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Thank you.
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Chapter One
Burn
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Sometimes, he felt as though he were hanging on by a string.
The pain had not grown less, with the passing of years. He was beginning to suspect that it could not. Adam had been right, it seemed, so long ago. Of course.
The boy had been dead for more than two centuries now. Caphriel had heard about it at the time, he remembered vaguely. One of the humans had told him, at St James's Park.
Anathema Device.
–––
She approached him slowly from behind, desperately wishing she could travel an hour forward in time. She really, really didn't want to have to talk to this man... being... again. But she knew that she had no choice.
That morning, very early, even before dawn, she'd woken up screaming. Newt, frightened and upset, had asked her what on earth was the matter. He'd had to repeat the question five times, more and more urgently, ere she'd answered. When she finally did, her only words had been, "I must go speak to him."
"To who?"
"The angel."
There had been a rather long period of silence then. Silence from Newt, that was. All the while, a furious gale had been roaring in Anathema's head and heart, making her actually twitch in barely-contained agitation.
"Anathema, are you mad? We'd agreed to put all this behind us! The whole affair is over, there's -"
"Don't hinder me," she'd just managed to grind out between her teeth. "I... Must... Go."
"But -"
"Newt!"
If there was one thing her Newt had learned, after five years of marriage, it was that he had better not try to get in his wife's way when she took on that tone of voice. He knew it, and he acted accordingly, saying, with obligatory testiness, "All right. You know what you're doing, I suppose. You always do. Just..." And he turned her shock-white face towards him, looked at her with dead seriousness. "Just be careful, you understand? He's mad."
—
The thing that had whipped her awake that morning had been fairly straightforward, in its way. A simple request, nothing more, but one that any creature, living or dead, would have been powerless to resist. Accordingly, she hadn't even tried to. Not that this made things any easier.
Certain sensitive humans, like Anathema, could, on occasion, be affected so strongly by extremes of negative emotion - sorrow, in this particular case - that it was like standing in the path of an avalanche of stone, and the urge to run away, as fast as their feet would carry them, became almost impossible to resist. Indeed, even now, still several yards away from him, it felt as though she was knowingly walking into quicksand, sucking her in. It was a huge effort to keep moving forward, every muscle struggling against her, wanting to put all its power into racing home, where Newt was, where she could feel safe.
She fought down the ignoble weakness. She, no, the whole world, owed him so much more than this. And it was a debt that could never be repaid.
She hadn't wanted to ever tell him, and had told her husband so, when word had reached them the day before. The two of them had agreed that it would be a mercy not to. But certain summons cannot be denied, ever, no matter what conscience declares. There was a reason for this, she knew it, and it was what she had to trust in.
She glanced around quickly. Not a soul in sight. Good. She gathered her resolve, and tapped him on the shoulder. "Caphriel?"
He turned, and Anathema couldn't help but shake like a leaf when she saw those sunglasses again. God, even the faintest inkling of what lived, or rather, no longer lived, behind them...
She must have been staring and hesitating for too long, because he said, "Yes? What is it?"
Oh, but he sounded so dead, so dead his voice, like the grating of a mausoleum gate. And as for what lay buried there, her mind cowered at the thought.
"Have you... heard?" she stammered. All she could force her tongue to say.
"Heard what?"
Aaah...
She grasped hold of her arms, hugging herself. She had to hurry, she was going to snap and bolt any minute now.
"Heard about... about what happened to Adam Young," she said, lips going numb. She lowered her gaze; she couldn't look at him anymore. She took a deep, much-needed breath, and went on, "He's dead. Traffic accident, hit by a truck, and... someone else died with him." She almost bit off her tongue when she realised what she'd just said. Oh God, that hadn't been part of the orders she'd received, she'd been forbidden to do it, even. What would those two say now?
Suppressing this extra source of panic, which she really did not need right now, she waited for a reaction, any reaction. None came, and Anathema's heart sank within her. She glanced up quickly, then cast down her eyes again. Not the slightest bit of expression on his face. An absolute blank. So, so far gone... Helplessly, soundlessly, she began to cry.
"Who died with him?" he asked, and she could tell that the question was purely automatic, straight from the vocal cords. She knew the answer, of course she did, it had been in the letter and it had been in the vision in her sleep, but she'd condemn herself to inquisitorial torture sooner than give it to him.
"I... don't know. Someone," she replied lamely.
There was a long pause. She felt, Anathema, as though she was standing in the eye of a hurricane, ready at any moment to bear down upon her.
And all too soon, it did.
"Dead," he said.
She jerked. "Eh?"
"Adam Young is dead."
"Yes, and it was -"
He let out a laugh, a hideous sound, and Anathema shuddered.
"Five years, only five years after it happened, and he's dead. And it was that life, that was the catalyst, it was because of that that I..." His voice cracked, and Anathema's eyes grew wide when she saw tears start to leak out from under his sunglasses. At once, the psychic shock hit her, and she nearly doubled up. Gritting her teeth to keep from being sick then and there, she said, or rather groaned, "Caphriel..."
"I killed him." And again, "I killed him."
"Caphriel... Please, stop..."
"I killed him, I killed him, I killed him, I..." Over and over again, in a monotone, faster and faster, his voice so low that Anathema could barely hear it, his breath hitching at every repetition.
"Stop... Stop... Stop..." with her palms on her ears and her fingers twisting in her hair.
And then the name was spoken. The name that she'd prayed she'd never have to hear again.
"I killed him... Zirah..."
"Caphriel, for the love of God, stop!" she cried, hysterical.
She was on her knees now, clutching at her head, eyes wild, face contorted with horror and heart thundering in her breast. She'd thought she'd been about to snap and bolt before, but now... And yet, think of it, and in that very moment she did think of it, what she was experiencing now, however nightmarish, was but the merest resonance of this man's pain. Her soul shrank with pity. How great a heart, to bear so much...
He sighed, and it was like a breeze over a graveyard. "For the love of God. Right. Of course. How wonderful." Bitter as bile.
Oh, nooo...
She struggled to her feet, her every human instinct screaming at her to at least try and offer some minimal comfort, instincts powerful enough to override even the wild-animal desire to flee and never stop. "Caphriel," she began, and faltered. She began again. "Caphriel, I..." Only to fall flat before the sheer ludicrousness that was the notion of attempting to console such a one.
Finally, she grasped his gloved hands - why would he be wearing leather gloves during a heatwave, she wondered, insanely - squeezed them tight, took a deep breath, and said, "I'll pray for you."
Then, at last, she ran.
–––
True to his word, he really had tried to burn that walking stick. He'd taken it to a deserted field, outside the city - for he would have no-one witness this but him - built a neat little bonfire, and thrown the stick on it.
He'd watched the flames begin to lick at it, burn at it, just as far hotter flames had once, long, long ago, burned at... at...
Seven seconds, no more. That was how long he'd been able to stand there and watch. The next second, he'd been on his knees, reaching with bare hands into the fire, desperate to save hi- it, it, it! He'd pressed it against him, against his chest, against his neck, running his hands, burned and blackened, up and down its length, all the while sobbing out declarations of undying love, interspersed with wild pleas for forgiveness.
Many hours later, when the fire had gone out for lack of fuel, he'd still been kneeling there, though his voice had long tapered off. The sobs hadn't, though.
He never bothered to heal his injuries: he hid them. The black leather gloves scoured his molten skin, and red cracks would form when he flexed his fingers or made a fist. His hands were almost always balled into fists, and it hurt, and badly, but who cared? That meant that it was right. A simple scarf was enough for the mark on his neck.
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The bookshop was torture, plain and simple. He hadn't even attempted to set it on fire: it was completely impossible. The walking stick had been a mere tool, only used once. (Twice, a voice would always whisper, viciously. He accepted this, and ignored it.) The shop, the books, had been something that Zirah had loved. The only thing, most likely. This, too, Caphriel accepted. Was there a choice?
Caphriel lived there, now.
Oh, he still did his job, with honour, dedication, and utter loathing, travelling all over the world, for years, even decades at a time, but he would always return to that one London building, that time never seemed to touch. He was always there, in a way. It was the only place in all the world where he could still be said to live, a little.
Wandering aimlessly around the shop, for days on end, running his fingers over the spines of the books, gently, softly, without looking at them. Crying the nights away, hiding under the covers of the little bed upstairs.
Torment.
But torment that he could not exist without, because it was the only thing that made him feel close to the one he'd loved, did love, always would, from here to eternity.
Zirah.
'Fine', he'd try to assure himself he'd be, from time to time.
Madness.
–––
"It is a mercy," she had said. She had been right, for the addition, to everything else, of the knowledge that had been deliberately kept hidden would merely have augmented and made more pungent this slow, creeping misery.
So here he was, then.
His own, merciful Hell.
How ironic.
