Scorn and Devotion

Chapter 29

Warnings - mentions of self disgust after sexual assault, killing, injury, bad memories and dreams, mentions of abuse by an establishment

I knew I was dead because everything was so bright that I could barely stand to open my eyes. It was like a star had been blown apart, and the white-hot light was drowning me. I didn't move. Time almost ceased to exist, and I couldn't tell if it was centuries or seconds before the light dimmed and I was able to pry open one eye.

A figure was moving towards me in what seemed like slow motion. The form was pale, with a dark mop of hair. My eyes were still so affected by the light that I couldn't tell much else about the figure. With a surprising force, giant wings unfurled from the being.

An angel, it must be an angel. I truly had died then. I was in the afterlife. Where would this angel take me? Would my fate be as awful as the trials of Abraxas or would I be given favor?

"Y/N?" The frightened tone seemed to snap me back into place, like a dislocated shoulder shoved back into its socket.

The world became sharp again as I noticed the magnificent light was fading. I started to notice the feeling of my wet clothes barely clinging to my body and the hard ground underneath me. My ears tuned in to the cries and shouts around me. I again felt my ragged, sharp breath pumping in and out of my lungs. There was something else too. As the figure got closer I recognized the pale skin, the mop of unruly hair, the piercing green eyes. It was Timothée, and he still had those wings!

His wings were spectacular. His wingspan had to be at least twenty feet long. His wings were in the shape of a large bird or perhaps the carvings of angels the palace had on display. However, they didn't look to be made of feathers. They appeared more delicate, most likely gossamer. When you first looked at them, they appeared white, but as Timothée moved I could see flashes of rainbows running through them. They were wet, dripping with clear viscous liquid, like a newborn baby.

He knelt down in front of me and I was so awestruck I couldn't speak. In a moment he had flexed his wings, and they surrounded us. We were suddenly submerged in darkness. Slowly, my eyes adjusted to the slight luminescence the wings gave off. No wonder I had mistaken him for an angel, his form was practically ethereal now.

"Timothée," I croaked and I collapsed into his arms. I was shaking with sobs before I had even realized I was crying. I felt safe and secure in the cocoon his wings had created. The adrenaline was ebbing away and I was left with a shaking body and fear, so much fear, and something else. I recognized it as the feeling I'd get after I was stripped and berated by the ladies at The Academy. It was self-disgust. Now wasn't the time for it, and I barely knew why I felt it. It wasn't my fault my skin was only covered by torn ribbons of cloth. I had had no say in any of this, and yet I felt dirty. I felt as though grime, covered me from head to foot. The places where that creature had touched me were itchy, and uncomfortable, as though small beasts wriggled on the flesh he'd sullied.

"I hate this place," I wept into Timothée's shoulder. He was holding me close, and his acceptance and willingness to touch me meant more than I could ever say.

"You were so brave. This isn't your fault, and we will get out," Timothée told me, his hand running soothing down my back.

"Are these really yours?" I asked, touching his still damp wings, deciding I wasn't ready to talk about how brave I had been.

"I suppose, they came when I used magic to break the tank when you fell in," Timothée was still searching my face, worry etched into his expression.

"They're quite lovely," I mused, running my hand down it. Timothée shut his eyes and shuddered.