Jimin is sat in a tree, shaded underneath the upper branches, his golden hair fluttering in the breeze, legs dangling down. The human form was an inconvenience.
He keeps himself invisible to the soldiers running around like insects fighting over a rotting pig corpse, but he still hides his wings. Battles seem to be a place you thrive, cacodemon. Jimin rolls his eyes. About angels. His voice drops to a murmur. What you like. How to kill you. Does it take away from those good looks, or add to them? His nails graze the collarbone, and both of their gazes drop to the action.
Out on the field, a flash of gold cuts through: the sun glinting off of a crown of red hair.
- Dutch Double.
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Never mind looking like fire, Jimin muses, she is fire, flickering and spitting and burning at each touch. Both are equally heartbreaking, Jimin thinks.
Jimin makes a sound of indignation. I could burn all these men up with one look in my true form. He realises some time after that Jeongguk never really told him why it was so often a fight, where they met. One night, sat outside a tavern on the main street, he briefly wonders whether Jeongguk has heard, heard about their little flame being snuffed out.
And wonders whether he would even be surprised. The music in the background floats from the string quartet in the corner of the room, light and soft, and the glass doors are open, revealing a manicured lawn and easy summer sunshine. It never changes.
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He gives himself half a second to gather his thoughts, before heaving himself up onto his knees and taking in the scene around him. He wants to crawl back into the now-closed portal and return to his quaint little room of hypocrites. Some are corpses, fallen-in and charcoal, and no sound comes from inside those ones. A few centuries later, he will question why the largest massacre in human history has been silently forgotten, why nobody knows about this.
And of course, there is Jeongguk, stood in the centre of the fight for once. His hair was a mess, out of place and hanging in sweat-covered strands over his forehead, and when he looked over to the angel, his eyes were once again completely, bottomlessly black. Still, only Jimin seems to hear them, and only Jimin seems to notice the daemon at all: the soldiers and natives alike run right past him.
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On Wings of Evil (On Wings of a Dragon, book 2) by Cora Taylor
Always you. The blood gets under his nails, in his hair, everywhere, and he watches as a soldier slices through the neck of a screaming woman holding a baby. I live off the fight. It keeps me strong, it keeps me going. I need it. This is genocide. He claws at his throat. His body is on fire, this pathetic human form, burning like the houses and the screaming people.
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It burns. Jeongguk regards him for a moment, and holds out a hand. He lets it in. And he breaks down his back, stood, cracking deep down the curve of his spine, he breaks it all away, this human form and the red it bleeds and the sweat dripping down his chest. It cracks, splinters, and the glass breaks. He screams into the void of himself, feeling his wings unfurling, white and bright and brilliant. When he opens his eyes, the field burns. He feels as it cuts right through each person, splicing through their life force and then, they crumple.
When he pulls it back, snapping it like an band back onto his wrist, the field is silent.
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Bodies litter the floor like bee carcasses after the first freeze of winter. Jeongguk stands, impassive, beside him. The silence hangs heavy for a moment. From this close, he can see the fear in them, staining and widening. A statue. His wings are down now, folded, and there are no sparks, just lingering wisps of smoke. The world explodes in the s. England has decided it wants everything, all the gold of the seas and a bit of land that lies vulnerable in its peaceful nature.
Light and heat alike pour in through the small pane of glass that allows him a view of the horizon, the sky, and not much else. Is that what this is? His soul for you wiped off the earth and ten more years of sailing. And his cabin.
Jimin wants to weave his hand through it and pull. Not the same thing. Type song title, artist or lyrics. Top lyrics Community Contribute Business. Sign in Sign up. Lyrics Wings of the Evil Viper. Last update on: July 25, Choose translation. These lyrics are waiting for review. By Annie Martin. Latest Headlines. The film is in theaters Friday. Snoop Dogg's grandson dies at 10 days old. Famous birthdays for Sept. James Hetfield heads to rehab, Metallica cancels Australian tour.