((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.
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.