Harder and harder his wings beat against the cold and the gusting snow and ice. It was getting more and more difficult to keep himself in the air as icicles formed along his primaries. His muscles strained, burned against decades of disuse.
But Dark hadn’t given up just yet. He beat his wings harder, banking against a frigid blast of wind as he scanned the bare trees, searching, searching, searching for the familiar shape he knew was somewhere below.
Where are you, Wilford? Bim had come crashing back to the facility, wind-burnt, half-frozen, and ranting about how some monster in the woods they’d gone to scope out for filming had gotten Wilford.
Dark was gone before he’d finished spewing his fear-soaked nonsense, launching himself out of the same window Bim had shattered and into the raging storm.
Before he knew what was happening wings that hadn’t unfurled in years snapped out automatically to catch the blowing wind and jerk him up into the sky, dragging a muffled grunt from him as sharp pain seized his back.
But somehow he’d kept himself in the air. Somehow he’d made it to this ragged, dead forest that reminded him oh-so-vividly of a setting from long ago. Of the thunk-thunk-thunk of an axe striking dead wood.
But there was no sign of Wilford, and his strength was beginning to ebb.
Dark landed hard, the force of the impact- even in the drifts of soft snow- shaking through his entire body.
“Wilford!” His words were lost to the snow. Dark stumbled forward, tucking his quaking wings tight against his back. “Wil!”
Suddenly he tripped over the hard lump in the snow, nearly sprawling face-first into the snow piling up around it.
Righting himself uncovered a bright flash of pink amidst the blinding white and so, cursing, Dark dove back in, clawing at the snow and ice until he uncovered none other than Wilford Warfstache.
“Wilford!” Even if the wind didn’t carry away his words, Wilford was in no state to hear: his mouth and eyelids were tinted blue and his clothes- frozen and stiff- were spattered with dots of blood. His wings were also in rough shape, tattered and adorned with bloody lacerations. One was clearly broken, and pearly white bone jutted through the frosted pink feathers.
But he was alive, as Dark found when he pressed two fingers to his neck and discovered a weak, slow pulse, though he wouldn’t be for long if they didn’t get out of there fast.
He glanced around, taking in the dead trees, their outlines blurred by snow. The wind was picking up, its howling loud and angry and drowning out everything else. It would be damn near impossible to take off, especially carrying Wilford’s dead weight.
It was then that Dark remembered the monster.
He tensed as an earsplitting cry- louder than the wind, than the rattling of the dry, bare branches- pierced the storm, whirled to see an enormous silhouette lumbering straight toward them.
“Shit!” Dark spun again, knelt to pry Wilford’s fun from his icy, unconscious fingers. It wouldn’t be much use if it hadn’t saved Wilford, but maybe it would buy them some time.
Bang! The first shot went wide. Dark swore viciously and fired again, this time striking the approaching shadow head on.
It grunted and stumbled, but a second later it was up and coming fast.
Dark threw the gun aside, not bothering to watch it disappear into the snow before he stepped in between the creature and Wilford and spread his wings wide.
If he expected his last sight to be a mouthful of razor-sharp, gore-flecked fangs, if he expected a blast of rotten breath, he wouldn’t get it; right as it reached him, the creature stopped.
And then it laughed. A man’s laugh. A laugh Dark would never forget no matter how much time passed or how faded his nightmares were.
He blinked, and the creature was gone. In its place stood Mark.
“Hello, old friend.” Mark’s wings- glossy and black- fluttered at his back and he grinned at Dark like a little kid. “I see you’re flying again!”
“Bim said he saw a monster,” Dark said, eyes widening. “That was you?”
“Guilty as charged. I can make anyone see whatever I want.” Mark’s grin got a bit bigger. And a bit more demonic. “It was child’s play to make an idiotic show host see a terrifying wolf creature.”
Dark sneered. “And what did Wilford see?”
Mark only chuckled. “Now, Damien, you know that’s not why I’m here.”
“Oh. Enlighten me, then.”
Mark’s grin turned to a snarl and his wings flared. “To remind you I can get at you at any time. To remind you you are never safe, no matter where you go.”
That earned a snort. “You lured me all the way out here to tell me that? Seems a tad overdramatic, even for you.”
Mark arched an eyebrow. “What makes you think I lured you anywhere? You’re dreaming, Dames. You’re sound asleep, tucked into bed all nice and cozy with your beloved William.”
Every word was like a slap to the face. Dark made to step forward, but his feet refused to move.
“You’re lying,” he bit out, even as he realized Mark was right. Even as the snowfall seemed to slow around them and the wind stopped tugging at his feathers and clothes. Even as he realized he shouldn’t have been able to fly here. He couldn’t fly at all.
“Am I?” Mark laughed. He laughed and laughed and laughed and as he laughed he began to dissolve. Everything began to dissolve, until there was nothing left at all.
---
Dark woke up. Raised his head from the pillow to sharp pain in his neck and back. He gave a low groan and shifted, feeling Wilford respond to his movements and pull him closer, extending a wing to rest over him like a blanket.
Mark’s laughter echoed in his ears. Dark closed his eyes, willing it away. He tried to move his wings, tried to extend them, tried to stretch muscles that hadn’t seen movement in decades, only to fail. Only to send hot agony sparking down broken bones and ragged feathers.
