Mara laughed. “He's sweet like that, but don't tell him I said that. Sometimes he likes to pretend he's more jaded than he really is, but he takes care of us. Good thing too. We might be dead without them. I don't know how they made the temple work like this, but I think they went overboard... The Dali painting that this place has turned into? I keep expecting my things to melt off the tables.”
The voices shouted all at once. Jocelin stopped and swayed. “No, no, my loves, it won't do that. Those don't melt.”
“Jocelin? I was just playing, dear, I know watches and things don't melt easily, and we don't get heat waves around this time of year.”
The angel turned away from her. “A mara is a nightmare,” Jocelin intoned, “They come snatching in the night.”
The priestess smiled, and the voices quieted in confusion. What was that expression for? What was its purpose?
“Servant Lalael does not like us,” stated the angel quickly. Oh, thank goodness, the smile had gone away.
“Why do you say that?” the Mara-creature asked. “He's been very generous.” She went to put her hand on the angel's arm, but Jocelin shied away, hands clutched to their chest.
“He has forgotten where home is,” Jocelin said. “Angels belong Above, not below. So too with the Honored Fallen. He belongs Below, not above.”
“Do you belong Above too, then, Jocelin?”
The angel looked at her suddenly, the voices dead quiet. For a moment, Jocelin could nearly hear their own thoughts. “They told us we did not belong. We belong nowhere. Not Above, and not Below, and not Between the two.” The voices rose to a cacophony. “And not in the void.”
“I'm sorry to hear that,” Mara said sadly. “Everyone needs to belong somewhere.”
“We don't. We belong to the wind, but the wind does not belong to us.”
The priestess began leading Jocelin down the corridor again. “Well, I've heard crazier things, I suppose,” she said. Sweet Mara, the voices liked her.
“We should speak to Servant Lalael,” said the voices through Jocelin, in the angel's own voice. “We should remind him of Above.” Suddenly the voices clamored in joy. Yes, they said, yes, that is how we shall have our love for our own.
Jocelin turned and stalked away, leaving Mara behind, blinking and agape. The angel wandered through the labyrinthine corridors of the temple until the crisp blue of the underside of the Great Dome came into view, and the shining brightness of the great light stared back into Jocelin's own eyes. The angel didn't like it when the great light was so spiteful, so impertinent, nor that no matter how high Jocelin flew, Jocelin could not reach the underside of the Great Dome to scrape off a little of its blue paint.
“We'd only scrape a little,” Jocelin mumbled to the voices. “So that the Outside could drip in.” The angel wandered through the gardens and over the lawn, between the white pillars that lay strewn like lawn ornaments. The angel skirted the children who played amongst the white pillars – the little boys who were trying to make daisy chains, and the little girls who chased each other, shrieking and laughing. Jocelin didn't like them – their hands were sticky and their eyes too large.
Then the angel noticed that one of the sticky, large-eyed objects had been following at a shy distance. The two stared at each other, but after a moment, the girl opened her mouth and called Jocelin pretty. The angel was baffled. Then the thing asked a question and held out some enchanting strands of color in its little fist. The strands of color shone like water and fluttered with brightness most beguilingly – Jocelin studied them carefully.
“Why?” the angel asked. “We have no use for thy bits of color.”
“Please?” the girl asked. “You'd look even prettier. Can't I braid them in your hair?” Jocelin looked off into the distance. “I have a blue one,” the child said, proudly holding it out.
Jocelin's head tipped to one side. “You cut it from the Great Dome.”
“What's a Great Dome?” the girl asked. Jocelin looked upwards, and after a moment, so did she. “Oh. The sky?”
“Sky,” Jocelin whispered. “Called the sky. The small one takes the paint from the...sky... when we cannot.”
“It's just like the sky!” she nodded joyfully. “And this one is dandelions! And this one is like a raincloud.”
“Thou art a witch?”
“No, silly,” the girl giggled. “Witches are old and ugly with warts and green skin and hooky noses and they go 'Aahh!' when you wet them. They're mean.” She beamed at Jocelin. “I'm not a witch, I'm a girl. Can I play with your hair?”
Jocelin sat on the grass. The girl squealed and clambered onto one of the pillars conveniently behind the angel, so she could sit and braid. “My name's Annie. What's yours?”
“Annie-thing.” Jocelin wondered what an Annie was. “Our name is the Angel Jocelin.”
“Do you know Mr. Lalael? He's an angel too, but Miss Mara told me he can do cool things like gods do. My mommy told me there's no such thing as angels and gods, and she said there's no such thing as fairies, too, so does that make them real, since angels are real? Stay still!”
Jocelin froze. Something about the child's stern command compelled the angel. “We... we do not know of these strange enchantments.”
“Fairies? They're little and they have wings like butterflies or dragonflies or leaves and you have to leave milk out at night for them.”
“We do not understand.”
“Because otherwise they do bad things. I know so,” Annie said with great conviction. “I read it in a book. Are you a boy or a girl? And why do you say we?”
“We... because it is right.”
“Oh,” she said. “There's more than one of you.”
Jocelin whimpered. “There are many, and they sing in our sleep. We wish to be rid of them, but they shall not stand for such insolence and they punish us. They sing in our rest so we cannot sleep.”
“Like dreams?”
“Dream...” Jocelin mumbled. “We knew what dreams were like once. But then we did not know, and the knowing of dreams went... away. Now we know not of dreams.” The gentle tugging of the angel's hair stopped.
“It's when you sleep and see stuff that isn't real,” she said, and began braiding again. “I dream about the Before time. And sometimes that I'm a princess with a doll and a kitten and a pink castle. Do you like dolls?”
***
Lalael gaped at the other angel. “Um. Oh. Well. Right. Jocelin-- Angel Jocelin, my apologies,” he stammered, never taking his eyes off the other angel's hair. “Um. What did...” he gestured vaguely at the angel's head. “Sorry, could you say that again?”
“Yes, Servant Lalael,” Jocelin said, and walked out of the small room. A moment later, the angel walked back in.
“Servant Lalael!” said Jocelin. A pause. “Thou stare.”
“Yes, we – er, I do stare. What and the why?”
“Priestess Mara had... silken pieces, on the flat desk in her room. Pieces of many many dark and nighttime colors, like starlight and clouds cut out of the sky. We were enchanted, for they shine like feathers and were color.”
“Yes.”
“And Priestess Mara did not give them to us, though she said she... did not need them.”
“And how did they end up braided into your hair? Not like I'm saying it's an incompetent job or anything, but...”
“The small ones were given the colors.”
“What small ones? The small ribbons?”
“No,” Jocelin said, frustrated. “The small ones. The humans, but small, with large frightening eyes and stickiness on their hands, and dirty feet.”
“Oh,” Lalael said dryly. “Children.”
“They told us that we were pretty,” Jocelin said, stroking the end of a navy blue ribbon. “And the very small one sucked its fingers at us and stared. And then the one that was small, but not so small as the others, it had the colors that Mara gave to it and wanted to... to... to give them to us. And it made us sit upon the grass, an
d it tugged at our hair fiercely, and told us to be very still so it would not make them... messy. And then it asked us if we were one of the gods, like thyself and Honored Fallen Lucien, and we were angry.”
“You didn't hurt her, did you?” Lalael asked suspiciously.
“We did not say anything, we sat very still like it had told us to. And it asked us if we... were... a boy...” Jocelin said slowly, staring off into the space between the angel's eyes and the floor.
“So you got your hair fiddled with. And then came to show me?”
“No, Angel Lalael,” Jocelin said, looking to him in surprise.
“Why, then? Small talk?”
“We know how to return to the Above.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Has anyone seen Lalael?”
This was the chorus the two days later, repeated through the temple, the gossip spreading like wildfire never did. While it was not unusual for one or the other of the gods to disappear for a few hours, neither of them had never left for more than half a day without everyone knowing where they were going to be. The popular story among the followers was that Lucien was getting antsy, but the truth of the matter...
“Where in Ríel's name is he?” Lucien growled, pacing the office. “Lael never even goes for a walk without telling me; why's he gone and gotten independent now?”
“I'm sure he's fine, my Lord,” Andrew dutifully said, standing close to the door all the same. “He probably got caught up converting people and doing generally godlike things. He shall return, my lord.”
“Like hell he will! Who's going to be the voice of reason around here without him?”
***
Three days later, the Fallen was frantic: Aggressive and prone to verbally cut down whomever crossed his path with a quick and fearsome efficiency. Jocelin, to the followers' relief, received the brunt of the attacks, yet the more Lucien growled, shouted, hissed, or purred at the angel, Jocelin merely became more adoring, more crooning, more devoted. Everyone else agreed the soft velvety voice was the worst; it started off sounding enchanting, but seconds later, Lucien would stride away from a shivering, often sobbing, nervous wreck. But not Jocelin.
Five days after Lalael had left – and no word from the angel either, tsked the congregation – Lucien gave up shouting. The silence was worse, for now the Fallen padded quietly about the temple, silent and downcast. Questions were met with heartfelt sighs or stoic silence.
The poor women who had been purred at could be overheard chattering to each other, forgiving their god to each other at great, and heartfelt, and occasionally tearful length. The followers who weren't outright worried yet were just bored – the only thing to do now was go on search parties, and it felt like they had turned over every rock within a five mile radius.
“I wish I knew where he'd gone, Jos,” Lucien sighed, lying on the floor in front of the throne which Jocelin was curled up on.
The angel's scheme had been a full success, in Jocelin's opinion, for now the Honored Fallen was all for the angel's ownsome. Jocelin was taking full advantage of the situation and playing with one of Lucien's black, black curls.
“I mean,” Lucien went on, “I can't help but wonder if I said something that he got angry at, or if he was sick of the temple and wanted to leave... We fought a few weeks ago but I thought he'd forgiven me for that. But if he wanted to go, I would have left too, you know. That's what you do for your friends, isn't it? I'm awfully fond of the humans... Collectively, at least; individually not so much. But they're mortal. They'll have children and the children will have children, and they, the grandchildren, will be raised good and devoted but it won't be the SAME to them. It'll be something to do for an afternoon once a week. It'll just fall apart without Lalael, you know?”
Except for that. That wasn't a success. How was the Honored Fallen supposed to take notice of Jocelin if he insisted on talking about the redheaded one?
“I don't suppose you know where he went, do you Jocelin?”
“Yes,” Jocelin said absently, petting the single curl that was being played with. “We know.”
Lucien sat up suddenly, turning to look at the angel. “You know?” he demanded. “What do you mean you know?”
“We know. We spoke to him before he left.” Jocelin gazed adoringly down at Lucien.
“So?” Lucien said after a moment, when Jocelin said nothing more. “Where did he go?”
“He returned.”
“Returned where?” Lucien asked. “The apartment? It's burned. The harbor? Sergeant Watson's? I was right, he must have been sick of all this,” he murmured.
“No, our own,” Jocelin crooned, stroking another of Lucien's curls. “He went back to Above.”
Lucien closed his mouth and went deadly still. “Jocelin,” he said slowly, “you don't mean Ríel.”
“Yes. Above.”
Lucien knocked Jocelin's hand away from his hair and strode to the other side of the room. He stood close to the wall and stared at it. “So he left. Just like that?”
“Yes, our own,” the angel unfolded and stood next to him, also close to the wall, and staring at it as if understanding this was what was to be done to walls.
“Didn't even tell you to say goodbye to me for him?” Lucien's voice hardened.
“Our own--”
“Don't call me that, Jocelin, I'm not yours.”
“But now that the other has left, we can be yours.”
“He's not gone. He'll come back. He wouldn't just leave without telling me goodbye. You don't do that to your friends, Jocelin!” Lucien shoved himself away from the wall and flung himself into the throne. “And he told me he didn't want to go back anymore,” he said weakly.
The angel slunk across the room, sitting on the floor at Lucien's feet, chin resting on his knee. “Do you not want us instead of the other?”
“What, have we forgotten his name already?”
“Whose name, our own?”
Lucien scowled and shook his head. “Just... Just leave, Jocelin. Go away, go see Mara. I just need to think about this.”
***
A week. A week since he'd left, and everyone had stopped saying his name, to Lucien or to each other. The temple was silent, dead. No one spoke more than they had to. Suddenly they found themselves thinking about the times Before: electricity, nine-to-five jobs, financial ruin, those they'd known and lost.
Mara tried to keep the congregation together. She flitted from one person to the next, dispensing comfort, reminding people to eat, frantically trying to keep the faithful going. She smiled, she scolded, she cajoled, yet everyone knew – she was dealing with the same situation in her own way.
Jocelin hovered outside Lucien's door, which remained locked tight for most of the day.
“Our own,” Jocelin crooned through the door, “Come along, our own, forget the other. Why do you not have us for your own?”
Suddenly the door was flung open. “Because I don't like you, Jocelin!” Lucien shouted. It was the loudest noise in four days.
“Why not, our own?”
Lucien found the angel plastered up his side: He shoved Jocelin off. “My only friend. Is gone. Alright? He's gone, he's left me all on my own in this godforsaken world of humans when he said himself he was going to stay, and damn Ríel for everything they never did for him, and I'm angry at him for going back on that, do you understand? I don't want you, I won't want you, and I hate the sight of you. I don't go for the crazy ones, you know how it is?”
Though he never knew it, at that moment, Lucien was the one who had come closest to staring Jocelin down.
“But you shoved the red-haired one out of bed,” purred the angel.
“That time with the enormous mattress? Now that was surreal,” Lucien scathed. “Yes, I shoved him! So what? He was hogging the blankets and keeping his toes warm on my calves anyway.” Lucien glared at the angel.
“So you can shove us out of bed instead,” Jocelin said, nodding as if this solved everything. “We sh
all be your only friend now.”
Lucien shoved the angel off him again, this time hard enough that Jocelin stumbled back and fell against the opposite wall. Lucien stood, breath heaving in fury, as Jocelin looked at him in shock – really looked, as if actually seeing the Fallen for the first time. “Get out,” Lucien said, in the quiet, purring voice. “I don't want you, and I really don't want to see you in or near this temple ever again. Leave.”
The door to Lucien's room clicked shut, misleadingly softly, and the only sound was the lock being turned. Jocelin stared at the door for a few moments, then rose, swept down the stairs, and left through the wide oaken front doors. The sunset, a riot of pinks and reds and yellows, lit the ocean miles away as golden as the angel's wings. Jocelin flew.
And none of the temple's followers ever saw the strange angel again, although they heard much of the Angel Jocelin at a later time.
***
It was nearly midnight by the time Jocelin landed. The angel had flown over the city until they had found an appropriately derelict warehouse. Jocelin landed on the roof and looked to the stars and moon.
“Now we are on our own,” the angel told the voices, which mumbled and buzzed. “We have been betrayed.” The voices clamored and agreed, and Jocelin nodded. “Our own is merely unhappy that the little red-haired one has left him. We must bring our own unto us.” Jocelin looked around with eyes made even more eerie by the moonlight. “There is power here. Loose and free.” They hadn't felt power like this since the day they had seen the Thing in the depths of the ocean. They had gone to kill it, Jocelin remembered – it was the only thing that Jocelin remembered perfectly and vividly, a single point on the tangled, complicated mess of time that remained steady. Fixed. Jocelin vaguely remembered a time before that, when there hadn't been any voices, when time went in a straight line with no bends or loops in it, but then Jocelin had looked on the Thing in the water, and they had failed, and they had not killed it, but it took something from them with this same loose, wild, chaotic energy that filled the world now. This power, though, tasted of rain, and before it had tasted like lightning and terrible stars and ruins. The angel breathed and laughed quietly. “It wants to play. It wants wishes and starlight, doesn't it?”
In the End Page 20
