Wings

The phantom feeling of feathers arched across my shoulders never seems to go away.

Ambient orange light washes over my boxy metal bed. As I tuck the rigid sheets under the mattress, I rub a hand over my back. There are shadows around me, moving robotically to make their own beds.

Tugging on the final end of the foam, I strain my arms to the ceiling, bathed in the fiery, golden locks of the sun, and lug my arms into the field jacket hanging off my bed post, then strap gear to my back. Clipping on my M1 helmet, I listen for the crickets. The sky is a bruise of oranges and purples, but the dawn choir is nowhere to be found.

Unfortunately, quiet mornings never last long.

Something raps hard on my helmet in a three part knock, slanting it over my eyes. Adjusting it, I peek out at the blur of messy curls and olive skin in front of me. Louay's eyes gleam with his entire essence: mischief.

"Odin," the pest sings, "It's a new day!"

"Easy." I flick my comrades forehead. "Where's your hard helmet?"

"With my conviction." Louay wears an easy, wolfish grin. He plays this persona well. "Role starts soon. The lieutenant colonel will be marching through here any minute. Where's your gear?"

I sling the bag of weapons back to my chest. "With your conviction."

He pats my cheek aggressively with warm fingers. "Aw. Those suit you much better than your wings, Dayland."

Skin itching with dread, I huff. "Shut it."

There's no cloud cover under the temporary shelter of the barrack. Just the uniform line of beds, and the straining droplets of sunlight that dazzle the floor.

As the colonel's voice roars through the tent, my toes curl instinctively at the makeshift bugle. We all fall into line methodically, waiting to be released from the jaws of order.

"Alright, sleeping beauties!" The man shouts. "Europe's eyes are open. Are you ready to be God's chosen soldiers?"

Louay shoots me a burning sideways glance from inches away. Internally, I imagine fluffy, supernal wings proudly shooting from his back. And even at 29, in the middle of a war, I can almost taste the sweet smelling timelessness of life, seeping through our bones like ichor.

Unless we choose to die, that is. Violent human games be damned.

The military man stomps past us down the aisle. God's chosen soldiers, Louay mouths with mirth.

We've done this dance before. Can you tell?

>|< >|< >|<

Debris rains from somewhere, like pelted stones on a lake.

Drumming gunshots beat through the havoc. It sounds like music against the safety of the giant bolder in front of us. Reckless, carnal music. As of right now, the earth is just a dead thing that we're fighting to claim.

Colonization is a bloody, hellish nightmare.

"Scale of one to ten," Louay shouts over the wreckage, "how many shots have you gotten off?"

"More than you," I retort, shifting my rifle in my arms. Dirt explodes near us as shots crack through the air.

"Sure, blondie." he grins, "Lie down in the muck with that dirty mop of yours, and you'll blend right in."

"Jaysus, Lou." Another soldier, Jon, sputters, "You're a daffy firecracker in a land of weapons! How haven't you died yet?"

"I'm lucky." Louay shrugs his cocky little shoulders, the light of the energetic morning hitting the back of his head like a halo of rubble.

Fitting, I think darkly.

Through the mess, a figure slinks away, moving quietly through lighter shadows. Squinting, I watch the blob of darkened colors as he thumbs at a metal shell under his dusty fingertips. A gaggle of green soldiers conceal themselves in an entrenchedment, perching behind the mounds of dirt kicked up in battle.

No one's noticed him, or how he's ready to implode.

"Lou." I nudge him, tilting my head towards the colorless perpetrator.

"That's ill-fitting," Louay says, face flickering with solemnity.

My head pounds in tandem with my heart, something akin to raw energy rushes through my bloodstream. An idea sparks in my head.

God help me. I squeeze my eyes shut.

"Odin." Louay warns, warm expression darkening. "Don't do it."

"He's a wooden horse."

"Odin."

Sticking with Greek, I tap on my helmet, using an age old signal. "Pistis."

"You'll miss the wind, you flightless fool," he mutters, pressing his lips together with an acquiescent gaze.

I sprint without waiting. My legs fall roughly with every step, and a cloud of death stings at my corneas. Hiding behind a rock was much easier than this football tackle of an operation. The enemy swings left, curving around to ambush his target.

He's got dust cover, for the most part--any bullet would likely strike one of our own. Grasping for a plan, the hook of my brain comes up empty.

Last shot, then.

My feet dig into the tortured Earth, and I slam into him, metal gear clashing with skin as we tumble down the incline. I can feel the harshness coming from his lungs as outraged fists bash into my back. We wrestle for a moment, high on vigor, until he looms over me. A fist comes up quickly, gleaming with silver. The automaton slices a brass knuckle into my cheek, and in my delirium, there's relish in the fact that the grenade is out of his hands. My will ebbs away.

No.

It's an ancient voice that speaks to me. Flames of it wrestle with my intestines and crash against my soul, balancing me.

I bring my leg up to his chest, clawing my way out from under him. Feral, I squirm, and thump my head against his own. Lighting strikes my skull. The edge of my metal helmet meets the ridge of his forehead.

He slumps.

Struggling to stand without swaying, I press my knees into the grass, flinching at the rift of battle not far from us. It sounds like banshees are wailing against space and time.

The soldier moves, griping for something out of reach. He scrambles up, crawling to it.

The sleek metal of the grenade shines in the corner of my eye. It sits merely 6 feet away.

I dive for it, landing on my ribs with stars spinning in my vision. Lacing my dirt-covered fingers with the earth, I slug along and seize the grenade from its clutches. Fingers poised to throw it back where it belongs, I pull the pin, and launch the volatile thing through the air.

"No," the soldier gasps.

Catharsis sweeps through my mind like swooping birds, whistling tales of victory.

He snatches at my ankle, hurtling me to the ground. My head detonates like a bomb. I watch him reach for his gun. In a blink, pain poisons my insides, spreading through my chest with the warm pooling of blood beneath me. I crumple into the soil like a wilting flower. The bullet must've entered right by my ribcage.

A maniacal cackle follows the sound, and the bastard rustles through the grass.

I watch the coward stumble back to war, crazed laughter reverberating off of a tree stump in his wake.

Crouched here, I go unseen. There are no wings on my back, and the heavens are far, far away; past the swirl of death that encroaches on every breath of the battlefield, past the warnings of the god who sent me down here in the first place.

Death is absolute. An utterly mortal thing. Down here, that's what I am too. And without wings to soften the fall, or a helmet to guard my head, I am nothing but a skin sack.

The thought makes me chuckle. A pained wheezing sound erupts from my lungs as I do. My chest squeezes.

A high pitched squeak crashes like tiny cymbals through my brain. It mars the sound of war so beautifully, I wonder if God has sent another to carry me home. My answer comes in a sneeze. A tiny, adorable sneeze. Turning my neck slightly with a wince, I spot the tiny perpetrator amidst the black spots in my vision.

A kitten, no bigger than the girth of my hand, mews in the grass. Tufts of gray and white hide under grime and soot.

I reach my palm out with all the energy I can muster, fingers trembling against the weight of it. The kitten, unafraid, trots toward me, nuzzling my fingers.

"Hello, sweetheart," I whisper. "You must be a saint."

The creature meows in agreement against my touch. A broken smile falls onto my lips.

Strife booms through the air, startling the poor thing. The rumbling groan of thunder follows. Time elapses with no specific name or number. Light and sound intertwine, coalescing into an unintelligible, nameless source of distress. I grit my teeth against it all, weakly stroking the tiny ball of fur near my neck.

That's when the rain starts.

Despite the slow death, and the blood gushing from my face, despite the migraine and the spasms on every inch of my body, the droplets of water feel like a merciful end. They christen my face gently in relief.

Reincarnation seems less daunting in the rain.

A wail of gargantuan proportions trills through the noise.

The tiny saint's eyes are slits of exasperation. Her fur has been licked up by the wetness, styled in a ruffled little mohawk. She kneads her tiny little knife-like nails into my skin. Cringing, I pull her closer. The taste of metal coats my tongue, and the world narrows to a pinpoint of light and rain.

My hand goes slack, pawing for the last bit of warmth I'll receive. I stop fighting the darkness, letting myself sag back into the mulch. Sleep takes me like a long lost pal. Yowls of great discomfort follow close behind.

>|< >|< >|<

Dreams lull me through death. A borealis of color paints my eyes. My human body is completely untethered to everything around me, and yet, it's still there, just like my wings. My conscience pulls at invisible limbs, and I imagine myself staring at distant hands, running them through sleek blonde hair. I gaze at a mirror across from me into my own gray eyes.

Death is way more self-aware than I thought it would be, somehow.

Funny.

My surroundings sharpen and abstract conversely, moving all around me at the speed of light. Color and brightness hurtle me towards something significant, like a planet revolving around a star. I become displaced from my makeshift mind palace, and watch an orbiter float through a universal sea.

I fly back together, reaching my destination.

"My child," A thousand voices hum from all around, speaking as one singular unit.

"Hello," I say softly. I kneel silently, pressing my head to the floor. I have no tangible form, but I do have some wits about me.

"You are a troubling saint, Odin. Do you miss your wings, boy? Immortality?"

"Exponentially."

The deity makes a thoughtful sound, parental and serene all at once. "I imagine you don't miss war. Humanity is a perturbing thing."

Fatigue sits heavily against my soul. The thought of such an anthropic thing brings a laugh to my lips. "I suppose so."

Omniscient eyes bore into my arched and willing back. They come from everywhere, just like the pressure of the voices that hit me at all angles, and converge into one almighty stare. "Do you miss your body?"

"Strangely, I think I always will."

God chuckles. "It provides a beautifully peculiar ache, life." The comfort of touch runs its way over a spine I no longer have, sitting against the toned muscles in my shoulders, and on my neck. I lean into it. "But your mission, dear boy, is not yet over."

I stare into the aurora of ethereality, perplexed. "What?"

"Ah, yes. Your heart still beats somewhere." I hear a smile in the god's voice. "Additionally, I believe you are now the apostle patron of a tiny little feline."

The landscape of white light reflects every bright, beautiful color, flashing through my eyes. Something cold wraps around my intangible form, washing skin and bone back onto my figure. I feel my nerves weave through me.

"Go," the omnipotent force rumbles.

>|< >|< >|<

Waking up feels like a three thousand year old hangover.

Gasping, I jolt forward. Light stabs into my head, sounds around me jingle like aggravating windchimes, and the stark mix of linoleum and bleach coats my nose.

I attempt to prop myself up on my elbows. My head is an anvil, anchoring me back to the stiff mattress. Dimly, I register the feeling of gauze patched to my face, and the bandages on my unclothed ribs.

A heated ball of fuzz sits in the crook of my arm, rubbing against my skin.

"Hiya, darling," I croon at her. The kitten cranes its tiny head up to look at me, heart-shaped nose twitching before resting once more.

"Odin Dayland?"

A nurse saunters over, adorned in a blue seersucker outfit with a cinture tied loosely around her middle. Dazzling copper curls sit on her shoulders under a red cross hat.

"Yes, ma'am?" I sit up slowly, careful of the slumberer.

"You've been asleep for more than a day." She looks my age, but her voice coils around the hint of a captivating transatlantic accent, commanding you to listen. "We treated your major injuries after retrieving the bullet from your side. A few of your ribs seem to be broken, and you're decorated with bruises, but those will heal." Her doe eyes blink at me, alert under thick lashes. Care swims in her gaze.

"I'll wear them like badges." I grin.

She raises an eyebrow, arms crossed. "You're a martyr, aren't you?"

"You could call me that, Miss..."

"Ellis. Was the grenade worth this much trouble?"

"That depends on if you think a battalion is worth any trouble, ma'am." Emulating Louay, I tip my head to her before tensing at the tightness in my side. "Thank you for treating me."

Its magnetic, the way she tries to dissect me with her owlish brown eyes. "You're a strange being, Mr Dayland."

"Funny, I thought I was a martyr. And please, Ms Ellis, call me Odin."

"Alright, then." Her curious expression softens slightly. "I'm Selene."

"Selene," I murmur, the word harping through my teeth like a music note. Heedlessly, I revel at the way it sounds in my ears.

"Yes." Heat creeps onto her face.

The gray kitten stretches against me, paws splaying out against the sheets, before she plops down in my lap.

"Why hello, you," I chirp at her, massaging her velvety head.

"She was the one who alerted us to you, you know." I look up at Selene, who giggles as the cat nibbles my finger. "I made sure to hide her from the colonel. I even gave her a bath, though she's done her best to stay near you."

"Thank you, again." I nod. My silly patron animal carps a thanks of her own.

Footsteps thunder through the infirmary hall. Selene startles, hustling away, and I sigh at the sight of my friend, reared like an angry bull.

"You! You are a raging lunatic," Louay points a finger at me, his hair sopping wet. "'Pistis'," he scoffs. "You almost got killed, running like hell out in a warzone!"

"Lou." I start, holding my hands up in surrender.

"No," he growls. "Odin, we found you soaked head to toe in blood with a bullet in your side and a..." He looks down at my lap, chest rising and falling. "Well. Thanks to that little bugger, you're alive."

"Thankfully." I nod. I look up at him, any hint of a smile smudging on my face. "I think I met God."

His soil-colored eyes blow wide. "And God sent you back?"

"Mhm." I say, scooping the wiggling animal up in my hands and holding her close to my chest. "Besides, I wanted to come back. I wasn't done yet."

Lou slumps against the end of my medical cot. "Good." He scoots closer, and Louay, always weary of animals, reaches his tentative fingers out to pet the cat. Her small, pink tongue juts out. From the look on his face, he considers her love an olive branch. Clever girl, I think.

"That's interesting," he whispers, peering closely at her.

"What?"

"Look," Louay says gingerly, gesturing to her back.

Amidst her newly cleaned gray fur are some of the white markings I got a glimpse of while incapacitated, matching her nose. Face screwing up in concentration, I notice the odd, dotted pattern of the white streaks. They almost look like-

"Wings," I breathe.

"What an anomaly." My friend shakes his head.

A chortling laugh bubbles up my throat, and I have to force it so I don't jeopardize my ribs any further. Somewhere in the distant cosmos, a god is laughing in a choir of meshed voices, the sound bouncing off of beams of color.

Selene breaks me out of my stupor as she bustles back to my bedside, announcing, "Here's an antibiotic, in case your bullet wound sprouts an infection."

"You're just a marvel, aren't you?" I tell her, taking the small white bottle from her hands. Our fingers brush, and sparklers crackle under my skin.

"Much obliged." She beams back at me, giving a slight bow of her head for theatrics. My smile grows.

As I set the bottle down, Louay mumbles, "So, what are you going to name her?"

Cradling the kitten in my hands, I hum. "Niven." Little saint.

He snorts. "Fitting, isn't it, for God's favored soldier."

I hold Niven up the light, grinning as sunlight streams through the window with ease, undeterred by the dewy sky. The white marks on her back glow. Niven blinks her beady eyes and purrs, the pet of a missionary; the savior of a savior. Her spine arches, wings and all.

They suit her.