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I was flying high, my sky blue wings free from bruises or abrasions for the first time in many years. A laugh escaped my lips as I turned to face the man beside me. His black wings had a red lightening bolt etched down the center of each. And there, on his left wing, dead center was a tiny blue feather. The correct feather, blood red, sat in the middle of my own deep blue wing. We had swapped that day he stole his wings back with a kiss. There was a rumbling off to my left, forewarning, a bad omen. I swooped away, he followed. We played for a while, and then the storm was upon me. Lightening and thunder crashing everywhere, I reached for him. He was gone, as if he had never been. There was no trace, no sign. It was as if I had dreamed that return, that relapse. The spell was once again firmly in place. He was caged, his wings bound tightly, firmly to her. His words stolen from the very tips of his fingers. I rolled in mid-air and fell to earth, my arms and wings spread out. I did nothing to brace for the impact, and as my back slammed into the earth, body arching towards the heavens, my breath left my lungs. I feared this would be the last time I ever flew. His promises are nothing but memories now. The ring I wear on my right hand is no longer an unspoken vow, but rather, a reminder of what once was.
My name is not important. I have had many since the dawn of our time. My title, however is The Channel. I can take energy; pure and raw and pass it harmlessly through my body. I can take the most evil, vile energy straight from the seven circle of the dimension of Hell and filter out what I need to restore the balance of evil in the world. With the Kiss of Life, I can save someone. With the Kiss of Death, I can kill. I can pull energy from a person, pass it through my body, and send it where it needs to go. I am The Channel. I, along with the other three Keepers, am a Guardian of the balance, not only in this world, but in all dimensions and
There was nothing on the walls. There were no windows, there were no doors, there were no drawers, and there were no pictures. There was only white. Four white walls, exactly fifteen feet from the center of the room where he sat, connected by a white floor and a white ceiling. He looked dead ahead at the white wall in front of him, his thoughts a dull haze. He lived in his white box. He breathed, ate, drank, and communicated in his white box. Everything he needed was provided by his white box. He never needed to leave his white box. There was no way to leave, anyway. Occasionally a small hole would open in a wall to give