by D B Nielsen
Another hand wrapped around mine.
‘Together,’ my twin sister said.
And together we heaved upon the blessed blade which slid smoothly from the stone and shone with bluish-white and silver flame, almost translucent, as truly it was wrought of living fire from the heavens.
The heavenly flame measured my soul and I doubted that I should ever be free from the torment. I felt the seraph blade bring forth an answering fire from the midst of my humanity – hot as a live coal, trifling as an ember – and my hand and mind were scorched. It burnt through me. It devoured me.
A pillar of white hot fire. The hilt. The blade. Hammered astronomical bodies. Forged in fearful, fiery symmetry. It melted away all concealment, all hubris, all lies, all vanity.
And I saw, in that moment, that I had pursued the seraph blade for the selfish purpose of liberating my beloved St. John. Equally, my sister had pursued this prize for the sole purpose of killing Semyaza, wrought with vengeance. We had desired it with an ardour that exceeded moderation; for this, we had willingly accepted the sacrifices made by the Anakim. The virtue of our quest vanished, and a breathless horror and loathing filled my heart.
But the trial had not ended.
I stood amidst a funeral pyre. And I saw my hand holding the hilt, my sister’s hand atop mine own, consecrated to dust and ash in flickering flame.
I was human. I was fallible. But the seraph blade made the blood in my veins boil and burn as if turning to liquid gold. It purified. It hurt as all knowledge hurts. And I felt the flaming sword weigh upon me, even as I was judged and, in the end, deemed worthy; such a weight, such a burden to bear, like none I had ever known. I prayed that I should wield the sword in righteousness. And I exulted and quaked in the agony of the torturing flames.
Yet, even as it tested me and scorched my flesh, the seraph blade began to cool, the flames diminished, my hand – and my sister’s – were left unscathed.
But not my mind.
Unable to endure, in the aftermath of the Archangel’s trial, I sank to my knees. Tears fell freely from my eyes but dried before they had time to run down my cheeks. I felt my flesh tingle with an excess of sensitivity as if struck repeatedly by the thrown stones of sin and guilt.
Beside me, Fi was trembling uncontrollably, sinking to the ground, and it didn’t take a genius to realise that her reaction was a manifestation of the onerous, demanding experience she had survived once before in the Underworld and was now reprised so terribly. I put my hand around her shoulders in a gesture of sisterly solidarity and comfort.
No words were expected. No words would suffice. She shook excessively whilst I waited, our joined grip still around the hilt of the sword. Yet, I could not endure to think of, and far less allude to, the preceding episode.
A shiver went through me, but now more from the absence of heat in the aftermath of retrieving the seraph blade and the chill atmosphere of the tower, and I prompted my sister to move. ‘We should get going. It’ll be dawn soon.’
She nodded and let her hand fall away from the hilt of the sword.
‘You carry it. I’ll guide us down.’ There were aeons of weariness in Fi’s voice and I readily submitted to her need.
Assisting Fi to her feet, I handed her back her phone, and grasped the seraph blade in both my hands. Without my sister’s grip, I felt the burden of the sword and its moral weight double. It weighed more on the mind and soul than physically, reminding me of Frodo’s arduous task in carrying the ring to Mordor.
Fi fiddled with her phone, attempting to turn it on, before realising that the battery was completely drained. It brought a frown to her usually clear face as she knew we would have to move immeasurably slowly back down the twisting stairwell in the dark. Pocketing it, she took two steps forward and then, abruptly, stopped. I couldn’t see what she saw in front of her, but I saw her see it. My heart gave a series of hard throbs as I waited for her to continue moving but, instead, she turned back to me, her face displaying her surprise.
‘It’s gone,’ she said, gesturing to the floor. ‘Completely blank.’
I looked to where she pointed, and, sure enough, the image of the coat of arms of the Archangel Michael and the devil had disappeared as if it had never been.
‘Let’s just get out of here,’ I hastily said, feeling spooked.
By the time we made our way into the open, the horizon was awash with the first faint hints of indigo. But it was still night – creeping towards morning only as it was finishing with spring in the northernmost part of the northern hemisphere – and it had only taken so long to climb back down the stairs because I had to adjust my balance and motion constantly to compensate for the weight of the seraph blade in the dark.
Fi had exited the darkened tower first and it was Fi who was first to see the door slam shut in our wake. I hadn’t been far behind her – but I had been far enough for the door to shut with a finality that indicated there would be no return to the Monastic Schoolhouse. I had made it only just past its threshold when this happened and, turning back, saw the door vanish from sight to leave only the standing structure of the tower like a central pillar in the landscape, holding up the sky with its crooked peak.
Fi cleared her throat. ‘You’re right. Let’s get out of here.’
In the half-light, grass spread out before us like a verdant carpet and I could just see the white bell tower from which we came. The land peeled away to both the left and the right following the earthen ramparts, and the sounds of a river could be heard at our backs.
I glanced across at Fi. ‘Where do we go from here?’
‘Back to the spot where we arrived with Elijah,’ she replied automatically.
‘That’s not too far,’ I said quietly. ‘But what if Elijah isn’t there to meet us?’
‘Meh. We’ll worry about that when we get there,’ was all she said in response.
It was a pleasant walk – or it would have been if not for the seraph blade. But I did not complain. I was beyond complaining. I felt as weary as Fi looked – and she looked absolutely peaked, her face pale, her eyes suspiciously bright. I remembered as young children that tears and tantrums would flow when either one of us were tired out from the day’s feverish play on limbs that had run wild. It was an exhaustion that cut bone deep. I felt it now. And I knew instinctively that Fi did too.
To move with extreme weariness was strange, like walking in a dream. We were silent as we trudged back along the ramparts of the monastery. Our feet on the uneven ground made the only sound. I wished I hadn’t said that the distance back to the bell tower wasn’t too far as the path was longer than I’d remembered.
In the gathering light, I could make out the outbuildings ahead, some wooden structures and stone sheds that we’d walked past before in the dark, unaware of their being there. I noticed the dark shape of the surrounding wall looming up beside me and realised we had almost reached the end of the path. The bell tower loomed suddenly before us. I had long given up trying to think clearly, or hold a meaningful or coherent thought in my head for a few moments at a time. Random thoughts flitted through my mind, darting around without my attempting to seize any of them. I couldn’t even if I’d tried. What kept me trudging onwards was the mindless sound of our steps; their rhythm lulled me into a strange trance.
I was in the process of lifting my head to check the distance ahead, when, without warning, the ground shuddered around us; lightning encircling us in a tight ring.
‘What’s happening? What is it?’ Fi cried out, and then there was another thunderous boom.
I stumbled back from the hail of earth and rubble, letting the seraph blade drop to the ground so that I could throw my hands over my head protectively, calling out to my sister. Tripping on the uneven ground, I fell flat on my back, the impact driving the air from my lungs. Instinctively, I struggled to get up, to draw breath, even as I reached for the hilt of the seraph blade lying next to my hip. But, before I could so, something landed heavily on the ground
beside me.
‘Sage.’
I raised my dirt-streaked face in bewildered disbelief, just as my sister launched into a foul-mouthed tirade that conveyed her outright fear and bald relief.
‘Are you out of your freaking mind? What the f–?’ My sister was still livid as she launched herself at Gabriel – whether to embrace him or strangle him was anybody’s guess – who caught her in his arms and held her still.
‘It has been a difficult night for us all, one way or another,’ Pen said with a rueful smile.
I looked around the tight-knit circle in astonishment. Our Anakim bodyguards had survived their ordeal. And, it seemed, Elijah had played no small part in their continued existence. For this, I felt eternal gratitude.
‘What took you so long?’ I teased, easing the tension within the circle.
Zeke gave a bark of laughter in response and offered his hand to pull me up.
I held out the seraph blade. ‘Here, hold this, will you?’
But he backed away, clearly shaken, and protested, ‘I cannot. I dare not. It is the blade of the Viceroy of Heaven. It is Mizrael, whose name is engraved upon its hilt, and burns with heavenly fire.’
The Watcher, having refashioned himself to human form, stated, ‘None dare touch the seraph blade but its true bearer. Its pure angelic harmonics and consecrated chords would ring out against such a violation and eviscerate the offender. Did you not wonder why the Grigori have not sought the seraph blade of the Archangel Michael to use for themselves?’
‘Like the Seed, the Grigori cannot touch the sacred sword. And the Nephilim dare not touch it.’ Far from relaxed, Gabriel conceded, putting my sister from him.
I tightened my death grip on the sword. Flushed to find myself so ignorant, I could have wept for my folly.
‘But how is the Wise One expected to wield it?’ Fi asked, extremely perturbed.
Already its immense heaviness weighed upon me, a cross to bear, and one I had hoped to lighten with the help of the Anakim. But this was not to be the case.
‘Like the Seed, the Mizrael is sentient. It can only be wielded in righteousness. If your cause and action is judged pure in intent, the Mizrael will permit its use,’ the Watcher clarified.
‘It will defend its true bearer if the engagement is right and just,’ added Gabriel, watching us closely from eyes the colour of flowing water lit by sunlight.
I despaired. I was cold with perspiration and my heart beat frantically. To endure a constant judgement was insupportable.
‘But the sword’s so heavy.’ The words slipped out from me unbidden.
Elijah’s voice seemed to come from some distant place. ‘You carry the weight of sin and suffering. Its weight will lessen for every noble and virtuous deed performed by humankind.’
I stared at the Watcher with a numbness approaching horror. His black eyes were like dark, still pools in the pale wash of pre-dawn light. He stood motionless, impassive before me as, terrified and confused, I turned my eyes to where my hand gripped the blade’s hilt.
‘I understand,’ I said in a quiet voice – and it seemed to me that it echoed, back and forth across the skies and the hills and the oceans, striking the edge of the blade, and shattering the stillness.
The blade’s dulcet tones held the purity of light, briefly flaring to life as if my words were a vow or promise, and seemed to swallow me whole. Perhaps it was a trick of my mind or of nature – the wind, the nearby river, the pre-dawn light – but it shone brilliantly, almost blindingly. And I knew, just as I breathed without consciously thinking to breathe, that we lived and died in the midst of miracles and marvels.
The music stopped. Quieted now, the blade’s flame seemed to be doused but I saw that it was omnipresent and eternal.
‘But the metal that encases the flame? How is it that it doesn’t melt under the heat?’ Fi asked, held enthralled.
‘The blade will dazzle the eye of the enemy with divine enchantment as the metal was divinely bestowed, though once found on Earth and mined by the Atlanteans as Orichalcum. Yet this metal was further forged in the holy furnace with the light of the astronomical bodies.’
His words had a peculiar effect upon me. The stars were slowly winking out at intervals. The dark pines in the distance, eerily lit by the cold sheet of pre-dawn dew and mist, made their creeping appearance. And this scene of extraordinary solemnity stirred strange thoughts within me as I contemplated the myths of Atlantis.
‘Dazzle the eye?’ I asked, wondering what it would mean when we wielded the sword against Semyaza and his army.
But the fallen angel spoke in riddles once more, prophesying many things fantastical. ‘Only the Lord’s chosen, the elect, the prophets, visionaries, and the most holy of holy men shall be able to look upon the Mizrael. They shall be as those kissed by heaven’s visage and born with knowledge divine. They will feast upon a vision seldom tasted by humankind.’
It was perplexing but I chose not to dwell on it.
‘Come on, hand over the sword. We’ll share the burden between us,’ Fi said peremptorily, and reached out to take the seraph blade from my shaking hands before I could protest.
Immediately, I felt unburdened and lighter, and gave a deep sigh of gratitude.
Kal, having left and returned in a flash, handed my sister a thick woollen blanket which she used to sheath the sword until a more permanent scabbard could be found or fashioned, making it easier for her to carry.
Then Gabriel smiled calmly at us as Elijah transformed to block out the view of the horizon. ‘Dépêchez-vous. Sinon on va manquer le train. On y va! It is time for us to leave. We have some important business to attend.’
The Watcher was a mere aura as he snatched us up mid-flight and nimbly tossed me towards one of the Anakim as they hurled themselves against the sky. I never knew who caught me – overcome with shock and exhaustion, I finally succumbed to the peacefulness of oblivion.
CONVERSION
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘Sage, wake up! Hurry!’
Fi was rocking me forcefully awake, her fingers burrowing like taproots into my upper arm, but I ignored her as I tried to recapture the dream of being warm and comforted and quieted, floating upon a fluffy, white cloud.
‘Sage! C’mon, wake up! You’ve got to see this!’ Her persistence was breaking through the Zen-like tranquillity that surrounded me. ‘OMG! This is totally sick! I’m in paradise!’
Her words had me finally cracking open an eyelid to the too bright sunlight. Clouds as sheer as gossamer wafted in the distance as, squinting, I rolled over onto my back and gazed up at the immaculate cream coloured walls and white ceiling. For the briefest of moments I wondered what I was doing here. Then I jerked fully awake, my eyes scanning the room’s well-furnished corners.
Instantly noting the seraph blade, unwrapped from its blanket-scabbard and propped up beside the bed on a classic cream-and-black striped club chair reflecting the bounteous sunbeams pouring into the room from the open window, I breathed a deep sigh of relief.
‘Where are we?’ I croaked, struggling to rise from the softness of the bedding to take in my surroundings properly.
‘Rome.’ Fi released the word on an appreciative sigh.
So this paradise was Rome – more specifically, the Hotel Eden where Gabriel’s bank, ITB, reserved a permanent suite for important clientele. Indeed, the sumptuously appointed rooms we now occupied were once home to the actress, Ingrid Bergman, which thrilled my sister no end, given her obsession with the vintage designer clothing of the kind found in the Hollywood films of the 1950s.
Propping myself back against the cushioned headboard, I stretched as languorously as a cat. The king size bed was large enough for both Fi and me to share without ever touching, as made evident from my sister stretching out on her side of the bed, fully clothed, sipping away at a freshly-brewed flat white – she informed me that there was an identical Nespresso coffee machine to the one we owned in the other room – ignoring me now that she’d
achieved her goal and woken me from my slumber. Silent images flickered across the large flat screen LCD TV opposite, the volume turned down in order for Fi to sing along to Ariana Grande’s latest hit pouring out from the Bose sound system in the living room.
Waking early, Fi had already taken a multitude of photos and, after having charged her iPhone, even remembered to call our parents to reassure them that we were in Rome and doing just fine, having the time of our lives. It was a bit of a stretch of the truth but what surprised and impressed me more was that my sister was acting responsibly and making decisions for the both of us that even my parents couldn’t fault.
Grumpily, I wondered why then she had felt the need to wake me up when I was sound asleep – and blessedly, for the first time in days, I hadn’t dreamt or relived the appalling incident of walking in on St. John and Isabella at Home House. Instead, I felt utterly indolent after battling the horrors of the past week and didn’t feel like doing anything but lying in bed all day. As Fi belted out song lyrics, my lazy gaze took in everything and nothing at once.
Gilt frames scattered around the walls held original landscapes and vintage prints and, looming above the bed, were two unique antique stone friezes. A fresh breeze blew into the opulent bedroom, bringing with it the sublime scents of spring and breakfast. The name of the suite perfectly matched its character – the Aurora Terrace – suggesting the beauty of dawn mirrored in the romantic city views seen from the high windows and sun-drenched private terrace where the Anakim and the Watcher and breakfast awaited.
I could have spent much longer taking in my fill of the gorgeous proportions of our suite, but my stomach distracted me, growling loudly, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since our time on the Orient-Express. It was funny how something so visceral could immediately propel me out of the comforts of the luxuriously-soft bed and away from thoughts of slumber, of beauty, of St. John with Belladonna, and even of the burden of the seraph blade and the urgency of our quest.