Notes and disclaimer in part 1. =============================== And wasn't that odd to see the Angel of Death, one of the strongest of angels, being beaten into submission by a mortal? And before he could get his breath back from that, he watched Loki sail from the train, thrown by Silent Bob. And he soon followed. It was all he could do then, to try and break their fall somehow from the high tracks. He pushed Loki hard into a tree, catching some of the momentum to crash into the same trunk lower down. Laboriously, they climbed to the ground, panting at the base, and as soon as they were down, Bartleby set off for a garage just to one side of the suspended tracks. Bursting inside, Loki following, he paced, angry beyond all bearing. Angry at Bethany, at Rufus, at those two idiot boys, Jay and Bob. Angry at Loki for not pounding Bob's head into a pulp, as he so easily could have done. Angry at himself for not smiting Bethany when he had the chance. Angry at God. "I was *this* close," he said, his teeth clenched. "You know? I was so close to just slitting that bitch's throat. And you know how I felt?" Loki knew how he felt, he thought. Loki had felt the same way, hadn't he? That good and powerful feeling, yes, he must have. He had to know. He would agree. "Righteous," he said, continuing. "Justified. *Eager*, even." And Loki had looked at him, concern in his caring eyes. "You all right, man? Your eyes are kinda--" "My *eyes* are open!" he cried. Loki, Loki, my heart, my other half, why don't you see? Why don't you understand? For the first time in four thousand years, Bartleby thought, I suddenly know why you loved your job and missed losing it. Why don't you, of anyone, of *everyone*, understand? But Loki's mind was closed to him, as it had never been before. As God had closed His mind to him, he suddenly reflected. Rejected once had hurt, hurt for centuries. But to be rejected twice--and this time by the one angel in all the Host who should intimately understand--oh, he burned anew with the pain of it. He tried to tell Loki about the epiphany he'd had on the train, how he suddenly understood it all. Servitude was the angels' lot, wasn't it? Only mortal souls were given the free choice. If angels had had free choice, they could have chosen to serve or not to serve. And how many, truly, would have chosen the Fallen's path and left the side of God? Who would, who had once seen God's great might and majesty? But it was an obscenity, this servitude. Having no other options, having fewer options than even the weak, small mortals. The mortals he'd once pitied, even. No more. Never again. "I asked you *once*, to lay down the sword, because I felt sorry for them," he said, praying to Loki to understand, to hear him. "What was the result? Our *expulsion* from Paradise. Where was his infinite fucking patience then? It's not right! It's not fair!" Still, Loki did not see. It baffled him, baffled the angel with the righteous sense of vengeance. Why, why did he not see? It was so simple. So perfectly clear. Bartleby turned towards the door, knowing their plan was true. Was, in fact, the only way to show God that certain mistakes had to be addressed. "I've heard a rant like this before," Loki said, eyes bright with silver tears. "What did you say?" Bartleby said, his voice clogged with emotion. He turned to face Loki, watching his face for any scrap of insight. Insight he could no longer pluck from the angel's closed mind. "I've heard a rant like this before," Loki repeated. "Don't you fucking do that to me." This one statement, he saw coming, and he did not want it said. He saw clearly what his brother was thinking, on this one subject only, and he could not take those words aloud. Loki was wrong, *wrong*. Do not say this, my brother, for I am not the Fallen One, I am not the Plague of Angels, for I was never the most favored. I never had that one's freedom of choice. But Loki's mind had closed again. And the words, the hated words fell from those perfect lips to scar his heart forever. "You sound like the Morningstar." "You shut your fucking mouth, Seraph!" He stood nose to nose with the smaller man, screaming at him. "You do, you sound like Lucifer, man! You've fucking lost it!" And now they were both screaming in earnest, and he no longer wanted to kiss that pretty face, he wanted to smash it in. And while Loki prattled on about him declaring war on Heaven--as if Heaven hadn't already declared war on him--he fought the impulse to hit him, strike him, make the silver fluid run and stain the ground with the scent of roses forevermore. Why, he mourned, why did his beautiful brother refuse to understand? In complete exasperation, he seized the angel, slamming him back against a concrete support hard enough for him to grunt. "We're going home, Loki!" he cried. "And no one--not you, not the Almighty Himself--is going to make it otherwise!" Believe it, Loki. Believe it, my beloved. I will kill you, I will kill anyone who stands in the way of my reclaiming Heaven. Shaking from the urge to smash, he walked stiffly from the garage towards New Jersey. Towards St. Michael's Church, and an arcane Catholic rite called plenary indulgence. Towards Heaven. Towards home. "this has gone on long enough this ignorant surrender you can fly as high as you want find the window and remember" The next morning, they walked across a set of train tracks, across the border of New Jersey. They no longer bothered with finding alternate transportation. For the moment, they were past speech. They had walked all night. And only a few hours later they found themselves moving with the throng of eager humanity towards St. Michael's Church, listening to Cardinal Glick blather on about the church and how wonderful this all was. Bartleby smiled, pushing mortals aside, beginning a speech of his own. He could never remember exactly what he'd said until the cop walked forward, and he'd reached out with one sure hand and snapped the man's neck. Yes. How easy it was to kill. And there it was again, that sense of good power filling him, like the angelic energy of old. He turned to Loki, smiling. "We'll judge them all," he said, and Loki stepped back, shaking his head side to side. Still the angel did not understand. It no longer mattered. He would soon. Bartleby tore at his grey shirt, exposing hammered angelic plate beneath, plate he generally did not bother wearing. But today was special, after all. Today they went home. Today they judged the unworthy. Today they would be judged, and found at last not wanting, but innocent. Yes. Today. Today was a very special day. "Wings," he commanded. "Now!" "I'm feelin' a little exposed here!" Loki cried. "DO IT!" Bartleby screamed. And the carnage began, the killing, the running, the screaming. And Bartleby was the agent of their destruction now. On the door of the church were two crossed swords, and he laughed low in his throat. Perfection. He took one, tossed the other to Loki, who caught it, and dropped it. Loki's time might have to come sooner than expected, he thought. All too soon the grounds were empty of all but the corpses of the slain, and he looked around, gaze soon falling to Loki, who flinched back. That was interesting. The Angel of Death flinched at the site of a Grigori. Why? He stepped towards his small brother, sword dripping blood and bile and various fluids. Gently, he set the sword aside. "It is time, brother," he said softly. He allowed himself the one joy of touching his hair, stroking his face. Loki shuddered, or was it a shiver? He couldn't tell. "Turn around." "I don't think this is--" "Turn, angel." And biting his lips, Loki turned. Bartleby nodded, raising the sword again, slicing through one of the wings cleanly. Loki screamed, the sound ripped from him as his wing had been, casting his gaze to the sky. Aramaic words of pleading fell from his trembling lips; the Watcher ignored them all. He raised the sword again, slicing through bone and sinew, feather and flesh, and watched in earnest as Loki dropped to the ground, crying, screaming, arms wrapped around his wounded frame. Oh, and such a wonder was seen then?The silver scented fluid that had coated his injured wing struts changed, altered, coloring like dye dripped into mercury. He dripped red now, but several minutes later, the wing struts simply vanished. Loki stood, blinking, turning. "I can't see `em, I can't see my wings. Bartleby, where are they?" He turned, trying to look over his shoulder. "They're gone," Bartleby said, in a low, astonished voice. "They're gone." He turned Loki, holding him in loose arms, fear and exhilaration warring within him. "You're mortal, Loki." Loki blinked, looking at him. He started to smile, and Bartleby knew this might be his only chance. He leaned in, capturing those sweet, mortal lips, kissing them open, licking along the inner surfaces of his now heated skin. Oh, yes. He felt Loki moan, pressing against him, a sudden swelling at his groin telling him how completely mortal he'd begun. This was the goal. This was the true reason for going home, going home mortal. To love whom they chose, to love each other, to-- And Loki pushed him back, laughing. "Fuck that," he said lightly. "Come on, let me do you, and let's go find some girls!" Bartleby never knew all the intricate details of angelic anatomy. He never knew, for instance, if angels truly had the hearts he spoke of so often. He knew though, in that instant, that if he had one, it would have shattered then, shattered into many glassine spikes that dug into him, shredding and carving him, leaving him swaying and alone. Raising his face to the heavens, he screamed, a long, drawn-out howl of pain and heartbreaking loss, and took off, wings beating swift and sure, for the sky. Mortals, he thought, wishing for the luxury of salty human tears. You couldn't trust them. You couldn't love them. They'd all hurt you. All. *Every* single one. Oh, but his shattered heart wouldn't let him kill Loki, would it? It still protested, bleating out paeans of praise for the unworthy mortal mice, singing songs he no longer cared to hear. Well. If it took a hundred deaths of these mortal souls, a thousand, ten thousand, he would erase every scrap of compassion within him, until he could put hands to that betraying throat and choke the fragile life from his beloved. It just remained to find the ten thousand. And lucky for him, they were all still running through the streets, bleating like goats to the slaughter. What an appealing thought? Dipping down, he lifted the first one, kicking and screaming against him, and rose to a sufficient height. His angelic eyes picked Loki easily from the throng, and he watched him as he dropped his twitching bundle. The former human splatted quite nicely, staining the ground with crimson in an uneven circle. And Loki ran, ran like the rest. Such a fool he was. Such a fool Bartleby had been. Who was next? "Last night, I was dreaming of a world I've never known so fine fearless giving people that would never stop the love" Soaring on the air currents again was nearly more intoxicating than killing. Some small part of him watched Loki, enjoying twisting the knife, as the former angel emerged from some storefront far below. His arms were laden with familiar green bottles. Relishing the pain, Bartleby swooped down, flying in Loki's path, making him drop one of the magnums in startlement. He picked up an altar boy on the updraft, dropping him from an oxygen-deprived height while he thought about Loki. Why champagne, my mortal friend? He knew that once Loki had compared champagne to flying, but surely that wasn't something he wanted to remember now. Also, they'd both been at a New Year's party at the time, which made him wonder. Is this a celebration for you, Loki? You are mortal now?Musing, he flew in stately spirals, down to earth and up again, dropping hapless news crews, doctors, passersby, newspaper men, clergy of all descriptions to decorate the earth in red. He still watched Loki during every spare moment, as the former angel downed first one, then another magnum of champagne. The next time he swooped down Loki was crying. Oh, and why, Loki? No, please, don't let me stop you. Go find your girls, he thought cruelly. In fact-- He looked around, seeing three young females cowering against a blood- drenched van. He swung down, wings raising dust and bone fragments to spin in the updraft, and picked two of them up by their hair, hefting them aloft. As they hung shrieking and kicking, he flew over Loki's position. How about this one, then, he thought. Pretty little figure. Catch, little mortal. Oh, too bad. Her fragile little neck had snapped when he twirled her away. No matter, there's one left, he thought, smiling down at her. He held her close and flew down to tree-level, then hurled her against his brother. And Loki ducked, then screamed in horror when the horrible crunch sounded behind him. He whirled, and low exultant laughter rose in Bartleby's throat, as the fool ran over to the pulp lying in sections against the bricks. Stupid, stupid mortal man. When will you learn? Ah, and look, he thought, clasping his hands together. Fresh blood to fill the square. Here come the Prophets, and Rufus, and dear Bethany. And--he squinted against the sun, trying to align the face he saw with faces he'd known in the past--it was! Serendipity the Muse! What an interesting collection of corpses-to-be. Well, all save Rufus. He was already dead. Oh, but he'd missed what they'd said, wheeling in gloating pride against the sun. That wasn't right. He should descend. After all, seeing the Muse walk to Loki's side, he didn't want to miss what was said. As he flew down, Serendipity's hands clasped Loki's shoulders, shaking him. "Have you passed through the arch?" she said. "No," he cried majestically, dropping down to descend before the church. His wings flexed and beat, sounding a loud tattoo in the air, each beat bringing him closer to the ground. They were impressed. Frankly, so was he. They'd actually made it here, in spite of everything. How very persistent. "We were awaiting your arrival." Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered save Heaven, and getting back what was his, what he'd lost. His grip tightened on the knife some fool of a schoolteacher had been carrying. "Up, he's back," Loki said, turning away. Fool, he shouted, to the mortal mind that could no longer hear his mental sendings, that no longer had the capacity to hear him. Hear any angel. Blind, mortal fool. And his feet hit the ground, and the fight began. He knew words were exchanged, knew he'd even said some of them, but his head was so full of songs of destruction nothing else registered. Nothing until once again, Bethany was in his arms, a knife to her throat. My, but this was familiar. And emotion flooded into him--his, hers, it didn't matter. The pain of separation, the hatred of God, the hatred of being second-best--had he said these things? It didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore but the Unmaking. "While you know forgiveness," he remembered saying, his voice trembling, "we know only regret." And wasn't it true? All of this, all of this had been avoidable, had it not? If God had chosen to view the past in a different light. He stepped forward and stopped in puzzlement. They were shouting at him. What, they thought mere volume would succeed now? As if he hadn't figured it all out. He knew the costs, he'd weighed the risks, and he was at peace with his decision. So all creation would end. Loki didn't love him. What did anything matter after that? Let it end, let it all end. Time for a change, after all, more than time. And now as he'd known, his beloved came forward against him. He had known in the garage, when Loki had accused him of the pride of the Morningstar, what was coming. It was just a matter of waiting for it, waiting for the moment, and here that moment was. Life was a series of such moments, wasn't it? A series of betrayals, each one hurting more than the one previous. Here this one came. He loosed his hold on Bethany, sending her spinning away, and watched Loki walk forward. Great Elohim, he was drunk, and still beautiful in spite of it. But he was true; Bartleby's broken heart turned over within him as he saw the depths of Loki's newfound compassion. Not even these souls sent to destroy them could sway him from what he knew was right. Oh, his drunken love. His drunken, mortal love. Still thinking he had the strength of old, the fire of God burning hot in his veins. Gone, beloved, gone with your wings and your powers and your immortality. He shook his head, watching Loki raise his fists, preparing to fight. But he knew all the chinks in Loki's armor, didn't he? All his vulnerable places. Just as he'd thought Loki had known his. Apparently, he'd been wrong there, too. And he stepped forward, embracing his brother for the last time as he sent the blade plunging deep into his side. Loki's eyes widened in shock, and as he sagged in Bartleby's arms, Bartleby whispered one thing to him, the only thing he could: "I'm sorry." Everyone rushed him, and the fighting started again. He saw Jay pull Bethany behind some forgotten sound equipment, and he sneered at Jay's single-mindedness. Meanwhile, Serendipity leapt at him, Rufus pummeled his chest, even Bob leapt upon him and-- He howled in surprise and sudden pain as the Prophet bit down hard on one wing. He yelled, flinging them aside like insects. Damn their human meddling! He'd never been so angry, throwing Rufus to one side, knocking the Muse to the ground, throwing Bob the farthest. He watched as Bethany grabbed Bob, running into the hospital, and he dismissed them. He turned with his wings outstretched in full attack mode, searching for someone to hurt. Serendipity rose first. Good. He grabbed her by the throat, lifting her high, feeling her feet kick as a smile stretched his lips wide. He would crush her, and then he'd find the Prophet who had dared to bite him, and then he'd track down that blond boy-- Who rose before him, holding an automatic pistol. "Hey Big Bird!" Jay screamed. "Count the bullets!" Oh, *yes*, he thought, struggling not to laugh. He would do nicely. He would take the wings away, take his immortality, make him human, fragile and small. Yes. And he would walk through the arch and be washed clean. The world would fold up around him, ceasing to exist with his last breath. Let it. Erase it all, he thought. He fell to his knees, folding his head down and his wings high. His mind reached out one last time as Jay began firing at high speed. Bullets crashed into, crashed through his wingspan, destroying the lovely handiwork of God. Bartleby's mind embraced everything: the Prophet firing at him, Rufus and Serendipity running in horror towards Jay, screaming, everyone still left alive within the confines of this small space. As the autofire cracked his wing struts, shattered his primaries, shredded his scapulars, he began screaming. Oh, it hurt. Nothing, not even Loki's betrayal, had ever hurt this much. But still his mind flew, touching everyone, knowing everyone, hearing the thoughts and hearts and minds of everyone he touched. And somewhere in the midst of it he found Bethany standing beside a hospital bed next to a dying man. She reached out, pulling the plug on his respirator, and in the instant she did, Bartleby touched the mind of God. He touched his holy Lord, trapped in that small mortal shell, and knew everything that God knew in that instant. It was staggering. It was crippling. It was revelation. The first epiphany, in that echoing garage bay, had hurt. More for Loki's refusal to see than for any exterior reason. This one was fire and acid and searing pain, this second epiphany. He'd been so wrong. So very wrong. He looked up, eyes streaming tears as Serendipity snatched the gun away from Jay, glad for the excuse of injury. They would not know, this way, that he cried for them, and for what was so very nearly lost. If he didn't time this exactly right?He stood shakily, licking red blood from his shattered wing struts. He still stood in that place between mortality and God, and he only had these few small moments to die unpurified. He must be ready. He must play this part out as adeptly as any other player. Bartleby turned to face them, this lovely brave ragged crew. He loved every one of them, and he could not let them know. It was barely enough. And he took off running for the doors of St. Michael's. "while I was dreaming this there were people living it" Please, he prayed. The first time in a long time, and his heart was on its knees. Please be there. Please. I do not want this, O My Lord, I do not want to unmake Your Creation. Please, O God my God? His trembling hand touched the doors of the church. One more step and he'd be inside. Swallowing, he saw them open, light spilling forth, light he recognized from long ago. He nearly fled in fear but stood his ground. This must be. This was as it had to be. All had been preordained. Everything hinged on this moment, this single, crystal second, everything he'd done at God's side and in exile: this one moment. He waited, suspended, to see the face of God. And when he saw his holy Lord, he wept. He wept like a child, without shame or grace, because he knew he'd been forgiven. He knew everything in that moment, knowledge entering into his in-between body as it always had, in the form of God's light, God's divine radiance penetrating his form. Even now, even wingless and approaching mortality, he soaked up the light of God and learned. He learned why God had chosen a female form as he learned the inner secrets of Bethany's heart. He saw her, one day, turning towards the embrace of a friend, more than friend, with long dark hair and a quirky smile. He learned why God had decreed Bob and Jay Prophets in this debased time, and saw the whole depraved fabric of their lives spun out before him like a tapestry woven in incompatible substances. Always where they needed to be, to say the exact right or the exact wrong thing at the exact necessary time. And their love, recognized or not, would shine through them, through others, increasing that love on a global scale. He knew--toss the rock in the pond and the ripples spread outwards, eventually reaching the shore. He was astounded at God's subtlety, and his heart sang praise. Everyone who stood there soaked into him, altering the color of his thoughts like water through wine. Rufus, in spite of his protests, still a passionate Disciple of the Son; Serendipity, happy to return to its chosen place in Heaven, always happy to have been given the chance to exist, no matter the cost; even Metatron, soon to discover even angels could have a dark side. Bartleby did not envy him that. And God. His God. A Lord not wrathful, or angry, or even deeply hurt by his actions; a God who understood, who would judge him, yes, but fairly. A God clad in flowing, graceful beauty, not plate and harsh steel, a God whose only weapon was a spray of sweet flowers. His God. His beloved Lord. As She enfolded him in those slender, pale arms, he wept brokenly against her shoulder. He wept for Her pain, his, and Metatron's to come, Rufus' impossible quest, Serendipity's deep subconscious mourning for the loss of her companion Muses. He wept for Silent Bob, who had just discovered Bethany dying in the hospital room. He wept for his beloved Loki, dying thinking he'd been betrayed. Dying thinking Loki didn't love him. All of this cascaded through his mind and into the vast majesty of God's, and She held him tightly. Pain and loss, grieving, understanding. Healing. "I'm sorry," he whispered against Her. "I'm sorry." And he watched as She stepped back, stepped away, the look of resolve on Her features one he knew well. He didn't really need Metatron's translation to understand. "Anyone who's not already dead, or from another plane of existence would do well to cover their ears right about...now," Metatron said. "Thank you," Bartleby whispered, eyes locked with his Lord. Though God knew. God always knew. And God opened Her mouth, and Sang, Sang with the note that had started creation. Sang the primal song at the heart of every storm, every peal of thunder, every crack of lightning, every bell and drum and instrument of war and music mankind had ever devised. Lions roaring, the movement of great machines, the soul behind all the choirs that ever sung a note. And his heart, his broken battered heart, seized in his chest and he was gone. "this has gone on long enough this ignorant surrender you can fly as high as you want find the window and remember" Consciousness crept slowly back, and everything, every single thing hurt. Bartleby curled into a trembling ball, weeping in abject sorrow for everyone he'd ever hurt, including himself. Even with the pain, the soul-killing despair there was joy, for he heard the voice of God once more. It had been so very many years since he'd heard God speak to him, that each word sank deep, hurting his raw and tender new soul. But he was glad of it nonetheless. He wept for its return. **I will send you a helpmeet,** God said wryly, and he turned his face, rising to unsteady feet in the nothingness. All was grey and featureless and still, mist and fog and rain and shade, drifting ether. All was grey. But there was a brighter patch, moving towards him, and he wiped at tearstained cheeks, watching it. Loki walked out of the mist, his form limned by an odd spectral radiance. Bartleby gasped, diving to one side, but there was no place to escape to. There was no sense of place anywhere. He turned again, to find Loki looking at him. He was smiling. "Hey," he said simply. Bartleby reached out, touching his face. Loki didn't turn away. "I don't understand," he whispered. Loki shrugged. "Guess this is our second chance," he said. He looked up at the taller man, cocking his head to one side. "You know," he said reflectively, "you never gave me a chance to explain back there. I never said I didn't love you." "I--" Bartleby gulped. "But you--" "I said, `let's'. As in both of us. You could have said no. But you just took off." Loki shrugged, looking around. He reached out a hand to Bartleby. And Bartleby, nearly in tears again from the trust Loki still had, took it. "So where do we go from here?" "Wherever you want, brother." Bartleby smiled weakly, looking at the increase in radiance in their clasped hands. "Wherever you want." "you can fly as high as you want find the window and remember" END (Song quoted is Velvet Hammer's "Window" from their EP "Come Down") *************** Kelandris the Mad damn, a smarm ending!