A/N: another week, another chapter. Thanks always to my lovelings Kimmie 45 who edited (even thought I kinda rewrote a lot of if after. Sorry, doll, you know how anal I am. It was too wordy. Ugh) and Sammyhale for her endless (and patient) amount of reassurances.
See you on the flip-side, and I hope you all enjoy.
The Fallen
Chapter 24
Wiping all reservations from my mind, and before I can arrive at a rational argument that will sway me from this path, I reach boldly into the brass box.
I wrap my palm around the narrow base of the spearhead, preparing to remove it from its encasement, just as I am literally thrown backwards into the stone wall by the absolute power harboring within.
I collapse to the ground; my body instantly overrun with the all-consuming pain of fire. It's as if thousands of kilowatts of electricity is being driven through my veins, continually; unendingly.
Michael's sword falls from my grip and clambers several feet from me; though, the spear remains tightly enclosed in my clenched fist.
I struggle with the effort to pull myself to my feet, fighting to catch my breath, even as the fire diminishes and is replaced by wave after wave of every palpable, gut wrenching mental torment possible. It is despair, grief, and heartbreak, all amassing and concentrating together.
I feel as if I am physically drowning, while my soul has been forsaken to complete darkness; devoid not only of light, but everything that represents warmth, and the very essence of that beautiful human creature herself.
I have known the loss of my father, for thousands of years I have lived through it, but no, this is infinitely worse. This is the loss of Isabella.
I see, I feel, I experience the very reality of surviving her, of losing her to the worst kinds of cruelties and injustices, while abandoning me utterly and completely to the mercy of it.
The blood in my veins runs ice cold to the utter depths of my soul, until I am teetering on the edge of losing my very mind. I cry out to my father, begging Him for mercy, but no sound passes my lips. I am locked in the anguish and despair of my own imprisoned mind, where I am separated not only from the light and from my father, but from Isabella.
That's when I hear it; a razor-sharp crack that slices through to the very core of my soul. As if it were a tangible force I am thrown several feet, falling flat onto my stomach as a trail of fire spills across my lower back.
I convulse, on impulse or by reaction I am not certain, before the piercing sound once more shatters the stillness of the small, isolated room and my own mind. Again I forcibly seize as my lungs heave violently in return, rendering me without breath and frozen momentarily in shock.
Again, the deafening shrill of a veiled whip once more penetrates the plane between mind and body as it brutally ignites across my flesh.
And again.
And again.
And again.
My skin blisters and tears as blood and fluid ooze from each welted laceration. It spills to the cold marble floor beneath me, causing me to slip as I jerk instinctively in attempt to escape the trauma being afflicted on my body.
But there is no escape. Though it is a punishment of the mind, the results are as equally tangible.
I am scourged, repeatedly and ceaselessly, front and back, until the imperceptible weapon tears through every inch of flesh, muscle, and sinew in my body. And still it continues, serrating, mutilating and disfiguring my human form down to the bone, as I lay unmoving in a pool of my own blood and physical matter.
Yet I continue to live, to breathe; through unimaginable torture, I endure. In a feeble attempt at self-preservation, my mind shuts down. I lose all sense of self-awareness and reality around me, but still it continues; I continue.
With the physical mass of a mountain of stone, both my forearms are not only broken but fragmented. A well of cherry-red blood pours from the gaping wounds of my wrists; compounding with the marsh of blood loss around me so immense it should be incompatible with life.
With the same incomprehensible force, the bones of my feet are shattered. Through my unseeing eyes, I stare forward, as every point of impact jerks my body as if all life had been extinguished from it.
My limbs are spread, rigid and unnatural, and in a blunt force, my shoulders dislocate. My head rolls to the side heavily as blood not only blinds my vision, but pours from my mouth and nose while accumulating steadily in my lungs.
I am asphyxiating, drowning slowly in my own blood. Every breath I take is intense, unbearable pain, and yet my body instinctively pushes air in and out of my stricken lungs, even as I physically recoil; even as it gurgles thickly and is immediately extinguished.
My body is beaten and exhausted in every sense of the word, and yet mercilessly my mind begins to sharpen. Slowly, my senses center, turning me lucid enough to desire—to fight for every last breath; a last ditch effort of a dying brain to find the will to cling to life. It renders me cruelly conscious as my body painstakingly succumbs in defeat to such a remorseless death.
This is when panic begins to set it. A blind swell of acute panic that I am going to die.
"F-Father, Father, why have you forsaken me?!" I choke out in sheer desperation, drawing enough oxygen in my gorged lungs as the words die on my lips.
In a single strike of blistering-white light—that blazes from behind my closed eyes—my ribs are separated, my lungs punctured, and my heart is breached.
"Bel-la..." her name breaks, fractured from my lips, an agonizing, disjointed utterance as all life drains from me.
Consciousness ceases, plunging me into a vacuity of insignificance. Into a nothingness. A realm so beyond human scope that no words exist to describe it.
I am simply no more.
. . .
"Stigmata."
The word floats through what appears empty vacuous space; though, there's no comprehension attached to it. It is simply a brief procession of sound.
"Stigmata." Again, spoken in barely whisper coupled with almost fearful reverence.
My eyes snap open only moments before my back arches forcibly from the stone floor behind one huge gasping breath after another, as oxygen rapidly fills my lungs.
A withered face blocks my line of vision. Weary lines crease his brow, even as a set of clear, amber eyes are lit up from their depths. "My son?"
I stare dazed and disorientated into the Pontiff's eyes as a rush of images begin to project through his mind. Images which flow freely and without restriction for such a man who guards his thoughts closely. I see the horror which has befallen me. I see myself, brutalized to the point I am unrecognizable, consumed in blood, with flesh and muscle dangling like tenderized meat from my bones. I see myself violently and repeatedly jerking as I react to the continued assaults of an unseen entity, while my blood showers every surface of the small room. I see the river of blood I was lying in as I took one glutted, strangled breath after another, while the very expression on my face is one of pure terror.
"Father?" My throat is raw, my voice rustic as if it hasn't been used in weeks.
"Let me help you up, my son," he offers, before slipping a pair of warm hands around me.
Clumsily, awkwardly, I allow the Pontiff to help me to my feet, before he releases me and bends down to retrieve Michael's sword. My eyes track him steadily as the peculiarity of the situation strikes me, and I blink several times, uncertain I can trust my eyes.
Where is all the blood? I wonder, all but blurting the question out loud, as I hastily move to inspect myself; my chest and stomach, my arms, my feet...
I run my hand repeatedly over my flesh, my fingers probing over my ribs and along every contour, but it is evident not a single visible injury distorts my skin. It is as clear and blemish free as it has always been; though, coated as it is, in the dried blood and filth from my recent altercation with Raphael.
The Father moves before me and extends both hands, offering up the silver hilt of my brother's sword.
"My son?" His head bows respectfully as a warm smile lights up his face.
"Thank you," I reciprocate, taking it in my left hand.
In my right, I clutch the Roman spearhead.
As if recollection suddenly seizes me, I bring it before my eyes; staring down at the cool iron weapon that sits heavily in my palm.
The energy within appears to have sated to a low pulsating gravity which travels fluidly up my arm and into my blood stream; as if it is now an extension of me.
I squeeze my palm repeatedly around it; testing its weight in my grip, much like I did Michael's sword several months earlier. By comparison it is light and compressed, but by equal measure, it's heavy. So heavy I instinctively understand that it will ultimately destroy me.
At the same time, a sense of disorientation still lingers over me. I feel incongruous in my body of skin while remaining uncertain of my own mind.
"What the hell just happened?" I clear my voice roughly, along with my thoughts as I put the question to no one in particular.
It is the Pontiff who answers. "To wield His power, my son, you had to know His suffering."
I turn to him; his expression is staid and awash in empathy. He smiles.
Half a smile tugs at my lips in return, almost subconsciously, before my eyes retract from the good father to the demon who lurks behind him.
Gadreel stands stock still in evident shock, his mouth agape and his eyes wide and incomprehensible.
"Did-did it work, brother?" he asks, though his voice barely emits a sound.
"One way to find out," I mutter, striding toward him without further hesitation.
I cannot sit and partake in the wonder of the blood of Christ and its effect on me a moment longer. Right now time is not on my side.
The beast stands his ground, without faltering, resigned to whatever fate exists behind the end of the spear.
"Just do it, Dashiel," he urges me, his tone low and hedged with defeat as he expands his lungs; subconsciously inviting me to plunge the spear into his chest.
Either I will be Beth, or I will be in Hell. I am resigned to my fate. I don't wish to remain another moment in this godforsaken planet… his thoughts relay to me, over and over, in a seemingly ceaseless cycle. In fact, they appear to be spilling out of him, whether I choose to be privy to them, or not.
I regard him for a moment, and all but snort. How these beasts relish in their torment, in their self-deprecation.
Smirking at him, I meticulously tuck Michael's sword back within the waistband of my jeans. Then straightening back up, I shove the beast cynically; conveying my impatience, before forcibly grabbing his wrist.
Bringing the tip of the spear to his palm, I pierce his flesh, puncturing the surface of his skin by no more than five millimeters.
His breath draws sharply, and as if on impulse, he yanks his hand from my grip, cradling it in his own.
A golden light begins to radiate from beneath his skin, and from the point of entry it slowly floods up his arm. It is the same aura of light he would have emanated had he been in his angelic state, but in his state of damnation it appears to be a toxin to him; a malediction.
Seeming frozen in place, the demon begins to convulse, his eyes wide with fear as all blood drains from his face; only to be replaced by the expanding illumination amassing beneath his skin.
In panic, he battles it, his hands wrapping around his throat as he falls to his knees, choking and spluttering; struggling futilely as the darkness that's held domain over him for thousands of years succumbs slowly to the divine sanctity of light that is overrunning his body.
Reaching out he grabs my foot, turning his desperate eyes to me as he shakes he head hastily back and forth. I am uncertain of his meaning; though, as a mere witness to the perilousness of his transition, I inherently understand there is nothing I can do to stop what has begun.
"Don't fight it, my son," the good Pontiff speaks soothingly to him, marking the sign of the cross on the beast's forehead, before he begins his prayers in Latin.
The demon begins to violently quake, endangering the Pontiff so much, I'm forced to reach out and drag the aging man back.
Gas begins to emit from the top the beast's head, while the veins running down his brow and temple all but physically detach from his skin as if the legion within him is protecting itself from the tentacles of radiating light that is now creeping up the beast's neck.
In panic, Gadreel angles his head to the ceiling, as if he were being submerged in water, fighting to preserve every inch of breathable air. And just when I'm convinced the pressure building within his head will cause it to explode, he effectively surrenders. The golden light completely floods him, illuminating from every pore of his body of skin as an expression of total peace and acceptance besets his face.
For several seconds Gadreel lingers in this condition; as if he were a statue carved from smoldering wood glowing bright from the fire within, when his encasement of skin begins to split open. From the top of his head, as if by an invisible zipper, his body of flesh slowly peels, revealing the head of a tall being, made of that same transcendent radiation. And as this being of light emerges the demon's once human camouflage rains to the floor in embers that burn gold.
Before my very eyes, Gadreel, a five millennia old demon, sheds his skin, re-emerging in the physical body of the living, breathing light of God; the body of his inception; of his creation, and characterized by two brilliant white angelic wings.
Slowly, exhaustively, Gadreel pulls himself to his feet, and stretches himself to his full height. His hands are held out before him, slowly rotating back and forth, as he inspects them closely; the look of astonishment on his face so absolute it is almost comical.
"Mother of God," the Pontiff utters in amazement as his eyes rise to the ceiling.
He appears to have detected the medium of the approaching archangel, too, I ponder, just as Gabriel himself arrives. He's dressed in full battle armor, in the same ambience of radiation; in the same fundamental particles of light that reconnect him to Gadreel.
"Brother," Gabriel warmly addresses his fellow angel with the bearing as if they were only parted for a week.
"Brother," Gadreel echoes, his expression compromised by so much emotion he appears on the brink of tears.
It is possible for angels to cry; though, it's not something that happens often.
"Dashiel," Gabriel turns his pleasantries to me as his eyes dart cautiously to the spear that remains in my right hand.
I scoff softy to myself. "Nice ensemble, brother. Is that for my benefit?"
"One cannot be too vigilant," the angel answers candidly, turning his gold eyes on the Pontiff.
"Father," Gabriel addresses him with a nod, as one does a close friend, and for one extended moment the good father appears utterly speechless.
"My-my son," he stammers, extending both his trembling hands to the angel, who takes them naturally.
"Watch that blood pleasure," Gabriel murmurs, his smile growing in sincerity, before he once more turns his attention to me. "Good speed, brother."
I nod, when without warning Gadreel suddenly throws his arms around me, drawing me close to his celestial body and the unfathomable warmth of that eternal light. Something I remain disconnected from.
"Brother—thank you," he whispers as his voice softly wavers.
"She's there. She's waiting for you," I relay the information Gabriel had attempted to conceal from me the moment he appeared; my voice reflecting the hallowed nature of something so close to the former demon.
An utterance bursts from him, a sound that exists in the planes between a sob, a laugh and a gasp, as he once more appears on the brink of losing all emotional control.
Coming from a Host of the Lord it is a disconcerting thing.
"Careful, Gadreel, your brother Gabriel, here, is going to lecture you all the way home," I slyly confess, as Gabriel himself immediately straightens out beside him, his eyes widening and turning hard in both outrage and disbelief.
I can read every thought you've ever held, Gabriel. You can't keep me out, now, I mentally forewarn my brother, who only harrumphs in grudging acknowledgement.
Gadreel laughs as a now scowling Gabriel stands closer to him, merging their energies together, before in a flash of blinding brilliance, they are gone.
Beside me the Pontiff audibly expels his breath, grabbing my attention. He's smiling broadly, his expression bright, despite the element of shock that clouds the edges.
"Thank you, Father. I have to leave, but I promise you, I will return the spear before the three days have expired." I move to pass him when he grabs my elbow.
"Wait, my son. How about a, er—what is it called—a selfie?" His smile widens, and I'm beginning to think this entire experience has robbed him of his faculties.
"A...selfie?" I repeat blankly, almost laughing, even as confusion envelops me.
In response the good father pulls an Android device from a hidden pocket in his cassock, holding it out in obvious emphasis. "Your wings?" He raises his eyebrows in elaboration.
"Humans..." I mutter only fractionally beneath my breath. Complying regardless, I release my second arms, bracing myself for the inevitable torture behind them. My wings shoot through my scapula bones swiftly and effortlessly, and wholly without pain that for a single moment the complete lack of it feels more profound than all the four thousand years of relentless torment they've caused me combined.
In a matter of seconds they unfold and extend, rising high above me and the Pontiff, whiter than the snow peaked mountains of Switzerland.
A/N: Thanks for reading, and you know your poison - lurk, review, flame, flounce. All good :)
MWAH xoxo