a/n: Ridiculously involved with Dominion. I'm really enjoying the show. A 3-part multi-chapter fic.
Another evening of navigating polities and feigning niceties was almost at an end. Senator Becca Thorn surveyed the banqueting hall from her seat at the senators table and smiled politely at a passing ambassador. Her cheeks hurt from smiling, her back ached from sitting up straight in a corseted gown and her feet throbbed from dancing on heels that were really too high.
Consul David Whele hosted the event in honour of a visiting emissary. It was now past midnight and she had had enough. Across from her, Senators Blanch Romero and Thomas Frost debated the state of Vega's new food programme. It was nothing she hadn't heard before. Her fingers played idly with the stem of her champagne flute as she drowned out the sound of their voices and surveyed the room.
Dignitaries and guests were slowly leaving the event, although some still lingered on the dance floor, swaying to the melancholy sound of a pair of violinists who continued playing even as the band began packing up their equipment.
Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes and she shut them for a moment, focusing on her breathing and recovering from the emotional punch. The violin had been her mother's favourite instrument and the one luxury she had indulged in despite their wealth and status. Becca had learned to play the instrument at a young age. After her mother's death, she had not been able to play again.
She shook her head briskly, her eyes clear when they opened. Across the room she saw General Edward Riesen, Lord of the City, in deep conversation with his Chief Advisor and invaluable ally, the Archangel Michael. Becca's hand tightened involuntarily on stem of her glass as he caught her gaze for a heartstopping moment before continuing his discourse with Riesen.
Michael was an unending enigma. Deeply mysterious, he rarely spoke of himself to anyone. Except sometimes with her. It always surprising when he shared his thoughts or desires because even when he did, it was usually with the briefest details, offering her only a glimmer of insight into a very complex individual. But that was because he wasn't human. He was a divine creation. And as such, saw the world in a way that mortals could never understand. It was why she was endlessly fascinated. And attracted.
After Portia Thorn had died, her seat on Vega's senate had become available to her only living child. Consulships and the designation of Lord of the City were all hereditary positions, passed down from parent to eligible heir. Young and without her mother's guidance, she had to use the opportunity to demonstrate her worth and further her education. Now, many years later, she had proved herself a dedicated and loyal public servant, spearheading numerous health and human services programmes and overseeing the construction of Vega's foremost medical facility.
Becca allowed herself a moment to recall her mother, the sweeter memories always crowded by their final moments together. Black Acolytes serving the archangel Gabriel had infiltrated the city and many had been slain in the ensuing battle. Her mother, then the third most powerful ruler in Vega, had been possessed by a lower angel and turned into an eight-ball. Becca swallowed as emotion threatened to chip at her composure. The laughter of those around her registered on her periphery, but she was too lost in the past.
This was how she had come to meet Michael for the first time. She had been aware of the rules and protocols to be observed when encountering the always indifferent archangel. It was principles published in Vega's Citizen's Handbook.
1. Respect his desire for privacy and solitude.
2. If encountering him inside the city, avoid eye contact and always keep hands in plain sight.
3. Make no request to see or touch his wings.
Every citizen was educated to never forget that without Michael, humanity would not be alive. But none of the protocols had mattered. Her beloved mother, her body contorted as if manipulated by some puppeteer, had leapt onto the ceiling of her bedroom one evening, throwing her antique armoir across the room as if it weighed nothing. Her eyes were no longer kind and astute, instead her pupils were dark as night, the white completely gone. In the dim light, Becca could see that her face and arms were marred by thin, black, spiderlike veins.
"Mother, please!" she pleaded. "It's me. It's Becca."
But her pleas to be recognised as kin had fallen on deaf ears. With jagged, blackened teeth, her mother attacked, determined to exorcise her murderous rage. Becca had run, blinded by fear, straight into the arms of mankind's enigmatic saviour.
She'd never questioned why Michael had been there; everything had been a horrific blur. In a rush, she was pushed behind him, landing painfully on the cold marble floor, close enough to see the unfurling of his large black wings. With her heart beating in her throat, she witnessed first-hand what so many were endlessly curious about. An archangels wings. Momentarily, fear was replaced with awe.
With infinite, but deadly grace, Michael trapped her mother, ready to pierce her heart with a long, silver blade.
"Please!" Becca begged, finding her voice, overcome with heaving sobs from her vantage on the floor. "Please. Don't kill her."
He turned to face her then and she was sure that he had forgotten her presence. With cool indifference, Michael said, "I am surprised, Miss Thorn, that you of all people are not aware of the grieving process so explicitly outlined in the Citizen's Handbook. Portia Thorn," he looked at the creature, her mother, and then back at her, "was instrumental in the drafting of the policy."
Becca could not get a word out, slowly stumbling to her feet, her cheeks wet with tears. Her hand went to her temple and she winced, her fingers covered in sticky blood. Even barefoot, bleeding and dishevelled, she'd had no idea the effect she had on the always stoic archangel.
His tone firm, his eyes fixed solely on her, Michael continued. "Witnessing a loved one become the enemy can be very traumatic. The creature which stands before you now is no longer human. It may have once been your mother, but she is long gone. Left in her wake is nothing but a murderous angel inhabiting the body of the person you once knew." He paused a moment before adding, "And loved."
"I cannot let you kill her. I cannot-"
"I am not asking your permission," he said with cool grace.
Becca wrapped her arms around her waist, blood smearing on her white satin nightgown where she touched. Tears welled in her eyes again, falling like fat drops of rain. Something in his gaze shifted, but he turned away quickly, leaving her sure she imagined it. The creature hissed, snarling under his oppressive hold. He seemed to hesitate, turning to her.
"You must accept that your loved one is gone, Miss Thorn."
His tone sounded kinder, but Becca was too upset to care. She knew what needed to be done. She had seen this happen to others countless times before.
"I'm so sorry, Mother," she whispered. "I love you."
Her eyes met Michael's and the permission he claimed not to have sought passed between them. Before she'd even turned away, his blade was buried deep within her chest. The creature slumped, her eyes glazed over as whatever life had been left there extinguished.
Becca dropped to her knees with no energy to even cry. She was the last of her family. She didn't even know how to grieve that reality.
"I am sorry for your loss."
She would not look at the creature again. Her mother was dead. Around them, soldiers from the Archangel Corps flooded the room, an elite group of Special Forces who served as Vega's first line of defence. Becca and Michael neither saw, nor heard them. Kneeling beside her, he offered her his hand. Becca took it, her eyes fixed on his as she rose to her feet.
"Thank you…" she hesitated, unsure whether she should speak his name. His palm was warm, soft, but strong, his fingers long, gripping her hand lightly. She was surprised. She would have expected his hands to be cold. She didn't even know why she'd assumed that.
"Michael."
"I know who you are."
A ghost of a smile passed across his face. It had nothing to do with humour.
Becca was jostled back to the present by the heated debate at the table. It really was time that she leave.
"Senators," she said, interrupting the debate between Blanch and Thomas. "Thank you for a lovely evening. But if you'll excuse me, I have an early visit to the hospital and if I allow myself any more champagne, I'll be unable to make my appointment."
"Surely you have enough medical staff at your disposal, Becca. Stay a while longer."
"Senator Romero, I wish I could. But please, don't let me interrupt. Goodnight to you both."
She collected her purse and pushed her long hair off her shoulder, letting the shiny, copper waves fall down her back. Automatically, her eyes travelled back to where Michael still stood. He was watching her progress across the room, his features inscrutable as always. A frisson of awareness raced up her spine.
General Reisen turned and she nodded a greeting to both men, determined to be waylaid no longer. Ahead, Senetor Whele flashed a smile at the woman he was conversing with. Becca groaned. He blocked her route out and the last thing she needed was to deal with him.