ash

Damien looks up and recognises the pale face staring down at him.

"Banquo." His voice is barely audible in the still night.

Banquo inclines his head just slightly in a semblance of a nod. Silver eyes take in the figure kneeling in the blood and the ash, wings unnervingly still from exhaustion, pure white spattered with blood. Damien is wounded; Banquo can tell the smell of his blood apart from the werewolf's.

Banquo's wings are the colour of ash, magnificent as they unfurl before Damien, beating slowly in a rhythm that Damien finds so familiar.

"Jun."

Banquo crosses his arms over his chest. Uncrosses them. "So you noticed. Perceptive."

"You severed him."

"I grew wings, brother. Just like you."

"Damn you. Damn you to hell," he snarls, trying to rise, trying to push himself up off the ground, but he cannot seem to move. His fingers are strangely slippery, and he doesn't seem to be able to find the strength to get up so that he can murder Banquo in cold blood. It is a strange feeling, to be this aware and yet not be able to react.

"You really should mind your language, you know, Damien. You're not exactly in a state to swear at me, now that you so need my help."

"I hate you."

One of Banquo's powerful wings sweeps out and slams into Damien, its force blinding pain against Damien's wounded shoulder. Damien makes a strangled noise that comes out a choked groan as he lands heavily against the bloodied asphalt.

"Bloody… Incubi don't… have bloody… wings-" Damien croaks with such revulsion that it is almost a snarl, harsh and searing as a slap across Banquo's bloodless face.

Banquo doesn't seem to move for a moment, the words hanging in the air like a rancid smell of rotting meat. Then almost at once he has fallen upon Damien, clawing and bellowing and intent on ripping the flight into bloodied, mangled shreds.

It is a redhotsharpripping pain that blurs into darkness and flashing glimmer of shattering red glass panes, blood colour bursting and exploding before his eyes. He is freezing and burning and there is a shrieking impotent fear that paralyses the scream in his throat.

Banquo has his spidery hands around Damien's throat and Damien knows, in a dull throb aching through his skull that he is going to die, writhing in pain and fury underneath this vile creature that he doesn't know anymore.

"Why?" he gasps, mouth working to form the syllable.

"I hate your wings, brother." Banquo's voice is no longer velvet, no longer smooth like Damien can remember. It is a low growl, like gravel crunching under heavy boots, angry and torn and grating.

It is all Damien needs to fling his hand out to grasp the dagger in a blinding split-second of confusion.

It is blood once again, and then flesh and ash and a loud gasp that pierces the air like a piercing shriek.

Damien watches Banquo lying spread-eagled on the ground.

"I won't die, you know," Banquo whispers; his ripped-linen voice makes Damien want to shudder.