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Glass panes groaned, wood panels creaked, and metal shook. Landing in front of the quickly deteriorating and burning building was Alistair--bleached white messy hair ruffling more in the singed wind, as ink black wings folded behind them. Deep purple skin glistened in the bright of flowing flames that danced with him, long legs carrying him around the almost entirely engulfed structure. A similarly violet tail swayed behind them as he came to a standstill in admiration of his handiwork, glowing red eyes surveying the area for trespassers on this embered ground. Alistair took a breath, enjoying the familiar scent--familiar feel of smoke filling and burning his throat, lungs, and eyes. He remembered the first time how it had hurt--how it stung. He’d quickly grown out of that, learning to embrace the warmth of blood on lightly freckled skin rather than to shiver at the chill the loss brought to their bones. A smirk toyed with the edge of his chapped lips as charred wood fell, recalling times from a life of the past. Alistair had been as normal as any tiefling six-year-old child, even if their village had lacked many examples of comparison. He had a healthy set of parents, a good home-education plan, and was the best of friends with every single one of the town’s critters, including the kittens. They just had one problem, but everyone has problems--right? No one is perfect, so why should he have been any different? Why was it that when Alistair proved he was anything but perfectly healthy that he was removed? Had been estranged from everything he’d ever known? Dust collected on the ends of metal bars, causing small sneezing fits and coughs to emit from Alistair's cell-like confinement.The truck ride over was long, the bumps making him, every so often, accidentally hit his head on the bars above him. With legs drawn up to their chest and arms holding them in place, his eyes and ears dropped as his head curled to his knees. Red-tipped fingers fiddled with his assigned, scratchy clothes as he wished for the end--whether it was for the end of the car ride or for the end of his existence he didn’t quite know. The first thing he saw once he stepped out of the truck was a white, tall, fancy building that loomed over him. He couldn’t have been bothered to adjust his attention towards the approaching humans who began to lead him in the opposite direction. He was pestered with questions regarding his name, age, class, educational background, and one he still didn’t quite understand the concept of. What was gender, anyway? He’d never heard of such a thing back in his village. He’d learned about sex, which was what he thought they had been referring to, but they called it gender instead. The humans proceeded to inquire on his appearance, noting that he presented with mostly masculine traits after close--and rather uncomfortable--inspections, therefore calling Alistair “he” and “him” from then on.Young Alistair might not have understood the importance of knowing this information, but he didn’t mind being referred to any of the “genders” the humans had used as examples. After exhausting physical and mental tests, the days following included reading many stories from an old book he’d never heard of. He also attended a large meeting once a week that made the inside of his body burn, the feeling of being sick tended to wash over him as well during these town get-togethers. He never knew why--as a young child--every time he left the long, wooden seats to relieve himself of the intense pain of being in the elaborately decorated room, a different person would engage with him, informing him that his physicality needed to be checked once more. Even when he attempted to resist, the scorching flame under his skin would flare, weakening him as enchaining hands and arms would hold him down behind locked doors, performing the same uncomfortable tests that every doctor he’d seen said was necessary. His impressive wings had been bound together, causing cramps to crawl and spasm up his back. Alistair never liked people touching them, they were too sensitive--too weakening. He’d been given pants that didn’t accommodate for his wiry tail--he had been told if he couldn’t hide it, then the scientists would make sure it was cut off. He knew they wouldn’t do that though. The humans enjoyed toying with it far too much. Even when he begged for them to stop, or when he tried to speak--through stuttered breaths and shuddered sobs--that it made him feel uncomfortable when they played with his tail, they never listened. The years passed as this way of living almost ingrained itself into normalcy. Cuts, scrapes, and bruises faded as blood dried with the ever-cycling seasons. Beautiful dark wings numbed and wisping tails that had once shown so much emotion were no longer seen. Bright red ears were covered with grown out, unnaturally black hair as similarly red fingers were clipped and hidden beneath gloves. Alistair was sixteen--meaning it had been ten years since he’d seen the gleaming stars the way he used to. Ten years since he’d decided he would never know the warmth of love, or even the meaning of such a fickle word. The sting of what he learned was attending mass had all but subsided, leaving a wave of nausea to run its course through him instead. He had also learned why he always had “physical tests” when he was at his weakest, and that they were not in fact what they claimed to be. Unable to rationalize anything else, Alistair began to associate all humans as sickeningly advantageous creatures. ***Screams and shouts echoed as the smell of burning flesh, melting in the harsh flames that had burst from every square inch of the village, made Alistair grin, sharp teeth sheathing for the first time in years. Black feathered wings expanded through cut ropes as blood tainted, now starlight, choppy hair glistened in the reflection of hot flare. Skulls caved in as boots crashed down on them, spattering messes across every surface of ground. This village would know the pain he had endured. The wind howled, spreading the flames and encouraging them to engulf all that existed on this small plane of hell. It was rather fitting as well as ironic how fire so easily perfected the metaphorical picture Alistair had been forced to paint. Heavy steps weighed the ashed rubble flooring, making their way towards the office they’d grown so familiar with. The door cracked--burns charring the wooden design. It opened, practically falling apart in Alistair’s calloused hands, and there it stood--the Head Priest of the village, the monster--the catalyst.The image of flame crested black wings awaiting it froze the priest, the word “devil” being the only thing to be rung from its fear. Within an instant, reddened nails dug into flesh, tearing at whatever they could. Ears, fingers, hair, but not the eyes-- no , those were to be last. Last to see its own blood smear the beloved office; last to see its body gloriously mangled; last to see as the angry reds and oranges scorched all that remained of it.Screams filled the quickly disintegrating room, pleading hands grasping at anything they could of Alistair’s in an attempt to persuade mercy. Sharp fingers ripped off a burning piece of wood from the door, the fire strong and promising. The sound of breaking, snapping, and crunching met their ears as Alistair ran it through the priest’s hand--the bones splitting under the immense pressure and heat. The piece had been slammed through the wall, keeping the monster in place to atone for his sins. More screaming bubbled from its lips, slipping into more of a wailing sob-- how disgusting. Ash and blood covered hands reached over, muffling the pitiful cries. “No one wants to hear your pathetic screams--you deserve all of this and more.” Alistair whispered, as he twisted his nails into its throat, mutilating and peeling skin back. Deep red spilled from all directions, staining the floor and walls that would soon be nothing more than ruins. His hands found the strings of muscle they’d been searching for, reveling in the sound of blood soaked, thick strands slowly being removed one by one. Surely now it would be quiet.The amount of blood loss rapidly became too great, however, and the priest’s form began to run slack. Alistair noticed this, frustration and disappointment coursing through him. He grabbed its head, digging his nails in once more. “Don’t you dare die yet; you have not suffered near enough!” He yelled, the force of it almost hurting.It didn’t deserve the release of torment, the peace of death--but that was what Alistair was met with when he lifted its limp head.Without much time left, all Alistair could do was throw the lifeless body down--observing briefly as the fire roared to life around the flesh-fuel. Kicking down a thin wood wall, he stepped out--the chill of the village sweeping across his singed features.The faces of those who had so effortlessly defiled him blurred as yellows, oranges, and reds danced over their corpses that emitted a most horrific smoke. It rose from their lifeless bodies and infected the sky, joining the swirling clouds that blotted out any light.Silence. The air stilled, the shrill screams halted, and the steeple in the center of the small, distant village came crumbling down with the newly falling rain. The dirt roads flooded, washing away the blood stains and pebbled debris. Alistair looked to the sky, water dropping into his eyes and soaking him to the bone as he finally lowered his tensed shoulders. His wings slumped back as he finally let his eyes flutter to a close. No one was left to watch the remaining embers of sin sputter onto wet stone.
It was over.
***The image of a broken, blackened chapel fell away into the present, where a twenty-one-year-old Alistair stood. The enticing smog of burning flames had infested their mind since that day, causing him to have the urge to utterly destroy any impressive building at random times.Every time they acted on those urges, he spiraled--reliving moments he would rather not. All he felt he could do with these overpowering emotions was shove them down, and when they bubbled up into something too much to ignore, they’d just end up with more scars than he’d had before.Alistair was never good at dealing with themself--after all, if he was, he wouldn’t have been sent to hell in the first place. He had only himself to blame. The rigid contours of pummeled gravel dug into calloused heels as Alistair wandered the open land. Sweat and blood alike rolled off their skin as harsh rain soaked through the sorry excuse of clothing he had been given all those years ago. Frustrated, Alistair tore the too small shirt off--ripping the scratchy material into pieces. Red-tipped fingers let it fall from his grasp, feeling a part of his past drift along with the torn sack. Cold water twisted from large feathers as they shook, enjoying the wide stretch after so long with the binding ropes. The arduous downpour relented, allowing Alistair to take to the skies--making the long venture much faster. Only after braving through mountains, rivers, and forests did Alistair find somewhere far enough away from the village of his recurring nightmares. Bright colors flashed across Alistair’s awed face as he stared at this new, entrancing building. Upon entry, there were chipped, light wood tables spread apart on the dark wood floor. A long island table stretched from one wall to the opposing one, decorated with empty glasses and rounded black stools stationed in front. Two--what he assumed were--workers greeted him, offering what they referred to as bar stools for him to sit at. With a slow blink of confusion, Alistair complied, taking the middle-most, slightly tattered stool.He quickly learned the name of the two women and was introduced to three others shortly thereafter. The women asked about something called an ID, but he apparently didn’t have one. Then they followed up with another question about his living situation. Not knowing how to respond, he dropped his head into his hands and shook it. Soon, Alistair was informed that this particular place was called a “tavern.” The women had taken him in, allowing him to work the bar and clean to earn his keep. Alistair found that he enjoyed making new drinks, even if he wasn’t allowed to try them yet. Just seeing customer faces light up after the first sip was rewarding enough to him. Until they were nineteen, he never knew why, at night, the other workers disappeared, leaving the bar to him. He never complained though, he was more than happy to have time to himself. It was normally slow by that time, and the few customers that showed up were typically easy to deal with. This particular night, there was only one customer occupying the bar--an elf, hair like sunlight falling over strong shoulders. Violet eyes glistened in the dim tavern lighting and almost never left Alistair’s frame while he worked.The elf’s voice rolled from their strangely shimmering lips as they asked Alistair when they were going to close the bar and open back up for their night job. Confused, Alistair asked what the elf meant. “You know, where the other workers here go at about this time? I assume you know about this, yes?” The blonde elf questioned patiently.“I’m not sure what they do at this time. I thought they went to sleep.” Alistair responded slowly.“This bar becomes a brothel after midnight.” They said, leaning forward slightly. What was a brothel--why had the women never explained this to him? “What’s that?” Was all Alistair could think to ask. A light chuckle emitted from his lone customer, only making Alistair more upset. “The workers here sell their bodies for money. I’m surprised they don’t let you help them with that, you’d be quite popular.” They said with a similar tone that only certain guests tended to use with him. He introduced himself, informing Alistair that their name was Sol.An unfamiliar warmth buzzed through him as he leaned against the bar, resting his elbows on the table space between them. “Should I close the tavern early?” Alistair almost whispered. With one look, they had their answer. Immediately, red tipped fingers worked to clean the remaining glasses, then moved to toss dishes into the sink. He swiped the key from under the bar table, locking up for the night. When they turned back around, he was greeted with the sparkling feeling of someone taking his hand as a gentle kiss was placed to his flushed knuckles--then he felt a tug leading him towards the stairs. Tall golden hair swayed in front of them up the flight, encouraging him to keep climbing. Once at the top, Alistair led them both to what had been made his room--hastily turning the knob and opening the chipped door. Upon entering the room, the tiefling faced Sol, only to be met with a soft kiss. Before he could react, though, the elf had pulled away, nudging him further into the room with another kiss while closing the door. A sudden flash of a life past clawed into his mind at the sight. The memories of unwanted hands pushing him down, closing off the world behind them flooded in. Alistair’s hands pulled at his hair as he turned his head away, closing himself off. The air was growing too thick--too muddled. Sol took Alistair’s reddened hands, grounding him to where they were--the images of his childhood falling away piece by piece. Purpled irises filled his vision, holding him tight to reality. He raised their intertwined hands, pressing them to his face as silver lashes fluttered against his flushed cheeks. A deep sigh passed, and finally Alistair met Sol’s eyes once more. He was waiting--what was he waiting for?“Better?” The careful question met blushing ears. Not knowing how strongly he could answer, Alistair simply nodded, leaning toward the blonde. Foreheads lightly bumped as a stuttered laugh fell from his chapped lips. “...‘m sorry.” the silverette muttered, shaking his head slightly. Sol shook his head with him--rubbing their heads together. “Don’t be.” he said and was soon answered with hesitant lips meeting his own. Further and further Alistair was leant back until pillows and blankets haloed moonlight hair. This feeling was different--it was pleasant--it was safe. The night rolled by, and soon the early morning came to greet the day. Though the sun had no effect on this underground city, the brisk air was always hint enough. Warm blankets enveloped Alistair, leaving only his head outside of the comfort. As sleep dribbled away from his mind, they reached over, searching for the person responsible for his aching limbs and muscles. Cold blankets were all that he found, not even a dent in the mattress where his guest had stayed; however, something thick ran into his hand. As he raised his head, he was met with the sight of silver bundled up where Sol had slept. Pointed fingers picked it up, counting how much had been left. Right. This was part of their job--how could he have forgotten?Large wings stretched and pushed the comforting quilt off, allowing the morning chill to wake him completely. His body protested as he dressed and brushed through his bedhead. He didn’t want to forget what happened, and if feeling the burning ache in his muscles was the only thing solidifying that it had been real, then he’d embrace the pain for all its worth. When they finally reached the main floor, the workers flocked to him in an instant. Hands ran through his hair and patted his cheek as they asked if he had slept alright, or if he’d had those same nightmares that tended to front after late nights working. When they didn’t receive a response, the women began to ask why the bar had closed early last night--if he wasn’t feeling well.Light hands brushed a still healing spot on Alistair’s neck, making him quickly pull back. Of course, this only caused more inquiries to spew from the workers. Why did he have sore spots on his neck? Why was he so much gloomier today? Did he have problems with a customer?No, there had been no problems--just regrets. He regretted not holding on a little bit tighter that night, not pulling Sol to him in a way to make him stay. He regretted remembering his past, tainting that perfect moment with his countless impurities, but he would never regret allowing the elf into his room--into his heart. He regretted having a heart. It was harsh, cruel, and heavy on his chest. It caused pain--caused physical aching that they just didn’t understand. A rolling tremor shook through his shoulders as a sneeze forced attention toward himself. As eyes turned to him his stomach churned, making deep purple skin pale. The room spun, lights blurring in blearing eyes. One of the women felt his head, whispering to the others about a fever.Sent to his room, Alistair had nothing to do but lay down and wish for less empty bed space. Hours passed, and his sudden sickness had dissipated. They came to the bottom of the stairs, looking to see someone had taken his position at the bar. He stepped carefully behind the serving table, assuming that they’d be taking over for the night. “But aren’t you feeling under the weather?” She said as she looked at him confusedly. Alistair simply shook his head and smiled, taking the half soapy glass from her to finish washing. He assured her he’d be okay and was feeling much better than this morning. Surely he could handle a little disappointment. Once again alone in the warmly lit tavern. The lonesomeness didn’t last for too long, though--a customer had entered. Pink bundled hair bounced in, hexagonal glasses shielding colorful eyes. Smiling brightly, they plopped into the chair closest to the center of the bar. “Is this establishment open for the night hours yet?” They said in a lilted tone.Oh. That was what they were here for. ‘I guess the bar’s closing early again tonight.’ Alistair thought. After all, the pay was pretty good. With a small sigh, they responded with a faltering smile. “In about thirty minutes--is that alright…?” He looked to his customer who seemed to be a changeling based on the blue and purple skin colors that melded into each other. Their eyes were pink, he noted, it matched their hair color of choice it appeared. “Pix,” he said cheerfully with a quick wink “and the wait is perfectly fine with me.”Nodding to himself, Alistair kept his eyes down--focusing on taking his customer's drink order.“In the meantime, is there anything I can get for you?” Vibrant bubblegum eyes flicked up and down his frame with a bounce.’ He must be deciding,’ Alistair thought.“Just a Shirley Temple will be fine for now.” He answered. The night was tumbling along slowly, no one else had come in to order anything. Pix was still present--waiting for the bar to close it seemed. With another impatient sigh, Alistair gave in. They grabbed the keys from their place, leaving his station behind the bar to lock up for the night. Long legs straightened from the bar stool, landing on the floor silently as the changeling stood. A wide smile plastered itself on Pix’s face, brightening the already shimmering rosy eyes.Pix walked up to them carefully. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, so tell me if you get upset alright?” he said, brushing gentle fingers through silver hair. Alistair smiled at that, being thankful that tonight would be easy at least. Once up the stairs, Pix opened the door for Alistair, smiling warmly at them. Immediately, chilled hands were messaging his purpled skin as soft lips pressed against his own. The stuttering weight in his chest almost completely disappeared--raising his mood substantially. Once again enjoying the warmth that bubbled up--Alistair kissed back, placing his flushed hands on the changeling’s chest. The familiar feeling of walking back enveloped Alistair, their ankles bumping into the front of his bed as they both fell onto it--bouncing the mattress in the process.Lips met and parted in a messy rhythm that they both got lost in. Clothes were discarded and hair was tugged as bodies gravitated against each other--and the night ebbed away. The cool morning air flowed in once more, and again Alistair was left to wake alone. They felt for the money he knew was there, finding two golden pieces. Shaking his wings free of sleep, Alistair yawned--detangling his messy hair with his red-tipped fingers. He stowed the payment in the pouch on his desk and got ready to serve the tavern. Another year passed by--countless nights of faces never to be seen again left Alistair with an endless feeling of helpless solitude. This was all he would receive; this was all he would know. Some of his customers were kind and respectable, but many others were unreasonable, entitled, and tended to harm him. Nonetheless, he was always rewarded with a handsome amount of money, whether it was given directly or “borrowed” as Alistair called it--honestly, it was hard to complain when business was so good. The underground may have been large, but word traveled fast of a certain wealthy noble who had been rumored to be making a visit to their part of the world in the near future. Naturally, Alistair heard of this and saw it as a perfect opportunity to make some quick cash. Scrapping together a plan, they put on their best clothes and headed for the door. He scanned the area, searching for the crowd that was bound to be around the main action--at the center of the commotion stood a man who looked just as pompous as he sounded. A rather rounded man, short in stature and receding hair. His garbs glistened with pristine gold decorating his fine clothing--his cane strained under stubbed fingers, creaking with each stumped stride. His obvious pride was carried on his raised nose as he held his head high, looking down on those around him through the protection of his guards. Reluctance and hesitance rolled throughout Alistair’s mind as he processed what exactly his plan included. Gathering his courage, he was fast on his feet as they approached the noble. Judgmental brown eyes met with Alistair’s red ones, stopping the small man in his tracks. Ordering his guards to halt, he held out his plump hand to Alistair expectantly. Without further delay, they carefully stepped forward, pecking the glinting jewelry that decorated said hand. The noble thumbed the outline of Alistair’s chin, then not too carefully grasped their jaw, bringing his gaze to meet the noble’s once more. Within moments, Alistair was being escorted away to what he assumed was to be the noble’s temporary quarters, guards surrounding their every angle. ‘Perfect.’ The plan could not have been executed more smoothly than this. Behind the over-the-top double doors was the room, large and elaborate. Priceless jewels and artifacts littered the space around him, this was almost too easy. Without trumpets or other grandeur, the noble stepped into the room in a way that must have been his version of lavish. Suppressing either a scoff or a groan, Alistair tried to speed the process up by perching himself on the wide bed which caught the undivided attention of the noble immediately. Many unenjoyable moments passed, and when the noble had carelessly fallen asleep, Alistair could at last complete the mission; however, a rustling of sorts could be heard from behind him. Whirling around, Alistair was met with the appalling sight of a small, green, and scarred… something stashing what was supposed to be his reward. No time was wasted in retrieving his clothing and chasing after the tiny thing. Through the rooms, the doors, the gates; through alleys, trees, and mushrooms they ran--wind whipping their faces and legs aching. Too much had gone into this plan just to be taken away that easily. Reaching a miniature home, the creature stopped, creating an opening for Alistair. Nails scratched and teeth bit all while desperate hands fought over the bag of treasures they both evidently needed. The both of them pulled in both directions, eventually ripping the bag. Items spilled onto the grass and moss, as both took whatever they could get their hands on. Questioning red eyes looked into this creature’s heterochromatic one’s, only to be interrupted by a quick retreat and a slammed door. Alistair stood, ready to retreat himself, but realized one small problem--he had no idea where they were. In shame, they knocked--once, twice, three times until there was a soft shuffling nearby. Locks unhinged, clacking quietly in the eerie silence of the forest, and soon enough, the door swung open. Only a small tail could be seen retreating into the kitchen as Alistair made his way inside. Sitting down in the limited open space, they looked around, noting the trinkets and clutter that hoarded the miniature hovel. Not long after, the small creature--likely a goblin--entered the room with a tray carrying a teapot and two interesting looking cups. Alistair gratefully accepted the tea, burning his tongue slightly on it. A smile flooded his expression as he looked up from the cup, eyes meeting the duo-colored ones across the room. Cuts and scratches had formed on both of their skins from their previous tussle in the front yard, even some blood spilling from the deeper injuries. The night rolled along, few words being spoken to another. Wounds were not tended to, and no explanation was given from either--they simply marinated in the awkward silence that answered every one of Alistair’s scarce offhanded comments. Warm streams of morning light ribboned between the thick leaves of the forest, illuminating a path for Alistair as they made their way back to the underground. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a real sunrise and had left before the small host had gotten up. He wanted to be above the trees to take it all in--see the deep blacks and blues wash away with pinks and yellows. He walked, careful to step over loose branches and vines. When he arrived at the entrance, they took a last deep breath in, enjoying the clean feel of fresh air. For now, he’d return to his temporary home--after all, he had nowhere else to go. But maybe that was okay. The stagnant air of the tavern greeted him as he opened the door, the workers, who he’d learned to enjoy the company of, smiling brightly at his return. Alistair smiled back, excusing himself to his room. He made his way up the narrow stairs, opening the chipped wood door at the top. The familiar softness of blankets and sheets welcomed him as he flopped onto his bed. They curled in on themselves, the ache of sleep overriding his senses. He may not have had anywhere else to go, but yeah--that was okay.