• I sigh leaning on the bar watching the sleeping form of my little Wingen1. It was late and the dimly lit bar seemed fitting now, the crystals casting their soft glow on her black wings. This was the third day she did this. She was drinking herself into oblivion.

    I return to wiping off the bar listening to her heartbeat, just to be sure it didn't slow to a stop. Slow to that eerie silence. Death was always such a curious, beautiful yet all together horrifying thing. The last thing I wanted was for her to die. She could take a lot but for her to die of this, to die of the emotional aftermath. It wasn’t how she should die.

    I’ve seen a lot of people in this world, she is one of the few who could inspire even me, earn my loyalty and my respect. She was an amazing person. Forgive me, I should say is, she is alive and sleeping there after all. But now she is just so dead, figuratively speaking that is. We’ve been through it all together and every time, every single time she seems to get a leg up, it comes crashing down around her. My poor little Wingen.

    I remember when I first met her, the day still so clear in my labyrinth of a mind. She was so different back then, so peculiar. Defiantly military, but even now she gave off that aura of being in command even as dead as she is she still took- takes her duties and leads the men she fought so hard to defend.

    Back then, I'm not sure why she approached me, some say I am quite scary. Not that I act it I just feel... unnerving. Quite frankly I simply do not understand. I enjoyed her determination. However, her utterly cold demeanor, for someone so young, that is what I would call unnerving. She captured my interest then and ever since I've been helping her along the way, guiding her.

    I walk over and take the drink from her hand setting it on the bar as I gingerly take her into my arms. How queer that she seems almost heavier now. I bring her to her room laying her gently on the soft, silky fabrics of her bed. For someone who didn't stay often in her room she certainly had it nicely done. I brush some of the hair out of her face staying awhile, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest listening to her rhythmic heartbeat. The scent of alcohol was so strong on her it was overbearing, unbecoming of a girl such as herself. She was better than that. Sure she drank, in excess, occasionally, everyone did, but not like this, not for three nights in a row.

    The darkness in her room tonight seemed to cling to me, as if her anguish was real, tangible, and lurking in the chambers ready to pull me down to the depths of her pain.

    I shift slightly, my eyes still set on her now though resting on the curve of her shoulder where her one scar began, reaching across her collar bone to the base of her neck. I wish I was there to help her then, to see what her brother was plotting. To save her than from the pain that was to come. He slaughtered them all that night, her entire clan and as a parting gift gave her that scar his blade leeching poison into her blood stream. He expected her to be dead within a few days at most. The poison would prevent movement, she would starve to death in a matter of days. A most unpleasant way to die.

    Even that pain though paled in comparison to this. She had finally after struggling so hard found what made her blithe. He was a good man. As stubborn as she was and that was hard to do. In death he did more harm than he ever could have in life. He would have never hurt her, he was a decent man, it was those foul, vile, disgraceful, loathsome, nefarious, men that hurt her. They butchered him while holding her there to watch. I will give him credit though, he did not utter a sound of pain, for her. Even as they did the most appalling things to conjure a scream out of him. He just stood there keeping his eyes set on her, telling her softly, that everything was going to be alright.

    Her heartbeat continues steadily on as I stand here watching her. Her body trembles with yet another nightmare. I want to wake her from her slumber hold her an tell her that he was right, time will go on and everything will be fine but her waking hours seem more tormented than her sleep. Can she find no solace? I run my cold fingers across her cheek whipping away a tear.

    Once she smile at me, telling me it must be from “poor circulation.” What I would give to see that smile again. The whole base seems infected with her sorrow now. It seems to seep into every crack every crevice, affecting one down to their very soul.

    I step out of the room closing the door softly behind me. I should let her sleep, leave her to her own meditations.



    1- Wingen is and affectionate term in the Dark Angel tongue when directly translated meaning “little wind”