by M. D. Grimm
He put on his robe again, since he felt too vulnerable naked without Asagoroth’s protection, and walked idly down the beach. He easily lived off the plants and berries that grew in abundance here. Spreading his wings high, Trystan flew up the face of a cliff that jutted out from the beach into the water, and landed on the thick branch of a tree that overlooked the marvelous view. He perched, folding back his wings, his elbows resting on his bent knees. Taking a deep breath of the fresh air, he really didn’t miss the Upper Realm. Missing would imply he’d left something behind that held importance to him. No, the only thing he missed about the Upper Realm was his sister, Annalise. He hoped she wasn’t worrying about him.
Closing his eyes, Trystan basked in the sunlight, the warmth penetrating his skin in a stronger way that it ever did in the Upper Realm. He wasn’t sure why, but everything in the Middle Realm was far more vibrant and… real.
Dozing, Trystan didn’t sense them until it was too late.
A dark shadow blocked out the light, and he blinked his eyes open. Unable to comprehend what he was seeing, Trystan stared, slack-jawed. Then his wings moved without him consciously telling them to. He dove off the branch as four angel soldiers came darting out of the sky, armor gleaming, swords flashing. They chased him as he flew into the small forest that lined the edge of the beach. He wove in and out between the trees, trying to lose them, trying to find someplace to hide. Out of instinct he tried to connect mentally with Asagoroth but his mind felt like it collided with a wall, blocking all communication. It was impenetrable.
Asagoroth couldn’t save him this time.
Gritting his teeth, Trystan pumped his wings harder, barely a streak of light to the eyes of the beasts that roamed the land. He should have known, should have suspected, the angels would never leave them in peace. They would never stop their hunt.
Glancing behind, Trystan didn’t see the angels anywhere but he wasn’t lulled into security. They would never give up. He might have to kill them. As if he could. Gut clenching, Trystan descended toward the forest floor but never slowed his speed. Angels had a tendency to look up, and he hoped he could escape their notice long enough to find a cave. His heart rapidly thumped like the beat of energetic music, and he could barely hear beyond it. He saw sunlight up ahead and realized he’d reached the edge of the forest without finding a hiding spot. Fine, then, he would simply turn around, stay low, and fly past the soldiers. What other options did he have? He had no hope in a fight against one soldier, let alone four. He wasn’t gifted in that way.
But as he prepared to turn around the trunk of one particularly thick tree, a painfully bright flash of light and a cold shockwave from ahead tumbled him out of the air. Branches and leaves and even entire trees were blasted away, thrown back with him. He collided into trees, the bark and branches ripping at his wings. Crying out in pain, he tumbled far before slamming into the ground, rolling over the uneven, rough terrain. Feathers were ripped out, his robe was slashed, and when he finally came to a stop, he was twisted into an awkward position, pain the only thing he was aware of.
Pink blood stained his skin and what was left of his robe. Trystan coughed, the sound wet and choked.
“By the Light!” a voice suddenly shouted near him. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”
“What does it matter? He’s dead, anyway,” another voice said.
Trystan struggled to move when he heard that. He opened his eyes, his vision spun, but he never stopped trying to roll over onto his knees.
“He’s moving! Get the restraints!”
Trystan knew there wasn’t any hope of getting away from them but he still tried.
Asagoroth. He called to the dragon again in desperation, even though he knew his love was far away and hunting, nothing but bloodlust and hunger. He was alone.
A sob escaped him. Was he going to die like Roland?
“Finally,” the voice of another soldier said. “I was growing sick of waiting for that demon to leave.”
“I was growing sick of watching them together,” another voice said.
There was surveillance on them, somehow cloaked from even Asagoroth’s keen senses. Trystan knew of such objects in Emphoria that could offer assistance when tracking an enemy. Maybe it was a spell. It hardly mattered now. The soldiers roughly gripped Trystan’s arms and shoved him to the ground on his stomach. He couldn’t contain a cry of pain. Vision still reeling, he couldn’t focus on any one thing, and only managed to struggle weakly against their hold.
“Bind his arms, wings, and legs,” ordered the soldier who had stated Trystan was dead anyway.
Tears burned Trystan’s eyes and his cold skin as they trussed him up before lifting him onto the shoulder of one of the soldiers.
“Let’s go before the beast comes back.”
Unable to handle the immense pain any longer, Trystan passed out, his last thought that he’d never see Asagoroth again.
Trystan woke in the dark and cold. Sore but feeling bandages around his arms and legs, he found it darkly funny they wanted to heal him before they executed him.
Executed.
Gasping, Trystan sat up quickly before groaning and gripping his head. Tasting blood in his mouth, he was at least grateful his vision no longer whirled. He sat on a flat, uncomfortable bed inside a tiny cell. The dungeons. He was in the dungeons. Shivering, Trystan wrapped his arms around himself before glancing at his wings. He winced. So many of his beautiful feathers had been ripped out, and his wings were incredibly sore and stiff when he tried to move them. Folding them back, he shimmered them intangible, noticing his shredded robe had been replaced by a stone-gray one. He pushed to his feet, looking for some form of escape.
It wasn’t long before he realized there was no way he could escape. There were no windows or any other openings except for the door that led into the cell. He knew it would be bolted on the other side. The unique material of the walls was the only offered source of light, glowing faintly like those strange bugs that existed in the pool at the temple Asagoroth had taken him to.
Asagoroth.
What day was it? Trystan closed his eyes and reached out with his mind, desperately trying to touch Asagoroth’s. But he didn’t get far before it felt like he’d bumped up against a thick barrier. Frowning in frustration, he pushed against it, then tried to find a way around it. No luck. It was as solid as…. Trystan’s eyes popped open. As the walls of his cell.
How was that possible? How could they know about his mental communication with Asagoroth? Or was this simply the way the dungeons were built? He didn’t know. They had never covered this in any of his classes.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Trystan sank to the floor. History would repeat itself, and he would be taken from Asagoroth yet again. But this time he knew Asagoroth would make good on his threats and destroy all the realms, turning them to ash. He would destroy everything the One Who Brought the Light created. There was no one to stop him this time.
A large scrape and thud sounded as the bolt to his cell opened. Pushing to his feet, Trystan had nowhere to hide. He kept his arms wrapped around himself and squeezed into a small corner, terror twisting his guts.
His fellow angels were going to kill him. They would cheer his death like they did Roland’s. They would seal their fate, unwilling to learn from the mistakes of the past.
The door opened and in stepped a true beauty. A face perfectly balancing feminine grace with the strength of a soldier was enhanced by bright golden eyes, a sharp nose, and full lips. Flowing hair of sunlight and silk spilled down her back, her body covered in sapphire armor that gleamed even in the dark of the cell. She was tall, her wings a pearly white, and she moved with the surety of one well-trained and confident and arrogant about it.
She was Lavella, commander of the female soldiers in Emphoria, wife of the late Commander Gabreld. His mother.
Trystan met her eyes—eyes she’d given to him—by sheer strength of will and stubbornness.
She watched him with a blan
k expression as she stepped farther into the cell and let the heavy door boom shut behind her. The cell was already small with just him in there, but with her it was nearly suffocating.
“Trystan,” she whispered.
He swallowed hard. “M-mother.”
“You do remember me, then.”
He blinked. “What?”
“I had wondered if you would remember me, or your sisters and brothers, or even this city. I had wondered if you would remember your own people.”
“Nothing is wrong with my memory, Mother.” He stood up straighter, and though he couldn’t bring himself to lower his arms, he tilted up his head. “I remember quite well what it is to be unchosen, and how I was viewed by others. I remember what shame I brought upon you and Father. I remember hate.”
He watched her clench her jaw. Good. His own jaw was clenched, making it hard to speak.
“What has that demon done to you?” she asked.
Trystan narrowed his eyes. “He loves me. He wants me. He’s done everything for me. Know that when you stole me, you signed your death warrant. He’ll destroy you all.”
“He will try.” Arrogance was in every word.
“He will succeed.” Truth in his.
The first flash of emotion ran across his mother’s face, and it was anger. “Remember who you are, Trystan. You are an angel.”
“He will come here for me,” Trystan said as if she hadn’t spoken. “And there won’t be five elders waiting to sacrifice their essence for the rest of you. Or will you do it, Mother? Do you have the strength and courage to sacrifice your future lives for your people? And could you find four others as willing?”
Lavella’s expression was fierce as she slapped his face. He took the hit and leaned against the wall to stay upright. Face throbbing, he looked up, never flinching from her gaze. His own anger had replaced his terror.
“You want him to destroy us?” his mother asked. “You want him to burn us all to cinders?”
“What I want doesn’t seem to matter,” Trystan said, barely resisting the urge to rub his cheek. “Kill me or don’t, he will come, and his wrath will not be turned aside. Not this time. We left, Mother. We left you all to your lives. It is you who have brought this upon yourselves. It is you who have not learned from the mistakes of our ancestors.”
“No, Trystan,” Lavella said softly, her voice quavering with rage. “It is you who have brought this upon us. You sided with a demon against your own people. You betrayed us with him. His stink is all over you. You reek of his scent.”
His father had said the same thing. Trystan’s stomach pitched.
“You have the blood of your father on your hands,” she said in a tight voice filled with pain.
Trystan knew his parents had loved each other, though it was cool, almost coldly logical. There was respect and camaraderie between them, soldiers in the same fight. This was perhaps the first time he’d seen such a showing of that love from her.
“He brought it upon himself,” Trystan said.
Lavella lashed out and gripped his collar, dragging him up, toes dangling above the floor. Their faces were level now, and he knew his own eyes burned as fiercely as hers did.
“I had hoped you’d see the error of your ways with your death imminent,” she said softly, her voice hard-edged like a blade. “But it would seem you enjoy the demon’s corruption too much to see the truth.”
“His name is Asagoroth!” Trystan’s voice echoed in the cell, and he bared his teeth at Commander Lavella. “He is Asagoroth, king of the dragons, leader of the demons, and I am his mate just as Roland was. I belong to him as I have never belonged to the angels. He chose me while with you I remained unchosen. I am proud to be his, and I hope to the Light Bringer he burns you all to bloody ashes!”
It was only then he realized he’d been screaming at Lavella, and his hands were squeezing her wrist, wishing it were her neck. Lavella stared at him, shock and anger in her eyes. Then she threw him to the stone bed, and he grunted with the pain of impact.
“You have never been such a disgrace as you are now.”
He glared at her. “What you say has no meaning for me. I was never one of you.”
“No, you weren’t.” Lavella spat at his feet before spinning on her heel and yanking open the door. It slammed behind her, the bolt thudding into place.
Trystan curled into himself, knees pressed to his chest, and struggled against tears. He’d won but his throat burned. For all his bold words, he was still afraid of death, and he didn’t want Asagoroth to destroy everything. But what he wanted didn’t matter. Not anymore.
Yet it wasn’t long after Lavella left that the bolt groaned open once again. He hurriedly shored up his courage for another confrontation when the last angel in the world he thought to see stepped in quickly and shut the door.
“Anna,” he croaked.
Annalise dove into his arms, holding him so tightly he could barely breathe. But he never thought to push her away, his own arms clinging.
“Oh Light, Trystan.” Tears choked her words. She rained kisses over his face as she stroked his hair.
Trystan laughed, overjoyed with seeing his sister, to know she was well. Eventually she pulled back but made no move to get off his lap. He didn’t want her to. She smoothed his hair away from his face as he stroked her back.
“Was he good to you?” she asked.
He knew his smile said it all.
She shuddered out a breath and pressed their foreheads together. “Trystan, we must save you from Roland’s fate.”
Trystan blinked and pulled back, met her eyes. “What? Anna, don’t—”
“Don’t you tell me not to save you.” Her eyes sparked as she gripped his collar. “I will not watch you be executed. I will not watch our realm go up in flames. You will stop Asagoroth.”
“Anna—”
“No, Tryst, listen to me. You must listen. We don’t have much time.”
He swallowed hard. “I’m listening.”
“I have not been idle since you’ve been gone. Your bond with Asagoroth made me wonder about the connection between angels and demons.”
He frowned. What is she talking about?
“I researched about the wars between us and the demons, and found a slender volume, one written by the same scribe who recorded the true events surrounding Asagoroth’s imprisonment. What it contained, what I learned… I didn’t believe at first.”
“What?” Fascinated, Trystan momentarily forgot where he was and what awaited him.
“The scribe wrote of Gabryl, one of the elders. He had a theory about angels and demons, one I now see as the truth.” Her eyes were frantic as they stared into his. “In every single battle we have fought with the demons, there has been the same number of casualties on both sides.”
“I don’t—”
“Even angels with shallow wounds after the battle will often die with no real reason. Why? Because a demon died.”
He shook his head, confused. Annalise cupped his face in her hands.
“We are connected to the demons, little brother. We are bonded to them in a way we could never have seen. The Light Bringer made us completely opposite from one another, but at the same time, complementary. In your history lessons, didn’t you learn about the toll it takes on angels to kill demons?”
Trystan brought up memories of his lessons. They seemed to be part of another life.
“Only the strongest and coldest can become soldiers,” Trystan said softly. “Demons are heat and passion and uncontrolled emotion. Angels can pity them and wish to spare them. It’s seen as trickery on the part of the demon.”
Is that why that soldier so long ago spared the demon? But why did the demon spare the angel if demons hated angels so?
“Yes.” Anna nodded vigorously. “But what if it isn’t trickery? I’ve read all the accounts I could of battles, both past and present, trying to find a flaw in Gabryl’s theory. But I could not. When demons do attack, it is in small hor
des, and they seem to be after supplies or food, or simple chaos. They have never attacked us in a destructive way, not on their own. It was only when the dragons ruled them that they would attack in armies. But even then, they seemed reluctant to kill angels. There are some firsthand testimonies from surviving soldiers who spoke of the demons’ hesitancy, and even the way they looked upon angels.”
“What do you mean?”
“Desire. Demons desire us.”
“They hate us.”
She shook her head. “No. Nor do we hate them, not really. We fear them and the way they make us feel.”
He stared at her, seeing the truth in her eyes. “What does all this mean?” he asked.
“The Middle Realm, you’ve seen it?”
“Yes, we’ve been living there and—”
“No dominant species? Nothing like angels or demons there?”
He shook his head.
Annalise closed her eyes and took a deep breath, nodding as if confirming something.
“Opposite and yet equal,” she said as if to herself. “Split into two realms, with a third unoccupied. Desire from demons, reluctance to kill from angels. Trystan and Asagoroth.”
Trystan cupped Annalise’s chin. She opened her eyes.
“Sister?”
She smiled. He realized then she had dark circles under eyes, she was paler than usual, and she seemed to have lost weight. He held her closer.
“You’re unwell.”
“No, I am quite well. We have to get all the angels and all the demons together.”
“Why? How?”
“Baby brother, don’t you see? For every angel there is a demon. For every demon an angel. There is a third realm yet to be populated.”
He stared at her in astonishment. Then he remembered Asagoroth and how he felt about him. He thought of Roland and what that angel had said about the dragon. Even then when they first met, there’d been a connection that only grew as time passed. Trystan often thought he and Asagoroth were meant to be together. Why their bond? What did it mean? Why would Asagoroth, the king of dragons, want anything to do with little, insignificant him? Why would he enjoy the beauty of an angel?