Hitched breaths caught between steps with twitching muscles and uncertain, aborted movements; a rush of blood through the body, aching limbs like unfurling wings for the first time in five centuries; a loud, booming voice resonating inside, like God reaching out through the radio silence, through the static; organs tugging violently, first to the left, then to the right, and a heart thudding behind ribs so hard they might crack.
And strings. So many invisible strings, pulling, pulling.
A group of crows take off in a fluttering fury, black against the overcast grey sky, and the breeze carries with it the scent of an impending storm. Dalyell pauses in the middle of crossing the street, and itâs like a dramatic scene from one of those cheesy films theyâre always watching when they turn their head towards him, lead by a hand they canât see, and words they canât truly hear. Theyâve only been in town for a couple weeks. Theyâve barely settled into their new job --- same as all their old jobs, just without so many eyes on them, watching them, learning about them --- and their new apartment, and this is one of the first times theyâve gone out, too.
For the past two decades, their mundane existence has had to be enough. They gave up, is the thing. Gave up on ever finding him --- The Prophet --- and gave up on a cause that was probably lost almost half a millennium ago. Itâs been too long. The cycle couldâve been broken. He couldâve stopped it, if he wanted to, as some sort of backwards, sick punishment for His rebellious soldier. Chose a new soul to burden, and to disguise that burden as favor.
Only there he is. And here they are. And oh. They can feel it. They can feel it like a physical caress over their skin, like the phantom feathers they still feel brushing against their own limbs have once again become as real as their corporeal vessel.
When they make eye contact, they breathe in, a sharp inhale, and the street light just behind them flickers on in time to project their dark form on the pavement in a pool of luminescence. Thereâs still an hour or two left of daylight. It shouldnât be coming to life yet. They know that, somewhere in the midst of the chaos in their head. They can see the shadow of their wings in their peripheral. Thatâs all they are anymore.
