Part I: The Lost One: Angel of Torment
Aftemelouchos donned the illusion of a mortal being. Of course, angels could achieve such things easily, becoming material and common-looking folk. Yet while they appeared ordinary, it was temporary, and hardly affected the being. He swooped gracefully, invisibly, down to the surface of the earth; he folded his wings, and gathered up his robes. In an instant, he stood gloomily, in the guise of a gentlemen in tailored brown tweed and a bowler hat, suited for the chilly autumn evening in Paris of 1846. He watched the human traffic of the Rue Scribe for several moments. The mortals moved along in the falling dark. Beggars lined the alleys, dogs wandered, seeking garbage scraps. There was something akin to a curse in the burning air, which was rank with urban filth. Aftemelouchos sniffed the atmosphere, dug one heel into the ground, and turned toward the flickering torchlight. There was a procession of people making their way to the gypsy fair.
He had bore witness to the events that followed many times from his post, but decided that this night he would see him, eye to eye. Tonight, he wanted to know if the stories were true; if he had vanished into the womb, if all that remained was the mortal shell; if, when he had fallen, his face had touched the flames of Hell...
He moved through the fair impassively, unmoved by the leering fortune-teller, with her raven hair, the contortionists, the fire-breathers, the various sideshow freaks ... The unfortunately less-than-ordinary mortals who found nowhere to belong. A woman brushed against his left arm; he turned his head to the right, and said, "I am carrying no money, and have no pockets, Enyos."
The pickpocket, caught red-handed, could only blink, as a shocked blush rose up his dark cheeks. Aftemelouchos smiled soberly at him, before following the chattering monkey across the grounds.
Girlish gasps came from behind him, and he glanced over his shoulders, to see a troop of young dancers in delicate white frocks and black ballet capes. Most looked under ten and greatly amused by the tricks, but one was older, and saw only a nightmarish display. A large, bearded man, his eyes rimmed with black, beckoned the crowd to a small canvas tent. The disguised angel lifted his gaze up to the painted red banner, painted with letters that dripped blood, "The Devil's Child." This was it. He ducked into it, seeing the iron cage, surrounded by only a handful of other people gawking anxiously and whispering. The ballet rats behind him all pushed themselves through the mass, and peered between the bars. Aftemelouchos found a spot between two other spectators, and leaned closer.
There he was. A skinny boy of nine years, wretchedly dirty, in brown trousers, with his feet wrapped in rags. A burlap bag covered his head, the corners tied, to give the shape of ears, with two tiny eyeholes cut out. He sat upon scattered straw, playing with a makeshift monkey doll, pretending to ignore those gathered to see a demon. The bearded gypsy man entered the cage, bearing a short whip. Throwing him to the ground, he unceremoniously grabbed the boy's head, and beat the whip against the child's abdomen. Aftemelouchos felt faint echoes of the pain inflicted upon the boy. But, melting away into the shadows, he felt nothing of what happened next. Such was of the mortal world, not the angelic one.
The gypsy dramatically lifted the bag from the boy's head. The poor child was trembling violently, his hands raised to hide his face, but with a threatening look from his owner, he pathetically dropped them.
The angel took in the sight. The Devil's Child had a head of tangled, filthy dark hair; the left side of his face was well-made, with elegant planes, and one green eye fringed with black lashes. The right side, however, was what earned him his place there. His pale right eye drooped open, framed below with a sack of flesh, his brow only a small patch at the outer corner, and parts of his cheek and a quarter of his scalp seemed torn away. The right side of his nose looked as if it had melted into his cheek. The skin of his face from his forehead to his jaw was lined and marred with red scars - like he had been burned in a horrid fire ...
Hellfire, Aftemelouchos whispered. So it was true. He had almost succeeded in completely confirming himself to the flesh. No doubt, he would grow up looking like half of the angel he was, and half the demon he may become.
Aftemelouchos turned away, surprised to see Azrael beside him. But before he could say anything, Azrael lifted his finger to his lips and gestured toward the cage. The older ballet girl was about to leave the tent, when the boy, having slunk back into his bag, removed one of the ropes binding him, and wrapped it around the throat of the gypsy greedily gathering gold. Within several minutes, he was dead. Azrael collected the tiny, blackened soul, and spread his wings. Aftemelouchos did the same, watching the girl take him by the hand and run away. The two angels flew, wondering what fate was planned for the lost one.
Note: Aftemelouchos is the Angel of Torment.
