Chained, p.14
Chained, page 14
After being confined in the abyss for so long—after living in darkness so absolute—it was natural for light to feel unbearable at first.
He let Kreyn hide.
The steady beat of his wings continued, unwavering, carrying them forward—out of the abyss, toward something brighter, something unknown.
And for the first time, Kreyn did not feel trapped by the dark.
Because even with his eyes closed—
He knew he was leaving it behind.
Caelum reached the mouth of the abyss.
The pressure in the air shifted instantly—the oppressive weight of the darkness loosening, thinning, giving way to something lighter, freer. The glow ahead intensified, no longer distant now, but close enough to feel warm against the skin. The boundary between prison and outside stretched before them like a fragile veil.
Caelum slowed instinctively, wings adjusting their rhythm as he prepared to exit fully. He turned his head slightly, about to say something—anything—to warn Kreyn, to steady him before the final transition.
But Kreyn never heard it.
After so long wrapped in darkness, after hours clinging to the steady rise and fall of Caelum’s wings, he had grown too comfortable. The light rushed toward him all at once, unfiltered, brilliant, overwhelming.
His instincts took over.
With a sharp gasp, Kreyn lifted one hand to shield his eyes, squeezing them shut as the brightness stabbed at his vision.
In that split second, he didn’t realize—
That hand had been one of the two holding him.
His grip loosened.
He slid.
“—Kreyn!”
Caelum’s eyes went wide as he felt the sudden shift in weight. His balance faltered midair, wings flaring sharply as he tried to compensate. He twisted instinctively, muscles tensing, fighting gravity with sheer force of will.
But the movement pulled at the parts of his wings that hadn’t fully healed yet.
Pain surged.
White-hot and immediate.
His control shattered.
The air bucked violently around them as Caelum lost stability, his wings faltering for a critical heartbeat.
They dropped.
Kreyn felt the sudden absence of lift, the terrifying lurch of freefall snapping the breath from his lungs. His stomach plunged as the world tilted violently, panic flooding him all at once.
“I—!”
He didn’t finish the word.
Caelum reacted without thinking.
He released the air itself.
Twisting mid-fall, he reached out, fingers closing around Kreyn with desperate force. The moment he had him, Caelum pulled him in tight, wrapping his arms fully around Kreyn’s body.
Then—
He folded his wings around them.
Feathers snapped inward, enveloping them both in a living shield just as the ground rushed up to meet them.
Impact.
The landing was hard—but muted.
Caelum took it all.
The force slammed into his wings first, then rolled through his back and shoulders as they hit the ground. His wings absorbed the worst of it, feathers skidding across earth and stone, momentum bleeding away in a painful but controlled slide.
They came to a stop.
Silence followed—broken only by harsh breathing.
Caelum’s wings slowly loosened, unfolding enough to let air back in. His arms relaxed, and Kreyn slipped sideways, landing against Caelum’s wing rather than the ground.
They lay there, tangled and breathless.
Kreyn’s chest heaved as he dragged air back into his lungs, heart pounding wildly. Caelum lay flat on his back, one wing stretched beneath Kreyn, the other half-curled protectively.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Caelum broke the silence.
“What,” he said between breaths, voice strained but controlled, “did you just do?”
Kreyn groaned softly, turning his head toward him. “The light—” he coughed. “It blinded me. I covered my eyes and—too late—I realized I was only holding onto you with one hand.”
Caelum let out a long breath—half relief, half exhaustion. He lifted one arm and draped it over his forehead, staring up at the sky they had nearly crashed into.
Kreyn remained sprawled against his wing, too shaken to move yet.
For a heartbeat, there was only silence again.
Then—
Caelum laughed.
It was quiet at first, almost disbelieving, as if the sound surprised him more than anyone else. A short breath escaped his chest, then another—until it grew into real laughter, unrestrained and utterly genuine.
Kreyn blinked, confused.
He pushed himself up slightly on one elbow and looked down at Caelum. “Why are you laughing?”
Caelum turned his head toward him, eyes still bright with amusement. “I just remembered your face,” he said. “The exact moment we started falling.”
He laughed again, this time louder, shoulders shaking. “You looked absolutely terrified.”
Kreyn stared at him for a second—
Then snorted.
“Oh,” he said dryly, “that’s funny to you?”
But despite himself, a laugh escaped his own chest. Then another. And another.
Soon they were both laughing—hard, breathless, the tension bleeding away with every sound. The absurdity of it all crashed down at once: the escape, the fall, the near disaster, the fact that they were alive.
The laughter echoed—not into an abyss this time—but into open air.
For the first time, neither of them was afraid.
They lay there, side by side, wings spread, breath slowly returning to normal—two beings who had nearly fallen back into darkness, and instead found themselves laughing at the edge of freedom.
Chapter 15. Freed
“How long,” Caelum asked dryly, his voice carrying a faint trace of amusement, “are you planning to lie on my wings?”
Kreyn froze.
He blinked, suddenly aware of his position—half-sprawled, half-resting against a surface that was very much not meant to be used as bedding.
“Oh—!” He scrambled upright immediately. “Sorry. I didn’t realize I was—”
He pushed himself to his feet, stepping back quickly to give Caelum space. Embarrassment crept up his neck, though it faded almost as soon as it came, replaced by concern.
Caelum shifted beneath him and began to rise as well.
He stood slowly, testing his weight, posture straightening with the same disciplined precision he always carried. For a moment, it looked like he was fine.
Then he spread his wings.
Pain tore through him without warning.
It struck deep—sharp and unforgiving—right along the portions of his wings that had not fully healed from the ritual. The impact from the fall had aggravated the damage, pulling at half-knit tendons and burned feathers that had not yet recovered their strength.
Caelum stiffened.
His wings sagged involuntarily, the muscles refusing to respond as they normally would. He drew in a sharp breath, jaw tightening as he fought to keep the pain from showing too clearly on his face.
Slowly—carefully—he began to fold them back in.
Each movement was deliberate, restrained, controlled through clenched teeth. He moved as though handling something fragile, knowing that one wrong motion could tear open wounds that had only just begun to close.
Kreyn noticed immediately.
“Hey—” he said, stepping closer, concern unmistakable in his voice. “Are you okay? Your wings—”
“I’m fine,” Caelum replied quickly, perhaps a little too quickly. He managed to finish folding them, though the effort left his shoulders tense and his breathing shallow. “They just… need rest.”
Kreyn didn’t look convinced.
“You’re really bad at lying,” he muttered.
Caelum didn’t respond to that. Instead, he glanced around the clearing they had landed in—a quiet forest bathed in soft, natural light. The air was calm here, the ground solid, the danger momentarily distant.
He moved toward a nearby tree and leaned against it, lowering himself into a seated position with a restrained exhale. The bark pressed cool against his back, grounding him.
“I’ll recover faster if I don’t push it,” he added more calmly. “We’ll rest here for a bit.”
Kreyn nodded, relieved that Caelum wasn’t trying to force himself onward.
They sat in silence for a moment.
Then Kreyn stepped forward—just a little—and tilted his face upward.
The sky stretched endlessly above them.
Blue.
Open.
Real.
Light spilled freely from it, warm and gentle, nothing like the harsh glare that had overwhelmed him at the edge of the abyss. Kreyn inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with air that didn’t feel trapped, recycled, or heavy with darkness.
He lifted his arms slowly, almost reverently, stretching them wide toward the sky. His palms opened fully, fingers spread as though trying to catch the light itself.
Warmth brushed against his skin.
He closed his eyes.
For the first time since he could remember—since before memory itself had been stolen from him—there was no chain pulling at his limbs. No pain lashing his thoughts the moment he reached inward. No darkness pressing in from all sides.
Just light.
Just freedom.
Caelum watched him from beneath the tree, saying nothing.
Kreyn stood there for a long moment, arms raised, face tilted skyward, absorbing the simple miracle of it all. The sight stirred something quiet in Caelum—something unfamiliar and unsettling.
Not duty.
Not obligation.
But the undeniable truth that what he had done mattered.
Eventually, Kreyn lowered his arms, a soft, almost disbelieving smile resting on his face.
“It’s… really bright,” he said quietly.
Caelum huffed faintly. “You’ll adjust.”
Kreyn glanced back at him, eyes still reflecting the sky. “I think I already am.”
They stayed there—one resting, one rediscovering the world—beneath open light and living trees, neither of them speaking, neither of them needing to.
For now, resting was enough.
For now, being alive was enough.
“So,” Kreyn said at last, breaking the quiet. His voice carried a strange mix of relief and uncertainty. “What’s next?”
Caelum lifted his gaze from the ground and studied him for a moment—really studied him. Free of chains, standing under open sky, light touching his face instead of darkness. Kreyn looked different now. Lighter, somehow. Less like a prisoner and more like a question left unanswered.
“I’ve taken you out of the abyss,” Caelum said slowly. “The next step would be for you to start remembering. Who you are. Why you were imprisoned. What crimes—if any—you committed to warrant confinement in a place like that.”
The words landed heavier than either of them expected.
Kreyn’s expression faltered.
For a moment, he had forgotten all about that.
Escape had consumed him. Survival. Light. Breathing without pain. The simple, overwhelming joy of being out. Only now, with the danger momentarily distant, did the weight of the unanswered questions come crashing back in.
He swallowed.
“You already know what happens when I try to remember,” Kreyn said quietly. “Every time I even get close, my head feels like it’s tearing itself apart.”
Fear crept into his voice despite his attempt to keep it steady. The memory of that pain—how sudden, how merciless—still lingered in his body like a warning.
“I don’t want that to start again.”
Caelum didn’t look away.
“It won’t,” he said.
Kreyn blinked. “What?”
“You won’t experience that pain anymore,” Caelum repeated calmly. “The abyss was the source of it. Not your memories themselves.”
Kreyn frowned, confusion overtaking fear. “How do you know that?” he asked. “What even is that place? Is it… alive or something?”
The question hung between them, sharp and dangerous.
Caelum remained silent.
Not because he didn’t have theories.
Not because he didn’t have suspicions.
But because answering truthfully meant revealing how much he had already uncovered—and how uncertain he still was about Kreyn’s true nature. Innocent or guilty, victim or threat, anomaly or truth-bearer—Caelum did not yet know.
And that uncertainty made knowledge a weapon.
One he could not afford to hand over lightly.
Kreyn watched his face for a second longer, then exhaled softly.
“Right,” he said, understanding dawning in his eyes. “You don’t want to tell me.”
Caelum didn’t confirm it.
He didn’t deny it either.
Kreyn let it go.
He looked away, gaze drifting back to the sky filtering through the trees, to the light brushing the leaves, to the simple miracle of openness. His shoulders relaxed just a little.
“Can we… do that later?” he asked, almost hesitantly. “The remembering, I mean.”
He glanced back at Caelum, something almost apologetic in his expression.
“We just escaped,” he continued. “Or—well—I just escaped. Can I… just enjoy it for a while? Before we dig into all that?”
The request wasn’t avoidance.
It was exhaustion.
Caelum studied him again, and this time, he understood.
He released a deep sigh, the kind that came not from frustration but from reluctant acceptance. He knew what Kreyn was asking—not for ignorance, but for mercy. A pause. A moment to exist without pain or interrogation.
He would not take that away.
“Very well,” Caelum said at last. “We won’t force it.”
Kreyn’s shoulders sagged in relief.
“But,” Caelum added quietly, “when you are ready… we will return to those questions.”
Kreyn nodded. “Fair.”
For now, that was enough.
They stood there together beneath the open sky—one burdened by knowledge, the other by its absence—both aware that the truth waited patiently.
But not yet.
Not today.
“We’ll rest for a bit,” Caelum said, his voice steady but edged with fatigue. He remained seated against the tree, wings folded tightly despite the discomfort it clearly caused him. “Once my wings recover enough, we move.”
Kreyn turned toward him, the faint relief he’d been carrying faltering slightly. “Move… where?”
“Anywhere but here,” Caelum replied. “You’re still not safe. Not truly. This place is open, yes—but it’s also exposed. It’s only a matter of time before they realize you’ve escaped.”
Kreyn’s brow creased. “They?”
Caelum’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Those who imprisoned you.”
The words settled heavily between them.
Kreyn studied Caelum’s face, searching for cracks, for any sign that he might elaborate—but found none. The angel’s expression was composed, guarded, carefully neutral.
“And I’m guessing,” Kreyn said slowly, “that you really don’t want to tell me exactly who they are.”
Caelum didn’t answer.
That, in itself, was an answer.
Kreyn exhaled quietly. “Yeah. I figured.”
He let the silence stretch for a moment, watching how Caelum leaned more fully into the tree now, posture betraying how badly he needed rest even if his words never would. Then Kreyn spoke again—softly this time, but with intent.
“Why?”
Caelum frowned slightly, eyes opening just enough to glance at him. “Why what?”
“Why are you doing this?” Kreyn asked. He stepped closer, not aggressive, but earnest. “What made you change your mind? Why get hurt—nearly killed—for a stranger? Why take this kind of risk for someone you were sent to execute?”
The questions poured out now, questions Kreyn had been holding back since the moment the shackles fell.
Caelum looked at him for a long moment.
Then he looked away.
“That’s not important,” he said flatly.
Kreyn’s brows drew together sharply. “How can you say that?” he pressed. “Maybe it’s not important to you, but it is to me.”
His voice tightened—not with accusation, but with something closer to frustration mixed with disbelief. “You didn’t have to do any of this. You could’ve walked away. You could’ve killed me. Instead, I’m standing here because of you. Don’t tell me that doesn’t matter.”
Caelum did not respond.
Instead, he adjusted his position against the tree, clearly wincing despite his efforts to hide it. He drew in a slow breath and then said, “I need to rest.”
Without waiting for agreement, he closed his eyes.
The conversation—apparently—was over.
Kreyn stood there for several seconds, staring at him. Anger flared briefly in his chest, sharp and unwelcome. He clenched his jaw, fingers curling at his sides, then forced himself to breathe.
Slowly.
Steadily.
He looked at Caelum again—really looked at him. At the tension in his shoulders even in rest. At the wings that had carried him out of hell at the cost of their own strength. At the faint lines of pain that still lingered on his face despite his composure.
The anger drained, leaving something heavier behind.
Resignation.
Kreyn let out a deep sigh, long and controlled, more to steady himself than anything else.
“Fine,” he muttered quietly, more to the air than to Caelum. “Sleep.”
He turned slightly, gaze drifting back to the open sky, to the light filtering through the leaves. Whatever answers Caelum was withholding, whatever reasons he refused to share—Kreyn knew one thing for certain.
He was standing here because of this man.
And even if Caelum refused to explain himself, Kreyn wouldn’t forget that.
