The crowd shifted uneasily, white hands gesturing and fluttering like nervous birds. It was disconcerting to see from this far up; everyone swathed in grey, but for those bright, clean, perfect hands.

They were the hands of someone who had never picked up a tool, never sown seeds, never pulled weeds or even harvested fruit until their backs screamed and fingers went numb. But that was, on a certain level, understandable. After all, most had never even considered the notion that they might be taking advantage of the Loesanne, any more than they considered that perhaps the conformity and stagnation they lived by was the cause of their slowly disintegrating society.

From this vantage, it was all very clear to him, although he didn’t think they would listen to him now. Perhaps, if he had come among them clothed as they were, some might have listened. But that would have required a sacrifice that, even now, he was unwilling to make.

The three men with him on the platform tugged on the ropes again, checking that his spread arms were secure for what was to come. The frame, an arch in the shape of a dragon, was one of the few ornamented things in this place. It curled around him, strangely comforting despite the metaphysical implications. How odd. They had been paced in this planet to protect the Haidonne, to duel with the serpent so they would have peace. After generations of fighting, the Loesanne had put the beast down—only to have their goodwill enslaved by the very Haidonne they were supposed to protect. And if any were to discover or remember the truth… if either the Loesanne of the Haidonne were to remember their original roles… this was the punishment.

The man behind him, in an unexpected show of cruelty, grabbed a fist of his feathers and hauled down on his wing. He cried out in pain, powerful muscles straining against the weight as two of the men held his wing down—and another bound it, with straps attached to the ground.

The feeling made him quail inside as having his arms bound never had. And then instinct rose, swift and powerful. It was the legacy of their forgotten heritage, of those who had once been called angels. And it answered him now. A roar split the near-perfect silence of the square, primal and afraid. The crowd fluttered, but he could no longer see them. He wrenched to one side, fanning with his free wing to keep his captors at bay. The thin cord holding his wing down snapped, fluttering free as he flipped it clear of his feathers. His arms strained against his bonds, arms and chest strong from a life of farming and flying. But the chains held, built long ago for prisoners, not the willing slaves the Loesanne were now.

He screamed again, sweat-slicked skin gleaming in the half-light. The crowd began moving now, those too nervous to take the display making for the edges of the courtyard. None would leave, of course. It was expected that everyone be in the Square for the execution of a possessed Loesanne. But they could, and did, close their eyes and ears to the uncomfortable, dangerous passion of his voice.

His wrists slipped in their bonds, chains occasionally clinking as he threw his full weight against one side or another. One of the men got too close and was buffeted by his madly fanning wings. He fell to the ground, unconscious. More were now climbing up to help the executioners, but when they reached the heights they stood behind them, unsure of what to do. Even the man holding the ceremonial sword was totally unacquainted with violence, having only dealt a killing blow to one lone, willing Loesanne.

In any other being, the anger would have cooled. The rage and fear would have been stilled by time’s passage, or simple exhaustion. But that was the gift and curse of angels. Once aroused, their anger would see no rest, would give no ground to body or spirit. He was trapped, unaware of anything but the burning need to be free, to hurt whoever had done this. Righteous anger is a heady brew for any being, but it is an angel’s salvation.

The chain, forged of metals no longer found in this world, groaned. All eyes, even those that had been averted, went to the weakening chain. No one here remembered angelic warriors. But there was something ominous in the sound, in the sudden quieting of the prisoner’s screams. They could all sense their danger, even if they didn’t have the knowledge to understand it. Only once, in the hundreds of years the Loesanne had served the Haidonne, had the wrath of an angel been turned on a human. But here, now, with no other target for his rage, the Loesanne might very well turn on them.
... to be continued.