III
Fire is abundant in Purgatory. It leaks into every last corner—not raging hellfire, but lighter, paler flames, almost gently warm just to the point of a light burn. Haunting, certainly, without being tormenting. They are soft and all the more deadly for being such, reflective of neither golden good nor crimson evil, but rather the detached apathy that comes with the coldest of truths. The air is dry, perhaps why it seems to ignite so constantly, and distant howling rolls over the flat land like thunder, echoing through the shifting shades of permanent dusk. It is desert and tundra both at once, painted flat with misted detachment, and the sense that one garners from it is neither frightening nor comforting, but merely eerie, reserved without being peaceful. There are no rules in this expansive solid sea, which is what makes it such a perfect medium, the ideal hiding place for any creature, angel or demon, human or animal soul, who desires a place to hide.
Raziel knew this, and so did the rest of Heaven. God himself was fully aware. The only one who perhaps remained ignorant of the shared knowledge was Ezekiel himself.
Ezekiel, the angel of Death, one of the most primitive and powerful of their ranks, was a monster. At least, he was said to be such, tall tales and blood-thickened rumors constantly murmured between the haloed soldiers. They called him green, the normally natural hue darkened with their words, twisted into something acidic and demented. He was deformed. Tainted. Bestial. Something diseased and earthly next to their golden celestial extravagance. They knew not what he was, only that they were not to approach him, never to go near the shaded in-between world that he had made his home.
Raziel, being more clearheaded than Heaven's typical soldier, was wiser than to be blinded by myth. She knew Ezekiel was dangerous, but she also knew why. A horrifically violent battle with a horde of demons, many centuries ago, had torn his very angelic power apart. His grace had been shredded and altered, morphed into something a thousand times more dangerous and infinitely more uncontrollable. If the whispers were to be believed, even the emerald angel himself was incapable of harnessing its power. It would burst out sporadically from his usually even demeanor, exploding in a celestial tempest of burning malachite, devastating all those around him with its absolute concentrated force. He was, appropriately, the angel of Death and Transformation, two equally important roles in the sea of life that they presided over, and it was due to his aberrational status that both traits were now so often skewed and butchered in the world of humans. None could take over his duties, for he performed them beautifully when he could. And it was for those duties that Raziel sought him out now; if Lucifer was truly about—and to question as much, at this point, would be foolishness—then there was no greater ally they could ask for than Ezekiel.
Fury and Coulson, it would seem, had thought similarly. She was no one to defy that—she had sworn herself to the church and its occupants, and it was her job, under God's eye, to obey all that they requested of her. So it never crossed her mind, once free of her demonic captors, to go anywhere but to Purgatory.
Dimensional transition was an exhausting process, but livened as she was by her brief tussle with the underworld creatures, Raziel found herself sparking with energy, quite capable of twisting herself off of Earth, wings struck wide, and landing crouched in the hazy midst of Purgatory. It took the form, to her, of a barren canyon, lined with battered grey rock and coated in a pale wisp of shadows. Mist obscured the land beyond her, so that she could only detect the cracked ground a few meters in front of her. The scape pulsed with silence, the only real noise being a low rush of wind climbing along the ground and rustling her sensitive feathers. She hesitantly tilted her wings closer into her body, not quite closing them but holding them near enough to brush her shoulders. Tension ran through her veins, keeping her aware, on the verge of fear. It had been centuries, perhaps even millennia since she had last found herself necessitated to venture to Purgatory, and she knew that all matter of beasts lurked here, Ezekiel being only one of them. She hoped with a singeing intensity that she'd be able to find him swiftly, before any deformed monstrosities of this half-world sought her out and poisoned her mind with their wretchedness.
It wasn't quite cold, while remaining far from comfortable, and the temperature tilted lower as she began to hesitantly pace forward, holding her human form together in order to avoid any undesirable attention. Creatures as powerful as her were rarely seen in these parts, with the obvious exception of Ezekiel himself, and it was wisest to remain as low-profile as possible. The inhabitants of these parts were undecided, neither on the side of the demons nor the angels, but they could be easily swayed in either direction, and she didn't want to provide the unwilling push of intrusion, which would doubtless topple their allegiances towards the wrong side.
Come on, come on, she urged silently, wrapping her arms around her thin torso and flickering her gaze anxiously about. She couldn't shake the sensation that there were other eyes affixed on her, and a foggy dread was beginning to clasp the inside of her chest. She almost preferred Hell's passionate fires to the haunting apathy contained in this atmosphere—though, in all fairness, she had only been there before on a single brief mission, and didn't stay long enough to be captured or contained. She knew the look of the Devil's lair, and just barely; it was beyond her capability to imagine actual enslavement in the lowest dimension. And yet so many humans, creatures weaker than her, were constantly confined to it. It was despicable and sorrowful, but she had no say in it, and it was not her place to question the will of God.
Reality had a different definition here than it did on Earth, and so there was no precise measurement to her steps. It could have been, by human word, either a minute or a week, an inch or a mile later that she saw the spirit.
It was a young one, ragged, inhumanly emaciated. Female, she thought, but just barely—its skin was the color of sawdust, and just as dense, and its face seemed undecided as to whether or not it possessed flesh. The hollows around its eyes and lips were certainly skull-like, but it nonetheless had eyes and lips, though they did nothing to make it look livelier. It was a scrap, a wreck, a being befitting to no place but this, just as insubstantial and ghostly as Purgatory itself.
"Hello," Raziel greeted softly, swiftly disguising her wings with silent awareness of how threatening their slender, dark form could easily appear. "Where do you come from, old one?" For it was an old one, likely from the dawn of humanity itself. Raziel was wiser than to assume age solely from appearance—she herself was a clear contradiction of that sort of petty rule, what with her millennia of existence pulled forth into the face of a human woman perhaps in her twenties.
"Are you an angel?" The ghoulish child had a voice dry as paper, crackling like autumn leaves and heightening its resemblance to an elderly woman. It tipped its pointed chin, and its pale hair hung lankly around its face, transparent enough to reveal the scarred mess of a disfigured scalp underneath.
"I am, madam," Raziel acknowledged, bending forwards onto her knees. She lowered her head in gentle respect, ginger locks of hair streaming over her creamy cheeks. Her hands brushed against the rough stone, and its friction left iciness whispering over her palms, but she paid it no regard, instead directing her attention towards communication to the creature before her. This was a soul clearly well-traversed in the layout of Purgatory, one who, surely, knew where Ezekiel lay hiding. "I come seeking a companion of mine. His name is Ezekiel. Perchance you have heard of him?"
The spirit flickered briefly, and, for a moment, its sharp-ground teeth were chillingly visible through its worn, sallow cheeks. Raziel forced her breath and heart to continue forwards at steady rates, apparently undisturbed by the sight before her. Reassured by the angel's even attitude, the child nodded slowly, its eyes shifting rapidly between black and silver, undulating with source-less shadows.
"I need him, but I am a stranger here. Will you bring him to me, ma'am? It's for a most important purpose, I promise. You'll be doing everyone a little bit of good, yourself included."
The wisp blinked slowly, its lids not quite solid over the pale sheen of its eyes. Raziel resisted biting her lip nervously, knowing that any unsure expression was sure to alter the sprite's resolve with unwanted consequences. She maintained eye contact, steadily and carefully, for several seconds, struggling not to be unperturbed by the shapes and colors darting through the pupils across from her. They seemed just as intangible and immaterial as the creature itself, shifting rapidly between fire-red and pale gold, whipping through everything in between. It was odd in appearance, but Raziel knew better than to try and apply reason to the looks of Purgatory's residents.
"Please," Raziel repeated, trying to keep her tone as light as possible. Her word elicited another quick blink, and then, before she so much as had time to coach her lungs into steadiness, the creature twisted and curled in on itself, collapsing to the ground before vanishing entirely like a column of dust lifted by the wind. Raziel stared blankly after it with her lips parted, heart hammering freely against her ribs now that she no longer had to feign tranquility. She had no idea whether her request had been followed or if she had been abandoned, but there was truly nothing to do about the matter. Moving on would be idiotic, when she still had a chance of being returned to, so she didn't stand, only slightly adjusted her position on the dry ground to allow a bit more comfort. Her wings shuddered and caressed her shoulders, reassuring in their volume and softness. They were still rather stiff from being bound by the demons, and she took advantage of the respite from traveling to extend them slowly, flexing their delicate muscles and accepting the cool whoosh of air that breathed between the feathers' fine shafts. Wings were high-maintenance appendages, more so than they were ever given credit for, and despite the way that they were famed for belonging to magnificently powerful creatures, they really weren't the best in terms of endurance. Once she got ahold of Ezekiel, she thought, she'd ask them to give her a bit of time off, just to make sure that her wings weren't overly taxed, before launching into the apocalyptic battle lying ahead. Of course, there was high chance they wouldn't be able to grant her that, but she could at least hope.
Her ponderings were cut off by a flash of noise, a rushed shuffle of what sounded like tiny feet on the barren stone. A glance up revealed it to be just that, indeed—standing hunched before her, and apparently brighter for her exertion, was the spirit from before, this time with a ghost of color whispering behind her pale cheeks. Raziel opened her mouth, ready to question the creature's doings, when a heavy shadow fell over them both, blocking out even the watery light that did manage to beat against their backs in this pale plane.
She glanced up, and her parted lips pressed swiftly together, solemn with wordless awe at the sight before her. The fact that she had existed before Ezekiel's fall didn't mean that she had ever associated with him; he was ranked far above her in the order of angels, death being a much heavier sin than secrets, and it would have been an honor to ever meet him face to face.
Now, there was no doubt that he was remarkable.
For it was him. It must have been. He wasn't particularly tall, but held darkness condensed even in his subdued being; like her, he was in human form, his eyes cast down and his chin lowered, heavy hands wound nervously. Dark, slightly silvered curls hung over his worn forehead, and his features were in unnatural shadow, so that she could only make out a glint of dark eyes and the shape of a scowl. Shadows seemed tangible around him, pressing in on his back and shoulders, almost echoing the wings that were currently invisible. This was a relief, despite the sinister air of their absence—she knew that their appearance, along with a green glow in his eyes, would signal the approach of his savage power, a takeover from his demented dark side.
The eruption of ragged feathers seemed far from approaching, though. He was calm, and that calmness remained resonant in his voice as he spoke, his words parceled out carefully and evenly. "Raziel," he greeted, the few syllables thick with almost sardonic bitterness. "It has been a long time, young one."
"You don't know me," she replied, her bone marrow prickling with surprise from the sound of her own name in the foreign voice. "You never knew me."
"Oh, but I knew of you, of course. You were one of His favorites, you know. Very admirable, very devoted to your duty. Never led astray by such things as... well, let's just say... nothing that led to any deformities on the part of your powers." The accentuated word, already held tenderly in his low voice, was delivered additional emphasis by a low quake of thunder sighing over the barren landscape. Raziel glanced up, eyes wide, in time to make out an emerald shudder pulsing through the otherwise colorless sky. Her hands curled, nails cutting into the softness of her palms, and Ezekiel's barely-visible mouth curled into a humorless smirk.
"Don't worry, it does that sometimes. Weather doesn't exist, down here... the skies do what they want. Everyone does what they want, in fact. Even your little messenger—it would appear that she hightailed."
Frowning, Raziel glanced down to see that the wisp had indeed vanished, leaving not a single scrap of transparent hair in its wake. She exhaled slightly, torn between frustration and relief—she hadn't even gotten the chance to thank the poor little thing, and now it was gone, melted once more into its endless centuries of frozen nothingness.
"I wouldn't worry, if I were you." Ezekiel's words drew her stare back up, and it was to see that some of his shadows had receded, leaving him with the appearance, more or less, of a quiet, middle-aged human man. "They do best on their own, the souls do. Even the most damaged ones rarely want my help."
"Do you often try to help them?" She wasn't meant to be asking questions, but she couldn't help but be curious when confronted with such an intricate enigma. She had expected the angel of Death to be either a complete wreck, portraying the very notion he represented, or else massive and threatening, but this docile being was caught somewhere in between, cautious without being worn. There was still a subtle strength in his posture, and she knew without a doubt that his self-inflicted exile certainly hadn't resulted in any sort of weakness.
"Occasionally."
"Good—good, because we need your help now." Swiftly, she roped the subject back around to her original intent, lifting her chin to emphasize the serious path of her words. "All of us. Angels and men."
"I'm not going to be able to join in your little demon-hunting troops, I'm afraid. It's best for me to stay away from any sort of pressure, I've learned."
She was careful not to show just how much his dismissive tone aggravated her. She couldn't afford frustration, not when she was already likely to be at a low standing in his mind, and when she needed to earn his trust and confidence so desperately. "This hardly seems the place for avoiding pressure," she pointed out quietly, raising her eyebrows as she scoped out their wavering surroundings once more.
"Oh, you'd be surprised, young one. This place may seem like a wilderness—and that's what it is, of course. Heaven and Hell are never at peace, not really. They're constantly wound up in each other, testing the extent of one another's flames... striving to be the more powerful, the more grandiose. They're yet to learn that power itself is the opposite of peace. Do you see? It's in places like this, detached, overlooked, that one can find true solace. Yes, the souls starve and tear each other apart—constantly. But every feud is personal. There are no grudges. Each creature fends for itself, and I find that rather comforting. I am responsible for no one here, just as no one is responsible for me. Is it not clear how this way is better?"
"Better, maybe," she murmured, buying time as her mind, cultured so carefully to the opposite, attempted to comprehend the wisdom that he had expressed so simply and eloquently. "But it is not our way. We are fighters, Ezekiel. All of us were made and raised to be fighters, and we cannot flee from that designation now, not when we need strength in our ranks more surely than ever. Not when we are finally confronted with the very bane that has threatened us in its concept for so long."
"Surely you don't speak of Lucifer?" Ezekiel's eyes took on a heavier shade, and his voice lowered in kind, seeming to sharpen the air around him, shifting from gentle velvet to scorched iron. Raziel's breath caught in her throat, but she remained calm, not daring to break her close contact with him. She was walking on a virtual tightrope, and, now, she had no wings to catch her. For the first time, she found herself frustrated that Fury had assigned this task to her—quite possibly, as she realized now, more due to her unimportance than her competence. Ezekiel was dangerous, and Fury surely aware of that, to the point where he wouldn't dare to risk one of their more valuable soldiers on what would surely be a futile mission.
Fine, then. She would prove him misjudged, and perhaps flaunt her own capability just a bit in the process.
"I do. Lucifer is back—returned mere hours ago." She kept her words as measured and vital as possible, attempting to convey their absolute importance solely in the force of her still-soft voice. "He has destroyed one of our churches—"
"Not hours ago. Time is not a factor here," he reminded her, in an almost mentor-like manner. "The distance from its occurrence on Earth has no significance where you are now."
It seemed to be a rather unnecessary comment, and she felt her eyebrows clenching in confused frustration, but forced her features to smooth moments later, unwilling to let herself be overtaken when she was so determined to stay calm. "Regardless, his actions are still horrific. He has destroyed one of our churches," she continued, "and threatened the whole of the human race. Surely one as... caring to men as yourself must feel even the slightest pull of compassion."
"Caring to men," he echoed thoughtfully, and his fingers ran over one another in an almost nervous gesture. "Perhaps you shouldn't make unfounded assumptions about me."
"Just because I never met you face to face doesn't mean I hadn't heard all matter of your doings." They're going back and forth now, both equally on edge and neither willing to give in. "You're known for being particularly caring, in fact. There's no use in denying it. You have neither reason nor excuse to leave us now, not when your absence is so sorely missed."
"But I have all the reason, young one. Can you not see the astounding clearness of my situation? I'm a damned creature, Raziel. I am a danger to all those around me, and I certainly can't afford to spread that disease into the world of men. No, I am safe here... I need this safety. Not only for myself, but for the humans, and the demons, and for you and the rest of your kind, little angel. I am not a force that can be bound to either side, and it is unwise that you treat me as such."
Somehow, his words were invigorating rather than infuriating, and she found herself more resolved than ever, going so far as to fold her arms in what could too easily be interpreted as defiance. She was slipping up, but not severely enough to cause any real harm, and perhaps a bit of edginess was just what he needed to tip him over the edge. "Without you, we will doubtless be defeated," she said simply. "We have Gabriel, we even have Michael—yes, Michael has returned," she confirmed, a burst of warm reward filling her chest at the shock bright in Ezekiel's eyes. "Much has changed in your absence. But it will all be useless—all of it—without your assistance. We need you. It's not a choice—without you, there is no doubt that we will be defeated. Lucifer is immensely powerful, and he has all of Hell at his heels. Without your assistance, Ezekiel—without you, we are sure to fall."
He watched her in silence, his features melting into surer and surer light in a change that she could only pray was indicative of positivity. There were clearly all number of thoughts and considerations flying through his mind, but he put voice to none, and she found herself breathing heavily, every feather on her still-extended wings tense. She had made her final move, and this was it—he would either agree or refuse, but there was certainly no other direction to in from this point. She couldn't continue to urge him, for the shaded quietness of before was entirely gone by now, rendering him more unremarkable but more respectable all the same. He was establishing his strength over her, in the quiet way of visual appearance, and she didn't dare to contradict it.
"You realize," he drew out slowly, "that even if I agree, he may refuse."
"He?" Raziel repeated, twisting the syllable cautiously under her tongue. His words struck no chord with her. "What do you mean… he?"
"My energy doesn't only lash out physically, dear Raziel," he offered softly, dark eyebrows rising. An unwilling chill shuddered unevenly down her spine, and she was sure that he could see the swift stiffening of her wings, the tension as they instinctively pulled in closer to her slender body. "It would seem that it's managed to garner a sort of… sentience of its own, and I've tamed the manifestations for now, but the threat is far from gone. It's under stress, as I've mentioned, that it lashes out—that the… other me makes an appearance."
The phrases made next to no sense in her mind—she did, however, understand the most essential part; she was playing with fire, with strange and unnatural jade fire that bended to none of the usual laws of reality and all its contents.
That did not, however, decrease their need of him. Not in the least. Every word that she had spoken before was true, and their validity remained sharp now—Ezekiel's inclusion was mandatory. They either had to risk him or play a losing game, and she wasn't keen on the latter.
"If he refuses," she decided delicately, "then we will deal with it when the time comes."
His resulting sigh was almost laughing, but the resignation contained in its wordless whoosh couldn't have been clearer. "Very well. You're foolish, young one, but I suppose you will learn your lesson. All in good time." Before she so much as had an instant to revel in her triumph, he reached out to grasp her hand, his own skin surprisingly warm against her own cool smoothness. "I'm sure you're well aware, as informed of my ways as you seem to be, that I am incapable of flight if I wish to keep a level head. I'll need a lift."
"Of course," she breathed, twisting her hand around to grip his forearm in turn. He smiled briefly, and she blinked back, before thrusting her wings wide and propelling them from the lingering mist of Purgatory like twin ascending stars.