A/N: Please take the time to have a look at this: www. lunissa. deviantart. com/ art/ Lost-angels-268996811
Thank you.
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Chapter Three
Illusions
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Caphriel hated Zirah now.
He hated him.
He hated him.
Yes, he hated him.
If he could believe that he hated him.
It was possible. He could do it. He even managed, sometimes. It was really quite simple, like walking on a tightrope. The trick was to concentrate, to focus on anything and everything other than the crossing of the cord. Hard work was an excellent diversion, effective for whole minutes at a time. And there was always plenty of work in the world for an angel.
The humans he aided, always without their knowledge, generally thought him a bizarre character, possibly dangerous, and almost certainly on heavy drugs. It was the only explanation they could think of for his appearance. Tall, gaunt, pale, obviously underfed and sleep-deprived, dressing only in black, and married to his gloves, scarf, and black sunglasses.
And his behaviour was decidedly off, too, to put it mildly. He'd burst out laughing over the most trivial things, laughter always at least slightly tinged with hysteria, and he'd sometimes go on giggling for over half an hour. For Heaven's sake, even the sight of a Jaffa Cake could set him off!
So, on the whole, people avoided him, called in their children when they saw him coming down the street. Still, no-one ever actually interfered with him. Whether it was because they were afraid of trouble, or because his perpetual air of utter abject misery kept them at bay, he didn't know. And he didn't care, either: it was damned convenient. He was steadily losing the ability to see any shreds of good in his countless charges.
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That he never took off the gloves or scarf in public was a given. Humans tended to react badly to the sight of mutilated skin. But being forced to wear his sunglasses at all times was a bloody pest. The humans' reactions were even worse now than they had been before.
Of course, it had been unavoidable that some people saw his eyes, in the course of five hundred years. Even a few seconds of taking off the glasses, to ease one of his pounding headaches, could be the cause of an unwanted encounter. After all, even he couldn't be on guard twenty-four hours a day. But where, before, the sight of his eyes would merely cause humans to stare or fall on their knees or something like that, now they could be counted on, guaranteed, to faint, or cry out in horror, or burst into uncontrollable tears.
He'd always wipe their memories immediately afterwards. He still had enough pity left for that.
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So he managed quite nicely, all things considered. He did his job, the humans were helped, and he was able to keep himself marginally sane. Everybody was a winner.
But when, after the day's - and, often, the night's - work was over, and he closed the door of whatever dump it was he was currently living in, the pretence would shatter, and everything would come crashing down.
Caphriel loved Zirah.
He loved him.
He loved him.
And that would never change.
His heart was still, would forever be, riveted to a broken angel, to a piece of filth, to the lowest of the low, and Caphriel would have given up his soul to get him back, if only for a single minute.
He knew it, the certainty of it was etched into his brain, and the pain, and the shame of the realisation, never failed to drive him over the edge.
He'd pound his fists, gloveless, against the walls, over and over again, ignoring his neighbours' meaningless complaints, till it felt like his hands were on fire once more, like there were live wires running through his body, from head to foot, starting in his fingers.
A human would have fallen into a coma from the pain, or gone straight into cardiac arrest, but not him. For one thing, he wasn't capable of doing so, and for another, he wouldn't have wanted to even if he had been. The agony of his body could never be as bad as the agony of his heart. Indeed, it soothed him.
Once, and only once, he'd pushed it too far, and had shaken himself into a blood-red shriek, matching the stains on the walls, that had set every grown human in the street rushing outside, thinking there was terrible murder being done. Once, and only once, that very same night, a whole group of people had banged on his door, demanding to be let in, to be allowed to offer help. He'd opened the door, his gloves back on, and the expression on his face, even with his sunglasses, had been enough to send the visitors fleeing like stricken deer, every last one of them. Caphriel had calmly shut the door again, turned on his heel, and lost consciousness right where he stood.
Truly, the string was fraying.
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He'd left that particular town the next morning, the same way he left every town, walking, with a small suitcase in one hand and an exquisitely carved walking stick in the other, which he never used for its intended purpose.
Everyone remained indoors that day, as he passed out of their street. None were able to work up the courage to go outside. This was not cowardice. It was pure instinct, animalistic and irresistible, that kept them shackled against their will.
Perhaps Caphriel would have derived a mite of comfort from the knowledge that dozens of eyes, male and female, young and old, filled with deep compassion, were watching him as he went.
Then again, probably not.