Eternity

by Nealis, James

  “I do want something from him,” the Prince says, looking over at Sal and then back at me. “I want his heart to stop feeling that piercing, burning sensation that it does right now. You know what I am talking about, don’t you? Your stomach feels as if your wings have been clipped, and you are dropping down through the air even when you stand on solid ground. Only those who have felt that pain of loss can truly understand its agony.”

  I look up into his eyes. They pierce through me, as if he knows better than I do what I am going through. For a moment, I wish he could pull me out of my own body and allow me to look back at myself through his eyes. What do they see?

  “It feels like my heart pumps into veins that are open at the other end,” I say. “I feel lighter, emptier, as if that blood just pours out onto the ground.”

  Sal looks at me like I am nothing but a question that can’t be answered. I realize now that the language of pain is one that only the Prince and I can speak.

  “I know how you feel,” the Prince says, “because I feel it too.”

  “You miss Terra?”

  My question sounds foolish, but I can barely focus on the conversation anymore. Instead, I fight the tears that well up in my eyes.

  “I feel the pain you feel,” he says. “With all of their wounds in my heart.”

  The Prince pulls me forward in an embrace. My eyes overflow and begin to drip warm liquid down my cheek. I struggle to hold it back. This is the Prince of this world who now sees my weakness.

  I pull back and wipe my face, composing myself.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I feel this thing inside me. A desire to confront him.”

  “Life is about growth and transformation. It’s about us each taking stock of who we are right now and asking, ‘Am I willing to stay at this place for the rest of eternity?’ You must decide to rise and be like the one you most desire to be.”

  I know that he is right, but I don’t know if it is too late for me. I will never get her back, so what is the point of even rising up to fight?

  “You must fight to honor her,” the Prince says. “You must battle to bring justice to those who stole her from this world.”

  “We will learn this together,” Sal says. “The Prince appointed me to be the first of his four captains, and he has called you for leadership training. Only fifty angels have been handpicked from the multitude.”

  “I know how this will end,” the Prince says, “and you will be a leader in my army.”

  I don’t respond.

  “Look where you are right now,” the Prince says. “You are an angel, standing in the Oasis, hoping for vengeance that you don’t know how to bring. It’s time for you to make a choice. Join my army and make this right.”

  I feel a stirring inside me, a dark anger that knows the Prince is right. I must avenge Terra and this is how I will do it.

  Act 2

  The Trainee

  For if God did not spare angels when they sinned, but sent them to hell, putting them in chains of darkness to be held for judgment;

  2 Peter 2:4

  Chapter Eight

  THE GRIND

  TERRA LOOKS at me.

  Her eyes implore me to stop.

  “Please, Michael, don’t do this,” she begs in between wheezing breaths.

  I don’t stop. I don’t even pause. I tell her I won’t just let her go. I force her into the healing balm once more.

  A hand grips my shoulder and my eyes open. Christine, another recruit, wearing her night clothes kneels down by my bed. Her brown hair blocks out the light of the moon behind her.

  “You are having a dream,” she says.

  I dismiss her. It’s not her place to wake me. It may be torment to look upon Terra’s face, but at least I see her.

  “I just ache from the training,” I tell her.

  Hours pass as I stare up at the bed above me. Left to my thoughts, I replay the steps that brought me to this place.

  The Prince stood before us, radiating. His light shined through four colored gemstones that he held out in his hands.

  I can still see the rainbow of crimson, green, blue, and purple that painted the tiles around us while we watched the Prince speak. For a moment, it reminded me of the nightly auroras that I used to enjoy with Terra.

  His black cape was thrown over his back, the inside of it lined with a red trim. His lips curled upward into a meek smile.

  “These stones,” the Prince announced, “come from these very chambers. They are the first possessions I ever acquired.”

  He looked at the stones for a moment and then continued. “Before you all came into being, I was alone on this planet. I explored its foundations. I found beauty everywhere. Especially in those objects that emanate light, because, you see, light by its very nature will always conquer darkness.”

  “But for your purposes, just know, they represent my gratefulness for your sacrifice. I wish to give them to a select few among you. They will stand as a reward to those who display the traits of a warrior. I have appointed Sal to guide you through this process. He has earned my trust. I hope you will strive to earn his.”

  Then Sal addressed us as he accepted a glimmering purple gemstone that hung upon a metal chain. He threw his shoulders back and displayed strength, but his hands shook, ever so slightly as he slowly placed it around his neck.

  “To each who possesses a stone,” Sal’s voice squeaked as he spoke, “will come the position of co-captain alongside me. You will be named new archangels for all eternity. Your rank and position will never be taken from you. But know now, the Prince has only granted three more stones and there are fifty of you in this leadership contest. If you fail to attain one during this training, you pass up your best opportunity to advance.”

  “I want one,” a large recruit named Apophos grunted.

  “Then earn one,” Sal said.

  The other recruits eagerly whispered amongst themselves, invigorated by the prospect of the reward.

  I didn’t care for the stones then, and I don’t care for power now.

  I pull myself up from this meager excuse for a bed. Other recruits have already suited up for the day. I watch as Christine exits. Everyone here is more diligent in the things that don’t matter than I am. They awake early. They dress immaculately. They kiss up with perfect skill.

  The recruits are driven by a different force than I am. They care about how Sal will regard their service. I only care about feeling the flesh ripped from the bodies of Rogues. I want revenge for Terra.

  Rising to grab my cloak, I feel groggy as I slide my arms through the slits. The pattern resembles the sky on a cloudy day. Bland, dull, and dirty.

  I step out of the tent and my sandal sinks into the mud. I look out on the Courtyard. This place was once dedicated to worship, but I barely recognize the holy site. Sandbags and racks of weapons now spread throughout the stone circle.

  My breed greets me eagerly. I stoop down to caress the fur under his chin. His wounds are entirely healed, but scars remain.

  “We both still carry our wounds, don’t we?”

  I am pleased to see the breed every morning when I awake. An indulgence from my superior. While Captain Salidryl grows more distant with each grant of power, he remains a friend. He graciously permitted the breed to stay. I have no possessions and no friends, except for this companion. Our bond grows even stronger now that I have lost my parallel.

  I grind my teeth as I venture forward. My breed follows, his head bobbing up against the side of my knees. I don’t look forward to Sal telling me what I’m doing wrong. Again.

  “You’re late,” Captain Salidryl says. “Michael, file in.”

  We quietly get into line beside my companions. I sense their distaste for me. They see his favoritism daily.

  “Today, we will take a new step forward,” Sal says. “You will perfect your thrusting.”

  I detect an unseen, collective eye roll from my fellow warriors. Sal has no more experience in warfare than any of u
s do. Who could blame him as our entire race is new to the sword. But we wondered at the start what he could possibly teach us.

  The answer was not a surprise.

  Nothing.

  We form into separate lines, three to a large burlap sack filled with straw. We are to begin our thrusting exercises one by one.

  Sal paces behind us. He shouts a few meaningless instructions like “fix your stance” or “keep your eyes on your target” and then moves on to the next line.

  Uriel, his scraggly beard blowing in the wind, steps up to thread his two-handed great sword into the bag. For the most part the weapon is rather plain but for the gray guard above the hilt which matches perfectly with his gray hair. Despite its simplicity, it is imposing. The blade barbs just before its sharpened end.

  Both hands firmly gripped on the handle, he swings as hard as he can. The blade catches the side of the bag but does not pierce it. Instead, the force from his swing knocks him backward.

  “Thrust don’t swing,” Sal yells.

  Uriel looks back toward Christine and me, his butt firmly planted on the ground. “I can’t believe I volunteered for this Earth-forsaken class.”

  Christine laughs as she extends her hand to Uriel.

  “As if you could teach this any better.”

  “I am not the one barking orders like I know what I am talking about,” he says. “His lessons are worthless.”

  Christine raises her hand up as she approaches the bag.

  She draws her curved saber out from the scabbard on her side with one quick motion; she swings, and slams her blade against the bag, only this time the force of the blow rolls the bag over onto its side.

  She steps backward, grinning.

  "Why haven’t they struck again?" she says. “I mean if these Rogues were so bent on killing us, now would be the time to get moving on that wouldn’t it?”

  “I’m with you there,” Uriel says. “It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to shoot a few arrows at us and then go back and hide in the woods."

  “They must be planning something,” she says.

  “Like maybe an attack on one of these bags,” he says.

  "If they attacked us, we’d all die on account of those fiery darts," Christine says, "but we sure will be thrusting instead of swinging"

  “That’s my girl,” Uriel says pulling her close.

  Another recruit grunts as he slices into the brown bag. I watch his technique. He stoops down with his legs and rises just as he makes contact with the fibers. He seems familiar but I still can’t place him. As sharp as his other features are, it’s hard to focus on anything else but the gleam from his frosted hair.

  “He certainly has a flair for the dramatic,” Christine rolls her eyes.

  “Who is he?” I ask.

  “He won’t tell anyone his name,” she says. “Claims it’s his to keep or something like that. We just call him the Frosted because of that mane of his.”

  I shake my head. “The last angel I met that concealed his name was a Rogue.”

  “You met a Rogue?” Uriel says. “Is it true they smell like animal dung?”

  I refrain from saying what comes to mind. “I don’t remember.”

  “See!” Uriel says to Christine. “I told you!”

  “How are we parallels?” Christine shakes her head. “I mean seriously, the Origin must have been punishing me for something.”

  Uriel laughs, kissing her on the cheek. She smiles even while she pushes him away.

  I approach the bag and lift it back onto its hinge. I look at it for a moment. My eyes fade in and out of focus as I allow the bag to blur.

  “You going to train?” Uriel says. ”Or just imagine that you are attacking that bag.”

  My eyes narrow and before me I see the bag take a new form. I look into the flaming eyes of Cephus. His laughter fills my ears as I watch the bag contort into a full on smile. The same one he displayed when he launched those black arrows at my clan.

  The same joy he felt when he caused Terra’s screams.

  Gritting my teeth, I thrust the sword straight into the lower portion of the bag. My wrists throb as the blood rushes toward the muscles in my arms. I rip the blade back out and the innards spill out onto the stone.

  “Well done, Michael,” Sal says. “Did you all see that? That is how you win a battle.”

  I nod an outward appreciation for his encouragement but inside I cringe. Sal’s kindness could enflame my fellow soldiers against me even more. I watch Sal walk off to inspect another line.

  “Look everyone,” a voice rings. “This one here was able to slice open a defenseless bag. Wow, that really sets him apart.”

  I turn to look for the speaker. It’s the Frosted.

  “You think you can do better?” I ask.

  “Of course I can.”

  “Talk is cheap,” Uriel barks. “Prove it.”

  “Fine. A competition of strength is in order.”

  “I have no interest in games,” I say. “So you can swing a blade better than I can? I don’t care as long as we can both kill Rogues.”

  “So you don’t want to put your strength to the test.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Then you run from yourself,” he says. “Battle shows us who we are.”

  “Those words,” I say. “I’ve heard them before.”

  Cephus spoke them to me in the Oasis. I look at this soldier they call the Frosted. He is much larger than the antagonizer who set so much of my pain into motion.

  “If you wish to back away from a challenge,” he says. “Suit yourself. Keep running from your own shadow.”

  Now I remember where we met. He was the angel who greeted me as I entered the Temple chambers. How did he make it into this company?

  “What is it you would have us do?” I ask.

  The Frosted motions to Uriel and Christine. They come toward him.

  “Lift the bag into the air,” he says. “Then drop it, let each of us, one by one, stand underneath it, sword drawn.”

  “Whichever of us does the most damage?”

  The Frosted nods.

  Uriel and Christine grab the bag, which is heavier than both of them combined. They push off the ground, their wings beat fast against the wind.

  “Next time couldn’t you fight over something a little lighter?” Uriel jests.

  The Frosted laughs. He appears completely unthreatened by the challenge.

  I feel unnerved by his presence.

  “I’ll go first,” I say in an attempt to intimidate.

  “Don’t care who goes first,” Uriel says struggling under the weight of the bag. “Just go soon.”

  I scurry under the bag. The two are now about 200 feet in the air. From here, it doesn’t look so imposing. A large round shadow encircles me. I draw my sword and indicate that I am ready for the drop.

  Christine begins the count. “Three.”

  The bag is heavy. If I don’t act quickly, it will crush me under its weight.

  “Two,” she says.

  I practice a slashing motion. Should I slash from the bottom-up or the top-down?

  “One.” They drop the bag.

  It’s nearly instantaneous. As soon as the bag comes close, I swing my sword upward, but it moves too quickly and crushes me under its weight. I feel bones in my shoulders and arms crack.

  Several painful minutes pass as Uriel and Christine grab my body and drag it out from under the bag. I feel more ligaments and tendons rip during their rescue efforts.

  My breed whimpers.

  “Get him to a Healer,” Christine says. Her frantic hands try to pull my displaced femur back together.

  “Not yet,” I say.

  I am in intense pain, but I want the Frosted to taste the same consequences.

  “No,” Uriel says. “This was a mistake. And besides, I am feeling sore now. It’s hea-”

  “Do it,” the Frosted interrupts. His deep voice resounds with authority.

  Christine glances o
ver at Uriel. He shrugs and the two walk over to the bag. Uriel grunts and the two carry it back up into the sky.

  I lay on my side. Every bone in my body aches. The sun-heated stone burns the skin on my cheek, but I don’t blink. My eyes remain affixed to the angel who did this to me.

  The Frosted confidently walks to the same place where I stood. He looks upward and listens to the count. The two parallels then release the bag, but the Frosted does not draw his sword.

  Instead, he leaps up into the air. The speed of his flight, would take my breath away if my lungs weren’t already so bruised. He is barely visible as he flies. He catches the heavy bag and then clutches it from below. He lifts it up into the air. He throws it upward, draws his sword, and pursues the bag as it ascends. He slashes the bag once, twice, and three times.

  Grains of sand, beans, and shreds of cloth fall back down to the earth just as his sandals touch the ground.

  “Be the aggressor,” he says. “Don’t wait for trouble to come to you.”

  Chapter Nine

  THE ADMONITION

  CHRISTINE’S EYES MEET MINE as I approach my breed.

  She sits on the bench that lines the outer walls of the barracks. Her muscular shoulders press back against the smooth bricks. Uriel stands beside her, twirling his heavy two-handed sword in his hands and dropping it intermittently.

  “Looks like someone’s back in one piece,” Christine says.

  I do not respond. Instead I bend down and try to untie the rope around the neck of my breed, but he keeps lapping at my face and pawing my hands.

  I try to conceal my grimaces as I look back up at Christine, but I doubt I am doing a good job of it. Jolts of sharp pain burst through my body like punches. My back, arms, neck, and legs still burn after my humiliation.

  But I don’t know which was worse: the pain of being crushed under a falling 500-pound bag or the treatment I just received. Even if I never knew the skilled hands of my parallel, I would believe the newly assigned Healer was rough and cold. He seemed to almost enjoy the sound of my screams. He continued doing whatever he wished to do, as if appeasing his own appetites.