance at challenging him. He passed each one, giving them a cursory glance. He took in their estimated height, weight, and the way they carried themselves. Scars, cracked teeth, missing ear, missing eye; they all spoke secrets of a warrior’s prowess. An injury didn’t necessarily mean strength; it could also mean a disgrace – feet not fast enough, weapons not raised in time, weak.

Walls, ten feet tall, made of polished stone and wire, and pillars of galvanized metal arched high overhead. They were lined with rings of seats filled with a clamoring audience. Dressed in gowns of stolen silk and colorful ribbons dyed with the blood of flowers that did not bloom in their lands, they cheered. With lips and eyelids painted ritual red, they ringed the warriors in, clamoring, edging them on, spitting fire with words meant to enrage. They were here for the iron in their blood; precious as it was, they needed to see it spilled across the carved marble of the floor, the dust of a thousand files in hands bent into claws as they worked the unliving shapes into living likenesses. It was theft, really, how their craftspeople worked to replicate the delicate curves of a life organic. It went vastly unappreciated by the waiting warriors, even less so by the audience that clamored for violence.

The audience roared for blood – ferrous and copper –their chants roared around them. And soon, they would have it. In this, no one would get out alive – not unless Wolfwood willed it. Red was the color of so many worthy things, and tonight, these warriors would prove their worth fighting for the right to keep the iron in their veins.

Or they would die trying, spilling their liquid life across the glossy white marble bed beneath them. Either way, Wolfwood did not care. He was the sovereign here. Until someone could displace him, he would remain as he had for the past hundred years.

The obsidian throne behind him, dark and bruised, sat empty – waiting. For every moment that passed, the warriors and Wolfwood, too, grew restless. Their snarling faces, tendons in necks and arms and hands, barely held back as they waited. Finally, the great doors on the opposite end of the courtyard parted, and the First Voice – High Priestess of Eo’Mac – stepped through with her retainers, an Opera of ten women. Already, they sang in dulcet tones; the stone and metal vibrated around them. The audience grew silent as she and her entourage passed between the waiting knights; she paused only to place a hand gently on Wolfwood’s shoulder. Her long veil shielded her face from view, revealing only her brightly painted red lips and pale chin. A few dark curls of hair tumbled from beneath her wimple, and the veils held in place by a crown twisted from copper wire and wrought of silver filigree, platinum, and affixed with red ruby cabochons and shards of sharp and smoky onyx. They were fitted in miniature frames of forged palladium all along the curve of the crown.

She whispered, her words were for him and him alone, “I will sing for you, Sovereign. Be well.” Wolfwood resisted her touch; he would not lean into it, he would not respond, or so much as blink, no matter how badly he wished. For any tenderness in these moments would be viewed as brittle weakness, and that was something he could not win against. Wolfwood’s people needed him to be strong. Not even the Sovereigns’ mother, regardless of her status as First Voice of Eo’Mac, could dissuade the kingdom from seeing him as anything but a weak link should he have given them a reason to think he was. Instead, he took her hand and guided her to the throne, as was appropriate for the ritual. Her attendants followed, quiet except for the scrape of bare feet over stone and the rustle of fabric.

The knights all stood, backs stiff and hands crossed over their chests as the High Priestess climbed the dais and sat on the throne – the only time one would see such a thing – and spread her arms wide, white vestments billowing in an unseen magnetic breeze as she raised her voice and sang. Around her neck, among the many layers of jewels, the signet of Eo’Mac jingled, the bell ringing out. The High Priestess’ attendants, five on each side, stood with hands and voices lifted. They joined her in song, the melody unifying, becoming one. Synchronicity was met, and a wall of energy, unseen but felt, caged the contestants inside, protecting the audience from the coming battle and keeping the weak from escaping. The center of the courtyard broke open and expanded, marble cracked, slate and muscovite splintered, ready to bloody feet and face should one misstep or land on one’s face. Magma boiled up from the ether to fill the empty spaces with red, gold, and black. It was all an illusion, of course, meant to confuse and terrify, but Wolfwood knew better than any how easy it was to fall into the trap of the Song. A convincing enough mirage could kill the mind, leaving the body an empty husk.

As the High Priestess of Eo’Mac settled onto the throne, Wolfwood turned his back to her. He stood and waited with his hand hovering over the hilt of his sword. The first to approach did so with the eyes of a man who regretted his choices at that moment. Snarling, Wolfwood rushed the youth, his sword reflecting magma and marble as it arched too closely to the boy’s head; dark curls fell to the floor, where they were crushed underfoot. Seeing an easy opening as the sovereign’s sword passed his shoulder, the boy twisted around too late and was knocked aside. His guts fell to the ground – his body soon followed, a wet thud on the floor. He had been a young man, no higher in rank than a Sparrow or Robin, their fledgling song still weak and warbled. Most likely, he had not seen more than a few battles with his Flight, all confined to the rigid nest of the Sepulture, and had yet the chance to encounter a Seraph. 

The crowd roared in approval, but Wolfwood saw the waste in it. The boys’ swordsmanship had been elegant and practiced but clearly learned through training and not earned through battle. He could have been an excellent knight had he not made the foolish decision to try his hand at the throne. It was one thing to have youthful exuberance, but it was hubris to believe you could take on a seasoned warrior. Perhaps it was better he had passed by Wolfwood’s blade than the machination of the Seraphim; the angels, for all their beauty, were not kind in their slaughter.

The magma was not real; he knew that, but if his concentration slipped, his body would still react to the heat of it. Around him, he watched as one warrior after another succumbed to his own madness and fell to the ground, clawing at their skin as it burned with invisible fire before stilling. Wiping sweat from his brow, Wolfwood scanned the playing field. The youth had taken only a few minutes of his time, but already they were down to three, Wolfwood included.

The other two would prove to be more difficult. One of them Wolfwood recognized— Urich, a tall and broad-shouldered man with plenty of muscle. He had fought in many battles against the Seraphim. Around his neck, he wore a golden feather on a thin chain, its edge as sharp as a knife. The adornment was deceiving; it was a deadly weapon disguised as a trophy. Urich was a blessed member of his Flock and recently rose in rank from Raven to Hawk. Still, the man was foolish if he thought he could rise to Sovereign of the Aerie of Sepulchre and accept the gift of Eo’Mac. With his keen eye for detail, Wolfwood noticed Urich favored his right foot when standing—a lingering injury still causing the man pain. Wolfwood remembered when it had happened.

It was during a skirmish with the Seraphim not too very long ago. Urich had been caught off guard, his feet too slow to avoid a swift strike from the enemy. Bladed wings cutting through their lines had severed limbs and life. The injuries had left him bitter and disgraced as far as Urich was concerned. He was roaring for a chance to fight again. But it had also made him stronger, more vigilant. His blue eyes were shadowed, hooded by his furrowed brows. Urich was not one to be underestimated.

The second warrior was a woman barely past her prime. She carried herself with a grace that was both alluring and deadly. Her armor was elegant, decorated with intricate designs that shimmered in the flickering light of the arena. Her hair, a cascade of brunette curls that framed her face, was held back by a diadem of gold and copper wire. Wolfwood knew her to be Isadora, a skilled fighter and beloved member of her Flight. She was a Rook, having earned the rank, and was renowned for her agility and speed.

Wolfwood squared his shoulders, ready to face his opponents and steeling himself against any feelings he harbored towards them. The High Priestess' song had reached its climax, the energy in the arena pulsing with the force of a thunderstorm. When the last note faded away, leaving the stone and metal vibrating, First Voice stood up from the throne, and the air crackled with anticipation. Her voice echoed, "May the strongest warrior emerge victorious and claim the throne as Sovereign of the Scourge." Her attendants echoed her words, the sound of their voices like the rustling of autumn leaves scattered over the pavement. A sound that was both pleasant but spoke of endings and finalities.

Wolfwood took a deep breath and locked eyes with Urich, who bared his teeth in a feral grin, the feather around his neck gleaming. Isadora stood poised, her eyes fixed on her opponents, waiting for the right moment to strike. All three warriors moved at once, their swords singing as they clashed.

Without hesitation, Urich charged forward, his sword aimed for Wolfwood's neck. Straight to a killing blow, eh, old friend? Smart. There was no time for feints. Urich wished to end this swiftly. Wolfwood deflected the blow with ease, his sword ringing out as it met Urich's. They clashed again and again, their swords striking like lightning in the darkness. Wolfwood could feel his muscles straining with every swing; sweat poured down his face. Urich was strong, but he was slow, and the fight was taking its toll on him. With each swing, it took a bit longer for the man to recover, regain his stance, and attack again. He was still deadly, but all Wolfwood needed to do was wait him out. Isadora, on the other hand, was quick and nimble.

Isadora spat on the ground and grinned, her eyes moving between the two men as she bided her time and watched for an opening. She darted around the edges of the battlefield, her sword a blur as she attacked from the shadows. Wolfwood knew he had to be careful with her; one mistake, and she could take him down. The battle raged on between the three of them.

“Let’s give the crowd a show then?” Wolfwood grinned.

Urich coughed, “Aye, Sovereign. If I’m to die, better it be by your hand than that of the goddamned Seraphim,” he grimaced.

“But like this? Why?”

“No better honor than this, Sovereign,” Urich coughed again, sweat trickled down his face. Lifting his sword, he tensed and prepared to attack. Wolfwood’s heart pounded in his chest; his muscles ached from the strain of the fight. He had fought many battles in his time, but this one was different. This one was for the throne. For his people. Against his people.

Isadora darted forward between them, her sword aimed for Wolfwood's neck. He spun around, narrowly avoiding the blow, and countered with a strike of his own. She parried it effortlessly, her sword flashing in the flickering light. But when she twisted to the side, raising her sword arm for a blow from above, Wolfwood changed direction and crushed her against a pillar, his sword skewering her. He only had a moment to grieve her loss as he withdrew his blade. From behind, he could hear his final opponent.

“I’m still standing, Sovereign,” Urich teased, but Wolfwood could tell he was not ready to quit this life just yet. Wolfwood leaped to action. The crowd howled with approval as their blades met over and over, and sparks hissed between them. Urich was getting more and more desperate, his attacks wild and reckless. The larger man charged forward once more, his fury and desperation evident in his eyes. With a bellow of rage, he swung his sword down as hard as he could, cracking marble and shattering granite. Urich’s blade stuck fast in a pillar above Wolfwood’s head. Ducking, Wolfwood sidestepped around Urich, ramming his elbow into his spine. Urich grunted in pain, staggering forward. Wolfwood took advantage of the moment and skewered Urich with his sword. His precision was beautiful; the blade passed quickly between chinks of armor and between muscle and ribs, stilling the man’s heart. A quick and merciful death. An honorable one.

Wolfwood solemnly surveyed the destruction that he had just caused. His people lay dead at his feet, casualties of the fight for the throne. The First Voice of Eo'Mac stepped away from her seat of power, relinquishing the throne. Wolfwood watched as the marble repaired itself beneath her feet, the illusions broken now that the fight had ended. She reached up and pulled down his face to hers, pressing their foreheads together in blessing. She whispered more words for his ears, "You did well, my son. Grieve in private or do not grieve at all; you know the rules," she said. It was a kindness she allowed, and he would accept it, as she said, later. He would grieve later. For now, he would relish his victory. Approaching the throne, he settled down upon it. It was his, still, for another twenty years at least.

He alone would bear the curse of this land. He alone would know its truth.

A chorus of cheers filled the courtyard; his name was on their lips and sung like a prayer, 

a chant, 

   a blessing, 

a promise .

*****

He had not expected there to be so much metal, but the closer Vash approached the Sepulcher, the more painful his pilgrimage became. Metal and wire and rock blended in the same way grasses and wildflowers did, sinking shoots of tinsel into the earth to anchor down rods of steel, shooting up creepers of silver. Bones, where they once carried the shape of life, they were now home to nests of cable and wire, singed and melted and morphed. The marrow long burned away to make space for plastic tubing. If this thing once moved, it did no longer, and Vash was grateful for that. He did not think he had the heart to face another such monstrosity. Every step was agony, but he was forbidden to fly, the feathers weighted with bands wrought of gold embedded in three places between the radius and ulna of each of his wings, making them as painful and fragile as they were beautiful.

The earth weighed down with heavy metal and mineral, cried out to him, begging for the solace of his blessed touch. It was so cruel to see how much damage had been done, it hurt Vash on levels that did not exist to any but the Seraphim, and his tears spilled unbidden. They gathered along golden lashes, trailed down cheekbones carved of alabaster, and dripped off his chin. Where the tears landed, flowers blossomed. They were brilliant red against the gray rocks, beautiful and unexpected against this wasteland.

He sniffed and closed his eyes, willing himself to stay calm, to maintain his control; if too many flowers grew, it would summon one of those things, and he did not have the energy to deal with that now. Tearfully, he waved a hand and snuffed out their lives. The flowers wilted; petals turned gray with decay. With the help of his scepter, Vash climbed a lump of metal and rubber – some strange desiccated vehicle – and surveyed the land.  In the distance, he could see the black spires of the palace, twisting wickedly towards the sky. Towers of glass and steel scraped against the sky at dizzying elevations. They were claws of titanium stirring the ionized clouds; electrons and protons shifted and polarized, snapping electricity between each spire. Bright branches against the bruised sky. Seeing it made Vash’s body ache; his nose itched with iron dust, and his lungs burned with each breath. It was an embodiment of human illness – if you could call the Scourge that. They had long since claimed mastery over their deaths.

Vash needed to reach the Sepulcher – somehow – and then break inside – somehow – and steal the signet of the Eo’Mac as proof of his voyage. Using a portal was too risky for this, the distortion of space too much; those strange women who wielded powers that were similar but different to his would pick up on it. They would find him and steal his power, claim his birthright, and then that would be the end of it. He knew the stories, though he was not sure that he believed them. Either way, if he did not do this, Vash would never be able to face his brother again. He would be banished forever if not outright killed; his wings removed and halo shattered.

The magnetism of this place made him drunk, and he did not like it. If it were up to him alone, if there were no risk, he might have opened a portal and sucked it all in, permanently removing the offending material. Only it would not be permanent, not while the Scourge had laid claim to this place and there were still some traces of life here. A ragged weed stood between stones, limp but alive. It turned its leaves toward his light, seeking him out. Indeed, he could save just one life? Vash knelt, cupped his hands around the seedling, and breathed over it. Closing his eyes, he hummed a song of life – It’s alright, I’m here .

   It was a mistake. 

The air shifted, charged. 

Hot wind blasted him in the face when an enormous black bird of iron hovered above him, pinning him with beams of bright light. Weapons swiveled, placing him firmly in their sight. Vash scoffed with disdain. It should not be able to fly; its wings held no beauty, and its body was solid, unyielding against the wind. But the Scourge were good at forcing things to obey, at breaking laws that should not be broken, and disrupting the natural order. Nai despised the Scourge for this and had tried to instill that same hate in Vash. Still, there was something to be admired in their ingenuity, in their ability to harness powers that should be beyond their capabilities. Still, Vash had a mission to complete. He couldn’t stand around considering the potential… the possibilities. Or, you could consider other means of facing Nai … he let the thought die. The Scourge would never accept peace, not after so many years of war and death.

Vash curled his lip and spat, raised his hands, and clapped them together. An arc of electricity snapped between his fingers, the portal opening between them as easily as breathing. So distracted was he with the flying contraption in front of him that he failed to notice the armored shadows flanking him from both sides. 

It had been too easy. 

Vash, you fool! He heard his brother's voice ringing in the back of his head as iron seared his skin when the flat of a blade slammed into his back. He fell painfully to his knees. You stupid fool! Nai’s voice, a wraith in his thoughts, continued to berate Vash as he twisted to the side, kicking up and out with his legs. He caught one adversary in the knee, but the other was smaller, leaner, faster, and their arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him back against his wings and twisting his arm between them before Vash could summon his scepter and do more damage before he could complete a portal and send them all to their deaths before he could do anything other than hiss and spit at his defeat.

  It was humiliating how easy it had been. 

Never let your guard down. Never give your opponent a reason to see your weaknesses , Nai told him after defeating him in battle for the fourth time a handful of years ago. After that, Vash promised himself that he would not underestimate his enemies again, especially if that enemy was his brother and certainly not when dealing with the Scourge. 

   What a fine job he was doing. 

The larger of the two was on him again, iron chains clanking together as the cuffs were slammed home around his wrists and ankles; his wings were already useless, so they shrugged and laughed as they dragged him to his feet, legs quaking. The touch of the iron against his skin was like fire; it burned, and his delicate skin purpled over with bruises. Hissing against the pain, Vash stopped his struggle and let the knights drag him onto their steel bird. Let them take him to Sepulcher. At least as a captive, he would bypass the metal fields and more quickly reach his destination.

Chapter Text

Water, hot and soothing and laced with oils and herbs, lapped against Wolfwood’s bare chest as he leaned back against the warmed rock of the Roman bath. Steam made the air hazy and humid, slicking his exposed arms and shoulders. He reclined against the stone lip; moisture made his dark hair sticky, and his natural waves hung heavily over his ears and the back of his neck. Even with his eyes closed, he could hear his personal maids padding around the enormous bath and visualize their steps as they echoed from the iron pillars surrounding the water; each column reached up to the open sky through the cutout in the ceiling like bizarre trees craving sunlight. Each footstep struck a different note, like an enormous theremin; a pleasant song was moved into being with choreographed movements as the maids went about their business. Closing his eyes, he laid back his head and gazed up at the evening stars flickering into existence as the twin suns – the Brothers – chased each other into the sunset. He was just beginning to doze when he heard the large double doors creak open, and the song rippled unpleasantly with the added steps. From the gentle sound of clinking bracelets and skirts ghosting over the marble and stone, he already knew who it was. The maids whispered greetings and hurried away, leaving them alone. The High Priestess stood at the edge of the bath across from him and bowed her head in greeting; her gowns made her look like a wraith hovering in the steam. The cloth grew heavy with moisture and clung to her arms and waist.

“First Voice,” he greeted lazily. Not bothering to lift his head as she rustled up behind him, “I greet you this fine evening,” he intoned, his voice echoing over the expanse of water and up along the walls.

“Good evening, Sovereign Wolfwood. I pray your wounds are healed?” Her voice was soft behind him; it did not echo the way his did; she held her words with absolute power, knowing that the slightest reverberation could destroy the bathhouse of the palace and could rip away lives if she was not careful with the power she held. “We must speak, son. I bring news.”

“Very well,” he nodded sleepily, lifting a hand to motion that she take a seat, “Tell me, what news brings the First Voice of Eo’Mac to disturb my peace.”

The High Priestess settled beside him. She closed her eyes a moment, listening, and when she was sure no one was present and could no longer feel or hear the magnetic thrumming of their bodies, she removed her veil from over her face. Slipping off her slippers, she winced as her feet touched the warm stone and pulled her skirts up to her knees to settle down beside Wolfwood. Letting her legs dangle in the soothing, warm waters, she said, “I only wished to check on my son. I know you dislike the ascension matches, but it is a tradition we must keep for the people. Your father upheld it, as did your grandfather and your great-grandfather and his before that. For generations, it has served the purpose of keeping our family on the throne.”

“They volunteered to fight; it is the will of Eo’Mac.” Wolfwood recited quietly with careful words. He knew the rules; only those who volunteered and understood the risks could participate. It didn’t make it hurt any less.

First Voice smiled gently, “But still, I could see the pain etched on your face when you slew that boy. You cannot hide that from me.”

Sucking in a breath through his nose, Wolfwood turned to look at her. He wet his lips and swallowed, “You have a face that says you wish to say more and that it’s not about this… tell me, mother.”

“There are reports that a Seraph has entered the Filament Fields,” she said, pressing her red lips together. Her voice trembled with excitement. Or maybe he was afraid; Wolfwood could never be too sure. “We have not seen the Seraphim in these lands for nearly three decades.”

“And? It won’t last long out there,” he chuckled, sinking lower into the waters and resting his eyes. “That place is a scrapyard. It’s filled with enough metal and oil to still its breath and rot off its damned feet long before getting within two miles of Sepulchre.”

“The Seraph was spotted by one of our Skyeye. He took on an Apparatus, destroyed it, and then dared to attempt a blossoming on our lands. Practically at the foot of Sepulchre, no less!”

Wolfwood was quiet but quirked an eyebrow. Besides the insanity of trying to blossom in Scourge lands, to fight and destroy an Apparatus was no easy feat. Their Alchemy Smiths took great time and care to create each one to serve as guards, independent of their creators. The Apparatus and various other steel instruments were the closest thing to life that the Scourge could create, it was said that even their children were born soulless, and the stars planted within their chests were the only things that kept them alive. It was a rumor, of course, but the Scourge used it to their advantage –let their enemies think of them as deadened husks; it made them appear more ferocious all the same. Dead things did not fear death.

Beside Wolfwood, the High Priestess shifted. Stretching out her legs, she kicked her foot in the air, sending beads of water flying up into the air where they fell back to the bathwater like rain in heavy drops.

“ In the silence of the night ,” she intoned, “ I looked up at the sky, and saw a star slowly falling, spiraling down to die ,” closing her eyes, she hummed and the water rippled, dancing with her words as the current moved to greet each syllable. “ Many nights have passed, since that one so long ago. The memory still lingers in my mind, for I cannot let it go… ”

Wolfwood picked up on the familiar words of the song, his deeper timbre threading into the song and catching on his lilting drawl. “ Now I sit here in twilight, ” it was one he had been taught in childhood as had every Scourge child. “ As darkness comes again. I swear I can see your eyes, in the sky where stars have been .” With a frown, he turned to look at his mother’s face and found tears glistening beneath her dark lashes, smudging the red and black lines of her ritual makeup.

With tears streaming down her cheeks and staining the front of her robes, she finished the song. Her voice was tight and wavering, scattering the magic as she choked on the words, suppressing a sob. “ And as starlight bathes the earth, tears fall from these eyes. For now, I understand why stars fall from the skies. ”

“Mother,” Wolfwood sighed and reached up to cup her cheeks, guiding her down to him he placed a chaste kiss on her forehead. “It’s an old fairy tale. You should know better than anyone not to place your bets on a children’s bedtime poem.”

Shaking her head, she sat up and pulled her legs from the water. Standing, she kicked off droplets from her toes before placing them into her slips and smoothing down her skirts. “No, son. It is a prophecy and a promise. I know your father said otherwise, but I always held the true faith, you know this, and those words mean far more than they appear and now a Seraph … one who wields a portal if the reports are to be believed… has arrived at our home. Do you not see , Nicholas? This will be our doom.”

Wolfwood turned, observing the older woman as she cried silently with nostalgic longing for a place and time they could never exist. Her shoulders trembled as she pulled her veil back into place, the red of her lips more blood than rouge for worrying them between her teeth. “This Seraph is no mere warrior, lost in his travels.”

“He could be a simple scout,” Wolfwood mused, earning a sharp look from his mother.

“Don’t be asinine,” she said smartly and taking a hand rag from a basket she pressed it to her face and dried her eyes. “They are bringing him here now,” she wrung her hands together, “I-I wish an audience with him. If he is one of the –”

Holding up a hand to still her, Wolfwood shook his head. “I don’t think that would be wise,” he said, “I know you keep the Celestial Faith in private, between us, but, Mother, I can’t keep playing both sides like this. I can’t keep tempting fire. I am the Sovereign of the Scourge, the Keeper of the Iron Kingdom, the Wyvern, the Fanged One, and other things I would rather not repeat,” he said with a dry laugh. “When I took up the role of Sovereign and my body… changed,” he said, opening one hand and seeing smoke waft from his palm to blacken the air, “When my body was blessed by Eo’Mac and adapted to suit its purpose…,” he paused. He realized he was unsure how to explain how he felt about the conflicting natures within him.

On one hand, he was Scourge incarnate, and on the other, he was the adopted son of a heretic. She had raised him and, in secret, taught him the faith of her people and of his as well, teaching him how they conflicted with one another, but how they could also work together as well…there is no light without darkness, no darkness without light. The Scourge and the Seraphim were two sides of the same coin, if only they could stop fighting long enough to see it. When Wolfwood had won the fight for ascension against his own father… he was blessed with the gifts of Eo’Mac put through the bodily trials and accepted as Sovereign.

   And yet, he could not even remember what started this war.

“Mother, there are two wolves inside me, and one must die if I am ever to be whole again,” he said sadly, curling his hands into fists and sending motes of ash drifting through the air. Smoke flowed over his tongue, his body steamed with it, and the water bubbled around him, quickly turning to steam as it reacted to the friction between Scourge song and water. “I cannot be whole until I know my people are safe. You know I make no promises, I do what I can, and it must be enough.”

She clasped her hands together and nodded, “Alright.” Turning in the water, he rested his elbows on the stone lip and pointed at his bathrobe hanging from a peg on the wall. Crossing the room, the High Priestess picked it up and brought it over to him, dropping it atop his head. She ignored his annoyed sputtering as she turned to leave.

“Mother?”

She stopped and turned, her red lips the only part of her face visible. Wolfwood cleared his throat and tossed aside his soaked bathrobe, saying, “I’m sorry. I am. But you must not meet this angel, I will see him alone.”

“That is what I fear, son! I have listened to the threads, and I have heard their songs, please be careful.”

“I will be careful. But you will not be there.”

She stood silently, pressed her hands together, bowed, and said, “The Song of Eo’Mac be ever in your ears and upon your lips, Sovereign.” She uttered the appropriate prayers, but Wolfwood frowned; coming from her he knew it was just as much a curse as it was a forgiveness.

Wolfwood rolled his head, sighing pleasantly at the popping in his neck and shoulders and the way the warm waters pulled the tension from his muscles and bones. He had enough things to worry about without his mother interrupting his thoughts. They were at constant war with the Seraphim, the Scourge expansions to other planets hedged in by the relentless barrage of the angels. And, in the here and now, were the wam hordes just beyond the borders where metal met sand, a constant presence that lingered just beyond visibility, twisting beneath the sands and earth and building their underground cities of tunnels where they lived, unreachable by the Scourge armies. Setting foot on their sand was death for Scourge just as much as the metallic-laced land was death for a Seraph. Wolfwood knew that, eventually, he would need to broach the subject of treaty with the hive-mind of the wam again, he had met briefly with Zazie in the past and the wam had proven to be interesting company. But the wam leader had made it very clear that they were not interested in taking sides and wished only to be left alone, but without being able to expand beyond the stars, Wolfwood had no choice but to allow his people to stretch their legs here. He and Zazie wanted the same things – space, resources, safety – for their people.

The air shifted, and the theremin echo of footsteps that didn’t belong here brought him to full awareness. “What is it?” he asked as the man quickly knelt at the end of the rectangular pool.

“Sovereign, I have been instructed to inform you that a Seraph has been captured on our lands and –.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard. I’ll be there momentarily. Until then, the Seraph is not to be harmed.”

*****

When Vash was thrown to the marble floor, his arms and wings wrenched painfully behind him, he was forced to kneel on bloodied knees with his head bowed. At least the chains had been removed, the iron of this place worked well enough to confine him. The air smelled of blood and smoke, metal pressed in all around him; pulling at his being, craving his light and life. It was a cage of death. His larger captor demanded he kiss the foot of the obsidian throne in reverence. Vash refused, and a boot landed in his gut; new bruises bloomed inside and out as he was sent sprawling, his wings dragging heavily along the stone. Pushing himself onto his hands and knees, he coughed; blood dripped hotly out his nose and over his lips and chin to stain the pristine floor. It was a shock when hot liquid spattered over his back. Vash thought the man had pissed on him, marking him as theirs once the interrogation ended. But the red liquid rolling down his ribs to soak into his robes, droplets staining the ruined ends of his wings and the back of his neck, told a different story. A sword, its sharp metallic edge painted red, passed his field of vision on one side, and an armored body slumped against the ground on the other. 

“I believe my orders were that the Seraph remain unharmed?”

The voice was deep, grave, and had a seductive hoarseness to it. Sultry and sinuous, it slid between Vash’s ears, traipsed down his spine, and cupped his balls where it squeezed them firmly, leaving his cock embarrassingly rigid beneath his robes. Vash curled his lower lip beneath his teeth, fangs indenting the skin, and tensed the muscles trembling along his inner thighs and shoulders, willing himself to ignore the smoky voice and the way his body curled towards it, seeking out its source.

  “Leave us!” The voice barked, and Vash fought the urge to obey alongside them. This man was someone who demanded respect; it was built into him. Vash listened to the echo of many boots along the floor, the rustling of fabric, and the distinct sound of a sword being sheathed. The room was quiet, it made the yearning he felt around him even more intense until he could no longer ignore the burning and itching beneath his skin. Vash raised to his hands and knees and placed one foot forward, intending to stand.

“You will not move,” the voice demanded. It echoed around the chamber, sinking into stone and metal, vibrating over his quivering skin. Bidding Vash, all the way down to his very bones, to obey his command. Vash did. His body was stone beneath the gaze of the Scourge. He did not know the Scourge Sovereign could use the same angelic compulsion as his brother. Stolen songs and stolen voices too, then, he thought and sneered, curling one edge of his lips to expose a fang, but he did not move; he was rooted into place. Vash was beginning to understand why Nai hated them so deeply… or rather, why he feared them.

Vash’s sensitive ears told him they were alone inside this chamber. This would be the perfect chance to strike. Kill the Scourge sovereign, claim the signet, and flee Sepulchre. Could he return to Heaven and challenge his brother and then? Things would change. For the better. He was tired of listening to others and being a follower when his body screamed to lead. Gritting his teeth, Vash fought against the heavenly compulsion in that voice, he refused to kneel. Standing, he faced Wolfwood. Villains were almost always devastatingly beautiful, and Sovereign Wolfwood was no exception.

Heavens above, his looks rivaled his voice. Vash had never seen such a beautifully imperfect man, his body nearly a reflection of his own – scars, sorrow, heartache, regret. They were etched in the man's dark skin as mortal as his own. Where Vash had hair of spun gold and a halo of sunbeams, the man’s shaggy hair was black as the space between stars, and the only halo he wore was the smoke wisping around his head in broken clouds. He had high cheekbones, an aquiline nose, lips that were plush and gently curved; his strong jaw was dark with stubble. And his eyes… Fuck , Vash wanted to be a ship lost in them – gray-blue, deep, and stormy as a silty sea. Those eyes held so much pain they hurt to look at. Vash wanted to make him smile.

   “See something you like, Blondie?”

“B-Blondie?” Vash snorted. The words pulled him out of his fantasy. He should have been dead. The man had plenty of time to attack, but he did not. Why? He shouldn’t even consider replying, but he did, impulsive as always. “As if I would ever…” the words died on his tongue, his body revealing more than it should, exposing his perverse desires. If the Sovereign noticed, he didn’t acknowledge it.

“It's not every day I get ogled by an angel,” the man had the gall to smirk at Vash.

Maybe he had noticed after all… He raised his head, and his heart sang, how Vash wanted to press his lips to the dimple hidden in that dark grin. Do not get distracted, you will lose this battle and you will die.

“Who are you?” the man asked. Smoke rolled from his shoulders as he circled Vash. He could feel dark eyes studying him.

   “It doesn’t matter.”

“Or rather, why are you here?” Wolfwood snapped, “It matters to me very much. Gonna have to ask again… what are you doing here, Seraph ?” Vash could hear the Sovereign's teeth grinding, smell the fire on his breath, feel the heat radiating from his body as he passed by, circling tighter with each round, like a shark or a hound scenting blood.

Vash pressed his lips together and lowered his head, refusing to answer. He needed to provoke the Sovereign to get him to fight. They were alone together; there would be no better time to act. Vash considered if he could open a portal here, if there were enough space in this room.

Stopping in front of him, the Sovereign glowered, “Fine. Have it your way, Blondie. We do this the hard way,” he said. Stepping back, he drew his large, cross-shaped sword and pointed it at Vash.

They circled one another, putting distance between them, each watching the other for labored breathing, a lyst in the other's gait, any hint of injury. A reason to assign weakness, force a resignation of battle. Something to target and end the match before it even began. To draw first blood was an honor, proof of one's skill. They who wet their weapon first were almost always the victor.

And, of course, the infuriatingly gorgeous Scourge’s eyes went straight to the bars of gold weighing Vash’s wings down. His shoulders ached, spine bent and pinched, but he kept it hidden. Face smoothed of any emotion, he stood tall and snarled, showing his fangs. His halo flared bright, blond strands glowing.

“Fancy,” Wolfwood pointed at each wing with the point of his sword, smoke rolling from his tongue as he spoke. “Didn’t take the Seraphim to be creatures of vanity.”

  “Don’t,” Vash said, voice cold, eyes steeled.

Wolfwood’s smile dropped. And then it was back, sharper than before. All teeth and terror and billowing smoke. “Oh?” He drawled, “Hit a sore spot, did I? It does look painful.”

  It was.

      Incredibly .

  Painful.

  Vash did not need the Scourge reminding him; he was the reason Vash was here, after all, the reason he had been bound from flight. Vash hardened his resolve and narrowed his eyes. His thighs trembled with restraint; his body strung tight. His entire being vibrated beneath the silks of his robes, his body sharply outlined - easy to read.

Wolfwood grinned, his teeth bright white against his dark complexion. “I take it those aren’t for show then? What’d you do to deserve that?” The dark knight snickered, rotating the large cross-shaped blade – a mockery of faith – in his hands; he spun it across his broad shoulders before gripping it tightly by the hilt with both hands, knuckles blanched, and teeth bared. His gaze was steady, never looking away. “I could remove them for you? The wings first, of course, then the gold.”

  Vash regarded the Scourge. “You’re not as funny as you think you are, Sovereign Wolfwood.”

  “So, the angel knows my name,” he smirked. “I feared my reputation wasn’t as far-reaching as it should be. Tell me, gorgeous, what else do you know about me?”

Vash flinched. It was a lie. He was not gorgeous. The word struck him like a slap to the face, as unexpected as it was painful. He ignored it, pushed it aside, and countered with truth. “I know you have taken more lives than I care to count. I know they call you the Punisher and the Undertaker. Sometimes they call you...” Vash hesitated.

  “Go on,” Wolfwood prompted, “Tell me.”

“Sometimes they call you …” Vash swallowed, his skin flushing, his eyes hooded. “Because…” he couldn’t finish his sentence. Like all Seraphim, he had heard the many rumors of the Scourge Sovereigns’ appetites. His skin flushed.

  “Hmm? People talk too much. I don’t like being called names.”

Vash frowned, a grimace to chase away the smile. It wasn’t the time nor place to find this man’s banter witty or attractive. “You are…”

“Yes, angel?”

    “You are not what I expected.”

“Oh? I’m curious, angel…did you come here for me then?”

Wolfwood was met by silence; the angel's face was marble.

“Seraph. If you don’t talk, then we’re done here…”

   “I came for the signet of Eo’Mac. I need it to… to. I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“Ha! Like hell you don’t. You risked your neck to step into Scourge land, to enter Sepulchre, for a trinket? I don’t believe that for a moment. Was it worth it? You’re probably in so much pain right now I’m amazed you can stand. And you did it knowing you’d have to face me. Why? Knowing all the things you seem to know about me?” Smoke and ash poured from his mouth, out his nose, steaming over his shoulders as his rage bubbled to the surface. Wolfwood spat poison and fumes of kerosine; his demeanor threatened arson and death if he didn’t like the answer.

Vash stopped circling and sunk into a crouch, heels raised and arms loose. His wings were spread despite the pain, the feathers trembling, ready to strike. Wolfwood mirrored him, sword up and ready. Wolfwood struck first. The enormous cross-shaped weapon carved through the air, but the angle was all wrong, and his grip was loose. It was merely a display. Vash would make Wolfwood regret not taking this fight seriously.

He lunged, using his wings to cartwheel to the side, dragging his bare feet over marble and granite, sharp nails carving into its surface as he dragged himself around the knight. The blade passed overhead, surprisingly agile, but Vash was already within range. The Seraph raked his right hand through the air, reaching for his scepter, willing it into existence. Before he could snatch it from the air, the Scourge was on him. Taking him up by the front of his robes and hauling him over his shoulder and to the ground, Vash was slammed against the hard floor, and blinding pain shot through his wings, rattling up his spine where white sparks blossomed across his vision. Groaning in agony, his limbs went limp, but he couldn’t give up.

Wolfwood's throat burned with the acrid smoke that poured from his lungs. He watched as the angel faltered, his beautiful face etched with pain and anger as he got up to his knees. It was over in another moment; Wolfwood struck him in the ribs with enough force to send him sprawling breathlessly. Wolfwood understood pain. He knew how to handle it, to use it to his advantage. The angel stubbornly rose to his feet again; Wolfwood didn’t give the Seraph time to recover any further. Flinging his elbow out, he smashed it into the angel's delicate temple. Vash was sent spiraling. Wolfwood was on him in seconds, placing a foot against his shoulder; he forced the Seraphim down onto his back and pressed the tip of his blade to the hollow of his throat. 

They were both held that way. Neither daring to move. Narrowing his eyes, Wolfwood’s voice echoed through the silent chamber. “Tell me again how worth it this was?”

Vash gazed at him defiantly, chest heaving, pulse fluttering in his slender neck. Bruised and bloodied, he still had it in him to continue to defy the Scourge lord. “What’s one more scar on my body if it means I can face my brother?”

“Your brother?” Wolfwood cocked an eyebrow in thought. Only then did Wolfwood truly look upon the angel's form and took notice of how imperfect this perfect being was. Scars marked every inch of his body, some thin and silvered while others were ruddy beneath the gossamer fabric. And some so fresh he couldn’t imagine they didn’t give the angel pain with every motion. Someone had taken this beautiful creature and ruined it; they had given their cruelty away and carved their terror upon his flesh. And yes, despite that… he was still perfect. What kind of brother would send his sibling, alone, to die? Wolfwood’s eyes were drawn to the angel’s left arm, delicately carved from emerald and ruby. He had noticed it before but hadn’t been able to study it until now. The technology was stolen from his people but powered by angelic principality. Narrowing his eyes, Wolfwood curled his lip. “Hypocrite!” He spat and pressed his blade into alabaster skin just enough to draw blood.

Vash squeezed his eyes shut, dropping his head back, ready to accept his death as the sharp blade pressed against his skin and warm blood pooled into the hollow of his throat. He had failed. Now, he would never save his people from his brother's insanity. Vash knew this might happen. But death did not come on shadowed wings, he did not hear her wings beating thunderously against the firmament.

Instead, he heard the clinking of metal as Wolfwood sheathed his blade and stepped back, taking Vash between the false bones of his mechanical arm, and yanking the Seraph up with him. Taking Vash’s flesh wrist in his other hand, Wolfwood played his thumb over Vash’s pulse point as the Seraph willed his heart to slow, trying not to reveal the depth of his longing and depravity. A Seraphim should not want a Scourge to touch him like this. It brought nothing but cold agony…and a sense of betrayal.

Wolfwood seethed, his fangs bared and nostrils flaring as smoke poured from between the edges of his lips as he considered the Seraph – there was something in the angel’s eyes, something dark and delicious, and it stirred things within him that screamed of blasphemy. “I’ve drawn first blood… our laws are clear; you’re mine now, angel.”

   “The Seraphim aren’t beholden to the laws of the Scourge.”

Wolfwood pulled him closer, “Really, now? We could fight again? See who wins this time?”

   “I’m clearly the one at a disadvantage here, you know that… it’s cruel to suggest I would even have a chance, and when has the Scourge ever fought fairly?” Vash’s voice was low, dangerously teasing. 

Wolfwood knew it was meant to get a rise out of him. It was working, but possibly not in the way the Seraph intended. But he was a stronger man than he seemed, despite the rumors. “Watch your tongue, Seraph.”

Vash wet his lips, catching the man's attention. “Why? Where is it going?” he said smoothly, his voice lowered and eyes half-lidded as he met Wolfwood’s eyes, refusing to look away.

Smoke rolled down Wolfwood’s back, “Seraph trickery.” 

  “Please, as if I could trick -”

“Enough games!” Wolfwood cut him off. Wrinkling his nose, he summoned his guards and threw Vash towards them. “Take him to my chambers, lock him up,” he ordered.

They hesitated, asking, “Sovereign? Would that be wise?”

  “Are you questioning me?” smoke and fumes licked over his lips as he spoke. There was a fire in his eyes that Vash recognized. He feared it, and he longed for it too.

The man balked. “No, sire! As you wish!”

*****

When the angel fought him, Wolfwood had believed it was out of hubris but he changed his opinion. Legitimate skills were there despite the softness of his body. The many scars spoke of a hard life, one filled with nights bleeding in a tub, days moaning beneath the lull of a fever, stitches, knives, pieces cut away or sewn back on, feeling weak and brittle. Wolfwood knew that feeling well, because when he had been a child… when he had been small, not yet capable of fighting for the throne. At that time…

    No distractions. 

If the Seraph had not already been weakened and hemmed in by the metal walls of Sepulchre, Wolfwood had no doubt the angel could have taken him for all he was worth. He was deeply curious why the Seraphim would send one of their own, wings bound, on a mission to attack Sepulchre directly; he was even more baffled how the angel had managed to make it this far into his kingdom without detection. It wasn’t until the Seraph had been stupid enough to attempt a blooming, attempting to coax life into being amongst the rust and ruins, that he’d been found and caught. A stupid mistake; the angel should have known better.

He would find the answers soon enough; the Seraphim fought hard but broke easily. 

Pushing open the door to his chambers, Wolfwood smoothed his features, catching himself on a gasp. Two of his maids sat on the bed with the Seraph, patting him down and checking for hidden weapons. The maids looked harmless, but, like any Scourge, they could hold their own. The angel hissed when their hands brushed over his wings, the feathers prickling against their touch, but he was otherwise compliant. 

Closing the door behind him, the maids immediately stood and bowed, “The Seraph is clear of weapons, Sovereign,” they both declared together, bowed again, and left the room.

   Now, his would-be assassin was helpless and alone with Wolfwood.

Slowly, Wolfwood removed his armor, undoing the laces and removing each piece of the armor, each layer of metal, one at a time and arranging them carefully on the stand near the small, iron-barred window. The Seraph’s wrists were shackled to the bedpost, his body sprawled out beneath him, robes disheveled where he had been trying to free himself. Wolfwood sat on the bed beside Vash, wearing only a thin black undershirt and breeches. Reaching out, he ran a hand over Vash's torso, feeling the raised bumps of scars beneath his fingers, tracing the curves of toned muscle and delicate bone. Leaning down, he pressed his nose to the angel's neck, feeling the warm skin tremble as he breathed in his scent. The angel let out a soft moan, and Wolfwood grinned; smoke seethed between his teeth, coiling black clouds around his angel's neck before dissipating. He had always enjoyed a good challenge, and the angel had proven to be a worthy opponent on the battlefield. But now, the tables had turned, and Wolfwood was in control. He leaned back, looking down at the Seraph. The chains and cuffs must be agony, but the Seraph kept quiet, his face angry and defiant. They locked eyes, and the angel glared at him. If he kept looking at Wolfwood like that... Fuck. So much for no distractions.

Wolfwood realized he didn’t even know his captives' name, "What's your name, angel?"

   "Vash," the Seraph met his eyes, hardening them.

"Vash," Wolfwood repeated, rolling the name around on his tongue. It was sweet against the ashen taste his mouth always held, but the name felt familiar. He had heard it before somewhere. Wait. It couldn’t be? It would be utter insanity. “Vash Savarem ?”

    The angel was silent but nodded.

“Then your brother is Nai Savarem, the Sovereign of Heaven,” his voice darkened, his mood curdling. Wolfwood bared his teeth and leaned towards him; his breath was smoke, his eyes embers beneath the shadow of his brow. “ Why would they send a Prince of Heaven to Scourge lands?” He didn’t expect to receive an answer, but Vash squirmed against the burn of the cuffs, finally acknowledging the pain they brought him.

   “I came of my own accord. I need to prove myself to Nai. I need to claim the Seraphim throne from him.”

“Why?”

   “To end this pointless war. I disagree with your methods, Sovereign of the Scourge, but I do believe we can come to some understanding… Some agreement? I believe we can have peace. But I can’t change anything unless I am on the throne, but Nai and our people refuse to let me face him at arms without proof that I am a worthy opponent.”

“ Why? ” Wolfwood pressed again. It didn’t make sense. He was full of whys today when the only thing he should be asking himself is why this angel was still alive, why he was  still speaking with him, and why was the magma in his belly threatening to erupt at the very lilt of the angel’s voice.

   “There is a better way! We don’t have to fight… we can come to terms with certain losses, as can you Scourge…” Vash said, but his voice began to falter as the look of rage on Wolfwood’s face.

“Do you have a death wish?” Wolfwood asked, his voice gentle. “Because Nai Savarem, Sovereign of Heaven, does not make bargains, I have tried. Our emissaries have attempted to deliver the request for negotiations dozens, if not hundreds, of times!”

Vash furrowed his brow, confused. He would have known if emissaries had been received at the Gates of Pearl unless he was not told of their arrival nor summoned to partake in such talks...Vash turned that thought over in his head, biting on his lip.

Wolfwood did not notice the Seraph's hesitant glance and continued, “Do you know what your brother is doing now?” It surprised the angel; his breath hitched in his throat, but he said nothing and only shook his head, the blond strands of his hair spread in a golden halo against the pillow beneath his head.

Wolfwood leaned down, nipping at Vash's shoulder before moving up to his neck. The angel's breathing grew ragged, his body arching into Wolfwood's touch. The Sovereign smirked, enjoying the power he held over the Seraph.

“Your brother is destroying my home planet and dozens of others. He has sent a fleet of Arks to eradicate my people. There is no bargaining. He sent you here to die, or to distract me at best. You’re doing a fine job of that, I might add.” Looking down at the angel pinned beneath him, Wolfwood heard his own words fall from his mouth and felt a pang of guilt when the angel's face crumpled and the long feathers of his bound wings trembled.

“I…I …” Vash bit his lower lip, drawing the Sovereign's eye. He knew his brothers’ armies had marched across the galaxy, seeking to subjugate and annihilate wherever the Scourge had planted their unnatural shapes and twisted steel creations. Vash had always believed it was done on a missive to establish new folds and spread the Holy words to those who were lost, those who would wish to leave the Scourge and be welcomed into Heaven, reborn hale and whole and cleansed of impurity. He had his doubts, of course. His brother was without mercy when it came to establishing his control, but Vash had never had it so directly thrown in his face or explained just how truly misinformed he was. He felt just as much the fool his brother always made him out to be.

"Did you never stop to ask yourself why your brother is so desperate to eradicate my people? To hunt me down? You truly are naïve…” Wolfwood said softly as he reached down and released Vash from his shackles with a touch and shadowed words; the iron cracked and fell away, blackened carbon and coal. The angel rubbed his wrists, healing himself and willing away the bruising, though it was a much slower process here among so much forged metal. He re-arranged his garments, the fabric hanging from a collar at his neck to cover his chest and waist, leaving his wings and shoulders free. "You should leave this place. Make one of those portals you Princes can create and get the fuck out of here.” He made his voice harsh when he said, “Nothing will come of this. You will receive no spoils of war to prove your worth; if that’s what you want, then find your own way to do it, Vash Savarem, Second Prince of the Seraphim .”

Vash looked up at him, eyes filled with confusion. "W-why are you being kind to me?" Vash asked, his voice trembling. "I don't understand. You're the Scourge Sovereign, and I'm a Seraph. We're enemies . I should be dead already.”

“Do you wish to be?”

   “No. Of course not… Though I used to want to be.”

“Great, you're a hypocrite and a coward. Get out of here; the First Voice and her Enchantresses can’t hear you in my chambers; they’re warded. Summon a portal and leave.”

   “I… I’m confused.”

"So am I… we might be enemies, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be compassionate," Wolfwood replied, settling back down on the end of the bed. “You’ve been manipulated, Blondie. Your brother sent you here to die, nothing more.”

Compassion . That was exactly what Vash wanted for himself and his people and Wolfwood’s, too, but those words did nothing to ease his heavy heart for some reason. Tears welled up along golden lashes, "No. I don't believe that. If he wanted me dead, he could have done it a thousand times over."

"I'm telling you, you need to leave."

   "It's my body, isn't it... not even a Scourge wants me."

Wolfwood looked at him sharply. "Your scars? No. No ," he said more firmly, "I have plenty of my own. That's not it at all. Why would you say that? You're perfect, beautiful even. I would worship you if…if… another time, another place…”

Vash's eyes grew wide with disbelief. No one had ever said that to him before. The Scourge had always looked at him with disgust, and the Seraphim had felt him to be an undesirable disappointment. He was a prince of Heaven and should have held both beauty and power, but his brother had seen to it that Vash was viewed as nothing more than a dilettante, a flippant youth with too much time on his hands. Vapid and loathsome. Ugly and despised. This was supposed to be his chance to prove his worth. It was not going the way he planned.

Wolfwood was different. He saw the beauty in Vash's imperfections, and it made something inside the Seraph shift. “If what?” Vash prompted softly.

Wolfwood leveled him with a steady gaze, his eyes flicked over Vash once before dropping, and his words were weighed as heavily as the gold bands on his wings, “If I were allowed that luxury.”

With trembling fingers, Vash reached out and touched Wolfwood's cheek, tracing the lines of his face. "You're beautiful too," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Wolfwood leaned into the angels’ touch, closing his eyes and softly sighing, "You're not supposed to say that," he murmured.

"Why not?" Vash asked, his fingers still tracing patterns over Wolfwood's skin.

"Because we're supposed to hate one another, mortal enemies and all that," Wolfwood replied with a small smile. “Though you hardly look the part of a fearsome warrior, I would be mistaken to believe otherwise. Only a fool would judge a book by its cover. I fear you, Seraph, even if it doesn’t appear that way. But I do not hate you.”

"And I don't hate you," Vash whispered, his voice barely a whisper. "It’s easy to place all the blame on an enemy when they are faceless, but… I see you, Wolfwood...and I see your passion for your people and your kingdom.”

Wolfwood's eyes met his again, and they stared at each other for a moment, lost in the moment's intensity. Then, slowly, the Scourge leaned in, pressing his lips to Vash’s.

Vash gasped, caught off guard by the sudden contact, but he responded. Heart pounding, skin prickling against the iron, his arms wrapping around Wolfwood's neck, pulling him closer. Parting his lips, Vash deepened the kiss. Teasing his tongue over sharp teeth, the taste of smoke and ash poured into his mouth, darkening his lungs as Wolfwood’s tongue met his. The Scourge Sovereign moaned into Vash, his chest rumbling in a way that sent the Seraphs’ head reeling. Shoots of tiny flowers and feathers budded across his skin, scattering petals across the sheets. Pollen dusted the comforter, motes of golden glitter against the soot smudging his skin. He had never felt like this before, but then, he had never been kissed by anyone, let alone a Scourge .

It didn't matter who or what either of them was right now. Vash only knew that, for whatever reason, he was intensely attracted to this man of soot and ash. All that mattered was the heat building between them, the gentle friction of skin on skin, the way his lips felt against his. The way Wolfwood's hands roamed over his body, fingers tracing the lines of lithe muscles, nails catching over scars without fear, without repulsion. Heart pounding in his ears, the Seraph groaned, pressing his hands against the hard expanse of Wolfwood’s chest as the larger man leaned over him, pressing him into the pillows with his hot mouth and making him high off long, languid, smokey kisses. Vash felt as though lava poured between them and gasped as Wolfwood’s cock, thick and rigid, dug into the crease of his hip. Vash was hard, too; the silky fabric of his robes tented between them. His cock, damp and sticky with the slick of nectar beading at its tip, throbbed and twitched towards Wolfwood, promising unknown pleasures.

"I want you," Wolfwood groaned against the curve of Vash's neck, the edges of his canines grazing sensitive flesh, making the angel's pulse jump beneath his tongue. His voice was husky and hands rough, fingers clutching at the downy plumes of feathers across the angel’s shoulders and neck, trailing down his back where his fingers dipped beneath the curve of his wings, massaging the tender spaces; the baby soft skin between them. Sharp teeth worried the skin of Vash’s neck with enough force to elicit tiny gasps of pained pleasure. His body hummed in response, thighs trembling, his cock twitched, a song building in his repose.

"Then take me," Vash said fiercely between gritted teeth, digging his sharp claws into the muscled forearms of the sovereign hovering above him.

“Nicholas,” Wolfwood spoke softly, suddenly shy as he dipped his head and pressed his lips along the fevered skin of the angel's bare shoulders, stopping just at the edge of the gossamer folds of the angel’s delicate garment. “If we’re gonna fuck, you should know what name to scream, beautiful.”

“ Nicholas ,” Vash sighed and closed his eyes, rasping the name over kiss-swollen lips. His surprised oh was lost in a moan as Wolfwood’s lips glided over the scars through the thin fabric covering the expanse of his chest, his mouth stopping to breathe moist heat over one nipple, pert against the soft fabric. His lips teased against it when Wolfwood asked, “May I?” His eyes flicked to Vash’s and then dropped to where the wrought gold collar where the fabric was sewn in pleats rested against the cleft of his throat, keeping his garments neatly in place over his chest and shielding his nakedness from the world.

Vash nodded. “Yes,” he hiccupped, tucking his lower lip beneath his teeth and closing his eyes.

Pressing a hand to the small of Vash's back, Wolfwood pulled him close, bringing their hips flush. He felt Vash's hands moving up his arms and over his shoulders, exploring the dips and curves of muscle, and felt a thrill course through him, vibrating from the ends of his hair to curl around his spine, sinking low in his gut, as the Seraph explored his body, uncovering novel places. Exhaling a heavy breath laced with smoke and ash, Wolfwood ran his hands over the Seraph, pressing into Vash with hot kisses while his palms spread over either side of the cage of his ribs, fingers kneading and massaging. Rutting his hips against the angel’s thigh with excitement, all while his hands and lips discovered unknown territory in need of plundering – fields and valleys, peaks and canyons, a garden of Eden hidden in the geography of his angel’s body.

Carefully, Wolfwood slid one hand up to the collar at the back of Vash’s neck, and his deft fingers pulled loose the ties and tugged it away, exposing pale skin that blossomed purple and blue with bruises and ruddy scars. He felt Vash would have been beautiful without the blemishes of battle. Still, even with them, he was breathtaking, awe-inspiring, his prowess invigorating, and it pulled Wolfwood towards him with an irresistible urge for closeness. Shifting their positions, Wolfwood slid Vash beneath him and balanced his weight on one elbow beside the angel, holding himself aloft. He moved his free hand up the length of Vash's naked torso, slower now, taking his time to savor the feel of his skin beneath his rough fingertips and broad palm. He trailed his fingers down Vash's sides as he dipped his head and kissed his way from Vash's neck and chest, letting his tongue play over the sensitive, scarred skin as he went.

Vash gasped, his eyes watery with desire as Wolfwood teased and licked at his exposed skin, fangs pressed into the softer parts, promising pain and pleasure. The sensations had Vash trembling beneath the Scourge. He ran his hands through Wolfwood's hair as the sensations inside him grew almost too much to bear. He tangled his fingers in the raven locks as Wolfwood explored every inch of his body, tracing sensitive fingers over Wolfwood's muscular chest and stomach. He toyed with the edges of the Scourge's shirt, sweetly tracing circles along the exposed skin of his waist before slipping the tips of his fingers beneath the fabric to feel the heat of Wolfwood's body against his own: silk and iron.

   The doors slammed open with a resounding bang against the metal walls.

The heavy wood bounced with enough force and speed that Vash was taken off guard and sunk his fangs into Wolfwood's bottom lip. “Shit!” Pulling away, Wolfwood tongued the lacerations as Vash murmured apologies while gathering his loosened robes. Wolfwood waved the apology away, sucking his lip into his mouth and running his tongue along the bloodied edge, “No, it’s not your fault, angel,” he said and frowned. Sitting up, he turned his head as the High Priestess and a Chant of three women entered his chamber. The moment her eyes rested on Wolfwood, she turned and waved her hands at the women, bidding them to leave her alone with the Sovereign and the Seraph, whose skin had turned pink with eyes downcast. Finding the hem of his robe, he played with it between his fingers, visibly shrinking in on himself and trying to look like he wasn’t just caught beneath the Sovereign.

As soon as the doors were sealed shut behind her, she raised her hands and voice in song. The air vibrated as her voice shifted, and the dulcet tones sealed her magic into the walls and all corners of the room. Vash shivered as the ancient words slithered over his skin, making it itch – the words were correct, but the way they were sung was wrong, foreign, twisted from their original purpose. Lifting her veil over her head, the High Priestess turned to Wolfwood and Vash, her face on full display but ritually painted to conceal her true face. The Seraph was incredulous at the tears in her eyes. “Oh, my dear son. I have not warned you enough about the prophecy? The danger it brings? If one star is here, then where is the second?”

Chapter Text

Wolfwood pressed a hand to Vash’s shoulder, pushing him down to the ashen pillows with words laced with irritation. “Stay, Seraph.” He turned his dark eyes to the High Priestess, “First Voice, why are you here?”

  The High Priestess’s eyes slid to Vash and stayed there as she spoke, meeting his pale blue gaze. “I had to come and see him… I had to…you will not deny me this!” Vash could feel the coils of song rolling from off her shoulder, the way the air and walls thrummed with her magnetism, pulling towards the woman. Vash felt the gold bands shifting as he moved, immune to the magnetic pull – at least, that was some small blessing his brother had granted him. Ignoring the Sovereign, Vash rose to his knees and gathered his robes, hiding behind them for modesty. His skin flushed, realizing what the women had walked in on. It should not have happened.

  The Priestess sucked in a breath, pressing a hand to her lips and chest, “My word,” she gasped as she took in the Seraph. Admiring his blond hair, the wings weighed down with gold, and his thin robes against pale skin, she didn’t flinch as her gaze passed over the scars. She took it all in, and her eyes shone with tears. “Oh, gracious one…I am sorry, Nicholas. I-I had to see him for myself.”

  Vash was curious. He knew so little about these people. He couldn’t help the line knitted between his brows as he fought the weight of the restraints. “First Voice?” Vash’s interest was piqued; she called him Nicholas. Are they… close? Spouse, perhaps? His guts twisted with guilt. Were the stories true? Was the Sovereign a lecherous man?

 Wolfwood grunted, “You should not be here –”

  “And neither should he!”

  “I commanded that you not be present!” an invisible wall was raised between them, like two magnets – positive against negative – their wills fought for control.

  “You know what I had to confirm, Nicholas!” her words held weight, and Vash felt them lashing against him and knew she was using her powers to compel him. Willing the Sovereign to do her bidding, but the man fought back. His voice was just as strong.

  “And you know how dangerous this game is, mother!” the magnetism between them snapped, broken, the wall dropped, and the woman sighed. Wolfwood had won.

  Vash flicked his wings in surprise and gasped against the sudden pain of it. “Mother?” he risked words.

  The older woman flushed through her white face paint; her dark eyes and hair nearly matched Wolfwood’s, but they were not similar in the least otherwise. Even through the makeup, Vash could find nothing of the Sovereign’s face in hers. “Adoptive mother… and aunt,” Wolfwood provided. “She was my wet nurse when my mother died, and my father designated her my permanent caretaker.”

  Vash had many questions: how does one go from nursing a baby to being First Voice, the religious leader of an entire civilization? He doubted he would be answered, so he stayed silent and watched warily as the woman approached the bed and knelt, clasping her hands together in prayer. “I wish you no harm, little star. And though my son may be foolish, we still hold the old ways and have been forced to adapt for our own safety. Please forgive the ignorance of our people. We have done our best to curb the damage, but alas, they thirst for iron and space to stretch.”

  Vash considered the woman for a long while as the fevered prayers of First Voice rolled around the room, safe within the protective barrier she had sung into life. His body reacted to the words of praise, the hymn of his people, even though it came from the lips of a Scourge woman. His feathers fluffed, and his skin and eyes glowed with it, seeking the vitality faith brought to his kind. It was utterly unexpected, but her fervor was genuine and gave him strength, the power of true faith.

  Tears gathered along his lashes, heavily they spilled down his cheeks and fell from his chin and onto his breast, moved by her words and offered praises. Where the tears fell on the bed, they left wet, clear little circles in the black ash. Placing a hand on the crown of her veiled head, Vash blinked against his tears. The woman’s veils billowed, and robes swirled as a blinding light filled the room. As he pressed his lips to the crown of her head, the woman burst into fitful tears at the blessing granted. “How does one of the Celestial Faith find herself here, among the Scourge?” he wondered out loud. “What is your name?”

  “I am called the First Voice of Eo’Mac, High Priestess, Sovereign Songstress, Chanter of Change, but to you, my heavenly Prince… I am Melanie. And to this one,” she glanced at Wolfwood, “I am but a humble mother. Please, graceful one, please, I beg you... spare us.”

  Vash lifted her chin, cupping his hands around either side of her round face, and realized with sudden clarity that the woman wore only vestments embroidered with gold thread; her gown and jewels and slippers were all set with the soft metal where the magnetism of this place could not weigh her down and understood its deeper significance. It was a sign to those who knew what to look for and understood the fear she must face each day as the First Voice for the people who had slaughtered his and her own kind, too.

    “You are Nephilim,” Vash realized with sudden clarity.

  Vash took her hands in his, pulling them to his chest and pressing her knuckles to his heart, “The Nephilim were on the earth in those days—and also afterward—when the sons of God went unto the daughters of humans, who bore children to them… little sister, please do not fear me. I have not come to hunt you down; I bear no ill will towards you. I am not my brother.”

  Wolfwood turned, taking up his sword. He squeezed the hilt and bared his teeth. “And good thing for that, or you’d be losing your other arm, Seraph. We do not reveal our secrets easily.”

Melanie frowned, “Nicholas!” she admonished, her fingers tightly interlaced with Vash’s.

Ignoring her, Wolfwood stood and rolled his shoulders, his skin rippling smoke and ash as he did so. Vash watched the expanse of his back, the way his muscles moved beneath his skin. It reminded him of a wary predator, a cornered beast. The man seemed literally made of fire and brimstone; his eyes held the same glow that spoke of a distant past, and the smoke that poured from his skin and bones and flowed from between his gnashing teeth was more than enough to prove that the man was far from human.

“The Scourge Sovereign and his High Priestess… one wears silken gowns and gold while the other suffers the pain of eternal fire as his angelic blood boils beneath the weight of his iron kingdom.” Vash said the words carefully but felt the anger flow from Wolfwood as smoke curled from his nostrils and his iris’ sparked amber behind the gray. Vash met his gaze, “Your secret is safe with me.”

Wolfwood nodded, “Don’t make me regret this,” he said thoughtfully, running a hand over the back of his neck and up through his shaggy hair.

Ignoring his words, Vash sniffed back his tears and pinned Wolfwood with eyes turned a dark teal in the shadows. “You won’t. But so many will die if I don’t stop my brother. I can’t explain what drew us together like this, how I feel, but so many lives rest on my shoulders, Wolfwood, and I need to claim the signet and return to Nai.”

First Voice, Melanie , clutched his hands, pulling them to her lips and pressing kisses along his knuckles. “You mean this?” She reached into the neck of her robes and pulled out the long necklace that ended in a golden bell carved of ivory. Vash’s eyes widened; it was a simple trinket but held so much power inside it. He could see the halo of power around it, glowing softly. Seeing the question on his face, Melanie curled her fingers around it. “It was a gift from my ancestors, passed down to each High Priestess in our bloodline,” she said.

Raising his brow, Vash placed a hand over hers. “Do you know what this is? My brother holds its mate, an exact copy. They are twins, like my brother and I, and when together, they hold great power… no wonder he sent me to find it… if he were to get a hold of this, he would have enough power to…”

“It’s not your fault,” Wolfwood said, settling back down on the edge of the bed. “Like everyone else, you have been lied to, deceived, and manipulated.”

A loud banging on the door drew their attention. With a nod, the High Priestess smoothed out her gown, pulled her veil down over her face, and approached the door. She cracked it open enough to exchange words with whoever it was; their voices were harsh and hurried. Closing it silently, she turned, and when she raised her veil, her face looked all the whiter. “Sovereign Wolfwood… the Angelic Host has arrived! Sovereign Nai and his Arks have descended into our atmosphere and are steadily approaching Sepulchre. Your generals have requested –”

“I’m on my way,” Wolfwood cut her off, leaped off the bed, and quickly redressed his armor with his mother’s help. Pulling the laces tight and returning his cross-sword to its holster on his back. Placing his helmet in the crook of his arm, he glanced at Vash. “Leave him here, come with me. They’ll want your counsel, First Voice. I expect the Enchantresses to be readied, yes?”

She nodded, her veil hiding her expression, “Yes. Of course, Sovereign. We serve you and your kingdom always.”

*****

Wolfwood observed the state of his kingdom from the parapets of the inner walls of Sepulchre. The castle was fortified with stone and iron, three walls thick and surrounded by a mote of gallium; its silver rounded waves washed up against the outer wall, swirling beneath the short bridge between the barbican and land.

Bruised with oxidized patches of green, yellow, and orange, the rusted earth spread out beneath the steel-clad feet of his marching soldiers. Their swords were sharp, but their armor dulled with corrosion and protective runes etched into their surfaces with acids. The sky above was dark, stars glittering over its expanse from end to end like gems between the moons. Their brilliant faces blotted out only by the outline of some enormous being traveling across the nighttime sky, the wings of an Ark.

The angelic behemoth hovered over the battlefield, enormous and threatening, bearing wings and weapons of unknown multiplicity. The gentle motion of its pinions stirred the winds. It kicked up debris – sand and broken wire, tiny gears and silver bearings – the Ark soared, enormous hive mind, a conglomerate of angels, towards Sepulcher. On the ground below, the entirety of the Heavenly Host met his people blow for blow, wearing garments as bright white and pure as their feathers. Their beauty was matched only by the flowers blooming in their wake; through their muttered prayers did the organic come to reclaim the fields of heavy metals, snaking vines pulling down Scourge men and women left and right, stealing their life's blood to power their heavenly rage.

One of his personal knights, a man named Bradley, approached and bowed his head, “Sovereign? The cannons are in position.”

Wolfwood nodded, “And the hounds?”

“The handlers are on standby, ready for your order.”

“Very well. Hold on the canons,” Wolfwood said, raising a gloved hand; his armor caught the light and shadows of battle. “Release the hounds,” Wolfwood commanded, pressing his lips together. He knew that somewhere on the Ark, the angelic Sovereign, Lord Nai Savarem, commanded the Host under the guise of rescuing his brother. Still, he would prove to them all that Nai was a liar, unfit to rule his people, and worse… he had put thousands of lives on the line for his misguided ego. Billions of dead across the galaxies, and for what? To continue an old war neither of them began? Why must their forefathers' debt fall onto their shoulders?

Bradley nodded, his face sharply outlined by the flickering torchlight as the Ark filled the sky, blocking all other light. Taking a banner as white as the angels' silken garments between his hands, Bradley waved it in the air. From somewhere across the way, a horn blared in response from another group leaning against the parapets closer to the first wall.

Three long blasts. 

  The portcullis was raised.

Four hounds slunk from the darkness. Their bodies were long and sinuous with large triangular ears and whips for tails, ochre skin bristling with knives, and eyes as black as onyx ran on six silent feet. Claws whispered over rock and corrugated steel as they lifted their pointed noses to the wind and seethed with hunger. The Scourge hounds raced past the guardhouse, spewing poison gasses from between titanium teeth. Men leaped aside for the hounds, staying out of their way, or they were just as likely to take their own. Deadly, howling their challenge, the beasts raced through the barbican and onto land. Their tails lashed against the ground and, struck like sulfur matches, burst into flame.

Along the jagged horizon, flashes of purple and sparks of white set Wolfwood's ears to ringing as angel fire exploded. Balls of lightning arched between skeletons of metal, devouring his people and snuffing out their lives with a swiftness unmatched by his kingdom. So much for angelic divinity ; they were just as monstrous as he. The irony of it was painful. But it was also invigorating, and excitement thrummed through his veins as the battle drums set the pace, building the Scourge up to a fevered berserker rage.

Chapter Text

The sound was deafening, the smell sickening. Beside him stood his strongest General and member of his personal guard, General Livio. The man watched with bared teeth, a silent snarl. His fists curled at his sides, resisting the urge to take hold of the sword hilts jutting over each shoulder; the twin blades, curved and honed from titanium with polished bone hand grips, gave him his nickname of Double Fang. It didn’t take long to find what, or rather who, had riled his man up. There, on the battlefield, strode a tall Seraphina. Her striking blonde hair streamed behind her and her face was stony but beautiful with high cheekbones and full, pouty, red lips. If she were not busy murdering his people, Wolfwood might find her stunning. In one hand she held a pennant that bore three crimson spikes with two wings, one silver and one gold, all set on an ivory background – the royal flag of the Host. In her other hand, she held stolen Scourge technology, an enormous railgun that used the magnetism of the land around them to launch projectiles at incredible velocities.

 “Elendira the Crimson Nail has taken the field, Sovereign,” General Livio watched as the Seraphina, one of Nai’s archangels – strongest of the Seraph – raised the railgun and mowed down a row of their warriors, pinning each one with three foot long nails, impaling them to the very ground they were giving their lives to defend.

 “Don’t let your anger impede your judgment, General,” Wolfwood said quietly as they watched the Crimson Nail raise her flag triumphantly with a whooping war cry before turning the deadly weapon on another group. It was obscene to watch an angel cackling wildly as her enemies fell, blood staining her porcelain skin and turning her garments as crimson as her lips. Livio hissed between his teeth. Ready to face her again. He bore the scars to prove he had faced her once before and lived. His body hummed with the urge to claim her life.

 Wolfwood inclined his head, tapping his fingers along the stone parapet. “Liv… be careful.”

 Livio faced him, a grin creeping over his face that was entirely not his own while still belonging very much to him. His voice darkened, his eyes shifted – an ember glowing behind his irises – and when Livio spoke, the voice that left his lungs was as rough and ashen as Wolfwood’s cursed tongue, another blessed child of Eo’Mac. “I’ll make that bitch watch as I devour her from the inside out, your Grace.”

 Wolfwood raised the edge of one lip but nodded, acknowledging Livio’s other half. “Just keep Livio safe, Razlo.”

 “Aye, Sovereign. I will,” he grinned and climbed onto the parapet. “Better go see to your golden captive, Sovereign,” he snickered and then leaped, drawing his blades as he went. Razlo was a silver streak as he crossed the space between the walls, scaled them as if they were little more than children’s stacking bricks, and crossed the steel and chrome fields to face his rival.

 They both had known the Seraphina would come, she was never far from the Heavenly Sovereigns side. But if the Seraphina was down here, fighting on the land, then that was one less archangel guarding the Ark.

*****

The walls shuddered with the sound of explosions.

Vash clutched at the thin sheets. Dust and ash shivered from the beams crossing overhead, dusting the room in a thin coat of grime. He heard the doors open, but could not turn to see who had entered. The collar around his neck restricted his movements.

“Have no fear,” the High Priestess bustled towards the bed, two women followed close behind. Climbing atop the bed the three women found the chains and pulled the heavy weight of it towards them, the links clicked and hummed as the women placed their hands along it, words of power sliding off their tongues in sharp notes that shattered the metal, freeing Vash. A small petite woman with short dark hair and her taller blonde companion with beautiful hazel eyes pulled the collar free from his neck and ran their fingers over his neck and chest and arms, whispering songs of healing.

He looked to Melanie with concern as she raised her veil. “These women, Meryl and Milly, are of the Celestial Faith, like myself they…'' She didn’t need to explain. Vash looked to each one, inclining his head in acknowledgment of their heritage. Their eyes, the gentle glow they held, gave it away. He realized it was one of the many reasons these women choose to veil.

“All of you are consanguineous of the Seraphim?”

Melanie nodded. “All the Scourge Enchantresses are, Graceful one. Not just us. How else would we be able to turn your songs against you?” she said gravely. Vash nodded, wondering how that made so much sense while also wondering how and why he never knew?

“And Nicholas…Sovereign Wolfwood?” Vash ventured.

Melanie and the two women glanced at one another. Another explosion shook the chamber and they looked around, alarmed. “A host of Arks have approached, and they are preparing to launch an assault. We must get away from here.” Melanie noticed the perplexed look on Vash’s face and the tight set of his mouth.

Vash frowned, “Why is Nai here?”

“Why else,” the petite woman, Meryl, said, “To rescue you of course… your brother has spread the word across the planets that you are being held captive.”

“That’s not true! I…” he was a captive. He’d been sent here and then captured by the Scourge and was held in Sepulchre, the seat of the Scourge Sovereign.

   Nai set it all up.

Nai knew these people were Nephilim. There was no way he could not, Vash realized. Nai knew, and yet he continued to fight. Melanie smiled gently. “Do you know why we fight? Why have the Scourge and the Seraphim been battling for generations?”

Vash frowned. Everything he knew of the war had been taught to him by his brother. He was not even aware the Nephilim existed outside of the stories his brother had recited… these women were his kin; they were family; Nai should welcome them into Heaven's boughs, but instead, he waged war.

“Please, Priestess –”

“Melanie, to you, I am only Melanie.”

“Tell me, Melanie. How did this all begin, according to the Scourge?”

Melanie took his hands between hers and pressed them to her forehead. “I will tell you the secrets I’ve been handed down,” she said and looked at the women seated around them, “It is time you knew the truth, all of you, most of all… it's time the Seraphim knew of our origins. But first,” she smiled, “Let’s free your wings.”

*****

The Ark was nearly on them. It was a monstrosity, an amalgamation of angels that barely resembled the Seraphim it was created from. Fused, as they were, the floating behemoth seethed and writhed, clusters of wings, fluttering eyes, and mouths that silently raged at the Scourge below. Talons and nails scraped as eight enormous wings moved in unison, propelling it forward through the air like a ship at sea. With angel song supporting its bulk, denying gravity, the Ark carved through the glowing ionic waves.

It curled in eight of its largest wings, and where their tips met, a ball of plasma formed, growing as the angels standing at the head of the Ark prayed, their song rising – rivaling that of the High Priestesses Opera of assistants and the many Choirs and Chanters positioned along the walls for support. Their songs rose in pitch, words garbled and throats strangled, fighting for dominance over the sound waves. Wolfwood would not let the angels win in this; if the Covenant were successfully launched from the Ark, then the war would be lost. It would obliterate everything in its path, and this world, as had been many others, would be done for and…Wolfwood would not be there to protect Vash from its destructive path; he knew he could not let that happen. Even if it took a thousand lifetimes, Wolfwood would fight for his angel.

Setting his jaw, he turned to the armed General standing at his side; yellow eyes focused on the battle below. Though his face was impassive, his eyes told other stories. On his return from the battlefield, the blood of the Seraphina staining his armor, he and Razlo had roared in triumph. Clapping a hand over Livio's armored shoulder, Wolfwood said, “General Livio. Hold the fort or me, brother.”

Livio grabbed Wolfwood's forearm as he turned away, stopping him. “You can’t leave yet! Our people see you standing here and take heart knowing we’ve yet to lose.”

“I know. But if the Ark releases that blast, we’ll all be dead. I have to keep that from happening by any means possible. I need to face the Heavenly Sovereign face to face.”

“Sovereign Wolfwood? You don’t mean…? You can’t! That would be suicide!”

Wolfwood nodded, pulling his arm away and knocking his knuckles against the other man’s chest, friendly but firm. “I know. And if that happens, you’ll need to take over in my stead. I appoint you the next Sovereign, be damned the rituals. I ask only that you take care of First Voice and her Enchantresses in my absence.”

Livio pressed his lips together in a thin line, his face conflicted until he nodded, “I don’t understand… but I will do as you ask. The First Voice and her women will be protected.”

Satisfied, Wolfwood nodded curtly before pulling the larger man in for a crushing embrace. Against Livio’s shoulder, he intoned a blessing. In his mind, the words meant nothing, they never had, but it was the thought that counted… and Livio believed in them, and that was all that mattered. “Thank you, Liv. May Eo’Mac hold you forever in His embrace. May the song forever sing for you until the day your last breath is taken, and the iron in your blood and bones returns to the lands from which it was born.”

“T-thank you, Sovereign!” Livio trembled as he released his embrace and watched Wolfwood disappear down the stairs leading to the chambers of the inner walls.

When he reached his rooms, he wasn’t surprised to find his mother and her maidens were already there. He couldn’t remember their names, but they were often with her – the short one and the big girl – had already removed the golden bands from the Seraphim’s wings and used their songs to soothe his aches and bruises. Wolfwood stopped in his tracks; seeing Vash sitting on his bed with his chest exposed, no chains or restraints, just a calm willingness to be here, made Wolfwood’s skin flush – as if they hadn’t already done plenty, but this was a different feeling entirely. Vash immediately pulled his garment back over his head, “The Ark is here; I can sense my brother's presence. He’s looking for me,” he said and frowned; his face was pale, and his hands trembled.

“You look like you’re waiting for your execution.”

   “Not mine...”

“And here I thought I was the funny one.”

   “Nicholas… if Nai realizes what’s happened. If he learns about…us… he’ll make me watch while he peels away your skin,” he said, his throat tightening. “I have a confession…”

“Confession? Do I look like a priestess?”

   “No. But it’s a confession all the same… I think I like you very much… Nicholas. I knew the moment I saw you that something inexplicable was drawing us together. And I don’t know what I might do if something happens to you.”

Wolfwood blinked slowly, his expression guarded, but his cheeks were flushed when he ran a hand down his face and turned his back on Vash. “Right,” he scoffed, “Those are some heavy words, but I get it. I’m dark, handsome, and dangerous,” he chuckled, refusing to look at the Seraph. “What’s not to like? But I won’t clip your wings the way your brother did.”

   “Don’t patronize me.”

Wolfwood pressed his lips into a line; he hadn't meant to make light of things. "Take me to the Ark with you. We can end this war once and for all. Vash, I also want peace between our people. Real peace. Not some halfhearted missive, but a Magna Carta between your realm and mine. Reunification of our peoples.”

“Believe me, Nicholas, I want that more than anything! But, if you attempt to go there, you’ll die. I need to face him alone.”

“And if I do so, what? At least I will die knowing that I did something that mattered, that could change the course of history. I’m doing this for all of us. Because it has to end, Vash or no one will get their happy ending. For fucks sake, Vash, I think I lo… you…,” he paused on his words, eyes wide while raising a hand to cover his mouth. He looked away as his brain finally caught up to his tongue, and he realized what he had said. Words were power; once spoken, they could not be taken back. Even the most powerful songs could not wipe clean the slate of spoken language. Words were all the more powerful when spoken truthfully, and the air rang with it. Vash curled towards him, his face stricken and tears trickling over his cheeks, catching in stray strands of his hair and lying moist and salty over his lips and chin. 

“N-Nicholas… please. I… me too, for you. I mean… shit, you know what I mean... That is why I cannot let you do this. Not alone. I will take you, I will. But… this is my fight to finish. For us. For everyone and everything. For peace, for love, I will fight my brother, and I will win.” His voice was tight, body trembling, but his brilliant blue eyes were full of conviction, and Wolfwood believed it.

“Okay… alright,” he agreed with Vash, though his heart ached to say no, to beg Vash to drop him off and then fly as far away as he could go. To skip through decades, eons, of time and fold space as many times as he needed, rapture himself to another plane of existence, if necessary, all to ensure that Vash could never be harmed by his brother again. But then, that wouldn’t be Vash. Wolfwood nodded again. His voice was firmer, his mind made up; “Alright. Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

The flight was grueling for Vash; his wings still ached where the gold bands had left their marks on them; even with the healing songs of First Voice and her maidens, the skin could not be entirely healed where the metal had bit into the flesh. With Wolfwood in tow, Vash felt like knives were being thrust into his back with each powerful beat of his wings. The extra weight of Wolfwood – gripping his enormous cross-shaped sword in his hands – did not help matters, either. Especially since he wore enough metal plates sewn into the leather armor to fend off the entire Host. As they pushed against the atmospheric pressure, the pain in his chest and wings only increased. Despite the agony, Vash continued to push upward. Higher and higher, they flew until the air turned chilly, and flashing electricity struck the tips of his feathers, burning them away until they were charred black and brown.

Gaining altitude while soaring through the billowing gas clouds of Sepulchre, they had a clear view of the Ark in all its terrifying grandeur beneath them. It had already been watching them; several pairs of eyes, furious at their intrusion, swiveled in Vash’s direction, and an onslaught of angel song made his head ring. His pale skin went slick with the strain of metal and the rush of threatening angelic swirling in his head. Wolfwood tapped against one of Vash’s elbows, “You ready for this, Blondie?”

Vash replied with a nod. “I’m ready,” and tucked his wings against his back; swooping from the clouds in a dive, he opened his wings at the last moment, careening left and right to avoid sparks of lightning before crashing and tumbling to the warm surface of the Ark.

"Shit, nice landing," Wolfwood grumbled, extricating himself from the tangle of limbs and wings that was Vash. Pulling himself up to standing, Wolfwood patted down his body and, feeling nothing broken, slung his sword hilt over his back and then offered a hand to Vash.

Accepting the help, Vash stood, "It's not like I meant to crash," he frowned and curled his toes against the warm surface of the Ark.

"I know... I just like watching you make that face." Vash pouted. Wolfwood grinned, “Yeah, that one.”

   “Not the time nor the place, Wolfwood.”

“When is it, though?”

Rolling his eyes, Vash watched as pale blue light pulsed in geometric shapes beneath his feet, responding to his touch. Kneeling, he pressed his hands to it and closed his eyes. A wave of confusion, anger, and fear washed over him. "Fuck..." he cursed, breaking the connection. "This is... wrong. My brother he's pushing too hard. They're losing control."

Wolfwood cocked an eyebrow, "You're telling me this thing is alive?"

   "It's not a thing... it’s a them... hundreds of angels joined together to –"

"We ain't got some for Seraphim biology lessons, Blondie. We've got company."

Vash had expected there to be Host warriors, an army of angels intent on removing their offending presence from the Ark, but their songs were focused on keeping the enormous hull afloat; they couldn’t afford to lose their concentration. Instead, they got a single man with short hair as blue as the sky on a rare day of clarity.

“Legato,” Vash said the name with reverence and fear. Furrowing his brow, he flinched at the sound of Wolfwood withdrawing his blade, the metal hissing against the scabbard on his back. Wolfwood moved to step forward, but Vash grabbed his shoulder, “Be careful,” he said, squeezing once and then letting Wolfwood go. “He’s dangerous, Nicholas. That man works as my brother’s confidant; facing him is facing my brother.”

 “Yeah, I’m well aware of who he is,” Wolfwood grimaced, “We’ve met before. Haven’t we, Bluesummers?”

Legato Bluesummers grinned, his fingers moving like he had an itch he couldn’t reach, pulling the metal wires, carving them through the air. How ironic that Nai Savarem and his lapdog used the very metals they despised the Scourge for. Legato titled his head in acknowledgment, “Ah yes, it was on that pathetic backwater planet Rem-3, correct? You lost that battle, I believe?”

“Fuck you!” Wolfwood growled.

“No, thanks. You’re not my type,” Legato smirked and winked. “Good work retreating, by the way, that place no longer exists,” the man laughed.

Wolfwood bristled, his face furious as he reached over his shoulder, took his sword into his hands, and growled. Like an elegant shadow, Legato smiled, his dark eyes glinting when he held up his hands and curled his fingers towards his palms in a rolling motion, tapping each one into a fist. “Enough chit-chat, time to die.”

“Vash, look out!” Wolfwood cried out a warning and shoved the angel aside.

The air around Legato glittered and shifted; metal lines mirrored the sky, making them nearly imperceptible to the naked eye except for the faint traces of condensation beading along the lines like dew on a spider’s web.

Vash and Wolfwood exchanged another glance before cautiously approaching Legato, attempting to flank him. The man's movements were fluid, his fingers dancing in the air as he manipulated the metal lines around him. All it would take was the flick of a wrist or the snap of his fingers for the thin wires to slice through flesh, carve away skin and bone, cutting you to ribbons. Vash had seen Legato do it, had watched him laugh in glee with blood-stained hands as he did his brother's dirty work. Purification, his brother had called it.

"What do you want?" Vash demanded, his hands hovering close together; it was dangerous to open a portal here on top of the Ark, but if he could concentrate enough...

Legato's smile widened, revealing a set of unnaturally sharp teeth. "I want you to leave this place, Vash. You're not welcome here. Let our Lord do his work."

Vash clenched his jaw. "I can't allow that. He's gone too far. It's time for this to end... no more death, no more hate."

Legato shook his head. "You don't understand, Vash. Our Lord Nai is doing what must be done. He's bringing order to the chaos."

"There's no order in genocide," Wolfwood growled.

Legato chuckled. "But there is power in it. And isn't that what we all strive for, power? The power to make change, to shape the world in our vision. Our Lord Nai is doing just that. He's cleansing the impurities, creating a world of purity."

"It's a world of death," Wolfwood said, his voice low and dangerous. His hair bristled, smoke fell from his mouth, and ash swirled around his feet.

Legato shrugged. "There will always be sacrifice in great change. But it will be worth it in the end."

Vash shook his head. "I can't let you continue."

Legato's grin twisted into a snarl. "You can try. But you won't succeed." He lifted his hands, his fingers curling around the wires. "I admire your determination... let us put that to the test, shall we?" Without warning, Legato snapped his fingers, and the lines of metal surrounding him shot outward, crackling with electricity.

Vash tucked his wings in and dove aside, narrowly avoiding being struck as wires hissed on the surface of the Ark. His ears were ringing from the anguish of the angels below at the same time when Wolfwood raised his sword, forming a barrier against Legato's sharp steel, showering sparks into the sky.

Vash knew they could not keep up this dance forever. It was only a matter of time before one of them made a mistake, a misstep that could prove fatal. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the Ark beneath his feet, the hum of angelic energy pulsing beneath the surface. He focused his power, channeling it through his body and out his fingertips as he clapped his hands together. With a burst of light, the air around him shimmered as he opened a portal, the purple energy crackling as it peeled open behind Legato.

Legato's eyes widened in surprise as Vash lunged forward, wings beating for leverage, as he drove himself into Legato and shoved him through the portal. Wolfwood followed close behind, his blade at the ready.

With a sucking, popping sound and rush of cold wind, the portal opened, spitting them onto a bleak, desolate landscape of jagged rocks and dust.

The sky was a deep shade of crimson streaked with bleeding purples and oranges. The air was thick with the stench of death, and the ground trembled under their feet. Vash could feel the skin of his feet burning, blood seeping into the hungry earth. This place was beyond saving; not an iota of life remained - he could feel their deaths echoing on the dark horizon. Legato landed nearby, his blue hair whipping around his face as he landed on the parched ground with a grace that belied the violence behind his every movement.

Wolfwood knelt on one knee and looked around, taking his surroundings in, confused. His skin was sore, and his stomach lurched as nausea twisted his guts. Vash helped him to his knees as he dry wretched; it was a familiar side effect of portal travel to the Seraph, one he had conquered ages ago. Wolfwood spat on the ground and stood, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword, "Where the hell are we?"

"This," Vash said somberly, "is the aftermath of Nai's so-called Purification. A world he has exterminated... it is his vision for Sepulchre, Wolfwood, and any who defy him. Where he goes, there is nothing. He doesn’t simply want to rule the land; he wants to destroy it and reform it for himself alone. He is the pale horse, and death is his rider."

"You can't stop him, Vash," Legato said. "He's too powerful now. You should just accept your fate and join him."

Vash shook his head, his eyes steely. "Never."

Legato's grin faded, replaced by a sneer of contempt. "You're a naive fool, Vash. In every world, in every universe, in every time, and every place you try to fight him and this," he waved at the desolate landscape and laughed, "This is how it ends! Only one thing will change this time," he hissed, curling his fingers, and lashing the air with wire. "This time, Vash Savarem, Prince of the Seraphim, you will die."

Vash shrugged. "Then so be it. I would rather die fighting for what is right than live in a world of absolutes. You were once someone I admired, Legato. One of the mighty Archangels.”

Legato stiffened, his eyes dark, “Shut up!”

“And Nai took your wings from you and made you what you are now."

“I said shut up! You don’t know what you're talking about,” Legato hissed, his shoulders tense as he rubbed his thumbs and forefingers together. “Shut up, shut up! Or I will quiet that filthy tongue for you…don’t think we don’t know what you’ve done, Vash, you and that filthy Scourge,” he spat on the ground.

Vash continued, ignoring Legato’s pleas, "You let him take everything from you. Your angelic principality replaced with a heart so dark and twisted it won't accept light even when it's shining right in your face."

Legato let out a menacing growl, his wires glowing and writhing maliciously. "You know nothing, Vash. Nothing of what I have endured, nothing of what I have sacrificed. But I will show you." At the flick of his wrist, the wires shot forward, silver and steel whizzing toward Vash and Wolfwood.

Vash took to the air, wings beating against the unnatural atmosphere as he soared above Legato's deadly wires. Wolfwood held his ground, his sword spinning as it sliced through the metal cords with ease. Legato growled, his eyes flashing with anger as he continued to manipulate the wire; trying to attack them both at once was proving more difficult than the man had thought. Vash saw an opening and dove down, aiming to use the force of his weight to knock Legato off his feet. But Legato was too quick. He snarled, his fingers curling. Vash felt the bite of the wires wrapping around his arms, cutting into his flesh and binding his wings tightly to his sides. He struggled against the metal cords, his wings flapping frantically against the wires as he tried to break free. Blood welled around the tiny, stinging cuts; his robes and feathers were stained with it. Legato tightened his grip, his smile once again twisted into a snarl.

"I warned you, Vash. You can't beat me," Legato spat, his eyes alight with the joy of victory. "Now I'll show you what happens to those who defy our Lord Nai."

He raised his hands, fingers wrapping around the thin metal strands, his arms straining as he pulled the lines tighter.

   "Legato."

Vash recognized the voice immediately. Legato hesitated; the wires around Vash and Wolfwood lost their grip as Legato turned to face his Lord. "Sovereign Nai, I d-didn't expect to see you here," he said, his voice sounding almost meek in the presence of his superior. "I-I've captured the insurgents."

Nai stepped forward, eyes scanning the desolate landscape before settling on Wolfwood with disinterest and then Vash. At the sight of the bruises, the blood staining his body wherever the metal lines dug into his flesh, Nai lowered his brow and set his jaw. "Who gave you permission to harm my brother?"

Legato's face dropped, realizing his mistake, and his fingers twitched, " I'm sorry, Lord. I only wanted to stop him from – "

"None of you belong here," Nai said, his voice echoing over the empty landscape. Stretching his arms out, a portal snapped to life between his hands. Air whooshed around them, tugging all of them towards it, and in the blink of an eye, the flash of a thought, they were sucked back through the portal and landed back on the Ark with such force it sent them rolling.

Wolfwood bounced towards the edge and tumbled over it. He dug his fingers into the Ark, feeling the squirm of its living hull beneath his nails as they tore into it. Legato fell over the edge beside him. Thrusting out his arm, wire streamers shot upwards and lassoed Wolfwoods’ blade, jerking him further down; he scrambled for purchase, his elbows and fingers digging painfully into the Ark’s surface. Vash knelt at the edge, reaching out for him. Beneath, Legato kicked his legs, climbing hand over hand up the wires towards Wolfwood.

Shaking his head, he turned to Vash. “Dammit. I’m sorry, Blondie, won’t be here to watch you kick his ass,” he grunted, nodding towards where Nai stood, sealing the portal and ignoring them. He felt zero threat from his brother or the Scourge. He took his time with it, feeling absolutely unthreatened by Vash or the Scourge Sovereign.

“No, N-Nicholas. Give me your hand, and I’ll pull you up!”

“That bastard Legato’s got his hooks in me,” Wolfwood grunted, straining to keep ahold of the Ark. Pain lanced up his side as the wires wrapped around his thigh cut deeper, slicing through armor, leather, and skin. Warm blood trickled down his legs; he could feel the wires cutting into his waist and hips as Legato tugged, using Wolfwood as anchorage to climb. “I can’t,” he slipped another inch. His fingers loosened their hold.

Vash lurched forward, grabbing his shoulders. Pressing his lips together, the Scourge Sovereign watched his angel's face pale with realization.

“You’ve got this, Vash. I’ll be waiting for you… but don’t follow too soon. Later, beautiful.”

     “Wolfwood!”

Chapter Text

“Three hundred years ago, the Scourge – humans – arrived here,” Melanie began her tale while Meryl and Milly freed Vash from the metal bands. The ache would last for a long time, but already his skin was knitting together, with the help of their songs, closing up the wounds inflicted by his brother.

Vash knew this much: humanity had long ago mastered the ability to travel from planet to planet and sent their great metal birds flying through the stars. “I don’t understand what that has to do with my brother and I,” he asked.

Melanie quieted him, “When they came to this desert planet, it was by accident … A cataclysmic explosion set off a chain reaction through the ship that clipped their metal wings and sent them plummeting to the ground like shooting stars. Industrious as they were, they began to build, spreading their technology – carving themselves out a place to grow, laying down foundations, and wrapping the land in burnished metal, cement, and plastic. Combing through life, changing, recreating, and then spreading outwards. But, there was never enough room to grow.”

Meryl and Milly continued to sing softly while Melanie continued her tale, “At that time…the Sovereign of the Seraph, ever curious, climbed through time – sending feathers and shoots upwards and downwards, opening portals in the past, present, and future. She was watching and learning about the universe, young and newly coming into her powers. A slight miscalculation, a portal opened too soon, a meteor veering off course; it sent her plummeting to this desert planet like a star falling from the sky. And that was when he found her…”

   “His name was Michael, and it was through him the Scourge were born.”

*

The day was unbelievably hot for winter. Those who say a desert doesn't have seasons have clearly never lived in one because Michael could tell by the sun's angle, the subtle shift in shadows, and the direction of the breeze that the days were phasing into winter now. Soon, the cool night air would grow frigid. The enormous worms that dug through the sands would be moving again, migrating from one side of the planet to the next as its gravitational pull shifted with the direction of its axis on its lazy rotation away from the twin suns.

"Ah, it's about time for dinner," He sighed exhaustedly and folded up his surveying tools, tucking them away in a duffel bag next to him. The Skyeye – a tiny drone – rested beside the bag; he used it mainly for scanning the deep canyons inaccessible by foot. Humanity had been on this planet for nearly fifty years, but there was still so much to discover. His stomach rumbled, urging him to return to his quarters.

Michael grabbed his belongings and made his way back to the developing township. Even from a distance, he could see where the remaining parts of their spacecraft had been repurposed into laboratories, greenhouses, and dwellings. The colossal metal structure loomed overhead, providing shade and a reminder of the people who had perished during the Fall, a sepulchre to guard their spirits. As he strolled through the streets, saying hello to familiar faces, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. He had sensed the unseen eyes in the desert. While using the Skyeye, he thought he spied movement – but nothing was there when he dispatched the drone to inspect it more closely. He decided that the loneliness of this place must get to him. He had friends, sure, but they weren’t extremely close, and he wasn’t sure he could depend on them in a fight.

Doesn’t matter, day in and day out, it’s the same either way, he thought, grateful when he’d finally reached his home. He had more important things to do.

“I’m home,” he greeted as he closed the door behind him, latching it shut. It was a simple apartment. Like many others, it had been salvaged from the wreckage. Portions of the living quarters that had survived the Fall had been repaired and converted to continue serving their original purpose, though, with his job as a research assistant, a small lab had been installed so he could continue his work while at home. The walls were littered with diagrams and sketches, charts with scrawled notes, scraps of paper tacked to the walls, data screens and monitoring stations, books and journals, flasks and beakers, Bunsen burners, and a myriad of other instruments. All the things he might ever need to conduct his research.

As he set down his duffel bag and drew off his jacket, kicking off his dusty boots, he called out again while going to the back room where his personal lab was. "Ah, you're looking healthier today!" he gushed and wrung his hands together. At the back of the room, an enormous glass and metal cylinder stood against the far wall and inside sat his beautiful angel.

She was frowning at him, eyes half-lidded as she watched him move around the laboratory.

"Tesla... don't give me that face," he scolded and knelt before the capsule, placing his hands on either side. The woman – angel – stood and leaned towards him; her eyes were pale blue, fathomless, beneath a crown of long hair of spun gold. Pressing her hands to the glass over his, she pressed her forehead on it and then hissed. Spreading her wings, she beat them against the glass, trying to break free.

"No! Don't do that!" Michael shouted, slamming his fists on the transparent wall. "You'll only hurt yourself more!" His voice echoed off the laboratory walls as her wings continued to thrash, loosening feathers, tearing apart the bandages he had carefully wrapped around them after finding her, broken and bloodied in a small crater. He did not know how or why she’d come to be there, but he had seen her fall… rescued and nursed her back to health. She was his now; she owed him. Tesla’s pale feathers turned red, and blood dripped off the ends where it was smeared beneath her stomping feet, staining them pink. Michael scowled, narrowing his eyes. “I'm doing this for you, Tesla... for us. My beautiful angel..," he murmured.

Scowling, the angel's expression was a mixture of rage and frustration, but he couldn't let her go.

Her voice was soft and weak when she spoke, "You promised to free me. I’ve helped you… given of myself a hundred times over," she spat, her voice muffled by the glass. "You swore that you would help me if I helped you!"

Michael sighed, his shoulders slumping as he leaned against the glass. "I know, and I will... I just need more time,” he said, pressing his fingers to his temples, massaging at the headache that had been steadily building all day.

“I could help with that. You need only let me out.” Tesla said gently.

Michael laughed. She could help him, he knew. But then Tesla would leave him, and he couldn’t have that. She had tried to barter like this with him and had almost escaped, so… he was forced to clip her wings. Cutting away the long flight feathers and leaving only soft down behind. The problem was that her exceptional healing ability had them grown back every two weeks, and he’d be forced to cut them again. He had considered removing them once, but he wasn’t sure that would solve the problem either. “A headache is a fleeting pain, Tesla. It will pass.”

Tesla huffed and shook her head, what was left of her wings still beating against the glass. "How many times must I tell you? I don't want to be here anymore. I want to go back to my people, to my home."

“Not yet,” he was so close to perfecting the serum that would give him what he wanted. Michael looked away from the fuming angel, guilt gnawing at his insides. He knew that he was taking advantage of her and keeping her here against her will, but it was for the greater good. The advancement of humanity and the expansion of their budding empire into the stars. He couldn't let her ruin it all. His eyes slid back to her, watching her as she recoiled from his gaze.

"Just bear with me, please?"

The angel pinned him with her eyes, sneering, showing her sharp fangs. Her arms and legs were wrapped in bandages, and the many lacerations along her body were proof of all she had already endured earlier that day. She was a caged predator, ready to attack. Time had worn down Tesla's patience with this human.

*

Days turned into weeks and months, and Michael always felt he was being observed by some outside force, though it never made itself known. Moreover, he had gathered followers among colleagues he trusted, testing and testing and perfecting his experiments with them and keeping an eye on the angel-turned-feral creature.

   They were his ever-watchful eyes, vigilant and loyal.

"I understand it's painful, my angel," he said as he stood back from the glass and entered a command into one of the many machines surrounding Tesla's chamber. A pale green gas began leaking into the glass capsule, her muffled screams full of rage. Telsa had long since stopped speaking to him, instead only throwing herself against the walls when she had the strength. When her songs failed to affect him as his serum became more effective, he chose to gag her – it was for the better, as she wasn't eating or drinking anymore anyway. Though she had grown noticeably gaunt.

"I am sorry. It's for your own safety..." Michael whispered, and when she'd grown delirious enough to safely remove her from containment, he waved for his assistants to help. Opening the chamber, they hoisted the angel onto a gurney and strapped her down, ensuring what was left of her wings were bound tightly to her back. “I’m sorry, Tesla. But it's nearly perfected,” he whispered, picking up his scalpel.

*

“Michael was not proud of what he had done but was delighted at the outcome. What remained of the angel floated in the chamber, suspended in embalming fluid for further study later. For now, he would focus on the serum he'd created – using orphans and homeless people mainly; if they did not survive the experiments, no one would miss them. He was enthralled to find they had gained some modicum of the angels' potent ability to manipulate sound, but that also, given the planet's makeup, metals became a source of power rather than organic materials. As Tesla had died a martyr to Michael’s cause, he ensured her memory would be carried on secretly amongst those who had helped him succeed. Over time, Michael and his assistants perfected the serum, which became a gift to those who received it.

Taking from Tesla bits of bone that he polished into relics, Michael entrusted them with those who would keep their research embedded in their memories and tell tales. So, First Voice was born, their song more potent than the others, and was given free rein to choose to whom they would bless and what songs they would learn. All that Michael looked upon was sacred, so also, The Eye of Michael had been established. Over time, the serum was no longer needed… humanity had changed; their children begot children who begot children, all touched with the gifts of Eo’Mac.

Two hundred years later, the shadow that had trailed after his sister's lingering songs, woven as they were into the fabric of this planet, echoing upwards and downwards through time and space, encountered the humans and named them Scourge because that is what they were to him – he was furious, determined to avenge his sister's death... only this Seraph called Nai had used them and offered of himself in service of Eo’Mac, in return for a single night of shelter. That was all. And from that meeting, the Scourge created the first Sovereign, a child of Eo’Mac more potent than any other to act as a leader, a source of protection, and a face to present to the rest of the galaxy in times of need. A child of blessing. They were chosen through battle; only the strongest could lead, and so began the battles of ascension. Upon claiming the newly established throne, the first Scourge Sovereign was blessed beneath song and scalpel. Forever changed. The tradition was carried on, it continues this way even now...”

Tears fell down Melanie’s face and splashed over her robes, “I helped Nicholas become what he is now…” she cried. “He chose to become the Blessed so others would not have to because they do not know… they don’t know… it is better to die in the ascension battle than undergo what I must put them through. Many died during the process, never surviving to become Sovereign, so another must be selected. Dozens of children's blood is on my hands and the hands of my predecessors; I carry their sins."

*****

Vash could not run fast enough or hard enough; Wolfwood was slipping, and Vash wasn’t going to make it. Crying out, Vash dove for him. Reaching out and catching him by the fingers.
 And then felt him

 slip

   from

   his grasp.

       “NICHOLAS!”

 Wolfwood fell. Gravity reached up to haul him down, trailing vaporous smoke and blood. Face contorted in rage as Legato pulled the metal threads between them, bringing them together; the two clashed together mid-air. Vash beat his wings, preparing to fly after him, when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder and forced him onto his stomach. “Watch brother, watch as that loathsome thing dies like the parasite he is,” Nai hissed into Vash’s ear. Fingers bit into his skin with enough force to make his bones ache. Vash wanted to look away, but he could not. He watched as Wolfwood fell. He was a magnet to this land, tied to it, scarred, carved, and shaped by its challenges. Vash’s eyes pricked with furious tears as the battle-torn ground, its waves of Scourge and Angelic warriors, caught him.

Enveloped him.

 And swallowed Wolfwood whole.

 Vash stared in disbelief. Just like that, he was gone. “N…Nicholas?”

 “Brother. It is about time you put aside childish things. Come with me; watch as I destroy the Scourge home city. Finally, Sepulchre is mine!”

 “Nai. I know what you did! The prophecy… First Voice, the Scourge High Priestess – told me everything. They told me about Tesla and Michael and you... You can’t bury this.”

 “I can do whatever I want, brother. I am God here. The Scourge belong to me. Without me, they would have ceased to exist a long time ago, our sisters blood could only care them so far. She was young and foolish; she should have offered to work with them as I did. They made it easy.”

 “You let this happen. I will never follow you. I would rather die myself than do that.”

 “Like that vagrant? What was he called again? Oh yes, Nicholas the Punisher… was quite the looker, was he not? I bet he is a beautiful corpse, the blushing bride of death,” Nai chuckled. His eyes turned icy, his voice steely. “He won’t be meting out any more retribution.”

Grabbing his head between his hands, Vash fell to his knees; how easy it was for his brother to toss aside any and all life. How easy was it for him to use, use, and use, and for what? “Why? What is wrong with you, Nai?” Vash wiped away his tears, gathered himself to his feet, and summoned his scepter, “This ends now, brother.”

Nai turned, “You dare to challenge me without earning the right?”

“I have every right!”

“Hah! You’ve tried, and you’ve lost before. So many times, what makes you think you’ll win this time?” Nai teased. The air shimmered around him. Metal wires laced with blades, thousands, millions perhaps, glittered in the air around Nai, surrounding him in a halo of sharp barbs. His knives, there was a reason the Scourge knew him as Millions Knives; he was a light in the center of a dervish of blades – the Seraph had always believed the abilities of the Scourge Chanters, their use of song, had been stolen from their people…all while the Scourge believed the Seraph had stolen their ability to twist and warp the elements of metal, turning it against them like poison. The truth was far more complicated.

  “You started all this nearly one hundred years ago; you visited these people and planted your seeds of hate. Eo’Mac is a lie, a false God… but you are no more a God than that man was.”

“You figured it out. Took you long enough, brother. What better way to usurp a kingdom than to take it down from the inside? All that is left to do is summon their Seraphim blood… they’ll join me willingly, become one with the Ark, and forget they ever lived their silly little lives on this God-forsaken junk heap of a planet.  And, well, those that refuse – they’ll be exterminated. I do not need anymore.”

 Vash turned and watched the Ark. It had grown so large, its reach so far. Entire worlds, galaxies, and timelines had been destroyed or rearranged for Nai’s desires. It would take centuries to repair the damage. Vash pressed his hands to the surface of the Ark; lights bloomed around the place where his fingers touched. So many Seraphim and Nephilim sacrificed to the Ark, to Nai’s selfish wants. Vash would not let this happen, not anymore.

He had been the blind, coddled second prince long enough.

Chapter Text

Beneath his feet, Vash could feel the warmth of the Ark seeping into his skin. The entirety of it was humming as the orb of plasma, built in size and strength, embraced in the largest of the Arks' wings. "We're almost there, brother; Sepulchre is nearly beneath us. This is only the test; I will go to others once this planet is destroyed. One by one, they will fall, the future you saw will come to pass, and the universe will belong to us, brother.”

“I don’t want the universe; I wanted him! I wanted to spend all my tomorrows with him… you stole those from me, Nai.”

“No. I gave you those tomorrows… and yesterday, and right now. We are Seraphim; you can have all the times and all the places. Vash, stop this. Come to me,” he said and opened his arms, the blades circling him held aloft and away, welcoming him into his embrace. There was a time when he would have accepted that his brother had faults and demons of his own.

Vash had been blind for so long.

Vash shook his head, his face stained with tears. "I can't, Nai. Not anymore. I won't be a part of this madness. I won't let you destroy innocent lives just so you can have your way."

Nai's face darkened. "You disappoint me, brother. I thought you were stronger than this. Eh, I'll have to keep you here then," Nai growled, sending his silver blades barreling towards Vash, the sharp edges catching the sunslight, blinding him momentarily.

Vash leaped aside, blinking away the mote of light in his eyes and barely dodging the whistling blades. He landed in a loose crouch, holding out a hand, he summoned his scepter. Nai chuckled darkly, twirling his weapons with ease. "Still fighting, brother? You're hopeless. Give up, or I'll take your other arm as well this time."

Vash didn't reply and instead focused on watching his brother's movements. Nai had always been the stronger of the two, but Vash was faster and more agile, his tall and slender frame allowing him speed. He could use that to his advantage. Studying Nai's feet, he noted his weight shift and dodged another attack; the blades sank into the Ark, neatly slicing into it, and the angel's songs screamed out in pain. At the head of the Ark, three of the Seraph guiding it swayed and fell over, clutching their heads. The Ark was too much of a mental burden for them. It had grown too large. Nai's blades repeatedly lashed against its living surface, angering the amalgamation. All around them, more Seraph fell. A few fell to their knees and tumbled over the side, meeting the same fate as Wolfwood.

Vash pushed the thought away; there would be time to mourn later. Again, Nai came at him, lancing through the air with his bladed wires; they burst apart, shards scattering when Vash deflected, swiping them aside with his scepter, but it was too much. The energy fizzled, and he could no longer maintain its shape. Vash stood and prepared to take the initiative; it was now or never. The Ark lurched suddenly, groaning as it listed to one side, and metal groaned, straining to stay upright. The monstrous ship swooped to the side, turning away from Sepulchre. There weren't enough Seraph remaining to sing the songs needed to carry the load, but Nai didn't seem to notice, or rather he no longer cared.

Stumbling, Vash gasped as the Ark tilted precariously, the surface beneath him buckling and breaking apart. He fought to maintain his footing as Nai's blades continued to whirl through the air, regardless of the condition of the Ark.

"Nai, you need to stop this madness!" he yelled, "You're going to kill everyone!"

"Join me, Vash. Combine forces with me, and we can end this all together. We don't need anyone else. Let them all die."

"But, our sisters!"

"They'll understand. In the end, you are all that mattered, Vash. If I can't have you, then no one shall..." Even as the Ark tilted and creaked, threatening to fall apart beneath them, Nai continued to lash out with his weapons. He saw the desperation in Nai's eyes, the fear that his plan might not work as the Ark shuddered, and another groan radiated from somewhere. Smoke, thick and black, curled up to the clouds as the Scourge slung fireballs at the Ark from the cannons lined along the walls below, striking its underside. The smell of singed feathers stung Vash's nose. "Nai. You can't win this. The Ark is falling. You need to get out of here."

"Then come with me, Vash!"

"I can't do that."

With a growl, Nai launched himself at Vash. His movements were erratic. The air of control he had held about him before was at its limit, and his blades whirled wildly through the air.

Vash was surprised; he couldn't dodge the attack, and the brothers fell to the Arks' surface. The impact was brutal; Vash's wings were bruised beneath him, sending needles of pain through his shoulders and arms. Nai's blades clanged against Vash's metal arm, marking it with notches as he used it to shield himself, wincing when an edge got through and sliced into his cheek just beneath his eye.

The brothers grappled, their limbs straining against each other, rolling against the Ark's surface, their skin glistening with sweat. Vash could feel Nai's breath hot against his neck when he caught both of his wrists in one hand and pressed them over his head, forcing Vash to flatten onto his back. He winced at the sharp bite of pain as Nai dug his knives into his skin, pinning him down.

Nai was stronger, had always been, and Vash was forced to remember that with Nai straddling him, his expression twisted in fury as he glared down at Vash, breaths rapid as chest and shoulders heaved, trying to catch his breath as he held Vash down. Releasing Vash's wrists and sitting up, Nai sneered at his brother and then laughed, "I've won again."

A shadow loomed over Nai, "You haven't won shit, asshole!" yelled the shadow of a man behind him, slamming the flat of his enormous blade into the side of Nai's head, knocking him unconscious.

"W-Wolfwood?" Vash gasped in surprise as the Scourge Sovereign sheathed his blade and leaned over to help him up, wincing when he saw the cuts crossing Vash's skin, more scars to add to the canvas. Vash acted purely on impulse when Wolfwood pulled him to his feet; his arms went around the man's neck, and their lips met. He tasted of smoke, his hair was ashy, and soot left smears on his already dark skin. Wolfwood's arms were warm around his waist, his hand resting over the curve of his ass, as naturally as breathing, drawing Vash against him, keeping him close. "Wolfwood? H-how are you here?"

"Long story, though honestly, it's kind of a short one... so maybe I'll tell you later," Wolfwood said with a grin, his eyes glinting with amusement. "But, right now," he knelt, picking Nai up and hoisting him over one shoulder, "We need to get the hell off this thing. The Covenant failed when the Ark lost control, the plasma faded, but the ground troops are still fighting, and the Ark will still crash unless we can do something about that."

Vash shook his head, "I don't think there is anything we can do."

"Agreed," Wolfwood said, his words confident. "We can rebuild Sepulchre. The Scourge had survived much worse," Wolfwood replied, his expression sobering. "Let's go. The sooner I get back, the better chance we have of mitigating the damage, and the easier it'll be to throw this asshole into a prison fit for a Sovereign."

Vash could hear the panicked cries of the remaining Seraph, calling out in fear and pain as they struggled to keep the Ark together. Little by little, the angels and Nephilim were abandoning the Ark; it was breaking up, fragmenting, and collapsing. Without the Seraph and Nephilim to hold it together, it was little more than the shell of an old Scourge ship Nai had claimed and repurposed as the base of his Ark. It must have burned them terribly; what it must have taken to ignore that constant pain – it must have slowly driven them mad. "And what of them?" Vash asked his voice tight with concern.

"Pardoned. They were being manipulated. They'll have some choices to make... let's hope they make the right ones." Wolfwood said, readjusting Nai on his shoulder. "The big issue is how we get off this thing. I won't test my luck with another fall," Wolfwood grunted, smoke wisping from his nostrils.

"I flew you up here. I can fly you back down," Vash said, taking Wolfwood's hand.

Wolfwood looked over Vash, taking in his injuries and how his robes and hair were disheveled, stained with blood, and his skin mottled with cuts and bruises. "With your brother in tow? No, not a chance."

"I can do this, trust me," Vash implored, and Wolfwood finally nodded, incapable of saying no.

"Alright, but at the first sign of trouble, I'm dropping his heavy ass," Wolfwood said and adjusted his grip so Nai rest in his arms, princess style. If Nai knew, he would murder them all.

"Fine," Vash chuckled. Wrapping his arms around Wolfwood's waist, he spread his wings. The wind roared in his ears as they descended, the Ark crumbling and breaking apart around them, a long groan of metal. The Ark was falling apart quickly now, debris flying in every direction, raining on the battlefield below. Already, the Scourge and the Seraph soldiers had begun to retreat; the ferocious Scourge hounds had been summoned back. Now, realizing how the situation had changed, both armies had gone about redirecting their efforts to recover the fallen. A cease-fire had been called, and, as far as Wolfwood was concerned, it would be the first step in peace. Vash could feel the heat of the flames and smell the acrid smoke curling up from below as they flew over the burning wreckage.

Wolfwood took a moment to survey the scene beneath them. "We need to get to safety; head to the tallest spire. General Livio will be there," he said. "This is not the end, Vash. We will rebuild; we will come back stronger than ever… as one people," his voice quaked with emotion.

The Ark jolted again, veering away from the Sepulchre, and headed towards an outcropping of rocks. Vash spread his wings and leaped. Wolfwood and Nai were heavy. All he could do was glide and hope to guide them in the right direction.

Vash felt a deep sadness as he watched the Seraph and Nephilim running for their lives as the Ark broke apart, shattering against the rocks and bursting into flames. They had all been manipulated by Michael and then by Nai, a century-long cycle of abuse. Now, they were paying the ultimate price for the madness desire brought.

*****

As they landed on the spire, Vash could see the exhaustion in Wolfwood's eyes. His body felt heavy with the weight of his injuries and from having carried two huge men, one weighted by armor and his sword, on his already aching wings. General Livio had spotted their descent long before landing and was ready to receive them. A Chorus of enchantresses was already singing their healing songs, their voices smoothing away the pain but leaving behind the exhaustion. Wolfwood stood and surveyed what remained of the battlefield below.

The stench of blood and death, iron and copper, metal and flesh, was almost palpable. Amongst it all, the self-operating Apparatus rolled between the bodies, claiming metal from the wreckage,  using the discarded steel and iron and scraps of base minerals to build their shells. They were doing what they had originally been designed for - gathering resources and salvaging weapons and scraps.

It was an ugly, pitiful sight.

Wolfwood closed his eyes and concentrated on the enchantresses' singing, letting their healing magic flow through his weary body. "And as starlight bathes the earth, tears fall from these eyes. For now, I understand why stars fall from the skies," Wolfwood said solemnly. 

   "What was that?" Vash asked.

"Nothing. An old poem, a prophecy, some say. Don't worry about it. Rest now, angel."

The last thing Vash remembered hearing was Wolfwood taking command of his soldiers and issuing orders to help rescue the fallen Seraph and Nephilim and offer sanctuary to those who wished to abandon Nai’s authority.

As for Nai, he was sent to a cell deep below Sepulchre, chained beneath enough metal to dampen his songs to non-existence.

Chapter Text

Warm water enveloped Vash, soothing his bruises and closing the wounds. Soft hands scrubbed away the grime, gentle caresses smoothed down his feathers, and luxurious soaps and shampoos lathered through his hair and over his skin. The maids blushed profusely, and their soft laughter set the Seraph at ease. By the time they'd finished their work, he was as relaxed as he had ever been. These baths had become daily for him to help speed his recovery. 

"Holy One," Melanie approached, her veil raised and her makeup gone. "Here, we have cleaned your robes as best as we could," she said, placing a bundle of clothing at the edge of the bath but far enough that the cloth would not get wet.

"Thank you," he replied, "But, please, call me Vash."

"Vash..." she clutched the signet around her neck and, biting her lip, pulled it over her head and knelt at the edge of the bath. "This belongs to you," she said, "We kept it as a relic of times forgotten. It reminds the Nephilim of their origins, but I think you should have it." Vash took the signet with a grateful smile and studied it. The long golden chain did not burn his skin, and the signet was a beautiful ball of polished ivory, but he recognized it for what it was. Tears stung his eyes, and he felt the hum of its energy; it was polished bone, and the ivory of it had gone beige with age. "Tesla," he breathed.

Melanie lowered her eyes, a pained expression crossing her features. Her voice shook as she spoke. "I believe that it belongs with you, Vash. You are Seraph and the one who will lead us into a new age. It is time for the relic to be returned to its rightful owner."

Vash nodded in agreement, his eyes still fixed on the signet. "Thank you, Melanie. I will keep it safe." He placed the signet around his own neck and closed his eyes. The hum of its energy pulsed against his skin, filling him with power and purpose. He swore he could almost feel Tesla’s presence, sad but accepting.

As he stood up from the bath, his body now clean and refreshed, he reached for his robes. "Where is Nicholas now?"

"He's in the council chamber with his advisors and General Livio," Melanie replied, standing up and brushing off her skirts. "They're discussing the next steps in drawing up the treaty. Finally, we might find true peace."

Vash nodded and smiled, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Thank you, Melanie."

"Would you like to rest for now? He will send someone for you once they are ready to discuss it with you, my Lord... Vash." she offered, and he nodded, following her through the long halls of Sepulcher. The metal pulled at him, demanding his body give itself over, and it probably always would. Still, if their people and his were determined not to let it happen again, they could begin dismantling the damage.

"Here we are," she said. Vash entered the guest room prepared for him with a sigh of relief. The chamber was large, with an enormous four-post bed against one wall, a desk and chair beside it, and a fireplace opposite the door where a small fire crackled softly, sending its warmth throughout the room. Vash's eyes fell on the bed, and he couldn't help how his body pulled him towards it, longing for rest. Melanie caught his gaze and bowed, signaling her departure. He watched as she left, then turned to the bed. The mattress was soft and plush, and he lay back, his head sinking into the feather-filled pillow and wings splayed out on either side, golden feathers flashing in the firelight.

   Soon, he was fast asleep.

******

"Vash? Are you awake?" Wolfwood asked as he pushed open the door to the Seraph's chambers.

His angel lay beautifully in repose; limbs spread out carelessly. Wolfwood imagined he'd be the type of person to hog the bed while kicking off all the covers, and this proved him correct. 

It had already been a month since the battle with Nai and his Ark had ended.

Repairs were well underway, and the bruises had long faded, but his skin was still striated with lacerations from his Legato's wires and Nai's many blades. He thought to awaken Vash; it was nearly dinner service, but as he approached the bed, he could see the exhaustion etched on Vash's face, and he couldn't bring himself to wake the Seraph. All of the meetings, public presentations, and discussions with emissaries sent from across the galaxy as Nai's forces were withdrawn on Vash’s command had all begun to take their toll on the Seraph. Instead, Wolfwood quietly removed his armor, stripping down to his undershirt and breeches. He sat in the chair by the fireplace and waited patiently, head in one hand, as he imagined what the future might hold for his people. Wolfwood himself, as Sovereign, couldn't change; he was forever Scourge thanks to the gifts of Eo'Mac, and the ash and smoke had been ingrained so deeply into his very being, grafted onto his DNA, that it would never fade.

Did he regret his choices? No, never. He would do it all again if he could save his people. If it meant he could meet Vash. He would endure the pain of his livelihood in every iteration of his existence.

It wasn't until an hour later that Vash finally stirred.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes and stretching his wings, gently flexing them. Wolfwood had gathered that they were still sore; the indents left behind from the gold weights still peeked through the small, delicate feathers, but his strength had grown significantly over the past month. "Wolfwood...Nicholas," he said, his voice husky with sleep. "I wasn't expecting you."

"I know," Wolfwood replied, a smile playing at the corners of his lips as Vash ran his fingers through his hair, trying to straighten the unruly golden locks. "Melanie sent me to check on you." It was an excuse; Melanie had not sent him, but he didn't feel right intruding on the Seraph's rest without some reasoning behind it. He still wasn't entirely sure where they stood.

Vash nodded, sitting up in the bed. "How are things going with the council?"

Wolfwood leaned forward in his chair, resting his arms on his knees. "It's going well," he said, trying not to stare as Vash rearranged his sleep-mussed robes. He wasn't doing a very good job of it; his eyes trailed the angels’ every movement, glowed in the dimness of the evening, embers in the stormy seas of his eyes.

Vash must have noticed because he suddenly grinned, his blue eyes darkening, and he stretched his arms over his head, elongating his neck and back, his nipples pink and peaked beneath the sheer fabric; his wings shivered with anticipation when Wolfwood stood and crossed the room. His weight rolled Vash towards him when he settled on the bed beside him. Trailing his fingers up Vash's chest, between his pecs, he grinned at the way the angel averted his eyes, and his cheeks bloomed with heat. "Livio is being stubborn, as usual," Wolfwood said, leaning in to kiss Vash's chin. "He always was the one who balanced me out, being more of a thinker than I am," he said with another kiss to the column on the Seraph's neck. Vash hummed, but it turned into a gasp when rough fingers grazed over his nipples, pinching and teasing them through the gauze. "But we're making progress. And that's the important thing, right?"

"T-That's good to hear," Vash said, looking at Wolfwood with half-lidded eyes. Running his tongue over his lips, Vash leaned in, his lips parted and tongue pink between his teeth. Wolfwood parted his lips to meet him, but Vash paused, a hairsbreadth between them, and grinned. What a fucking tease, Nicholas thought.

   "Mmm... Nicholas?"

"Yes?"

   "I love you."

"I, uh...I'm not so good with words ..."

   Vash nodded, "I know... but you can… show me, right?"

Wolfwood grinned, his eyes lighting up, "Yes, Sovereign Vash Savarem, I believe I can."

The weight of Wolfwood’s body pinned Vash to the bed. His wings were spread on either side of him, cushioned against the pillows. Moaning, their fingers curled in the other’s hair, pulling the other in for kisses that could never be deep enough or last long enough for either of them. Teeth grazed over lips and tongues alike, lost in the heady aroma of incense and ash.

 Wolfwood slipped his hand between Vash’s legs, locking one in place with one of his knees over one of the angels as he hovered above Vash on one elbow. Trailing his fingers down the curve of the back of one thigh before his fingers brushed the crease of the angel’s ass, making him spread his legs further apart. Vash’s relaxed sigh breathed over Nicholas’ tongue; he swallowed it greedily, catching his mouth with his, and immediately set about exploring with his hands, trying to elicit more little whimpers and moans as his large, warm hand massaged its way beneath his robes and up Vash’s slim hip, over his taut stomach, and brushed over the arch of his ribs.

 Vash turned his head to the side, forcing Nick's lips away from his, but the Scourge only took advantage of the changed position and lathered his tongue along the side of Vash’s jaw before sinking his teeth into the side of his neck, pulling another shuddering cry from the Seraph as, again, his fingers brushed the tight little furl of his hole. Rough fingers pressed harder against Vash, teasing out tiny gasps as the angel squirmed in Wolfwoods’ arms. Gently, Wolfwood eased one finger just inside the entrance of Vash’s hole, feeling the tightness there as he clenched around his finger; Vash yelped in surprise.

“W-Wolfwood?” he questioned, grabbing the Scourge’s bicep in one hand and squeezing it.

“We don’t have to do more than this; I won’t do anything you’re uncomfortable with,” Wolfwood said, withdrawing his finger, but Vash held him in place, tightening his grip.

“No. I don’t want you to stop. It’s just… I’ve never… done all of that,” Vash said. His face was flushed beautifully, and Wolfwood wanted to smother him with kisses. “I mean, I’ve played with myself, sure, used my fingers, but… no one has ever…”

Wolfwood caught him a kiss, running his tongue over his lower lip before looking Vash in the eyes. “Like I said, we can go as slow as you want or not at all,” Wolfwood repeated, planting a kiss on the side of Vash’s chest where it was facing him, touching his hot lips to the nipple there and loving the way it tightened against his tongue. “Whatever you want, gorgeous,” he said, helping Vash pull off his robes. Wolfwood’s shirt followed that, and his breeches right after.

To Vash, Wolfwood was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen, and in the firelight, all the more so. The light cast a golden sheen on his skin, and the shadows played over his muscled physique in a way that enticed Vash to reach out and touch him.

Vash sucked in a breath and nodded, “Whatever I want? I want you to keep going,” his entire body tightened when Wolfwood pressed his finger against him again. It was a light touch, gentle, testing, and teasing, but it had Vash trembling with excitement, strung like a wire, vibrating with tension.

“You gotta relax, Blondie,” Wolfwood rasped into his angels’ skin, lips pressing along the curves of Vash’s ribs, over the expanse of his chest, and up to his neck and sweetly against his temple.

   Vash sighed, his muscles relaxed.

“You like this?” Wolfwood whispered against the cusp of his ear, noticing the gold earring the angel had insisted on wearing to remember his brother and the pain he had caused. It would constantly remind Vash to never lose sight of himself and his values.

“Y-y-yeah, like that…mmm,” Vash stuttered out, sighing as his eyes fluttered closed, and he worried his lower lip between his teeth. Wolfwood inched his finger deeper, deeper, until his palm was cupped against Vash, his thumb massaging his softly furred balls and the sensitive skin in the space between.

“Oh… oh, god,” Vash sucked in a breath, his body reacted, and warm, slick flooded Wolfwoods’ palm, making his fingers sticky. It was a pleasant surprise; he knew nothing about Seraph anatomy – only how to kill them; he was learning new skills now – moving easily now and, feeling the way Vash accepted him, had Wolfwood’s cock rigid against the angel’s thigh. Vash grinned, brow furrowed, “Feels like…Mmm… feels like, ohhh, someone else is…mmm… having a good time as well?”

Wolfwood pressed deeper into Vash, curling his finger to elicit another gasp and rutting against him at the same time. “So, maybe I am? How about you?”

“I-I’m… g-g-gooood god, mmmfff,” Vash clamped his lips shut, and rolled into Wolfwood. Arching his back with his hands twisting in the sheets, his hips canted downward against Wolfwood's fingers. Already, Vash’s thighs were sticky with sweet-smelling slick, his cock was hard and dripping with it, his robes soaked through.

“Better than I thought it would, but... I could be wrong,” he said, breathless and trying to hide his grin.

“Really now?” Wolfwood grunted. 

Vash nodded, “Hmm?… I guess we’ll just have to keep going to find out,” his smile faded when he threw his head back and moaned against Wolfwoods’ fingers spreading inside of him, spearing deeply to tease against a sensitive spot Vash didn’t know existed. It sent little shivers racing up his spine, his skin tingling.

Wolfwood chuckled. “Hmm? He says…I guess we might,” he teased, leaning in to kiss Vash. His movements were gentle. Unhurried. Careful.

Clenching the sheets, wrenching them between his hands, Vash moaned as Wolfwood carved into the tight heat of his body, withdrawing only long enough to gather up Vash’s slick against his palm, running it between his fingers before pushing them into the angel’s aching heat. Hungry kisses were pressed to Vash's chest, stomach, and along his inner thighs. He teased his tongue around Vash’s cock, leaving little trails of ash and dust in his wake. Wolfwood marked the Seraph with teeth, tongue, and hot ashy breath; warmth carved wetly into skin mixing with the ash, turning it grey.

The combined sensations had Vash reeling; his fingers and toes dug into the bed as he shuddered. Wolfwood worked slow and steady, building up the pressure and pushing Vash closer to the edge. "Easy, gorgeous... I can feel it coming," Wolfwood teased, digging his cock into Vash's thigh, wishing for more but not unless Vash asked for it.

   “Nick, I’m… I’m gonna, oh fuuuck,” he groaned louder, clenching his muscles and working himself against Wolfwood, chasing the building pressure, the desperate for release.

The cord in his gut pulled tight

    trembled against the tension,

unwound, threatening to break apart….

“Go on, angel. You can do it; I’m right here with you,” Wolfwood breathed against Vash’s chest, his tongue darted over a nipple.

     … it snapped, electrifying all senses…

  “Oh, God… N-Nick!”

Wolfwood curled his fingers again. Teeth grazing skin, tongue lathering through heat and ash.

“N-N-Nicholas!” Vash held his breath and tipped over the edge as warmth bled through his limbs. His head dropped back, and he moaned, open-mouthed and lax, as syrupy strings spilled over his pale stomach. He went limp, little more than a watery, weeping mess. Tears welled along his blond lashes with the release of it.

“Easy, easy… you did so good for me, angel. You’re absolutely stunning,” Wolfwood praised, withdrawing his fingers and pressing delicate kisses to the Seraph's blushing chest.

“Fuck, Nicholas…I – umm,” Vash wet his lips, his breathing rapid, his heartbeat fluttering in his ears. A pleasant warmth spread through his limbs.

“Do you want more?”

Vash nodded, “Y-yeah. Yes. Please, I want more.”

Wolfwood stood and found a hand towel at the water basin, wetting it. He gently wiped off his hands and then helped Vash to clean up. It gave the Seraph time to recover, but Wolfwood soon found that Vash was insatiable. As soon as they had cleaned up, Vash was on his knees, robes cast aside and pulled the Scourge in for another kiss. Wrapping his hands around the back of Wolfwood’s head, the kisses were deep and desperate as Vash pulled him down to the blankets with him, stretching his wings outward, hardly giving either of them a moment to catch their breath as Wolfwood positioned himself between Vash’s thighs.

After so much teasing and waiting, the Scourge was hard and eager for release. If Vash had said no, though, he would have been fine. Taking care of himself was easy enough. He wanted Vash to be comfortable and enjoy himself.

“Are you ready?” He whispered against Vash’s ear.

“Y-yes. I’m ready… for you, I’ll always be ready,” the Seraph trembled with excitement, his wings quivering when Wolfwood’s cockhead nudged against his sensitive, slick hole.

Sliding one hand beneath the small of his waist, Wolfwood gently lifted Vash to wedge a pillow beneath him to support his hips and keep some weight off of the Seraph’s wings. Wolfwood bent over him and mouthed at his neck, nibbling at the delicate skin and pressing little kisses to his neck and collarbone. "Tell me if it’s too much, angel, I'll stop."

Vash nodded, wrapped his arms around the pillow above his head, and closed his eyes. He felt Wolfwood pull him closer while the other was warm against his inner thigh, massaging the delicate skin with his thumb. Slick and sweat wet his thighs and soaked the sheets beneath him. “I trust you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Wolfwood leaned forward and smiled against Vash's neck; he would be as gentle as possible and knew he'd worked Vash up enough ahead of time that it shouldn't hurt, but still, he would take his time. He shifted his hips, pushing the head of his cock inside Vash; he paused and waited, giving the angel time to adjust to him.

He didn’t need to.

“Nicholas,” Vash groaned and wriggled impatiently as Wolfwood seated himself. Vash furrowed his brow and bit into the edge of his tongue. The pressure of Wolfwood inside him was unfamiliar, powerfully overwhelming; he wanted more, more, more… he willed his body to relax as Wolfwood eased into him. And when Wolfwood moved, the world seemed to move with him. Vash followed after, meeting thrust for thrust, his hands clawing the man’s broad chest while begging for more. He slid his hands over Wolfwood’s shoulders, hooking his arms around his neck, arching his back in a way that further opened himself up. Wolfwood hadn’t been expecting that and grunted out a curse when Vash took over, grinding back against him, thrusting with a power and force that surprised the Scourge.

He kissed Vash… open-mouthed with all tenderness turned sloppy as they fucked. Vash released a sigh of pleasure as every flick of his pelvis rocked a wave of heat through his gut. Vash's sighs became punched-out gasps as Wolfwood thrust into him, lost in his need, desire hot and heady singing in his veins.

Vash was drunk off the sight and sounds of Nicholas hovering above him, his eyes closed and face pinched in pleasure. “M-Mine, all mine…” Vash hissed in the Sovereign's ear. Wolfwood was beyond words; he grunted through gritted teeth, hair damp with sweat, every muscle burning. Vash tightened his grip on Wolfwood’s shoulders, pressing his metallic fingers into his skin as the coil in his gut stretched and finally...

  twisted and

      snapped

a chain reaction rolled between them,

     a wave, a rush.

Rising to a bubbling crest and crashing over the two lovers.

    Painting them in saccharine bliss.

The sight of Vash melting beneath him, his skin rippling with light, was exhilarating to Wolfwood; he groaned with shuddering release.

Vash moaned loudly, his lids fluttering and wings trembling as he stretched them wide with the intensity of it; tears gathered along his lashes as he sobbed with joy, burying his face in Wolfwood’s chest. “It’s okay, I’ve got you…just a little intense, yeah?” he dried Vash’s tears. "I mean, holy fuck...," Wolfwood murmured and buried his face in the crook of Vash’s neck, breathing in the scent of warm feathers, sunlight, and sex.

Vash giggled, his voice warm and content, "Quite literally... I'm Seraphim."

With a laugh, Wolfwood folded Vash into his arms, nuzzling his face into his soft hair, his body content to lay there for as long as he could. Let Nai rot in his iron cage; he would be dealt with in time. Let Livio and the others argue the devil in the details; there would be time for all of that later; right now, he was far happier in the arms of his angel.

  “…I love you, Vash.” If Vash said anything he didn’t hear it, snuggled as he was with his face buried against his chest. But Wolfwood knew his answer already. 

Like two stars meeting in tandem, they would always cross paths. In this life, in another, the past, the present, the future. In every variable across every world, every universe.

   Human, angel, something else entirely.

Their stars would align where tangents meet.

“A thousand stars were shining,
On that lovely summer night,
When we first met,
And kissed in the sweet moonslight.

You held me so close, 
In your arms, so very strong,
Then you hummed a tender melody,
A sweet, loving song.”