Summary: It is dawn when Combeferre finds him; the Archangel of Silence watching the sea below boil and writhe, stood so close to the jagged knife-edge of the ice-shelf that the Healer feels a flicker of fear.
It is dawn when Combeferre finds him; the Archangel of Silence watching the sea below boil and writhe, stood so close to the jagged knife-edge of the ice-shelf that the Healer feels a flicker of fear.They are fierce and pure and absolute, his brothers, and Combeferre knows even if his wings failed to beat and bear him away the worst that waves and cold and the fall could do was to ruffle Grantaire’s feathers.
But his brother is hurt is his very grace; even cloaked in mortal clay and limited by the flesh that entraps him Combeferre can see the gaping wound the Watcher’s heart; his self; his soul.
“Brother.” He says, watching as wings of midnight-blue and raven-black curl protectively around Grantaire as if to protect the near-fatal wound that his brother nurses here at the bottom of the world in bitterness and solitude and silence.
Silence stretches between them like the long watch through the night before dawn, the stillness broken only by the crashing heartbeat of the Antarctic sea below as it flings itself in futility against the base of the icy cliffs far below, and when the Watcher finally speaks it is with a voice cracked and broken from long misuse and by a soul-deep pain of the kind that not even the archangels were made strong enough to bear.
“Combeferre.”
Grantaire does not turn to face him and there is a part of Combeferre near drowning beneath his sorrow that is glad that his older brother will not meet his eyes. Calm and control are the comforting shroud worn by the brother he knows; the Watcher he remembers – the one who spoke little, but whose softened features and subtle smiles greeted him as he learned to fly and tended the ills of their Father’s first mortal children.
But rigid stiffness has replaced the graceful arch of Grantaire’s wings and even through aeons-old gates and guards of checks and control Combeferre can feel the storm of emotions brooding and building within twisting inside him like an icy knife as the air is washed with the bitter tang of sorrow unshed tears and awesome power never used.
This cracked and crooked statue that stands before him resembles more a stranger than the brother that guarded and guided him through the years and as Grantaire turns to face him and he meets the Watcher’s gaze, Combeferre feels his soul quake within him and knows with a sudden clarity that if angels had hearts as mortals did then his would have broken a thousand times over at the sight of those hollow haunted eyes.
“He smiled at me, little brother. Did you know that?” A thin and pained smile stretches across Grantaire’s lips. “He was dying in my arms, and as his wings guttered out he smiled and he saw me – truly saw me –” The Watcher laughs and Combeferre flinches; the sound is jagged and mirthless and stings his soul like shattered ice.
His brother turns away and stares into the sunrise and Combeferre watches with him as the sky begins to lighten; deepest black fading with the passing of night as crimson, burgundy and pastel rose wash the firmament in watercolour streaks. But all the beauty in the world cannot change what they both know: Enjolras is dead, and Grantaire teeters on a precipice and Combeferre is hurt and heartsick and full of grief.
“He was the best of all of us, you know.” Silence has fallen again around them like softly-drifting snow and Grantaire’s voice is soft and reverent as an unspoken prayer as he breaks it, and Combeferre has never felt so helpless – by touch he can heal the gravest of injuries, with his words he can drive out the foulest sickness, even the very beating of his wings as he passes can rally the will to fight or gently and without pain let the dying spirit go – but even with all the eternity that stretches out before them to work he knows that his brother’s is a wound that he could never heal.
And with that knowledge comes an ache that strikes him to his very core; his eyes flicker closed for a moment – only for a moment, a mere fraction of the memory that he will clutch to his heart and poison all his joys and triumphs with for all the countless years to come – and so he misses it as Grantaire turns solemnly to regard him one last time; misses the fond and lingering gaze and the sad smile that turns up at the corner of his brother’s lips.
His eyes only open as the Watcher’s lips move soundlessly and leave an unspoken word hanging in the stillness and wings like the star-voids of the deepest reaches of the firmament unfurl and bear his brother away.
