Topic: Fallen from Grace

Zachariel

Date: 2013-11-12 14:24 EST
((The following scene takes place immediately following this one: Digging Up the Past.))

People in Mystic said the old Bristol house was haunted. Everyone had some tale to tell - of voices they had heard, shapes they had seen, the weight of dread they had felt as they passed by. Such tales had passed into the urban myth of the town, so indelibly a part of the populace's psyche that no one so much as glanced at the dilapidated ruin of a home any longer. No one questioned the noises that emanated from it. And on this day, people crossed on the other side of the street, as the shingle walls seemed to shake with the sheer volume of whatever was happening inside. People said the house was haunted. People were wrong.

Within the house itself was a scene of chaos. Amid the broken furniture, the damp walls, the rotting carpets, stood the coven that controlled Mystic with an iron fist. Yet not all of them stood. Where once there had been thirteen, now there were only seven. Six of their number had been lost in the battle that had finally come to an end. They had come here to deal with one mortal man, an F.B.I. agent asking too many questions, finding too many answers; a man who had dared to break the warding on this, the center of their power, and spy upon the events of the past. But as they fell on him, each holding a part of the web of their power, something else had broken through - a creature of greater power than they had encountered before, a being of light and good, of all things they despised. The mortal was saved, sent far from this dark place. Kept from being witness to the battle that ensued. For when witches and angels take up arms against one another, in victory or defeat, they leave no one alive to tell the tale.

The angel had not come to Earth because of the man who had unknowingly placed himself in peril. Not really. He was not the man's Guardian and had no sway over his life either way. No, it wasn't because of the man that he had come; it was because of the girl. He had been searching for her for over a quarter of a century - the blink of an eye in the life of an angel - but not so in the life of a mortal, such as she. It was to her mortal soul that he was connected. Her life and safety had been assigned to him since the moment of conception in her mother's womb. He was her Guardian, and as such, it was his task to protect her from peril by whatever means possible until such was the time that had been preordained for her soul to return to the ether. But he had failed.

Failing his one and only task, he had spent the last quarter century searching tirelessly for her to no avail, until at last, he had caught a brief glimpse. Someone had broken through and her soul had called to him in desperation, though she did not consciously know it. He had answered that call as swiftly as he could on angel's wings, just in time to push another mortal out of the path of peril and unknowingly sacrifice himself instead.

It was no mean feat to take down an angel, especially when the weapons to hand were barely adequate against a mere mortal. But these witches had decades of knowledge to fall back on, decades of learning and experimenting, of chancing their arm. They had broken free of the demon who had brought them to the dark, and now they had captured an angel. The chains they bound his hands and feet with were iron, forged with sulphur, strong enough to hold him now his strength had been chipped away by the dozens of spells he had been forced to overcome. Yes, he had killed six of them, but seven remained. Seven was enough. The oldest of them stood over him, a viciously sharp axe in his hand. "So tell me, angel," he said, his tone deceptively mild. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you now."

Subdued as he was, weakened by the spells he'd had to overcome, his own power sapped in saving the man from his own reckless meddling, as well-intentioned as it might have been, he lacked the strength to break free of those chains. Though the servants of Hell might break his body, they would never break his spirit or his will. "You can do whatever you wish with me. I am but one of many. My death will be avenged."

A low ripple of laughter went through the cloaked and hooded figures that stood around him. The leader bent close, his features shadowed beneath his cowl. "And just how do you think your feathered friends will do that?" he asked through a cruel smirk. "You're off the grid, angel. And very soon, you won't be able to do more than scream." He straightened, turning away to nod to his coven. "Hold him steady." Four of them moved to push the angel to his knees, hands gripping his arms and back tightly. Two others took hold of the magnificent wings that flourished on his back, stretching them upward as he was bent forward.

"There are more of us than there are stars in the heavens. You are a mere mortal. My life may be forfeit, but one greater than I will see you fall." Only too late did he realize what they were about to do. Too late to save himself from the pain and the anguish, though even if he could, he would have chosen this fate rather than grovel or beg. He had but one life to give, and he would rather lose it than give them the satisfaction of breaking him. He lifted his head to the heavens even as they forced him to his knees, whispering a prayer to a God he wasn't sure would hear him in this place to give him the courage and the strength to see this through.

"That's it, little angel. Pray." With a grunt of effort, the sharp axe was swung - once, twice. Three blows split the right wing from the angel's back, the last connection severed as the hands that held it up tore it away from his flesh. And again ....one, two, three blows of the axe, and the second wing came away amid cruel laughter, malicious delight at the torture handed out to the being in their web.

As proud as the angel was and as brave, he could not help but scream in torment as the wings were torn from his back. Wings that made him who and what he was, that had been a part of him since his creation eons ago when the heavens were still young. An angel's wings were sacred, their most revered feature. To clip an angel's wings was to steal his immortality and sentence him to a lifetime of human suffering and weakness. He screamed his pain to the heavens, to anyone who might hear, his voice carrying out into the night, like the cry of a banshee, tears pouring down his face, like the blood that was pouring down his back from wounds that went as deep as his soul. When it was done, he hung as if lifeless in their grasp, wrung out with shame and humiliation, trembling in pain and anguish, and almost wishing Death would come for him and take him into its embrace.

"Keep the wings separate," the leader ordered, as the angel sagged in the grip of his coven, bleeding and sobbing, his immortality ripped from him with little more effort than it took to chop a log. "Cassandra, cauterize those wounds. We wouldn't want him to die on us now, would we?" As he laughed unpleasantly, one of the witches holding the angel released him, murmuring under her breath. Flame sparked at her fingertips, arcing to the bleeding wounds left behind on the angel's back, searing his flesh, sealing the vessels that seeped that precious blood. Saving his life ....but for what"

He screamed at that, too, not nearly as painful as the severing as his wings but painful enough, especially to one who had never known physical pain or suffering, but that of the soul. "Please..." he pleaded, a little too late, but for what? For death, perhaps. Sweet release. Peace. Darkness. An end to the suffering. The wounds might heal in time, ugly scars replacing the wings that had spread proudly and beautifully at his back. Whatever strength was left in him fled, and he sagged against his captors. Though he had not yet died, there was peace in the darkness, at least for a little while.

Zachariel

Date: 2013-11-12 14:26 EST
"Look at that. Pathetic, really, when you get them on their knees. I've known children who can take more than that." More laughter spread through the dark gathering as the leader turned to the stairs. "Wake him up, bring him to the door," he ordered. "We can't risk his angelic comrades learning his location, not before tomorrow night." He smirked to himself as he mounted the stairs. "The blood sacrifice will be spectacular."

The angel groaned under the weight of his own torment, held up by four witches who were not willing to let him surrender to oblivion just yet. He did not care about their laughter or their threats, and though he wished for death, he did not want to die at their hands. He gathered his strength and struggled in vain one last time against his captors, trying to throw them off so he could regain his footing and at least bear the dignity of walking on his own two feet. "When my brothers and sisters learn of my fate, they will destroy you."

They didn't fight him, letting him take his own weight with vicious hands on his back, deliberately laying their gripping fingers on the wounds so recently inflicted as they pushed him up the rotten staircase and along the hall in the wake of their leader. "By the time your brothers and sister learn of your fate, it will be far too late," that mild, nauseating voice informed him, one hand removing a trinket from about the neck of one of his coven. It was a moonstone, delicately held in golden filigree, on a golden chain, reverberating with some power as it was settled about the angel's neck. "You can pray all you like. The next time they hear you, you'll be dead." One hand pushed open a door from the hallway, and for those who wore a moonstone, light spilled forth, swirling with active excitement. "Put him in there."

"I am going to kill you," the angel replied, through gritted teeth as the servant of the demon continued to taunt him. It wasn't a threat but a promise. Whatever they did to him, he would not rest until he was certain they were all banished to Eternal Damnation. He did not cry out this time when they tried to torment him, nor did he bow his head when they dropped some trinket around his neck. "Your arrogance will be your downfall, mortal."

"Says the mortal angel, bleeding all over his best shirt." A derisive snort touched the captive's ears as the leader of the coven stepped back, nodding to his followers. Rough hands grasped the angel, dragging him back onto his feet to push him toward the swirling portal. The moonstone at his neck burned as the light reached him, but did not harm him as tendrils of power reached out to envelope him in its embrace.

The last of his strength nearly gone, he was unable to fight back or resist as he was dragged to his feet and shoved through the portal, falling to his knees on the other side, barely aware of the tendrils that surrounded him as he passed through.

The darkness of the dilapidated house exploded into light as he passed through that portal, the moonstone around his neck showing him the way. Without it, he would have fallen through the rotted floorboards in the sadly neglected room beyond that doorway. As it was, his knees hit soft carpet as brightness flared all around him, forcing his vision to adjust until he could see where he had landed. A bedroom, clearly - there was a bed, a chest of drawers, a fishbowl. One open door showed a small bathroom, yet there was no door behind him to show where he had come from. No windows lit the little space, despite the light that seemed to emanate from the very walls. And a girl, flaxen blonde and small in stature, staring at him in shock as empathetic tears began to drip from her green eyes.

He hardly had time to acknowledge his surroundings, much less the girl who was staring in shock, before collapsing in a heap on the floor, grateful at least for a little peace and the carpeting that softened the fall. He had known humans could be cruel, evil even, but he had never expected such brutality. He was, in a way, almost as innocent as the girl, never having been human. He had never known pain or fear or blood or tears. These were all new experiences for him, and as he collapsed on the floor, a soft unfamiliar sound came to him, and he realized he was weeping, tears sliding down his cheeks unbidden. Was this what it felt like to be human' How did they bear it'

His sudden appearance was no less a shock to the delicate sensibilities of the witches' most coveted possession. An innocent, raised in complete seclusion, kept from the world outside until just a few hours before, when the brother she had never known existed had burst into her room and promised to find her. He'd even told her what her name was ....Rachel. And now Rachel found herself kneeling on the soft carpet that covered her floor, beside a man who was a stranger to her, horrified by the injuries inflicted upon him. She had never seen such reckless hate as had been dealt upon this being weeping before her, and her own soft heart felt torn in two. Her own tears began to fall as she hesitantly reached out to him, gentle fingers touching his cheek. She didn't know what to do.

He would have flinched at her touch, but some part of him that was still a heavenly being sensed the gentleness in her and the innocence. He turned his tear-stained face toward hers, eyes haunted and filled with pain. It took only a moment for him to realize who she was. There was a connection between them that she was most likely unaware of, but that burned inside him like a flame. He did not have to be told her name or of how she'd come to be here. He knew instinctively that she was the one he had been seeking for a quarter of a century. It was her existence, her life force, that had drawn him to this place and to his own doom. "You," he said quietly, his voice ragged and weary, his consciousness on the brink of collapse. "I have been looking for you."

Watery green eyes held his, empathy for his pain filling her gaze as she looked down at him. "Y-you're so hurt," she said softly, her voice trembling as her eyes swept the length of his battered form, falling on the chains that bound him hand and foot. And for the first time in her life, a wary sense of something being not quite right touched her mind, her head lifting to look instinctively at the plain wall where her keepers entered and left. Rubbing a hand swiftly against her wet cheek, she shifted herself, turning her attention to the chains that bound him. They were not locked in any way, simply wrapped too many times about his limbs until he could not move them, easily removed by the gentle hands that were determined to see him free of them.

He would not contradict the truth as she saw it. He was hurt; more than that, he was dying, but he did not yet tell her that. There was something that weighed far more heavily on his mind than that of his physical suffering. Whether they killed him or left him to die did not matter - death was imminent, at least for him, but she was another matter. Her life and safety was of paramount importance. He might have failed her once, but he would not fail her again. "I'm sorry," he murmured, gritting his teeth against the pain that swept his body as she tried to untangle his chains, each movement of his limbs agonizingly painful.

"Why are you sorry?" she asked him, disbelieving through her own tears as her hands gently untangled the cruel chains from around his ankles. The metal links rattled as she threw them into the corner, not wanting the hateful device to be anywhere near her. "What can I do, to help you? I want to help you." She dared not urge him onto his back, choosing to untangle the chain from his hands where he had fallen with soft hands that had done nothing in their lifetime.

Zachariel

Date: 2013-11-12 14:28 EST
A pair of old faded blue jeans covered his legs, the only garment that covered his body. He had, at least, had the presence of mind to cover himself in an attempt to blend with the human population and adapt their sense of modestly. His feet remained bare, as did his chest and arms. There was no shirt that would accommodate the wings that had been so cruelly carved from his back. "I have failed you," he explained weakly, though it was not much of an explanation. He looked at her as she worked to untangle the chains from his hands, his expression one of eternal love and compassion, though he did not quite understand the meaning of such words. "Help yourself," he replied, his meaning ambiguous but honest. He was an angel and he was incapable of lying, even to save himself.

His explanation did nothing more than confuse her further as the second set of chains joined the first in the corner. She inched closer to him, unafraid despite the obvious violence that had brought him to her. "That's not what I want to do now," she told him, her voice sweet and quiet in the stillness of her beautiful prison. "I want to help you." Biting her lip, she glanced about for a moment, seeming to come to a decision. "Can-can you stand" You should lie on the bed. I can clean your back."

His eyes closed and his breath caught in his throat as she finished unwinding the chains from around him before his breathing slowly eased and became regular. He slid his eyes open to see her face filling his field of vision. She had grown to adulthood over the last half century, as well she should have, no longer a child, but just as innocent. He did not have to know her well to sense these things. They were as clear to his sight as the green of her eyes or the gold of her hair. He recognized what he took for compassion in her eyes, and replied as gently as he could. "You cannot help me. I am beyond your help."

Innocent though she was, Rachel was intelligent in her untutored way. She understood what he told her, and again her tears flowed, sad this time for a life cut short by means she could not even begin to imagine. "I'm so sorry." Her hands cradled his face for a long moment, fingertips stroking against his skin as though she might find some way to give him her strength to live on. "But I can make you more comfortable, I-I have things that make pain go away." Green eyes burned into his, wet with tears but fierce with the determination that set her family apart from the rest. The determination that her brother had tapped into, to close the Gates of Hell. "And I will not leave you alone. I promise."

He closed his eyes again, that strange wetness spilling over onto his face again, touched by her gentleness, her compassion, the innocence and goodness that made her soul burn brighter than the brightest star. His enemies might have defeated him, they might have imprisoned her, but they could not break his spirit and they could not take her innocence. "We are bound together, you and I, in ways you cannot possibly understand," he tried to explain in a voice that was disturbingly quiet. "I have been searching for you all these many years. You were stolen from me, stolen from those who love you. It is I who am sorry. It is I who failed to keep you safe."

She listened as he spoke, far from understanding all he said, but willing to let the words enter her, where they would wait until some clarification could be made to her. Her thumb stroked away the tears that fell down his cheeks. "You are here now," she told him in that soft voice. "You found me." Shifting once again, she eased her arms beneath his own, attempting to stand and pull him up with her, despite the difference in their respective heights. "Come to the bed. You don't have to suffer, I can help."

"It is too late for me, but not for you," he replied, somehow knowing and accepting his own fate. He knew there was nothing that could save him, but there was still hope for her, if only she would listen. Perhaps he was punishing himself in denying himself the help she so urgently offered, but in the end, he lacked the strength to deny her help and allowed her to help him to his feet and lead him to the bed. Perhaps she could ease his suffering, but she would not be able to save him. There was no question in his mind that without his wings, without angelic intervention of a higher order, he would die. He accepted this fate, though he did not embrace it. He clenched his jaw once again against the wave of pain that came with every movement as she helped him toward the bed, though he did not see what difference it would make.

Though they might well be each as innocent as the other in their own way, Rachel was human, and had been human all her life. There were some things she just knew. She knew she could make his last hours more bearable, if he truly was dying. It was a struggle to get him to the bed, each sound of pain that fell from him tearing at her heart, earning a fresh swathe of apologies, until finally he was laid on his front on the comfortable surface, the bloodied mess of his back plain to her eyes. "Oh my goodness ..." Drawing in a sharp breath, she moved about until she could crouch by the bed, her face on level with this. "I am only going into the bathroom. I won't be long, I promise."

His eyes were squeezed shut against the pain, his face a mask of agony when she crouched close. He only nodded his head weakly to acknowledge he had heard her and understood, almost wishing the darkness would just take him again. How long would this suffering last' How long before he was no more" He was sorely tempted to ask her to end it for him, to save him from whatever evil their captors had planned for him, but he could not. While there was still breath and life left in him, he was determined to do whatever he could to help her, even if it meant sacrificing his own life to do so. There were forces at work here that he did not yet understand, and he had questions of his own that he needed answered before he could understand them.

She left his side then, almost seeming to be moving on auto-pilot, taking herself to the bathroom to fill a bowl with water, to wet a towel, to gather from her medicine cabinet the pot of salve she had been given to deal with the cuts she had a tendency to inflict upon herself completely by accident. Bringing these things back into the bedroom, she sat carefully on the bed by his hip, and gently began to wipe the blood from his back. She stayed away from the raw wounds that showed themselves to her, keeping her eyes averted as much as she could, unable to look such malicious cruelty straight in the eye. Her hands were gentle, soft, soothing, cleaning his skin as best she could until his flesh was free of the stain of his own blood.

He knew every language ever spoken by men, but the words that came softly to his lips were of no language she or any other mortal would have ever heard or known. He beseeched the heavens, calling to his brethren, pleading with them to end his suffering, but no answer came in the form of deliverance, only in the form of a girl who sought to ease his pain in whatever way she knew how. He made no sound as she tended his wounds, the only sign that he was feeling anything at all the tension of his body, every cord of muscle stretched tight as a wire, eyes tightly closed, breath shallow. She was gentle in her ministrations, as was her nature, no word spoken between them until it was done. The pain eased a little, and the tension bled away, leaving him feeling weak and weary and sick at heart, but though their predicament was grave, he had not yet given up.

The salve she was careful spread as tenderly as she could over the horrific injury he had sustained, knowing it would cause more pain in those first moments than it ease. But the pain would ease away as it did its work, unable to fully heal his open wounds, though the bleeding did, finally, cease. As she wiped her hands clean, Rachel bent to kiss his temple, the way she thought a mother might have done to a sick child, comforting and gentle as always. Her fingers stroked his hair from his brow. "What is your name?"

Zachariel

Date: 2013-11-12 14:28 EST
He found himself relaxing further as she stroked his hair and kissed his cheek. He had never known such tenderness from anyone. He was an Angel of the Lord and had never required such gentleness or caring. It did not entirely surprise him coming from her, and he understood that this sweet, innocent creature was the exact opposite of those who had doled out such cruelty. He was a little surprised at her question, as innocently asked as a child, but there was power in names and one did not offer theirs lightly or to that of an enemy. "Zachariel," he replied after a moment, putting his trust in her more than he had in anyone before who was not of his own kind. "And you are the Innocent." It was the only name by which he knew her up until now.

A soft smile curved her lips as he gave her his name, not knowing the risk he had taken in handing over such a very personal part of himself into her keeping. His description of her made her giggle quietly, her fingers not stilling their stroking through his hair. "I have a name," she told him, almost proud of the fact that she could say this. "I didn't know it, until today. My brother called me Rachel." He'd also told her not to tell anyone that he had been there, or what her name was, but for the moment, that had slipped her mind.

He reached for the chain that hung about his throat from which hung a milky white stone and tugged it from his neck, breaking it, the last chain that bound him. His arms and legs were bruised and bloodied from those chains, but those wounds were nothing compared that wounds on his back. He glanced at the thing in curiosity a moment before letting it fall from his hand to the floor. "Rachel," he repeated, recognizing that name. It was an old name, an ancient name, and one that seemed true and worthy. "It is a good name." He lifted blue eyes to her the color of the sky, though never having seen the sky, she would not know this as yet. "Your brother," he echoed. "Rathanael. He is my brother, as well."

More confusion made itself known, though for a moment she was more concerned with the moonstone he dropped to the floor, bending to pick it up. "I had a necklace like this," she told Zachariel with a small smile. "I gave it to my brother, today." Her brow furrowed as she tried to sort out what it was he was telling her. "He said his name was Rhys. If he's your brother, too, does that mean you're my brother" Do I have a real family?"

Some of this came as a surprise to the angel as evidenced by the slight lifting of one blond brow, his cheek pressed against the bed, unable to move else the agony in his back return, like the fires of Hell. "Today." He paused a moment to register this, wondering how she measured the hours and the days, how she judged the cycle of a single day. Was it only measured by what her body told her, knowing instinctively in a physical sense when to eat and sleep and wake" Today could be defined as anything in this existence, and yet, perhaps it was this that had drawn him to this place. It was as if a window had opened into this existence if only for a small fraction of time, just long enough to draw him here, the connection to her soul strong, even after twenty-five years of separation. "He who was once Rathanael is now Rhys. He is your brother in blood and my brother in spirit."

She held his gaze for a long time after he'd spoken, the expression in her green eyes blank with ignorance, though not without intelligence. "Um ....I don't think I understand," she admitted apologetically, shrugging. A sigh of sound swept through the room, and the light began to dim, settling to a frequency that was dark enough for sleep, yet light enough to see by, almost like moonlight. This, it seemed, was how she measured her days. She glanced up. "It is night-time," she told him. "You should sleep. I'll take care of you."

"Sleep," he echoed again. "The little death." There was peace in sleep, or so he'd been told. There was also terror. He had seen mortals at rest, some looking peaceful, some thrashing as if their dreams were worse than reality. Angels were known to visit humans while they slept, but no angel would find him in this place. He was alone here, the only one of his kind, as was she. Two lambs for the slaughter. It was a morbid thought in this bleak existence that he dared not share with her. "I have never slept before. There is peace in the darkness," he admitted, letting his eyes fall shut, unable to keep them open any longer.

"Never" Don't you ever get tired?" Rachel watched as his eyes fell closed, recognising that he needed to sleep, even if he thought he didn't know how. "The longest I have ever been awake was two days, but then I slept for a whole day and a night, and Oliver was upset with me for being stupid." She shrugged again, moving to rise from the bed to the chest of drawers, exploring for nightclothes to sleep in for herself. "You should definitely sleep. You need it."

"I feel as weary as the world is old," he replied, struggling to remain conscious long enough to enunciate each word. He didn't really want to sleep. Sleep would only make the time pass more quickly and bring the time of his death closer. His eyes fluttered open momentarily, her voice fading as she moved away from him, and a strange sensation passed over him that he did not recognize as fear, like a cold hand clutching his heart. "You will not leave me," he pleaded, though he knew there was nowhere for her to go.

She looked over at him, shrugging out of her cardigan, stepping out of her shoes. "I promise, I won't leave you," she assured him. "I'll be right here, all night. You just have to say something, and I'll wake up." It did not occur to her that she might have gone anywhere else - this room was her home and her prison, a place she was utterly convinced as being the only safe place in the world. Her fingers moved to undo the button at her neck, and she dragged her dress up and over her head, innocent of any sense of shame in displaying her body. No one had ever taught her it wasn't the done thing.

His eyelids felt heavy, almost too heavy to remain open, watching her silently as she stripped away the clothing that covered her body, too innocent to feel any shame in revealing herself to him, like Eve in the Garden before she had tasted Sin. She was beautiful in a way he didn't understand. He had seen humans without their covering many times before. Why was this time different' Was it because he was her Guardian or because he had lost his divinity' "You are beautiful," he whispered quietly, before his eyes fluttered closed again. Surrendering at last to the darkness, he said no more.

((Thank you to Rachel's Player for this scene and for the opportunity to bring Zach to life and hopefully rescue her from the bad guys, as it were. More to come soon! :grin:))