Oh Sweet Guard

Alcohol ran like the ichor of gods; sharp, strong, and god-awful potent. But it lit up faces with a glow that was uncommon for the people. The bar was alive with bodies summoned by the whisper of the festival. Bright lanterns of every colour hanging from anywhere they could be hung, a plethora of beautiful woven art, banners on sticks whipping in the wind; signatures of the festival.

Beneath the glowing colours, among bodies clad in meandering stoles of silk, among the soft brush of feathered wings, she could feel the life of it all. The feeling bolted up through her bare feet and into her body as she raised her arms and closed her eyes. It thrummed and pulsed like a living thing, and she felt alive. Her movements were smoke upon a soft breeze, ebbing and flowing with the movement of the world as she twisted, turned, and stomped her bare feet on the luxurious carpets. The woman stole a dance from as many of the young guards as she could, all dressed in their formal armour, their leather gloves soft against her bare hands, and their wings adorned with massive blades strapped to the wrist. Oh, how those blades glinted and glimmered under the lights. Oh, how those leather gloves awakened something within her when they held her in such a soft grip.

The guards were always at the bars during the festival, and surprisingly, they could dance, or perhaps were trained in dance. They flowed like water, each once she stole a moment from, as smooth as her own movement but stronger in its statement. And as they parted, they flowed to the next partner or to stay by themselves and down more liquor.

His eyes were as brown as the rich dirt crops grew in, warm and comforting. His wings were sharply angled, a falcon's wings; his feathers were soft blond and bordered by caramel. There was no blade upon their wrists, though, and no blade upon his body. Only armour and silk and soft, soft leather gloves. Their hands clasped tight together as they moved, wheeling, spreading their wings, flowing as a single being but never touching more than their clasped hands. Like the great boughs of a tree in the storms that came after the festival. They stomped their feet in unison, the jewellery around his ankle tinkling in a sweet, sweet song. The thrum travelled through their joined hands, and she couldn’t help but close her eyes, her other senses working to keep her rhythm equal to his.

When it would have been time to pass him to the flow of the rest, he held her hand tightly and her eyes opened. He was smiling, so sweet.

Then they were off, bare feet pounding on the carpets as they pushed the doors open, running after one another and laughing like jackals at the joy of a kill. The wind slammed against them, tearing up the side of the mountain like a beast doing its best to cause them to fall. But with their confidence and wings to balance them, they could never fall from such a height. The blessing of their kind. He was before her, jewellery singing, beautiful wings outstretched, able to find the smallest foothold as he dashed up what must have been a rabbit track. His armour did not seem to weigh him in the slightest, and it moved like a coating of liquid, much like her silken stoles.

The ground turned to a soft grass under her feet as she kept her pace with him, her own massive wings aiding her balance. Her own were a vulture's wings, long and pointed rather than angled for speed and agility. They helped her balance easily as she scaled the path, now almost completely vertical. The man before her crouched for mere moments until his wings beat effortlessly, sending him up the rest of the path to alight on the top of an outcrop pointing up horizontally from the summit of the mountain. The woman followed suit, finding herself gliding just above the outcrop before tucking her wings in as best as she could and dropping down. The soft jolt than ran through her body threatened to tip her over the edge, but his wing was there to nudge her away from the edge.

The world spread out before them like a great lake, glistening spires of blood red in the distance, domineering over the rest of the land. The spires commanded the taking of breath from any that looked at them, and with the glow of the setting sun upon their faces, they certainly stole more than her breath. Oh, it was grand. Perhaps one day she would see the inside of that place and make it out alive.

It was a place of blood and death, and it turned everyone who entered into something they never thought they would be. The warm wind rushed against her face as she secured her hair, swearing she could smell the blood. But she could not dwell on the spires. There would be no screams during the festivals course.

He was beside her with a soft grin and his wings tucked in against his body. He was taller than she was, thinner, and built for aerial battles of speed and skill. And, as he let himself fall from the edge of the outcrop, he was more graceful than she could ever be. His wings were tucked tight as he plummeted, his form slicing through the air like a dagger through freshly cooked marrow. Watching him was electric, the feeling ushering her to join him in his ‘death’ drop. So she did.

The woman's feet slammed against the mosses as she ran towards the edge of the outcrop, lifting her great wings, and then throwing herself off the rock into the abysmal open sky.

The feeling was one of both terror and invigoration; floating in the abyss of something she didn’t understand; before the pull to the ground began. Her wings did not fold back as much as the falcons did, but the weight let her plumet faster, passing the falcon quickly before they snapped open and wrenched her back up towards the clouds and the stars. The burn in her wing shoulders and even within her own shoulders was intense, like her wings were being ripped out, but it slowly faded as she glided in wide circles on the thermals. The agile guard soon tore past her, his wing tip barely brushing her cheek. He was above her by many wing-lengths by the time she looked up, silhouette burned into her vision by the golden moons in the sky. Jealousy was something may people spoke about when they watched the guards in the sky, particularly the falcon guards, whose skills were matched by no one. Often other guards, the eagle guards would get jealous of their falcon counterparts. Now she could understand why. It was like watching the insects over ponds, coaxing a feeling of wonder to override any hints of jealousy.

He stayed at that altitude, cruising at a much easier to match pace, and with a few strong beats of her wings she was beside him, sharing a grin.

“So,” Her voice was quieter than expected for being up in the air, “where to now, sweet guard?”

“Perhaps another bar?”

His voice was the loveliest she’d ever heard, so lovely it would simply be a crime not to do what he said.