Chapter Text
“Your stratospheric fear of catastrophe’s near
Fast it’s here
Atmosphere past your ears, fall but you’ll never land”
“Falling Up” by Will Wood
A man seated on a rickety porch remembered fondly of an period of peace. A time when the haunting chorus fell silent and his wife announced the news: two sons, the second coming only three years after the first. Life was good at the ranch.
No mob dared to trespass the barbed wire that wrapped around the perimeter. His sons knew better than to show themselves to the nighttime creatures, though, they still found themselves in a few skirmishes.
At the heart of it, he was happy the most dangerous encounters were with mobs rather than anything angelic. His sons never spoke of mysterious voices—his worst fear would be the small chance of being born with the eyes, but neither of them seemed to be born with the same ears he had either. He believed they were safe.
In a moment of desperation, the rancher uttered his first prayer to an angel he loathed in an effort to save his youngest son from a flooded cavern they were trapped in. He did not know if he should attribute the rescue to the Watchers or just pure luck. He was simply happy that both he and his son had survived.
It did not last. While the oldest was hitting puberty, the youngest was growing wings. Useless golden wings with a wingspan no further than his elbows, with more feathers sprouting behind his ears. He did not share the excitement of his sons. He did not believe in his son’s dream of flight when they were fully grown—if they would grow at all.
They were no more useful than an appendix. It was symbolic, an identifiable marking to avoid.
“Cursed.”
The Watchers mocked his grief, snickering whenever Jimmy broke an arm at the smallest inconvenience, kicked by a horse who was always kind to him, or bled from a knife after handling it as instructed. These injuries were frequent. Jimmy came close to death more times than the family owned cattle.
With a vow against alcohol, he held a cigar between his fingers as he sat on that rickety porch. His sons chased each other happily in the green field, supervised by a grieving father while their innocence gave them toothy grins.
Night fell. The boys retreated to their beds, eager for the morning. Their father did not move from the porch, quickly missing the cigar he had long since put out with his boot.
The door creaked opened behind him, but he made no effort to look.
“Come inside. It’s getting cold.”
He hung his head, looking down at calloused hands, turning them into fists. “Didn’t the church preach about miracles? What did we do to deserve this? What did Jimmy do to deserve this?”
She sighed. “We shouldn’t be pressed about something we can’t control.” She placed a hand on his shoulder, seating herself beside him. “But I can’t say I don’t hate this.”
He turned to his wife, his hands relaxing as he smiled shortly. “We built a life here. Me and you, from the ground up.” He gestured to the world ahead. “No help from a church or a charity—us. For us and our sons. I was happy here—am happy here at the ranch. I don’t need some stupid angel ruining that.” His hand slapped against his chest, aimed straight for the heart. “Me. I should be the one with a curse, not him. Me.”
“Neither of you deserve that. You’re a good man.”
“You tell me that every day. I just…” He sighed and stood up, stepping off the porch and waved an angry fist to the sky. “I know you’re here! Watching me dread over my own son! Is it funny to you? Watching us? It never ceases to amaze me that wicked angels have churches dedicated to your worship!”
Silence.
“Screw you! Screw the church! Screw everything! My son doesn’t deserve a curse! No child—no innocent child should be cursed!” He heard his wife call out his name. He twisted around to face her. “No! I’m not going to simply sit around and watch our son injure himself until he drops dead! Danger will always find him, and it’s all because of them! Wretched angels…they see us as nothing but entertainment! They feed off of our pain, our grief, our sorrows—it’s not like they hide it!” He pulled his hand down to his side. “Not us. The church will stand and overlook it, but not us. Not me. There’s a loophole to this. A solution. Something! Anything I can do!”
“You need rest. They’re getting in your head.”
“I need our son to be safe! To live! To win against these damn angels who have damned him!”
A combination of worry and grief filled her eyes, but she dared not cry. She only stared. Staring at a husband possessing a different kind of stubbornness she wasn’t used to. He was grieving a son who was not yet gone. Many times she wished he wasn’t a Listener, wished he was just as normal as she was. But she loved him enough to stay and endure it.
He heaved a breath, stepping forward and knelt to her level. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
“It’s alright—”
“No, it’s not. I promised I wouldn’t talk about angels no more, but I dragged you into this. I’m just so angry. Angry at them.”
She held onto his hands. “I’m angry too, but what more can we do but continue to raise our boys. Prayer won’t work, and the church has no interest in us. We’re here alone and that’s all we need.”
“One solution.”
He jerked his head up, searching the sky behind him only to find an empty night. He didn’t have the eyes, but he could sense their wicked grins.
They continued. “Simple as sin. Achievable by the most unworthy men. A remedy to the one-man rebellion put forth by an unruly rancher, a remedy for a son.”
She watched as her husband stepped back into the field, facing the sky with a clenched fist.
“I can cure my son?”
“A cure? Don’t tell me…the Watchers…they’re toying with you!”
He considered it, but he couldn’t deny his own desperation. Fathers weren’t meant to visit their children’s funerals. “Tell me!” He exclaimed. “Tell me what you know!”
“It is not your place to make demands out of us. Your son bear your sins, your foolish efforts to deny an angel. Undeserving of those ears, unworthy to hear our will.” Their voice boomed. “Ignored!”
“Then let me make it right! For my son, let me make it right!” It left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Conditional. We lend our voice so generously. You lend an ear to satiate a wish. How desperate can a foolish father be for a damned son? Break your internal vows, and bring yourself before a great angel with respect. On your knees.”
He scoffed. “You want me to beg? Beg you to cure my son of the curse you inflicted upon him?”
“A generous exchange, is it not? A plea for information. A plea to save a life.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Are you going to let your son die because of your stubbornness? Is your refusal worth the life of your son? Of Jimmy?”
“Don’t speak his name.”
They said nothing, awaiting a compliance from a man who rebelled against their demands since days of youth. He stood there, hanging his head with clenched fists.
“What is it?” she said. “Hon, what is it? Tell me. Are they asking something from you? Are they threatening Jimmy?” She stepped off the porch, stopping when he gestured for her to stop.
“Go inside.”
She was taken aback, never seeing her husband look so defeated. He never tried to meet her eyes.
“Please. I…I don’t wish for you to see me this low.”
She didn’t argue. She didn’t insist that whatever the Watchers said meant nothing in hindsight. Any word or action wouldn’t force him out of their sight. He had stood his ground for decades, but this wasn’t just about him anymore.
She retreated into the home.
The rancher heaved a breath, turning his back to the house and dropping onto one knee, then the other. Hands slapped against the ground, gripping at the dry, cold grass. Dirt trapped itself beneath his nails. He faced the ground, completely defeated.
“Please. Please tell me.” He said it quietly. When there was silence, he spoke louder, but again, no response. Snapping his head to the sky, he rose to a yell. “What do you want me to say?! Sorry I didn’t want to deal with your nauseating voice? Sorry I felt sick knowing the only angel that looked over us was one that felt joy in the plights of mankind? For goodness’s sake, I just want my son to live! It can’t get much simpler than that!”
They laughed. It felt like a fire in his ears, frustration boiling in his blood. His face became red and twisted. He fell back, off his knees.
They calmed their amusement. “A vow to dismiss is now fractured, swayed by the most menial of things. Always amusing. Always pathetic. One town north, another two east rests an unholy flame embedded in mortal flesh—an abomination to this world. Snuff it out, steal it’s passionate heart and crush it.”
“That’s it?”
“It can’t get much simpler than that.”
He left soon after breakfast upon a brown steed. He uttered vague promises of “a fix” to his wife, granting more reassurance than explanation. The children believed their father was visiting the city, forcing him to promise souvenirs.
He followed the directions given to him by the Watchers, arriving at the northern town shortly before nightfall. He took a nightly rest at the local inn before heading eastward. Passing by a town, he soon arrived at a small village, possessing a population too minimal to be marked on a map.
He leaped from his horse and carried himself throughout of the village with his steed close behind. There were people here and there, making curious glances, but not enough to prompt a conversation.
“What am I looking for exactly?” He mumbled to himself, his eyes glancing up at the sky when receiving no response. “A burning man, right? I’m sure the villagers would make a fuss over something like that, wouldn’t they?” He sighed. “Don’t tell me it’s a metaphor for something else.”
“It is exactly as we stated.”
He dragged himself down the path, passing by buildings that were no more than five generations old with homes not much older. His attention was drawn to the commotion coming from the pub. A woman, seemingly the owner, was pushing a drunk off her property.
“Aww c’mon, man,” the drunk slurred. “Can’t a guy like me be forgiven for such a blunder?” He tried to force his way back into the pub, only for the owner twist him around, forcing his arm behind his back and raising it high enough to break it. The drunk yelped out in pain.
“Good luck drinking with that arm.” She pushed the man forward with a sigh. “No respect for my ale. Come back when you’re patched and dignified.”
The rancher stepped forward, taken aback by the willingness toward an aggressive approach. “Must you be so aggressive?! You’ll break something with that force!”
She rolled her eyes, turning her back to him. “A break is a short punishment. He should be happy I didn’t make him taste glass.” She departed back into the pub.
“She’ll kill someone with that recklessness.” He kneeled down next to the drunk. “Seems like an overreaction to break an arm over…whatever you did.”
“Ha!” he shouted through a wince, hissing through his teeth. “A break ain’t nothin’. I’m not exactly the most behaved villager.”
“Is there a doctor ‘round here?”
“Sure do! A quality one at that! Ain’t no one like that kid.” He saw the horse. “Should lend me your horse, saves me soring my feet.”
“I can give you ride, sure, but he’s not one for borrowing.”
The rancher helped him onto the saddle and followed the instructions given. They soon arrived at a house, a short walk that didn’t necessitate a horse, especially with two functioning legs. Though ordinary, the drunk insisted it belonged to their village doctor. He had no reason to think otherwise.
They went their separate ways, leaving the man on the doorstep. His eyes scanned the village buildings, seeing the recklessness wasn’t isolated. He saw kids who were rough-housing with more aggression than he grew up with, a party of men daring each other into dangerous stunts in the distance, and watched as a man wrestling a dog that wasn’t holding back their bite despite a wagging tail. He saw one stunt break one of the man’s legs, and they all laughed it off.
It was peculiar. He knew he wasn’t exactly “in touch” with society within recent years since he lived in the wilderness, only visiting the city when needed, but it was no doubt strange. He wasn’t certain if it was a matter of the times changing, or it was unique to the village.
Do they really have a quality doctor in this place? He wondered incredulously. Even towns hardly had a qualified doctor, as long as they treated simple wounds, they were as much a doctor as one in the city. He found no sense in it. Even he might even be considered a doctor by the standards of a population that lacked one, knowing enough about injury treatment to keep himself on his feet—and keep Jimmy alive.
Thud!
It wasn’t enough for him to stagger, but the same couldn’t be said for the boy that tumbled backwards onto his bottom. His apology was instinctual, his eyes flicking from his mindless observation of the village to the kid. It was cut short by the sight. He was stunned.
The boy’s hair was replaced by a flickering golden flame matching the colours of a sunset. The whites of his eyes were completely red with large, cat-like pupils. He had a tail, thin with a puff of flame at the tip.
The boy next to him slapped a paper bag over his head, but the damage was done.
Burning man. No…it’s a burning boy. A child.
“Sorry mister!” The other boy was, by every definition, a normal human child. His hair was a simple brown cut short, matching a normal set of eyes. “Sorry for bumping into you.”
“Yeah!” the burning boy exclaimed nervously. “We’re sorry.”
“Kill it.” The Watchers were firm, echoing the same chant over and over again. “Kill it. Extinguish it. Rid it from this world.”
The rancher couldn’t even hear himself think. He could feel the sword holstered at his hip, sheathed in leather. He could feel the breeze against the hairs on his skin, pushing them out of comfort. He was scared to move his hand.
He’s a little boy. Well-mannered and innocent. It was the latter that relaxed his hand. An innocent child, whether a cursed human or a creature walking in the daylight, it was still a child.
“It’s quite alright.” He forced a smile. “As long as you’re sorry.” His voice was barely a note against the jarring chanting. He could sense their irritation when he stepped to the side to let the boys go. His ears burned to listen to their immediate frustrations.
He looked back at the children, watching as the burning boy pulled the paper bag off his head and bickered with his friend. His friend only laughed.
Maybe he was a monster. Maybe 20 years down the line, he would find himself in a pile of regrets looking at a list of tragedies. But right now, he knew one thing: that was an innocent boy with flames no different than the wings on his son’s back.
The rancher leaped back onto his horse and galloped out of the village, no longer finding a purpose for staying. The Watchers contended this with a series of insults and aggravated confusion. He stood his ground and continued west on a path home.
“What are you doing?”
“Home. I’ve got a wife and kids waiting for me.”
“Your kid—your child—is counting on you! His cure!”
He shook his head. “He’s counting on me to be there. With him.”
“Do you truly want him to suffer? Do you want to be at his funeral?”
“He never did stop smiling after you cursed him. I’m going to miss out on that smile if I blind myself. What would my wife think? My boys? I won’t keep a secret from them.”
“Go back.”
He pulled the reins back, halting the horse. He looked around, seeing nothing but a tree. It was a dying tree, but the vibrant green grass covered its roots. “I’m a father. I’m human.” He looked to the sky. “But you chose the wrong guy for the job. I wouldn’t dare raise my blade against a child—”
“An abomination.”
“An innocent child,” he corrected. “He’s a good kid, a kid with a warm heart and parents waiting for him. It’s worth the sacrifice.”
“You know nothing.”
“Yet I would not be phased if you had cursed him just like Jimmy. I would not be surprised if you put all this together. But I’d sure be disgusted—not in you, of course, there’s no point feeling something for an angel. In the church and the fact they still worship someone as wicked as you.”
There was silence. A loud silence. The breeze became wind, heavy gusts that made him sway. It wasn’t unlike the night, but he could imagine where it came from. He couldn’t help but snicker in his pride.
“You don’t have any hold on me. I’d sooner go deaf than listen to anything you had to say. Your control may extend to the church and maybe even those who are indifferent, but not me. I’m free—”
His body flew. The tree snapped his spine before he realized something had been squeezing at his throat. He desperately gasped for air through the tight hole, feeling his lungs scream as his back arched despite the agony it caused.
“You’re foolish! A damn fool!” they seethed. “I never did get it: His interest in you humans. Your decision-making have no sense. You're just as quick to love as you are to hate! You’re fragile things! It would not take much to extinct you. One volcano. One tall flood. A single disease. I could barely lift a finger.”
The Watchers let out a deep exhale, the rancher feeling their metallic breath against his face—the scent of blood. He could taste it.
“But we are kind. We massacred what had a heart for the ears, yet, that thing remains. Even in ruin, a small fragment of what they once were, remaining under our sky.” They said it with such bitterness, he thought the Watchers were going to squeeze his head until it popped off.
Instead, he felt his body fly directly to his left, bouncing against the ground and rolling. He stopped amidst the grass, retching as one arm clutched at his stomach. It was agonizing, gagging even after there wasn’t anything left.
“No mortal like that can live—should live! Not in our world! Not in our governance!”
The rancher was desperately trying to correct his vision as he looked up, initially blurry until finally focusing. The tree had a deep dent, but not enough to cut the tree. He looked in front of it, assuming that’s where the Watchers stood based on the imprint in the grass.
He was always able to sense them to some extent, but he was never able to feel him. A humanoid hand, but much larger with unkind nails. He knew they had a physical form, but he never thought he could come into contact with it.
Though hoarse, he spoke with as much might as he could muster. “If you want him dead so bad, why not kill him yourself! Why’s it got to be me?!” It was bitter in his mouth. He’d never wish death upon a child, but nor would he ever do it by his own hand.
“I’ve broken your ribs. Your spine is fractured. I can’t imagine you’d have a good leg. One of your arms is dislocated, the other’s bone has split into two. Breathing must seem like a miracle to you. I ought to grant that wish of yours if you’re so eager to rid yourself of our will—of us. One action, a simple one, would have prevented those broken bones.”
He could see the grass falling, approaching him. He pushed his body back frantically, grimacing as he attempted to crawl backwards.
The Watchers were quick, a path of bent grass laid out behind them. Soon enough, the rancher felt two fingers pressing behind his left ear, a heavy presence in front of him. He was frozen in place.
“You no longer amuse me.”
The Watchers lifted their fingers only by a short angle. He heard a loud pop before the only thing he could hear was his throbbing head. Despite the injury, his hands jolted to his ears as writhing in pain. His back collided with the ground. He could feel the vibrations ripping at his throat as he tried to scream. He couldn’t hear a sound.
The Watchers departed, though, only made it a few steps before a golden trident sunk its teeth deep into the Watchers’ backside. The rancher could see the blood just as red as it was human, with a dying glow to it. He could see the trident too, covered in obsidian embroidery with runes of a strange rectangular symbol along its handle.
A cloaked figured passed him, possessing a unique yellow glow, matching its royal garments. It was inhuman, yet, taking over a humanoid shape despite its size. He watched as the trident was pulled from the invisible force, more blood pouring before patching itself up. When the blood reached the ground, it seemed to evaporate into the air with a heavy steam. The trident was tossed toward the golden figure.
The rancher heard nothing of their bickering—brief, yet grave. All he could do was sit there. When the Watchers departed, frustrated, the grass below them lifted with a sudden gust of wind.
When the figure turned to look at the rancher, he had gotten a better look at them. It was angelic, similar to the statues of the Watchers, yet, their eyes seemed to have been sewn shut. He had found the warmth of their golden glow comforting, almost akin to how he imagined death.
Death.
He quickly tried to crawl backward, in despite of his pain. He barely moved an inch, but pushed his body back with his one leg with as much might as possible.
It did nothing. The figure brought their hands to his face with a soft smile. One hand withdrew, holding their palm to the sky as a flame emerged out of nothing. They brought it towards him, and he quickly rejected it, but his hand was nothing against them. They pushed it directly into the center of his chest.
“A flicker of light. A small kindle of flame for injusticed wounds.” They leaned back. “Please nod your head if my voice is reaching you.”
His body felt warm, and he almost didn’t notice the absence of his agony. He could hear too. “What…what is this? What did…”
They were silent, staring softly at the rancher. He nodded slowly.
“Good. I did not expect them to strike you as they had.” They paused. “Thank you. Goodness still seems to run thick in the veins of my disciples.”
“I’m no disciple of anyone—I don’t understand! What’s happening?! What did you give me?”
“Calm yourself. You have endured enough hardship. Yet, I fear your family will reap the burdens of your defiance.”
“What?”
“Our hearts grow weary.”
He knew enough. He scrambled to his feet, finding no injury or hindrance in doing so. He sprinted to his horse, hopping onto the saddle and wasting no time in moving.
Looking back, hoping to utter a thanks, the figure had vanished.
His anxieties ran high, unnerved by the strange prophecy. He could feel his hands shaking as he held the reins tight, taking no effort in resting at the next town. His heart kept him awake.
He arrived by morning with deary eyes. He saw smoke in the distance, and once he rubbed his eyes, he saw it. A passionate fire engulfed the home, polluting the sky with thick, grey smoke. He thought—hoped—he was hallucinating, but it was far from the truth.
The ranch had been set ablaze.