“There's no where left to run,
brother.” Her tone was cruel, with notes of delight, reverberating
with her sheer insanity, and it echoed heavily down the alleyway.
She stalked forward, her thigh high, million inch heels clicking and
clacking, the sound of each step slamming off of the close, wet walls
of the buildings which enclosed them.
The rain came down in droves but
Clarion could see her sauntering confidently toward him as clearly as
if on a sunny day. He could see the heat radiating from her. He
took notice of each raindrop as it fell and touched her skin, hair,
and clothing. He could hear the ever so slight ringing of her blade
as she drew it forth from its sheath around the small of her back.
Almost painfully loud, it persisted in its ringing for another few
seconds for his ears alone. She stalked through a puddle and he
watched as water splashed to the sides, almost as if in slow motion.
Clarion often forgot how much detail there was down here and he knew
that now was most certainly not the time to lose focus. He stood at
the alley's dead end and raised his hands to gesture around him. “It
appears so, sister,” he said with far more calm than he felt.
She smirked at him, knowing he meant
more than he said, and came to a wide stance halt a few paces from
him. She was just within striking distance for a fighter with her
capabilities and they both knew it. The air grew somewhat more tense
and heavy. Quietly, he whispered, “you don't have to do this,
Belial.” Great, golden-white, feathered wings rose suddenly from
his back, as though released from some binding, and stretched out to
either side of him. The wingtips just grazed either wall of the
buildings that formed the alleyway, some ten to twelve feet across.
The display fairly bathed the area in a warm, golden light and
Clarion could see it was all Belial could do to bite back an
involuntary gasp.
Her eyes shone in the beauty of the
display but not for the wonder of it. Rather, they shone with greed.
And something much darker. “I will take your wings,” she said
between clenched teeth, “and I will wear them to remember you by.”
She rolled her shoulders forward and her own fantastic, sharply
pointed wings made of the purest black energy struck outward from her
back, unfurling with an abrupt snap like a sail caught in the wind.
The energy fairly roiled off of her, infecting the area with an oily
darkness.
The light and the dark met and fought
for dominance, swirling together, moving like living things. Clarion
looked upon her wings and despaired. “You would only burn them up,
as you have your own, or I would gladly give them to you,” he said
sadly. His face fell and he glanced away, tears in his eyes.
She took the opportunity to strike and
slid forward with the point of her blade. “Then they will finally
be put to better use,” she screamed as she drove her short sword
toward his heart. But Clarion, though distracted, saw the maneuver
coming and stepped aside, earning little more than the barest scratch
across his pectoral region rather than the death blow she had
intended for him. He leapt deftly into the air, raised his wings
and, in one mighty motion, beat them down on her with all the force
he could muster. The gale force slammed her to the ground even as it
hurled him higher into the sky. A few wingbeats later and he was
headed rapidly for the rooftop of the adjacent building. Empty, away
from the street, and room to move. It looked like this was the best
he was going to get.
Clarion heard Belial snarl her rage
from below and knew he'd need every advantage he could scrape
together if he had any hope of bringing her home.
Monsieur Clarion was a named character I included in a nonsense poem I once wrote that touched on themes of insomnia. I've also always enjoyed the various fantasy mythologies surrounding angels. There is no connection between these two things but in my head, somewhere, the two Clarions have always been one and the same.
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