The empty is my personal hell. A complete deprivation of the senses, where I float in an endless void until whatever injuries I've accrued sort themselves. In the beginning, during the first chaotic, violent days of the Dwindling End, the time spent in the empty was brief, fleeting. Grievous injuries inflicted by desperate creatures sealed in a blink. But the longer I am here, the more of their sins I absorb into myself, the more time I spend in that wretched limbo.

I know this is where I will go when I end.

How long have I been here this time? Once, this wound would have been nothing, but now...now I wonder if I will come back from this.

Fear is an emotion I vaguely understand. It is not something we are created with, but the memories of humanity have taught me a great deal about it. Their fear of death, of the unknown, and the inevitability of it, is something I can grasp.

But I don't fear the empty as much as I hate my awareness of it. The acute awareness of nothing that will break me.

Hours, days, the empty wears on me, until a thread of sensation finally seeps through.

Pressure. A rhythmic press and pull bearing down on my back. Not a painful sensation but a curious one. Had an animal come to examine my prone form?

Memory flared of the dog with the rich golden fur. A well-groomed animal in the middle of the wilderness, at the end of the world. Not the companion of the one who injured me.

A puzzle my muddled mind latched onto, clawing free of the empty as more sensations registered. Cool, damp air wafted over the fever hot skin of my face and chest. I was on my side, cheek pressed against something soft, a sharp contrast to the solid rock beneath my hip. A persistent drip of liquid sounded from somewhere, from everywhere. I was no longer lying on the forest floor, but where was I now? How had I gotten here? Bodily exhaustion threatened to drag me under again, a consequence of escaping the empty.

The press and pull at my back continued, gentle fixed movements that lulled me further until the humming started. A soft, breathy sound that wound through the damp air, until words broke through. A broken child's lullaby I knew but never heard, sifted from the bleeding memories of mankind.

"Hush, Riley, you'll wake him," said a new voice, another female. Her voice was close, almost a whisper in my ear. The gentle pressure at my back continued.

The humming stopped. I wanted it back. "What if it helps?" There is a strange innocence in that question. A child, here?

The pressure at my back pauses. A warm calloused hand presses against my forehead. The shock of it should have made me tense, but exhaustion kept my body lax.

"Fever still high." The female's voice is a murmur, gentle as her touch. "Keep singing Riley. Maybe it will help."

That sweet, sing-song humming resumes, and the hand moves off my skin. There is a tightness in my chest, a sensation I don't understand. When the careful pressure at my back resumes, it is maddening.

Humans have laid hands on me before. Been dragged through the streets of fallen Los Angeles by a rope around my neck. Stabbed more than once by all manner of instruments. Slapped and punched to evade the taking of sins.

I know the touch of their anger, of their fear, and rage. I know the sound of their screams and pleas, cursed often by their dying breaths.

The pressure at my back builds, realization a pinprick of anger, bright and hot, through the haze of calm these creatures have cast over me.

She is touching my wings.

A violent shiver wracks my body, shifting the wretched appendages, barely registering against their immense weight.

"Did you see that?" The child's voice asks. "He's waking up!" Excitement colors her tone, another emotion I recognize through secondhand experiences. It drains the anger from me, fatigue rushing in the gap to claim me.

Still, I struggle against it, wanting to open my eyes. To see the singer and the other, the one who dared touch my wings. My eyelids are lead weights, the light a sudden onslaught when I manage to crack them open. The effort leaves me panting.

Through my blurred vision, their features swim in a formless mass. Frustration rankles me, forcing my stinging eyes to open further. Hazel eyes stare down at me, a tangled swirl of green and brown around dilated pupils. The only feature I can see clearly but they've captured my full attention.

There is no fear in those eyes. No horror as her gaze darts over my face.

"It's okay," she speaks. "You're safe here."

The words shatter my hold. My eyelids flutter closed, finally succumbing to the strangle hold of exhaustion.

When I wake a second time, my mind is sharper. Rested. There is a lingering soreness in my ribs, a parting gift of the blade that sent me to the empty, but the rest of my body is curiously light. Opening my eyes, the sight of my surroundings creates more questions than answers.

I've been brought to a cave, one furnished and lived in by the sight of the neatly made cots against the far wall. Between the cots is a short stack of bins, the assortment of contents visible through the clear sides. Clothing, dry goods, pots and pans, soap...are those paint brushes?

The rock wall above the cots suggests so, covered in bright, colorful smears of paint. Ribbons of filtered light dance along the rock wall and the scent of clean water permeates the cool air. The droning rush of water carries from the cave's entrance, far enough away that the bed clothes are mostly dry.

There is a third bed on the stone floor between the cots, little more than a folded blanket, and two metal bowls. One of them is half full of water. Though the third bed is empty, I realize the occupant is still in the room.

A large lump of golden fur is pressed against my legs, lightly snoring. Tentatively, I reach down, smoothing my fingers along the long nose wheezing away. The dog doesn't stir aside from the length of its tail, lifting to thump against the stone ground. I've never touched anything so soft.

The tightness returns to my chest. I dismiss it, pushing it away. Where are the two females? Has something happened to them while I slept? Attempting to sit up, the stiff length of white cloth around my torso gives me pause.

My movements also rouse the dog, whose dark eyes glance up at me before the tail begins to thump against the ground in earnest. Snuffling, the animal shuffles forward, nosing at my wrapped chest. Frozen, I submit to the canine's perusal, until it rises with a sneeze and trots away.

Beyond confused, I pull at the cloth. Bandages, I realize. The females bandaged my wound. That unfamiliar tightness is a fist, grating against the bone. What is this? Why have they done this? Another shiver wracks my body, one I feel through the wings at my back.

I've ignored them for so long, I don't sense the difference immediately, not until the muscles tremble from long disuse. Bewildered, I force myself to glance back.

"What have you done, female?" I reach back, a fine tremor in my fingers. How is this possible?

Footsteps slap across the rocks, chased by a muffled bark. The human stumbles to a stop, eyes wide at the sight of me. Before I can react, her expression shifts, lips parting in a wide grin.

"You're awake," she crows, her thin limbs flailing in excitement. She rushes up to me, her small round face inches from mine as she peers up at me, dark brown eyes studying me beneath her scrunched blonde brows. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Blinking, I jerk back. My wings shudder, unable to flap, but the fact I feel them at all threatens to send me spiraling. Thrown by her proximity, I fail to answer. This female is tiny. So much smaller than the humans I'm used to. A child? She must be, but her exuberance is unlike anything I've encountered in a living human.

Her expression shifts again, turning thoughtful. "Oh wait, can you count? Do you even know English?" She looks me over, her gaze wondering and open until she turns away. "Willa! He's awake!" The sudden volume of her words makes me jump.

"Good god, Riley, are you trying to wake the dead?" I look up at the sound of the second female, locking onto those familiar hazel eyes. "Oh." She halts several feet away, but her reactions are foreign. The lithe lines of her body are at ease, her approach cautious and careful. When her hand presses to my forehead, the fist in my chest tightens to the point of pain.

"Still a little feverish. Or maybe you just run hot." Rolling her bottom lip with her teeth, she looks me over. "Can you understand me?"

The absurdity of situation finally breaks through. "Woman, what the hell have you done to my wings?"