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Anger

Chunks of masonry crumble. His body punches a hole into the facade, speed fueling him as he smashes through stone with the iron wings tucked to his sides. Blocks of debris crumble in his wake, and then he’s airborne from the city, the ancient streets shrinking to miniatures.

Because the vault is an immortal layer set apart from the library, human patrons cannot feel the blast, much less witness its cause. However, mythical outcasts can. Every banished figure in this region would bear witness if not for one thing. The God of Anger hadn’t been appointed leader of The Dark Fates’ elite crew merely for his sense of duty. He had proven himself through tireless training, had been anointed with a strength exceeding all deities outside of his crew. Therefore, only members of The Fate Court outrank him in vitality. Aside from them, Anger possesses the legendary might of a titan.

Forged in fire powder, the wings supply him with unparalleled velocity, spurring Anger into the hemisphere like a comet. Impossible to discern. Impossible to identify. Nothing but a prolonged slash of lightning to the eyes of any deity on the ground.

The almighty Stars await him. How often they’ve hidden their motives, never justifying their actions, scarcely predictable. Always, their greater intentions are cloaked in mystery.

Among them lives one of the largest stars. A haven from storms, a place impervious to fear and weakness. Accessible strictly by flight, that scorching celestial body hones more power than he can ever hope to acquire.

Yet finally, he doesn’t wish to. For his fate is not his alone.

Wonder. Envy. Sorrow.

And Merry. His brilliant goddess.

His destiny is their destiny. Their strength is his strength. By comparison, the wings do not matter.

The plumes snap outward with an echoing slap of noise, scarves of wind bracing the panels. He fires vertically, shearing through clouds, tearing them apart like strips of gauze. The flame tattoos sizzle up his arms, and sweat mounts across his flesh.

Constellations disperse pinpricks of white light, shining brighter than in any other place in the mortal realm. This is why the sun’s rays penetrate with acute intensity here. From any other location, he would need to cross the galaxy to reach his destination. But from The Celestial City, it is a quicker voyage. He merely needs to touch the traveling light, graze its solar heat from a reduced distance, to experience its effect.

The city condenses to a speck of light. Oxygen thins, and the temperature drops, both fatal to a human but immaterial to a deity. Sound vanishes, every pinch of noise sucked into a vacuum, but for the blistering crackle of his feathers, the tips of his wings sparking as if tapped by a blowtorch.

Anger growls in pain but keeps going. Gravity releases its grip as he torpedoes heavenward.

Then it appears. A distant orb that burns among The Stars. A golden sphere writhing in flames that would take eons to reach. The sight tosses resplendent beams across the firmament, which will pour into the city by dawn.

Anger’s breath seizes. He slows, floating before the otherworldly view.

Yet, he’s underwhelmed. For he has discovered something warmer, brighter, lovelier. A goddess who glows like a shooting star.

In the library, she had seen the look on his face. She’d known what he was about to do.

Her face manifests, as clear as day. It’s the only source of light that matters, the sun paling in comparison.

With an ambitious growl, Anger jets forward, surging toward the sweltering mass. His wings beat at a furious pace, rage and love driving him. Terror claws up his throat, its texture as slippery as ice, yet his defiant heart crushes the emotion to a pulp.

Of his own free will, Anger has created these wings. Of his own free will, he has the choice to destroy them.

Fuck it all, this is going to hurt. But so be it.

The sun roars with heat, its rays cutting across the starlit abyss. Anger targets one of the shafts and lunges, loosing himself like an arrow, his muscles searing.

Aim for the light.

He strikes true, crashing into the beam. A scalding sensation lays siege to his flesh, making a mockery of Anger’s trifling fear of storms, for this is a much angrier force. His skin bubbles, the wings combust into flames, and a howl saws through his lungs.

His body arches, head flinging back as the sun devours the feathers. Iron congeals, liquid dripping from the wings, the panels sagging, melting like wax. Screams erupt from his lips, splitting him in half like a twig.

At last, a great burden drops from his shoulder blades. It leaves a vacancy behind, an amputated feeling.

Then he’s plummeting.

His body is a frail entity, as weightless as a plume. Although the flight had been quick, the drop is swifter, his body tumbling like a meteor. And while deities only die in battle, surviving this much of a descent is debatable.

Icarus, he thinks with mild irony. Mortal myths are closer to the truth than Anger had believed. But like a certain demon once said, the story ends where it should technically begin.

The human tales chronicle Icarus’s plunge from the sky. Yet they fail to elaborate on the crash. What happened when he struck down? Where did he end up? That is the true start of his journey.

This isn’t a fall toward his demise. It’s a return to her .

Provided he doesn’t break his fucking back when he lands.