Information

Ephraim
Legacy Name: Ephraim

The

Graveyard Mahar
Owner:

orion

Age: 16 years, 9 months, 3 weeks

Born: July 11th, 2007

Adopted: 6 years, 1 month, 3 weeks ago

Adopted: March 11th, 2018

Statistics

Level: 5
Strength: 13
Defense: 13
Speed: 13
Health: 10
HP: 10/10
Intelligence: 0
Books Read: 0
Food Eaten: 0
Job: Stock Worker

What's the matter, boy, lost your wings?

currently traversing the globe with an ankle clinging demon

judgment

He had given his pound of flesh. Placed it on the gilded scale before the eyes of the amphitheater. To repent for my sins, he whispered. Then kneeled, and bowed, eyes reflected back in the polished floors, and waited for the spears and stones to be thrown.

The scale tipped, and settled, and they replied in deep chorus, Not enough. The sins too great.

But that was to be expected. And they turned their backs to him while he stood, and a hand slid around his, and he turned and retreated in acceptance.

Outside, in the cool air the hand was taken back. He would not be led or pushed on his exit. Such is the nature of sin. Such is the nature of failure. He would walk, step by step, to his own end. That was to be expected. Always to be expected. They believed in clean hands among all else.

He was offered no words at the end. No light. The end was a precipice made of dark stone, dry under his bare feet despite the waves that curled over the edge before receding back to dusk. He dropped to his knees without prompting, and an intent wind unwound the robes that hung loose from his shoulders.

Bare, but not stripped. Not yet. Not for another moment. Long enough for the sky to shift and new stars to form and for all of the paths leading up to this cliff's edge to be covered in a sugar thin layer of ash and sand, not erased but obscured. And he refused to shut his eyes as two quiet fingers touched the back of his neck, lifted to settle on a point lower on his spine. Lifted, a firm touch on one shoulder blade, the other.

Then lifted.

Stars continued to form and died and gilded blossoms grew from the earth and withered. And through it all he did not shut his eyes and he did not utter a word while the glory of all he had been bestowed gave way to an ink-filled pool of his choices and transgressions. And words vibrated from the lapping of the waves below then, Was it worth it? And he knew.

Of course he knew.

Here now, at the end, he breathes for the first time. Exhales.

Yes.

Both hands return, and then they take.

He can't know if the white bursts in his vision are the simple result of pain or if the stars are exploding before him, catching fire and burning and burning and burning out one by one until what makes him what he is are torn from his back quill by quill and the silver is pulled from his veins and any light that made the world glow is dimmed and dimmed until nothing remains, and he's on fire but there are no flames, only the shock of ice and the sea filling his lungs and gravity pulling him down and the dark seeping into his pores and the salt stinging his eyes and nonexistent hands pulling sinew from bone and ---

Nothing.

amber

It's pushing 1:30am and he's double parked below the Sheridan El stop, RAPID TRANSIT lit up in the blinking amber light of his hazards. The tracks above have risen to life twice since he pulled up, but among the three dozen or so souls that have hurried or stumbled their way out of the station, hunched with hands in pockets and collars high and lined with faux fur, none move in that aching familiar way.

1:41 and another train roars overhead. Two bells, it moves on. A new group trickles out one by one, and then two bodies (or one). The bodies spill out the doors and turn, fall against the steady weight of one of the doric columns that stands at the entrance. Shadow pressed firm against blinking amber light, ready to devour.

This is to be expected.

Ephraim lays on the horn just once, knows it is heard, knows the charade continues a moment longer just for him; a play borne purely of spite. Then shadow steps away from light, and with a hand on the chest does not allow the other to follow. The second body is a boy today, but forgettable like the rest. His jacket is too light for the cold, lips swollen, eyes dazed. The one still in shadow slips something into the boy's back pocket, straightens his own collar, then heads for the car and gets in.

The boy who was cloaked in amber has reluctantly started north towards Irving, hands in his pockets, backward glances. Ephraim watches him as he fades into the dark.

"I always said you look best in green," states the shadow in the passenger seat, because Shea speaks in cliches, in insults and misdirects. But the hand placed on Ephraim's thigh is soft, as honest as a demon will get, and it is 1:46 and they are late.

"This one's at Graceland cemetery a block over," Ephraim tells him in response. And Shea nods even though he already knows this information, brought it up the day before with a Gimlet in hand and a lot to say of the irony of this particular name.

Ephraim turns off the hazards, puts the car in drive, and departs.

Ephraim did not give up his wings for love, or intimacy, or anything resembling a noble cause. He fell for failure, for jealousy, for the dirty rage that sometimes rises in his veins. He fell for his ego, his naïveté, and even now, wrapped in the possessive arms of darkness, he believes he can have it all.

Home
Part I
Part II
Part III