Chapter 14 #2
Uriel said nothing. The slow spread of warmth along his damaged limb was distracting and soothing, and he allowed his mind to wander while the other man burned off his emotions.
A gentle tug on his damaged arm pulled him back to attention, and he looked over to see Luce gently slicing around the shoulder of his jacket. He looked conflicted but determined.
“You’re going to lose this sleeve, I’m afraid,” he murmured, and Uriel nodded distantly.
“’Sokay,” he slurred, the stronger dose of tonic lulling him into a dreamlike fog. “I borrowedit from Jophi…”
He dipped into darkness to the sound of Lucifer chuckling, and when he bobbed back into consciousness, his sleeve was gone, and his dark skin split like paper under Luce’s steady and careful blade.
“Ow.”
Luce froze. “You can feel that?”
“No,” Uriel muttered. “Just looks painful.”
He slipped back under, and this time he stayed there.
Michael was lost in more than one sense of the word.
He wandered through the halls restlessly, without noting anything specific enough to orient himself, essentially just following his feet wherever they were heading.
He would’ve reprimanded his soldiers for acting this way—blindly wandering around alone in enemy territory? Unacceptable.
But Luce wasn’t really his enemy, was he? Even now the King himself tended to Uriel’s wounds. It was hard to imagine Jehovah doing the same for one of Lucifer’s people.
What you do for the least of these, you do for me…Michael thought bitterly.
It was a credo he had done his best to honor for centuries, and yet his King considered himself above such things. The nature of goodness was fickle in Heaven. It came with the added weight of rules and qualifications.
Zaj’s words at the welcome center came back to gnaw at him. You guys have some pretty strict policies… Wasn’t that the truth? He was so distracted by his thoughts that he almost toppled into a fountain.
“Who puts a fountain in a hallway?!” He teetered on the edge of it, bracing himself against the statue that topped the basin to regain his balance.
Lifting his head, he blinked in astonishment at the sprawl of plants and greenery unfolding around him.
He had stumbled out of the palace into the garden without even noticing.
Michael smiled; he had always felt at home in nature, especially gardens; small pockets of the world’s beauty, carefully curated and preserved for admiration.
Closing his eyes and breathing deeply in, Michael reveled in the strong smell of warm earth and the various floral scents mingling into something unidentifiably pleasant that made him feel warm and content.
It was a familiar smell, and not just because he enjoyed nature.
That specific blend of nightshade and lily, the pop of morning glories with lavender.
His eyes flew wide to confirm with his sight what his nose and his heart had already understood, and this time he let his traitorous knees bring him down to that warm dirt.
It was his Garden. The Garden. Eden, painstakingly recreated.
He laid his forehead on the cool stone of the fountain’s basin, trailing his fingers in the sun-warmed water.
In the home that Luce built after banishment to shield and protect himself; in the heart of his palace.
Even after everything that had been said and done, Luce built this same garden again.
The swirl of emotion built towards a crescendo.
His throat tightened and he lifted his head, only to fall back in shock at the sight of the statue he’d been leaning on.
His own face stared back, screwed up in a bellow of rage as he lunged for some unseen enemy, sword aloft and tears streaming freely from his eyes.
He knew this scene. He remembered the way his throat had ached from the force of his rage tearing through it.
The way the tears had felt as they dried on his face.
The simultaneous weight and reassurance of his sword in his hand.
He had never realized how terrifying and heartbroken the whole picture looked when you viewed it at once from the outside; it was like a painful mirror.
Confronted with too much stimulus and memory at once, he let his gaze drop as he hung his head and Michael wept. The soft patter of footsteps hit his ear like pebbles on a window, but he still flinched when a small hand settled between his shoulder blades.
“Mikha'el,” Mags whispered, her voice like silk but rubbing his already raw nerves like sandpaper.
“Mary,” he rasped, looking up at her with desperation. She cradled his face in her hands like a mother, the scars on her palms rubbing against his skin as she drew him in to lean against her where she perched on the fountain’s edge.
“You were not meant to see this,” she said, gently rubbing her thumbs over his temples and weaving her fingers through his curls. “This is his grieving place.”
“He made it for me.” Michael shivered reflexively. “And now because of me.”
“You have to stop carrying the burden alone, Michael.”
“The blame is mine.”
“Not only yours,” she insisted, pulling back to meet his tormented silver gaze. “You were one part of a flawed system, and you need to open yourself to the possibility of forgiveness before you can begin to earn it.”
“I will not accept what I don’t deserve.” He tried to swallow against the roughness of his throat.
“You also won’t accept what you do, you stubborn fool.” She shook him gently by the shoulders. “Look at that statue. Find that passion and use it for good.”
“I am no longer that man. He died when Lucifer Fell.”
“But you could be something better, if you allow change into your life.”
There was a heavy pause between them, and then Michael made a sound like a sigh meeting a laugh. “When did you become so wise?”
“When I started listening to Christos instead of arguing with him,” she said, giving him a pointed stare.
The mention of the prince had Michael’s spirits sinking again. “Mary, there is something you should know.
She went still, reading something in his expression that sent a chill down her spine.
“He knows.” Her shoulders slumped, and she closed her eyes tightly. “I knew it was a matter of time.”
“He is calling for your arrest…and trial.”
“And he sent you.” It wasn’t a question, so he didn’t answer. Mags drew back and rose from their crouched position, wrapping her arms around herself with a look of resignation and pain. “I’m sorry, I…”
“I understand.” He rose to his feet and laid a hand on her shoulder. “I’d like some time to reflect on things alone, anyway.”
He watched her drift back along the stone walkway, hugging herself tightly as if for warmth, and his heart ached for her. They both knew that a trial by fire was the highest form of judgement Jehovah had at his disposal, and they resulted more often than not in either banishment or… he flinched.
Banishment or death. Jehovah expected him to drag her back to Heaven to face that horror. Dutiful Michael, he cursed himself internally, glaring at his own stone face twisted in broken rage. Always so sure of the right path, but now you have no idea what you should do, do you?
Luce stood up from his stool at Uriel’s bedside and stretched with a groan, pulling off his gloves and tossing them into the trash. He gave the careful sutures a last inspection and, satisfied, sent the blankets to cover the angel with a casual flick of his wrist.
“Rest easy,” he said softly, placing his fingers on Uriel’s brow to gauge his temperature.
No signs of fever, and the herbal poultice he had applied would ward off any infection.
The arm that had previously been a tangled mess of tissue and splintered bone was once more intact, and Luce hummed with the sense of pride and self-satisfaction that always accompanied the resolution of a difficult injury.
Stepping away from the bed, he pulled the curtains in and dimmed the lights so it wouldn’t be too bright if the other man woke before they expected.
He mulled over Uriel’s surprising declaration as he set about cleaning and organizing his tools and workspace.
Michael claimed Luce had hurt him? That was rich.
Though maybe it was true; maybe Luce should have confided his feelings in Michael, instead of protecting his morally rigid lover from complicity.
What was the point in regretting that now?
There was more than enough of that nonsense going around already, even though the real blame rested with a system that forced people to extremes of morality.
He lifted two vials of medicine, one deep violet and the other a shocking aquamarine.
“Dark and light,” Luce muttered, swirling them in their stoppered bottles before popping the tops and mixing a measure of each into a third bottle.
The colors swirled and blended into a murky brown, and he scoffed.
“Yes, that’s closer to the truth, isn’t it?
We all end up dragged through the mud at some point. ”
He scribbled a quick note for his slumbering patient—Don’t mind the color, drink this for any lingering pain—and set both on the bedside table.
This job, at least, was done. He rubbed the bridge of his nose to work out the headache forming, giving himself a spark of magic to soothe it when that failed.
“Luce,” a soft voice interrupted him as he closed the infirmary door behind him with a soft click. His eyes flicked up to meet Glory’s, concern clearly written across her face. “I think something has happened to Mags.”
“What?” His heart skipped a beat.
“She just left the Garden. I ran into her as I passed, and it was like she was looking right through me.”
He frowned. “I think I know what happened. Try not to worry, sweets, I’m going to handle things.”
Her expression relaxed slightly but retained a touch of worry in the tightness of her jaw.
“You’ll get wrinkles frowning like that,” he teased gently, and she made a sound like a startled cat, hands flying up to prod and pull gently at her flawless skin. Luce laughed. “I’m kidding! You know you’re radiant, Gloriana.”
“You’re a real brat sometimes,” Glory pouted, and Luce patted her cheek fondly.
“We’re both divas, darling, it takes one to know one.”
She rolled her eyes, but he had succeeded in drawing out a smile.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” she said, eyes widening. “I was coming to find you because Cwall is back.”
His mood instantly sobered, the levity giving way to concern. “Any news?”
Cwall’s surveillance had been invaluable to him during Foster’s rebellious phase, ensuring that Luce could keep his distance without entirely abandoning his son. It had backfired spectacularly, but it had seemed like the only way at the time.
“Some.” She worried her lip between pearly white teeth. Luce waited patiently despite the anxiety urging him to shake the words from her lips. Finally, Glory sighed. “Foster is seeking a second sacrifice.”
“What?” Luce drew back, eyebrows flying into his hairline as his eyes went wide with alarm. “I know my visit to him went poorly, but I had hoped...”
“You hoped it would at least give him pause,” Glory filled in softly.
“Yes,” he croaked, heart and throat constricting in tandem. He closed his eyes against the burn that threatened—the King of Hell simply did not cry openly in the corridor.
He opened his eyes to Glory’s tortured expression, tears flowing freely down her porcelain cheeks. “I’m beginning to fear we’re going to fail him.”
Luce reached out and took her small hand in his, squeezing it with a reassurance he desperately needed himself. “I’ll try to speak with him again. There has to be hope, Gloriana.”
“There’s always hope,” she murmured back, even if she sounded a bit unsure. Luce gave another gentle squeeze before releasing her.
“Try not to worry,” Luce said, knowing full well that it was a useless sentiment.
Glory made a non-committal sound at his request, but Luce didn’t have the luxury of time to reassure her further. Instead, he angled towards the courtyard, fixing his face into a stern and distant mask. It seemed there was a pest issue in his garden that needed attending to.