The Icarian Bond

Harlowe

                     Whoever said falling felt like flying lied to the poets. Romance was never a course that sailed smoothly. I searched for it. There was no wind caressing his wings, there was no sun kissing his face. If an Icarian bond was to be spoken at that very moment it would spit venom in the great lesson of loving something so beautiful it kills you. She was so beautiful, he was willing to die for her. Feeling every breath that escaped him, ripping him, and stripping him from his duties. Eyes burned and gouged out by the same god that created him, the same sight he used to look at her he was losing. Arcanic vultures the size of elephants plucking the very fibers of his wings frantically with razor sharp beaks leaving strips and holes behind. Flames of the underworld burst up and took hold of his free falling body, a decaying message sent to the angels of his alike. There was a peace of knowing he died for what he loved. Death was easy... peaceful even. You simply fall asleep and when you reincarnate you won't remember a single pain though your soul may carry its trauma and karma. At that moment, Harlowe's gaze shifted downward when the remaining wind got knocked from him as Syrire's limp body laid on the other side of the flames pulling him. He lunged forward towards her longingly, his eternal sun, just out of his reach. This wasn't supposed to happen. He told his creator he would take the punishment if he could just leave her alone. A con man at best, Harlowe thought venomously. Smoke and ice began to fill his lungs the closer he got to Syrire. His voice, failing him, flames threatening to engulf his throat if he opened them again. He was getting weaker. Steadily, arms outreached in hopes for his lover, shredded broken wings flapping in panic. There is nothing I can do. If only time was on their side instead of fleeting cowardly away from them. His eyes widened at the sight, using every last muscle to flap the remains of his wings. He fought for what seemed like ages of war, but in reality were very moments, I can save her. He shook away the previous doubt. The twang of pain in his ribs reminding him maybe in another story, there was an ending where the promise was kept. This, however, was Harlowe's first life. It was supposed to be his only life, a creature sculpted to never make mistakes and to perform holy duties. He was soon realizing this was his karma, he lied to keep her. His lie made him lose her. Syrire's body was being pulled further by the ice retreating, for every inch he gained two yards it took. Were they toying with him? Sometimes the greatest act of valor is accepting defeat. That if loving Syrire meant dying, he could make one more promise. One he intended on keeping. That promise in what should have been his dying moments to find her in any life. As peaceful as falling asleep... the pleasure was worth the pain if I could just-   His thoughts cut short as his unconscious body, overwhelmed with a dip in adrenaline and replaced with excessive pain, slammed into the earthly pavement. Rocks kicked up, leaving a small crater in his wake. Underworld flames release sickles of ice across his body scarring him furthermore adding insult to injury before retreating back to their domain. Harlowe's body unconsciously did something he hadn't felt it do all morning. He breathed. Gods, too, have a cruel sense of humor.

           When Harlowe came too his head was thumping louder than jet engine exhaust firing off right next to him. His entire body felt like it had been sucked through one too. Chewed up and spat the other side like some rancid leftovers at a shifty tavern. Which made his location even more ironic. Harlowe was sat upon an outdated canvas couch covered in tiger animal print in some dimly lit burgundy back room where Tahlia "Baby" Solenbarri, their sister Nessa Black and their local bar hand named Saylor Ronin were triple teaming his wounds. Clawmark shaped burns were lacerating across this torso and arms underneath pools of blood as the sisters worked diligently. Their mumbles of healing magic falling on deaf ears, doing bare minimum to keep him alive. Tahlia doing their best to follow the incantations their older sister provided despite their dormancy, it seemed to be working. Saylor's sterling grey eyes full of fear, Harlowe felt bad for crashing in on her shift like this. He knew her file... stumbled over it many times during his cases. Completely ordinary, he thought to himself.