A Rosary of Stones and Thorns

by M. C. A. Hogarth

  Ruth’s smile gained a more natural tilt. She placed a hand on Death’s cheek and said, “Do not be afraid, Man. Have faith in Him. His will is already working among you.”

  The horses stood silent vigil as the female angel walked to the dome, opening the heavy door and disappearing inside. After a moment, the grackle landed between Famine’s ears.

  “What was that all about?” Brad asked.

  “I don’t know... but it’s time we went home. I bet our hooved friends know where Armageddon is.” Death rolled an eye back to stare at Stephen. The priest rested a hand on his neck, then looked at his companions. “Shall we? If we’re going to die, we might as well be at ground zero.”

  “I wonder where Mom is,” Marie said in a small voice.

  Mephistopheles stared at the closed door, then shrugged, the motion rolling up his wing arms. “Let’s go. The sun is setting.”

  The demon urged Famine down the mountain, dislodging the bird. Stephen paused, said to Marie, “Wherever your mother is, she’s got Pestilence nearby. There aren’t going to be many safe places to be during the Apocalypse, but near an Apocalyptic horse has to be one of the closest things.”

  Marie nodded, a jerky motion that flopped her braid against her back. She tightened her hold around Brad’s waist.

  Stephen shared a glance with the boy, then slid his hands on either side of Death’s withers, pushing himself into a more comfortable position. The horse clambered down the mountainside, muscles bunching and smoothing beneath its void-dark hide. The grackle’s shadow passed over him, heading east.

  Asrial walked in on him pulling a black boot on over a clean set of charcoal-gray tights, one foot propped against the edge of the bed, the magnificent wings half-spread for balance. His dirty clothing lay discarded on the nearby chest, and a small gray medallion swung over his ribs, threaded with a black satin cord.

  She tilted her head, holding his robe closed over her breast. “You will go down, then.”

  The boot slid up to his knee; he stopped to look at her. “Lady, I must.”

  Asrial drifted past him to perch on the edge of his bed, the midnight blue silk draping over her thin knees and catching the faint light of her halo. She let her thinned, plucked wings brush the blankets with their remaining flight feathers. “To talk with him.”

  “If he allows me, yes.” Lucifer stood and pulled the white blouse off the back of his chair, loosening the ties down the front with his fingers.

  “And if he doesn’t?” Asrial asked.

  Lucifer stopped moving, then forced himself to finish the laces. He pulled the blouse over his head, straightening the panel down the middle of his back and lacing it to the side panel beneath the junction of wing and back. The medallion disappeared beneath the white linen. “Then Michael will have his Judas.” He smiled wryly. “Either way I will take it as it comes to me.”

  Asrial’s gaze fluttered over the sword resting on the night table, still sheathed and on the belt. “My lord, I fear for you.”

  He paused in dressing, the blouse hanging loose over his waist. He stepped to the edge of the bed, cupped her face in his hands with his thumbs lightly touching her chin. “Ah, Asrial. Do not fear for me. I cannot feel Him anymore and I do not sing the glories of His mornings, but I am not afraid. I have followed the dictates of the conscience He gave me.”

  Her lashes dipped, casting blue shadows over her thin cheeks. “It is not God’s wrath that you should fear, my lord, but Michael’s.” She lifted her eyes to his. “He would make you a crown of thorns and hang you for the Wind to take if he could.”

  Lucifer let her fear have the silence it merited. Then said, voice low, “Ah, dear one. I can no more fear Michael than you can fear me. You don’t, do you?”

  She arched her brows, a breath caught in her throat. Then she smiled, a fragile, small thing. “No, my lord. Not anymore.”

  “Good,” he said, running a finger across one of her curls before releasing her. He tucked his blouse into his tights, leaving the cuffs and collar undone. The belt he strapped around his waist. Swirling a black cloak edged in heavy silver and burgundy knotwork over a wing and pinning it to his shoulder with a brooch, he said. “It is about time.”

  “Yes,” Asrial said, and slid off the bed. “I am ready.”

  Lucifer paused. “Lady...”

  “There is nowhere for me to go,” Asrial said. She lifted her chin. “I saw this thing begun. I would like to be there, when it ends.” She paused, a shiver running down the chain of her spine. “Whatever that end may be.”

  He paused, then nodded. “It is cold tonight, and will be colder yet ere dawn.” He walked to the chest, opened it, and rummaged before pulling free a long robe. “My night robe becomes you, but may be a little thin for Earth.” He set it out on the bed, silver eyes meeting hers, and then quietly stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  Asrial bent down, plucked wings curled above her back, and lifted the folded cloth; it fell open, revealing a robe of weighted gold and cream silk. Across its front edge a sun rose in stylized bronze against a land of umber brown; its rays radiated in alternating gold and bronze across a sky that faded in a delicately dyed gradient from pale cream up across the front and over the shoulders to a deep blue embroidered with silver-gilt stars that dropped to cluster at the hem on the back panel.

  It had two long slits, edged in gold silk to match the weighted, rolled silk hems; they were scaled for the wings of the Fallen Star of Morning, and the laces to close the slits began somewhere near Asrial’s waist.

  She held the robe to her breast and closed her eyes, dizzied. Her soul throbbed, parched and empty of Him despite her halo. But she struggled into the robe, pulling it closed around her body and lacing the slits as far up beneath the sadly deficient plumage near her back as she could. She clipped the front closed, and then hugged herself, feeling the lining drag softly against her naked body.

  Clad in fallen stars, Asrial left Lucifer’s bedroom and joined him in the study. His patient and complex gaze met hers for several heart-beats; then he offered her his hand and she took it, and together they left.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Her tears left her spent on the table, smears of ink painted down one cheek where she’d pressed too intimately to the parchment. Chris let her gummed eyelashes close. The catharsis had come with the violence of a tornado and left her with the wreckage of its passing. It was only the numbing of her senses that prevented her from hearing the echoes through her heart... but she thought that perhaps, at last, the ground had been prepared for real growth. She could hope, anyway.

  Well, and that she would survive for it to matter.

  Chris dragged herself upright, steadied herself with one toe against the nearby bench. She suddenly couldn’t stand the smell of the wax, the sight of his desk, his chair, the map. Sliding off the table, she straightened her robe and then pushed past the flap, grateful for the studied ignorance of the guards and angels surrounding Michael’s tent. They continued to ignore her as she left the camp, and the forest welcomed her back, hiding her beneath the canopy of its intertwined branches and among the thick scrub. Panting out her white breath, she pressed through the underbrush, determined to put as much distance between herself and the camp as possible.

  She reached a small clearing some measure of time later, having lost track of her heart-beat and foot-steps. The only thing that mattered was the cool, wet grass, the long rays of the sun piercing the foliage at last... and the yellow bulk of the horse, resting patiently on the clover, studying her with its long face and inhuman regard.

  Chris staggered to its side and sank to the ground beside it, letting it hold her up. She pressed her forehead to its cheek as it lipped her shoulder.

  “Oh, God. Do you know, there’s nothing left in me? Maybe? Finally.”

  It whuffed, barely loud enough for her to hear.

  It suited Chris that the horse showed no interest in standing. She wrapped her arms around its neck and
arranged herself against its warm side, letting the unfettered light of the sun drive away the cold that insisted on lodging in her joints.

  What alerted her to the figure standing on the edge of the clearing Chris could never remember afterward, but she lifted her face and looked over the horse’s back to see a girl—an angel, halo whirling above her head, her thin body shrouded in a robe of such glorious make it distracted Chris for a few seconds from the sight of her shrunken wings.

  “Oh my God... it’s you!”

  The angel canted her head.

  “You’re the one, aren’t you? Asrial? The one the priest was talking about. What happened to you?”

  The angel drifted across the clearing to her, bent down to touch the horse’s bony neck with delicate white fingers. Red-gold spiral curls spilled over her narrow shoulders. “I went to Heaven... and Hell. Who are you?”

  Chris cleared her throat, feeling the inadequacy of it compared to the sweetness of that soprano. She remembered the first time she’d seen a painting of a sunrise, and her disappointment that the thick paint failed to convey the translucence of color through air. “I’m Chris. I sewed up Mephistopheles when he and the priest and the boy dropped into my yard.”

  Asrial looked at her. “And you alone went on your errand to the den of the lion.”

  “How... how did you know that?”

  “There is talk in the camp of the human who came to Michael.”

  Chris swallowed. “You talked to them.”

  Copper curls swung lightly around her thin throat. “No. I would not have been welcome. But I know now, how to listen quietly... and when.” Asrial leaned down, touched Chris’s shoulder. “I know you are past your strength... but will you come? It is almost done now. We should be there.”

  “To... the battle?” Chris dragged her fingers through the coarse yellow hairs on the back of the horse, then traced the dimples of its spine. “I... guess if I have to die, I might as well die quickly.” She shrugged, pushed herself upright. “Okay. I’ll go.”

  Asrial regarded her with solemn gold eyes, then nodded slowly and walked away.

  The horse clopped alongside as Chris followed.

  “They’re gathered on the field, my lord, and await you. The enemy is massing to face us.”

  Michael nodded. “Very well. I shall be there shortly.” He paused. “Any sign of him?”

  “No, my lord.”

  A scowl marred the golden face, but Michael turned away, back to his tent. A few minutes later he stood before it, one hand on the closed flap in an unguarded moment of uncertainty. His feathers folded more tightly against one another and he frowned, tossing open the flap.

  The human woman was no longer there. The Archangel could smell the musk of her presence, overlaid with the fading scent of sweet almonds; the candle had burned halfway down while he’d surveyed the camps.

  He walked to the map and smoothed his hand over it. The parchment had dried, but smeared ink and wrinkled, stiff spots marked where she’d shed her salt-weighted tears.

  Michael scraped at one of the blotches, then rolled his shoulders forward, wings opening. He belted on his sword and left the tent.

  They were waiting for him on the plain of Armageddon beneath a sun bloated and ruddy as an infected wound. The host of Heaven lined the edges of the broad, flat field, a sea of white and gold, wings rustling like the spume of a withheld wave. The clear, pale air held the copper sunlight close, hugged the edges of every face and spear and feather.

  On the other side of the sward stood an army less than half the size of Michael’s: wings like tar, like soot and ash, not the wholesome black of a night sky but the sodden gritty color of used wood. It was laughable.

  Already the air seemed thicker, their massed presence distorting the edges of the Earthly plane.

  Michael strode out before his host, hand hooked on the hilt of his sword. He stood before its center, his purple shadow stretching out to touch the feet of the Fallen. He lifted his wings, let them bristle outward, displaying a width and breadth not even the other archangels could boast, a pristine lack of color that marked him as God’s Champion.

  “Where is the Great Betrayer?” His hard-edged voice rolled across the still field, parted the cold, heavy air of Earth. It carried the sneer on his face.

  The Fallen stared at him, their faces as if made of stone.

  “Answer me! Where is your leader?”

  Still they stood as one and did not reply. Michael let out a huff of a laugh, a white curl of vapor rising from his lips. “You cannot protect him. If he comes to join you in your fate, then I will have him. If he abandons you as he abandoned God, then I will find him when I am done with the rest of you. You cannot stand against the might of Heaven.”

  The eight Princes of Hell, once archangels and Michael’s lieutenants, drew their swords, leather hissing against metal. The veil around the field thickened.

  Michael smiled wryly. “Very well, then. If that is your choice—”

  “It is their choice. But it is not mine.”

  Michael’s chin jerked up at the smooth, quiet baritone. Two of the Fallen swayed aside, their surprise chasing shadows across their eyes. Lucifer stepped into the corridor between the two armies, his cloak flaring around his ankles.

  He stopped. “Michael. It is not too late to stay this thing.”

  “You’re wrong. It’s been too late since the day you walked out of Shamayim.”

  Lucifer’s wings pressed tightly against his back, the panels of the cloak fluttering between them as he took a deep breath. “Michael. Please. Can we talk somewhere? Before we spill blood like wine and honey?”

  “The time for talk is done,” Michael said. “You have your choices. Fight me and mine and fall to the Wind for it, or submit your life to me and give your people a chance to repent.”

  Lucifer said, “And Hell? What of the human souls there? And the ones to come?”

  Michael did not pause, feathers arching. “This is not about human souls.”

  Lucifer grimaced and looked down, one hand tightening into a fist. “You’re right.” He lifted his hand to his chest and his gaze to Michael’s. “They are no more than the casualties of a greater fight, aren't they? One that has nothing to do with them, and everything to do with us.”

  The slap that twisted Lucifer’s face to the side had an almost desperately casual air; likewise Michael’s voice, trembling on the edge of madness. “Make your choice!”

  “Michael!”

  Chris squirmed out from between the ranks of the angels, abandoning the horse and Asrial at the sight of the tableau. “Don’t do it!”

  “Be silent, human.”

  “Lucifer, don’t let him do it!” Chris said, lunging forward only to be grabbed by two guards. “Don’t let him destroy himself this way!”

  Lucifer met her gaze. She’d never seen such tremendous wings, such unreadable eyes. She saw nothing but herself in that silver. Lucifer looked over his shoulder at the rows of his Fallen, less than six hundred strong, then let his gaze drift over the thousands of angels standing behind Michael. The sunlight touched on the gleam of black cord at his neck.

  He drew his sword and tossed it away. In utter silence, he went to one knee before the Champion of God and bowed his head, wings spread to expose his back.

  “I see there is some scrap of nobility left in you,” Michael said. “You have earned those who followed you out of God’s Grace a chance to repudiate you and return to Heaven. For you, however, there is no return. No admission of guilt would be enough to expiate your sins.”

  “Michael, no!” Chris cried.

  “It will be enough to begin with an explanation of how low you have Fallen,” Michael said, voice rising, shaking. “Let it be seen by all that the Great Betrayer has given himself unto me for judgment!”

  Asrial did not need to push her way through the ranks of the Ninth Choir to reach Chris’s side. All of them remembered her, and her single glance caused the guards to release t
he human and back away. Asrial walked forth from among them to stand between the armies.

  “You,” Michael said, eyes widening.

  Asrial lifted her head. “I bear witness to you again. One day you will have need of the memories of the things I have seen you do.”

  Michael’s lip curled, hands clenching. “Will I? You will share his fate if you do not walk carefully.”

  Chris’s voice barely carried. “Please, Michael. Don't do this. Look at him. Look at him.”

  The Archangel’s hand snapped through the air and Lucifer rocked to the side, a welt springing up on his cheek. He did not resist the boot that cracked one of his ribs, or the hand that jerked him back to his knees by his hair. For a few blows, there was tension in his shoulders... but when a particularly harsh kick met his chest, he relaxed with an exhalation like a prayer.

  His lieutenants started forth, but Lucifer held out a hand, his voice hoarse. "Let him. I buy... safety... thus."

  "Yes," Michael said, panting from the exertion, sweat running the length of his arms. "Listen to your wayward master. Do not interfere."

  And then the only sounds that marred the silence were the thick wet sounds of fist against flesh, the subtle cracks of breaking bones. The Fallen were rigid witnesses, and even the angels shifted uncomfortably as their leader grew more and more violent against his victim. Chris hid her face in Asrial’s shoulder.

  A shadow skimmed over the earth of the field; Asrial glanced at the sky to see tail feathers of iridescent black. Startled, she glanced toward the south.

  The beating of hooves against the earth heralded the arrival of three steeds, red, white and black. Mephistopheles launched himself from the back of the white one, sword screeching free of its scabbard.

  “Stop it, you bastard!”

  Michael rocked back and drew his own sword, planting it against the last vertebra of Lucifer’s neck. “One more step and the Wind will take him.”

  Mephistopheles stumbled to a halt, wings spread and eyes wild. Behind him, Stephen, Brad and Marie stared from the backs of the horses of the Apocalypse.