Strange Fruit: Prologue
By Raegan Millhollin
Copyright 2011 Raegan Millhollin
Table of Contents
Story 1: Fox and Hound
Story 2: The Gift
Story 3: Name Calling
Story 4: The Fates
Story 5: Song of Revenge
Fox and Hound
In a flurry of white feathers, I entered the dreamscape Beleth had been kind enough to create for me. Surprisingly it was a rolling, lush park that existed nowhere in the real world. I walked up a small hill and there he was, sitting stiffly and silently on a wood and iron park bench. His back to me, he was staring out at the sunset, frozen in place, the sun resting on the water. He was accompanied by several crows the same color as the solemn and impeccably pressed black suit he had taken a liking to in the 19th century. His hair was the same straw-blonde it had been the last time we’d met, the uneven edges resting just above the collar of his suit jacket.
I approached him, making no sound in the imaginary grass. “Hello beautiful,” I said softly just as I reached the bench. The crows seemed to take offense to my presence and immediately took flight, scattering a few glossy black feathers.
He jumped, turning towards me and blinking his eyes owlishly; they were a faded gray this time, a striking contrast to the dark purple rings around them. “Y-you came.” He stammered, sounding almost frightened of the fact.
I frowned, tossing strands of my silver hair over my shoulder. “Were you hoping I would stand you up?”
He looked startled, lowering his eyes, and shaking his head. He turned back towards the fake sunset and I took that as my cue to round the bench to sit down next to him; but not too close. We sat there for several minutes, watching the dream-sun sink beneath the glass-like water. His hands were lightly pressed on top of his book, a thick, black tomb, with the Tree of Knowledge etched onto it. How I’ve wanted that book!
As the twilight dimmed the imaginary world, he bowed his head, hair sliding to obscure his face. I knew he would be content to sit here forever if it were possible; it would be up to me to make forward progress in this little, forbidden rendezvous.I leaned my arm on the back of the bench so that I could face him. “How have you been holding up, precious?”
He looked straight at me for a moment and I knew the answer. He did not have the time to be here. His eyes were pale, he was pale, and he wasn’t even putting in the effort to pretend to breathe; the dark circles were not his artistic license with the human form.
Then he looked back at his book, a hand going to the small gold cross embedded in the knot of his blood-red tie. “I’ve been busy.” He said quietly, “The War is coming, you know.” he finished, as if that explained everything. As though it explained why he was being worn down, stretched thin, as if it somehow justified his slavery.
I scoffed, unable to hold back my irritation. “He expects too much of you.”
He looked at me as if I were a dense child, shaking his head slightly, “He made me.” His voice was firm, holding all the reverence for Him that we were built to have.
I could feel the fury at that blind loyalty bubble up inside of me. It was impossible to keep it from bursting out, “That gives him no right to overwork you!” The declaration did not seem to move him, because he continued to look at me, his brow knitted, his lips turned down, as if my perspective was something to pity. I wanted to punch the look off his face; my hands curled into fists in my lap, but I didn’t move them further.
He smiled, but it was thin and weak. “I have more freedom than any other angel. More than you ever had. It all balances out, as He intended. Besides…” He looked down, running one of his hands reverently across the cover of the large book, “I have my book.”
That book. I stared at the cover under his hands, at the intricate swirls of the stylized black tree on a stark-white background. In the center of the branches that wove an untold number of secrets, rested a real red jewel, the Apple. The pale pages he had allowed me to glimpse once were almost black with the indecipherable blocks of a language with a singular purpose: to hold His plans.
Not knowing why, I reached for the book. He spoke a breath before I would have made contact, “Don’t.” His voice was quiet, weak, and even though it stopped me all the same, I wondered if his tone was inviting me to disobey. I set my hands back in my lap.
We settled back into silence. I don’t know how long it lasted before that familiar itch to move, to act, to do something overtook me. Words left my mouth before I thought of them, “Who is the Lamb?” I suppressed the urge to cringe at my own insensitivity, but it was too late to take back the words that would end this meeting now.
The mixture of emotions that crossed his face shattered something. His eyes closed and he pressed his lips together, letting out a slow breath. He drew the book to his chest, pressing it against him before opening his eyes again, “You know I can’t tell you that,” he murmured, his voice shaking.
Only that damn, blind loyalty held the knowledge in. How could he know so much, and be so blind to his own slavery, to the fact that he was being used by Him until he was driven into the ground, and then he would be unmade without a second thought, to be replaced by a newer model. Stupid angel! “What good are you then, Raziel?” I spit out, hating that I was attacking him instead of one who really deserved my wrath.
The expression that bordered on breakdown returned, and Raziel clutched the book tighter. He let out another sad sigh, and then stood.
I reached forward, grabbing his hand before he could leave. “I do miss you, precious.”
Raziel stopped moving, but did nothing else for several seconds. And then he quickly turned towards me, his eyes wide and his breathe short, “Come back, Lucifer!” He exclaimed, his voice desperate and wild, “The Father will surely let you return, if you tell him everything before the War starts!”
I blinked at him several times, stunned by the sudden change. Then his words caught up to me, and I couldn’t help but laugh, “Oh Honey,” I said between giggles, “I don’t want to go back.” I quieted down, leaning back against the bench, “Satan is a much better boss.”
All of the fire drained out of Raziel almost instantly, and my heart lurched. I took his hand again, gently pulling him forward so that I could look up at his face. “Why don’t you join us?” I said in a more subdued version of his enthusiasm, “You’ll know what real freedom is.”
At first he didn’t move, but then he slowly pulled his hand from mine, pressing it against the book. He lowered his eyes and partially turned away from me so that it was hard to see his expression through his light blonde hair, “I can’t…” he began, his voice timid, “…see you anymore.”
I smiled, seeing the lie for what it was. Even though I’d joined the demons centuries ago, and it was strictly forbidden for any of the angels to have contact with me, one of us always broke down, and Beleth would give us a dream. Since it wasn’t in the material world or the realms of Heaven or Hell, these meetings weren’t technically contact. Raziel loved Him, but he did not place all of his faith there. I brushed off my jeans as I stood, turning from him, and heading back the way I’d come. Casually, over my shoulder, I responded, “Come back in three years, when the Prince is born.” Then I kept walking, not looking back.
I was almost down the hill and out of the realm, when the dream-wind carried his response, “As you wish.”
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The Gift
The rain beat the ground, roaring with the wind. The angel Azriel folded his white wings, shielding the girl he couldn’t physically touch. She lay among the scattered trash in the alleyway, shivering and moaning. Her light brown skin was marred by red welts and cuts oozi
ng blood, all for $42, and a debit card with little more than that. She was so consumed with pain that she didn’t even notice the rain no longer touched her, nor could she see the celestial soldier glowing brightly just beyond the thin membrane of reality, kneeling before her.
Azriel watched her curl up, trying to protect herself from what had already happened, wringing the small hands he’d created for just that purpose. The tears that began leaking from beneath her closed eyelids caused him to reach out, but he hesitated short of touching her soul.
He shouldn’t. He couldn’t. But she was in so much pain that she didn’t deserve, and she was crying and vulnerable, and not yet who she would become. A little girl, one of her eyes already beginning to swell shut, was exactly what he had been made to protect, so why had he been given such brutal orders?
Azriel reached forward again, but the wrong miracle was on his lips. He paused. To defy the one he loved, the one who had
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