#oc amriel

[bionic-egypt]

Whumpuary Day 1: Tied Up

[bionic-egypt]

Whumpuary Day 17: Blood Trail

[bionic-egypt]

Whumpuary Day 11: Trapped

Every time the door to her cell creaks open on its rusted hinges, hope burns in her blood. For just a heartbeat, it is her family beyond that door. They will rush in and break her shackles and sweep her away from this cold, dusty prison. Her hair will be delicately brushed out of her face as they coo and croon and cry over her mistreatement. Strong arms will wrap her in love and safety and home. Her bindings will flake away to glittering ash and her grace will be returned. The bodies of her jailers will be crumpled shells in their wake as they lead her out of this hell.

Every time the door slams against the concrete walls, it is a human that steps through and her hope dies a sudden, pathetic death.

Soon, she tells herself even as she is greeted by spitting snarls and heavy fists. Soon, they  will find her. An angel vanishing from the Aether is not something that will go unnoticed for long. They will realize what happened to her, and they will come. She just has to be patient.

The more time she spends shackled in her cell, the harder it is to remember patience. Answers she cannot give are demanded from her every day, punished by hateful hands if she is lucky and searing blades if she is not. The secrets of the Aether, of angels and light, are trapped in her throat by the loss of her grace. The only positve thing that brand ever did was deaden her tongue against spilling everything in a weak attempt to spare herself the agony.

They will come. They will find the one who bound her and wring the truth out of them before coming to free her. They will fill her with light and love and joy and they will take her home.

The one who sent her here, who gleefully threw her into awaiting chains, will be caught. They were the only one who wanted her gone. The others love her, they will want her back. They must be doing everything they can to find her.

But as days and weeks and time blurs together under pain, her resiliance burns in her throat alongside her words. The flames of hope flicker down into dying embers, barely stoked by her desperation.

The door swings open again, and all she can think of is the brutal smile she saw as she was cast down to earth.

No one is coming, are they?

[bionic-egypt]

Whumpuary Day 27: Haunted

[bionic-egypt]

Whumpuary Day 15: Breaking Point

There are only two ways to unbind an angel's grace.

The first way requires the one who placed the bindings to remove them of their own free will. It must be their choice, just as the binding was. This method is seldom used, as the one who bound the angel's grace rarely changes their mind.

The second way is as common as it is tragic. The bound angel must fall. Though it is not a true unbinding, it will give them a mockery of what they once had. For the desperate, it is worth the trade.

Her head snaps to the side from the force of her jailor's blow. She slowly turns and meets their eyes, hot iron staining her teeth. Like a spark to tinder, hatred ignites in her chest. The fire laps at her insides, consuming every nerve ending and leaving behind only pain.

It is not an unfamiliar sensation. She knows the flames in her throat that keep her silent, knows what it is like to choke on gold and blood and words unsaid. She knows the sting of cold iron shackles and the scraping of rough cement floors.

And now? Now she knows hate.

She stokes the flames of rage in her heart, pouring every negative emotion she once refused to let herself feel into the fire. She kept them buried so far down, so afraid of letting them consume her, but what did that get her? Just more agony.

Fire spreads through her veins, glowing lines traling out toward her brands. They were seared into her very soul, but she will burn them away.

Her jailors trip over themselves in their scramble backwards as she stands, shattering her chains with a twist of her hands. Gold flakes off her skin like ash. Something within her shrivels and dies under the scorching heat. Whatever it was, she is unable to care.

There are screams. She cannot tell if they are hers.

Four wings of ash and soot flare open behind her. Time blurs together after, a whirlwind of flame and blood. Gold drips from her wide smile as the light leaves the eyes of every person who has ever raised a hand to her and they die by hers. By the time she comes back to herself, the floors are streaked red and bodies lay in broken piles. Flames lick at the walls as she sets fires in her wake.

She breaks through the locked door to the cold night. Smoke curls in her lungs like air, but it is the freest breath she has taken since being cast out. Hundreds of thousands of eyes take in the world, finally able to see again after being bound in darkness. Her sharpened eyes turn toward the heavens. Vengeance mingles with the hatred in her heart. Killing her jailors is not enough.

She will tear open the Aether and drag the one who bound her into hell with her.

[bionic-egypt]

Whumpuary Day 23: Interrogation

The dark is cold in a way she has never felt before. The part of her that can still feel - and oh, does she feel now, now that her entire world is reduced to just the sensations on her skin - shivers, though whether it is from the chill or disgust she cannot tell. The rest of her, the part that clings to denial like a lover, keeps her two eyes shut tight, as if being blind is her choice and not a result of the suffocating darkness she is trapped in.

Her joints ache as she tries in vain to move. Metal clangs together in her ears as her chains rattle against the concrete. She would be scared if she had the energy to spare. But in this cold, dark hole, rest eludes her. It is a dream, and she has only nightmares.

How long has it been since she was locked up? How long since she was branded and shipped off like cattle? Do mortals even measure time the same as angels? She has never been on earth before; she wouldn't know. Mortals never interested her before. She regrets that now. Maybe if she knew more about them, she wouldn't be here.

A sudden light makes her open her eyes as the door is thrown open, cracking against the wall. A silhouetted figure, back lit by the creeping glow, pushes their way in. Their footsteps are heavy, solid, unlike any she's ever heard. Where is the soft whisper of feathers? The steady beating of wings? The barely there tap of steps hardly touching the ground?

A switch is flipped and the entire room floods with light so bright it burns. Imagine that, being burned by light. The strangeness of it is almost enough to distract her from their approach. But nothing can distract her from their sudden grip on her arms as they drag her to her feet and slam her back against the wall.

Oh, there's the fear, that all too familiar tightening of breath and curling in her gut. Her hands would be shaking if she was able to move. Looks like she can still feel afraid after all.

"Ready to start talking?" Their voice is rough as concrete, filled with a venom she is starting to recognize.

She keeps her mouth shut. It's all she can do.

They do not like her silence. Their grip turns bruising and blunt nailr dig into her skin. "Where is the Aether?" they demand. "How do you get in?"

'Get in?' What are they talking about? Mortals do not 'get in' to the Aether. Only angels are permitted. Only angels have the grace to survive. That is why those who are bound must be cast out. There is no use biding their grace for the to just die anyway. It was the only mercy she was granted. But seeing where she is now, was it really a mercy?

At her continued silence, their face twists into a snarl, all furrowed brows and bared teeth. "Answer me!"

They shake her once, hard, and pin her back to the wall. She bites down a whimper of pain and says nothing.

More demands in the form of questions are thrown at her. What are the angels hiding? What are their secrets? How are they eternal? What gives them the right to sit above humanity? What is grace, and how did she lose it? How do they gain it? What is a soul? Does she have one?

She bites her tongue against the onslaught. Even if she wanted to, and she wants little less, trying to answer will not work. The brand around her throat tingles almost as if a reminder that it will hold her tongue if she cannot. No secrets can spill past her lips.

If only they knew that.

With a frustrated roar, they shake her again, harder. Her head bounces against the wall with a crack. She cries out with a silent sob; her head hurts almost as much as her heart. The taste of metal floods her mouth. Distantly, she wonders what color her blood is now. Is it red? Or still gold?

Eventually, they realize she will not answer. They drop her to the ground in an aching heap. A boot slams hard into her ribs. She can only curl tighter in on herself in vain.

As they turn to leave, they spare one last glare her way.

"Maybe a few days in solitude will make you talk."

[bionic-egypt]

Another Cage

She closes the bathroom door and leans back against the wood, sealing away the hot, humid air behind her. Her grip tightens on the towel wrapped around her body. It was strange, being clean again. How long did she spend trapped in that filthy cell? Weeks? Months? Years? She doesn't know. There were no windows, and food never came on a schedule.

But she isn't in that cell anymore. Now, she has just gotten out of the shower and stands shivering in the slightly cool air of her new bedroom. The water was scalding; her skin is still bright red from the heat. She doesn't care. Pain has been a constant since being cast to earth. A little warmth is nothing compared to everything else she went through.

It has been days since she was freed from her cell. Stolen away in the dead of night, smuggled out by the kindest soul she has known since being bound. Soft hands pulled her from the cold cement walls and into open air. Her wounds were treated instead of being left to fester. Days of travel, of hiding when needed and running when they could, finally brought her to a small house at the base of a pine covered mountain.

She didn't get a good look at it - can't really get a good look at anything anymore - but from what she could see, it is a simple, but still cherished home, with a small flower garden out front and paint chipping off the porch stairs. It is so very different from where she was that she can't help but love it just as much as the occupants so obviously do.

Her savior ushered her inside and towards one of the bedrooms, then through the door leading to an adjoining bathroom. Quick instructions were given before they scurried away, giving her some much needed privacy.

Now, after her shower, she stands alone in the bedroom she was told is hers. It is lit only by the soft light of a bedside lamp. The room is small, yes, but is so much larger than her cell was. Maybe it is just the window taking up most of one wall that makes it seem so, with its curtains thrown wide open. Even though all she sees through them is the pitch black of night, it is still the outside.

The headboard of a plush bed is pressed up beneath the window. A set of soft looking pajamas, maybe her size but probably bigger if they belong to her savior, are laid out atop the floral bedspread. On the other side of the room, a large mirror is mounted to what she was told is the closet door. She refuses to inspect it closer. She can't. Not yet.

Instead, she sits down on the edge of the bed and grabs a hairbrush off the side table. Slowly, carefully, she drags the brush through her long wet hair, barely even wincing when she pulls a knot. The rhythmic slide of the brush pulls her away from any stray thoughts. No time for those now; only brushing.

When she's finally done, damp silver strands lay flat and straight and untangled down her body. It's a simple pleasure, having her hair combed. She rarely has those anymore.

As she sets the brush back, her eyes are drawn to the window. Solid black greets her. There is no moon to light the sky, no other nearby houses to shed their own light from their own windows. Before, she would have seen everything anyway. Light, dark, none of that mattered to her. It is still so strange, not being able to see all. Using only her two solitary physical eyes instead of all her hundreds and thousands of spiritual ones is just so ... limiting. She misses her sight.

With a silent sight, she stands up. Instead of reaching for the clothes, she forces herself to walk over to the mirror. She has to see, even with these inferior eyes. She has to see what has become of her since she was bound.

It takes a long moment before she recognizes the figure staring back at her.

Without the ever present glow of her soul, she is dim. Empty. A lifeless husk instead of the bright, shining, ethereal being she once was. Do mortal bodies always look like this to each other? Frail, weak little shells?

She watches her reflection raise a shaky hand to trail its fingers across its jaw, brushing feather-light against watercolor bruises, green and yellow with healing. The memory of the strike that painted those colors onto her skin makes her flinch away from her own hand.

Her eyes trail down to half healed lacerations decorating her limbs. There are only half as many limbs as there should be - as there used to be. Her center of gravity is all wrong. It is a miracle she is able to walk upright.

Did anything else change? Is this what her physical form always looked like, all washed out colors and willow branch limbs, or did losing her grace change more than she can see? Without the full extent of her sight, she cannot tell. She never really cared what her physical body looked like before. Why would she? Souls are so much more beautiful than bodies. Now though, she wishes she had, if only to know the full differences between then and now.

As she inspects her reflection, her inferior eyes are distracted by golden scars around her wrists. A language never spoken by mortal tongues is branded in thick lines like manacles. Even though she is imprisoned in this mortal shell, she can still read the words.

Bound.

Grace.

Everything that made her eternal is locked away by two little words. Everything that made her her, sealed far away where it can't be touched. Just two little words, seared into her flesh, are enough to sentence her to this half life of shadows and pain.

But these are not her only brands. A third golden mark glitters around her throat like a collar. Shaky fingers trace the curves of the backwards letters on the glass. Even flipped, she knows this word too.

Silence.

One simple word holds her tongue in a vice. She cannot speak of her past, her life, her home. The Aether is a forbidden secret that her words cannot reveal. She choked on her own voice enough since being bound to know this command holds true. Sometimes, she wondered if trying to fight it would drown her in molten gold. Sometimes, she wondered if she should try.

She shakes her head in an attempt to dispel those dark thoughts. Think lighter ones. Freedom from her cell. No more pain. A kind handed savior just down the hall. Soft clothes waiting for her on the even softer bed. Peace for the first time in her new mortal life.

And yet. There is still one last thing she needs to see, even if it breaks her. Everything in her screams, begging her not to. She pushes those screams down. If she doesn't look now, she will not be able to rest.

Taking a deep breath, she sweeps her still damp hair over one shoulder and loosens her grip on the towel to expose her back. And even though she knows she needs to, she still has to force herself to turn her back to the mirror and look over her shoulder.

A strangled gasp catches in her throat. It is so much worse than she could have imagined. Two long scars, wider than her fingers and brilliantly, terribly gold, are slashed down her back in two parallels to her spine. They reach from her shoulders down to her hips in thick cords.

She reaches around and runs trembling fingers over the base of one of the scars. Her vision blurs as tears burn her eyes. Useless, stupid, unseeing eyes. What good are they if she can't even see through her own tears?

She bites her tongue until she tastes iron to stifle the sobs that threaten to escape. Her wings. Her wings. Intellectually, she knew they were gone, knew she was half of what she used to be, but to see the physical proof? It forces her to face the inescapable truth. Her wings. Her light, her freedom, her strength, her life? Gone. Taken. Sealed away where she can never reach. Only the one who bound her can reverse this, and they will never free her.

But why? What did she do to deserve this? What sins did she commit, what laws did she break? Why is this her punishment? They took her wings, cast her from the Aether, threw her to the mercy of mortals who don't even know the meaning of the word. It was a fluke she was saved from that cell, but even now, she is not free. The skies are forever out of her reach.

She had been an angel.

Now?

She's just trapped in another cage.

[bionic-egypt]

Whumpuary Day 3: Can't Speak

Pale beams of early morning sunlight fall across her face as she slowly blinks awake. Her limbs are still heavy, sinking deep into the plush mattress and snuggled securely beneath the floral-print blankets. Warmth clings to her skin and seeps into her bones like a loving embrace.

She stares up at the ceiling, just breathing. Is this a dream? If it is, she never wants to wake up. For so long, her life has been cold and dark. This here, this warmth and light and comfort, it is everything her heart has yearned for in her captivity. Freedom of a sorts, even if not the true freedom she once claimed.

Maybe she is awake. Maybe this is all real and not just a figment of her unconscious mind. Surely she would be whole in her dreams, wouldn't she? Her wings and sight and grace would be restored as if they were never taken. So this has to be reality. She has to be here, now, lying in a bed instead of chained to the floor like a dog.

And yet, if this is a dream, then she will cling to the kind illusions of her sleeping mind until her fingers bleed.

Time passes in a half-awake haze. All she knows is breathing and the quiet of her own thoughts. But like sleep, peace does not last forever.

There is a knock, soft but sturdy, a quick rap against the wooden door to the bedroom. She pushes herself up on unsteady forearms, head raised toward the sound. From behind the door, a soft voice asks if she is awake. It asks if she is hungry, and assures her she does not need to leave the bedroom if she wants, but that she is more than welcome to come to the kitchen for breakfast.

Instead of trying to speak, she pushes herself up off the bed, careful not to tip herself over, and hesitantly makes her way to the door. Slowly, glacially, she pulls it open just enough to peek through to the other side. Through the gap, her eyes meet the surprised gaze of her savior.

Her savior is a tall woman, nearly half a foot above her, with kind eyes and a soft smile, wrapped in a thick robe that hides the strength in her limbs. Long rowan hair is pulled back in a sleep-messed braid and pillow creases mar the width of her cheek. Her mouth opens in a silent 'oh' before spreading back into that same smile.

"I didn't think you would open the door," she says, voice low, as if to try and keep the quiet of the morning from breaking. "Not that you can't, you absolutely can, but I didn't really think you were awake. Offer still stands, though. Breakfast in the kitchen, or breakfast in bed?"

After thinking for a moment, she opens the door wider in answer. The smile this earns her is a proud one.

Soon, she is sitting down at a small, age-worn table while her savior goes about making breakfast. There are a few scuff marks scattered along the surface of the wood, each one hand patched and recolored. Her finger traces the edges of the closest one, nail gently gliding along the length of the groove.

Her savior laughs lightly as she sets down two bowls and takes her seat. "Keen eye you've got," she praises. "I fixed it myself, restained it and everything, but it's still off if you really look close." She shrugs, almost to herself. "Still, it's better than it was before."

Keen eye? Her? She can barely see. So many colors are lost to her, invisible or bleeding into muted shades. What once was a fully realized world is now fuzzy and incoherent to her eyes, or worse, completely nonexistent. 'Keen eye.' As if. She's practically blind.

A horrible, terrible thought breaks through her derision and stops her in her tracks. For an angel, she is a bumbling, blind fool. But is the same true for a mortal? Perhaps for them, this is good vision. Being able to pick out shallow marks and the difference in ages of wood stains might actually be impressive to them. Never mind that once she would have been able to count the individual grains in the wood at the barest glance.

The thought terrifies her. Part of her wishes her savior lied, but deep down, she knows the truth.

Wordlessly, she starts eating, if only to distract herself from her new revelation. The food is the best she has ever tasted on earth and sits warm in her stomach.

Her savior, however, doesn't seem to agree. "It's not much," she apologizes. "Usually I would make a guest more than just oatmeal and canned fruit. Fresh fruit, at least, but pancakes would be even better. I haven't had the chance to go shopping yet, and, well, I was away for a while."

Right. Away. Away from her home to come and find her, to take her away from that dingy cell and into the light. She said it as if it was just a slight inconvience that she has to be sorry for, not the only reason she isn't rotting beneath angered hands.

The only response she can muster is a tiny smile and taking another bite.

The one sided conversation comes to an end and they continue eating in silence. Once they're both done, her savior takes the dishes before she can even attempt to protest and goes to clean up by herself. She stays seated; what else can she do? She has never cleaned a table before, never washed a dish, never even stepped foot in a kitchen. She would only get in the way.

While washing the dishes, hands still half-submerged in soapy water, her savior asks a question. Her voice is intentionally light and she doesn't even turn back around to face her, but the question still makes her tense like she's about to be struck.

Her savior asks for her name.

She does not answer. She sits, spine a hard line of steel, hands clenched into fists so tight she will have red crescents in her palms later, and she says nothing. Around her throat, the golden brand tingles, as if eagerly waiting for her to give in and try to disobey its command.

She does not answer.

The only sound is running water as her savior finishes the dishes, then the clattering of ceramic as she sets them to dry. Her shoulders move with a quiet sigh as she rests her weight on the edge of the sink.

She says nothing.

After a long moment of stillness, her savior turns around to face her. Her eyes are still soft, but with pity now instead of pride. She crosses the room in a few short steps and takes back her seat across the table.

"My name is Hope," she says, and her voice is the same one would use on a frightened animal. Is that what she has been reduced to? "Sorry if i never said it before. The trip back here was a bit frantic; guess it just slipped my mind. What's your name?"

Silence stretches between them as she tries to hold back the want in her chest.

"It's alright if you don't want to answer," Hope adds as she manages to beat back the urge to give in. "I just thought you might like to be called by your own name, but it's okay if you don't. I don't mind."

Her own name. The desire, barely doused, flares bright again. Wrapped in the desire is, fittingly enough, hope. Hope that surely something as simple and personal as her own name will be allowed to slip through the order branded into her skin. It is not a secret of the Aether. It is her name. Even the one who bound her would allow her to keep this, right?

A deep breath fills her lungs as she steels herself. One word. Just one. It will work. Her mouth opens, then closes. Hope smiles, encourgingly this time. She licks her lips, takes another breath, and answers.

Or, she tries to.

Light and fire and pain sear her skin in defiance. Her words are molten gold and it burns as it pours back down her throat and she chokes on her own name.

She grabs her neck with one hand even as she tries smothering silent cries with the other. Hope launches from her chair, horror on her face and in her voice as she apologizes over and over and tries to get her to stop trying to speak, as if she hadn't already stopped on her own.

She coughs the last bit of her voice out as Hope hands her a napkin to wipe her tears. She begs her not to hurt herself like that again, that she doesn't have to speak, not ever if she doesn't want to, that Hope can try to guess her name instead, or they can find her a new one she likes, just please don't do that again.

She says nothing. How can she? If even her name, her name, cannot pass her lips, what can?

Was losing her wings, her eyes, her voice, her grace not enough? Even her own name has been taken from her. What else does she have left to lose?