The Fallen 2

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  The cowboy angel, Lehash, plucked the toothpick from his mouth, his eyes upon them unwavering. “He does have a way with the words, don’t he, Lorelei? If the citizens ever decide to elect a mayor, I’m gonna be the first to nominate Scholar here.”

  They both laughed, but the angel they called Scholar scowled.

  “You keep talking about citizens,” Aaron said, still desperate to know what was going on. “Citizens of what? Where are we?”

  Scholar was about to speak when Lehash cut him off. “Little piece a Heaven here on this godforsaken ball of mud.”

  Lorelei nodded, smiling beautifully, and Aaron was struck by how attractive she really was. “Aerie,” she said in the softest of whispers.

  “Damn straight,” Lehash said, placing the toothpick back in his mouth.

  Aaron turned to Camael and saw an expression of shock register on the angel’s face.

  “After all this time,” the angel warrior said, “I did not find it—it found me.”

  Can it be true?

  Camael’s mind raced. He gazed at the rather sordid surroundings, then back to his captors. He lurched toward them eagerly.

  Lehash aimed his weapon, pulling back the hammer on the gun. “Not so fast there, chief,” he growled.

  Camael halted, his thoughts afire. He had to know more, he had to know if this was truly the oasis of peace for which he had been searching. “This is Aerie?” he asked breathlessly, a tiny part of him hoping that he had misunderstood.

  “That’s what we said,” Lehash snarled, his aim unwavering. “Why? You’ve been looking for us?”

  Camael nodded slowly, his sad gaze never leaving the three before him. Had Paradise also been tainted by the infection of violence? he wondered. Had he found what he most eagerly sought, only to see it in the throes of decay? “Far longer than any of you can possibly imagine.”

  “You were close,” Scholar spoke up, his tone serious. “Most of your kind don’t get this far. It’s a good thing we caught you when we did.”

  “Our kind?” Aaron asked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Lorelei shrugged, glaring at him defiantly. “Scholar was being nice. I would have called you what you really are—assassins, killers of dreams.”

  “They know what they are,” Lehash said, the toothpick in his mouth sliding from one side to the other.

  “You are mistaken,” Camael said in an attempt to be the voice of reason. “The Powers soldiers that were slain attacked us. We were merely defending ourselves.”

  “Were you merely defending yourselves against the others as well?” Scholar asked.

  Camael shook his head. “I don’t understand—”

  “You killed one of your own,” Aaron blurted out, cutting him off. All eyes turned to the boy. “I watched you put a bullet in that guy’s head back in the woods, and you’re calling us assassins?” he asked incredulously. “You’ve got some nerve.”

  Camael sighed. It was sad that someone with as much power as Aaron was so lacking in diplomatic skills.

  “That one wasn’t much better than you,” the girl said, a sneer upon her face.

  “Was looking to sell the location of Aerie to whoever would give him the best deal,” Lehash added.

  “But you’re probably aware of that already,” Scholar finished.

  Camael analyzed the situation. The beings before them believed that they were killers, probably working for Verchiel, and had come to destroy Aerie. He attempted to formulate a solution, but realized that the only way to convince the three that they meant no harm would be to explain about Aaron and his connection to the prophecy, although he seriously doubted they would even begin to believe that the boy—

  “Aaron is the One in the prophecy,” he heard Gabriel suddenly say. The dog had strolled away from them and now sat patiently before their captors.

  “Gabriel, get back here,” Aaron commanded.

  Lorelei squatted down in front of the dog meeting him eye to eye. She reached out and rubbed one of his ears. “Is that what you think?” she asked affectionately. “You must think your master is pretty special.”

  “Gabriel, come,” the boy called to the Lab, but he did not respond.

  “I’m not the only one,” he explained. “Camael thinks so, and so does Verchiel. Do you have anything to eat? I’m hungry.”

  Lorelei rose slowly, eyeing Aaron as she did. “Is that what you think?” she asked, loathing in her voice.

  Camael was silent, as was Aaron.

  “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a celebrity,” Lehash said with a grin that was absent of any humor whatsoever. “I say we finish this here and now before any more bull is slung.” He drew another pistol of gold and aimed them both.

  “No!” blurted out Scholar, as he reached over to push the weapons down. “We take them to the Founder and let him decide.”

  Gabriel turned to look at Aaron and Camael, his tail thumping happily on the concrete floor.

  “We’re going to see the Founder,” he said. “Maybe he’ll have something for us to eat.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Belphegor pushed a wheelbarrow of dirt across the yard toward a row of blossoming rose bushes. A succession of summer rains had eroded some of the dirt at their base and he was eager to replace it before any of the plants’ more delicate regions were exposed to the elements.

  He set the barrow down, careful not to tip its contents, and picked up the shovel that was lying beside a rake in the sparse, brown grass. Belphegor plunged the shovel into the center of the mound of dirt and carried it to the rosebushes, where he ladled it onto the ground beneath them. The wheelbarrow was nearly empty of its load before he felt that the bushes were properly protected.

  The angel leaned upon his shovel and studied his work. The chemical pollutants that laced the rich, dark soil wafted up into the air, invisible to the human eye. With an angel’s vision, however, Belphegor watched the poisonous particles drift heavily upon the summer breeze before settling back down to the tainted ground.

  He squatted, digging his fingers into the newly shoveled dirt, and withdrew the contaminants, taking them into his own body. Belphegor shuddered and began to cough. There had been a time when purifying a stretch of land four times this area would have been nothing more than a trifle. But now, after so many years upon Earth and so much poison, it was beginning to have its effects upon him.

  Is it worth it? he wondered, stepping back to admire the beauty he had helped create from the corrupted ground, beautiful red buds opening to the warmth of the sun. In his mind he pictured other gardens he had sown and knew that there was no question.

  Belphegor picked up the metal rake and began to spread the new soil evenly about the base of the roses. In these gardens, left untended, he saw a reflection of himself and those who had chosen to join his community. Outcasts, each and every one, tainted in some way, desperately wanting to grow toward the sun—toward Heaven—but hindered by the poison that impaired them all.

  He tried to force the sudden images away, but they had been with him for countless millennia and would likely remain with him for countless more. He remembered the poison that drove him from the kingdom of God to the world of man—the poison of indecision. The angel saw the war as if for the first time, no detail forgotten or fuzzy with the passage of time. His brethren locked in furious combat as he watched, lacking the courage within himself to take a side.

  Belphegor stopped raking, forcing aside the painful remembrances to concentrate on the beauty he had helped to set free. Someday he hoped that he and all of Aerie’s citizens would be as these roses: forgiven through penance and the fulfillment of an ancient prophecy, rising up out of the poisonous earth, reaching for the radiance of Heaven.

  The sounds of voices, carried by the breeze, intruded on his thoughts, and reluctantly he turned from his roses to meet his visitors. He walked through the expanse of yard, and around to the front of the abandoned dwelling, its windows boarded up and covered with spray-painted gr
affiti. It had once been the home of a family of six, with hopes and dreams very much like many of the other families that had lived within the Ravenschild housing development. Belphegor could still feel their sadness radiating from the structures in the desolate neighborhood, the echoes of life silenced by a corporation’s greedy little secret. The ChemCord chemical company had buried its waste here, poisoning the land and those who lived in homes built upon it. It was a sad place, this Ravenschild housing development, but it was now their home, the latest Aerie for those who awaited forgiveness.

  Belphegor glanced down the sidewalk to see his constables approaching with two others—and a dog. These must be the ones suspected of murder, he thought, recalling the sudden, violent increase in deaths of fallen angels scattered about the world. He would question these strangers, but he had already decided their fate. Earth was a dangerous place for the likes of the fallen, and he would do anything to keep his people and their community safe. With that in mind, he steeled himself to pass judgment, studying the captives as they approached.

  Belphegor gasped as he suddenly realized that one of the strangers was not that at all. He knew the angel that walked with the boy. They had been friends once, before the war, before his own fall from grace.

  “Camael,” Belphegor whispered, his thoughts drifting to the last time he had seen his heavenly brother. “Have you finally come to finish what you failed to do so very long ago?”

  THE GARDEN OF EDEN, SOON AFTER THE GREAT WAR

  Camael drew back his arm and brought down his sword of fire with the same devastating results as during the heavenly conflict. The impossibly thick wall of vegetation that had grown between the gates of Paradise was no match for his blazing weapon, the seemingly impenetrable barrier of tangled plant life parting with the descent of his lethal blade. It had not been long since the eviction of humans from the Garden, yet already the once perfect habitat for God’s newest creations was falling prey to ruin.

  Animals from every genus fled before him, sensing the murderous purpose that had brought him to this place. The war had finally been won by the armies of the Lord and the defeated—the legions of the Morningstar—had been driven from Heaven. As leader of the Powers host, it had fallen to him to track and destroy those who opposed the Almighty and brought the blight of war to the most sacred of places.

  Camael had come to the Garden in search of one such criminal, one that had once served the glory of the Creator as devoutly as he—but that had been before the war, and things were no longer as they once were. Belphegor would pay for his crimes, as would all who took up arms against the Lord of Lords.

  Camael stopped before another obstruction of root, tree, and vine, and with his patience on the wane, slashed out with his fiery blade, venting some of the rage that had been his constant companion since the war began. His fury poured forth in torrents as his sword cut a swath of flaming devastation through the Garden of Paradise, his roar of indignation mixing with the cries of panicked animals.

  How could they have done this to the Lord God—the Creator of all there is? His thoughts raged as he lashed out at the thick vegetation, the vestiges of battles he had so recently fought still raw and bleeding upon his mind. His anger spent, Paradise burned around him and the barriers of growth fell away to smoldering ash. Camael beheld a clearing, void of life except for a single tree—and the one he was searching for.

  Belphegor stood before what could only have been the Tree of Knowledge—large with golden bark, and carrying sparsely among its canopy of yellow leaves, a forbidden fruit that shone like a newly born star in the night sky.

  “Belphegor,” Camael said, stepping through the burning brush and into the clearing. In his hand he still clutched his weapon of fire, and it sparked and licked at the air, eager to be used.

  Hand pressed to the tree’s body, the angel Belphegor turned to glance at him and smiled sadly. “It’s dying,” he said, returning his attention to the tree. “And it will be only a matter of time before what is killing it spreads to the remainder of the Garden.”

  Camael stopped and glared at his fallen brethren. His anger, though abated by the destructive tantrum, still thrummed inside.

  “It’s His disappointment,” Belphegor said, again looking at Camael. “The Creator’s disappointment in the man and woman—it’s acting as a poison, gradually killing everything that He made especially for them. I’m doing my best to slow the process, but I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time before it is all lost.”

  Camael gripped his sword tighter and spoke the words that had been trapped in his throat. They spilled from his mouth, reeking of anger and despair. “I’ve come to kill you, Belphegor.” He wasn’t sure how he expected the fallen angel to react—perhaps to cower with fear, or suddenly flee deeper into the Garden—but it appeared that Belphegor had already accepted his lot.

  “I’m glad it’s you who has come for me,” he said casually, moving away from the tree toward Camael.

  Camael pointed his sword, halting the angelic fugitive’s progress.

  Belphegor stared at him over the sputtering blade of fire. “If it is time for me to die, then I accept my fate.”

  The Powers’ commander seethed. How dare such a sinner surrender without a fight. How dare he deny me the wrath of battle. “You will summon a weapon and fight me,” he snarled.

  Belphegor slowly shook his head. “I did not fight in the war and I will not fight you, my friend,” he said sadly. “If you are to take my life, do it now, for I am ready.”

  Camael wanted to strike the angel down, lift his fearsome blade above his head and cleave the traitor in two, but something stayed his hand—the question that had plagued his tortured thoughts since the war began. “Why, Belphegor?” he asked, his body trembling with repressed anger.

  The fallen angel sighed and sat down in the shade of the Tree of Knowledge. Camael loomed above him, his blade of fire poised for attack.

  “I did not want to fight,” Belphegor said, picking up a dry stalk of grass and twirling it between his fingers. “For either side.”

  “He is your Creator, Belphegor,” Camael spat. “How could you not fight for Him?”

  The fallen angel turned his gaze up to Camael and the look upon his face was one of resignation. “I could not even begin to think of raising a weapon against my brothers—or my Creator. If that makes me an enemy of Heaven, so be it.”

  “It makes you a coward,” Camael said, tightening his grip upon his weapon’s hilt.

  “Is that really how you feel, Camael?” Belphegor asked without a hint of fear. “Have you come for me not because of what I did not do—but for what you did not have the courage to do yourself?”

  The words were like a savage attack, weapons of truth hacking away at Camael to reveal the painful reality. There had been so much death, and he could see no end to it.

  Camael swung his blade and buried it mere inches from Belphegor. The ground around the weapon began to burn.

  “Damn you,” he hissed, pulling the sword from the smoldering earth and stepping back, his steely stare still upon his foe. In his mind’s eye he saw them, the faces of all he had slain in the battle for Heaven, a seemingly endless parade of death marching through his memories, and it chilled him to his core. Once they had been like him, serving the one true God—and then came dissension, sides were chosen and a war begun.

  “You must be made to answer for your crimes,” he said as Belphegor rose to his feet.

  “Haven’t we been punished enough?” the fallen angel asked. “Rejected, forced to abandon all we have ever known to live amongst animals—most, I think, already suffer a fate far worse than what awaits at your hands.” Belphegor moved closer. “Death at your hands might even be considered an act of mercy.”

  Camael placed the tip of his sword beneath Belphegor’s throat and the flesh there bubbled and burned—yet despite this, the fallen angel did not pull away.

  “We were brothers once,” Camael whispered, staring at Belphego
r’s face twisted in pain. “But no more,” he said as he pulled the blade away. “It will be as if you were destroyed by my hand.”

  Belphegor gingerly touched the charred and oozing flesh beneath his chin. “Will this mercy be bestowed upon the others as well?” he asked, his voice a gentle whisper.

  Camael turned and prepared to leave Eden.

  “How many more will have to die?” Belphegor called after him as Camael reached the edge of the clearing. “When will it be enough, Camael?” the fallen angel asked. “And when will we finally be allowed to show our sorrow for what we have done?”

  Camael left the Garden of Eden, never to look upon it again, Belphegor’s questions reverberating through his mind. He did not respond to his fallen brother, for he did not have the answers, and he had begun to wonder if ever he truly would.

  AERIE, PRESENT DAY

  The sight of Belphegor stirred memories Camael had not experienced for millennia. Pictures of the past billowed and whirled, like desert sands agitated by the winds of storm. The angel warrior quickly suppressed them.

  “Hello, Camael,” Belphegor said, standing on the sidewalk in front of a boarded-up home. “It’s been quite some time.”

  Camael looked closely at the fallen angel before him; he appeared old, almost sickly. It was common for angels that had fled to Earth to allow themselves to age, to fit in with their new environment, but Belphegor’s look was more than that.

  “I executed you,” Camael said, remembering the day he had stormed from the Garden of Eden without completing his assignment.

  “Is that what you told your Powers’ comrades—did you actually tell them that I died at your hand?”

  Camael recalled addressing his troops before their journey to Earth. He remembered telling them, the lie already beginning to eat at him, the doubts about their mission, seeded by Belphegor, already starting to sprout. “I was their leader, they would believe anything I told them.”

  “And now?” Belphegor asked.