Vyeran Fehfer | 2221 | FtM | "Apollo's Grace" | M: Group (Ind.)

~

The rafters creaked softly beneath him, the wood aged and groaning against the weight of time itself. Vyeran shifted, his wings hanging loose, feathers splayed in a way that would have been unthinkable had he still cared about his appearance right now. The golden light filtering through the slatted wooden windows cast strange, angular shadows across his form, illuminating the sharp lines of his cheekbones and the tired furrow in his brow. The temple’s grand plaza stretched below him, empty and silent, save for the occasional rustle of wind sweeping through the open courtyard. Dust motes spun lazily in the golden beams of early morning light.

Hours had passed. He wasn’t sure how many. Long enough for the soreness in his muscles to settle deep, but not so long that he’d fallen asleep—not that he could. He hadn’t slept in… longer than he cared to remember. A century, perhaps? Not real sleep, anyway. Not the kind that left a person rested. He wasn’t sure if it was the visions, or the sheer, soul-crushing exhaustion of being alive so damn long. Maybe both.

He exhaled through his nose, four eyes half-lidded as he stared at nothing in particular. The weight of time sat heavy on his shoulders, heavier than usual.

It had been a long week. A long couple of centuries, really, but this last stretch had been particularly grating. The goddamn Portuguese wouldn’t stop shooting at him, and he’d started keeping count of the number of times he’d been shot trying to drag their civilians out of the crossfire. Twenty-seven. That was just this month. The tally for Vietnam was even higher, though he’d lost track sometime in ‘69. Iceland and the U.K. were squabbling over fish, of all things, because humanity couldn’t resist bleeding itself dry over petty nonsense. The stupidity of it all grated against him more than the bullets did.

But it didn’t matter. Not right now.

The world had, for once, fallen quiet. An eerie, unnatural quiet, brought on by the confused halting of war in the wake of whatever the hell had just happened. The so-called “apocalypse” was the strangest gift he’d ever been given. Not because it was some divine intervention, not because it was poetic or just, but because for the first time in years, maybe centuries, he didn’t have anyone to save.

And that meant, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he had nothing to do.

Nothing except sit here, perched in the rafters like some forsaken angel with molting wings, staring at the temple below and listening to the distant sounds of the world catching its breath.

The temple was old. Older than most things, maybe older than him, though that was hard to say. Age bled from its stone pillars, worn smooth by time, its murals faded but still telling stories in cracked paint and half-eroded carvings. He traced the shapes idly with his gaze, following the figures locked in their eternal dance across the walls. Gods and men, locked in their ceaseless cycles of worship and destruction.

The irony was not lost on him.

He rolled his shoulders, the movement sending a shudder through his wings, dislodging a loose feather that drifted lazily down into the empty space below. He watched it fall, spiraling like a dying star, before it settled silently on the stone floor.

This was supposed to be the place where he’d meet the people who were going to “save the world.”

He snorted at the thought.

Save the world.

Like he hadn’t already been trying to do that for the last two millennia. Like he hadn’t spent lifetimes dragging people out of warzones, pulling strangers from burning buildings, whispering warnings into the ears of kings and generals who, more often than not, ignored him anyway.

The world didn’t want to be saved.

So what the hell was he doing here?

The answer, of course, was that he had nothing better to do.

The alternative was going back out there and trying to force the world into salvation with his bare hands, and he was just too goddamn tired for that.

So instead, he waited.

Waited for these supposed world-saviors to show up. Waited to see if they were worth his time. Waited because, for once, there was no immediate crisis demanding his attention, no screaming, no blood, no fire.

Just silence.

Vye closed his eyes and soaked up the peace.