Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ FALLEN ❯ Not--the hard way-- a chapter ( Chapter 6 )

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER SIX

THE HARD WAY

Not a chapter

He reminds me of the man who murdered both his parents, and then when sentence was about to be pronounced pleaded for mercy on the grounds that he was an orphan
-Abraham Lincoln

 

 

“That little twerp! Why is he so stubborn?! Well he's going to accept him whether he wants to or not the little shit! But now things have to be done the hard way! Since that fucker wanted to wait until the time limit was up to get serious” He growled, slamming his fists down on the wooden table in his cramped hide away. “I can't get in contact with the stupid medium! Why the hell not?!” He glared over at the man who he had risked contacting.

“She's probably not dere anymore.” he sighed. His face contorted in rage.

“SHE WAS MY ONLY WAY OF GETTING TO THE BOY!” he yelled and the man shrunk back. He had every faith in the old potion peddler. Everyone had a price. He ran his hand over his freshly shaved face.

“What's the hubbub? It's just a wee mortal lad.” His companion, Armon, sighed laying down on the pile of rags that doubled as a bed.

“It's none of your business why! I asked you here for spells not your opinion on what I do with my time.” He spat, braiding his silky black hair.

“Cranky are ye?” Armon frowned comically as he sat up. “Fine, spells. What ye need?”

“I needed a reverie spell. But now it'll have to be a masking spell. Another that will get me to the fifth Heaven and back. And another to bring me into the mortal world.”

“But ye know all `em spells.”

“If I knew, I wouldn't have asked you here, would I Armon?” He hissed. Armon shrugged.

“Ye could be lazy.” He stood and paced the room, stretching his old legs. “Or could it be that yar powers are tied to that ther' boy. I don't know what kind of magic ye're dabblin' in but its hell'er powerful. Ain't nuffin gunna break a bond like that!” the old man said darkly. He slammed Armon into the wall.

“Who said anything about breaking the bond Armon, my friend? The only thing I want is my power! The only thing that has fueled me to survive this long is the thought of watching the life slip away from the eyes of whoever imprisoned me-robbed me of my thrown. And the only thing that's standing in the way of that is that stubborn ass Jensang Kiddo. Now you're going to shut your trap and make the damn potions. I will pay you. And I promise if you tell anyone that I'm alive. I will come after you slimy half bate son of a gorgon!”

“Oh sire! You don't be haven ta flatter me. My loyalties are to ye and ye alone, oh true prince and all tha.” Armon smiled his cringe worthy grin. He patted the prince on the arm and bowed before getting to work.

The work was quick, less than three days. He smiled greedily at the potions in his hands.

“Um. Sire?” Armon said timidly as his master drank the masking potion. He wiped his hands on his dingy apron that once upon a time was white now turned a crude yellow to match his few teeth. The prince turned his head no longer himself. His hair was shorter and red. His skin paler, but his eyes were still black as coal. “What?” he spat venomously.

“May I be inquirin' why your highness wishes to travel to Mathey- er de fif `Eaven? T'ain't nuffin but ole monks up ther'.
“I want to become part of the order. Now get out!” he
said sarcastically, he turned and began to push the peddler to the door.

“But Sir- My-my pay!” Armon stammered as he twisted and pulled in his master's grasp. The prince sighed and glared down at the tiny spectacle of a man.

“You will find a parcel on your bed when you return to that pathetic shop of yours.” He pulled open the make shift door. He grimaced as the dry heat of Gahanna filled the small apartment. Armon rubbed his hands nervously as he glanced at the vast desert.

“B-before I go, could ye spare a glass of wat'er for an ole man?” Armon stepped out into the hostile environment slowly. He turned to face the prince, who toward over him as all royalty did. A scowl on his regal face. The corner of his mouth twitched. He laughed, long and whole-heartedly.

“Water?” he licked his lips. Armon nodded. He pursed his lips together and nodded. Armon opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue like a child trying to catch rain. The prince spat into the dry heat and slammed the door. Before the saliva reached its destination, on the tip of Armon's waiting tongue, it evaporated into a puff of smoke and was carried away on the scorching winds. Armon rubbed his throat sadly. “Ther's the down fall of bein so dreadful in my days livin. Eternal thirst, hung'r and strife'” he grumbled taking a seat on the hot ground. The door opened and he jumped to his feet.

“You little wretch!” Growled the prince as he grabbed Armon around his fragile shoulders and picked him up, shaking him. He threw him inside and slammed the door.

“You made the wrong potions! These aren't what we discussed! I needed the self-sustaining ones! One that didn't involve a guardian!”

“Well sire, ye gave no specifics when ye employed me. And sides, t'ain't no self-sustainin' potions at'll get you to `Eaven. Going to Earf alone with one o em is dangerous enough! I'd never endanger yar life highness.” Armon groveled and bowed, offering more and more apologies for his lack of professionalism. The prince closed his eyes and messaged his temples. He held up his hand to silence the old man's squawking. “I'm going to give you one more chance. Armon. You'll just have to be my life line.” He sighed, eyeing the old man with disdain. He rummaged around the room for a knife, smiling when he found it beneath his `bed'. He grabbed Armon's wrist and pulled him over to the caldron he had used to brew the concoction. He pricked Armon's finger and smeared the droplet of blood in the residue. He closed his eyes and gripped the knife tightly in his own hand until his inky black blood flowed over his fingers and into the pot. He grimaced and shook his hand, the knife clattering to the floor. He snatched up the round vial on the table. The dark blue liquid swirling darkly in the ampoule. He sucked the blood from his fresh wound and uncorked the vial with his teeth. Dumping half of its contents in the caldron. Armon grimaced and hid his face as it reacted with a small explosion, sending smoke spiraling to the ceiling.

“I hate doing this.” The prince whined as he picked up a bag and swung it over his shoulder.

“Um sire, what'll be yar safety word?” Armon shuffled over to the caldron and glanced inside. The now purple liquid gave off the pleasant smell of Mathey. The smell of lilacs.

“Believe me, you'll know.” His master chuckled darkly and drank the rest of the potion. Armon watched him with acute perception. The prince swallowed and then collapsed to the floor, the bag vanishing. Armon jumped into action, with surprising agility and strength, he dragged the prince's body to lie to rest on the pile of rags. He rushed back over to the caldron and watched his lord's progress.

The process was called `Animus DÄ«mittere' which translates into `to send away soul'. It is the only way people in the underworld can travel to Heaven or Earth with out having to struggle or bargain to get out of Hell, if only for a short time. This way was expensive but in the end you still had your pride. On the receiving end of whatever the place may be you are traveling to, they will have dolls, or `favashi'. Your soul inhabits the doll and takes on your form and you can do any and everything as you normally would, it all ends when you say your `safety word' and your guardian, someone who watches the entire thing and takes care of your real body, pulls you back along with any possessions you might be carrying at the time. Armon grimaced and watched his lord materialize at the gates of Mathey.

“I hope ye know what yer getting yerself into milord.” He said; his voice full of anguish.

 

#

 

Mathey, the fifth Heaven, was neutral territory governed by Sandalphon, the angel who is often depicted in the eternal battle with Lucifer. He runs the monastery of saint Haurvatat. The order of monks, started by Uriel in remembrance of his mentor Haurvatat, the angle of solitude, they are sworn to protect and up keep the sacred grounds of the Fallen. It was a penance of sorts. A warning to angels who are tempted to stray from their path of righteousness. Here is where the greatest villains Heaven has ever faced since Lucifer. Here is where their empty husk rest for all eternity, suspended in glass casing, their beauty untouched by time. Engraved in the white marble archway a passage from a Hebrew myth. “Here crouch the gigantic fallen angels in silent and everlasting despair,” The song of the monks of the order of saint Haurvatat can be heard every Sunday. Their melodic voices filling all seven Heavens with the urge to praise more than they would every other day.

The prince was greeted at the gate by a demon on his left and an angel on his right.

“Welcome.” Said the demon.

“Why have you come to Mathey my friend?” asked the angel. The prince blinked and shook himself out of shock. He pulled his bag on to his shoulder. “I-I've come to join the order and pay my respects to the hall of penance.” He said slowly. The smiles on their faces dropped a little.

“I see.” Said the demon, “My name is Icarous and this is my brother, Raahel, we shall be your escorts to the hall.” he said sternly.

“Your hands please.” Said Raahel quietly. The prince held out his hands an arrogant smirk on his face as the angel enclosed his wrist in gold bracelets with sigils that bind all form of magic.

“Nothing personal, just safety precautions.” Said Icarous. “By the way friend, we have yet to hear your name.”

“My name?” The prince chuckled. They nodded. “You can call me Vincent Gean Wae.”

“Gentlemen.” Someone said from behind the odd pair. They turned and bowed a low sweeping bow to `the tall angel', Sandalphon himself.

“They need some more hands in the kitchen. I'll tend to our guest.” He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he did. For an abbot or whatever the title is that is given to the head of a monastery, he kept a clean appearance, though he was a mere shadow of the angel he was during the Great War. His auburn locks had turned white. His firm tan skin had grown wrinkled and fragile. But his eyes still held onto their piercing sea green. The lesser monks bowed and hurried off to the kitchen. Sandalphon put his hand lightly on the prince's back, pushing him gently into the direction of the hall of penance.

“So you've come to be a monk?” he smiled. “May I ask why?”

“I was done a great wrong to.” He stared unseeingly in front of him. He couldn't see the beautiful hillsides of the monastery. “I have lusted, lusted after the thought of revenge to the point where I was almost driven insane.” All he saw was red. “I would have taken great pleasure in destroying the person.” He was shaking, chuckling darkly to himself. Sandalphon eyed him sceptically, his smile now uneasy.

“Careful my friend, revenge can be a powerful mistress, and it's good that you have come here.” He grabbed Vincent's shoulder bringing their walk to a brief stop.

“Here we are; the hall of penance.” Sandalphon held out his arm, an open invitation for Vincent to go first. Chills ran up and down his spine as he took it all in at once. He was like a dewy eyed boy in a candy shop. All of the hero's in Hell, were here in this neutral territory, strung up like tapestries. He shook his head woefully.

“Such a waste.”

“Hm yes. Each of these angels had the potential to be great.” Sandalphon walked down the dark entrance hall. “This is the hall of the grigori. The grigori were-”

“The sons of God who mated with the daughters of eve. The creators of Nephilim so to speak.” The prince smiled. Sandalphon smiled faintly.

“You know of the grigori?”

“Of course, Salamiel, the ruling prince-” he motioned to the `living statue' to the far left where Salamiel hung. “-Is my idle. Or at least was until you all got your hands on him.” They came to a stop in a circular atrium.

“An odd one to idolize but to each his own. Do you know of this one?” He scowled slightly, motioning to the glass prison ahead of him. The prince looked at the silver plate on the glass.

“Belial?” He blurted out; he looked at the body, astonished. In the time he'd been `sleeping', had this unfortunate fate befallen one of the nine princes of Hell?

“Mmm, yes, his name in Hebrew means worthless, which is exactly what he is. He was so lazy and disrespectful.” Sandalphon crossed his arms. “Actually if you look closely, all of the angels in this room represent the deadliest of sins. Most are just favashi, a problem the Powers are working to correct. Belial for sloth, Beleth for wrath, Asmodeus for envy, Jensel for lust-”

“Lust? No, not lust. Jensel, Jensel, he loved her with all his heart.” Vincent whispered; touching the glass in which Jensel's body was encased. He smiled faintly, remembering the smile Jensel always had when he spoke of her.

“Did you know him?”

“You could say that.” He turned away from the glass prison, turning to face Sandalphon, hardness in his eyes.

“My, my, you're quiet worldly aren't you?” Sandalphon glanced at him then looked up at Jensel. “Well, we have much to discuss. Come along, you can see the rest of the hall when you've become an apprentice monk.”

“Of course.” Vincent smiled and followed.

Sandalphon's office was simple but elegant, matching his personality. Vincent sat on the other side of the white and gold desk at the far end of the room. The evening sun pouring through the two massive windows behind the desk.

“Well first off there is the matter of your vow of silence. For a year, you must remain silent to show that you are devout to whatever the cost may be supporting. You'll be expected to pull your weight with the chores and come to mass daily.”

“Of course.” Vincent nodded.

“Good, it's settled then.”
“Not quiet. I have some questions.”

“Like?”

“What spell have you used to make this place so... peaceful? It's sickening to see angels and demons coexisting in such, such harmony.”

“Sickening? More like a miracle. These beings have given up violence and can live together peacefully. It's beautiful.”
“It's unnatural.” Vincent grimaced, shifting in his seat. Sandalphon smiled.

“You'll grow accustomed to it in time Vincent. But for the time being you must prepare for the induction ceremony. Master Sariel will attend to you. You are dismissed.” Sandalphon pursed his lips together and sifted through the paper work on his desk. Vincent sighed and excused himself to the hall. Where who-he assumed- Master Sariel was waiting.

Vincent mashed his teeth as he stepped into the hot water. It burned and sizzled against his skin as all holy water did. He sat down on the built in bench and stared at the door, trying to map out the best way to escape when he pulled off the heist two days from now. He only hoped that the masking spell would hold out for that long. The surface of the still water rippled. Vincent rolled his eyes and turned his head. It was probably one of the fat monks.

“Please stand so I may wash you.” The voice of a woman. Vincent looked at her with hungry eyes. Taking in her cascading wavy black hair, her bronze, sun kissed skin, her swan like neck and petite figure covered in white linen. The water burned her skin as well. Though it was clear she was not a demon. Her eyes were the color of mercury; red pupils with silver irises. Clearly marking her as an outcast. She was a child of a daughters and sons of God. Unlike a Nephilim, both her parents were of the same `superior species'. Her blood was thick and robust like red wine. You would think she would be the image of perfection. But when two ideal beings mate they create sin and therefore imperfection. These things are born misshapen. With unnatural features and frightening powers. They are used as slaves if they are not killed first. They are aeons.

He stared at her for a long time before standing and allowing her to wash him. His true nature began to shine through. The power of temptation. Perhaps his talent had surpassed his father's. Perhaps he didn't need words to make this girl his.

“You are clean milord.” The girl whispered into his back. Vincent turned around and grabbed her chin. She blushed furiously and looked away, his gaze far too intense.

“I am not worthy of such attention.” She said, turning away. He wrapped his arm around her stomach, resting his other hand on her collarbone, where her name was burned into her smooth skin, Hiel, the name that means to repel evil. His hand trailed up her neck, turning her head towards him. “Hiel.” He whispered in her ear, kissing the spot just below it. Her body trembled. He teased her lips with his, pulling back when she came for more. He caressed her deeply, smiling all the while on the inside. He had her now.
Vincent pulled on his shirt, the holy water still sizzling on his flesh. Hiel lay quietly a few feet away, sleeping. He smiled as he gazed upon her naked body once more. Before leaving Vincent caught sight of his reflection in the water. It was of his real self, the regal face and long black hair. The image flickered and returned back to the guise. He sucked his teeth, knowing now that he had to get out tonight. He opened the door and pushed past Sandalphon, who was waiting outside the door. He caught hold of Vincent's arm.

“What in God's name do you think you're doing?” he whispered harshly.

“Going to my quarters.” Vincent smirked.

“You know damn well what I mean! We take celibacy very seriously in this Order!”

“Did you like what you saw? Did it get you hot or is it against the rules for one so high and mighty to par take in the pleasure of the flesh, even if it is he himself that is doing the pleasuring.” Vincent smirked.

“Hold your tongue or I'll cut it out! Some monks overheard you and-and that jezebel and reported to me immediately as they should have!”

“How was I supposed to know she was a screamer?” he chuckled.

“This kind of behavior is unacceptable. I will have to ask you to leave.” Sandalphon said stiffly.

“Okay. But answer me two questions before I go. Correct me if I'm wrong, but the place with the most spiritual energy in England is London, right?”

“Yes.”

“And the point in which that energy is most potent would be at a rather overbearing hospital called Guardian general hospital correct?”

“That is.”

“Thank you. I'm sorry things didn't work out. It was a pleasure making your acquaintance. I hope we meet again.”

“If we do, it'll be too soon.” Sandalphon growled as he let go of Vincent. He passed through the halls with a small smile on his face.

The evening bell tolled for mass. Vincent hid in the shadows of the cathedral, staring at the hall of penance across the lawn.

“Brother Vincent, aren't you coming to Mass?” Raahel asked, approaching him from the main flow of monks entering the church. Vincent pulled him into the shadows and kneed him in the stomach, slamming his head into the side of the church. Raahel's body folded to the ground.

“I'm not your brother, you filthy angel.” He spat. He darted stealthily across the yard and into the hall. He jogged pass the living statues, straight to the one that unjustly stood for lust.

“Hello old friend.” He touched the glass. He bit his lower lip and began to pummel it until his knuckles began to bleed. And still the glass did not yield. He let out of cry of frustration and struck the glass once more. It shattered; Jensel's suspended body came toppling into his arms as an alarm sounded.

“God! For an empty shell, you're damned heavy!” Vincent growled, staggering under Jensel's dead weight. He twisted and sprang into a run.

“You there! Stop!” a monk yelled, holding out his arms as if to bar Vincent's way.

“No comments from the peanut gallery!” he yelled, kicking the man in the face. He smiled when he saw the gate coming up. “Home free.” He whispered. He grunted, caught off guard when someone grabbed him by the hair and pulled back hard. He screamed as he was blinded by holy water. He dropped Jensel's body and began to rub at his eyes feverishly.

“FUCK!” he yelled. Sandalphon kicked him hard in the stomach.

“Watch your mouth!” he growled, tossing the empty flask of holy water away.

“What's wrong with you?” Vincent yelled blinking rapidly. Sandalphon grabbed his hair and pulled back hard. He pressed a cross to Vincent's forehead. Repressing a smile when Vincent screamed as his flesh boiled. But something went wrong. Vincent's red hair turned black and long, his face now all too familiar. The cross turned to ash in his hand. Sandalphon jumped back.

“Lucifer!” He gasped, horrified.

“AAAAA'NNNNTTTT! WRONG ANSWER! Care to try again- oh sorry, we're out of time! Thanks for playing.” He chuckled darkly, glaring up at the old saint.

“Who are you?! Why've you come here?!” Sandalphon yelled, his voice broken, for once he sounded his age. Old and fragile.

“I told you why I've come here! Even my name gives me away!”

“Vincent Gean Wae?”

“I WANT VENGEANCE!” he cackled, pulling Jensel into his lap. “As for who I am; I'm ghost!” he winked, before pressing the detonator in his pocket. It sent a signal to his bag, which he left in the bathhouse next to the sleeping Hiel. The basement of the monastery erupted with a defining bang into an inferno. And in that instant of distraction, he disappeared. The favashi fell limp on the ground, a doll once more. Sandalphon stared into the dancing flames, trying his hardest to bite back on the ones building up inside him.

 

Davis Page 177 FALLEN