(no subject)
Jul. 9th, 2005 10:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
un_fallenIn the beginning was the Word.
Raguel struggles, trying to hear it in his memory over the ache in his head, the ache in what passes for a soul, for his kind.
LIVE, it had said, or maybe just BE. And a thousand million other things, too, of course, OBEY among them, and MINE. And that had been wonderful, to know exactly where he belonged, that he was wanted. And loved, perhaps. He hadn't fully appreciated it at the time.
He sits on the edge of the bed, much more comfortable than any he’s had in the last twenty years or so, and wills the bloodstains on his clothes to vanish. Slowly, very slowly, they begin to fade.
The Word had filled his consciousness, and he'd felt himself take shape in a physical form, or almost physical, and there were eyes and hands and wings.
His train of thought takes a sharp turn. Last night, in the haze of red, the haze of the Darkness, they'd promised that he could have his wings back. And he knows what voices they were and he wouldn't pay any attention, none at all, but the voices had not retreated with the Darkness. He can feel them hovering in his mind, looking for an opening. He focuses again on his memories. The Word... the Word was God.
Most of the stains have faded to a watery pink. Probably as good as he was going to get.
You could go home. You could get there.
At that he is surprised into laughter, because if he thought it was hard getting home now, he'd have a real shock coming if he took Their way out and not even Lucifer could get back and he wasn't seriously considering this, was he?
You could, they insist. You're stronger than Lucifer. You could destroy him, right now, if he was here.
He stands in order to have something else to think about, wincing a little. He’s going to have a limp for a few days, at least, and walking won’t be easy.
Neither will facing the people who frequent this bar, with all their contradictions and contrasts, but he has to get out somehow. Past a legion of otherwise sane people enamored with a demon. And an avenging Antichrist in the body of a frightened kid who’d tried to kill him. Sure.
That kid is human, mostly. Vengeance is easy with humans. And he deserves it.
Raguel steels himself and limps downstairs.
Raguel struggles, trying to hear it in his memory over the ache in his head, the ache in what passes for a soul, for his kind.
LIVE, it had said, or maybe just BE. And a thousand million other things, too, of course, OBEY among them, and MINE. And that had been wonderful, to know exactly where he belonged, that he was wanted. And loved, perhaps. He hadn't fully appreciated it at the time.
He sits on the edge of the bed, much more comfortable than any he’s had in the last twenty years or so, and wills the bloodstains on his clothes to vanish. Slowly, very slowly, they begin to fade.
The Word had filled his consciousness, and he'd felt himself take shape in a physical form, or almost physical, and there were eyes and hands and wings.
His train of thought takes a sharp turn. Last night, in the haze of red, the haze of the Darkness, they'd promised that he could have his wings back. And he knows what voices they were and he wouldn't pay any attention, none at all, but the voices had not retreated with the Darkness. He can feel them hovering in his mind, looking for an opening. He focuses again on his memories. The Word... the Word was God.
Most of the stains have faded to a watery pink. Probably as good as he was going to get.
You could go home. You could get there.
At that he is surprised into laughter, because if he thought it was hard getting home now, he'd have a real shock coming if he took Their way out and not even Lucifer could get back and he wasn't seriously considering this, was he?
You could, they insist. You're stronger than Lucifer. You could destroy him, right now, if he was here.
He stands in order to have something else to think about, wincing a little. He’s going to have a limp for a few days, at least, and walking won’t be easy.
Neither will facing the people who frequent this bar, with all their contradictions and contrasts, but he has to get out somehow. Past a legion of otherwise sane people enamored with a demon. And an avenging Antichrist in the body of a frightened kid who’d tried to kill him. Sure.
That kid is human, mostly. Vengeance is easy with humans. And he deserves it.
Raguel steels himself and limps downstairs.
