It always is the same on these cold, clear nights. The Angel of Sky spreads his luminous wings, painting the aethers with shimmering tapestries of color. The creatures below pause their activities. The angel glimpses their smiles of wonder, hears their hushed whispers and sees their fingers point skyward. This is good. It gladdens him to see them looking up, even if the artistry he creates was never for them.
Some of them might know him as Sahaquiel, but that is not his name. It is merely his title. In prior epochs there were other Sahaquiels, other Angels of Sky. He is merely the latest to hold this office, and he prefers another, far older name for himself.
A name now spoken only by one.
He flies north, following Polaris. Below, the human settlements become fewer and farther between. The roads narrow and finally disappear as the horizon opens before him, crystalline beneath the blazing corona of verdant flame which fills the sky. The angel has outdone himself, he thinks. His lover cannot fail to appear tonight.
But patience is required, and the angel wishes he had more of it. Celestial entities should have little care for the passage of time, he thinks, yet he cannot force himself to settle. He fidgets under the weight of lost aeons until at last, in the far, far distance, a figure appears.
The Angel of Sky would have recognized him even without the battered sword he grips in his bloodied hand. Would have recognized him even without the trail of spent gray feathers that drift from his wings like wind-blown ashes. Would have recognized him even if the pristine snow beneath his feet did not turn blood-red with every step he takes.
This angel is known to humankind as Simikiel. They speak of him in whispers, scrawling his name in Enochian script using their own blood for ink, hoping that their self-inflicted pain might serve to appease him. They summon him to their causes, petitioning him to right the wrongs they believe theyāve been dealt, and Simikiel obligesāfor a price.
A terrible price, for Simikiel is the Angel of Vengeance, and his sword cuts both ways.
But the Angel of Sky does not call him Simikiel, nor does he summon him for any purpose other than himself. He hurries across the ice, no longer caring about the supposed virtues of patience, and meets his visitor halfway. He extends both hands, palms empty, and waits. His visitor pauses with a few steps between them.
āNice work,ā he says, nodding toward the dancing curtains of light. āLooks like youāve been busy.ā
His voiceāwhich humans describe as āresonant,ā 'cuttingā and 'bleak,ā likening it to an Arctic wind or a surgeonās knifeācarries a faint lift, as if the speaker truly is amused. He seems to be looking at the sky, but it is hard to know what he sees with the upper half of his face being an empty void. Rare is the mortal who can look upon that void without cowering in abject terror. But the Angel of Sky relaxes, certain now that he has been recognized.
āIt seems you have been busy, too,ā he murmurs with sorrow, noting that the blood-caked hands have yet to clasp his own.
āTheyāve been keeping me occupied, yes.ā The Angel of Vengeance runs an index-digit along his sword-edge as if testing it. A drop of scarlet falls to the snow, and a single barbed rose unfurls, blooming in the frozen air with unexpected sweetness. āHumankind finds no end of reasons to summon me.ā
It is a rote greeting by now; a script they have followed on countless nights.
āIf only they would change,ā the Angel of Sky muses. āIf only we could inspire them to evolve beyond their petty crueltiesā¦ā He trails off as the Angel of Vengeance smiles.
It is a terrible sight, one that could freeze the blood of mortals and send them scurrying, but the Angel of Sky does not flinch. He knows the other far too well. Recognizes his gestures, his mannerismsāand yes, his beautyāeven in his current form. The office to which he has been assigned as punishment for his rebellion might have twisted his outward appearance, but inside he remains himself, his grace and majesty unchanged.
āWhat if they did evolve?ā the Angel of Vengeance queries. āDo you imagine anything would change for us?ā
āSurely it would have to,ā the Angel of Sky responds. āOur work here would be done.ā
āYours, maybe. But you are bound to this mud-ball by choice. Not as a punishment forā¦ā the Angel of Vengeance pauses, thin lips curling in a bitter smirk, ābad behavior.ā
āIt has been too long!ā the Angel of Sky exclaims in sudden anger. āYou have been punished long enough.ā
āCareful,ā the Angel of Vengeance chides. āDaring to question the wisdom of Primus or his minions can get you in, shall we say, a world of trouble.ā He chuckles coldly. āBut you could return. Iām sure heād take youĀ back.ā
True enough. The Thirteen who guarded the throne of Primus had made that more than clear. If the Angel of Sky were to return to their bosom, they would see it as a form of repentance. But he could not repent his love.
āI will not leave without you. You know that.ā
āAll too well, my love.ā The Angel of Vengeance wraps his scarlet fingers around the hilt of his sword, leaning on it as a sage might upon a staff. A gust of wind lifts the snow, frosting the roseās thorns as the two of them fall silent.
It is always the same on these cold, clear nights, a stalemate theyāve reached many times. The Angel of Sky suspects theyāve had this debate so often that it has reshaped the crystalline structure of the snow itself, and that if its geometry could be translated to sound, the sound that would emerge would be that of two angels arguing. The Angel of Sky does not wish to argue tonight, and so he plucks the rose, allowing its bittersweet perfume to waft between them.
āThis,ā he says. "This is the essence of your truth. Not what they say it is, and not this false image that the duties of your office have imprinted upon you.ā
āAnd you can still see that?ā
āOf course. I will always see your truth.ā
This earns him another smile. A softer smile, and one which the Angel of Sky is certain no one else has ever seen. It transforms the face of Simikiel into that which he remembers from time long past. āI will not bow,ā the Angel of Vengeance warns. "I will not go to Primus begging for mercy or forgiveness, nor will I play Unicronās games anymore. If that means I remain earthbound, so be it.ā
āYes,ā the Angel of Sky replies, hearing in those words an echo of his own truth. "I know.ā
āI cannot change what I am, even for you,ā the Angel of Vengeance adds, his tone softening.
The Angel of Sky lowers his gaze. āAnd I would not want you to.ā
This is only part of the terrible price he must pay for his love, and yet. When bloodied fingers curl between his own, he knows it is worth it. Their hands mesh, locking tight. The rose is crushed between their joined palms, a blood oath made and remade without need for words, and the snow beneath them erupts in a riot of night-blooming flowers.
It is then that the feathers fall from both sets of wings, luminous and ashen swirling together in the dark. As they settle together in their fragrant, living berth, they are both transformed. Armored frames gleam in the starlight as they move together, relearning and remembering.
We are not truly angels. Our kind only seems as such in the eyes of mortals, but we are a people like any other, a people with loves and sorrows and follies, only on a grander scale than humankind could possibly imagine.
In the long contentment that follows, the Angel of Vengeance whispers his loverās nameāhis true name. Skyfire.
And the Angel of Sky whispers back. Starscream.
āThere is another way,ā Skyfire adds, perhaps an eternity later. āA third way.ā
āConquest?ā Starscream rolls lazily to stretch across Skyfireās chest, his sharp chin pillowed on Skyfireās canopy. āItās been tried. I can report firsthand that itās the kind of rebellion that can get you kicked out of both hell andĀ heaven.ā
āSo what are you suggesting?ā
Skyfire studies the sky above, observing its shifting veils of color. The yellow and green indicate oxygen; atomic nitrogen makes blue, while purple is created by molecular nitrogen. He knows all of this, somehow, as if remembering it from some distant world long past, and something shifts. Solidifies, as if time itself has been reshaped.
āHumanity,ā he says, sensing the opening of a gate. It is as if their loving has altered the fabric of reality itself. āTheir dreams and imagination.ā Skyfire pauses to absorb this sudden understanding. āThat is a world to which we could escape, and neither the above nor the below would be able to reach us. We would remain earthbound, yes. But we would also be free.ā
Scarlet optics study him narrowly. āNice thought, butāā A curl of wind-driven snow materializes into a scroll, which a bloodied hand snatches from midair. āSaved by a summons,ā Simikiel says, reading it over with a smirk. āHumans are marvelouslyĀ imaginative where it comes to dreaming up ways to do each other in. Would you like to hear what thisĀ one says?ā
Skyfire shakes his head. āI know theyāre not perfect, butāā
āTheyāre little monsters.ā Simikiel rises. āBut this was fun. Letās do it again soon.ā
The gate is closing, and Skyfireā¦ Sahaquielā¦ can feel it. He scrambles up, recapturing Simikielās hand. āI have seen another side of them. When I paint the skies and they look up to glimpse something beyond their earthly concerns, I see Ā light in them, and wonder. We could find the ones who are like that. We couldā¦ā
āCould what, Skyfire?ā Simikielās tone is challenging, yet he gazes at Skyfire as if seeing him for the first time. As if he really wants to hear his answer.
āRather than merely entertaining them, as I do,ā Skyfire says carefully, āor helping them to destroy each other, as you do, wouldnāt it be better for us to teach them?ā
Simikiel shrugs. āSomeone else will do our jobs if we donāt. There will always be an Angel of Vengeance.ā
āOf course there will, but it doesnāt have to be you. And it doesnāt mean they canāt learn.ā Skyfire is certain that his love would see them differently if he could meet the ones who are not simply trying to use him. āPlease.ā His hand tightens. āTrust me.ā
Scarlet optics meet his. There is the faintest hint of a nod, a returning pressure of fingers squeezing his own, and then they are gone. They vanish in a swirl of brilliance and darkness in the cold air. All that remains is a scarlet trail across the snow which ends, very suddenly, in a bed of impossible roses.
A young woman sits up in bed, hands gripping her comforter. The dream had been so resonant. She still feels it in every sinew, every cell of her body. Its lingering sweetness hums in her veins, and although she is aware that it was only a dream, she also knows it was so much more. That something has changed, and she is not quite the person she was the night before when she fell asleep.
Her dream-diary is beside her bed, along with a pen. She opens the book to a fresh page and writes the date: July 28, 1987. Below, she begins: I dreamed about my dear friend Starscream last nightā¦
She fills page after page, knowing there are few people she will ever be able to tell. When every last detail has been recorded, she gets up and goes to her desk. The typewriter is an ancient, cast-iron behemoth, the kind that shakes the table when you type. She finds a sheet of paper and loads it into the machine.
Then sits, fingers poised trembling above the keys.
She speaks his name in a whisper, half afraid to commit it to paper. It feels like an evocation, except she is the one who has been summoned. The task before her, if she chooses to accept it, is to put right the wrongs she believes heās been dealt. And so, at last, she writes his name, answering the call. The story begins.
Written for SkyStarWeek 2020. This story is for Day Five: AU of Choice. I chose angels. Many thanks to my editor, Biting Moopie, for emergency beta services, and toĀ @overlordraaxā for organizing this wonderful (and much needed) celebration of my OTP!
