Lost. Lost. Ļo҉s̨t. W̛̬̱̜̞̫h̡̦̤̣͕̖̞e̳̬̗̠̣͎ṛ̩͎̳͢ͅe̩̭̝͍͔ ̫i̗͖̜̯̩͉s̴͓̥̙ ͉̥̪̳̮̯ͅs͇͕ḥ̵̩̠̲ẹ̱̬͚?͚͍ L͖̗̰o̡̻̰͉s̭̳͘ṯ͔ ̼̮̭̰͟h͇̜͍̼͖̕e̩̼͙͈̦͡r̸̮͚̬̙͍̤ ̷̖̫͇a̱͓͚g̷̞͕a̭͔͝i͇̮̜͓n̞̯͕͚̝ ̬͎̣̟͇͎͈i͏̖͍̹ț̴̟̱̫ͅ'͜ş͇ ̤y̧͕̮o͎̫u҉r̰̗̞̟̼̳̣ ̴̩f̜̭̫͔͉á͎̝u͈̘͔̜͚͓l̶t̺͉͟ͅ ̯̜͇̪̻͉̜h͚͎o̖w̱̹͖͞ ̴̹̻͚c̨̰̥̠o͓̬͔̹̳ṳ̩̙̤̝l̻͜d̸̦̖ ͇̙̯̖͇̬ͅy͙̥̺͍͇͓ͅou̲͍̱̫ ̷̗̭̫̬͕̱l̩̣̥e͓̥̺̥ṱ͍͎ ͇̠̫̱͇͖͠h̵̩̞͕e̳̺̰̱̼̟ͅr̠̫͓͇ ̷̪͍͓͕̥d̵̦̪o͚͈͍̭̬̟̮w͓n҉̣͍ ͘a̭̘g̟̩͠a̡̖̠̹͍̙̞i̻ͅn͎͟ ̷͎͍̬͍͚w̡̮̪h͡a̠̥̦t͕͓͈͙̥ ̙͞ͅi̦̤̜̩s̞͕̪͖͡ ̸̗͈͔̣w̱̬̫̦̻r̬̭̰̜̱̰o̮̤̦̟̜͈n͙g̵͉̗̺̳̗ ̺͖͇̥͢w̫i̧̭̣̗̙̰̹̗t̟̭̲̖ͅh ̞͙͔̻y̬̦̟͍̘o̶͙̫͉̭̜u̲̹͍͔ ̧͔̩̜̠̝͕P̙O̯̬͞I̯S͏͖̟͔̣̠O̢̗̲̝N͕͍̠̦͟ ̞͙̳͞h̦̳̣ow̸̠̥̻̲ ͎d̀a̢͔̖r̜̝̳͖͎͇ȩ͉͉͚̦͙̝ ͎͉̥y͖̮o̝̟̘u͍̫̺̮̞̞͘ ͈͖̟͇̥͙wḁ̭̝l̬̱̬̕ḵ̴̜ ̡̞̤̹͈̲̙̻a̰̘̰͘m̦̦̙̣̤̲ǫ͕̝̠̗͓n͓͉̜g͉͈s̶t͍ ̵a̖̕ǹ̤̺͇͓g̦̙͝e̫͙̠͟ͅļ͎̜̺ṣ̻͍ͅ h͍ͦ̎ͅo̼͇̜̻͚͍̤ẉ͈̹̂ͬ̈̅̀ ̨̮̜̳͔͈̱͈ͦͨ̾d̰͐̈̉̿̒͝a̱͚̹͕̹͌r̡̙̯̠͇̤̩͙ͮ͋̉̆e̴̫͈̬͚̖̥ͯ͒͗̊͆̋ͅ ̨̼͉̤͚͙̦͋̀ͅy͎̰̗̲̫̟ͣ̾ͯỏ͕̮ͯ̊͝u̫̞ ̸̦͓̜̓̀ͤf͎̻̳͎̽̇ͤͪ͐̈́̎ͅl͋ͫ̊̓ã͓͕͇̼͚̺͓ͬ̀͆̌́s͔͉̟̭̩̗ͪh͙̀̏ͧ̓ͩ͡ ̢̲̼͍̲̞̬̍y̴̥͙͇̻̐͌ͯ͊̋oͧ͒ͮ͐͒͑u̴͔͒̈́͋r͕̭̯͈̊ͬ́ͯͣ ̷͈̥̰ͩs̴̼̪̞̓͗͆ͤ̽̈i͊̋̚҉̗ǹ̥͇͈̇̿͝ ̣̼͕̗̱̓̇ǟ̧̘m̰̰̓ͪ̐̒ͮȍ̷̰͉͕̟̺͙͂̿̃̃͌̒n̦̞͙̹̮g̢̼ ̰̤͈̺ͧͦ̀t̺̞͙̝͍͕̄̒̎̀ͅh̡̲͚͑̃̉̽͋̚ḙ̬̮̮ͩͬ̐̉ͬ̅m͔̬̖̯̣͈ͤͨ̀ ͕̩̰͙̹̫̓̊ͪͪͅP̲͎̻͈̩͇͈̉̉̏̄̃ͩ͗Ỏ̢̻͎̞̯̝͊I̶͇̣̘̤̤̗ͫͬS̥̲ͪ̏ͥ͐̔̒Ȏ̡͈̮̮̇̅N̜͂̿̌ͬͧ̚ ̨̦͍̭̞̦̾͊̓͐ͭ͑y̪̲̖̗̦̳̿o̷̩̱̬̰͂͋ͅu̴̖̾͛ͧͬ̽͊ͅr͓̺̬͎ͮ ̵̱̺̳͓͉ͨ͂̏̂͋̐v̶̞̺̘̠̣̮͈̋̀͌e͉͓̻͕̥͘į̤̮̥̪n̼̜̟̂̓̽̎̓͡s̵̮͔͔̹̞ͧ̐͌ ̖͎̙̘̟̱̗ͤ̋̓̊ͭ̂̚̕o̩̾̌ͧ͒̃̓͡n͇̬ͅl̳̇̋ͩ̊ͩͬ͟y̰̖͌ͬ͐ ̪̣̘̈́ͅͅc̯͕͟a͉̺̥ͥ̚͢r̳̱͓̩̯͓̦͑ṙ͈͖̦͇͗̌̈͆͝ẙ̡̞̣͙͔̠ͩ ̗̬̯͙̙̌̄̎̍ͪ̍b̈͛̅̏ͬ͊̊i̖̞̟͖̥̥͍͑ͮͪͩ̿lȅ̝̟̰̭ͪͭ͌͒ ͕̑̅á͔̻̜̱̤̳̈́̅̋̽̇̌n͍̮ͦ̂́̇̿ͤ͌ď̮̮̺͓͔́͒ ̤̻͓̥ͪͪ͛ͅy̯̱͍̘̟ͪͨͧ̊o̹͓̮̹͖̩̖͐̓ͤ́̾u̖̞̹̤̿̐͋͐̕r̩͔̱ ̭̞͕̣̻̞̅̄ͅm̦̹̠͕̳͉̻̆i̢̘̥ͪ̎͐̔ͅn̴̦͕͈͌͋̌̐́̾d̪̮̰͓̰͈̅ͨ̿ͤͪͯ͑͘ ̱̭̰̩ͥ̓́̽̍̊͘i͐ͩ̿s͕̩̦͈̞͌̔ͬ̈́͂̀ͅ ͉̪͈̭̹̩͂̑̅̃ͧͥͬ͢ẻ̹̗͛̀͛̆̚m͔͇̩̗̖̣̟͌p̎ͧͮͩ̅͂̚͠t͈̗̺̦͇̯̜̋͑y̗͕͖̻̐ͫ̄̾͢ ͖̩̒ͩͮ̈́̓͗ë̇̈́̆ͮ̀m̤͉̤̞͝p͔̳͖̻̺͕͚ͮ̋ṭ͙̤ͮͅy̭͇͚̻ͮͧ͑͠ ͇̠͎͇ͣ̑̈́̾͊͢y͚̳̠̹̒̑̿͆̅̾o̧̥̞̗̤̪ͯ́u̢̟̠̱͙̹͉̱r̢̩͋ͧ̒͋ͥͣ̓ ̡̯͕̟̮̹ͅm͓͚̔i̺̥͍ͨ̍͛̅̋͢n͙̑ḓ̳̼̗͔̠̟̍͐ͤͭ̍ͬ͟ e̢͚̭m̘͕̜̜̝p̡̟ͅt̥͎̻y̱̟ e̫m̡͕̪͚͉p̼̤̦̥͖ty͕̫̥̮̫̜͟ͅ ̙è̝̹̲͕͓̣ͅm̡̥͎͙̭p̲̹̤̳̲̬ͅt̲y̦̩̲͉̲ ̨̩̫̭̙̬̰ỵ̧̹̱̗ọṷ̖̬͙͕̝̝r̝̥͍̼̝̕ ̠̞͔m̗̺̣i̢͔̰͍͍n̡̺̤̳̘d̯͖ ̬̳̠̘͠á̻n̶̪̰d͈̭̞ ҉͉e͞v̦͉̹̺͜e̡̪͚̳r͔̟̳̲͇y̦̲̠t̰̲̣͙̝̙̥́h̞̼̪͙̼i̗͉̻̺̩n̤̺̬͔͓̻ͅg̳͔̺͔̖͚ͅ ̨͈̙̞̤͔̲ͅw̲̕i͏̹̺̰̱̙̙̻l̼̻̬̻̝̻l̶̖̮͈̘ ̲̯͎͈͞b̜e̤̺


okay.

Orion spread out like a disease, a wasteland, full of nothing, nothing, nothing but the angels he had to protect, protect from the dark, the dark that used shadow for ripping and tearing and destruction instead of cloaking and cloaking and cloaking and hide and peace. Peace. He had to find - make - capture - cloak peace. The herd was safe, asleep. The dark was gone, for now, on vacation, not here. But he couldn't track down the light, because if it wasn't her - i͇̘̫̳̝ͅț̷̠ ͔͍̹͔̩̝͜isṋ̲̪'̬̙͟t̤̝͇͉̻̰̺ h̢͙͚͈̬̹͎e̸͔͉r̬ i̢̱̗͍̰͈̩t̢͓̲̙̖̳ ͈͔͚̰̻̝̣n̨̺̼͇̲̭̰e͉͔ṿ͇͉̤e͍̳̭̖̼͠r̗͕̺͔ ̞̯̯͚w̶̤͕͕̲͔̯i̱̼̻l̴͈̟̥ͅl ̙́b͉ḙ́ - then he'll shut down, down, down again.

He can't afford to.

So he searches for something else. The gem embedded in his chest weeps ink, oozes it. It drips down his front like grease, stains his hooves, falls to the floor with a dull tink, like it's heavier than any liquid should be. He can't hear it - you can't hear much of anything, can you - but he can feel it sliding through the cracks left in the burn wounds, covering over seething pustules, a balm for blistered fat.

His brain hurt.

A dull, thumping migraine had formed between his eyes, hammering away at grey matter like sharp-edged fists. It didn't used to - maybe? - did it? - did it ever hurt this way ḭ̡̹̟̣̖͈t̀ ̫̣̗̰̙̟̤d͔̲̻̦̤̖i̩͉̤̘d̜ ̱͚͍̯̮y̰̥͚̠̖͇̫o̦̼͕ų ̰r̲̗̠e̜̹͖̜͟ͅm̷̬̤ȩ̹̣͖̗̙̮m̵̪̹b̵̰̝̪̟͚e̼̖̰̝͙̺̫r ̛͕̮ḓ̺͙̯̯̭͜o͎̜̪͚n̠̪͎̹͞'̤̬t ̴͎̥y͞o̟̩̣u̮̞͓̮̳͞ - it didn't. The hunger gnawing at his guts is old, but the pain in his head is new, new, new. The stars blink down at him, and he must have fallen, tripped, because there's cold stone under his head and the sky is shining above, grinning, sneering. H͠o͡w cu̕te I̪͡ ̮̼b̪̬̥̬et҉̬̪̪̪̝̤͇ ̹̮y̭̭o̷̘u̮̖͔̲͔ ̵̘̩̜̜̦̝͍t͚̞̻͉̖̩̱h̲̻o͔̞̟͙͖̺̰u͖̬̬g̫̜h̰͍͓̜ͅt̫͚̣ ̻̠̙ýo̝̫̳͙u̷͖̦̟̪ͅͅ ̤͓͔c̷͖͚̳o̧̜͙̯u͝l̼͓͈̞͟d̤̮̰̪ ̪͙̳̞̲sa̞͚̩v̦͓̤̘̥̹̥e̫̻͉̲̩̗ͅ ̰̩̱̙̱h͔̼̬͙͕̹̜͞e̢̮̫̲̪̺r͚̫͍͚̙͡ b̴̬͎̼̠̣u̪̭͎̞͇̝̲t̶ ̘̤̦̮͎͓ͅw̢̮̳h͔͍͝y̷͔̝̩͖?̶͈̠̻ ̛͎̫̤W͍͠h͓̞̙̮y̹͚̺̝ w̭͠o̸̪̪͙̦ͅu̢̙̭͉̯͖̙l̦d̦͓̰̞ ̞̖y̧̱̞o̪̮͚u ͙̭̖̼͈s̙͇͎̥̪̮av̰̼ͅe̴̹̪͙̤̩̟̲ ̣̣̻̖̰̯͞h̤͖ͅe̶̪͚̰r͓?̜̙̣̼̞̻ ̸̯̺͕̯͉̳ͅY̪͔o҉̙͈̜̮͓̦ͅu̱̣ ̵̝͕̰̯̜̠lo̵̼̦͍s̻̳̮t̸̮̬̱ ̙̰̫̞̖͉h̖̠̠̳̘̬͢e̙̟̞̜̟r͍̯͕̼,̞͎̗̦͢ ͏̻̫͔ị̫̯̜̯t̟̩͡'s͇̹͔͇ ̗̟y̡̻̪̟ǫ̞̹̳͓̰̙̜u̯͈̞̖̥͝r̤͖ ̜̮͕fa҉̹̟̘̭͓̩u̠̜̙͢l̴t ҉s̱̼̠͉̤̲h͉͕͟e̦̬̦'̺̤̰̥s̷̮̞̱͎ ̱̻̠̀g̭o̺̞ṋ̳̀e̢̲͖̮ ̢s̮͚͈̹͎͙͝h̶e̶͙͚̻̪̦͔ͅ ͔a̢͕͉ͅn̲̫͈̱ḓ͙̼͙ ҉̼t̹͘h̤͖͎̳̬̱e ͉b̼͇̩̦̲̬͔l͕̮̖̱̬̭̟a̦̮̗̦̤ć̜̯͔̮̤̬̫k͓͖̣̤ ̬̥̞̩̻w̬͍i͙̟̞̙̤ņ̮̖g̷̹̲͕s̥̪̬͎͜ ͏̫̜l͏̮̹e̗̞̠̘̣̠̲f̲͇̬͙̼͎̙t͓͇͓͖̪͍̫ ̜a̝̙̮n̺̘͠d͏̯̪͈̩̟̦̬ ̞͉͚̝͙t̵h͏̩̱̭̘̟̪͎e͍̯͈͘y͉͍̮̰̮'͠r͙̤̙̼e͏̼̰̬ ҉̯̟̗͔N̳̮͙͚̭̜̖E͇̫V̻̦͎̼̻̪ͅE̤̣̦̳̹̥̱R ̞̙̩̼̱͙͢C̳̮ỌMͅI̼̜̙͍̮N͖̠̣͞Ģ ̧̩̭̮͕͚̝B̠̦̩͔͔̫͔͘A͠C̼̱K͔͉̝ g̟e̜t͎̝̙ ̤̹͞o̶͕̜̬͚̦f̸̯̟̗̩̞̖̘f̹ ̲̗̻̲̱́t̗̳̳̙̦̩̳h̟̹͓e̝͙͚͜ ͡g̪r͖̮͕͙͚͚͍o̙̠̠̺̪u͎͙̲͚̮ͅn̝̰̣͖d͞ ̷͎̠͕y̷͓͚ọ̗̥̞̝͚u̗̘̭ ͏̩͖p̺͙i̖̯t̠̗͈̪͔̬͓i̳̗f̯͓͍̬u͞l̲̘̞̥ ̙m͎̙̭̙̜̼͢o͖̪̗͠n̨̯gr̞̫͚̕el҉̻̯̗̦ ̖͇̘̘D̬͢O̡͙̞̗͖ ̪͔͙͕͈̖͚͘Ỳ̳̮̱͙̦̹̱O̴̝̯ṶR͏͙̰̝̦̺͎̗ J̲̪͔̳̟̱͇O̭̠̙̹̳̘B̹͖̫͞.̺̠͡ͅ


Keep moving.

There is something glinting in the light, from the corner of his vision. It is beautiful, in one piece, untouched by the outside world, and he wants to tear it in two, cover it in shadow, destroy it and keep it and get it away because he can't protect whatever is inside, not anymore. Imagine how easy it would be to break it now alĺ th̵at̡ ̧a̛n͞gel͏ ̵bloo҉d śt͝áin͡i͘n͡g yo͟u d͟ơn̶'t ̴you ͝wan̸t́ ̶to ͝b̕e ͞HO͢LY̴?̶

He gets up.

Lays down next to the egg.

Peers inside.

Waits.

Something moved within the cell, pushed against golden bars, and silver eyes tracked the movement, periods of blank stares making the legs seem to jump to and fro, glitched, aborted twitches. Slowly, carefully, a silvery hoof lifted to push against the crystal. Something alive i͡t ̧w̷íll be ̀beàut̷if͞ul keep it safe. He wants to press down, push through, feel gemstone give under his weight. He doesn't. A noise builds in his head, some discordant jumble of notes and words, but it can't get past the solid lump in his throat, because this, this, this is an angel, has to be. Sometimes he wonders why he finds them, but then he remembers the p̖̥̻̘̯o̖̤̤̺͕͚͉i̝̯͇̠̠̹̪s҉̪̭o̕n̞̰̰͓̱̙ͅ and wants to run.

He doesn't want to lose control, but it's held by such a thin thread, fraying and decaying, and the ink practically gushes from his chest, floods the floor with dark, reflects the light of the crystals like a night sky. He has to be good, good, good, because he was looking for her, and he couldn't find her, he has to. He can't.

But he can keep his herd safe, he has to, has to, has to.

The shell breaks under his hoof, and the silver slides down to the floor, eyes watching the hole widen, one wall of the prison falling under the shining glow of holy birth. The child was gold, gold, gold and ice blue and alight. He watched them begin to rise, leaned forward to steady them, snuffling over their fragile form, the glow stopped dead by the grease coating his skin. She is beautiful. An angel, freed, but he can't let her stay - she'll die - he'll fail again - he wants this to end, now, wants to snap her neck and let it go, but he needs to try. She is everything he could have been. Even as a shell of beautiful divinity, he has a duty.

She is everything he could be.

He stands, shaking, wheezing, lipping at her forehead gently.

The dark mixes with the glow, cool shadow sparking with light, settles over her like a thin blanket.

He needs to get her out.

Now.

The shadows try to rush to his aid, but his gemstone only dribbles more gasoline onto the floor, and he snorts at the angel, gently lipping at her forehead. She is... unafraid. It is a nice change of pace from the thinner, leaner angels, with dark spots from demonic influence spattered across their pelts. When she smiled, he stared back - tried to twitch his facial muscles up, mimic the expression, but it simply didn't work. Too much effort with no emotion to back it up. He startled at the bump, ears flicking back to lay flat on his scalp, eyes wide - but no horrific pain followed, and he slowly, softly, nuzzled at her cheek. Safe. She was no demon in angel's clothing, not like the doe.

Safe.

He nudged her, tried to motion her to move, to follow. There were tunnels that led out - his own, filled with the void, was much too dangerous. His guardian angel had left through a different passageway, and he longed to lead her to it, get her to go and never, ever come back. The angelic sanctuary was a target, as secure as it was fragile - and nothing could protect them from the golden deer with putrid slime in its soul, venom in blunt teeth.

Safe.

The gelding nudged her again, moved to point his head towards the faraway exit.

No one would find her.

He'd make sure of it.

He was careful, careful, careful not to walk too far ahead, always returning to the foal's side to check on her, lipping at still-drying hair, a tiny part of him beginning to relax its hold. This angel would keep whatever he had once been safe, carry on without being trapped in the void, everything torn away day by day, minute by minute. A soft huff of laughter escaped him at her joy, seemingly spawning just from being... alive? It was a strange concept, and the gelding refocused on the exit, walked ahead and stopped, peering back at her with quicksilver eyes.

Slowly, he circled back to her side, motioned her onward, took steps forward. They were so close, if she would only walk to the exit, she could go through the tunnel to whatever lay on the other side - it couldn't be worse than here. Another toss of his head, and he cantered forward, stopping only feet from the tunnel's mouth, stamping his feet. Safe have to leave get out never come back find help and be free.