Atticus held Siya, watched as his offered blood pooled inside of her mouth, and cried. The lines of liquid gold tears that streamed down his face dripped from his jaw and cheeks, coming to land in bright pools upon the scorched and ruined skin of the vampire. Time, the oft disregarded element of those that bore the title of ‘immortal,’ was having its day, and there seemed to be none left for Atticus to pin his hope upon.

The black wings wilted like flower petals amidst parched air, drifting down to envelope the obsidian incubus. They covered him as the folds of a funeral shroud might do, encompassing Atticus in living sorrow, and tangible regret. 

He had no words to add to the songs of the birds. There was no loving riposte he could make to Siya’s last utterance of adoration. Atticus saw the rays of the new son kiss her flesh, and he watched as the pool of his black blood was taken in one final gulp into his love’s body. Stillness remained, lingering to taunt the final threads of hope to their breaking point. 

The strain was almost too much for those threads. Atticus wrestled mightily with his emotion, torn between what he saw and sensed, and the tiny warmth of inner notion that something of Siya yet remained in the husk of her body. In the end it was hope that won the day in the demon’s heart, at least enough hope to not relinquish himself fully to the depths of anguish. 

With reverent care, Atticus bent to kiss the coarse flesh of Siya’s forehead. He drew her to him fully, shrouding her in the great leathery folds of his wings, guarding her from the malicious light of a welcome, and yet baleful sun. 

Across the broken ground he walked. His ember-like gaze scanned the horizon, taking in those that remained. So few he could see. The riven battlefield was a testament to sacrifice. Some were held in the embrace of consolation, others clutched at the mortal shell of the one they loved, and yet others stood alone and uncertain in the aftermath. 

Atticus kept walking. He did not stop to share in the experiences of his compatriots. Perhaps callous was the word for his detachment, but in that moment the incubus only had enough hope to carry his own feet forward. In the face of all the god-wolf’s scars, Atticus had the chance to heal but one, and he would not allow this place of despair to anchor him. He would have to make amends later to the others he cared about, if he could find the strength to face them ever again.

With the light of the growing dawn meeting his black face, he walked onward. The new day blanketed him with its warmth, and Atticus clutched his wings tighter to shield the tiny body held in his arms. He stopped abruptly as he did so, lifting his eyes to the clear blue sky, and the soaring figure of the eagle far overhead.

For a time Atticus merely watched the majestic creature ride the tides of the air, marveling silently at the outstretched wings, and the freedom borne upon them. This creature that had heralded the end of the god-wolf, and the beginning of the new world, stared back at the incubus from high above, unwavering and stern. 

“Let this be enough,” the incubus whispered to the great bird. “Ask no more of us.”

And with that last utterance, a cloud of dark smoke and crackling embers enveloped both Atticus and the body of the vampire, and as it was forced apart by the breath of the morning wind, nothing in its place remained.