Ferrian's Winter

The black halls watch; they wait, they see

The dance of Angels that must be.

The pyramid-shaped glass enclosure rose from its black dais in the middle of the hexagonal room. A black and silver pattern surrounded it, crawling across the walls, floor and ceiling endlessly on every side, unchanging, immutable, emanating a drab, sepulchral light that was enough to see by, but contained no warmth. A second pyramidal enclosure loomed above the first, an exact mirrored replica protruding from the ceiling, the tips almost touching.

The upside-down pyramid was empty.

The other contained a single occupant.

He sat cross-legged on the black polished floor, hands clasped in his lap, head slightly bowed, eyes closed. White wings curved at his back, stark against the gloom.

His white coat splayed out on the floor around him. His hands, chest and lower legs glinted, clad in silver.

The black-winged Angel Mekk'Ayan stood on the outside of the enclosure, arms folded, frowning, wondering what in the name of the Pit he was supposed to do with this man.

Reeves had been sitting like that, unmoving, for hours – ever since Mekka had discovered him here, in fact.

He knew it was another ruse, an attempt to beat Mekka at his own game, but he wasn't fooled.

Not this time.

Mekka had prowled around the cage a dozen times, rapped on the glass with his knuckles, called Reeves' name, even made a few snide remarks, all to no response. Finally, he snorted in disgust.

"Fine," he muttered aloud. "Perhaps stewing in your own juices for awhile will do you some good."

He turned to leave.

"What do you hope to accomplish," the voice came at last, "by keeping me prisoner?"

Mekka paused. He seriously considered ignoring Reeves, out of spite.

He stared up at the wall where it joined seamlessly with the hexagonal room above it, following the morbidly-familiar pattern with his eyes. He was beginning to forget what the outside world looked like. This Black Pyramid had become his new reality.

Reeves' laugh was soft, amused. "You don't know, do you?"

The laugh cut through him, along with a quick flash of fiery rage. Mekka quelled it instantly.

No. He had given in to violent urges before, encouraged by a trigonic dagger, and it had almost been his ruin.

It had certainly been the ruin of anyone who had been unfortunate enough to get in his way.

He composed himself, taking his time. When he turned finally, his expression was cool. He strolled back towards the enclosure, unhurriedly, hands in his jacket pockets, black leather boots tapping on the polished pattern-strewn floor.

He stopped close enough to the glass to see his own reflection, and smiled. "My own amusement," he said.

Reeves returned his smile. His eyes were open now, staring out at Mekka from beneath the tangled mess of his blond hair; blue-green ice, full of death.

Mekka was disturbed by the change in the Sky Legion Commander. When they had been imprisoned together in the Sanctuary at Caer Sync, Reeves had been arrogant – insufferable, certainly. Now, he was outright murderous. He had abandoned Angel laws. He had lost all pretence to sanity.

The Watcher had triggered the change, he knew. The only question remained was how far gone Reeves truly was; whether there was any hope of restoring some semblance of reason.

That left him with an impossible dilemma – Reeves was right, Mekka could not keep him locked up in the Pyramid forever. But he was hesitant to release the Angel Commander into the world to roam free carrying out whatever perverse plans it was he had put into place.

Reeves' eyes glittered. He could see the problem that his enemy was grappling with, and it thrilled him.

They continued to stare at each other through the silence and the grey light, surrounded by enigmatic patterns, separated by hexagonal-shaped glass panes in the form of a pyramid.

Two Angels – one black, one white, in a tomblike room.

Then, finally, Reeves blinked; slowly, lazily, like a predator. Holding out his right arm, he regarded his silvertine gauntlet, turning it over, flexing his fingers. "You asked me to remove my armour," he murmured, curiously. "Why?"

"I told you," Mekka replied stonily. "It will turn you into a wraith. It will kill you."

Reeves did not reply. He continued to study his gauntlet, head tilted to one side, as though he had never seen it before. Then, to Mekka's surprise, he gripped it with his left hand and slid it off.

He did the same for his other gauntlet. Then he extended a leg and removed one boot, then the other, his movements slow and deliberate. He placed them all in a neat pile in front of him.

Then he stood up.

He unfastened his white coat from his wings and let it slip to the floor. Then he removed his breastplate. Taking it over to the pile, he placed it down carefully, giving Mekka a wink as he did so. Rising, he returned to his coat, picked it up, shook it out and put it back on. This done, he lowered himself back to the floor, resting an arm on one knee. He gestured to the pile of armour.

"Is this to your satisfaction?" he said.

Mekka's eyes travelled over the winged man, searching for any concealed weapons, though Reeves had put on a fair show to prove that he didn't have any. Besides, Mekka reasoned, if he had, then Mekka would already be dead: Reeves wouldn't have bothered with the effort of trying to strangle him.

Mekka was both surprised and relieved. He had feared that the armour – like Carmine's – had attached itself to his body and couldn't be removed.

The armour glinted in its pile, but looked normal. No misty light or anything strange leaked from it.

"Quite," he replied, and stepped back from the enclosure.

A show of faith, then…

Reaching to his belt, he pulled free both of his silvertine daggers. He twirled one around his finger, then the other. He strolled around a bit, casually inspecting the daggers, allowing Reeves just enough time to wonder what he was going to do with them, knowing that the other Angel longed to get his hands on them. Finally, deciding that he had taunted his prisoner enough, he gave Reeves a wink of his own and walked from the room.

He wound his way through a few hexagonal chambers until he came to a bronze statue in an alcove, and deposited the daggers in a niche behind it. For a few minutes he loitered, leaning on the statue, pretending he had gone further into the maze of rooms than he had, then returned to the prison chamber.

Reeves was sitting with his hands clasped patiently in his lap, a faint smile still on his face.

Mekka went up to the shiny, slanted black panel that formed the side of the dais, and his hand moved rapidly, automatically across it. Blue lines and symbols flashed beneath his fingers, their glow matching a light that appeared in the centre of his eyes, and his illuminated winged headpiece.

Seconds later, the enclosure disintegrated, the hexagonal panes turning silver and collapsing into the edges of the dais until no barrier stood between himself and the Sky Legion Commander.

Reeves got up, arranged his coat, walked to the edge of the dais and stepped nimbly off.

"Follow me," Mekka said without preamble, spun on his heel and started walking away. He didn't bother to check if Reeves was following. If the other Angel tried to slip away into the side rooms, he would become hopelessly lost. If he attacked Mekka, he would be trapped in the Pyramid at the mercy of the Watcher. Mekka didn't think he would be so stupid as to try either of those things.

Still…

"Watcher," he said, placing a hand to his headpiece as he walked. "Do not harm Commander Reeves, no matter what foolish thing he may try to do. That is an order."

Behind him, Reeves laughed. "Confident, aren't you?"

Mekka turned and gave him a smile over his shoulder. "I don't need the Watcher to protect me against you."

Reeves' eyes flashed. "Why don't we step outside again and finish what we started?"

Mekka chose not to reply.

A short time later, they entered a room with a large hexagonal pool in the middle of it, fed by a fountain in the shape of a winged fish spitting water. The tiles lining the bottom of the pool were bright blue, incongruous against the grey and black.

"You can wash here," Mekka said. He shook his head. "There isn't much in the way of food in this place, but I will see what I can find."

Reeves regarded the chamber and the pool, eyebrows raising as he noticed the inverted version shimmering above his head. "And is there… ah… anything in the way of… sanitary closets, or is that far too civilised for your kind?"

Mekka ignored the barb. He pointed to an archway to their right. "Next room. There are pits in the floor; bottomless, as far as I can tell." He gave Reeves a smirk. "Don't fall in."

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

On that note, he left the Angel Commander to his ablutions.

The purplish fruit balanced on the tips of two pale, elegant fingers. The narrowed turquoise eyes behind it regarded the fruit as though it were something pulled out of a sewer that was claimed, unthinkably, to be edible.

The fingers parted, and the fruit plopped onto the table.

"I would rather," Reeves remarked, "pull out my own wing feathers and choke on them."

"You'll eat it when you get hungry enough," Mekka pointed out.

The slow, contemptuous glare that was turned on him could have rotted a whole orchard. Mekka picked up one of the strange-looking fruits, held it up as though performing a magic trick for a child, then took a bite.

"I am not trying to poison you, Reeves."

He might as well have stated that his wings were not black.

They were seated at a stone table in one of the seemingly infinite hexagonal rooms. Curiously, this table had no counterpart on the ceiling above them. It was round and ornate, with deeply carved edges, balanced on a single, fluted pillar. In contrast, the stools around the table were rough blocks of stone, crudely hacked into somewhat circular shapes.

There was something odd about all of the furniture in the Pyramid. Indeed, there was something odd about everything in the Pyramid. Nothing looked as though it had ever been used in a practical way by living people.

To be fair, Mekka conceded, he hadn't trusted the fruit at first, either. He had tried a piece only after coming to understand that the Watcher was not hostile towards him, and was unlikely to let him die from ingesting something random and deadly. So far, so good – like the water, the fruit was clean and pleasant-tasting, and Mekka hadn't died or gotten sick from it, so he supposed if there were any long-term side effects, the two of them would find out together.

But that didn't mean that the Pyramid was devoid of dangers…

"Oh, I forgot to mention," Mekka commented, slouching against the table. "There are monsters roaming the halls. Keep that in mind if you need to pee in the night."

Reeves turned away in response, crossing his arms and legs, so disgusted that he refused to look at either the fruit or Mekka.

He looked utterly miserable.

Hatred and anger were not sustainable emotions, Mekka knew. They came in fiery bursts, and what was left in their passing was cold, hard and bitter. Reeves was in that state now. Though bathed and groomed, he somehow actually appeared worse. His skin had been tanned strongly by the sun, and the removal of dirt from his face made his cheekbones more apparent, giving him a slightly gaunt look. Shadows darkened the skin beneath eyes which burned like stubborn blue embers that refused to die.

Despite himself, Mekka felt uncomfortable. Watching the man suffer was not something he found enjoyable, no matter how much he wanted to relish the thought.

What have I done to him? he thought guiltily.

After all, what terrible thing had Reeves done to warrant such punishment? He had tried to kill Mekka, sure, but that was madness largely brought on by the Watcher. He had arrested Mekka and taken him to the Tower for execution, but he was only carrying out a missive from the Governor. It had been his duty. It hadn't been personal, not then.

It certainly was now.

"Reeves," he said into the awkward silence that engulfed them. "I am sorry."

Reeves turned his head to look at him.

Mekka forced himself to meet the other Angel's gaze. "I mean it," he said seriously. "I… did not expect the Watcher to affect you this way. I did not even know that you were going to be there, in the desert. My intention was to locate the White Dragon, that was all." He shook his head. "If you think I hunted you down deliberately, I did not. I did not mean to interfere with your mission."

Reeves said nothing. His burning expression did not change.

Sighing, Mekka turned away, getting to his feet. Apologies are useless…

"Why?" he said, moving over to the wall and leaning his shoulder against it. "Why do you hate me with such passion? What have I done to invoke your wrath? This isn't about some prophecy or my past crimes, is it? This is something else."

Reeves continued to stare at him. "You are Chaos incarnate," he stated finally. "Everything you touch turns to ruin."

Mekka was taken aback by the words. He hardly expected kindness from Reeves, but the statement hit him unexpectedly hard, like a blow to the head.

Reeves eyes glittered. "Ah, I see you recognise the truth at last!" His grin returned. "You are a curse! Your race was a blight on the world, and that was why the Seraphim expelled you from it! What do you think gave rise to your prophecy in the first place?"

Mekka fought to keep his emotions under control; he refused to give Reeves the pleasure. "I may be descended from the Iriphim," he replied tightly, "but that does not make me one of them, any more than you are a Seraph!"

Reeves' smile remained in place. "Of course not," he said coolly. "You are merely a little puppet, being pulled about by your strings. You think you are in control of the Watcher, but you do its bidding without even realising it!" He gestured with his hand. "Who is the real prisoner here?"

Mekka glared at him, heart thundering against his chest. It was all true: painfully so. He could not refute any of it. "And that's the problem, isn't it?" he retorted, pushing himself off the wall. "You are afraid that I will destroy whatever it is you're looking for!"

Reeves said nothing.

Mekka strode over to the table and leaned his hands on it. "What are you looking for, Reeves? Tell me."

Reeves just stared back at him, amusement dancing in his eyes.

"I have given the pieces of your Book to Ferrian," Mekka went on. "He will translate them sooner or later. How long do you think you can hold on to your secrets?"

The white-winged Angel continued to regard him with a cold smile. Finally, he shifted in his seat, leaning forward on the table until his face was only inches from Mekka's. Mekka was close enough to see the insanity still flickering there, and something else, as well – a terrifying surety of purpose. "Long enough," he whispered.

Mekka was the first to back away. Pushing himself off the table, he spun and stalked toward one of the doorways. His feathers and the hairs on the back of his neck bristled.

He paused under the stone arch, a burning flood of rage passing through him. He had allowed Reeves to get under his skin, and that was foolish….

Whispers crowded his mind, subduing his thoughts, calming him.

It happened sometimes, when he became overly emotional, thought about the Pyramid too hard, or when using its mysterious technology, which he seemed to be able to do without understanding it. It was as though the Watcher placed an invisible hand upon his brain, gently guiding him to do what it wanted.

… a little puppet being pulled about by your strings…

The thought passed alarmingly through his mind, then faded away.

When he faced Reeves again, his expression had cooled. "You want me to hate you," he said quietly. "But I will not."

He gestured to one of the other doorways. "My daggers are hidden six rooms to your left," he said. "Behind the bronze statue of a Centaur with a rabbit's head. If you think you want to kill me, take them. I will not stop you."

Then he simply turned and walked away.

Mekka stood alone in the large, black, pillared space he had come to think of as the Great Hall. Bright white light slanted in criss-crossing shafts behind him, and an enormous triangular void filled the wall ahead. The decapitated corpse of the Muron serpent that Ferrian had slain had inexplicably disappeared without a trace, leaving not a speck of blood marring the dark, mirror-like floor, or any evidence of its existence.

The only thing left in the empty hall, besides himself, was the shattered remains of the Iriph statue, which, for some reason, the Watcher had disdained to clear away. Mekka had gathered up the largest pieces and set them in a pile beneath the triangular hole. The rest of the statue was dust, scattered into the far reaches of the hall by the battle with the serpent.

The dust of the Iriphim, he thought, staring down at the fragments of its beautiful, mournful face. It is all over me; in my blood, in my mind, on my hands.

I am not one of you. I am but a shadow of what you were. Why have you bound yourself to me? Why will you not let me go?

He looked into the blank eyes, and recognised the despair he saw there.

Because you were the last, weren't you? Because you knew that your race was finished, and you sent out a final, desperate plea of hope into the world…

He closed his eyes. You told the Watcher to find whatever traces remained of black-winged Angels. You stored all of your knowledge here, all of your strange magic, all of your history. You could not bear for these things to be lost, forgotten.

Opening his eyes slowly, he whispered: "But what do you want from me?"

He received no reply – not from the Iriph statue, not from the Watcher. His own thoughts echoed in the silence.

His eyes lifted to the vast, triangular void. "Watcher," he said. "Find…" he hesitated, his throat closing on the words, so that for a moment he couldn't speak. He swallowed until he found his voice again. "Find… Carmine. Carmine Vandaris."

The Whispers murmured briefly though his mind and were gone again.

Several minutes passed in which nothing happened. Mekka was encompassed by deep silence and the sound of his own heartbeat, which was so loud he could almost hear it reverberating off the black walls. His gaze returned quickly to the broken statue, because looking too long into the inky abyss caused his stomach to try to crawl up his throat.

He had figured out what the Void Triangles were for. They worked a little like the Aurellian Sync, before the crystal had shattered in the Sanctuary at Caer Sync. If he stood before one and asked the Watcher to search for something, it would do so, and display an image of whatever it found. It worked for things both within the Pyramid and without; it was how he had located the White Dragon, and the room with edible fruits.

But Mekka was already regretting his latest query. Tander had warned him what to expect, but the Lieutenant had had trouble describing exactly what it was he had seen in Meadrun.

Mekka folded his arms tightly across his chest, his jaw clenched, feeling as though he wanted to be sick…

Above him, a miniscule speck of light appeared in the centre of the triangle. In seconds it expanded, a rush of colour and brightness that filled the void, replacing it with a vision, painted huge upon the wall.

Mekka stared in confusion. It was not at all what he had anticipated.

It did not show him a burnt-out ruin. Quite the opposite, in fact:

What he was looking at was a cosy, wallpapered room. A hearth glowed somewhere out of sight, filling the room with a warm orange light. More light glowed from an oil lamp set on a lace-draped side table, beside a painted vase filled with a huge bouquet of pink roses. Woven rugs covered the floor, and blankets and cushions were piled on comfortable-looking chairs. Pale linen curtains were drawn over the windows.

Against the far wall was a wrought-iron bed covered with a floral quilt. A blonde-haired woman lay in the bed, tucked beneath the quilt, looking deathly ill.

It took Mekka several seconds to realise, with a gasp, that it was Everine.

Everine Arva, the sailor woman who had brought Carmine and Hawk back from the Middle Isle with him. Who had helped to run the Hungry Deer Inn at Forthwhite, with her brother, while Hawk was being kept there.

Mekka was aware that she had been infected with trigon; Ben had related everything that had happened since Mekka's arrest, including what Carmine had done to his sister. But seeing her like—

His line of thought came to a skidding halt and fell off a cliff.

Another woman sat on a stool beside the bed, holding Everine's hand in both of her own. Red hair fell just above her shoulders, burnished fire in the ruddy light. She was draped in a crimson cloak, a long bundle tied to her back. She wore leather Watch armour, but she was not a member of the Red Watch, of that Mekka was absolutely certain.

He would recognise her anywhere, even with her short hair, even with her face turned away, head bowed…

Mekka could hardly breathe. She was not wearing the trigonic armour! She was… not a demon-wraith, or a serial killer, or a twisted monster trapped in a dimensional tear. No hint of blackness infected her. She was a healthy woman, she was whole, she… she was Human…!

CARMINE WAS ALIVE!!

Mekka's heart raced so fast he thought it would break. He reached up to brush astonished tears from his face, his hands trembling. For a crazed moment he wondered if the Watcher was lying to him, because this scene couldn't be true…

The sound of footsteps came from behind him.

Mekka spun.

Reeves had entered the hall and was strolling towards him, casually. The white-winged Angel passed in and out of the beams of light – alternately bathed in brilliance and shadow.

Silvertine glittered on his chest, arms and legs.

Both of Mekka's daggers were held loosely in his hands.

"Who is the red-haired woman?" he enquired, his voice ringing off the walls, breaking the hallowed silence like an insult. "I recognise the other. Tsk. How sad…"

Mekka turned back to the Void, swiping a hand. The vision vanished in an instant.

"That is none of your concern!"

"Ahhh," Reeves replied, tossing one of the daggers idly into the air and catching it. His grin flashed almost as bright as his armour. "That kind of concern!"

Mekka's fists clenched so tightly that the leather of his gloves creaked.

Reeves noticed, raising an eyebrow. "Abandoned your vow not to hate me already?" He laughed. "Delightful!"

Reeves had taken his obvious bait, and Mekka was dismayed – he had thought the Wing Commander smarter than that. He shook his head in disappointment.

"You have overestimated my capacity for empathy, I'm afraid," Reeves added. He was close now, and had begun to circle Mekka.

"And your sense of honour," Mekka replied through gritted teeth. He inclined his head. "And, indeed, your self-preservation."

Reeves said nothing, just watched him, smiling.

"I will not fight you, Reeves."

The white-winged Angel did not reply.

"What do you think you're going to do in here if you kill me?" Mekka pointed out, annoyed. "You cannot escape, and I dare say the Watcher will not appreciate your company…"

"No doubt it won't. Which is why I will destroy it."

Mekka stared at him. "You're insane."

Reeves laughed again, his eyes dancing. "Yes. I thought we had established that?"

And then, like a flash of lightning, he attacked.