An Aria of Angels

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. But today, he knew there would be at least one. Demetrius closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. Cold. Damp. Salty. He felt the tiny water droplets stick to his face. The mixture of the briny air with his perspiration made him feel sticky. He could hear the waves crash in the distance, the sound like a choir of forlorn angels, their voices hollow yet resounding. Its unceasing nature was enveloping.

Demetrius opened his eyes. From where he stood in the Valley, he could see the ocean and the white crests of the waves as they relentlessly collided onto the rocky shores. Above the ocean, grey clouds gathered and slowly began to move towards the dirt field. There wasn’t much vegetation in the Valley; it was barren here. It was the weather that gave the area its character.

“And we dare challenge the elements?” Demetrius asked rhetorically.

His brother Brion turned towards him with his golden eyes, assuming that Demetrius was trying to make conversation. Brion looked just like his younger brother. The wind gently blew his hair, and he scrunched his sharp nose.

“It is not a matter of being the aggressor,” started Brion in his pedantic tone. “But we are here to support the alliance and to protect our home.”

“I know.

“It is simple…”

“Is it?”

“We are not here for anything beyond that,” Brion’s last words trailed off as if to reassure himself.

But his brother was wrong. Demetrius was here for something beyond that. The day was to be filled with conflict—that was inevitable. But it was also a day for Demetrius to fulfill his sacrosanct onus, one that was beyond territorial lines, treatises, and arbitrary ideas of sovereignty and domain. Their home was just beyond the snowy mountains west of the Valley, and both brothers had the natural compulsion to protect it. Home was not far away, and this fact made the present matter feel heavier.

“You know what to do, Metris,” said Brion calmly. “Just do exactly what you have practiced.”

But Demetrius had never been in a battle before—let alone had he ever killed a man. He was the youngest in his family of brothers, almost to his twenties, but not quite yet. In training, he knew how to engage in combat. He was very skilled with his movements and often found himself besting his teammates. He felt confident that he could do the same outside of practice. But that was what it always was—practice.

He started to feel butterflies in his stomach.

The sound of hooves behind made them turn to glimpse the ripple of deep crimson cloaks. Riding resplendently towards them was the young heir to the Acropolis throne, Prince Suon Stulenward, and an Iovian guard, Alexandros.

“Greetings, Brion and Demetrius,” said the prince. “I wanted to see you off before the first horn blows.”

And then there was that too. To become an Iovian guard—the personal guard of the royal family—was certainly the dream of many young men and women, if becoming a decorated warrior was their sort of pursuit. If one’s family had already pledged allegiance to Acropolis, it made sense to, but like all things many aspire to become, it was not easy to earn one’s place. Of course, nepotism would help, but that was another matter. Demetrius knew that his performance today would likely influence his chances of getting closer to his dream.

“We need not fear them or the Sisters,” he heard someone say.

But what was the basis for that judgment? Did he have to ride alongside the prince and be ready to forfeit his life for him at any given moment? Well, that would make sense. But if he actually forfeited it, he would never become an Iovian guard, unless the title was honored posthumously. That was preposterous. Why would he want that?

“She has the Moon?” someone asked.

“It appears so. She cannot be trusted.”

“It does not matter,” said another. “That is for our allies to decide.”

Did he have to kill a certain number of men? If so, how many? Was it the manner in which he swept through the battlefield with such skill and deftness that was to be scrutinized? Who was watching? Or was it simple—that he just did not let himself be killed?

“So we fight a battle we do not believe in?”

“You fight the battle according to what you believe in.”

As Demetrius rummaged through his thoughts again, Alexandros interrupted him with a knowing look through his piercing green eyes.

Demetrius returned a meek smile. But he wasn’t ready for this. He knew he had a responsibility, a calling that he shared with Alexandros. This was his first task. That was why he was here. Then there was his home—it needed to be protected. Home was sacred. It was the place that inhabited the people who had raised him. And then there also was a matter of his ego. He wanted to be the best. He wanted to be an Iovian guard. He had to be the best. In practice, yes, he was good. But in reality, this was his first time fighting. But he could die trying. He could literally die trying.

Demetrius felt his empty stomach turn, and his hearing began to fade. Some more words were exchanged between the prince and his brother before Suon and Alexandros rode off, but he didn’t hear any of it. He closed his eyes for a brief moment and reached into his pocket and felt a cool round stone. Its edges were smooth yet uneven. He tried to center himself.

He could smell the earth now. Sweet. Metallic. Musky. He listened to the sound of the waves roaring again. Its song was rhythmic and undying. He could feel each crash ripple its way into his body and trickle into his nerves. Over and over again it repeated itself.

It started to make him feel nauseous.

Demetrius opened his eyes in a panic. Brion had his gaze in front of him but at nothing in particular. The prince and Alexandros were gone. Men were running around him getting into position. Somehow Demetrius was sitting on his mount. How and when he got there, he could not remember.

He felt saliva gathering in his mouth. He spat some out.

No. There is no way. Not now. That would be extremely inconvenient, Demetrius thought to himself. He started to fidget with his helmet. He distracted himself with the traces of dirt that was left on it; the helmet had been thrashed at, trampled upon, and cruelly battered in a previous encounter. It wasn’t his originally, it was his grandfather’s. He thought looking upon it would give him an ancestral sort of strength to persist.

Nope. That didn’t do it. He started to sweat and felt his stomach turn. He might have been drooling at this point. He tried to swallow some of the saliva. He tried to make it stop, but it kept pooling in his mouth. A sudden sense of urgency occupied all of his senses.

Demetrius looked over to Brion and managed to say as coolly as he could, “Be right back.”

Brion nodded absentmindedly.

Demetrius felt something warm rush from his stomach, through his esophagus, and into his mouth. He quickly leapt off his horse and sprinted over to the corner of a nearby tent out of plain sight. He crouched over and vomited.

It wasn’t much. Just a bit of water. He hadn’t eaten before, save for a few nibbles of cheese and a bite of an apple. Even though his brother had insisted he eat, he wasn’t hungry then. His stomach felt full from anxiety. That made it worse. He crouched and tried to spew every bit of gastric juice, gagging, but nothing more came out.

Eventually, he gave up and stood upright. He felt clammy but much better. Time seemed to move again. He could hear men clamoring about in their lines. The sound of a battlefield before the battle. There was no avoiding what would happen next.

A gentle wind blew from the north and swept through the Valley, lightly trickling the frost-covered leaves into a soft symphony. This wind was unlike any of the breezes that had swept through the Valley before. It seemed to lift the leaves and pebbles into a sense of weightlessness.

Alexandros must have felt it too.

She said she would let him know when she was here.

He could see the ocean tides rising.

Demetrius took in a lungful of air, and breathed in the ice crystals, meditating on each one. Although he didn’t feel well, he had to return to his brother’s side. He needed him. They needed him. Somehow, he was going to get through this. Somehow, he would prevail on that belief alone.

Demetrius returned to his brother while the men were gazing up at the stormy clouds that had made their way above the field. The clouds moved and drifted so unusually. At one moment, they coalesced, then at the next, they broke apart almost impatiently, waiting. As the clouds slithered in heavy wisps, they began to blaze alive like fire, and a clap of what sounded like thunder could be heard in the distance.

“Is this a spell?” asked someone.

“Was that thunder? This is no weather for thunder,” said another nearby skeptically.

Demetrius sat mounted among the line of cavalrymen. His armor was adorned with a filigree of the Tree of Life; the green leaves glittered brilliantly in a sliver of light that had escaped through the clouds. Splendidly covered as he was, a bead of sweat dripped down his face, but he didn’t care to wipe it away. His attention was focused on his obscuring vision ahead, as a sea of fog slowly swallowed up the field. The ghost cloud crept ever closer to their line.

The horses started to tremble and jump as the fog began to smother them. Demetrius held onto the bridle tighter. As men tried to restrain their panicked horses in vain, someone managed to yell, “They are afraid of the shadows of the mist!”

“He means the shadows in the mist?” asked Demetrius, his eyes wide and his hands struggling to hold onto the reins of his mount.

“That was not thunder. That was their first horn,” answered Brion’s voice. By now, Demetrius could scarcely see the shape of his brother’s head as the haze enveloped them. “Brother, be careful! They are afraid of the mist!”

But before Demetrius could ask why, the mounts beside him plunged forward into the thickening fog in fear, hurdling their riders to the ground, where other horses unknowingly trampled over their wretched, screaming bodies. From afar, he caught a glimpse of the prince fighting to control his mount. Then came the desperate and vicious shouts assorted with the cries of agony.

No one dared to dismount voluntarily after the volley of screams, but the warriors clad in rings of cruel metal came rushing towards them on foot, impaling the riders off anyway. Demetrius’ horse veered raggedly. He fell sideways onto the wet earth, his mount nearly crushing him as it hastily scurried away, kicking his helm with a sharp clang! to somewhere he would likely never find again.

As Demetrius turned, a warrior nearly took off his head, but he had no time to act upon his sword. His opponent clawed at him with a blade, and Demetrius avoided it by ducking and diving towards his opponent’s legs and throwing him onto the ground. He paused for a moment and looked into the warrior’s eyes, as if searching for an ounce of humanity.

At that instant, Brion’s lance came hurdling at Demetrius from the right but lodged a warrior a foot ahead of him instead. When he turned hoping to see a familiar face, the warrior he had taken down had a sword in his hand and swung it at Demetrius. Demetrius drew his sword but was interrupted when the horse of a headless figure slumped against his mount crashed into Demetrius’ right shoulder.

Pain hammered down his side. His shoulder was slumped forward and his fingers felt numb. He couldn’t move his arm. It was out of its socket.

He saw the faint figure of Brion desperately looking for someone, while another figure launched at Brion with a blade. There was a scuffle, but Demetrius couldn’t see what was happening. They disappeared into the fog.

“Brion!” Demetrius called out. The outcry seemed to reprieve the pain a bit.

The warrior in front of him had lost his helm too. He swung his sword at Demetrius again. Demetrius dodged the blade as it hit the ground, his movement shoving his arm back into its socket. There wasn’t a moment to cry out in pain. But he knew it must have hurt, except he didn’t really feel anything. He felt like he was floating through time again.

The warrior charged at him, and at this moment Demetrius took Brion’s lance, parried, and thrust it into the enemy’s chest. While the moment slowed into a finality, time around him seemed to move quickly. There wasn’t an instant for thought, only repetition of what was familiar. He felt like he was moving without any awareness or strategy, yet somehow his movements were effective.

But where was his sword?

There was a moment of sharp pain at his side as he muffled a cry of agony. He noticed blood dribbling onto the soil like the first drops of rain. He looked down. There was a sword in his abdomen.

“You killed my brother!” said the man with repugnance. He kicked the boy in front of him.

Demetrius fell to his knees.

“Coddled boy!” boomed the giant who was a head taller. He took the boy by his neck. “I know who you are! You don’t know what it’s like to fight in a war.”

Demetrius tried helplessly to break his grip, but his arm did not have its former strength. Blood continued to drip.

The warrior’s grip grew increasingly tighter. The man took him by his neck, lifting him from off the ground, and looked at Demetrius with anger burning in his eyes.

“You kill without knowing. You don’t belong here. You will die.”

“No one…belongs…here,” Demetrius managed to choke out, then the clouds above the two began to circle inward. The nearby screams seemed to die out between them. For a brief instant, all was quiet. Demetrius could see the man’s eyes filled with trepidation and horror as a dragon descended from the clouds in a ball of tempo, like a meteor it fell as if to reap destruction, but it landed gracefully to meet the one who had summoned it.

The man’s grip lessened until he finally dropped Demetrius to the ground. Frightened, he stared into the golden eyes of the dragon. Its scales were the color of rusty carnelian, and the ridge that ran along its back steamed cold like the windswept tundra of the north.

“You are a goetia?” the giant managed to sputter.

The dragon’s icy tail swiftly whipped the man across the field, who flew and landed in a grey puff of heavy mist.

Demetrius reached for his side and felt the hot blood pooling in his glove.

The dragon stared into the fog behind him, remaining there, watchful. Demetrius turned around too and fell to the ground in a resounding clatter of armor. Kneeling there pathetically, he followed the gaze of his dragon. He watched intently, and through the fog, he caught a glimpse of something light. His senses were floating again. The fog began to clear around him.

And he could see it. It was a young woman. She was dressed in a light grey cloak, her hood shielding her face from him. At one instant, she turned her face. It was pale, but it emanated with pure perfection. She peered back at him through the fog.

It was her.

They stared at one another transiently.

A war horn blew. It was Alexandros’ horn. Demetrius could recognize the sound anywhere. The sound was as chilling as the northern winds of the morning. Demetrius twisted around towards the long droning voice in the air, wondering where it came from. Then finally after a few moments, it died. And the sounds of the swishing of arrows and the clashing of metal, of death, filled the field once more.

Alexandros. Was he alright? He was so wise and experienced beyond his years and always fought with the sort of valor one would read only in legends. He had to make it out alive. He always did. It wasn’t possible for both of them to fail their mission. Was it?

Demetrius’ face grew a shade paler with each passing moment. He felt so weak. He started to shiver. The dragon’s ridge now burned flames of crimson, orange, and yellow.

Then he thought of Brion again, yearningly. Brion. He was his older brother but not the eldest. He was the middle child who was loving and loyal to Demetrius ever since their father had died a time ago. Demetrius kept secrets from his eldest brother but not from Brion. Never. Well, save for one…but that was part of his burden. Brion would understand.

The air around him felt oppressive, and he found it increasingly more difficult to breathe. He touched the hilt of the sword in his side with his left hand, meditating on the fact that indeed the blade had pierced his abdomen, and it remained there. The blood felt warm and gritty where it had dried, and his clothing around it was soddened. He grew too weak to kneel any longer and looked towards his savior for an answer.

The dragon nestled protectively beside him, the heat from its body warming him slightly. Demetrius reached into his pocket again for the stone and centered himself.

Time slowed around him once more. The comfort reminded Demetrius of early summertime in his hometown. The blossoms on the lavender-colored lupines would be blooming around this time of the year. As a child, he would be playing in the fields among the lupines, foxgloves, and larkspurs. They grew in all sorts of colors—pink, orange, crimson, purple, and white. This sight was just beyond the Valley. Would he be able to see it again?

Demetrius sat there among the dead, looking like a boy that he was. His light brown hair was encrusted with blood and stuck to his face. The fog seemed to close in around him again.

“Anemoi,” Demetrius said to the dragon. “I can still protect them.” The blood did not cease to flow from him, but he would use every last drop of what was still his.

Apotheosis. For one who knew how to call forth his savior, it was the ultimate pinnacle of divinity—to fuse with his savior and give up his life for all that he had left in him to fight.

Anemoi stared back at him knowingly. It gave a reassuring moan. But before Demetrius could act, another sound was heard: the piercing blood-curdling screech of an animal overhead, a testimony of the downfall of man, condemning all below to the depths of the earth.

Above Demetrius reigned the Grigori, watchful in the mourning sky. It was a vile, angelic creature, a winged being with a face that was almost human and eyes unnervingly hollow as if deprived of a soul. It was wraithlike with its wings the color of Ragnarök. It was a tempest in itself, pale and hideously dark all over like the clouds of an impending storm. But one could not deny, if they had any moment absent from fright to spare and ponder so, that it was captivating, and it was beautiful.

Demetrius could not believe his eyes as he continued to gawk up at the Grigori. To think he would see such a creature…well that was likely. This was near the end for him. This was his moment for apotheosis. His eyes began to droop in his frailty, and he paused.

Slaughter, atrocities, and murder. Today would never be undone. However much one could will it, the lives lost could not be restored, and the choices that were made would inevitably carry themselves onwards into eternity. There was no reversing this moment, only decisions that would change the next. But if he were to follow through with this…would that not mean more lives would be lost, rather than if he’d not?

He took in a deep breath.

He felt the resonance of his existence surround him—he let it move him, let it travel, let it pass through him. The aria of the angels was in the wind, and the wind was created from the movement of his soul. Each breath he took was a note he wrote into the symphony that would play on long after he was gone.

The air was cold. Damp. Salty. The earth was sweet. Metallic. Musky.

And at that moment in the sky, to the right, came the piercing green tendrils of a magnificent dragon with astounding valor, its claws outstretched towards the Grigori. There was an unnerving roar as it beckoned the sun. And then to the left, approached the faint whisper of another dragon, ice-white and serpent-like, emanating pure perfection, its pale ripples were destined to swallow up Satan’s watcher. The moon eclipsed the sun.

“Gods, no!” he heard himself cry out. The light from above him began to sizzle downward, with Demetrius below the center of the catastrophic engagement, burning the air with an electric snarl. There was a loud sound, a resonance so loud that it could not be perceived by human ears. Demetrius closed his eyes, and all grew silent as he felt warmth fold in around him.

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. But today there were three.