Night Angel
Prologus
-Ammael-
The light was bright through the veil of his eyelids; it was brighter than his slowly reforming memory could recollect. Of course, it wasn’t as bright as it was then, but, nonetheless, it was a searing presence in his awakening vision. And the smell…
-Ammael-
He couldn’t recall the air ever smelling like anything but loamy earth; it had always smelt wet, touched with the scent of grass and dew drops. Now, though, he could smell a breeze, and everything carried upon it—life, death, vitality. It was a scent that drew him mad, because he had been denied it so long.
-Ammael, awaken-
There was a tingle upon his skin, as if the broken sunlight struck his flesh to create ripples, like a disturbed body of water. At first, it was a pleasurable sensation, but it soon began to instill in him a sense of terror.
-Ammael, rise now; rise-
It wasn’t right that he was feeling all of these things, that his senses were as awake as they were; he knew they did not come to his memory because they had been absent so long; that could only mean that someone—or something—had disturbed his site of Vigil—his site of Condemnation.
-Ammael, hear me; hear this voice familiar to you-
And all of a sudden, his eyes opened.
The darkness dissipated all at once in a flash of brilliance—and after the brilliance came the agony. It did not begin with a hint, or a pinch—it came as a conflagration. The dust coated surfaces of his eyes were aflame, and there was not a single thing he could do to douse them. He opened his mouth to beg, to plea or scream, but all that flew from his mouth was gravel. It was centuries of gravel—ground trodden upon by countless races and tribes, ground from beneath many a city. He expelled with it the years and years of silence, because even the sound of his chokes and splutters were a welcome break to the sound of Nothing. The sun continued to filter down upon his face, and as it entered his eyes, he felt it seep into his body and take hold of his veins. The blood began to circulate painfully, to push through muscles and vessels, working harder than it ever had before; it had a lot of time to make up, because it thought it still needed to make his heart beat. Little was it aware that it would never again beat as surely as it once did.
Finally, the sand was purged, and he was again able to scream.
“What more do You want from me?” he cried aloud to a still hidden sky; though his eyes were blinded by the virulence of the sun, he could smell the openness, taste each and every minute particle carried upon the wind, and in this way he saw the blue expanses above him.
“I bore my indignation, I served my penitence dutifully! For millennia have lain here, a Watcher from below, seeing nothing, as is fit! I lay here away from Your Grace, denied Your visions and Gifts! Not once did I Pray to be released, nor did I once believe this ground would be disturbed! What do You want of me!”
He felt blood begin to trickle from the corners of his eyes; prevented from entering his heart, the overproduced liquid had decided to escape through the area of greatest pain—the light was too much.
“Please, please, bury me again! Lay me again beneath Your earth and spare me the Vengeance of Your very light! I never asked for this! I never—“
¬-Brother.-
It took Ammael a moment to realize that the voice he had heard did not come from the space above him; neither did it resonate from the earth beneath; he did not hear those voices, mercifully enough.
-Peace, Brother; you are safe now-
The voice that was not a voice rang oddly familiar in Ammael’s—he had deduced this as the source of the voice, his head—but he could not place a name to it. It was a name he had once spoken long ago, spoken with the fervor of a lover, though the bearer held no significance to him, in that sense. Where the name had been used, love was a limitless concept, and there were no need for lovers. Brother, they call me…Brother.
And it all came back to him.
He began to scream again.
The light was bright through the veil of his eyelids; it was brighter than his slowly reforming memory could recollect. Of course, it wasn’t as bright as it was then, but, nonetheless, it was a searing presence in his awakening vision. And the smell…
-Ammael-
He couldn’t recall the air ever smelling like anything but loamy earth; it had always smelt wet, touched with the scent of grass and dew drops. Now, though, he could smell a breeze, and everything carried upon it—life, death, vitality. It was a scent that drew him mad, because he had been denied it so long.
-Ammael, awaken-
There was a tingle upon his skin, as if the broken sunlight struck his flesh to create ripples, like a disturbed body of water. At first, it was a pleasurable sensation, but it soon began to instill in him a sense of terror.
-Ammael, rise now; rise-
It wasn’t right that he was feeling all of these things, that his senses were as awake as they were; he knew they did not come to his memory because they had been absent so long; that could only mean that someone—or something—had disturbed his site of Vigil—his site of Condemnation.
-Ammael, hear me; hear this voice familiar to you-
And all of a sudden, his eyes opened.
The darkness dissipated all at once in a flash of brilliance—and after the brilliance came the agony. It did not begin with a hint, or a pinch—it came as a conflagration. The dust coated surfaces of his eyes were aflame, and there was not a single thing he could do to douse them. He opened his mouth to beg, to plea or scream, but all that flew from his mouth was gravel. It was centuries of gravel—ground trodden upon by countless races and tribes, ground from beneath many a city. He expelled with it the years and years of silence, because even the sound of his chokes and splutters were a welcome break to the sound of Nothing. The sun continued to filter down upon his face, and as it entered his eyes, he felt it seep into his body and take hold of his veins. The blood began to circulate painfully, to push through muscles and vessels, working harder than it ever had before; it had a lot of time to make up, because it thought it still needed to make his heart beat. Little was it aware that it would never again beat as surely as it once did.
Finally, the sand was purged, and he was again able to scream.
“What more do You want from me?” he cried aloud to a still hidden sky; though his eyes were blinded by the virulence of the sun, he could smell the openness, taste each and every minute particle carried upon the wind, and in this way he saw the blue expanses above him.
“I bore my indignation, I served my penitence dutifully! For millennia have lain here, a Watcher from below, seeing nothing, as is fit! I lay here away from Your Grace, denied Your visions and Gifts! Not once did I Pray to be released, nor did I once believe this ground would be disturbed! What do You want of me!”
He felt blood begin to trickle from the corners of his eyes; prevented from entering his heart, the overproduced liquid had decided to escape through the area of greatest pain—the light was too much.
“Please, please, bury me again! Lay me again beneath Your earth and spare me the Vengeance of Your very light! I never asked for this! I never—“
¬-Brother.-
It took Ammael a moment to realize that the voice he had heard did not come from the space above him; neither did it resonate from the earth beneath; he did not hear those voices, mercifully enough.
-Peace, Brother; you are safe now-
The voice that was not a voice rang oddly familiar in Ammael’s—he had deduced this as the source of the voice, his head—but he could not place a name to it. It was a name he had once spoken long ago, spoken with the fervor of a lover, though the bearer held no significance to him, in that sense. Where the name had been used, love was a limitless concept, and there were no need for lovers. Brother, they call me…Brother.
And it all came back to him.
He began to scream again.