requiem for an angel

He is insignificant at first, another unfortunate soul with icy eyes speckled grey that do not dare to look up where they do not belong and ears that taper to faint points in a crowd of fellow prisoners whose own are knife-sharp. The fault of magi is a fault inherent, their captors argue.

Smatterings of the fey-wild are written all over Val’s features, in the slight of his build, the blizzard in irises that seem a little too big and too bright to seem completely human.  Trappings of wilderness dwell in him, yearning for freedom and for answers. He looks tame enough but both the seelie powers and the fear, once divergent in their ever-present battle for being the sole focus for his struggle to retain control, have melded and manifested into the carnal desire to escape from the damnation inflicted upon him.

And he does. Upon his twentieth solstice, he finds freedom in the hands of those who freed him from iron chains blistering hot on his soft pale skin. He finds a saviour, and camaraderie in the company of him and his motley band of adventurers.

He is as milquetoast as he ever has been, eager to please- especially for the honeyed words of the bard that coaxed him out of his shell, for the promise of grapevines to flower just for him.

Then he finds weeds that have already bonded themselves to dark steel, crows that sun themselves on the warmth of Emilien’s lies. The tears dry themselves on his face before they ever have the chance to fall, frozen to his cheeks, but for the sin of simply living he does not blink. He wonders how he was so stupid that he never noticed the two of them falling into each other’s arms.

The discovery that he was never special taunts him, that someone as sullied as Klaus - hands stained with black blood - could still snare the affections of that saint with sympathies dripping bronze and waxen like divine seals. For the warmth of his affection they would go to hell, and in the end neither of them had managed to claw their way to heaven on his wings.

If he was really as cursed as they said, he would fall. The lightning crackles anew from his fingertips like a smoke flare to signal his incorrigibility and he lashes forward with the intent to hurt, to rip apart the waxen grin that had never been his alone, or worthy of his trust at all.

The chains that follow now are well-deserved, shackling him from each limb to crow-inlaid insignias on every single face of the tiled walls of his new prison. The jade scythe weighs heavy on his shoulders and he knows there are years of forgiveness in Raelyn’s eyes bled through tears that are shed far beyond the sight of the courtroom. There are no bars, but he does not need them to stay. 

And yet the irredeemable saint himself comes to save him, tears streaked down his face like cheap mortar, and Val can see now how second-rate those copper flecks were all along. Emilien cries, and fumbled with the lock, and leaves. He couldn’t even save him properly.

In the end, it is Namara who releases him. Unlocking the chains with deft precision and barely able to look at him, pushing him out the door before she can change her mind. And yet he knows in his heart that she is the sole person who believes he did nothing wrong.

Three stars guide his way to damnation and through the woods, past flowers that howl and trees picked apart by hoarfrost. But there are no crows here to call him back or deem him irredeemable and so he presses forward. The cries falling from sweet lips behind him no longer turn his gaze, and he never looks back.

Another year. Val’s mind wanders and snaps back sharper than ever. He breathes easier now, but at what cost? He is the storm that tears the cherry blossoms from their stems, the hunter in the night that serves as a cautionary tale to children. He sheds the fur-lined coat that he was given for his nameday and dons a gossamer cloak, sleek garments that cling to him like sealskin. Now, his high cheekbones stand out stark against the skin, eyes paler than ever before and reeking of cold stars and flowers whose scent burns sharp with every breath. Truly fey, with his magic wrapped familiarly around him like the second skin he never got to shield himself with back in the city. And one day while he wrings his bloodstained hair out in a roadside river he can barely recognise himself, all the fat in his cheeks that charmed down the most desolate of guards with a rosy smile gone- and what little his flaxen hair had been sunkissed is now ashen.

He returns a god, unreachable; on that third cycle of the sun, when Emilien has had time to grieve- he arrives as if he still belongs. 

And he wants to. He looks at the crows perched on the gates, remembering the day losing its grip as a boy with a lute, barely a lord, cried and cried and cried. He must be the new Duke Boivin now, Val muses, far gone past that and far happier without him.

It is almost entirely to easy to slip in, to leave a message and wait for midnight to see the young lord himself creep out with features that have scant changed. Val hates him, and yet- he hates the prospect of luring him out to bring retribution upon him.

When he finally comes into the clearing, moonlight spilling truth onto his features, just as beautiful as he had been four years ago- hazel eyes crinkling and then spilling at the sight of him, the bronze of his earrings glinting in the cold sheen, velvet-lined arms reaching out to draw him back as if he’d never left.

The worst thing about all this is that Emilien still trusts him. He greets him with wet eyes and a tight embrace as if he is afraid of letting him go ever again. And Val is the dove in the cage whose milk has gone sour and this time he cries too, letting himself be held minutes before he retrieves the dagger from his tailcoat.

Emilien doesn’t even resist as it slides past his breastbone. He gives him that stupid smile and reaches his hand up to hold his cheek before he goes limp in his arms. And the half-fey curses him for all the people he’s hurt and tells him he loves him for all those regretted mornings in the same breath, fingers clutching so tightly to his coat that the bones of his knuckles shine white underneath the taut skin. He doesn’t know how long he stays standing there clutching to Emilien as the warmth slowly leaves his body, too attached even now to truly despise him and too broken by the betrayal to truly love him any more.

It is only when his eyes are dry and his throat is heaving that he notices Klaus standing to the side, lips parted with the warning cry that never left his lips and trembling to form words that will utterly destroy him.

“You stole him from me,” is what he finally says, green eyes shining with disgust just as they had in the courtroom. And Val knows that they are both hurt by the nectar they never should have tasted, the arms that never belonged to either of them, the praise that has pitted them against each other from the start. 

The dagger plunges into his eye and it sings through his blood, down the sobs clenched in his throat until he screams himself anew and reaches for the raw hurt inside him that sparks to life at will. He opens his eyes and stares into the hate-filled irises that defined his pain for so long, that continue to tear down every single good thing that he has out of jealousy. Then Val strikes.

And no, Val knows now it was never true- that it had been Klaus who had stolen Emilien from him. That he was so quick to condemn him for the crime of being born with this power, but wouldn’t admit the fault of his own that he had been the one to cause it going out of control.

If crows would sun themselves on the warmth of his lies, then doves would soak themselves in the weight of his sins.

After he is done, Val takes Emilien’s corpse over his shoulder and leaves Klaus to the foxes. Not caring whether he has reached death or is merely on the brink of it, whether in pain or in numbed bliss. The hours in between him leaving and arriving at whatever gods forsaken place the compass of his consciousness had decided to take him are empty, and he comes back to lucidity as Emilien slides from his arms and into the cool waters of the lake where they had journeyed so long ago.

He lets himself cry for the last time, nursing his wounds for a few days in a makeshift shelter of grapevines. Then he leaves.

Months pass while he lets ragged, pale hairs sprout on his chin, and where he had once been beautiful there are only the lines of days spent fearful without end, blue eyes dulled by only the promise of nothing ahead of him.

When they meet on the battlefield in the end, it is Val who first raises his fist- while Raelyn can only stand there in shock, remembering another sweet-faced blonde who’d been too dangerous in the end- she stands there broken before the memory of Emilien’s broken body bubbles up again, the son whose name had never left her lips. And it is finally then that her eyes fill with hate, and she charges.

Val remembers all the chains that have bound him until now, and sparks fly to his fingers.