Her hands stole up to his. "Be careful."
"Of course," he said, and gave her his best smile, ignoring the ripping in his chest. Her hands fell away and slipped into her lap.
Without looking back, he crossed to the door and braced himself for the hardest part.
"Come say goodbye to me, little one."
The girl turned her head and pointed with a chubby finger at the window, her eyes and mouth round. "Look!"
Even in his sadness, he laughed. "You are blocking it completely, and I can't see anything. You need to back up."
She did so reluctantly, and as the black backdrop of the sky came into view, he could see the glistening of flakes in the moonlight.
"That!" she said exuberantly, pointing still.
"It's snow," he answered, and she giggled.
"It's beautiful," breathed Kalima. "Surely it is a blessing."
His heart the tiniest bit lighter, he opened the door.
The dreamscape swirled a final time, and he felt his stomach drop. He had repeated this dream many nights, and what came next made the blood burn cold, but he had long ago stopped trying to break free.
This dream was part of his punishment.
The mist parted to reveal Kalima bowed over the dais, her hands chained behind her back. Already, he could feel the pulse of Golden's kevra, the crowd feeding the angel's power.
He strained to look away, but instead, his eyes continued on their paths, following the lines behind her until they came to rest on his daughter. Tears ran freely down her white face and her hands were jammed in her mouth, yet her cries were silent. He felt his heart brim with pride for his brave progeny.
"Death," said Golden, from his perch above in the Arc of the Pentarch. He stood in the middle, two advisors flanking him on each side. No matter how many times the dream repeated itself, the anger on his face still shocked Laufeyson. Golden so rarely revealed his emotions, and Laufeyson always wondered if there had been more upsetting the angel than the crime of an unauthorized child.
Kalima's eyes flashed up briefly, and Laufeyson knew she was looking for him in the amphitheater's crowd. They re-cemented themselves to the floor, and he wondered if he would have the same self-control in her position. She would never give him away. They had long ago agreed, when her belly was still full, that they would not try to follow each other in death. Their child deserved a parent.
He had always thought, with her so well hidden in the mountains, it would be him to die, him in battle against the Damned.
He had returned to the cabin in the mountains to find the fire out and the door ajar. The chaos inside forced him to his knees, but it was the splatters of blood on the walls and the ceiling that had driven him to weep openly.
Then he had learned of the Consortium's new prisoner, an angel that had the audacity to conceive a child without permission, and he knew what had befallen his love.
"Take the child," said Golden.
"No!" Laufeyson cried, but his voice was lost among the sudden roar of the spectators. He tried to leap down, but the crowd moved to stand as one, applause breaking out and drowning his screams further.
He kicked his legs hard, driving his knees into the faceless bodies around him. Finally, there was an opening, and he crawled through the mass of people to the top.
He could see Kalima, fighting like the warrior goddess of her name. Three angels were working in concert to hold her down, and still, she writhed and snaked like the victim of a possession. Then another angel grabbed him by the leg and pulled him back, and she disappeared from view.
Golden held his hands up, and the crowd fell silent. With one sweep of his arms, the entire group sat as one. Only Laufeyson remained standing, his desperation fighting back against Golden's kevra. Within seconds, though, he too succumbed, his knees buckling.
Golden gestured once at two angels, female warriors with great swords across their backs. "Take the child!" he repeated, his voice almost a scream. They moved quickly to comply. Laufeyson's daughter still made no sound, not even when the two angels grabbed each of her arms and dragged her limp weight across the floor. When they had oriented her close enough to Golden, the child stood, staring the angel directly in the face.
Golden kneeled, bringing them to the same height. Laufeyson struggled against Golden's kevra, trying to fight the pulse with a wall of his own fabrication. Yet the massive number of spectators in the amphitheatre fed the angel's influence, and Laufeyson was powerless but to watch.
But why did Kalima struggle so? Wasn't she under the same spell? Did Golden release her?
Golden placed his hands on either side of the child's head. "I did not ask you your name," he said. "Do you know why?"
His daughter did not answer, and Laufeyson felt a stab of grim happiness. Yes, he thought. Don't give him the satisfaction. Be brave, my little one, be brave.
"I did not ask you, because you are not an angel, not even a demon or a human. You are a nothing, because you were never allowed to exist, and soon, you will cease to be.
"Do not be afraid."
And then he twisted his hands, and Laufeyson heard the sharp snap. He felt Golden's influence roll back away from him, like a fog, and once again his screams were lost in the roar of the crowd.
Golden's next words were impossibly loud. They boomed across the auditorium with an authority that only his kevra could provide.
"And as for you," he said, gesturing at his second-in-command, "call the Executioner."
Laufeyson heard his title, and just like that, he knew what he would do.
SEVEN
He had planned her escape, from conception, to execution, to completion. In a way, she had been his prisoner.
And if he had been aware of the cost, would he have done it in the first place? Was it worth a life of madness and isolation, the pain of losing his wings? Was it worth the sacrifice of Cleopia, of turning both Alsvior and Golden into shells of their former selves?
Yes.
Of that, he was shamelessly, unequivocally sure. He had never doubted his plan - not until he and De la Roca had locked eyes outside of the Mademoiselle's house. She had pierced him with a killer's stare, completely devoid of recognition. Yet, in the end, it was the kiss that had broken what metaphorical heart he had left and filled him with doubt and regret.
What's done is done. The question is - what to do?
Someone had betrayed him; that much was obvious. After examining the situation countless times, his bet was on the Mademoiselle. After all, she was the one that had named De la Roca's conquest as the demon Muninn. It was her complete lack of surprise that gave her away, but he had not been quick enough to pick up on it then. He had not pieced it together until he had followed them into the cantina, only to find himself on a crude facsimile in an alternate plane.
And now? Now there is no time left at all.
He knew he should think of something else, anything else. His existence had been long, and somewhat fruitful; he felt that the end of it should be spent in meditation and acceptance. Yet he could not stop re-examining the issue, picking at it as if it were a scab.
What did she stand to gain? And more important, what did she want with De la Roca? The Mademoiselle had played a dangerous game, risking her life and the ire of the Consortium - and to what end?
Unless … what if she wasn't in danger? What if she was acting on orders the whole time? Could the Consortium have known about his plans all along? Nemain had accused him of being a part of the Damned - a stupid name for the Movement if there ever was one - but they had no proof … did they?
Did they know about his plans? Did they know about De la Roca?
The weight of the lump in his throat suddenly rivaled that of the stone in his mouth. If the Consortium knew of De la Roca's true identity, then all was lost, and all of his efforts, every last one of them, had been in vain. The Movement needed her, needed her weapon and her ability to take kevras.
And more importantly, he needed her.
> For a moment, he considered adding his own blood to the now-dried crust that caked the bars, but his knowledge as a once-angel reminded him that suicide was futile here. The Curse of Diaspar made death a poor barrier to keeping one's secrets.
He longed for the comfort of his kevra, for the freedom to go inside of his cave and disappear from the world, or at the very least - the freedom to manifest a cigarette.
But the powers that worked within these bars would block his kevra as easily as they had blocked his akra.
Unless …
His eyes widened in shock. What if the answer had, quite literally, been on the tip of his tongue? He had the Eye of Muninn in his mouth - if he could somehow draw on its power, would it be enough to overcome the block on his magic?
Maybe. But it's risky, all the same. Even if he somehow managed it, he doubted he'd have any control over the energy the stone contributed.
Then again, condemned as he was, he didn't have a whole lot to lose.
EIGHT
Fuel was somewhat sparse in the oasis, and the exposed beach cooled rapidly. By the time they had enough for a fire, both Alsvior and De la Roca were looking forward to the promise of warmth.
Alsvior had taken her jacket and slung it around his waist, tying the sleeves together behind him. It looked like a serving apron, and the first time De la Roca laid eyes upon it, a smile had curled around the corners of her mouth - until he turned around, exposing himself to her in another way. She had nearly keeled over with suppressed laughter.
The task finished, they sat mostly in silence. It was clear from Alsvior's semi-constant stare that he wanted to talk, but De la Roca needed to organize her thoughts and tease out which questions to ask first. After two hours, she sighed in exasperation, no nearer to a plan than when she started.
"My name really is Alsvior." He threaded through his hair with his fingertips and looked down. After hours of his stare, the lack of eye-contact was a relief. "I was a messenger, famous for my affinity with horses. I trained the steeds that carried the chariot of the sun across the sky. I trained all four of the horses of the Apocalypse. I even green-broke Pegasus, although I let Heracles take the credit." As he spoke, his chest swelled and his posture straightened, but then he rounded his shoulders forward again, collapsing in on himself. "Yet I am only remembered for one thing now, if I am remembered at all, and that is for being a traitor."
De la Roca stared into the fire. The last few days had been a constant series of lies and betrayals. She wondered if some would consider her a traitor for going after Laufeyson - even with the Angel's command - although who even knew if the Angel was real? Every pass through those halls of her memory revealed more tiny flaws and inconsistencies. Was he a trick, a mirage, sent by someone with their own agenda?
"Sometimes, to live with ourselves, we do selfish things. Do you understand?"
His murmur had been quiet, but she heard him well enough. Unsure of his meaning, but wanting him to continue, she settled for a nod.
"I did something … something little. When discovered, it was determined that I did not appreciate the benefits of my station as an angel. The head of the Pentarch wanted me dead. The rest of them reached what was ultimately a much crueler compromise; they stripped me of my wings and turned me into a mount. I have had many riders - including Cleopia, a woman I once loved."
She noticed his hands were clenching into fists. For a moment, she considered not pursuing the question, but she could not stop herself. "What happened to her?"
His eyes were invisible behind the fringe of his dark hair. "I don't know, although my heart tells me that she is dead."
"Why didn't you tell me?" She was surprised by the frustration in her own voice. He must have noticed it as well, as he raised his eyes to meet hers. She was surprised by their hollowness; how could they be so different from the eyes of a few minutes previous?
"De la Roca, I had no voice."
"There are other ways."
He shook his head. Ironically, his elegant neck made the gesture more equine than human. "You do not understand. Your punishment has lasted three hundred years, but during that entire time, you have been mostly free to do as you pleased. Now imagine, instead, being a mere participant in your own life, with every decision made for you. I could not decide if I wanted to rest, to sit, to stand - much less choose if I wanted to fight at risk of my life! Can you understand what that is like? To constantly carry someone upon your back, someone that makes all of your choices for you, knowing they regard you as nothing more than a brute animal?"
"So you just gave up? I trusted you."
His eyes flashed. "And that is why you used your akra upon me? Had you known I was not truly an animal, would you still have strangled me?"
She had forgotten that day.
Alsvior was speaking of the akra that De la Roca used least often, the choke-chain of control that allowed her to bend an animal to her will. With a simple hand motion, she could close off the windpipe, squeezing until the animal acquiesced. She had only used it on Alsvior once, but their relationship had not been the same after that.
"I don't even know why it worked, then. It's never worked on a human or a demon, just on simple beasts in the wild. How was I to know what I was doing?" She wanted to argue more, but the resolute set of his jaw silenced her. Perhaps, in his position, she would have done the same, or worse. And she could not honestly say that, given the ability to control those around her, she wouldn't take advantage of it.
He surveyed the beach around them, the wind ruffling his hair, while the firelight sparkled in his obsidian eyes. The tension held out a moment longer, and then he sighed, his decision made. "Forget it. The important thing, right now, is to survive. And to do that, you need to understand the now. Your ignorance of our world is astounding."
She bristled, but he continued without pause. "First lesson. The distinctions you hold between Angels, Gods, Demons, and whatever else - they don't really exist in the way that you think. Our world is really divided into two kinds of beings - the mortal and the magical."
"Wells and ponds." She could hear the Mademoiselle's voice in her head.
He eyed her with a look she could not read. "Accurate, if a little strange. But just as one can flood a well, a human can cross over to the spirit side. A being could even be a bit of both. The important point is that the distinction between different kinds of non-human is like the distinction between the different human races. It exists, but only superficially, and is mostly in a set of wings and the eye of the beholder. Understand?"
The logical nature of the material he was presenting her was a welcome respite from the reveries about the past. Whether she understood or not was irrelevant; she wanted him to continue. She nodded.
"In the beginning, there were no humans, only Gods, including the God which is our Maker and the Maker of Earth, of Heaven, of Hell, and of few others. There are other Gods, other makers, but they are irrelevant to now. Do you understand so far?"
She nodded again.
"Heaven actually came first. As far as we know, it is the smallest world that our God has ever created. According to our lore, He used it until He grew lonely, and decided to bring the first angels into being, imbuing them with pieces of His own kevra.
"What kevra is that?"
"We're not really sure, although most think He just gave us, you know … the gift of magic."
"How did he do that?" As far as she knew, she was the only being that could fully use another's kevra, and only by stealing it from the ashes of conquest. A world of possibilities suddenly opened up in her mind. Could she give, as well as receive? Were there other beings in the world like her?
Even now, she could feel the power of the Thyrsus stone in her belly, lazily coiling around her entrails, a rich source that she still didn't know how to tap. In a moment of sudden curiosity, she gathered the power and pushed it towards Alsvior, but he gave no sign of having felt it.
He cleared his throat. "We don't know. We d
on't even know if that part of the Lore is true. But the point of the story is that eventually, he grew discontent with them, and created something different - a race without magic. "
"Humans?" Her interest in the new topic disrupted her experiment, and the stone settled back into a lazy thrum in her stomach.
"Yes." He sighed. "I often wonder if God knew what issues the birth of Humanity would bring. Many angels were displeased, in the same way that a beautiful woman is displeased when she discovers her man has taken with an uglier woman of lower status. We were jealous, angry, and in our minds, justifiably so."
She wanted to ask another question, but he answered it before she had a chance to speak. "In the same way that a mother might divide two squabbling siblings, our Maker divided us. He created Earth, a large, varied world, which he gifted to the humans, giving them room to multiply. He created its twin - a mirrored world, Hell, and he gifted it to the angels. And then, in a move that surprised us all, he abdicated."
"He what?" Her jaw had fallen open.
"He disappeared." He held her stare in the following silence, waiting as she processed the information.
"So … where is He now?" She flipped a hand into the air to punctuate the question.
"Do you honestly think that if we knew, we would not follow Him? Nobody has any idea. He just threw us into exodus from Heaven, sealed it off, opened a waypoint, and stepped through. It closed before anybody had the chance to figure out what was going on. Some of us sat there for years, just waiting for him to come back."
He read the astonishment on her face and continued, "Don't be so surprised. You knew it already, in a way. I mean, if God loves Man so, if he loves the angels so, then why is His influence no longer clear on either plane?"
"And when was this?"
He shrugged. "At least a thousand years ago." His eyes softened, and she could see he was reliving the day of the Abdication. "I had just delivered a message between realms. And when I returned, the air felt different, empty. We were all mad at him, for pushing us out of Heaven and into this new world, but when I reached the Valley of the Winged in Hell, it was as if a tornado had torn through.
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