When the consequences of Uriel's trip to Hell arrive help comes from an unexpected end. - Utri
Fallen„You won't disappoint me again, Uriel!"
Blood smears the sword which now points at the marble ground. I stare at it. My body feels strangely numb and cold, at the same time burning hot. The moment seems unreal to me, somehow surreal. My mind is blank.
The sword vanishes before my eyes, taking with it the blood. My blood. Merely a handful of red droplets on the floor remain.
"Now leave."
Michael's voice hardly reaches me through the vapour clouding my consciousness.
"You may go for now. But the next time we meet I will kill you."
A portal appears beneath my feet. I am falling. Falling.
The familiar warmth of Heaven fades away while I see the clouds zoom out of my vision. I turn my head. Slowly the ground is coming closer. For the first time there are no wings to carry me. Falling ...
Out of Heaven, through the world of humans, into ...
'Not to Hell!', I think. 'Please, not to Hell.'
When I regain my consciousness I find myself lying in a bed in a room that looks like the students' quarters at Stradford. I need a moment to process my last memories. Right, I had been summoned to Heaven for a conference with Michael. He was mad about me breaking into Hell again to safe the young master.
Realization dawning on me I startle up. The pain jolting through my torso should tell me all I need to know, anyway my left hand seeks out my right wing – nothing. It is gone.
The world around me stops dead. My wing. My wing! All thoughts are hit out of my brain but this one. My wing.
I don't know how long I am huddled here in stupor, too shocked to do anything. Only when someone clears his throat repeatedly I look up. One of the demons is standing by the door; the porcelain-doll, Sitri. Does this mean I am in Hell? But, no, he's wearing the school uniform.
He comes closer – unpleasantly close – and the torturous pain in my back increases.
"Don't!", he says, reaching for my hand. I detangle the fingers from the bandages I hadn't noticed I was clutching – or wearing in the first place – and shove him away harshly. The pain subsides.
I notice my hand is covered with blood. My eyes fix on the red liquid. My blood. From my back. From the wound where my wing should have been. The same red that smeared the blade.
Once again frozen by shock I am unable to avert my gaze. On the edge of awareness I observe him detach the stained bandage, then replace it by a new one. Lacking the resolve to rebel I allow it.
After he is done he seizes my wrist, provoking my attention. It's repelling but I don't bridle. Who would have thought I'd ever let a devil touch me. He looks me in the eyes with an expression I cannot conceive, nods towards the nightstand and retreats.
"I've brought you a bowl of soup", he explains, gesturing at the item, "Drink it as long as it's still hot. You'll feel a lot better."
That said he makes for the door.
Opening it, attempting to take his leave, however appears to remember something and closes it again. Without turning he adds: "I am going to the common room until tonight. If you don't drink the soup until I am back I will force it into you."
Then he is gone.
Time goes by without me caring or moving. I desperately try to block out all thoughts on the impact of losing my wing. Instead I focus on the pain. Like with the left wing I have to concentrate not to try to move it, which is pretty hard because the muscles at my shoulder blades react to every emotion, clenching and unclenching in an attempt to move what no longer exists. As long as the wound isn't closed the skin will rip open with each motion. It is heinous.
A growling sound interrupts my concentration. I become overly aware of a hollow sensation in my stomach, added by a salty nausea in my throat. Startled I assume this must be what humans call hunger. Carefully I try to sit up, swaying dangerously. Fortunately the bed borders the wall, so I have something to hold onto. My gaze travels to the bowl of soup. For angels the necessity to eat does not exist. But due to the loss of wings as power-source demons have to consume food. Demons!
With a cry of anger I knock the bowl off the stand. It crashes into the wall, spilling its contents everywhere.
"I am not a demon!", I shout into the empty room.
No no no no no no no no no no no no no no!
My fists clenched to the sides of my face and my eyes pressed close I try to shut out the truth.
I am an angel!
With or without wings, I cannot be anything else! Especially not a demon! I can't become one of these damned, detestable, rotten devils, abandoned by God, living from human ill will and greed! But what if ... If I indeed am to become a fallen one? I never took falling for an option. I'd rather die than fall. Michael must have known when he spared my life, masking it as mercy.
Despair supplants disbelief.
I cannot end my own life, the Lord doesn't approve of that. My pride forbids to ask someone to kill me. And wouldn't it just be another kind of suicide? Despite I do not want to die, I do not want to live as a damned existence.
While I brood day turns to night.
At some point Sitri returns to his room. I hear the metallic clack of the handle and the click of a door closing. But I don't care. Nothing matters anymore. My inner turmoil perished and left a bitter numbness which conquered all of my body, even the pain. No will to die anymore, no will to live on. Something at the back of my head tells me I am deeply upset, though no sensation is there to prove it either wrong or right. I'm apathetic.
Sitri doesn't interact with me, or at least I do not notice it lost in the dim vapour that is all I seem to know. The world turns grey. The door clicks.
Time for morning mass, I think. A new day is dawning. The second day that Uriel, fourth of Heaven, does no longer exist.
The door clicks again.
Sky-blue mixes with the dull grey - Sitri is staring at me. I return his gaze.
"How are you?", he asks cautiously. "William is worried since mass was cancelled the second morning in row."
I incline my head, hiding my face behind long brunette bangs. Shame claws at my chest. The shame for not paying any thought for the young master. For making him worry. And the shame increases at the pure idea of going before him as I am now. No, he shall not meddle with demons, regardless if I want to see him or not. I won't stain him with my undesirable presence.
So I lost him, too, I realise.
Sitri talks some more, but I don't listen. He tries to catch my attention, but I ignore him. The weight of all the things I've lost pushes down my shoulders.
My wings are gone. Never again will I be able to set foot into Heaven, my home. Never again will I truly fly. What does this ridiculous imitation of hovering in the air count! My brothers despise me now. Michael, Gabriel, Raguel. When we meet, one of us will have to kill the other. From now on I may never talk to God again. Due to my actions I lost the love of our supreme Father. And William ... Even if he could accept me by his side as a fallen angel still, I am unable to do this to him. The young master must not develop a fondness for any creature from Hell. Of course the stubborn adolescent wouldn't listen. So it is my last duty as the Twinings' butler to cut ties with him. Cause who knows what I will become? I could never forgive myself if I took his soul!
I have to swallow hard. That it would be this painful to lose my family...
A sudden touch to my hair distracts me from my dark musings. That demon dares to-
But actually it feels nice, somehow soothing. Without further acknowledgement I close my eyes, letting him comb my hair. Shall he do as he likes.
He gently brushes my hair and it is as if he catches my attention with each stroke. The voices in my head quieten for the duration of the procedure, my awareness occupied with mentally following the brush. Up and down. Up and down. Until he is content with the result and retreats.
Before he leaves he places another bowl of soup by my side, scolding in what he must think is a strict voice: "This time I will follow through with my thread! So better eat it!"
Foolish demon, to think he could order me around. My anger makes me raise my swing - a short cry of pain escapes my throat. Of course, how could I forget... I bite my lower lip until it bleeds, creating a contrahenting pain to focus on. Oh Michael, why haven't you killed me?
After some deep breaths the worst pain ebbes down. It is agony.
The hours drag by with me still sitting there indifferent. For what I know it could have been years or mere minutes until I feel the weight and warmth of a hand on my shoulder. I ignore it. The hand squeezes my shoulder slightly. Get off me, you filthy devil! Don't touch me! But his hand remains in its position, he is waiting for me to react to him. His voice reaches my ears, but not my brain. Retreat! Let me be! My awareness of that small hand intensifies with each heartbeat, the hand of a creature from Hell, of a sinner, a traitor, an enemy. It is as if it was tainting me. In my imagination darkness floods my body outgoing from the point where he holds on to me. My insides wrench in repulsion. I want a dozen speers of light to pierce that hand that makes me realise my body is no longer sacred and pure, that forces me to face the inevitable descend into the impurity of Hell. I want a jolt of lightning to burn his flesh so he never can touch me again. But nothing happens. My eyes grow wide as I comprehend: Along with the wings my source of magic is lost!
If I cannot defy myself with magic anymore my education as Michael's soldier will have to suffice. So my hand shoots out, seizing his arm. With all the force I can muster I throw him off me, shouting out: "Do not touch me!" He's surprised.
I get up from the bed for the first time in days - at least I try to. As soon as I draw myself up, I stumble to the left, almost falling over. I manage to catch myself with a knee and both hands on the mattress, still swaying. It's like it had been when my first wing had gone. My balance was disturbed for days until I learned to even out the missing weight on the left side. Luckily back then nobody had seen my humble attempts at walking straight, or worse, flying steady - with a little help of mirror-magic in order to get off the ground with only one wing at all. Today I'm not that lucky. He's seen it, the demon. The useless puppet-demon. My jaw clenches at the humiliation at loosing face like that. He has seen quite too much of my lapse already.
It looks as though he senses my distress. His hands up, empathy in his eyes, he gestures for me to calm down, infuriating me further. His pity is the last I need now. If looks could kill he'd be dead momentarily.
"Please acquiesce! Your wound will reopen if you keep moving like that.", he tries to pacify me. "I understand how you feel. But I must insist you take better care of yourself."
"What do you understand?!", I yell at him furiously. "You don't know anything!"
At my accusation his calm facade crumbles immediately.
"I don't know?", he hisses, his eyes forming angry slits. I expect him to attack any instant. Instead he surprises me once more, catches me absolutely off guard: He unbuttons his blazer, then his shirt and, tossing both on the floor turns, his back on me. My eyes automatically settle on the scars covering his shoulder blades. The impression they have on me is unforeseen. There is no possible defence as my mind absorbs the view. My back will sport a similar appearance soon. I react to this realisation in a way I've never reacted to anything before: I start to cry. Hot, burning tears fall from my eyes, accompanied by awkward whimpering. Helplessness and anger find their outlet. And the idiotic demon makes it all worse by hugging me tightly.
"You won't become a demon.", Sitri whispers into my ear when the worst sobbing subsides. Almost not hearable he adds: "You're the same as me." By the sound of it it is a reason to be happy. I indeed find some reassurance in it. There's a chance to stay whatever I currently am. I can evade turning into a monster.
Shortly after my outburst he has to leave for class. He left me another bowl of soup on the nightstand again. This time I eat it and he is right – the warm fluid makes me feel better the moment it runs down my throat.
Within the following days I recover more and more. My back heals, as does my psyche. Somehow I will find a way to go on, I am sure about it. Maybe I can begin my life again. Maybe I can find a new identity. But this is not the end.
After class and at night Sitri keeps me company. He does not touch me anymore and we talk few. But his presence no longer disgusts me. I eat the food he delivers. He tells me about the day, mostly about William, who still does not know where I am and what happened to me.
One day he asks me if I was ready to face the young master. He thinks it's vital for him as well as for me and he might be right about it. So I nod, ignoring the dread rising in my guts. I will talk to him.
Sitri rewards me with a bright smile. I think he isn't so bad after all, seeing how much he cares for William's wellbeing.
"Alright, then I'll go and get him!", he says contently. "But before I do so..." He advances the bed which I inhabit. He sits down directly in front of me, giving me a look I cannot interpret. He's somehow earnest, considering my face.
"Thank you that you'll see him. He's worried so much."
And then he leans forward and his lips touch mine. As fast as the kiss comes it is over and Sitri over by the door. He leaves the room with an amused giggle. Too late I manage to throw a plate after him.