At first, it blisters. Fire eats its way through Fiesi's flesh and runs rampage, soupy heat flaying his limbs until he's swimming amongst it. Hot pokers stitch fragments of taut skin to cracking bones. He melts, comes apart. His core grows claws that scoop great crevices from all directions, fumbling on emptied vials of energy, carving a bottomless ache into his stomach. Heart and lungs and liver clink and rattle with the fragility of porcelain. His breath evaporates.

A trickle of regret pools stiffly amongst the pain's chaos, though it's quickly swept away as the flame backtracks, remembers who it belongs to, recalls how to soothe. For a moment, he loses track of his feet on the ground, drifting into breezy clouds. He has to grapple with himself to yank those sensations back. He stumbles, catching himself on a wall as air rasps in and out. His skin is doused and left feeling like wet volcanic rock.

He cracks open an eye and then slams it shut. The world still glows, painfully bright. Forehead resting on blissfully cool stone, he pats at his chest, thumbing his ribs and his stomach with a rocky kind of relief. It probably shouldn't be this surprising to merely find he hasn't been ripped in half.

Something whirs and crackles in his ears, and he gives his head a sharp shake. "Rigel," he manages, battling out the name. "D-did it work?"

See for yourself.

Fiesi flinches, spine snapping straight. Rigel's voice has never seemed so loud. It resonates, thrumming in his chest, skating over his bones, encompassing everything. There's a splashed delight to it, flicked out in perfect clarity as if it were Fiesi's own. A grin he didn't call for stretches his lips.

He wipes at his mouth until it obeys him and droops into a more cautious frown. Fear skips across stepping stones, hovered above a deep, sightless pit. Combining flames in this way is so rare and so dangerous that it hasn't been fully understood for generations, and as boldly as he spoke of the concept only minutes earlier, he was clueless as to what to expect. He anticipated bearing a Synté's full power would simply feel like a rush of hot adrenaline, the way it's felt before when Rigel has lent a fraction of his flame in order to add speed and force to Fiesi's abilities. This is something wholly different. He can't twitch a finger without feeling as if there are stars buried in his blood. He can hear his father muttering somewhere down the corridor as he gives chase, and scent every mote of dust, and taste the sulphuric texture to the inside of his mouth. It comes in disorientating waves.

Welcome it. The glittering thrill dancing through Rigel's voice isn't exactly helpful. It whirls in a gleeful storm. He's never sounded nearly this happy in all the time they've known one another. Fiesi can practically picture him with chest puffed out, all smiles and pride, beak tilted like he's on top of the world.

A rod of heat pierces his back -- two, in fact, drawing parallel lines that dizzy him equally. He shakes his head again, hair tickling his ears. It's not feeling particularly welcoming.

Like an outstretched hand left hanging, the warmth of Rigel's beaming smile falters. Then simply relax. Gentler warmth lays over him with the softness of a blanket, peeling away the sharpness of the air until awareness blurs. Allow me to take over. You may rest.

"Wait." He shrugs the blanket off with blind haste, and his feet slam into the ground, knocked out of rhythm; they've already begun to run of their own accord. "I'm fine," he adds, ducking away from Rigel's internal flutter. He regains his balance and picks up speed until the blade-like sound of his father's footsteps finally fades.

If we're going to do this, he tells Rigel, then we do it together, and I get to be in control. I'm not your puppet.

His feet practically float. The effortlessness of it is stunning; despite the overload of flame streaming behind him in a sweating cloak, his exhaustion has vanished entirely. Flame wraps him in its strings, a much-needed crutch. It's a struggle not to lose himself within it and force his eyes to see past it, though its blue glow bounces off every flat of dewy stone.

I am aware, Rigel says. Hesitation hitches his voice's chirp. I have thought plenty on your words and feelings, Fiesi. I realise I have much to apologise for. It has been many years since I last shared a bond with a Tía, and I never intended--

Save it. Fiesi would roll his eyes if he couldn't feel the remorse -- pure, genuine remorse -- seeping from Rigel's rambling words. He pins down the edge of a victorious smile. Now is hardly time for some tender, mushy reunion. They both need to focus. Can you locate Shaula?

We can, Rigel affirms, stressing the pronoun, and it's soon clear why. Their senses are as one. There's the twang of an instrumental string in his stomach, and then they stretch wide, swallowing the walls around until the entire castle is a burden on his shoulders and every cobbled rock and pane of floorboard at his fingertips, jittering, flammable. It's beautiful and terrifying all at once; if not for Rigel's careful manoeuvring of the flame, twined with his easy sigh of enjoyment, Fiesi fears he'd turn it all to ash with too harsh a breath.

It is controlled, though, and so the overwhelming sensation is quick to settle, becoming more precise. Souls flicker out of the dust and shade like candles in the wind. Colours twine them as ribbon around packages -- meaningless in truth, but unmissable. He stutters over the soul wrapped in green, chest tightening. Aunt Megai. Not her. Flashes of that vivid dream fizzle in and out, threatening to tug the ground out from beneath his feet.

He slows his pace for a moment, exhaling steadily with hand flat to his chest until the feeling passes. I'll be with you soon enough, Mother. Flames engulf his fingers, and he curls them around a fistful of his shirt, drenched in enough shivering heat to rocket his heart's beat. At least maybe, maybe, all this might give him a reason to greet her with some semblance of pride.

Fiesi, Rigel pokes, snapping the reverie into smoke. Our focus?

"Right." He lets his thumb rub over his heart before releasing his shirt, combing the hand through his hair instead. His heels bounce impatiently at the pause in his run. Right. His next breath billows out shaky. Rigel's attention has turned to the one spot he doesn't particularly want to look: the drop of cracking cold amongst the world's swampy warmth, bitter enough to make him flinch even at this distance. He's spoken many times of a broken balance, but now he understands in full what that means. It's a splinter lodged too deep to pick out, twisting until it drills into his core.

Resisting the urge to press a fist to his stomach, he backpedals, neck craning to peer dazedly at the ceiling. These senses are incredibly precise, but he can't work out how to measure their depth. "Um..."

Take a left. Rigel's presence nudges his foot in the spoken direction.

"On it." Ducking under a spindle of hanging rock, he darts around the passage's curve in that direction, the flame's weight pressing on his back to propel him on. It and Rigel guide him through several more twists and turns, up a rickety wind of stairs, sprinting until the walls steadily become whiter and the floor gains some civilised decor. By the time he skids to a halt, his bare feet slide charred streaks over wood panels, and he whirls, panting hard, reeling from the confusion that spools from Rigel's final command.

"Up?" he asks, dazed. The high ceiling is plastered with yellow-gold and beats sunnily down on him. Stars, he misses the sun. His flame throbs with a flaring yearning, splashing its blinding light into this dead-end room's every corner.

Up, Rigel repeats, jerking his gaze to a specific spot. He's right. The cold burns a hole there that prickles Fiesi's skin. Still, he shakes his head, a faint laugh tripping out.

"Sorry, but powerful or no, humans don't work like that." He scoffs. "I can't fly."

A snorted chuckle echoes through him, jarringly abrupt and sprawling into chirpy giggles. Moron, Rigel titters. If Noli gained scales and fangs, did it not cross your dense mind that you might inherit something of mine?

Fiesi's gasp spears through him with the shock of a winter chill, a door opened to reveal a snowfall he saw in flurries through the window yet was unprepared for regardless. With an odd weight sat in his stomach and a quiver in his legs, he twists.

Amongst the glowing azure swirls that circle him, something more solid sways, something he somehow missed amongst the hot storm of it all but now couldn't miss in a thousand glances. Muscle digs in hard and pulls at his back. Neat blue feathers, sharply shaped, sketch out a long, familiar crescent, alight with fire's dance.

He has wings.

Experimentally, he tenses, fire prowling through each nerve until the wing curls nearer. It's awkward to feel for, but once he finds the right movement, it's like an extra limb. Two floating, blazing, massive extra limbs. He pokes at a feather and jumps, tickling alarm dribbling down his spine. His laugh bubbles ridiculously. This is like a childish fantasy.

Fiesi. Rigel's sigh tightens with impatience.

Fiesi's cheeks flush. "Sorry." He rakes his fingers through his hair, suddenly starkly aware of the soft feather-like texture he finds poking from otherwise greasy tangles, dangled in front of his ear. Did Rigel just give him pseudo-earrings? You fancy featherbrain. It's been a long time since his grin felt this easy. He flicks the wings -- his wings -- and they respond, spreading wide either side of him. One tip brushes the nearby wall. He sinks into a low crouch.

"This is going to look amazing," he announces, giddy, and then leaps.

Flight isn't as easy as birds make it look. The air snags uncomfortably under his wings, wrestling with him, and he yelps. Another of Rigel's laughs heats the back of his neck, and then it all steadies. The wings belong to both of them, really, as does his body, and they work as one, smoothing out the edge of turbulence in their flame and imbuing an unfiltered confidence. Fiesi forgets to be afraid as he charges right into the ceiling.

His shoulder swings instinctively to take the impact, though there's little necessity. Nothing stands in a Synté's way, and certainly not simple stone bricks and mortar. It shatters, ripped to molten shreds as white-hot flames sizzle with screaming force, blurring out the world. His wings angle downward in an arrow shape and then flare out again, coaxing him into a swift glide. He lands on one knee, fist slammed against burning carpet, and slowly raises his head.

Amazing enough? Rigel asks. Fiesi releases a smoking breath through his nose, skin like lightning.

Perfect.

The flames part like curtains, shying closer to his arms. Blunt awe swamps the air with silence, broken only by the soft thuds of falling rubble amid the crater behind him and the patter of waterfalls of dust, though fire chatters noisily in his ears, enough to form a crackling aura accented by the slow beat of his wings. Beyond that bubble, this room is thick with slanted shadows tossed over fading white walls, colour sapped out and made to be a stranger amongst the dullness. He catches sight of Xyvi Katasko crumpled nearby, purple cloak torn and hair matted with blood. Rosi is kneeling over an unnervingly still Mira. At the room's opposite end, Megai stumbles back from a blow, emerald blade held at her side, and then freezes with her eyes piercing his. Ischyri is still and slack-jawed.

And Nathan, comfortably smaller than each of them, serving as Shaula's unassuming vessel, lifts his chin. A smile trickles like flowing sap onto his face, fanged and all. His black eyes glint.

Fiesi shoves to his feet, spear settling into his hand with barely a flicker of thought, but Nathan is too quick to recover from the distraction. His flame lashes out in the form of a thick, dark whip and snaps against Megai's chest. Green clouds flare around her, yet her sword flickers into smoke and her feet lose their balance, sending her flying backward into a wall. In the same movement, a backhand strike plunges a black knife into Ischyri's gut.

He falls; it's difficult to tell where the colour of his cloak ends and his wounds begin. Megai lands with a hard crack. A sharp wince cuts like a knife through Fiesi's chest, yanking tight the ropes of panic that nip at his breathing and jolt the urgency he'd begun to forget into his veins. A second spear forms in his other hand, and he advances.

"Shaula!" he shouts, all fear woven into the dreaded name boiled into anger's hissing steam. He crosses his spears in front of his thighs and readies his stance, wings curled in waiting at his back. "Leave them. This ends now."

A sparkling chuckle trails Nathan as he draws nearer. His pace is meandering, grin casual, black sword swaying in lazy semi-circles at his side as its fingers spin its formless hilt. Spatters of blood dot his tunic, an out-of-place sunset attempting to rise amid the darkest night the sky has ever known. It paints his scales, too. For the first time, Fiesi notices there are more black diamonds pushing their way through the skin on the back of his hand and forearm, the folds of his wrist bunching awkwardly amongst the glimmering, void-like pattern. It's impossible to tell how far they spread beyond that. They glint with the sinister pleasure of a disease, one that has consumed so much flesh, that is winning out.

Unease patters up Fiesi's spine. He can't help but recall Harlow's words; the losing battle Nathan must be fighting is clear as crystal now. Is he even still there at all? How long does a battle go on before defeat becomes final? His chest squeezes.

It is not our concern, Rigel murmurs, gentle, coaxing the hesitance away. We must do what is necessary, Fiesi. You cannot be swayed by thoughts of your friend. I am sorry.

Fiesi swallows hard, close to choking on that quiet, solemn apology. He can't bring himself to nod. Instead he grips his weapons harder, narrows his gaze and meets Nathan's eyes in full.

Nathan bends his knees in what might be a miniature curtsey, then runs his fingers through his hair, purposefully combing back the curls. His head tilts somewhat coyly. "I am thrilled you could finally join the party, sweet Rigel. How long has it been since we last spoke?"

A squirming awakes in Fiesi's gut, the clash and flutter of a surprisingly visceral terror that isn't his. He imagines petting the frantic bird's head, much to Rigel's disgust. Calm down. We've got this. Aloud, he says, "Not long enough, I'd imagine, but I'm afraid Rigel is taking a backseat on this one. You've got my tongue to deal with."

A frown creases Nathan's expression, heavy with a puzzled disappointment that is rather satisfying to witness. "He is letting you govern the might of his power?"

"We have an agreement." Fiesi shrugs, fingers tapping his right spear, unable to help the sly smile tugging at his lips. "And he's not as much of an arse as you are. Mostly."

Rigel makes a squeak of argument, and Fiesi busies himself holding in a laugh. This probably shouldn't feel like such fun. Perhaps the sheer heat of the flames is charring his common sense. He can barely think with them burning so brightly, assaulting every shred of his flesh with equal parts incredible glitter and world-shattering weight. It's awfully intoxicating.

Nathan expels a short breath, jolting him from his own head. "Very well." He rocks back on his heels. His sword wheels a full circle before he brandishes the blade at Fiesi's chest, stance light and loose, darkness swirling an eager storm around him. "Let us dance."

───── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ─────

I think 'The Weight of Wings' is one of very few chapter titles that have stayed from my very first ADB outline. The only other two I'm certain I've kept are 'To Breathe Again' and 'A Birdcage'. As you can likely tell, the ones I keep the titles for tend to be the ones I have a clear vision for right from the start. They're the epic ones I daydream about :D

That said, it took me far too long to work out how to write this chapter's fight scene. But!! It is done now so you all get to see Fiesi's very cool bird getup. He has wings, guys T^T Also pointy ears but he hasn't noticed those, tragically. He's been silly for a long time so he probably deserves to look a little fancy.

Anyway. I hope you're ready for the very messy utter chaos of part two :3

- Pup