Disclaimer: The X-Men characters, and all other recognizable characters are copyright to Marvel Entertainment Group. This work of FanFiction is not meant to infringe on that copyright or defame Marvel Comics or the X-Men and related characters in any way.

Copyright: This fanfiction belongs to me. The situation is mine, with a little help from my friends in spam! (Dyce, Harlequin, Matt Nute, & RedHawk).

© K-Nice 1999

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He lies supine on the satin bed covers, head on his hands. He can not sleep.

It is not his troubled dreams that he fears or even discomfort.

He simply cannot sleep.

He feels no fatigue, no tiredness in his hollow bones.

He has pills in his medicine cabinet that could ease him into rest but he has learned to despise dependancy. Rather than take the easy road which lies behind him, he closes his eyes and pretends to dream the fairy tale that is his life.

There is a rustling of feathers as he calms his torrid mind.

He ignores them.

Once upon a time he was a handsome prince.

Born on a blessed day to a blessed family, his first steps were remarked among the elite and privileged. Heralded as the heir to fortunes untold but quickly handed over to those who could be paid to deal with him until he was olenought to wheel and deal.

Young, blond, dashing, with girls on either arm and one back in the dorm. Private schools and European vacations. The yacht and the Porshe, both before he could legally drive.

Always alone because Mommy and Daddy were too busy. Never alone because he had money and gorgeous blue eyes.

All was well for the handsome, young prince, until everything suddenly wasn't. One day the fairy tale came to an end, flying away on pure white wings.

He sneezes. He would go close the window, but instead he is suddenly cocooned in his own plumage, before he can even think of wrapping his wings around himself.

He had become his wings. He could fly far, far away from the lonely ache he didn't even know he felt. Those wings made him more than a man, more that human and frail and needy. His wings were his liberation from kindness and honesty and affection.

Then he was the heroic young mutant--so brave and strong. He was the stuff of myth, an Angel come down from on high to mingle with mere mortals.

He was Wings. High-flying spirit, divine looks, elegant style. Defined by a mutantion he didn't choose, trapped in a role he couldn't afford not to play.

Then, tragedy struck. Someone took away his wings, pulled him from the sky and shackled him, bloody and retching, to the earth.

What was he without wings?

He made a deal with a greater evil than he believed could exist and Death was born, on wings of techno-organic metal. His wings fought, hurt, maimed, killed. He was the fallen angel, the demon, the Archangel.

So beautiful that he was poison, so evil that he stung.

He shoved little pieces of his pain into each and every victim, dragged them down with him into the depths of hell, chained them to the walls as the inferno

raged within his head.

Always the heated battle between Angel and Archangel, between Wings and wings.

Always, he lost.

Always, he battled on.

Until the war was halted, called to cease-fire by the very man who started it. A devil in gray and purple instead of black and red. That devil had bestowed upon him the one true gift he had ever recieved. His pure white--

The thought hangs incomplete as he struggles against a tightness in his throat. His eyes snap open, the reverie broken.

He coughs, bewildered that it makes no sound. His hands reach for his neck, his chest, but he cannot move them. They are trapped by something, perhaps his bedclothes.

He gags, wrapping his arms around his belly. He grabbles with the bedsheets, desprate to sit up. Something is dragging him down, holding him down, pulling, pulling . . .

Curling his body, he pushes with all the strength in his chest, pushes against whatever blocks his throat. His body contracts and shakes and explodes.

Feathers, white and red, spray before his eyes. Sharp pains in his throat must be from the tightness. His mind warns him, begs him not to ignore the signs before him. But all he wants to do is breathe.

Powerful wings wrap more tightly about his form, squeezing his ribs, as if to force the air from his lungs. Panic forces its way up through his bowels.

Feathers cloud his throat, his mouth, his nose. His eyes tear and he shuts them tight against the bright light in his head.

A voice like thunder fills his ears. "I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds. Only the strong will survive."

He is left with no other choices but these two: Fight and survive as a pawn, a killer or die with out even reaching for his last breath.

He must choose, here and now, his forever: Die the noble martyr or live to fight another day?

Feathers flutter.

His whole body relaxes.

He lets a tear trickle from his eye as he flexes for one last push.

This final effort is enough and feathers rain down on him as he finally draws a full, freeing breath. It rattles his lungs. Blood tinges his lips as he exhales.

Another deep cleansing breath and he hacks up a chuck of his trachea. On the next, he feels blood rise to the back of his tongue, but he can't manage to swallow it.

As the last feather tickles his nose, as the wings on his back begin to arch, carrying him towards the open window, he realizes that no gift is free.

Not even survival.

Angels don't die. In the end, it's their wings that get them.