The voices sang.
“Yes, we shall create things for the power to play with, and they shall bring our own unto us. They shall be our... friends.” The voices suddenly became very insistent, and Jocelin tugged at their hair and moaned softly. “Our own told us... he said we do not leave our friends without telling. Priestess Mara will not know where we are.”
The voices fell back and became soothing.
“A mara is a nightmare,” Jocelin recited, intoning it the same way as before, “They come snatching in the night.”
Suddenly the angel's eyes shone in the moonlight.
***
Another week passed. The temple knew new levels of sorrow, uselessness, and depression when Lucien, in full view of the followers, left.
No one tried to stop him. Everyone knew it would have been useless.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Lucien walked. He took no note of where he walked, or how his legs felt like they'd fall off, but he walked, in the hopes that his movement would take him away from his feelings of being lost. He walked all the way to town, through the business district, and he walked through the parks, where the trees stood stark and bare against the overcast, wintry sky. He walked through the suburbs, where the houses were still stained with scorch marks and brimstone.
He walked until he could physically walk no more, and then he stumbled into the first ruined, empty house he could reach, staggered into a bedroom, and slept the night in a bed whose sheets that smelt of mildew.
***
He awoke in the morning, shivering with cold, hungry, and barely noticing, and walked again. He stared at his feet, scuffing the asphalt and the concrete, without seeing them, and so did not notice when his wanderings took him near a certain appropriately-derelict warehouse.
When a shifting black shadow, a wraith of darkness, appeared before him and touched his forehead with a caress like fire and ice and crunching gravel, he spared it not a thought and slipped gratefully into the welcoming arms of unconsciousness.
***
Lucien drifted slowly back to a state of awakening, becoming aware of a throbbing ache in his head, a rhythmic noise of machinery, and a chill that had nothing to do with the cold concrete he was lying on. When he opened his eyes, he saw legs, torsos, arms, heads-- all made out of shadow and smoke. They writhed thoughtfully, touching him with limbs that bruised him like stone, that burned like bee stings. He struggled to his feet, fending off the shadows, pushing his way out of the crowd.
He looked around, quickly coming to the conclusion he was lost in an abandoned warehouse: Dank, dusty light; filthy floor and walls; bare ceiling, showing wires and pipes high above; the bitter smell of mildew.
“Fallen Angel Lucien,” said a voice – one he hadn't expected to hear ever again. Lucien whirled around. The crowd of darkness had moved away, swaying around a low dais made of crates and boards. Jocelin, resplendent as usual in flawless white and gold, sat enthroned upon a chair made of materials similar to the platform.
“Jos!” Lucien strode quickly towards the dais: the shadows parted for him. As he tried to mount the first step, the shadows closed around and roiled.
“Come no further, Fallen.”
“Oh, we've changed the title again?” Lucien winced and rubbed his head. “Look, Lalael hasn't come back, so I need to know –”
“We sent him. Back to Ríel.”
“I know,” Lucien hissed, suddenly furious. “And so you need to come back to the temple so we can get him here where he belongs.”
The angel fixed Lucien with a stare, regal and unmoved by the Fallen's anger. “No,” Jocelin said slowly. “We shan't go. Neither shalt thou. Thou shalt stay with us until thou loves us.”
“Love you?” Lucien snarled, beginning to pace. “You sent Lalael away, you told him how to go back to his own personal hell, and did you see how gratefully he went?” The shadows moved when he walked, backing away or following, always keeping a reasonable circle around the Fallen.
“He wished for punishment. For his sins of blasphemy and treason. He shall be Felled.” Lucien's breath caught in his chest with a painful thump. “Thou shalt stay.”
“I won't.”
“Thou shalt,” Jocelin shrieked, standing in a swirl of white and gold as the throne flew back and clattered onto its side. “We shalt keep thee until thou forgets the other.”
“No,” Lucien said coldly. “You really won't. I won't stay, and I couldn't forget if you kept me here for a century.” He turned away.
The angel made a small gesture. “Stop,” Jocelin said softly. The shadows writhed violently, surging and slamming in front of Lucien. “They obey us. They shalt not let thee leave.” Another small gesture, and a small shadow darted from the crowd and righted the angel's chair. Jocelin sank onto the tattered cushion.
Lucien turned back again, this time fearfully. “What are they?”
Head tilted; whispering soft murmur, “They whisper to us while we go to the other place. When we close our eyes and stop seeing in this world.” The angel began a familiar gesture: swaying gently, eyes closing. “They whisper of darkness. Of things we have done. Of being seen by Him. Of frights.” Jocelin looked questioningly towards the Fallen.
“Nightmares.”
“We like them, the shades,” Jocelin crooned, reaching out to them with both hands. “We can feel them, and they whisper to us of blood and darkness and wind in the moonlight. We like them.” The shadows swayed adoringly towards Jocelin, wrapping around the angel's hands and wrists, stroking and flickering. “We tell them and they do. We said unto them, find the Fallen Angel Lucien, and they went like a quiet storm at night.” The shadows crawled up Jocelin's legs, touching the angel's dark hair, faltering at the angel's stony face as Jocelin caressed their fragile airy forms. “They like us.”
“They certainly do,” Lucien growled. “And you're just as much of a lunatic as ever. Well,” he paused thoughtfully, “Maybe a bit more lucid. But not by much.”
Jocelin gestured dismissively. “We care not. Thou shalt stay, and the Nightmares shalt keep thee here.”
“Not if I can help it,” he growled.
“Thou can't,” the angel said simply. “Dost thou love us? Wilt thou stay with us?”
Lucien lunged at Jocelin. The Nightmares caught at him and pulled him back, though he struggled. Their grips bruised his arms, their touch blistered his skin – he cried out. Another motion from the angel, the Nightmares released him.
“I hate you,” the Fallen hissed, and spat at Jocelin's feet. The angel studied him.
“It occurs to us...” Jocelin began slowly, “It occurs to us that thou art also a traitor, like the Angel Lalael. Dost thou not repent?”
“Not a smidgen.”
“Then thou must be punished until thou does.” The angel nodded in conviction. “We...” Jocelin's head tilted once more. “We feel... pity for you, our love. We wanted thee to give in easily.” The angel rose from the throne once more and stroked a lock of Lucien's hair. The Fallen's hands clenched at his sides, jaw set stubbornly and lips narrowed to a thin, pale line. “Our love,” Jocelin repeated. “Mara told us once about this. It is like fire and drowning, and falling and... what birds do when they are not still in the trees. All at once.” The Nightmares drew back as Jocelin circled Lucien. “We want thee to be ours, our love,” Jocelin whispered, chin resting on Lucien's shoulder, fingers toying with the sleeves of Lucien's filthy shirt.
“Well then, that's just too bad, isn't it?” Lucien pulled free of Jocelin's embrace and turned to the angel. “You can't have me.”
“But thou art so pleasing to our eyes. The stars would fall from the sky if thou but asked them.” The angel paused. “Thou must not ask, though, for we would gather them up and string them on a thread about our neck, and they would burn us, our love.”
“You'd deserve it.” Lucien turned away, only to find the shadows blocking his path.
“You cannot leave, our love,” Jocelin said, with something
close to sorrow. “We must help thee to see thy wrongs. And then thou shalt be grateful to us, and then thou shalt love us. We have seen it.”
“You dreamed it, Jos,” Lucien said, glancing back wearily. “Lalael dreams too.”
“We didn't. We saw.”
“Jos –”
“Do not–! Do not call us that,” Jocelin said firmly.
“Jocelin. You have to let me go. I have to find Lalael –”
“No. Thou shalt stay here, and thou shalt repent and ask the Great One to forgive thee, and then thou shalt be with us for eternity, our love.”
“No,” Lucien furiously said, regaining his earlier fire. “I don't repent, and I don't want to! You'll forget in a few days anyway, and I'll just waltz right out...”
A fleeting glimpse of regret crossed Jocelin's face. “Thou must stay,” the angel repeated quietly. “The Nightmares shall take thee away. Tread softly, our love, do not fight and perhaps it shall hurt thee less.”
Jocelin turned away, the Nightmares swept in, herding Lucien away through the dim light. “Give me time,” the Fallen swore as the smoky wraiths churned around him, “Give me time, Jocelin. I will destroy you.”
“We are made of time, our love.”
***
The Nightmares had shut Lucien in a cage of chicken wire. The Fallen had snorted to himself at the folly of such a thing, but as the Nightmares herded him through the door, he became aware that something was extremely wrong. Immediately he felt an itch between his shoulder blades, a sting as if of a mosquito. Over the course of the next half-hour, the itch grew to a dull throb, then a sharp throb, then an excruciating pain that left him panting and twisting on the floor of the cage, trying to find a whisper of relief.
The pain kicked up another notch. Lucien hissed, scrabbling at his back, and then –
Wings, bursting from his shoulder blades. Oh, blessed goodness, gentle waves of relief soothing away the muscles' memory of pain. He lay on the ground for a few more minutes, wiping away the beads of sweat on his forehead.
And he wondered.
He felt an inexplicable hatred for the chicken wire, a loathing to go near it. A fleeting thought of breaking out of the cage was instantly and apprehensively dismissed. He studied the wood of the enclosure instead. Ten feet long, eight wide, seven high. Only the top and two sides were chicken wire, the others of sturdy wooden crates, so he folded himself as best he could into the remaining corner and wondered.
The dim light gave way to total darkness, and Lucien felt rusty mental gears, long since abandoned, begin to turn again. Force of habit, he told himself, but the dark was just so... Dark. And the Nightmares, who knew where they were? Drifting about unseen in the night, except perhaps as one of the strange static shapes, seen only when staring straight into the dark.
But the gears turned, and found themselves in working order, and Lucien began to remember the mantra he'd comforted himself with, ages and ages ago, in the darkest tombs of Rielat: Lucien. My name is Lucien. I am the light. My name is Lucien, and it means light, and I am Lucien, so I am the light. Light like the tiny flame of a candle, like lightning, like starlight, like the sun and the moon. I am Lucien, therefore I am the light. This is the dark, and I am the light, so the darkness isn't quite so dark. My name is Lucien, I am the light.
And as a part of him repeated this, over and over, the variations and the resounding chorus of I am the light, another part of him mused that it wasn't so much different from Jocelin. He turned his head, tucked his wings over it, and slept.
***
“Our love,” Jocelin crooned. “Our love, awaken, we have brought a lovely present for thee.” Lucien awoke with a jolt, wings stiff and protesting as he jerked them away from his face. Automatically, he tried to will them away, but a warning bolt of pain raced down his spine.
“Jocelin, it's still dark.”
“No,” Jocelin said, swaying and almost smiling. “It is day outside. This light is like moonlight, so gentle and sweet, our love. This is all the light we need, our love. The Nightmares don't like it, you see, and we must keep our sweets pleased, mustn't we? Come along, our love, we have a lovely gift. Like the red thing that was round and wondrous.”
“It was an apple, Jocelin, for the last time,” Lucien growled.
Jocelin's fingers stroked the cage's wire. “It's a lovely present, our love, we found it just for thee. It shall give us many more pretty things, things that are red and sweet smelling.”
“What is it, then, Jocelin? And then maybe you'll let me out of the cage? I'm quite done playing your games.”
“We don't play any games, our love,” Jocelin murmured, drawing a wickedly sharp knife from nowhere at all. “This is our present. Are thy eyes pleased by it?” The dim silvery light glinted off the blade.
“I don't want it.”
“But thou must have it, our love. It shall whisper to thee of thy wrongs until thou says thou art...” Jocelin fell silent, staring at one of the wooden crates.
“What, sorry?”
“Yes,” Jocelin said, attending reality again.
Lucien shook his head tiredly. “Okay, I'm sorry.”
“What for, our love?” the angel sounded truly puzzled.
“For everyone thinking I'm a god, I suppose. That's what you meant by traitor, isn't it?”
Jocelin sighed. “We pity thee, our love. Nightmares, our sweets, bring him. But gently.”
Lucien stood, backing further into the corner. The Nightmares oozed and floated though the wire, as formless as ghosts and nearly invisible in the dim light. Lucien beat his wings on the small space, hoping the breeze would blow them away, but except for a fluttering around their edges, they were unaffected. The Fallen struck at a Nightmare with one wing, but cried out as the limb passed through it. The feathers and skin, where the shade had touched it, were burned and blistering.
“Do not fight, our love,” Jocelin crooned. “They only try to defend themselves. Come along, out of the nasty box of truth, and then thou will take the feathers away.”
“Truth box?” Lucien asked incredulously.
“Our love may only speak of the right things when our love is entrapped. Our love may only appear as our love truly is. The wings.” Jocelin pointed. “Does our love like his little box? We made it for him. It was only a nasty, earthly little thing when we found it,” the angel continued as Lucien came out of the cage and tucked his wings away. “But now it is lovely and magical.”
“Let me go, Jocelin,” the Fallen implored.
“No, our love, thou needs thy present. Nightmares, take him.” One of the shades passed itself through Lucien's eyes, and all went black.
***
The Fallen came to in a too-warm room. The same grease-stained, soot-blackened walls of the warehouse looked over him, lit by the flickering red-gold light of a fire. Lucien himself was tied diagonally to a hard wooden table, arms stretched above him and ankles tied together below. He heard the crackling fire, the rhythmic thump, a close trickle of water, Jocelin singing softly a song about sunshine. The angel came into his vision, soft dark hair, high-lit in dark reddish-golden glory, spilling onto Lucien's neck and chest. Jocelin's skin gleamed, also golden orange from the fire.
“Our sleepy love, thou must try to stay awake. We waited, we wished thee not to miss thy gift.”
“Just get it over with. So I can go home,” Lucien said softly.
“Home?” The angel paused, wary.
“The temple.”
“No!” Jocelin shrieked. “Thou cannot love them and not love us! Thou shalt love none but we, here, thine! Thus, present.” Jocelin straddled him, reaching to the other side of the table to pick something up. The angel's strange wild face; too-thin, genderless body; the unmarked blankness between Jocelin's legs, pressing against his groin as the angel shifted – Lucien shuddered in loathing and disgust for this being's every feature, every caress, every word that passed the angel's lips.
Then Jocelin let the firelight flicke
r on the blade, and touched the point of the knife – yes, wickedly sharp, as he'd guessed – to Lucien's bare chest.
And the Fallen began to fear.
***
The temple, having happily settled upon the shape of a medieval monastery before Jocelin left, was quiet. Without godly decrees and orders to distract them, the followers sank into deep and brooding thoughts. Those that had lost during the End – which was many, nearly everyone had known someone that had been Taken – mourned and grieved for their loved ones and themselves. They found that the presence of their gods had allowed them to... forget, for a time.
Andrew could be found in a dark corner, clutching a bottle of something alcoholic, speaking to no one, and looking haunted. Mara did her best with the others, organizing regular work details and search parties for others who needed food, which they had amassed, and shelter, which was in no short supply. She comforted the mourning minions as best she could, and put down the regular arguments of authority.
“Who put you in charge?” Dave shouted one day, a few days later as she assembled a scout team. Richard, the young assistant who sat at her elbow, shrank down in his chair and began to shuffle papers in a businesslike manner.
“The followers did,” she replied sharply. “Before you got here.”
“I don't like the way you're running things, young lady!”
“That's too bad, then! You can leave, no one's keeping you here.”
“I like her ways,” said a power-laced voice from the end of the hall. The small crowd looked towards the door, where a bedraggled god-angel was making the entrance. He was mussy-haired, shirtless, and panting softly, with color in his cheeks. Mara had no doubt he'd been soaring moments ago. And he glowed. His hair was like fire.
“Lord Lalael!” Mara breathed. “You're back.”
“Yes.”
Mara ran to hug him. Dave slunk to the back of the group; everyone else surged forward around Lalael.
In the End Page 21
