In the End

by Alexandra Rowland

  Lalael had his misgivings about the morals of wearing stolen clothes, but he supposed their owners really wouldn't be needing them now. He had to admit, they were somewhat more comfortable than the armor.

  He now sat on the low, wide wall at the edge of the roof. The destruction really was impressive. Most of the windows were broken, the glass twinkling like stars on the pavement far below. Small groups of people wandered about in huddles, fearful and confused.

  “Heathens,” Lalael muttered.

  “Not really.” Lalael jumped at the voice. “Thought I'd find you up here.” Lucien sat next to Lalael and dangled his legs over the edge of the roof. “They're not heathens.”

  “Those there, they don't believe in the Great Powers.” Lalael protested.

  “They might believe in a Great Power. You said yourself you only took the ones with compatible beliefs, ones you could use. So?” Lucien leaned forward to look at a group of people passing on the street below. “They're funny creatures, aren't they? They run in packs.”

  Lalael scowled. "Leave me alone, Lucien."

  “What?” He looked surprised.

  “I said go away.”

  “No, not that. It's just... You used my name. Instead of calling me 'demon'. That was nice. Thank you.”

  Lalael got up, striding towards the opposite wall, stiff and frustrated.

  As he followed Lalael, Lucien asked, “What are you doing?”

  Lalael quit fumbling with the buttons on his shirt for a moment to point forcefully at the ground with two fingers and mutter, "Limada."

  "Ah," said Lucien with a blank look. That was even more infuriating – Lucien didn't react to anything, even this, the worst curse word Lalael knew. "But I told you going down to the streets was dangerous." Oh, so it was just that he was an idiot who didn't know when he'd been insulted.

  Lalael turned, scathing. "No, I was telling you to – Danama! You're a demon! You'll kill me in my sleep!” Lalael continued wrestling with the buttons. “I don't like your kind, I don't like your danama-na cat, and I don't like you, so stop trying!”

  The angel threw his shirt at Lucien's feet and unfurled his wings with a snap of displaced air.

  “Lalael, that's not a good idea, remember –” But whatever Lucien might have said was lost in the wind. Lalael took two quick steps onto the wall and flung himself into the air; his wings beat just once and then he remembered and knew what Lucien had been about to say. Crippling pain shot through his back, and his injured wing crumpled. And then everything went strange.

  Falling, the angel mused, in the distant way as when one is about to fall asleep, really wasn't that much different from flying – except for the ground, and the part where it was getting closer in seconds that stretched slowly into eternity. Everything was slowing down. It wouldn't even hurt when he landed, would it? No, he'd touch down, soft as a feather. And why weren't his wings working, again? Oh, right, pain. Not good. Pain like white fire in his right wing, but that was okay. He'd be fine. He'd touch down like a feather, get up, and brush himself off and go back upstairs.

  Oh, Lucien would be angry and worried, and wasn't that just weird? That a manifestation of evil should be worried about someone like him. But Lucien wasn't really evil, he was just a Fallen – an angel who'd made a few crucial mistakes at the wrong time, like Lalael had done just now, not to mention all the other times. Lalael could have been a Fallen, what with all the mistakes he had made, but he wasn't, was he? He supposed they mustn't have been crucial enough.

  But all those years in the Forsaken Lands must have affected Lucien in some way, right? Could anyone spend thousands of years in eternal torment without some sort of side effects? Was anyone that strong spirited? Lucien didn't seem like it. And how long had he been falling now? It felt like hours; Lalael wondered what would happen when he hit the ground.

  Suddenly there was a tightness like wide metal bands around his chest, and with a yank that knocked the breath out of him, the ground began to fall away in big swoops, accompanied by the thunderous sound of beating wings and a strained whimper in his ear. The swoops slowed and his vision steadied, but then, with a final hiss and groan of exhausted pain, Lucien lit upon a roof. Fortunately, the apartment had smaller office buildings to one side, and it was upon one of them that they had landed. Lucien let go, and the two of them crumpled and staggered. Lalael caught himself on a nearby wall as Lucien fell over with a whimper of pain.

  He lay on his back and tucked his wings away, panting laboriously. “Dammit, Lalael,” he gasped between breaths, “What'd you do that for?”

  “Didn't want to talk to you.” Lalael wheezed. A piercing headache had suddenly taken residence in his temples, and his ribs ached. “Forgot about wing.”

  “Next time –” Pant, wheeze. “Don't jump off a building.”

  “Good idea,” Lalael agreed, gasping. “No need for drama.”

  To their mutual surprise, Lucien began to laugh, great shuddering cackles that left him limp and grinning.

  Lalael slid down the wall and stared. “You only look like a demon when you laugh,” he noted; Lucien laughed harder. Lalael felt himself begin to smile too, just a tugging on the corners of his mouth. Lucien rolled onto his stomach and slapped Lalael's ankle.

  “What was that for?” he demanded.

  “For making me fly until my wings went to jelly. We could have died!” Lucien said as he shoved himself off the ground and stood, trembling with leftover adrenaline. Lucien seized his wrist and heaved the angel up; Lalael grinned at the Fallen and giggled as he almost fell over again. They hadn't died, though, and so... it was exciting. Exhilarating. Lalael couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so alive.

  Then his head cracked on the concrete wall. “And that,” Lucien said, letting go of Lalael's hair, “was for being a bastard the last few days. I think you owe me and Antichrist, poor kitty, an apology.”

  “I'm sorry! Danama!” Lalael pressed a hand against his head and squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Apology accepted,” said Lucien, and smiled. “...I didn't thump you too hard, did I?”

  ***

  Later that night, as Lalael was trying to get to sleep, a thought struck him with the force and suddenness of a boulder dropped off a roof. Lucien had saved his life, and now he felt a strange obligation to trust the demon not to kill him in his sleep. Lalael didn't entirely understand him, but perhaps Lucien did have some kind of ethical code after all. Lalael touched the bump on the side of his head. Then again, maybe not. Maybe he was just playing a very long game.

  Somehow, Lalael didn't think so.

  That night was the first night Lalael managed to get a decent night's sleep since his descent to Earth. In fact, when he thought about it, he hadn't been sleeping well for the last four thousand years.

  It was also the first night of the Dreams. He had never dreamed before; being an angel, and living in Ríel, his mind had been above subconscious imagery, but he knew what they were and basically what they were supposed to feel like. One of his jobs before the Heavenly Army had been delivering them – as usual, it hadn't ended well.

  But this night, a dream came to him, not as a gift, but by itself on light wings.

  There was a little house, once white, now stained with soot and smoke. Green shutters were broken off their hinges. The lawn was singed, and the picket fence was in ruins, except for the gateposts and the gate itself, still standing demurely before a cobbled walk and bearing the number 437.

  The dream twisted away in gut-wrenching slide like an ice slick.

  The images began to speed up: A little girl inside the house, coughing and spasming. An older woman tending her. No sound but white noise like rushing water. The girl silently cried out and scratched at her own chest.

  Another slick movement that momentarily smeared the images together. In the girl's open, screaming mouth, a small demon was lodged, slowly climbing down her throat.

  Lalael sat up abruptly. He was panting as if Lucien had saved him f
rom falling again, and the sheets were tangled around his legs. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, and swallowed to try to get the dry, bitter taste out of his mouth.

  “I heard you calling out in your sleep. Nightmare?” Lalael was almost unsurprised to see Lucien sitting quietly on the other side of the bed. The angel nodded, accepting the glass of wine that was wordlessly offered. He sipped delicately, careful not to spill on the crisp sheets. This would be a good time for Lucien to slip him poison, if he was going to. “Wanna talk about it?”

  Lalael handed the glass back to the Fallen, no more than a dark and pale shade, like a phantom, who took it with more care than was possibly needed. The angel raised his eyes to the still form. “No,” he said, suddenly feeling uneasy and retreating back into his previous distance. “Thank you for the wine.” Lucien nodded regretfully in the darkness and padded softly out.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Two days passed, uneventful except for an incredibly, incredibly awkward moment involving Lucien waking up to find Lalael standing over him with a kitchen knife and a wild expression. On the afternoon of the second day, Lalael barged into the kitchen from his room and said with surprising heat and passion: “Lucien, we have to go.” And then he was gone, fumbling for keys and shoes and his coat at the door.

  “What? No wait!” Lucien set down the plate of bacon he had been attempting to fry over a candle flame – the power hadn't and probably wouldn't come back on. “Why?”

  “Because we have to.”

  “Why?”

  “We just do! Now!” Lalael was getting ever more urgent.

  “Well,” Lucien mournfully looked back at the bacon. “Should I bring Antichrist? Is the world going end or something?”

  Lalael looked at him scornfully and did not deign to answer. “We have to go.”

  “We are coming back, right?”

  Lalael snatched Lucien's coat off the rack and flung it at him. “Yes.”

  “Where are we going?” He called to the angel, who was already thundering down the stairs at the end of the hall. Lucien caught up just outside the front doors.

  “Going this way,” Lalael mumbled. Lucien watched him striding swiftly away down the street for a moment.

  Lucien stared after him, shrugged, and followed.

  ***

  “Here,” Lalael said, stopping suddenly. Lucien jogged the last few yards and leaned on his knees to catch his breath.

  “Here where?”

  “This is it.”

  “What's it?”

  “This house, this is the one.” They were standing in front of a little bungalow, which used to be white but now had dark, charred stains of soot and fire on the siding and the dilapidated green shutters. It was exactly the same as the house in Lalael's dream, down to the struggling rose bushes in front of the porch. Further along the road and across the street was an expanse of former-campus, on which was some school of philosophy and religion. On the other side was a string of similar houses.

  “What about it?” Lucien asked carefully. If the angel had gone mad, he thought, he was not sure what he was supposed to do about it.

  “My dream last night,” Lalael said, keeping his eyes on the house as if it was going to run off.

  “You didn't want to tell me.” Lucien tried not to care.

  “Obviously. Why would I tell you? This is it, though. This is the house in my dream.”

  “So?” Lucien said, studying his nails, “Doesn't matter, does it?”

  “We have to go in.”

  “What!”

  “Because there's a sick little girl in there,” Lalael said urgently. “I have to help her!”

  “You can help if you want, but since I'm evil, I obviously don't do nice things like that.” Lucien shook Lalael's hand off his wrist.

  Lalael huffed. “What else do you want?”

  “Nothing,” Lucien said angrily, walking away. “Nothing more at all.”

  “Where are you going?” Lalael called after him.

  “You want to go home don't you?” Lucien replied, without looking back. “I'm helping you get out of the clutches of that evil demon you're staying with. Going to go look at books or something.”

  Lalael watched as he walked away. He put his hands around one of the gate posts in a strangling grip and looked back at the house.

  “I have to go inside,” he said to himself quietly. “It's important.”

  ***

  The academy, like most of the large buildings, was utterly deserted. Bits of paper skidded through the hallway on a stray breeze near the floor. Lucien ignored them all as he walked through the darkened halls; streaks of light from outside broke the shadows, the bars of sunlight falling through open classroom doors. His shoes tapped on the linoleum, slowing to a halt at the doors to the archives. The archival library was high, dark, and smelt of musty paper. These books were old, and it was shadowy deep in the stacks. He shivered.

  He trailed his fingertips down the spine of one of the books. Dust had just begun to accrue. “Damn it all,” he hissed suddenly, then strode along a few shelves, pulling out books at random. Having collected an armful, he dropped them carelessly on a desk, and pulled the chain on the desk lamp to turn it on. He swore again under his breath when nothing happened, having forgotten... well, everything that had happened in the last few days, except the angel who seemed adamant that Lucien was evil, when all Lucien wanted was... what did he want? Rest? Peace? None of it mattered anymore, and if Rielat abandoned him here for the rest of all eternity, good. But he was starting to realize that the next long while on Earth might not be as fun as it had been the last seven years.

  He picked the first tome up off the pile, dusted off the front cover with a few irritated strokes, and opened it to the middle.

  ***

  Lalael knocked on the white door. After a minute, it was opened a crack.

  “Um. Hello,” he said, “Is... Is someone in there sick?” The door opened further, revealing a short, plump woman with a haggard expression. Her curly, grayish-blond hair was matted, and although Lalael was no expert on Earth clothing of any time period, he was pretty sure that the faded house-dress she wore would have hurt other people's eyes too – it was the enormous pansies.

  “Who're you?” the woman asked.

  Lalael shifted from foot to foot. Humans were so awkward to deal with in the best of times. “I just heard..." He hesitated. "A little girl here is sick? I wanted to help.”

  The woman brushed a string of hair out of her face. “We don't need no help from strangers," she mumbled. "Can't pay you. Don't got no money. She ain't got nothin' worse than a fever, anyhow.”

  Lalael took a moment to maneuver himself around her dialect. “Oh. Oh, no, I don't want money, but I'll be able to heal her. I'm an – someone who can help.” The woman shook her head, and began closing the door, but Lalael held it open in desperation. “No, I won't hurt anyone!” The woman struggled to close the door, but Lalael wedged his foot against it. “I promise! Just let me look at your little girl! I think she's possessed!” The woman let go of the door abruptly; Lalael stumbled and caught himself on the jamb.

  “She's sick. Hurting. Keeps scratching herself and talking strange because she's delirious from the fever.”

  Lalael hesitated again, still braced against the door-jamb. “I'll have to look at her to know for sure. But I promise I can help.” The woman hesitated, opened the door all the way, and motioned him in.

  ***

  Lucien awoke. His cheek was pillowed on the yellowed pages of a tome that seemed distinctly offended to have been slept on; the library was now completely dark, lit only by the starlight through the high bay windows on either side of the front door. It was very dark – no street lamps, no ambient electric light, no candlelight anywhere nearby. Very dark. Lucien raised his head. Thankfully, the night wasn't bad enough to warrant panicking. It wasn't nearly as dark as it could be, although it was very dark indeed. Parts of Rielat were much worse than this, the
sort of darkness that was palpable. Thick. Noisome. And just as silent.

  The sense of silence in the room sharpened.

  Lucien looked down at the book and wiped the pages clean. It had only been a very small patch of drool. Very small. He left it open and made a neat stack of the others, then sat for a few moments with his hands folded, listening to the silence.

  It occurred to him that he should really go see if Lalael had had any luck with that sick girl. He moved quietly, skirting the darkest of the shadows, and left the archives. Soon the quiet tapping of his shoes echoed softly back, then faded away.

  The pages of the book rustled in the dark.

  ***

  “What in the name of the weatherperson are you doing, Lalael?” Lucien asked, leaning against the entrance to a room that most certainly belonged to the little girl lying in the bed. Lucien's query had interrupted a feverish chant that the angel had been focused on.

  “Begone!” the angel commanded. He moved to block the room from Lucien's view – pointless when Lucien could easily look over the top of his head. In a hiss, Lalael continued, “You didn't want to be part of this business, so you won't be at all.”

  “Mr. Lalael,” said the dowdy housewife in a mousy voice, “Who is this?”

  “This, madam,” Lalael said, still blocking Lucien's way into the room, “Is my vile, evil, disrespectful... I live in his guest room.”

  “Landlord, roommate, host, and colleague,” Lucien called out over Lalael's head.

  “Evil?” The woman tensed and moved towards the little girl's bed. Lalael whirled around and pounced on her before she could cross a circle of white chalk that had been drawn around the bed.

  “Beginning to be a bit of redundancy, now, isn't it?” Lucien asked. “It could be a song."

  “Perhaps you should wait in another room, ma'am.” Lalael said softly, ushering the woman out the door.