by Katrina Cope
I can feel his eyes on me as I stand in silence.
“I understand you don't need any food, so I won’t offer you that, but is there anything else that I can get you?”
I can hear the pity edging through in his voice. It’s slight, and I know he is trying to hide it, but all it does is makes me angrier. “You can get me peace and quiet and leave me the hell alone,” I snap. I spin around and head back to my dingy room. I can feel them staring at the back of my head, but I don't care. They expect too much from me. I need time to mourn or to get my wings back. Until then, I'm stuck in this hole, rotting away in the corner.
I changed my warrior boots into monk's moccasins, and as I stomp through the stone hallway, they make an ungratifying shuffling sound on the floor. Angrily, I grate the material against the stones. When I reach the door, I place my hand up against it, sending the pulse into it and watching it slide open to reveal the empty room. I step through, and the door closes, blocking the monks from following me. That knowledge fills me with relief. I repeat Michael’s incantation and watch as the walls of the room close in toward me, giving the impression that they are as angry as I am and willing to crush me. I wait for them to stop then walk into the weapons area and run my hand over several of the weapons. These lifeless things are the only reason why I'm here. I continue to touch them, hoping that something among them pulls at me, but they remain lifeless. The only part that moves is the glimmer from the torchlight reflecting off the gold and silver metals.
I complete the full circle, not feeling any better. I utter the incantations and watch the walls retract to their original spot, hiding all evidence of the weapons. My disappointment and anger still unquenched, I wander to the back wall and off to the side, where I crash in the corner and hug my knees. This is where I remain for a very long time, rocking back and forth. Again, my sense of time vanishes as I lose touch with the daylight, unable to see the sunrise or sunset.
As time progresses, my vision blurs, and I slip into a seething stillness. I focus absentmindedly on one point while my thoughts run over and over my defeat, tormenting me endlessly in my head. My mind won’t let my body leave this room, and I don’t want anyone down here, even the angels. I feel like a failure, and I know I've already let the angels down because I am no longer able to protect Michael.
The footage of my capture and what caused me to pass out, followed by waking and discovering that blood covered me and the blood was mine, keeps flashing through my head. The final breaking point was when I found out that my wings were gone.
The horrendous nightmare keeps repeating over and over again, pulling me deeper into depression. I have no intentions of moving, not even if the angels come to see me, and I doubt that will be for a while.
The sound of grinding stone startles me out of my thoughts. I rise and spin—after all, I'm to protect this room and all the weapons in it. I spread my legs to shoulder distance, ready to fight. As the door slides across, my angelic vision kicks in, and I spot the intruders. It's Michael, Raphael, and Gabriel.
“Have you found my wings?” I frantically search their hands for any evidence of my wings only to pull my eyes away, disappointed.
I recognize the look of failure across Michael's face. “I am sorry, brother. We have not found them. But do not despair, we are still looking.”
My eyes narrow. “Then why are you here? I don't need you here wasting time. You should be out finding my wings.”
“Settle down, sweetie.” Archangel Gabriel steps forward as I back away. I loathe that term of endearment. My movement doesn't put the archangel off. “We received an urgent call from the monks. They're worried about you. We're here to cheer you up, honey.”
I let it rip. “First of all, I'm not your sweetie or honey. Second of all, I don't want to see any of you unless you are bringing me my wings.”
“Relax, Zacharias. We're working on it. It doesn't mean that we can't be concerned for your mental health.” Raphael lowers his hands with the palms toward the ground in a calming motion. “You cannot go on if you are mentally unwell.”
I scoff. “I'm not mentally disturbed. I’m sad. I’m angry. And I want revenge! After what I've been through, I wouldn't quite call that ‘mentally unwell.’”
“Raphael did not mean that, my brother.” Michael steps forward, holding a hand out in a stop sign. “He only meant that we are here to help. We know you are not mentally unwell, but we are worried that these emotions are getting to you and you are losing your way.”
I speak through my teeth. “As I said, you cannot help me until you bring me my wings. Do not waste time and come here without my wings.” I raise my voice, and my speech becomes clearer. “I don't want to see any of you until you bring me my wings. Am I clear?”
I move to turn away, purposefully facing my back towards them, when a voice calls out, “Ava is asking about you. She's concerned about you.”
I straighten my shoulders. “If Ava is so concerned about me, she should have come by now.”
“She wants to come, my brother,” Michael says. “She hasn’t been able to because she has been stuck in her dragon form. I’m sure I told you that. She still can't at the moment. Things have happened that have held her up.”
“Like what?”
Michael looks at the ground. “She has been too emotionally disturbed by everything that has happened with you and Jehan. Her dragon form has consumed her. Even if she comes out of it, she reverts back at any sign of emotional stress. Seeing you like this would surely fix her in the dragon state for many more days if not weeks to come.”
I huff in disbelief and speak over my shoulder. “Ava wouldn't let anything stop her from getting to her loved ones. Face it. She's not coming. Now, leave.” I spin to face the wall with my back entirely toward them.
“Zacharias, please.” I hear Michael's feet move closer.
“I said leave. Now!” I demand.
- Chapter Thirty-Five -
They leave without further argument, and I stay in that room. I know many weeks, if not months, pass, yet I refuse to go outside to see Earth's display of glory right outside the monastery's doorstep. I refuse to look at the beautiful sunsets and sunrises, the deep, flowing valley, and the fresh air. I don’t want to see or experience anything that might make me want to fly.
As duty binds, I have angelically blessed the weapons that remain in my room and continue to serve from this place of gray-stoned darkness. Occasionally, Michael brings new weapons to add to the collection. A couple of times, he tortures my soul by claiming that Ava is with him. I never believe it. I can’t believe it.
I have the sense that I’d been here for years before he tried this first trick to get me outside. If Ava were coming, it would have been in the early days. I won’t let him succeed in luring me from this room.
Sometimes Michael calls, his voice stilling the noise in my head, to see how I'm faring. When I don’t answer his calls, his regretful face appears inside my room after a few minutes, and each time, I yell and scream at him to get out and not return unless he brings my wings.
Occasionally, a monk gathers the courage to call in, asking if there is anything that he can do or inviting me to join them for company. Each time this happens, I have suspicions that one of the archangels put them up to it. As time lingers on, the monks change, presumably because decades, if not centuries, have passed since I first entered this room. Their attempts to visit me never go well for them.
Deep, seething rage burns from the pit of my stomach every time I see a human or an angel. I know the anger burns from disappointment and a lust for revenge, yet I’m unable to do anything about it. So I let it burn, and I take it out on anyone who comes to visit me. I have a feeling that it is turning my physical body, something I thought was impossible for an angel. We are ageless. Maybe it is only subject to our attitude and being able to return to the heavenly realm. I have never heard of it happening before. Age signs show on my hands, and I can see my hair turning silver. Sometimes, I
hear the monks mutter outside my room about the cranky old angel.
Yes, that is what I am now—an angel, not an archangel. I’m an angel who can't fly, all glory of the exceptional service removed. I’m an eternally ageless creature, yet I’m aging over the centuries until I bear the appearance of an old man with dusty, off-white stumpy wings. It is here that I stay, wallowing in my self-pity and anger alone.
I face the back wall, which is as cold and depressing as ever. I squat, hugging my knees and rocking on the balls of my feet until I can rock no more. Time passes. Well, at least I assume it does. The stale mustiness of the room grows stronger. Each day, I can feel my wings growing heavier as I sit in utter stillness—or maybe it is just a state of delusion. My time here is uneventful.
The angels don't even need me. The weapons don’t really need protecting. The monks don't even know what is down here, let alone some random demon. And the angelic wards are set solidly in place. I'm sure Michael has only given me this job to provide me with the illusion of importance, as if guarding a room is an equal replacement to guarding him. He might be trying to make me feel useful while I’m condemned to be earthbound, but I know the difference.
I will be better used if they find my wings and Raphael heals me. I long for the chance to administer my revenge against the gatekeeper, and especially Separus. My predicament is because of him. The gatekeeper volunteered himself as a pawn because of the blame he placed on Michael and me over his eye. I still hold bitterness towards him, but at the same time, I understand his hatred for us over an honest mistake. It does not make me any less happy to repay his deception and what he did to Ava and her loved ones when she was under my watch.
The thought of Ava causes me to start rocking again until my feet ache. I am vaguely aware that if someone could see me right now, they would think I am losing my mind. Maybe I am, but maybe I'm not. I don't care. I just want my wings back so everything returns to how it should be.
A knock sounds on my door. “Zacharias?” a voice calls. I can hear the fear behind the word. It is a voice I have not heard before. It’s probably a new monk who has been sent down here to check on me. I remain squatting.
“Zacharias?” they call again. If I weren't so annoyed, I would scoff at their pathetic attempt to distract me. I don't know why they even bother. As if I'm going to open the door for them. Besides, I left the room a month ago, I think.
On that trip, the monks were instantly in my face, asking me if I wanted anything. Immediately, I barked at them to get away because all I wanted was peace and quiet and to be left alone. I returned to the dingy weapons room within a few minutes of the first set of questions, and here I sit, bracing my knees and rocking on the balls of my feet again, gathering dust. Before the mutilation of my wings, I had never sat still enough for anything to land on me, let alone to collect layers of dust. This thought causes me to hunch over more, and I hug my knees tighter.
A grating sound pulls me from my trance. It takes me a moment to realize that the stone door is sliding open. It can only slide open with an angelic touch. For some reason, one of the angels has decided to visit me. They better have brought my wings, or else they can go. I told them that last time, and I was serious. I don't want to see any of them until they bring me my wings.
I am doing the pathetic job they gave me to do, so there is no other reason that they should be visiting me. I remain where I am, and I listen to the soft footsteps that approach across the floor. I have a fair idea who they belong to, and he better have my wings. But then I realize that there is another strange noise approaching with the familiar footsteps. A click-clack resonates on the stone floor, and I cannot place the owner of the sound. In fact, I have never heard this noise before, and I am pretty sure there is an echo. Then I hear another soft shuffling sound, and I can hear the uncertainty in the noise. These are not sounds I remember from other visits I have had from the archangels. My curiosity sparks, and I begin to rise to my feet. It takes an enormous amount of effort, as I haven't moved for a very long time.
A gasp fills the room, and instantly I falter in my movements. Something is off for a generalized visit from the archangels. The soft incantation of the ancient angelic language travels across the room, and I hear the sconces ignite one at a time with a burst of flame. I am sure that it is Michael, as I would know his voice anywhere, yet I am also certain he is not alone.
I continue to rise to my feet, and I can feel the layers of dust falling off my disfigured wings and my shoulder-length gray hair. The dust specks are distracting in the light. Peeking over my hunched shoulder, I catch sight of Michael out of the corner of my eye, and I can see that he hasn't brought my wings.
“Haven't I told you not to come?” My voice is rough after so many years of disuse—or perhaps it has aged like my hands.
A female whispers, “How does he even know who's here?”
I groan deeply and throatily. “Especially when your company is vacuous.”
The female gasps, and I sense something familiar. Then the same voice whispers, “Did he just call me dumb?”
No one answers, and slowly I turn to face them only to be puzzled by what I see. Beside Michael stand three beings with wings. I can’t call them angels, as they don't wear the traditional angelic gowns, and there are two females. I have never heard of a female angel. There is a shirtless male wearing tight blue pants and who has royal-blue wings protruding from his back. A female wears a tight body layer of clothing in a mixture of blue and green with golden flecks. Long brunette hair falls past her shoulders, blocking some of my view of her golden-yellow wings.
Last of all, yet not the least noticeable, is a blond female wearing figure-hugging yellow material of some kind. Yellow wings arch behind her shoulders. Her golden-brown eyes stare openly at me, and she hooks a strand of hair into some kind of metal clip. They all look young and vibrant, yet unnatural in the angel world. I can't help but scowl at the abomination. How long have I been down here?
Pulling my eyes away from the perfect-looking trio, I focus on Michael. “What brings the almighty archangel here after all of these years?” I make sure sarcasm laces my voice.
“Zacharias, we are in need of your help.” There is a pleading in Michael's eyes, but I don't feel it. I have no feeling left after wallowing in anger and bitterness for so long.
I sneer. “Am I not doing enough? Am I not remaining here, doing what you have instructed me to do?” I can't believe his audacity to come here and ask me to do anything else when they haven't brought my wings and have left me here for so long. I approach them, and my black monk gown flows around my ankles with the movement. Dust billows around me, seeming to float on the light. “Besides, what can I possibly do that you need my help for? I was shoved down here because I am no longer of use to you with your battles.”
“You know that is not true.” Michael's tone is snappy, and I can tell I have gotten to him. “Yes, you have your limits now, but you are far from useless. You agreed to this… arrangement.”
I huff. As if I had a choice. “My life is worthless except for one job. You know that. You all agreed that this was something I could do alone and in a place no one can find.”
I can see the confused hurt on his face, but I don't care. His brows knit together. “You are not alone, Zacharias. The monks are more than happy to communicate with you if you let them.”
I roll my eyes and flick my hand dismissively. “Ha, monks, humans who have no idea about the real world. They are clueless.”
Michael's shoulders sag, leaving gaps between his body and his golden breastplate. “You speak harshly of our earthly allies.” An eyebrow rises, and a glimmer of hope sprouts in his sapphire eyes. This confuses me. I don't know what there is to hope for. He approaches me. “However, if you are feeling worthless and lonely for angelic company, I have the perfect job for you. There’s something we need you to do.”
My shoulders stiffen, and I roll them away from Michael. “Don't ridicule and belittle me, filli
ng me with your lies,” I grumble over my shoulder. “My years of proper use are over.”
“Did you not hear me? We need your help.” Michael speaks the words crisply, as though doing so will get the message through.
I return my gaze to him and narrow my eyes, flicking them over the newcomers. “I assume that, seeing how you brought these three younglings, you want me to guard them too.” I glare at Michael. “I'm not a babysitter. I won't babysit. I'd rather be alone.” My gaze falls on the yellow one with wings, the one that is good to look at yet clearly has no brains. “I need real conversation, and you want me to babysit mindless girls.”
She crosses her arms tightly, and her eyes shoot daggers, but surprisingly, she holds her tongue.
I point to her. “She doesn't even know how to show respect.” Approaching the three beings with wings, I look them up and down. “And what's with their clothing? Tight yellow pants and shirt with yellow wings.” I move to the brunette. “Tight, dark-blue, green, speckled with gold—hardly hiding her figure and golden wings.” Then I move to the male. “Tight pants, shirtless. Blue wings.”
As I study the male’s form, I notice he has muscles, but he still needs to build them up more to fight as a true warrior, as I was in my prime. I can see he has potential until my eyes land on a charm hooked on his pants. “Even jewelry.”
The dark-haired male's jaw tightens as though I have insulted him, but he remains silent as he continues to stare straight ahead. His focus impresses me. The old warrior and instructor in me bubbles with intrigue, but I am not about to tell him that. I don't want to come out of my loathing until I have my wings back.
I shake my head and continue to criticize them verbally. “What's wrong with them? They are underdressed, and they look like they're trying to make a fashion statement. Why? Angels are meant to remain unseen. Where're their angelic gowns?” I slide my slitted eyes over the three of them again.
“I understand your point,” Michael says. “But these are new angels from the modern world.”