My body aches.
That son of a bitch, even in my head, the voice rattles - tired.

Absently, the primaries of my wings drag in along the ground.  At some point, the muscles holding them tightly against my frame grew tired, causing them to slacken and fall unnoticed.

You may be wondering why I do not simply fly.  Easy enough to answer for you.

There is a jagged cut running from the once-bleached shoulder down toward my barrel.  Dried blood decorates the muddy remains of that front leg, the wound itself exuding a rancid odor; likely it's infected, but what the fuck do I care?
The large gash finds company in the bruises decorating my frame like badges of brutality.  Each one inflicted by the same bastard's hooves, fueling the anger that resides quietly behind ice cold eyes.  Much like the rest of my life, everything collapsed inward quickly.  I am or was the right hand of the King.  His name is Daa'hn.

Let me take a moment to just say - Daa'hn is a crazy bastard.  Maybe, in the end, we all are.

Daa'hn wears a crown, a very special crown.  Stop the head which spins a thousand lies, the skull of the former King, complete with muscles and rotting flesh and bits of brain matter.  A lovely image, right?  To say the coup we staged was violent would be an understatement.  Still, I remained an important cog in the murderous machine of our new society.  Until, of course, Daa'hn began imagining the soldiers - including myself - were attempting to overthrow him, placing the crown upon my head.

I don't want a fucking crown or a god damn throne, bitterly I repeat my answer to his interrogation in my head.  The part I left out, the part I would never say aloud:
The only thing in this world I want is her to be alive again.

So, the heart in my chest refuses to die.  The face on the back of my eyelids will not fade.  The scars of my mind replay her body moving gracefully through Eikkahn.  Yet, I am alone.

Alone, at least, because of lunatic who began throwing his delusions and hatred at my hide like daggers.
In case you were worried, dear reader, I kicked his ass.  However, it would be wrong to say I left unscathed - physically, anyway.
Emotionally I was the same as ever.
Passive.
Tired.
Quietly angry.

Oh, I was also banished.  Hence why I am walking in this forsaken forest, my mismatched wings dragging quietly over the loam, brushing against trees, losing feathers here and there.  I feel nothing except the dull ache of my bruises and the insistent stabbing of the gash on my shoulder.

Nothing, until the light filtering down from the branches begins to distort into a shape I recognize.  My world quivering, my grip on the earth feeling soft, surreal.  From behind the trunk of a tree, a feminine figure so familiar my heart jumps to my throat, the dry tongue in my mouth hissing as I try to summon a voice to call out.  Instead, I only manage a strangled version of her name.  "Ha...na."

Her face flutters back to me, with warm eyes and a warmer smile.  The warmth floods my face, my body begins to shiver for the heat makes the air around me feel strangely frigid.  A smile, deranged and lopsided, pulls over gritted teeth.  Suddenly, so suddenly, lines begin to form over her figure like cracks.  My eyes watch helplessly as millions of butterflies take flight, the ghost disappearing in the beats of their wings, leaving nothing but the dark shadows of a forest and my heart beating erratically.

Then, my knees give way to the reality of my wounds and I fall, a crumpled mess of muscle and feathers. I am still conscious, if the current state of my sanity can be called such.
What a pathetic waste of space.
"Speaking"