Argonaut

Shattered as I was, and however loud the wind may whistle through my bones, being reanimated by her purpose does not wear on me... too much.

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His imperfections shown like a galaxy, outstretched before him. She had no imperfections, not a single flaw. But he- what was he? What claim had he to her? Of all creatures, the most wonderful he had ever seen. And yet, she served such a creature…
He tore his mind from these thoughts, as though freeing it from a nest of cobwebs. Trailing thoughts fluttered at the back of his mind, but they no longer veiled his eyes.
His mission must be completed before the coming dawn. Mere hours remained. Mere hours.
The night air was cruel; blade-like it cut through him. It seemed to sever his limbs from his body. Gods above, he couldn’t feel his wings, though they beat steadily. His face burned with frost, the little fur he had had frozen stiff. He beat his wings harder, to reach his goal faster, and hopefully regain some feeling.
He had lost all feeling once, when he had lived in a pit of madness. He had been little more than her pawn, one of thousands who worshiped her and bled at her altar. Their goddess had taken their faith, their love, their fear and devotion, and had sown it in the fields, fields of countless battles and endless graves. Ideologies, she had set against one another. The bronze idols that had protected their temples shed tears of fire, as brother killed brother, and son slew father. What deity sought to destroy her own people? To strip them of their lives, strip them of every charitable feeling, replacing these with death and callousness, suspicion, hatred? What god could be capable of this?
One fated to die. That had been Ravam’s thought, when he had stood over the bodies of his kin, the day he had worn their blood on his skin.
He forsook his faith, his kin, his homeland, and defected – as they might say in days to come – to the shadow that loomed behind their goddess. A being who dove into the mind, harvested dreams, twisted desires, devoured hopes – who kept a luminous garden of ruined souls in some deep void she called home. That was mere rumor, for all he knew. But he knew her will was cataclysmic. She alone might rival their corrupted god. Morevna, the ever unholy, the darkest of dreams.
Ravam careened through the air, swerving wildly as a blast of fire erupted below. The light licked at the contours of his body, as though showing him how much the fire hungered for his flesh. Yes, it would have consumed him, if he had been within its reach – and that was a fate easy to imagine. He grimaced, as the opal fragments of his body shone and the light seemed catch in his great, though fragile, wings. He swerved farther off course, to avoid the revealing light. Had he been detected? As he listened, he heard nothing – no thud of massive, beating wings. Just the chorus of fear and rending grief that rang down below, where the city burned amidst silent flames.
This was his home. Those were his people. Those likely burning were his kin.
But when enough blood has been shed, enough to dye an ocean red, this loss of life was little felt. Numbness from the chill air seemed to have reached his heart. But Ravam did not dwell on this. It was mere illusion. He knew well that he had feeling – of course he did. He was alive, no mere automaton or pawn. He submitted to another’s will because he needed another’s power. He was part of this force that set fire to the city, bursts of light appearing in various civilian districts, because he had chosen to fight against the goddess who had misused them, to dethrone one unworthy, to drag an immortal creature down from the heavens, and drown her in unending suffering. If she cannot die, if she must continue to exist, then let that existence become one of eternal torment. Let her weep and pray to her battered people. Let them be the ones to show scorn.
He beat faster, his eyes bright as starlight passed through the membranes of his wings, and the patterns on his hide allowed him to melt into the sky. He looked down into the darkness that stretched before him but which seemed to ebb against the stone steps of a white temple that glowed in the faint moonlight. He had passed the city; below him lay a black wilderness. It was like a void. A yawning, insatiable doom.
Perfect for his new master.
Ravam flew higher, gaining altitude. He stared defiantly at the unfeeling heavens, and then arched into a dive. He plummeted like raining hellfire as flames of retribution boiled in his veins, bringing his frozen body back to life before he closed his eyes, braced himself, and burst through the stained-glass window – the very soul of this holiest of holy grounds – raining screaming shards that had caught the light of the dawn and shone with the image of their hated goddess for nearly three thousand years.
After millennia of near darkness, moonlight shone upon the marble floor, gleamed in the scattered fragments, and bathed the body of this fallen warrior with unending glory.

Ravam, He Who Will Be Remembered

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