Abyss of the Fallen

by Diana Estell

  “Then all is not lost,” said Magethna while staring out the window.

  Chains of broken incoherent thoughts moved further apart as the fumes rose higher, carrying the garbled voice away.

  “Maybe what we are seeing and hearing, comes not from the mouth, but the heart,” said Magethna. “This is the sort of information I would put in my scheduling book.”

  8

  Private Blood

  Light is always brighter in the dark.

  Out of the Throne Room, Dagon inhaled deeply from his cigarette, controlling the flow of nicotine going into his lungs. Holding the smoke in his mouth, he stood there enjoying the pageantry of the soldiers dramatically closing the door. Nodding his head towards the soldiers, he acknowledged their performance while releasing the smoke from his mouth. Heels clacking along and silver ashes falling around him, he headed down the darkened hall to his private quarters.

  Out of habit, he scanned his room, satisfied. In his room, he could freely be himself, but it tasted bitter-sweet. His cigarette created a smoke screen around him, while his reason for living was being used as a pawn.

  On his ebony chair, he stared at the ground. He covered his face and wished he could remove every ounce of pain from Mary. To ask her to lure Mark … he had no words for this grief. He loved her more than his own existence, and to ask her to do this was unthinkable. But unavoidable. No amount of pain he inflicted on himself would be justified. In the end, Savila owned his sword, his life, and the life of his bonded mate in exchange for power.

  Not bothering to remove any of his clothes, he sat like a warrior on a battlefield. He unsheathed his dagger and, with a cry through gritted teeth, sliced his arm. The pain ripped through him. Blood flowed into the crook of his elbow, saturating his shirt. His shame and guilt flowed with his blood, making him feel alive and in control.

  He gripped the dagger’s hilt as a surge of blood moved down both sides of his arm. Here’s your bill. A bill he would willingly pay for Mary, indefinitely if need be. A gaping wound now burned under the sleeve of his shirt. Fraying fibers raked his raw flesh. Methodically, he cleaned his dagger. From his coat, he removed a crystal lighter.

  Once the bleeding stopped, he eased out of his shirt. He ignited the lighter and waved the fire under the shirt. White flames raced upward, the fire engulfing every fiber.

  Wincing, he walked across his spacious room and into the closet. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something black scurrying behind rows of shoes. Cautiously, he went to investigate when a spider shot out. He brought his boot down onto it, squishing it dead. He had no fear of spiders, but they still grossed him out, for he did not like anything in his quarters that he did not place or invite in. “Nice try.”

  Years of living on the edge and under the ground made him slightly paranoid. These unwanted creatures were spies. He cleaned the remnants of the spider from the floor and torched it out of existence.

  Pulling off his boots and remaining clothes, he placed them into a duffel bag and eased his aching, lonely body into the mineral waters.

  If this tub were anywhere else, this would be the life. Maybe I can put one in Mary’s house, smaller of course.

  With a chill in the air, he dried off and dressed. He went over to the side of his bed and stood in front of a floor length curtain. With a firm yank, he opened the curtain to reveal blackness. In most ways, it was odd for him to have a window below the earth, for there was nothing to see except varying shades of black mountains, which formed when Savila smashed one of the vials of the eternal flame, creating the Abyss. This shameful thought made his wounds throb.

  “Unbelievable.” he said out loud, looking through the window. Set upon a rocky ledge, the small speck he had seen earlier grew brighter being underground. He yanked the curtains closed, extinguishing the light.

  Going over to the bed, he grabbed a bottle of shampoo and a book, The Iliad, his favorite. He pondered the book, its old pages worn from hours of reading. This book had been Alexander the Great’s favorite, too, his written guide on warfare. Dagon admired him for how he had lived his life out in the open, risking everything, giving it his all. Out in the blackened hallway, a light in his heart moved him on, encouraging him to live his life out in the open.

  A smile came over Savila as she sensed Dagon’s blood awaken. His blood called to her from his weakened mind, making her thirsty again even though her lips were still moist and supple from the recent drink. In a moment, his thoughts quieted. Tasting victory, she lingered on the stones her kin delivered. Stones she will fashion into an altar of death. Poetic justice. She gloated over her former conquests, the strips of cloth which hung subservient to her will. A hint of their former military glory remained in the twisted lapels and crushed medals. These uniforms bowed to their new general, their new master. On the battlefield, before the soldiers’ last mortal breaths expelled, Savila had come like an angel of mercy. She offered her hand and the gift of immortality to those fallen soldiers. The soldiers had only seconds to decide if they wanted to live in immortal glory or die in mortal agony.

  In the light of day, Dagon made his ascent out of the Abyss. With pleasure, the spider watched and waited for her victim to make his way into her invisible web.

  9

  Hopeful Romantic

  A door opened in the hallway above Henry’s study. The Seraphs and Henry turned toward the sound. Mark rumbled down the stairs past Henry’s study door.

  “He, too, could use a scheduling book to know the time of meals, thus additional chores,” said Magethna.

  Dorian’s eyebrows rose.

  “Are my notions for a scheduling book grandiose? Perhaps. They are my notions, and I would love one. I can see your mind spinning around every correlation, trying to validate all this.” She twirled a finger in the air.

  “I don’t understand it. I just don’t.” Dorian squinted.

  “Most things are not understood.” Magethna beamed.

  “Analysis clarifies,” said Dorian.

  “Yes, I know, but …”

  Dorian touched her arm. “Do all of you hear that?”

  All the Seraphs detected whistling, growing louder by the moment. They looked out the window. A light clicking of heels moved to the rhythm of the whistled tune as Lord Dagon stepped through a watery veil, now standing openly in the light of day. Dagon saluted them, but they did not return the gesture. Dagon’s mood seemed light and fresh, as if he had forgotten what happened the day before. To the Seraphs, he acted like any normal man walking down the street. Right on cue, a light breeze caught under his trench coat, which was draped over his arm looking quite earthly but expensive.

  “What a night,” said Dagon.

  He lit a cigarette. Thin tendrils of smoke began escaping from of his mouth.

  “Dagon, is there anything else you like to do besides smoke?” said Dorian.

  Magethna exaggeratedly waved her arms, coughing.

  “I like to eat and listen to rock and roll, not necessarily in that order.”

  “Don’t you look nice today. What is that jacket called, and what kind of pants are those?” said Magethna, smiling cheerfully.

  “Oh … um … thank you. The jacket is called a blazer, and the pants are blue jeans.” Dagon was flabbergasted, not by the question but by the compliment.

  “You see, Dorian, even Dagon wears a blazer.”

  Mystil’s eyebrow rose.

  Dagon closed his jacket and wanted to crawl into a hole. Maybe they won’t even notice my t-shirt.

  No such luck, for Magethna asked him about it.

  “That is private. Anyway, I’ve got to go now.” Not waiting around, Dagon walked down the sidewalk, making his way over to Mary’s house. At her front door, Dagon stopped cold, the air punched out of his lungs.

  “How long has it been since you saw him?” The voice on the other side of the door sounded like Mary’s friend.

  “It’s been two weeks, Caroline.” Mary’s voice was hollow.

  “Yo
u don’t even know him … he’s probably married. You need to get out, have some fun.”

  “Maybe it would be good to get out.” Mary sounded more defeated than convinced.

  “What were you doing earlier when you asked me to come over?”

  “Just looking at wedding plans that I wrote down when I was twelve.”

  “Okay. That’s it … we’re going out.”

  “Okay.”

  Dejected, he turned around, his zombie body lumbering back, coming to the spot where the battle lines had been drawn. If I only arrived sooner, I could have asked her out first. In anger, he fired at the cause of his catastrophic delay: the Seraphs.

  Quicker than a blink, he tore his sword out of its sheath with such force the friction ignited flames around the edges.

  With the same quick stroke, Dorian reached for his sword, but Magethna stopped him. “He has been wounded in the heart by something more powerful than a sword, but at least he retains his sense of humor.

  Dorian eased his hand off his sword but glared at Dagon. “You are a hopeful romantic.”

  “Hopeless romantic,” Dagon corrected. “Humans would not say ‘hopeful romantic.’”

  With that comment, Dagon put his trench coat on, and in a hazy blur, he manifested into a dragon and shot up like a rocket. Magethna and the other Seraphs continued to watch from Henry’s window. The dragon’s legs propelled like boosters higher into the atmosphere. Its serpent snout narrowed like an arrow, leading the way into the thinning air. The wind forced its thick black whiskers to its scales. Rows of sharp silver teeth peeked through a wide clenched mouth, lips vibrating in a thin line. The wings looked harmless compared to the rest of the body.

  Silver scales folded inward from the shearing of the wind, making the dragon aerodynamic as it flew east. An awful cacophony of yells and screams came from the throat of the sharp whiskered dragon. High pitched, heavy metallic words came from its mouth, followed by guttural non-verbal sounds. “Highway to hell!”

  The words were not pleasing to Magethna, though she understood where they came from. The dragon flew further east on wings which began resembling a bird.

  “With a scheduling book, he could have been there in time. What if he does not have a way of knowing Mary's schedule?” said Magethna.

  “We cannot give Dagon her schedule, and we are not here to alter days. You are not a fairy godmother, and …” Dorian trailed off when Magethna shooed him with her hand.

  “I know. Matters of the heart are obvious to me, surely your scientific mind can see this.”

  “Matters of the heart are not quantifiable.”

  “Perhaps, but the explanation is plain as night.”

  Then, as if a sudden realization hit him, Dorian said, “He cannot read her mind?”

  “Cannot or will not?”

  “But why?”

  “Love.” Magethna’s reply may be naïve, possibly cliché, but it cut to the heart of the matter.

  “Love is plausible, but we know not his intentions for Mary,” said Dorian.

  “In his anger, he only heard the human response of hopelessness, for his notion of love has been swallowed in darkness, yet a faint light lives in him.”

  “One can live in the light and yet remain in darkness, hidden.”

  “All decisions are not made for darkness, for even the hidden want to live in the light, flying free like the dove.”

  Dorian merely shook his head, their partnership running smooth as it always had. He furrowed his eyebrows, concentrating on some unfathomable concept. “About Dagon’s blazer, I don’t know if I want you to create that.”

  “I thought he looked smart. It will all work out just fine.” The seamstress was going over her creations in her mind. “There, all done.”

  “Well, show me what it looks like.”

  “You will see when it is time and not before. Now you will look dapper, and you will love it! Have I ever dressed you wrong?”

  “Well no, but you also have never sewn for me before.”

  “You remember how my frock looked four years ago? Mr. Dawson could not help but admire our stylish ways.”

  Dorian couldn’t argue with that.

  10

  Under the Veil

  The exchange with the Seraphs gave Dagon an idea that could wind up saving Mary. He decided to go to Rome. Blood was the answer to rescue her, and since blood loss gave Dagon a sense of being alive, he was sure of it. Putting all this together, he set a plan in motion to redeem Mary, a plan which involved Mark. Capitalizing on his emotions being in check, he ran over the details for his European excursion.

  No customers stood inside the bank in Rome or outside, so he removed all his Seraphic veils. The clerk practically fell over a chair when Dagon appeared out of nowhere. This bank was not open to the general public, but then, he wasn’t exactly the general public. The fun really began when he told the banker he wished to obtain a safe deposit box.

  Pen and ink flew, the man writing Mary’s and his name on an official document. The banker offered his pen to Dagon for his signature. Dagon waved the pen away. After seeing how Dagon signed his name, the banker shakily reached for the key on his desk and gave it to Dagon, which he again waved away. The banker began sweating profusely while checking the paperwork over. Out of Dagon's coat came two suitcases with large sums of money in them. The clerk passed out cold.

  Dagon transferred the money from the suitcases to the lockbox.

  Making his way to the vault, he came to two thick Gothic wooden doors, which he dissolved through. The vault was a spacious, almost sterile room, with the exception of one office-style desk and two chairs placed stiffly around it. Before returning the lockbox, he pulled money out and placed some in a wallet and some more in his coat.

  Then came the moment he had been waiting for: to see if his old house key from the Golden Land worked here. Made from immortal metal, it should. The lockbox was in the slot when Dagon put the key in the keyhole. With a sigh of relief, it fit, and the contents were safely locked away.

  Mission accomplished, he bragged to himself, placing his good old key back into his coat.

  From somewhere in the stratosphere came loud, crunching sounds. The dragon ate its pre-landing snack with gusto, savoring the last morsel before it descended. The Seraphs watched the air show. Gradually descending, its wings spread out like an airplane. It seemed a pilot flew this craft, not the dragon. The wings tilted back and forth as the air caught underneath it. Even its tail flapped side to side, trying to counterbalance the erratic movements of the wings.

  “Whoa, Searcher. Steady there.” The dragon's voice rasped out between silver clenched teeth. “Steady, girl, steady.”

  The commands kept rolling as the dragon flicked out claws ready to land.

  “His dragon is female and has a name?” said Magethna, turning to Dorian.

  “Apparently so.”

  The dragon’s landing was rocky at best, its wings shook at the jolt of the impact. Its legs skidded along the concrete with a grating screech as its claws dug into the firm surface before coming to a complete stop. The pilot, or dragon, needed more flight training. Magethna wondered how this could be the same dragon which had taken off hours earlier, soaring high into the air with flare and force. In a blurry haze, the dragon dissolved away revealing Dagon. He smoothed the scales of his trench coat. He did not acknowledge the Seraphs.

  “It was hours, not weeks, since I saw Mary last,” Dagon mumbled out loud to himself. “She seemed so happy. At least I thought she was.”

  “Dragon transformation,” said Dorian. “Nice feature, that coat.”

  Dagon stopped then turned sharply toward the Seraphs. After making eye contact, his body shook, and his mouth and eyes contorted. Then in a blink, he veiled himself. Magethna looked at the other Seraphs, noting their bewildered expressions reflected her own.

  Dagon hadn’t wanted the Seraphs to witness his blunder of audible mumbling. Like a sick joke, he found the same bench Mary had
recently occupied, the scene of their first date, now surrounded by nothing but lonely darkness.

  Drained and numb, he stared into the night sky, another lonely Abyss. He did not want to go back down to his private quarters. Suddenly, it struck him: He was, for all intents and purposes, a man caught in between two worlds, homeless. Stopping himself from lighting up a cigarette, he filled his lungs with the air of the night. He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, the stars bright this night.

  The skeptical look that Dorian had given him when he walked past still stung. Trust was not a concept he understood, and he saw very little of it. Although Magethna, he wondered about her. Darkness in contrast to light. Eureka! He was meant to live life outside the Abyss, but how?

  Relaxation still eluded him. More than ever, he needed to remain in control. Safe behind his veil, he leaned down, removing the dagger. Fire raced over his already raw emotions. Is she sick of me? Did she find someone else? But we are bonded. I can’t control her feelings, but I can sure control mine.

  Twirling the dagger which felt like a piece of flint, he placed the blade on his coat sleeve, paused, then slashed with exacting precision. Waves of painful rejection pushed his warm blood to meet the air, and it dripped down his right arm from inside his undamaged coat. Dagon groaned, “She loves me; she loves me not.”

  After meeting Mary, everything had fallen into place. She was the reason he carried on, why he clung to life. She was like the heart which pumped blood into his veins, giving him warmth and a will to live.

  His gash burned something fierce. Gingerly, he took the shampoo bottle from his coat and poured the silver watery substance over his blade and his wound. He winced at a frightening thought. What would Mary think of me with all of these scars? I’ll tell her battles and swords are an occupational hazard. Wait, how will I tell her about the battles and swords without freaking her out in a day when none are used?