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lt_safe_house2009-10-21 12:49 pm
misterbkeele.livejournal.com) wrote in lt_safe_house2009-10-21 12:49 pm
Entry tags:
Remembering the war.
Date: April 4, 2003, wee hours of the morning
Status: Private (Baraq) (Complete)
Setting: Baraq's room, 2nd floor
Summary: Barnaby's sleep is troubled.
He had wanted to stay up, but between the worry and the exhaustion from the trip and the comfortingly mindless buzz of the radio, he nodded off in the armchair. A paperback book slid off his lap to thump on the carpet.
In the blackest time of the witching hour, Baraq slept and dreamed.
The air thrummed with the beat and rhythm of war.
To be on the high rooftops was a foolish thing, in a battle where soldiers fought as readily in the sky as on ground, but it was more dangerous to be among the streets. There were shadowy nooks and hidden crannies there, and even those on your side might strike before they recognized you. Better to gather here, where an assault would have to come in the open.
The angels huddled close to each other. Their wings hung slack, feathers making secret shushing noises on the marble. Two of them stood by the parapets, watching.
One said, "Is this all that you could find?" He held a notched sword with the uncertain grip of someone unused to the weight.
"All that were in this part of the City," said his companion. "There might be more, hiding. I found Geriel, but he said to leave him be, he wasn't going to take sides—Barachiel, what's going to happen to him?"
"I don't know. It's going to be okay. Don't worry."
They were interrupted by a cherub with a long ropey scar across his chest. He spoke in an undertone. "We should move soon. I've managed to arm some of us, but if there are any organized contingents out there, we'll be cut down."
"You haven't armed yourself," said Selaphiel, the shorter angel. "Where have you been finding weapons, Suphiel? It's not safe to wander."
Suphiel harrumphed, leaning on the railing. "I cry foul scorn on any rebel that thinks I'm an easy target unarmed. No, Barachiel, keep your blade. I mean it, unless you're expecting more, we need to go."
Shaking his head, Selaphiel began to say something, but stopped when a figure appeared over the opposite edge of the roof, wings beating the air once, twice, before landing. His face lit up.
"Matael! We haven't seen you since the fighting began! I was afraid you'd—"
"Not to worry, friend." The newcomer smiled as he approached. A stained dagger was thrust through his belt. "Why do you hide here? There are more of us at the eastern colonnades. Come join us."
"Has Michael assembled the Host, then?" Suphiel fingered his healing scar, and Barachiel gave him a look of concern. Despite his talk, the wound was deep and recent, and none of them had the strength to heal it entirely.
Matael's eyes clouded. "Not that I know of, but if we band together, surely that will not matter. There are more of us assembled than ever the archangels can muster. We will win this War and change their minds."
Silence met his words. At last, Barachiel spoke. "What are you talking about?"
"Why—we're fighting for our rights, aren't we? We've seen the truth that the rest of Heaven is blind to."
"Please tell me," Selaphiel said, slowly, "Tell me you haven't been listening to the—the Light-Bearer."
"Of course I have! I thought you..." He trailed off.
The four stared at each other in unhappy comprehension. The others gathered on the roof were moving away, muttering to each other.
"I cannot believe it," Suphiel whispered. "You would go against the Lord?"
Matael coloured, and snapped, "The Lord plans to have us cower before creatures of dust. As if we meant so little to Him! Are you so stupid to not see? Oh, Selaphiel," he said, "won't you listen to me? You must see reason..."
But his friend was shaking his head and backing away. Suphiel steadied himself on Barachiel's shoulder, so only he could hear the cherub's laboured breathing. "We do not question His work," he said. "You are the one who is blind, Matael. The eastern colonnades are near to the edge of the City, aren't they? Have the rebels allied themselves with what lives in the dark? What are they planning?"
"What do you think I am?" Matael hissed. "I won't betray their trust."
"Oh? What do you care? You've already betrayed the Presence. What honour do you have left to squander?"
The angel gave a strangled cry and lunged, dagger raised.
Barachiel knew what happened next: He would rush forward to stave Matael off. The knife to his shoulder would sear through his mind like a blast of wind, even as he raised the sword he had been hastily trained with. He would score a lucky blow to an enemy too maddened to react, and shudder later at the sensation of metal biting through muscle and grinding on bone. They would be picked up by one of Gabriel's scouts and taken to safety.
Instead, the dagger tore Suphiel across the face. He screamed—and oh, the choking gurgle of that noise, you would curse your ears before you had to hear it— and swept one great wing at his foe, knocking Matael off the rooftop.
As the angel fell, he grasped Barachiel's shoulders and wrenched him off his feet with a sudden unnatural strength, and they plummeted.
His hands, he thought, his hands. No longer smooth and ageless, but iron-hard and knotted.
Matael gave him a bright wild grin, the light glinting off his teeth and serpent's scales, and drove the first iron nail through his wings.
Baraq woke up curled on the floor. His jaw ached, clamped shut against crying out.
He stumbled to the adjoining bathroom and, fully clothed, ducked his head under the shower. After five minutes under a jet of icy water, he could almost forget. Just enough to get into bed, hair dripping, and lie awake until dawn.
Status: Private (Baraq) (Complete)
Setting: Baraq's room, 2nd floor
Summary: Barnaby's sleep is troubled.
He had wanted to stay up, but between the worry and the exhaustion from the trip and the comfortingly mindless buzz of the radio, he nodded off in the armchair. A paperback book slid off his lap to thump on the carpet.
In the blackest time of the witching hour, Baraq slept and dreamed.
The air thrummed with the beat and rhythm of war.
To be on the high rooftops was a foolish thing, in a battle where soldiers fought as readily in the sky as on ground, but it was more dangerous to be among the streets. There were shadowy nooks and hidden crannies there, and even those on your side might strike before they recognized you. Better to gather here, where an assault would have to come in the open.
The angels huddled close to each other. Their wings hung slack, feathers making secret shushing noises on the marble. Two of them stood by the parapets, watching.
One said, "Is this all that you could find?" He held a notched sword with the uncertain grip of someone unused to the weight.
"All that were in this part of the City," said his companion. "There might be more, hiding. I found Geriel, but he said to leave him be, he wasn't going to take sides—Barachiel, what's going to happen to him?"
"I don't know. It's going to be okay. Don't worry."
They were interrupted by a cherub with a long ropey scar across his chest. He spoke in an undertone. "We should move soon. I've managed to arm some of us, but if there are any organized contingents out there, we'll be cut down."
"You haven't armed yourself," said Selaphiel, the shorter angel. "Where have you been finding weapons, Suphiel? It's not safe to wander."
Suphiel harrumphed, leaning on the railing. "I cry foul scorn on any rebel that thinks I'm an easy target unarmed. No, Barachiel, keep your blade. I mean it, unless you're expecting more, we need to go."
Shaking his head, Selaphiel began to say something, but stopped when a figure appeared over the opposite edge of the roof, wings beating the air once, twice, before landing. His face lit up.
"Matael! We haven't seen you since the fighting began! I was afraid you'd—"
"Not to worry, friend." The newcomer smiled as he approached. A stained dagger was thrust through his belt. "Why do you hide here? There are more of us at the eastern colonnades. Come join us."
"Has Michael assembled the Host, then?" Suphiel fingered his healing scar, and Barachiel gave him a look of concern. Despite his talk, the wound was deep and recent, and none of them had the strength to heal it entirely.
Matael's eyes clouded. "Not that I know of, but if we band together, surely that will not matter. There are more of us assembled than ever the archangels can muster. We will win this War and change their minds."
Silence met his words. At last, Barachiel spoke. "What are you talking about?"
"Why—we're fighting for our rights, aren't we? We've seen the truth that the rest of Heaven is blind to."
"Please tell me," Selaphiel said, slowly, "Tell me you haven't been listening to the—the Light-Bearer."
"Of course I have! I thought you..." He trailed off.
The four stared at each other in unhappy comprehension. The others gathered on the roof were moving away, muttering to each other.
"I cannot believe it," Suphiel whispered. "You would go against the Lord?"
Matael coloured, and snapped, "The Lord plans to have us cower before creatures of dust. As if we meant so little to Him! Are you so stupid to not see? Oh, Selaphiel," he said, "won't you listen to me? You must see reason..."
But his friend was shaking his head and backing away. Suphiel steadied himself on Barachiel's shoulder, so only he could hear the cherub's laboured breathing. "We do not question His work," he said. "You are the one who is blind, Matael. The eastern colonnades are near to the edge of the City, aren't they? Have the rebels allied themselves with what lives in the dark? What are they planning?"
"What do you think I am?" Matael hissed. "I won't betray their trust."
"Oh? What do you care? You've already betrayed the Presence. What honour do you have left to squander?"
The angel gave a strangled cry and lunged, dagger raised.
Barachiel knew what happened next: He would rush forward to stave Matael off. The knife to his shoulder would sear through his mind like a blast of wind, even as he raised the sword he had been hastily trained with. He would score a lucky blow to an enemy too maddened to react, and shudder later at the sensation of metal biting through muscle and grinding on bone. They would be picked up by one of Gabriel's scouts and taken to safety.
Instead, the dagger tore Suphiel across the face. He screamed—and oh, the choking gurgle of that noise, you would curse your ears before you had to hear it— and swept one great wing at his foe, knocking Matael off the rooftop.
As the angel fell, he grasped Barachiel's shoulders and wrenched him off his feet with a sudden unnatural strength, and they plummeted.
His hands, he thought, his hands. No longer smooth and ageless, but iron-hard and knotted.
Matael gave him a bright wild grin, the light glinting off his teeth and serpent's scales, and drove the first iron nail through his wings.
Baraq woke up curled on the floor. His jaw ached, clamped shut against crying out.
He stumbled to the adjoining bathroom and, fully clothed, ducked his head under the shower. After five minutes under a jet of icy water, he could almost forget. Just enough to get into bed, hair dripping, and lie awake until dawn.