Thursday, July 14, 2011

Chapter 8, pp 72-74

Chapter 8

Finsternis opened his eyes to see Bayarma holding a plate of vegetables over rice. It smelled delightful. He sat up, accepted the plate and opened his mouth to speak, but Bayarma put one finger over her mouth and gestured with the other hand.

Finsternis looked over to see Lucia asleep, sitting up, head tilted onto the overstuffed arm of the couch, scarlet curls spilling over her cheek. He took a bite of food, swallowed and whispered, “Did she eat?”

Bayarma shrugged. “Enough to keep an old woman from force feeding her.”

He smiled around another mouthful of food. “You would have done it, too, I am sure.”

Bayarma looked at the pictures covering the wall and smiled, pictures of smiling children, smiling adults, smiling adults holding smiling children, every smile a twin to Bayarma’s own. “I have dealt with more than my fair share of stubborn children, you know.”

“I cannot imagine where they got it from,” remarked Finsternis around another mouthful of food.

“Don’t even try to tell me that’s polite in Hell,” scolded Bayarma. “The archangel, what was he like?”

Finsternis put down his plate, no longer hungry. He did not really need to eat. As the direct descendent of archdemons, shadows were sustenance enough for him, he simply enjoyed the food, but thinking of Israfel did nothing for his appetite. “Israfel is odd. None of the others’ arrogance or pride. He was quite polite, actually. He even said my name, properly, in demonspeak.”

Bayarma’s eyes widened. “Really. What did he want, this Israfel?”

“I do not believe even he knew.” Bayarma’s eyes narrowed. She was likely irritated at being put to sleep through the visit. It was one thing to know that one was vulnerable to angelic powers, another entirely to experience it. “I am not withholding anything, Bayarma. He truly did not seem to know. Lucia may have figured it out, though.”

Bayarma smiled gently at Lucia. “Quite the clever girl, our nephalim. What did she figure out?”

Finsternis sighed, ran his hands through his hair. “She believes that we have been missing opportunities hidden in the apocalypses by the archdemons.”

“She believes the archdemons  caused the apocalypses, not Yhwh?”

“Yes. Israfel seemed to agree.” Finsternis could not help but like the gentle, diffident Archangel of Music, although it chafed to admit it, even to himself.

What had Loki seen in Israfel? The human legends left over from a time when archdemons walked the Earth openly were warped reflections of the truth, but the humans had caught the essence of the archdemons, preserved more accurately in Hell’s history: quick tempered, possessed of wicked humor, combining a harsh sense of justice with a complete lack of patience. Such had not always worked out well for the humans and they remembered the archdemons as trickster gods at best, to be worshipped, but not to be trusted.

So what had a hot-tempered archdemon seen in a gentle archangel whose only purpose was to create and inspire music? Perhaps it had been the music itself. Finsternis was the Dark Prince because he was the most direct descendent of Loki, and he alone amongst the demons had overwhelming love of music—

Every piece of glass in the apartment, all the windows, the pictures, cups and little decorative baubles, exploded at once. Physics held no sway over the shards, some of them buried themselves into drywall and fabric like missiles, others floated lazily in the air like fog over a lake. Bayarma crouched on the floor, head tucked between her knees, arms over her head. Finsternis did not notice, he was too intent on memories of Israfel singing his name, Israfel commenting that he looked like Loki, Israfel so very concerned about his health.

“He lied.”

“Israfel? About what?” asked Lucia, her voice deeper and gravely with sleep. “Hi, Bayarma, what are you doing down there? What is that?” Lucia pushed a floating shard of glass with a finger, eyes widening with delight when it bobbed in the air like a bath toy floating in water. “That is so cool!”

“That is so sharp,” retorted Bayarma, carefully standing up, gently sweeping floating shards of glass out of her way, with her forearm, the thick fabric of her bright orange shirt providing her protection.

Lucia plucked a shard out of the air and inspected it. “Is this glass?”

“Yes, Finsternis seems to have a bit of an accident,” said Bayarma sharply.

“I do apologize. That is not under my control,” said Finsternis. “Even if Hell contained silica, we would not make anything out of glass.”

After throwing the shard of glass up in the air and watching it fall to the ground normally, Lucia asked, “What is this all about?”

Finsternis shifted uncomfortably. While neither human would know it, a purple’s inability to control their occasional effects on physics was on the same level as a human sneezing and spewing out mucus on a bystander. No demon would discuss it, though children found it very amusing. “The archdemons could affect the laws of physics in this plane and in Hell, bend them to their will. As the descendents of archdemons, purples can do so as well, but not consciously. It is . . . involuntary.”

“Oh, so you basically just burped at a fancy dinner party?” asked Lucia.

“Yes, not that demons burp,” replied Finsternis.

Lucia patted his arm again. He could feel her skin through the fabric of his shirt. She smelled like flowers in a forgotten meadow. “It’s okay. Nobody’s perfect. If it makes you feel any better, I cannot see this as anything but impressive no matter how you see it.” She tossed her hair back out of face and grinned.

Just like that all the glass in the room fell to the floor.

Lucia’s eyes opened with wonder and she poked at the glass on the floor with one sandal. Finsternis studied her. She had changed from her blood-soaked dress into a long green dress, tight around her breasts, falling away from her body from tiny pleats under the bodice. The contrast between the dark green and her pale skin was heightened by her vermillion curls and scarlet eyes. This is was an archangel’s get, he reassured himself. He himself was purely demon, no relation to the Archangel of Music. He would have felt better if not for his own love of music, if not for Lucia’s pointed ears, poking out from her hair.

Finsternis put it out of his mind. He had no time for such things now. Perhaps he could think on it later. Or never. “I truly am sorry, Bayarma.”

The old woman waved her hand dismissively. “I can fix the windows and buy more cups, Finsternis. More shadowbalm is another story. Try to stay out of trouble.”

Lucia giggled. Finsternis tried a quelling stare, well known and feared in Hell, but she smiled wider and said, “Can’t very well stay out of what you’re made of.” Finsternis rolled his eyes. He did not expect from Lucia the deference he received in Hell, but being the butt of a homespun aphorism delivered in a particularly syrupy drawl was a bit much.

Still, Lucia was smiling, which was a pleasant change, so Finsternis restrained himself to a huff and put his boots on. He stood and performed a bow as showy as any archangel’s, minus the reference to wings he did not have, pulling Bayarma up with him as he rose. “Thank you for your hospitality, Bayarma. Be well.”

To his surprise, Bayarma reached up and kissed cheeks. “Be well, Demon Prince. May you find now what you seek, but what you need.”

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Chapter 7, pp 69-71

The three settled into glum silence. Even the sparks, visible only to Lucia, looked defeated. Finally, Lucia asked, “Do you really think that permanent imbalance was the archdemons’ only plan?”

Israfel considered his perfectly buffed nails. “What do you mean?”

“From what I understand, the archdemons’ sacrifice ended open warfare between Heaven and Hell. Do you think that was their only goal?” asked Lucia.

Finsternis frowned, arched brows drawing together, eyes glowing as he watched Israfel think back eons to consider the motives of those long dead.

Finally, Israfel shook his head. “Ultimately, no, I do not believe that a stalemate was Loki’s entire plan. She was too clever for that, cared too much for her people, for the humans whose lives were chaos and torment caught between Heaven and Hell as they were.”

Finsternis jabbed a finger at Israfel, nearly tumbling off the couch. “Now I know you are a liar, archangel. Why would an archdemon care for these, these- these—“ he waved his arm weakly, “brutes?”

“Their souls are filled with music, Finsternis, they cannot be all bad,” replied Israfel gently.

“So, Loki had another plan?” asked Lucia.

“Possibly, but it obviously did not work or she never got the chance to put it into motion,” said Israfel.

“How do you know that?”

“For one thing, Little Light, here you sit, yet another nephalim righting yet another apocalypse,” said Finsternis dryly.

Lucia turned to him, fixed him with her most determined stare. “And how do you know that isn’t part of the plan? Maybe you’ve just been doing your part wrong all these years.”

Finsternis growled, the multitonal assonance clinging to the shadows around them. Lucia held his gaze, refusing to back down. She knew she was on to something, she just didn’t know what yet.

“Um,” Israfel tried to get their attention. “I have a thought? It might interest you?” He was clearly torn between a desire to hide under the couch and stop the coming conflagration before he got caught up in it.

“Yes?” “Yeah?” Neither Lucia nor Finsternis would look away first.

Israfel sighed, a weary bassoon. “Fine. I have wondered if these apocalypses are actually something Ywhw plans, or if they are something He reacts to.”

Lucia and Finsternis turned to look at him at once. “Really? Why?” asked Finsternis just as Lucia said, “Rushing around.”

“Yes, there is an air of desperation to Heaven at these times. Everyone rushing about, it is not the sort of perfect order typical of Yhwh,” explained Israfel.

“So maybe the apocalypses themselves are the design of the archdemons,” said Lucia.

“That cannot be. We do not ever win, we merely put the threat off until the next time,” replied Finsternis.

“Maybe you are doing something wrong,” offered Israfel diffidently.

Finsternis showed fangs in a rumbling snarl, and Lucia patted his arm soothingly. “Israfel’s not accusing you of anything, Finsternis. He knows you do your best for your people. How could you know what to do? Loki didn’t leave instructions.”

“Yes! No! Of course I do not fault you!” protested Israfel, cowering back into the loveseat. “Your devotion to the demonry sings even in the heights of Heaven.”

“It is so nice of Heaven to notice,” sneered Finsternis. Lucia glared at him. “Fine, fine, I apologize. This exhaustion makes me—“ he finished in demonspeak, leaning heavily on Lucia’s shoulder.

She looked at Israfel. “There is no direct translation for that in English, hmmm, perhaps ‘snappy’?” He shook his head. “No. ‘Bitey’? Is that a word?”

Lucia laughed. “No, but I get the point. I suppose if you have a mouthful of fangs, you have a lot of words for that sort of thing.”

“No doubt.” Israfel stood and swung his cloak over his shoulders. “I will leave and allow you your rest, Finsternis. Before I go, I will tell what concerns me.”

Finsternis’ eyelids were fluttering shut. “What is it?” he mumbled.

“A female nephalim is not a natural creature, not even by the standards of such things. I have no idea how Lucifer managed it, and more to the point, I have no idea why he would do such a thing. Unless you think it possible the Morningstar is flailing about at random—“ Israfel paused and Finsternis shook his head. “I do not think so, either.”

Israfel bowed deeply, holding his cloak out on either side like wings, and walked silently out of the room. Finsternis was already asleep, head pillowed on Lucia’s lap.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Chapter 7, pp 65-68

In her  apartment above the shop, Bayarma sat Finsternis on the bright orange couch and presented him with a red clay jar stopped with black wax. Removing the wax released what Lucia could only describe as living shadows that coursed up his hands and onto his face. Finsternis’ eyelids fluttered, his eyes went black and he passed out. Lucia helped Bayarma take off his heavy combat boots and lay him out on the couch. Bayarma went to the kitchen at the front of the apartment with the promise of a meal Lucia couldn’t contemplate eating. It seemed wrong to be hungry after bashing a woman’s head in.

Asleep, Finsternis’ face lost its slyness, the look that seemed to say he had a secret he wasn’t going to share and it was hilarious. He didn’t look innocent by any means, rather he looked serious, full of noble purpose.

“He looks like a king,” Lucia said softly.

“He is one, no matter what he pretends,” came a musical voice from behind her.

Lucia whirled around to face what was surely an archangel, and not a fallen one like Lucifer. His features were regular and unremarkable, rendered truly beautiful by silver eyes ringed in black. His skin was smooth, but his face had the gravitas of age. His hair, hanging past his shoulders in soft waves, was a shimmery light silver that seemed to glow from within. His white, high collared silk coat emphasized his lithe build, and slim white pants tucked into high white boots emphasized his height. A white velvet cloak lined with pale silver silk dangled from long, elegant fingers.

Lucia fumbled with the locket sitting heavily on her chest. Bayarma had insisted upon washing it and returning it to Lucia even prior to dealing with Finsternis’ injuries.

The archangel eyed the locket curiously and made no move. “I have no idea what that is supposed to be, but it is not necessary.” His words flowed and lilted like a Stradivarius played by a master.

“What have you done to Bayarma?” demanded Lucia.

His eyes flicked to the side, towards the kitchen. “If you mean the woman in the orange shirt, she is merely sleeping.” He stepped into the living room and draped his cloak over the cobalt blue loveseat, then executed a courtly bow with such grace, Lucia felt as if she were breathing clumsily. “I am the archangel Israfel.”

Lucia thought for a moment. “You inspire music written for the glory of the Lord, right?” Compared to his, Lucia’s voice was the cawing of a hoarse crow.

Israfel smiled, the lines of his face settling into something immensely appealing. “Yes, I am impressed, my dear, so few on this plane know me anymore.” He made a playfully offended face.

Lucia couldn’t help smiling back, though her teeth were a travesty in comparison to his. “Honestly, I never thought studying the angels would come in handy.” Her smile died when she recalled Finsternis behind her. There was no way of knowing how long he would stay asleep, although she could guess his reaction if he woke up in the same room with an archangel. “Why are you here?”

Israfel sighed like a melancholy cello. “Everyone is in such a hurry. You, the Dark Prince, Lucifer, Gabriel, Yhwh Himself. No one takes the time to consider, to see all the sides and angles, to ponder reactions and consequences.

“I don’t think you want to be here when the Dark Prince wakes up,” said Lucia.

After taking a moment to seriously consider the matter, Israfel shook his head mournfully, shimmering waves brushing against his silk coat in a barely heard harmony. “I suppose not, though I cannot see why the Dark Prince should have any enmity for me. I wish him no harm.”

Lucia stared at him. Was he serious, trying to trick her or were archangels subject to some form of Alzheimers? “You’re an archangel.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Israfel waved a hand dismissively, the graceful gesture its own beautiful dance.

Lucia had the feeling that she the Archangel of Music were having two different conversations, just tangentially related enough to seem connected. “Okay, back to the beginning. You’re an archangel?” Israfel nodded. “You’re not fallen?” He nodded with a moue of distaste. “Are you my uncle?”

That surprised Israfel. He drew back, opened his mouth, then thought about it while biting his lip. Finally, he shrugged. “I suppose I am, though I had never thought about it before. Hmmm.” He paused again, clearly giving the question more thought. “Angels and archangels do not truly have families the way demons and humans do. We are all created by Yhwh, not born,” he said the word as if it tasted bad, “but I was made in the same batch as Lucifer. So, yes, you could call me your uncle.”

Israfel was long-winded and fey, deferential, almost timid, and Lucia was sure he wouldn’t get to the point before Finsternis woke up, but she was charmed by him nonetheless. Israfel had none of Lucifer’s arrogance, none of the angels’ single-minded viciousness, none of the demons’ quick tempers. Lucia thought he would be the perfect companion to an awkward family function, charming and unaffected enough to make everything go smoothly.


“Well, if I am your uncle, then so are Azrael, Asmodeus, Raguel, Ramiel and Uriel. As to the aunts, well,” he frowned, “there are no female angels. I am quite astonished to find myself in possession of a niece rather than a nephew.”

“Gabriel isn’t an equal to Lucifer?” Lucia asked.

Israfel laughed, the glissando of a perfectly tuned harp. “No, though I would not say so anywhere Gabriel could hear. He was made after Lucifer defected to replace him. As a replacement, Gabriel was made to lack the ability, the desire even, to disobey our Master.”

Lucia shivered. Even dogs could conceive of and carry out disobedience. It was chilling to consider a self aware creature that could not. “Why not just make a robot?”

Israfel inclined his head. “I would use the word ‘golem’, but I have had the same thought. Gabriel proves us right every day. He is vicious with a desire for that which he cannot desire.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Lucia hated to cut the conversation short, but time was never on her side anymore.

Israfel shrugged again. “I am not sure why I am here.” He put up a hand to forestall Lucia’s outburst. “I need to make you, or more precisely, the Dark Prince, aware of a few things. I do not doubt that these things are significant, I am just not sure how or why.” He gave her an apologetic smile. “No one discusses battles or war strategy with the Archangel of Music.”

“No, I suppose they would not,” said Finsternis weakly. Israfel went grey, his eyes showing white all around. Lucia braced herself and turned to Finsternis. He was struggling to prop himself up on his elbows. The skin of his face and hands was no longer blackened, but he looked haggard and worn.

Israfel stood and bowed again, more deeply than before. “Dark Prince,” Finsternis flinched, “I am Israfel, Archangel of Music.” His face was all concern. “What happened to you, if I may ask?”

A balky look flashed across Finsternis’ face, then he sighed. “Brass. We ran into agents equipped with brass.”

Anger sat uneasily on Israfel’s face. “A cruel thing. How long ago?”

“Twenty, twenty-five minutes ago,” said Lucia.

“You need more sleep, Dark Prince,” scolded Israfel as Finsternis flinched again.

“Please stop calling me that,” said Finsternis. “I am known as Finsternis.”

“Known as? That’s not your name?” asked Lucia. Israfel was clearly having difficulty suppressing laughter. “What?” For Lucia, this was too close to the first five years after she left the cocoon of fundamentalism. Every social situation, whether at work, at play, or at the grocery store, was one awkward missed cultural reference after another. Lucia had grown up in churches, listening to worship music, reading the Bible and Elsie Dinsmore and never seeing a single movie. Her mother had owned a TV, but it was on only during the 700 Club.

While Lucia’s contemporaries were watching Saturday morning cartoons, music videos on MTV, Ghostbusters and The Breakfast Club, Lucia was memorizing Bible verses and striving to match the weepy perfection of a 19th Century fictional character. Filling in the holes in her education had been a monumental task, especially when it came to science, but no amount of effort could make up for coming from an entirely different American culture. Lucia had learned to laugh and nod and reference cultural touchstones she had never seen or heard well enough to avoid embarrassment, but she feared moments such as these when her ignorance was revealed and mocked.

Fortunately, Finsternis took pity on her. “Why would she know, archangel?” he chided Israfel. “’Finsternis’ is German for ‘darkness’. Humans cannot reproduce demonspeak and angels will not do so, so demons choose a name from one of the human languages, always a word for darkness or fire.”

“Oh. I didn’t think of that.” Lucia felt stupid. She’d heard Finsternis speak in his native tongue, she should have realized Finsternis wasn’t his name.

He turned to Israfel. “What is it I need to know?”

Israfel sat back down. Both he and Finsternis looked at Lucia expectantly. She crossed her arms and leaned back against the wall. She didn’t want to be closer than she had to be to the crackling tension between the two. She squinted. The air actually was crackling between them, throwing off purple and white sparks like crazed lightning bugs.

Israfel took a deep breath. “Where to begin?” Finsternis sighed again. Perhaps he was too tired to snap at the archangel, or perhaps he, too, recognized Israfel’s inherently gentle nature. Concern knitted Israfel’s brows. “Yes, briefly, but there are things the archdemons knew it appears you do not. I believe you need to know them—“ he ended on a warbling howl that switched to an arpeggio of growls. Finsternis’ jaw dropped and Israfel grinned.

“Was that your name?” asked Lucia.

Finsternis nodded, his hair falling in front of suddenly glowing eyes.

“Did I say it right?” asked Israfel nervously. Finsternis nodded again. “You may have been given the impression that we are too proud to speak your ‘barbaric’ tongue, but the truth is that demonspeak is difficult for archangels to reproduce properly, and angels cannot do it at all.”

“Thank you,” said Finsternis.

This silence was almost warm, none of them willing to break the tenuous good will. Sparks still flew in the air between demon and archangel, at least to Lucia’s eyes, but they seemed to dance rather than destroy.
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Avoiding the Apocalypse by Amaryllis Zandanel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at avoidingtheapocalypse.blogspot.com.