He was sitting on the edge of his bed, hands by his side, clutching the mattress. He knew this would be the line his father couldn’t ignore. Before this, it was easy to look the other way; Clio was never so obvious. But this?

“Clio, we didn’t raise you to ask this way; what’s wrong? Has something happened?” His father asked in a concerned tone.

“Please, drop it, please. It’s one photo. I don’t even know where it came from!” Clio’s voice cracked as he snapped, panic bubbling beneath the surface. He could feel his premature feathers begin to puff up. He gripped the bed tighter. He wanted to look smaller, not bigger. 

He was seventeen, nearly eighteen, and his feathers had finally begun to grow. They were soft and gray with little patches of vibrant green speckled through. It was an uncomfortable and embarrassing process, no doubt. The down feathers make him feel like a child again, but he couldn’t help but admire the way his body changed as they grew in. His eyes grew paler, and his hair lightened. He was getting taller, and it was getting harder to reach the feathers on his neck to preen. Neither of his parents inherited the gene, which made his transformation even more puzzling. Rumors theorized that it was genetic, but who knows? Clio tried not to think about it, but it was always on the back of his mind.

“Your mother found it while cleaning your room! Clio, if you’re entertaining… unnatural thoughts—”

“I’m not!” Clio’s voice cracked, panic surging. 

“I’ve never thought about a-anyone that way. Never! Only… Regina! Regina—” He swallowed hard, his fists clenching at his sides, “W-we’re dating, she’s my partner!” His father’s gaze bore into him, his expression as unmoving as ever. Clio wondered whether he had also found the magazine the picture came from.

“She doesn't have wings! What will people think? That you've convinced her to marry you?” He asked scowling.

“No! Wait- wait, yes, exactly. They will think she settled,” he sputtered out. He stopped trying to cover his tracks; this was damage control. Clio was an attractive young man, but his wings overshadowed his looks. Equally as beautiful, but less popular. Less acceptable. His father sighed heavily and wandered to the other side of the room. He pointed aggressively at the old brass crest that he mounted on Clio's bedroom wall. The crest depicts Helion rising above a darkened lower hemisphere split by the silhouette of Bell Ben at its center, the insignia of Axion. 

“You are my son. My only child. You were born under the banner of Axion—don’t forget what that means! My parents inherited this earth, passing that responsibility to me, and now, it’s yours. Your mother couldn’t have more children.” His tone softened, but the weight of his words crushed any comfort they might offer. “I've worked too hard for this family’s name to give it away.  Feathers or not, no matter what you do behind closed doors, keep it quiet and give me a grandson. A proper one. Understand?”

Clio nodded numbly, his chest tightening. For that, his father smacked him hard across the mouth.

“That was a yes-or-no question, son.” Clio tasted the blood that began to pool in his cheek. He wasn’t surprised by the slap, but rather by its intensity. For a moment, it made him lose his breath. He forced himself to look his father in the eyes and whispered, 

“Yes, Father. I understand,” he said. His father nodded and left his room, slamming the door behind him.

Alone, Clio found himself thinking of his second family. Regina and Clement—the people who made his life bearable and remind him of everything he couldn’t have. Would they think less of him if they were to see him in this state? 

He wanted to be free, to live his life with Regina, and to be without regret. To be happy and carefree. Clement was a reminder that he could never be who he truly is. Not out loud, not yet. Not in this life. He wondered about the future. I bet wings become normal, he thought; I bet we are normal, too. 

Clio had known Regina for nearly his whole life. They met when they were eight and have been friends ever since. He couldn’t precisely remember when Clement entered the picture, maybe when they were around twelve. It was way before his shift. She never got to see his wings. She and Regina clicked instantly and had a close bond. He had never thought it was odd. Regina told him about their first kiss in a tree they used to climb for fun, and he remembered feeling happy for her because he’d never seen her so excited. They were good for each other. He only thought it was odd that there wasn’t a boy there sometimes when they were together. 

He also remembered telling Regina about the first time he had a crush on a boy. He was in Clio’s Common Axic class. He wrote the dreamiest poems; his eyes were blue like the sea, and his hair was darker than midnight. Regina just smiled and listened to Clio, and they would jabber for hours on end. She told him to be careful with this boy and warned Clio about him: “Dreamy doesn’t mean kind, Clio. Not to people like us,” For some reason, he never forgot that. He remembered when Regina and Clement met and saw how it would feel. So he never did say hello to the boy in Axic.

There they were again, talking. Except now they were adults, both twenty-two with no ambition to move on with life. Clio had started training at his father's company, but Regina stayed home. Clio was home on an exodus when he sprung the question on her. 

“Will you marry me, Regina?” They had talked about it before, if— what if, it was safer in this world to be together than apart? Even if their pieces didn’t exactly fit, they truly loved each other. A deep love, a true love. She was a part of him, and if he couldn’t find his Clement, he didn't want anyone else to have Regina. Selfish or not.

Her head tilted slightly, curiosity flickering in her gaze. They are on the patio of the house Clio’s father bought him as a congratulatory gift for taking the understudy job. The porch light bright behind them, shading half of their faces. It’s a nice family home, two floors with a small backyard in the southern Blackrock. A bit of a commute to work, but he didn’t mind the exercise. The living room was the selling point— vaulted ceilings. Perfect for a perch. They are lucky to have a home of their own. No shared bathrooms or peeling wallpaper. He slicked his feathers out behind him, allowing them to spread across the floor. He ran his fingers over the coarse grit of the patio floor, using it to file the jagged edge of his thumbnail. He needed to get more furniture. 

Was this a mean thing he was doing? Regina was stubborn enough to make her own choices, but was this forcing her into one so soon? He finally met her gaze. Her eyes are nearly the same shade as his own now, he noticed. 

“Will you go back to work? Your father can't enjoy this break very much,” she asked. Clio smiled.

“Eventually,” he joked. Regina rolled her eyes. “Yes, I will. I will always provide for you,” he responded.

“We’ve joked about this before, Clio. Are you serious?” She asked. He exhales, struggling to find the right words. 

“It’s safer for both of us… And I love you, Regina. Just not in the way a husband is meant to. But I can’t imagine my life without you.” Her expression softened, and she smiled softly at him.

“And your father?” She asked accusatorily. Clio’s lips thin. 

“He wants an heir. This way, I can give him what he wants. And you’ll be safe… If what happened to Clement happened–” Regina’s hand reached for his, cutting him off by squeezing it gently. 

“I’ve always loved you, Clio. Maybe not the way a wife is meant to, but I’ll stand by you for as long as I live. My answer is yes.” He smiled widely and wrapped her in a full hug, emerald wings enveloping her closely. He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead.

“I can’t wait to sample drinks!” He said enthusiastically. 

“Well, we can sample some right now, I’ve got a bottle of orange inside!” She said, laughing. They pull away from their hug, and Clio gives her a quick kiss on the cheek. He stood up, helping her to her feet, and opened the door to their new home.

Before bed, Clio preens his feathers—every night, molt or not. A sheet of hammered reflective metal hangs against the wall, dull enough to soften the edges of his reflection, catching the light in uneven ripples. He stood before it and turned his wings toward the glow, watching how the light slid over them. He admired his feathers, or hated them, depending on the day. The light bounces off his feathers in neat lines, creating colorful prisms within them. Every detail on every feather is perfectly symmetrical. He ran his fingers along the curve of one feather, smoothing it down until the vanes knit together again. His own body still felt foreign to him sometimes, even years after his shift. 

Yellow bleeds into blue. Blue into red. When he shifts, the colors reorganize like a flag caught mid-wind. He brought his arm in front of him. His hand was unrecognizable from childhood. Feathers sheath the backs of them now, long and sleek along his forearms, swallowing most of his skin. What remains felt incidental. He turns, angling a smaller mirror to see his back. The feathers begin just below the nape of his neck and spill downward in a careful gradient—green at rest, blue flashing when extended, yellow hidden beneath like a private sun. His wings themselves were also huge. His wings nearly spanned the width of the room. When he stretched them fully, the air seemed to shift around him.

He looked and admired and stared and repented. 

He never hated himself; he was rather confident. But sometimes, he would look in the mirror wrong, and hate that shade of green. Or his wings made him look too big. Or he would remember what someone on the street said. An unholy accumulation of bird and man. Some believe it was an omen of drought, that our lands will dry up and only people with wings will be able to escape. Clio thinks it was more likely the government had something to do with it, even if it was unwise to say that aloud. 

He brushed his feathers flat, one by one, and thought of his father’s stories. This world was larger than Earth, that's what his father told him. His father loved to talk about Old-Earth history, but it was all heresy. No one knows Earth's history for certain, but some things are agreed upon, like that Terra was larger. But how much larger? Could he fly around Earth faster than he could Terra? Could he fly around Terra? He looked at his chest. He smoothed his chest where the feathers taper off above his stomach and wondered, not for the first time, how far they were meant to carry him.

A light knock startled him.

“Come in,” he called, standing too fast.

Tristan pushed open the door, a grin already breaking across his face. Clio met him halfway, laughing quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head and then, softer, to his lips. 

Tristan rolled toward the bed and patted the mattress. Clio sat down, facing the mirror. Tristan shifted to the bed, pushing his chair aside, and moved his focus to Clio. Tristan began to preen the feathers he couldn’t reach, and Clio's wings fluffed under his touch. Suddenly, the way his feathers looked didn’t matter all that much.

The wedding was simple, a quiet ceremony that felt more like a pact between comrades than lovers. But it worked—for them, and for the world watching. Regina deserved more. His father offered as much as they needed for a decent party after he heard Clio was getting married. Regina wanted it to be small, though, and Clio respected her wishes. 

Tristan moved to the nearby university and got a small apartment there in a shared living arrangement. Clio returned to his job at his father’s business—the way his dad always wanted. Metalwork, he would tell people, but the whole truth was the ‘family business’ produced metal for the war front. Bellforge Industries. Responsible for the war alarm, Bell Ben, and the First Fire. It was a deeply divisive company. Clio hoped to change things when he took over. They did build things, but those ‘things’ are bunkers, not toasters.

All three are happy together, understanding each other. Tonight, Tristan stayed at his apartment. He came over nearly every night, but on nights he had to study, he would stay home to avoid distractions. Tristan was always the most responsible and had excellent grades because of it. This system also helped avoid detection, as it would look rather strange if Clio’s ‘best friend’ spent every night there. Even though it was common for families to move in together during this difficult time. He desperately wanted to come over that night, but Clio refused. He had already spent the night the day before and stayed the afternoon the day before that. 

Clio and Regina listened to the radio while Regina cooked ashribbon pasta in the kitchen. He could hear the water boiling and smell the river garlic and ash peppers cooked on the stovetop. She was a much better cook than she was as a teen. He could remember some of the horrors she would come up with in hopes of crafting a good meal. Half-baked pastries and overcooked rice, which she tried to say was on purpose. It did make for good rice cakes. He sat, half-lost in thought, watching her move through the kitchen with a dancer’s grace. The faint hum of the corded radio underscored her motions, each step deliberate, each twirl reminding him of the princess he’s always believed her to be. It was a cold evening, and the longwinds had started.

…As the draft begins, we are reminded of the strength of our nation. How blessed we are to have what others want so badly, they will kill for it…

She put the pasta in the water, added salt (she must be stressed to be using it so frivolously), and stirred to make sure all the pasta was submerged. Clio wondered how far his wings would take him. He wondered if he grabbed Regina right now, if he would have the endurance to migrate them both across the forest. He knew they made fresh pasta there, and could practically smell it through the pine. He often daydreamed about foreign foods he had yet to try. It also made him sad to remember that he will probably never explore the world as he wanted. He wondered whether fathers like him were across the trees and deserts. If they had been born somewhere else, would Regina still be alone? 

…Glory to those who give their bodies to the Front. Glory to Helio, who guides our soldiers home. Glory to Axion, our found homeland…

She began to work on the sauce. She added some fish-bone broth to deglaze the pan where she was caramelizing rootfroot. He wondered where Tristan was in his research. He was studying tonight for his thesis, studying the correlation between disability in their generation and the appearance of ‘wings’ and other animalistic qualities. He wished he had gone to Tristan’s apartment tonight instead, just to ask questions. It was fascinating learning about it all. Hearing him talk so passionately. Clio thought about Tristan’s smile—the small gap between his teeth and his lips that curved slightly crooked, soft, and full. That smile lit up the room like a lighthouse guiding Clio home. He felt his feathers puff up, thinking about him. For a fleeting moment, he imagined Tristan here instead of across town, their lives simpler and unrestricted. But reality grounded him as he glanced at Regina bustling in the kitchen. He loved Tristan with a quiet desperation, but he owed Regina his loyalty. She has given up just as much as he has to build this fragile illusion of a life.

…As previously mentioned, the first to be called upon for their service are those between eighteen and twenty-five years of age, with the full wing mutation. Eighteen to twenty-one for those without…

She added the ingredients together, along with half a cup of the pasta water. She added the slow-cooked ribbonfish. She had on embers, flipping it consistently all day. She stirred to combine and left it to simmer as she pulled out a loaf of emberbread. Wind pushed against the thick windows in pulses, creating a natural sound of static.

He wondered about the world again. His place in it. All the things that had to fall into place for him to be sitting here, daydreaming about his boyfriend while his wife cooked their dinner. For him to be given the miraculous gift of feathers, and to have enough to care for them all. He hadn’t noticed he had started to cry while watching her. 

...Today we draw twenty dates that we will repeat throughout the day… here we go. November twenty-sixth, May thirty-third, January fifteenth…

She sliced the loaf of bread she must’ve baked while he was at work. Knowing she made it made him want to take a bite right out of the side. His feathers ruffled. As she sliced, the voice named another date.

...May twenty-seventh, April fourth, February ninth, December twenty-seventh…

The knife slipped from her hands, clattering onto the floor. Regina’s face went pale, her eyes locking onto Clio’s with a dawning horror. The static outside seemed to grow louder.

...June fourteenth, June twenty-first, August thirty-fifth, and lastly, November eleventh…

She stared at Clio in disbelief.  He stood up from the barstool he sat in and made his way around the counter. Without saying a word, he held Regina by the nape of the neck and brought her close to his chest, embracing her fully. He wrapped his wings tightly around them and nuzzled his face into her hair. She screamed, the sound raw and guttural, cutting through the air before her tears soaked into his sleeve. They dropped to their knees on the kitchen floor, and he allowed her to scream into his shoulder. Her anguish echoes the storm he felt raging outside the window. 

“I promised not to cry,” She squeaked out. He shook his head and softly shushed her. He stroked her hair as she clutched his shirt tightly, balling the fabric in her fist.

He thought of the forests he’s always dreamed of crossing, of his wings carrying them far away. For a fleeting moment, Clio allowed himself to imagine. If he took Regina now, how far could they get? Could he carry them both to freedom? But even as the thought flickered, reality pressed down on him. The world was too heavy, their chains too strong. He tightened his hold on Regina as if sheer force of will could keep them both safe. But deep down, he knows—just as she does—that this world would never let them fly free.

Sleep, my love, sleep,

Two moons are your eyes,

“Over here, he’s injured! Broken wing!” Clio shouted, rushing over to what looked like an injured falcon. Shit, shit, am I yelling at anyone? He thought as he quickly opened his bag and adjusted his helmet. The helmet on his head doesn’t fit. His own split open hours ago. This one still smelled faintly of someone else’s sweat. He doesn’t let himself think about the body he took it from. He chose a soldier who was face down, so he didn’t have to look them in the eye while he looted their body.  

It was still dark, and his eyes had become worse at night. He could see movements, squirming bodies on the ground, or red flashes from metal on metal. Sometimes, when there were multiple shots, it looked like glowing eyes running circles around him.

They called him the ‘flying rainbow’. In the air, his wings were giant targets. However, the green overcoat of his feathers was good camouflage on the ground, and he could air-evacuate casualties if he didn't fly too high. He was originally assigned as an aerial soldier but was moved to medical before he deployed.

The soldier was young. Wing shattered at the joint, bone exposed—no stretcher access. No transport. No morphine left. He opened his pack. He couldn’t fly with her; he was exhausted. The hacksaw he used was already stained.

“Take a deep breath and bite this,” he said, wrapping a rock in gauze and pressing it between her teeth. The soldier was crying, and despite trying to ignore their faces, he saw hers. It was a girl with green eyes. Darker than Regina’s, he thinks, before tearing away his gaze and sawing at her upper wing, cutting through the feathers and into her arm. Blood flows out of the wound, covering her back in a thick red cloak. 

“No, no, no!” she screamed, spitting the gauze out of her mouth, “don't take them, don’t take them!” She yelled and yelled. The poor soul made it nearly all the way through the amputation awake before finally passing out. He wrapped what was left of her arm and wing. He could hear people asking for help from every direction. Where was he supposed to go next? It didn’t matter; he just had to get to the next person. He crawled back to his feet, leaving the girl behind him. The gods will keep her.

The birds don't cheep,

And night creatures rise.

The next one was a gutshot. Nothing to cut. Nothing to save. He pressed a cloth against the wound and lied when he said, “You’ll be all right.” As he trudged along, he could feel his wings getting heavier. 

Sleep, my love, sleep

Before sunshine appears

The next person didn't have wings, but they still had a knife. They stabbed Clio in the left side of his chest. He landed face up, staring at the sky. It was dark, but it was turning light. It was almost morning, and Helio was threatening to rise over the horizon. He could feel an enormous pressure when he tried to breathe, but didn’t feel much pain. 

Despite the snow landing softly on his face, it felt like a warm evening. Not snow, ash. It didn’t snow this far north. He wanted to see the snow; he heard you could build shelters from it. The moons Tay and Kri are clear in the sky, but barely still visible in the ever-growing light. He missed his bed. Well, he won't miss much soon. The warm weather felt nice on his skin, but didn't feel like home. He could taste the ash as it fell into the corners of his mouth, the last kiss of war. 

Collapse in a heap,

For a thousand years.

He knew he could hold on just long enough to see his final sunrise. He wanted to feel the sunshine on his skin one more time. It hurt, it hurt a lot, but he stretched his arms out to his sides as far as he could. His wings span across the ground, his yellow undercoat mirroring the sun itself, like broken sails. His left wing slowly became red as his feathers absorbed the blood. He wanted to flap them, but this was the best he could do.

It was quiet. He was quiet; the world was fading on him. But the sky was so beautiful. Warm shades of nature push the darkness of night to the edges of his vision. Oranges and red. He could practically feel himself flying up there, blending into the background unbothered and untouched. But even now, staring at the clouds grazing beams of color lazily, he felt free. He began to hum as Helio took his soul.

Sleep, my love, sleep,

Clouds cover the sky,

A feeling bone-deep,

And a kiss goodnight.

“I wonder what time it is,”  he murmured to himself, “I think Tristan is coming over for breakfast.”