Earthbound

The wind roared. The white city of the Chorale receded above them, turning into a distant star.

They tumbled through the air, locked in an embrace.

Orien buried his face in Lyra’s neck. "I have you. I have you."

Then, the burning started.

It wasn't painful, strangely. It felt like a fever breaking. Lyra saw feathers tearing away from Orien’s back, turning into sparks of gold fire. Her own gray robes disintegrated, replaced by the feeling of wind on skin.

The golden ichor in Orien’s veins boiled and turned red. The silver light in Lyra’s eyes faded, replaced by a deep, human hazel.

They were a comet, streaking across the sky.

"Lyra," Orien gasped. "I love you."

"Orien," Lyra tried to say. Her throat was raw, but the vocal cords vibrated. "I... love..."

The ground rushed up to meet them—a blur of green and blue.

The light overtook them.

\---

Lyra woke up to the smell of dirt. Wet, rich, loamy dirt.

She gasped, sitting up. Her ribs ached. Her skin felt tender, thin, sensitive to the breeze. She looked at her hands. They were pink. There was a scratch on her thumb, oozing a tiny bead of red blood.

"Orien?" she rasped. Her voice was scratchy, unused, but it was *there*.

A groan from the tall grass nearby.

Orien sat up. He was wearing tattered remains of a tunic. His back was bare. Where the great metal wings had been, there were now two long, pale scars running down his shoulder blades.

He looked at his hands. He flexed them. He picked up a handful of grass and crushed it, smelling the green scent.

He looked at Lyra. His eyes were no longer molten bronze. They were a warm, deep brown.

He scrambled over to her on his hands and knees. He reached out and cupped her face. His hands were warm. Feverishly, wonderfully warm.

"You screamed," he whispered, a grin breaking across his face—a messy, human grin. "It was the most beautiful thing I have ever heard."

Lyra laughed. It was a rusty, croaking sound, and then it turned into a sob. Tears—real, wet tears—spilled down her cheeks.

"I have a voice," she said. It was just a whisper, but it belonged to her.

"We have everything," Orien said. He kissed her forehead, then her nose, then her lips. It wasn't the chaste, terrifying kiss of an angel. It was clumsy and desperate and sweet.

He pulled her up. Their legs were shaky. They stood in a meadow full of wildflowers. In the distance, smoke rose from the chimney of a small cottage.

"Where do we go?" Lyra asked, leaning against him.

Orien looked at the path. He squeezed her hand.

"Wherever we want," he said.

They began to walk, their footsteps heavy and solid on the earth, leaving prints in the mud that proved, finally, that they existed.