Chapter 4: The Angel in the Stone
Alabaster statues rose up to line the walls of Melisara Chapel with stoic guardians greeting all blessed enough to look on their finely carved features with frozen smiles. The notes of organ music lingered in the air like the prayers of the faithful, tingling against the skin, stirring within the wavering heart of the young woman who remained at the end of the hallway, alone and mostly unnoticed by the caretakers as they went about their business; making sure the chapel sparkled like the very gates of Heaven.
She resisted the urge to tug at her bangs, twirling the scarlet locks around her fingers as she had idly done in her childhood. Those days were long past, though, and she fiercely suppressed the impulse -- choosing instead to look straight ahead, waiting nervously for her summons. Her hands, though, worked at her white linen robe, anxiously smoothing out any creases and blood flushed her cheeks, betraying any evidence of inner calm.
Motes of dust filtered through the broken sunbeams that stretched their way lazily into the heart of the prayer chambers, and these the girl watched flit about -- desperately attempting to avoid the diligent and earnest attempts of Melisara's most fastidious cleaners. Alyrin Delling knew that, ultimately, they would fail -- none escaped the infinite reach of God.
The few servants who brushed by her, often carrying heavy loads of bread or fresh laundry, barely paid her any mind, save to offer a wide berth and perhaps a nervous smile or nod. None offered any word of greeting or welcome, well aware that it would not be reciprocated.
When the messenger came at last, Alyrin was surprised to note his youthful, but placid, countenance. Handsome in the way that Greek statues are handsome, with features a little too perfect -- as though sculpted by a master's hand -- and untouched by the time that left sparks of deeper wisdom smoldering in his passive summer sky eyes. He did not smile, or nod, and only laid his powerful gaze upon her once, but she understood. Words were unnecessary amongst the faithful.
He turned away as silently as he came, and Alyrin fell into step behind his shuffling robes. The chapel fell silent, then, each person turning to stare and wonder at last what portents the meeting would bring -- and if, at long last, their dutiful suffering had mercifully come to a glorious end. Alyrin imagined they would not be disappointed.
Together, they swept down the stretching hallway, clothes swishing against the marble like blasphemous whispers, disturbing the silent sanctum. Colorful frescoes and tapestries adorned the wide walls, displaying the ancient heroes of their order -- of Order, itself in the capital sense, it could be argued; guardians of light against the darkest nights and the deepest depths.
Alyrin felt a flash of pride -- sinful emotion, but exultant nonetheless -- as she took in those depictions. Some stories she could remember, vaguely, childhood memories and beyond reaching back through those murky and engulfing waves of time, misty and almost tangible, obscuring such thoughts; concealing them beneath the turbid waters forever, until once again such heroes were needed. She wondered, too, if her life accomplishments would be included like so many others -- that one day a future reiteration, a fledgling Ascended might look on the story of Alyrin Delling and be inspired to greatness.
She quickly buried the emotion, though. Pride often led to predictable failure, and though many of the heroes arrayed before her had shifted the world on their shoulders, many aspirants -- and even some of the champions themselves -- had undone themselves with their vainglory. In Alyrin's present time, the events of the world flowed mercurial, she could ill-afford to lose herself or cherished dream she had inherited from her forerunners: freedom.
As they approached the innermost chamber, though, a place Alyrin had been to only once in all her iterations -- on the fateful day, lifetimes ago, when she had sworn her oaths and donned the vestments of her order -- she felt her breath shortening, coming in stabbing huffs, paralyzed in awe as the young disciple pulled back the constellation-bedecked ocean-blue curtain to reveal the very heart of Melisara Chapel.
In this sacred spot, for a thousand years or better, the very nature of the world as it existed that day -- and for every other -- had been debated, decided, and enacted. Some, the apostates and heretics of the world would say “enforced”, but Alyrin much preferred the word "guided"; lest those less versed in the shadowy nature of the guardians misunderstand. Her organization existed in the glare of the sun, not the alleys and gutters of those who had fallen to petty crimes and deeper darknesses; no more visible, but infinitely more radiant and pristine. Those that proclaimed the Order was blinded by the light simply had never raised their eyes toward the truth.
Her companion spun away, moving quietly off to stand with his fellows; young men and women clad in loose-fitting brown and white robes crested on one shoulder with a golden cross and one of shining silver on the other. Many kept their hoods up or eyes closed, peaceful and meditative as they basked in the tranquility of the sanctum and its leader. Alyrin longed to dedicate herself to such endeavors, but knew her fate lay elsewhere -- on the battlefield.
She drew several long, deep breaths before she forced her gaze up the purple-carpeted dais, across the chamber that had never failed to produce a hero of the people, of God, and onto the one who had summoned her to this holiest of places.
The back of the chamber knew the violation of no stone, no masonry, the hubris of no man who would seek to craft even the primal elements of nature into his own forced image. Instead, it swept back into an earthen cove, a natural shelter striated with natural crystal formations. These caught the light like prisms, shattering it into a million glittering pieces, and bathing the antechamber in rainbow light.
From this, from the shielding earth and bathed only in the light remembered by the sparks of the very first star, rose another crystal. This one jagged and azure, a wave frozen in graceful cresting motion, locked forever in that one monstrously beautiful moment. And inside that stalactite, hidden from history -- from the skeptical eyes of man -- awaited the vaunted leader of Melisara Chapel, ageless and more perfect than his crystalline prison.
Perched atop a spiraling marble platform suspended midway in the transparent aquamarine structure stood a man the likes of which Alyrin had never seen outside of this sanctified room. Hooded, with prominent features obscured, the man's eyes positively blazed from beyond the darkness -- shining brighter than the walls that enclosed him, sparkling with vitality, wisdom, and fervor. He wore robes no different than those of his acolytes, but over them wore a chain-lined suit of golden links, crested with divine symbology.
Very few would ever catch those details, though. No, any who happened to wander past and catch the slightest glimpse would notice only one thing: pristine white wings, spanning wide and protective, arched as though about to take flight, frozen in time.
Lord Speare was no simple man, mortal and frail, but something far more, far greater. He was Seraphim -- an angel -- among the highest choir and most powerful; a force upon the world, his will shaped nations and crumbled mountains. And he had called for her. Called for Alyrin; needed her, and for this she would gladly have laid down her life for only that simple honor.
Though the angel could not speak directly, the faithful could sense his thoughts -- a telepathic link, of sorts, built stone by stone upon the foundation of trust and belief. As Alyrin approached, eyes once again downward in supplication, Speare deigned to cast his words upon the deepest corners of her soul.
"Child, it has been too long," the angel spoke softly to her mind, "I have prayed for your safety and success."
The summoned watched the angel softly, a look of gentle compassion and empathetic pain marring her delicate features -- enhancing them even, as a silver cloud trims the sun. How she wished to help the noble being that some evil had sealed away from a world that needed angels so badly.
Speare would hear nothing of it, though. "All things in time, child," the angel said. "That is not the reason I have called you here today." Alyrin blushed at the tone of the voice, intimate in the w
ay of old friends and trusted confidants. Her heart fluttered at his approval.
She could feel his mind touching hers ever so gently, souls intertwined in a moment that existed outside of time, outside of the physical boundaries of the savage world around. His words came, ponderous with the weight, as though they carried all of his thousands of years of patience and understanding. "We have found him," Speare said at last, letting each word ring like the clarion bellow of a gong wrought of silver.
Alyrin's spirits soared. She had never imagined such good news would come of this meeting. She had expected prophecy, hints revealed in obscuring mannerisms as the angel had done cryptically in the past. Never, in all of the histories and annals of Melisara Chapel or the Order's records had Speare ever spoken so directly to an acolyte -- or to anyone else for that matter. Still, she had to confirm. "The Keystone?" she asked at last.
A ripple of approval passed through the link they shared, a teacher patting his student on the head to reward her. "The Keystone," Speare agreed.
Alyrin's breath come in sudden, ragged gasps. The Keystone held all the answers; the ones that would lead home -- back to Paradise. Alyrin's mind raced with images of smiling faces and relieved laughs when she shared the news with all who would hear; she would scream it from the mountaintops. The Keystone had come, and with him, all dreams were made reality!
The angel paused a long time before answering. "Megid," he said at length, holding the words out to her like an olive branch, gentle and certain, well aware the confusion it would bring.
And so it did, Alyrin's smile faded into a twist of doubt and she arched her crimson eyebrows in failed understanding. Megid? Megid laid fewer than 20 miles away! Alyrin's mind raced with the confusing possibilities. Her own internal questions began to falter along with the foundations upon which she based common sense and reality.
"All things are possible," the angel assured her, his soft voice slipping across the bond like warm velvet, "Does this not show that even Fate itself decrees alliance? That the key we require appear before our hand in our most desperate moment?"
Those words stole the doubt from Alyrin's mind, tempering her resolve into something stronger than steel -- the nebulous strength of fanaticism quenched and rekindled. She looked at her mentor with eyes that glowed like liquid smoke, awaiting further instruction.
As though to answer her unasked question, one of the other acolytes entered the room accompanied by shuffling feet and muffled grunts. Alyrin turned at the disturbance, anger flashing that she should be interrupted at so vital a moment.
The sight confused her deeper, a young man gagged and blindfolded awaited with tied hands. He struggled against his bonds fruitlessly, pulling this way and that; a caged animal. Only the cloth stuffed into his mouth held back the howls he would have unleashed as he rolled back and forth, futilely attempting escape.
Before Alyrin could do anything, Speare spoke to her mind once again. "Relax," he said, "this is the beginning."
When Alyrin said nothing, of course, frowning at the strange scene, Speare continued. "This young man recently encountered one of your old friends..." Speare let the words hang dramatically, "Mirai Kishida."
Alyrin had to bite back an angry hiss. The rogue named Mirai sought nothing more than to undermine the Order; to plunge the world into chaos. Just as Alyrin had been created -- crafted by the capricious hand of Fate to protect the world, to guide its people to conclusion -- Mirai existed to sow malcontent, to destroy the good works of all good people. Were she involved with the Keystone... Alyrin shuddered at the thought, and what it portended. Still, Mirai Kishida had sold her honor, and Alyrin maintained hers -- polished bright to shine, a paragon of justice.
One of the acolytes removed the young man's gag, and he began to sputter and curse vulgarly, demanding to know where he was and why he had been brought there when he should have been honored. At a glance Alyrin could see he carried none of the hallmarks borne by those like herself, he possessed a certain strength that belied his fear. Indeed, he was one caught up in the wake of an Ascended's passing -- a powerful one at that, no doubt Kishida.
Alyrin kept her silence. Her words were not for the world to hear, and both Speare and the acolytes knew this. They began to question the young man, who identified himself as Alex McKinnon, and apparently believed he was still in the Middle East, taken by one terrorist group or another. He claimed to be a teacher, and to know nothing. He seemed genuine and a sympathetic -- or simply pathetic -- figure; a pawn caught in a much bigger game.
"What is your connection to Mirai Kishida?" one of the acolytes demanded with a completely unnecessary backhand slap that trailed blood from the prisoner's mouth. Alyrin moved closer to wipe it away but was restrained; some mental compulsion Speare held over her stayed her legs. He cautioned a single word of patience before returning to observational silence.
At first Alex didn't answer, anger burning in his eyes like smoldering coals as his tongue flicked out to nervously lick at the fresh wound. When the acolyte raised his hand, covered in heavy and somewhat gaudy rings, once again, though, Alex quickly broke. "She rescued me," he said quickly, "I don't know who she is." The hand swung yet again, this time drawing a nasty gash across the young man's cheek. He looked pleadingly at Alyrin for help, and heaved his shoulders with a sigh when he correctly predicted none would come.
The acolyte who had guided Alyrin to the chamber seemed to be listening to a silent voice now, head tilted only a few degrees, but Alyrin knew now that Speare could multitask conversations. She entertained the curious idea that he had somehow placed her on telepathic hold.
When their conversation finished, the young acolyte approached her with an object wrapped in white linen. She unfolded it to reveal a cell phone preloaded with a phone number. The thought occurred to Alyrin then that the abuse had only been a diversion, that Speare might slip undetected into the prisoner's mind to extract the necessary information. Like a thief in the night, Alyrin thought with a half smile, remembering an old quote about an even older savior.
"Dial the number," Speare urged, "and have Alex sow the proper seeds of discontent. Give him instructions to warn the Keystone, the one known as Seven Kharaos, about the dangers of his new friend."
Alyrin took the cell phone into her hands, looking at Alex's miserable face once again, wondering if she could do it. He had nothing to do with any of this and did the Order not fight to protect innocents like him? To guide them to a better place?
If Speare could read that thought, he gave no indication. "When he is done," Speare ordered in a cold voice, uncharacteristic and bloodthirsty, and worse, natural; more natural than his fatherly advice, "kill him. Slowly."
As the Ascended soul opened her mouth to protest, the angel cut her off, "None who know of the Ascended may be permitted to live," he said, "this is fundamental to our precepts. Now do it, Alyrin Delling. We are near the end, and it would be tragic to relinquish your place in Heaven for the sake of dregs like this one."
The blue crystal that imprisoned the angel suddenly seemed more like ice, and not nearly strong enough. Alyrin attempted to push the feeling down in her heart, the welling doubt that surged and ebbed like the raging tides, and had all her life -- broken and reforged into something twisted; this concept called zeal, but she felt the floodwalls of her heart breaking as surely as powerless as the innocent human she had been ordered to execute. Slowly.
She realized then she need not share a heaven with those who had obviously lost their ways; ones who indeed had been blinded by the light they served.
She whipped the phone into the rough walls of the imprisoning cave, where it smashed into pieces, drawing angry protests from the acolytes assembled. Something held them in check, too, though, and Alyrin was sure it was the invisible and omnipresent voice of the angel in the crystal that prevented further trouble.
Wordlessly, Alyrin strode from the chamber, back arched high and steps steady as one who had maintained her honor even at loss of f
aith and, likely, soul. She paused only long enough to look at the clerics who had abused their prisoner; she could not take him with her, she knew, for where her fate would bring her would only endanger the young man further. Death lurked in those silver eyes as she took in each of the acolytes in turn, wordlessly communicating the horror each individual would face should they lay hands on the young man once again. They would, of course, slaves to the angel just as she slaved to hers -- she wondered how much of her mind, exactly, was still her own.
None of that mattered at the moment -- Clarion, her own guardian angel, was silent and content to watch the events play themselves out; a spider who hid in corners and the dark places that offered closeted safety rather than reveal her hand in the open. Still, it surprised her somewhat that the angel would allow her to return to the hunt.
For she was not going to take down a mere human or Ascended this time; not even an angel.
Her prey wielded power as great as her God. And yet, she would kill him, martyr him, to deny the angel in the stone his wicked prize -- the key to the Gates of Heaven.
F-Infinity Saga Canto I Page 4