His eyes half closed, either from fatigue or pain. "His disappearance ignited a storm of utter chaos. Angels are a hierarchical sort, and the vacuum of power created by his absence … really fucked with us. I mean, since our inception, we had been dogs obeying the master's orders. A dog without a master goes feral, finds a new human, or starves."
He shook his head. "There was a lot of bloodshed, at first. I mean, can you imagine it - a world of infinitely powerful beings, dealing with the pain of their father's abandonment? None of us had an inner sense of morality or empathy. Hell, we had been immortal, and when God disappeared - suddenly we could die. We had no concept of our own mortality. We couldn't even fly anymore! We were earthbound!"
"It was centuries before a group of angels banded together, ready to restore order and end the violence. Yet they were far from perfect, and there were an equal number of angels that had just discovered freedom and independence and were not willing to sacrifice it at any cost. Many years passed and many souls were taken before the Consortium strung together enough victories to establish itself as the ruling power.
"To this day, many parties are unhappy with their rule, including a mostly guerilla resistance known as The Movement or The Damned, depending on who you ask. Their numbers are fewer every day though, as the Consortium has hunted and exterminated them with a vengeance."
He gave her some time to digest that information. The wind whipped up harder and he moved in closer to the fire, warming his hands and exposed torso.
"I have been a horse for so long. It is good to be a man again." He sighed, heavy and light at the same time.
She cocked her head, catlike. "And if you leave Hell? What happens then?"
"I have no idea. Had I known that returning would have brought me my right body, I might have tried sooner. Then again, I might not have."
He inhaled deeply. In that moment, she tried to guess what he would say next, but her mind was a blank. Unsettled, her hand stole down to her side and stroked the smooth curve of Bluot.
"De la Roca, to tell the truth, I am not sure what we should do now. We are in a very precarious situation. I have the feeling that the angel that has visited you might in fact be Laufeyson. If that is so, then the death of both Muninn and Thyrsus are on our heads, and the Consortium will soon come looking for us. On top of that, I do not think they will be happy to see me in this form."
For a moment, she almost voiced her own reservations about the Angel's appearance. Then, she noticed the way that Alsvior could not hold her stare. His eyes flicked to hers and back away like a dancing mosquito.
Perhaps Laufeyson was not the only one hiding something from her.
Ultimately, she decided on an answer that wouldn't give anything away. "So, what do you suggest, then?"
"That depends upon you. We need to get off of this beach; that much I am sure of. To the east is ocean, and to the west, a desert. We would be completely exposed.
"If we turn south at first light and keep a decent pace, we might hit the forest in a day, maybe longer. The trees are thick enough to hide for days, even weeks. But eventually, we will be seen; any being that catches glimpse of us may report word to the Consortium, and once they have an exact fix on our location, I doubt we could avoid capture.
He pursed his lips. "So, if we go south, the Consortium will find us. They might send us, or at least you, back to Earth. Given that they are not known for their mercy, a more likely scenario is that they would kill both of us."
"And Laufeyson? Where is he?" The words came out bitter, acid with the need for revenge, but her motivation for the question was more than superficial. Either the Angel was real, and Laufeyson was her next target, or the Angel was Laufeyson - and he was still her next target.
Alsvior shook his head. "I don't know." He sighed and looked away. The silence extended until it was quite uncomfortable, yet he refused to meet her eyes. Instead, he curled and uncurled his fingers, making them dance in the firelight, playing with them the way a child might play with a new toy.
Finally, he looked up at her, his face tight and somehow guarded. "There is a way to find him, but it comes at a price."
She cocked her head sideways and narrowed her eyes. "Do tell."
NINE
Later, Alsvior would try to find the moment where turning back was no longer an option. Had it been during that first night, as he marveled at his fingers by firelight, captivated by their ingenious design?
Or was it the moment he mentioned Laufeyson and hinted that he knew of a way to locate the man? Surely, he had sensed how driven she was to find him? By then, had his decision already been made?
Some nights, he would be haunted by the idea that he could have turned back at any time and spared them both the pain that followed. Those nights were the worst.
TEN
"The Oracle shouldn't be much farther."
De la Roca lifted a dark eyebrow and cleared her throat, her face fidgeting in a way he had never seen it do before. "How does it work?"
"She is hard to describe, and to be honest, I don't know that much about her. I don't think that anybody does. When the angels arrived in Hell, she was already here in her fortress. Some say she is the soul of this place."
"Is that true?"
"Irrelevant. And, if it is true, then given the state of Hell, she must be wicked beyond measure." He snorted. "I think you will find her abilities far more interesting; she answers questions, but always for a price."
De la Roca ran her tongue over her top teeth, sucking in air. The sound made his jaw hurt.
"How much?"
He shrugged. "It's different for everybody, but never cheap. It's usually an object, something that you hold dear - an article of clothing, a trinket. I've heard of her asking for tasks." He held up a hand, making sure of her attention before he continued. "This is important though - the Oracle is not to be trusted."
"There's a lot of that going around these days."
For a brief moment, Alsvior's mouth was filled with the copper taste of fear. He was sure that she didn't know anything more of his past than he had told her. Why, then, were rivulets coursing through his stomach and making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up?
Perhaps the rumors about her reading thoughts had been true - but no, that didn't make sense either. They had spent centuries together in close, emotional contact - if she had the akra of reading minds, why hadn't she ever used it - unless it didn't work on him as a horse? She had punished him once, with the akra of animals. Was there another akra that worked on him now?
He took in a deep breath and attempted to center himself. If she could read minds, then his plan was worthless anyways, and any choices she made were her own. So the best thing was just to give her the option and proceed with the plan.
But what if she couldn't read minds? Then what was he sending her into?
He was filled with the sudden need to run as freely as he had when he had four legs, punishing himself until he was wheezing and lathered. Anything would be better than this.
Like a leaf drifting down on a current of air, a solution floated to him, one that appealed to his need for absolution.
Convince her to go south, and tell her to run. You owe her that much.
He could tell that she was waiting for a response. He struggled to keep his voice level and his face blank.
"De la Roca, the Oracle is protected by a nearly impenetrable fortress. We'd have to fight our way in, and there's a very real chance that we could die. Even if we gained entry and asked her a question, she'd just as soon kill us as let us leave. We should pick up now and push south as quickly as we can."
"Push south? And what - hide like dogs? For how long?" Her eyes flashed dangerously. "We may not be angels, but we are not animals either!" Her voice stopped at the look on his face, yet she made no move to apologize. "And even if we did manage to hide from your Consortium - then what? How do we go back? And why would we even bother? Are we safe there?"
Alsvior
opened his hands wide, a priest bestowing his blessings. "I don't know. I don't know anything, okay? But the Oracle … we don't want to do that. Will you just trust me on that?"
She pursed her lips. "Trust is a luxury that few can afford. I don't trust you and I'm not a fan of hiding. It's not my way of doing things. If it brings about my death, then so be it." As she spoke, her hand meandered down to her hip, and she stroked Bluot's holster. "I have someone to find, and I'm going to do that by any means necessary."
He could hear the influence of the Oracle in her voice. The matter was already out of his hands, then. How stupid he was, to think that he could escape this fate!
"We leave at first light. How long will it take us to get there? How far is it?"
"I don't exactly know."
De la Roca's eyebrows shot up, the surprise obvious on her face. "I got the impression you had been there before."
"I have, but traveling works differently in Hell. How quickly you reach a destination depends on many things, only one of them being the pace at which you set out. How badly you want to reach a place - that is more important. And how much those at your destination desire for you to arrive - that trumps everything else."
De la Roca did not answer, and he didn't attempt to explain again. It was pointless to describe the time-stretching, distance-skipping slide of Hell to one who had not experienced it. It seemed unjust that she might soon die in a place she didn't understand. Then again - some things were not meant to be understood.
He watched wordlessly as she made an examination of her inventory. The need for conversation tickled in his chest, but the dry feeling in his mouth refused to abate.
Eventually, he let the matter go. There is time, he thought, but deep down, he knew there wasn't.
#
Alsvior lay on his back, marveling at Hell's constellations. Although the points of light were familiar, placed in the same locations, there was no way that he could have mistaken this sky for Earth's. The lack of light pollution made the stars so numerous, comparing the two was like contrasting a candle with a bonfire.
Eventually, fatigue blurred the stars together and ringed them with halos. Grateful, he closed his eyes, points of lights still flashing on the screen of his eyelids. He had already started slipping into unconsciousness when she called out to him.
"Alsvior?"
After hearing her dreamy mutter, he wondered if she was asleep or awake. His skin prickled as he answered softly. "Yes?"
She rolled over onto one elbow. Flat on his back, his face towards her, he could just make out the gleam of her eyes in the last embers of the fire. "I want to ask you something."
In truth, he didn't want to answer anything that she could ask now, but his guilt made him acquiesce. "What?"
"Have you ever asked the Oracle for anything?"
It was a question he had dreaded. "Yes." He could barely manage the word.
"For what?"
He squeezed his eyes tight, fighting the burn of the memory. How could he explain this in words - everything that was needed, wanted, and everything that was lost?
You don't have to, whispered a lonely voice from within. She's an emotional cripple, a half-person with no memories. No amount of explanation would ever make her understand.
Just tell her what you think she can know.
"I was in love. I wanted to know if my love was returned. It seemed important at the time."
"Was it?"
"No. At least, not in the way that I thought."
She hesitated before continuing.
"What happened to her?" From the way her voice faded in and out, he could tell that she was on the verge of sleep. He wished that she would pass out completely.
"She was a Movement sympathizer. The Consortium finally caught her." He could hear the tightness, the anger in his voice, and he was relieved by her semi-consciousness. He doubted she would sense the emotions behind his words.
She lay down and turned away from him. He heard her breath soften, its cadence becoming more rhythmic, yet she still did not fall asleep. "What did you have to give the Oracle?"
"I thought it was a knife."
"A knife?" Her voice perked up considerably at the mention of a weapon.
"Yes. I had a dagger, part of my station as a messenger of Hell. It gave me incredible speed, although it wasn't without its limitations. I could run faster than one could see, but if I interacted with the world - touched something, spoke to someone, the enchantment would stop."
He could feel the cord of the dagger around his neck, the point in his hand, the ground under his feet as he ran. He was in the gardens again, reveling in his near invisibility, in the primal act of running.
And then, he was in front of her. He reached out to caress her face, breaking the spell of the dagger, and the world swam into sharp focus. She was glorious, enshrined by a veil of sunlight and a sea of yellow roses.
He ripped himself away from the memory. That was the day I found out.
"The Oracle took my dagger and added it to her … spoils … but I found out later that it was never what she wanted."
He squeezed his eyes shut and turned away, yet he was unable to mask the sob that hiccupped from his throat. Shame burned through him, and he struggled valiantly to hold back his tears, but the dam broke with violent force. Hearing his own cries, he wondered if he really was an animal.
He could sense her shifting positions, but he kept his face turned away. She padded like a great cat, her quiet footfalls growing closer.
When he felt her touch upon his back, he didn't know whether to throw her off or turn around and collapse in her arms. His emotions were waging war with each other, guilt and pride crashing against his need for acceptance and for love. His burden had never seemed so heavy.
Then, he felt her lean down and wrap her arms around him. The surprise ebbed quickly, but the touch rendered him defenseless. Swept up in the moment, his blood raging from the pain, he leaned up and kissed her across the mouth, feeling the exquisite softness of her lips.
Her arms stiffened around him, and she did not return the kiss.
"Do you love me?" he asked. For three centuries, he had observed her, reveled in her speed and lethality. He had not known, not been willing to admit, the feelings that churned within his heart.
"I have no idea." She blinked rapidly. "You were a horse, and now you are a man." She squeezed him again, her new empathy strange and somehow awkward.
Could she have held him when they were prowling through Jal or Pico? Or was it only here, in this strange Hell that wasn't a Hell, this isolated and lonely oasis, that she could act in a way she had never acted before?
She sat, her arms still around him, and pulled him to the sand with her weight.
#
Cocooned in her arms, his guilt warded off sleep. After he was sure that he would not disturb her, he extricated himself from her arms with painstaking gentleness and sat up.
He watched the rise and fall of her chest while the last embers of the fire burnt out. Then, lit by nothing more than the stars and the moon, he leaned over her and whispered his confession. "I hate you, De la Roca. I hate you, and I love you, and I will betray you."
And then, as if in afterthought, "I am sorry."
I betrayed you too, Cleopia. The Consortium had their way with you.
Can I really do this again?
And then he remembered Golden, the angel's otherworldly beauty as he uttered the last words Cleopia would ever hear.
Coward! You should have just killed her!
The rage easily melted into sorrow and guilt, and he could feel a part of him wavering, unsure of the right path even now. Did De la Roca deserve to suffer? Which woman was the end, and which one was the means?
She is so close … and yet, so different.
* * *
Unlike De la Roca, he remembered it perfectly.
He had always known there was a chance that Golden would shoot the messenger and punish the one that brou
ght him news of Cleopia's involvements.
At the time, it seemed just, but after a day in the hands of Nemain, screaming in agony and begging for death, he didn't care about justice, or revenge, or anything but an end to the suffering.
His punishment was just starting.
He was blindfolded, bound and walked to a room that was cold enough to hurt. At first, he thought he was alone. Then he heard Golden's voice, and fear paralyzed him as easily as a snake's venom.
"Honorable members of the Pentarch," Golden began, the smile evident in his voice, "we have been confronted with a dilemma. Our good friend Alsvior has apparently discovered a subversive, a sympathizer to the Damned. Normally, we would reward one that reported such for doing his or her duty, but there are many things in his story that do not make sense."
It is a trial, he realized.
"First of all, the manner by which he came across such information is highly suspect. Alsvior has had dealings with the Oracle."
He heard a series of gasps and he knew that his life was over. Golden would not assemble the Pentarch, not unless he had a point to make.
"Secondly, it appears that he has had personal relations with this woman, and is reporting her out of spite - an action that strikes me as selfish beyond words."
So have you, he wanted to scream. So have you! But his mouth refused to open.
"And finally," Golden continued, his voice dropping in register, "there is the possibility that this man may also have had dealings with the Damned himself! He obviously has no loyalty to our kind, no appreciation of his status as an angel!"
"What do you propose?" That was clearly Nemain's voice. Of course Golden's puppet would steer the trial into his hands.
Instead of a response, he heard a muffled clinking, and then pain engulfed his body. He could smell the stink of his own flesh burning, and then with a gruesome series of pops and snaps, his bones began to stretch. The agony proved too great, and he was thankful when darkness claimed him.
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