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He wasn’t supposed to bleed. Yet black, rotting blood leaked out around the edges of the stake in his stomach. It burned like hellfire but he couldn’t pull it out because the bastard who stabbed him had made the handle with silver. It made his head spin and his body revolted against the wood in his chest. His attacker’s body lay before him, skin torn open and fresh blood pooling around it. There was blood under his nails and he was hungry but even the thought of food made him want to throw up.
He knew he was dying and it terrified him. His hand bled from where he had burnt them on the silver handle. The blood stain on his nice shirt grew faster. His lungs burned. He wanted to cry and scream and laugh. He wanted to ask the others if they finally got what they wanted.
His manor around him was silent. It was only him and the still body before him. Fire roared under his skin, burning him from the inside like holy fire. His heart sent pain radiating through his body with every slow beat. He took a shuddering gasp, blood staining his lips as it was expelled from his lungs. The blood that sat heavy in his stomach made him sick.
He was dead— dying had been painful but nothing compared to the pain of coming back to life. The muscles along his back contracted, bones shifting and ribs breaking with startling loud cracks. His skin tore. His jaw ached from where he was clenching it.
Tears dripped down his cheeks as he was forced to breathe, his body shaking with each rasping inhale and pain sparking across his chest with each exhale. His fangs sank into his lips, breaking his skin and drawing rotting blood, as a startled cry of pain ripped from him.
“Please,” he forced out, blood coating every word. “I don’t want to die— not like this.”
The world had no answer for the creature of shadows whose lifeblood slowly —painfully— started moving through his veins. His fangs were pushed back into his gums by the sudden shift of his teeth and he cried out in pain— cried out for relief— cried out for mercy.
His body spasmed, nails digging into the floor, as blood poured —scarlet and smooth and the color of life— from his stomach and his mouth and his nose and his skin where it had been broken. The wooden stake burned because it wasn’t supposed to be there but it was nothing compared to the agony of his spine coming apart vertebrae by vertebrae only to push itself together again, shoulders snapping out of place for the blades to push through skin that tore easily but painfully.
Each rib shifted— cracking, scraping against another, and impaling organs. His traitorous heart kept beating even when it and his lungs were pierced by shattered bone. His skin burned and his blood boiled. His hand shook, fingers twitching as his nails grew and curled and formed talons that dripped in his own blood. Tears filled his eyes and dripped down his cheeks, staining them red. All he could taste was his blood.
His shoulder blades were covered in scarlet, muscle twisting around the protruding bone in ways it wasn’t supposed to. The twin masses on his back twitched with every movement of his body, the skin burning like it was on fire.
He couldn’t help screaming— not when his body was being torn apart and all he knew was pain. His talons dug into the palm of his hand and drew blood that shimmered like starlight. His stomach revolted against him and he found himself choking on blood and bile. Blood stained his lips, skin, and clothes scarlet.
His shirt tore under the pressure of the horror of bone and muscle straining against it. There was a ripping of skin and cloth alike before the two masses expanded fully, sprawling in their full blood-stained glory across the gore-covered floor. Slowly his ribs started to piece themselves back together, pulling from organs and sliding back into place. His heart continued to beat. Slowly his muscles relaxed and settled back, shaking slightly from crashing adrenaline.
His stomach stitched itself back together when he reached down with shaking hands to pull out the wooden stake with a silver handle that no longer burnt him. His eyesight wavered around him, the world spinning. The two masses against his back were heavy and unmoving. They still ached but the burning had been replaced with itching. His body felt too light but the things on his back were too heavy. His head spun and a pained noise pulled itself from ruined lungs.
Something dark and dangerous curled in his gut, pressed burning fire against where his skin had stitched itself back together again after the sudden absence of the stake and cried out holy, holy, holy. Burning, waxen fingers pressed against his organs and almost lovingly stitched them back together with string made from holy fire.
The world around him was too dim, the shadows curling with angry snarls around him —a holy, holy, holy creature of light and beauty—. He needed the light that turned the world golden. He needed to spread the wings —ugly, monstrous, blood-soaked masses— on his back and let the world see the ethereal thing he had been formed into.
Something deep in his chest cried for the spilled blood of unbelievers and false prophets. It made him want to hear the screams of eternal damnation for those who dared utter lies against him. It made revenger a sweeter drink than human blood had ever been when he had been dead.
His heart thudded against his ribs with fervent energy, sending shimmering blood rushing through his body. Holy, holy, holy echoed in the back of his mind. Slowly, carefully he spread his wings, letting the weak light that filtered in through the manor’s windows catch on the gold-dipped feathers. Blood still dripped from them but it was like someone had run waxed-covered fingers against the bare masses of the wings to let the feathers stick.
They ached slightly as he stretched them out, the extra limbs shaking with the new movement. Yet there were no sudden spikes of pain and Scott couldn’t help but grin. He shuddered, gasping for air as he slowly pushed himself to his feet. The world spun around him.
Holy, holy, holy snarled the monster with blood-stained fangs and claws dripping with gore. Holy, holy, holy whispered a monster with feathers dipped in bloodlust. Holy, holy, holy screamed the thing that sat in his chest with a broken body and an all-encompassing desire for blood. Holy, holy, holy cried the creature with its eyes torn out — because justice is blind— and golden blood pouring from tears in its skin, holy, holy, holy.
He ran his tongue across his teeth— felt the monster slice open its own forked tongue on a maw full of razor-sharp fangs. He spread his wings for balance— blood singing as seraphim spread its six wings in holy, holy, holy justice and revenge. He blinked slowly, eyes glowing in the dim light of the manor of the dead creature he had once been. The monster —six-winged with too many eyes, limbs that bent in the wrong places, and a mouth full of too many too-sharp teeth— called out like the dying screech of a human for holy, holy, holy revenge.
Scott rolled his shoulders and spread his wings, feathers dipped in wax and golden shedding light across the place he had once called home. He had once burned from hellfire but had emerged as a holy, holy, holy creature of revenge. The song spilled from his lips like water —living water from the fountain of eternal life and blood— and he couldn’t help but call out in echo of the six-winged monster that prowled somewhere deep inside him: holy, holy, holy.
Holy, Holy, Holy.