Juvenile Orion Fan Fiction ❯ Fallen ❯ Tainted ( Chapter 6 )
[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
By: DesertIllusion 
His nest was white with red-speckled feathers and blotches of darkening gray.
Anime/Manga: Juvenile Orion Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Drama | Type: Divergence | Uploaded On: 05.22.2007 | Updated On: 06.27.2007 | Pages: 3 | Words: 2.5K | Visits: 311 | Status: Completed
His nest was white with red-speckled feathers and blotches of darkening gray.
Anime/Manga: Juvenile Orion Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Drama | Type: Divergence | Uploaded On: 05.22.2007 | Updated On: 06.27.2007 | Pages: 3 | Words: 2.5K | Visits: 311 | Status: Completed
Joy to the world, the chapter has come
Let patience receive her praise
Readers, reviewers, all enjoy the new installment
And though I don’t own JO
Only books and ideas and a computer
I am proud to present to you chapter six
Many questions have been raised about the psychology of angels. Studies have shown that angelic society believes emotions to be a great weakness and hindrance to the constant struggle for power. However, the question as to whether angels are able to strip themselves of emotion completely or not has been raised and if so, how? If not, as is the more popular opinion, how do these creatures survive? Every animal may be able to keep emotions bottled up inside for a certain amount of time, but angels, with their extended life spans seem to have a boundless tolerance to emotional breakdowns. It is likely that they deal with their emotional problems individually and because they live longer have a higher tolerance to long-term problems such as stress and tension. More romantic theorists have suggested that there are in fact many emotionally illicit relationships that are kept from society. However, this is difficult to prove, as no rituals celebrating relationships, such as marriage, exist. It is also questioned as to whether or not it is even possible for angels to be involved with each other romantically as they are all male and have no pheromones or other hormones to attract each other.
Fallen
Chapter 6
Tainted
By Illusion
Israfel kneeled beside his opponent and began to heal the others’ wounds.
“I don’t need your help,” Pilate snapped, shoving Israfel’s hands away. “I can heal myself.”
“You should be grateful for Israfel’s kindness,” another angel said icily, glaring down at him in vague distaste. “Few angels would heal their opponents after gaining the desired position.”
“Michael.” Israfel’s voice was soft. Michael sniffed slightly then walked away. “Thank you for the victory,” the newly promoted missionary said to Pilate before standing and following behind the other angel.
Pilate glared at the two figures until they flew out of sight. He had been in the fleet for thousands of years and had been content to remain in the rank he had just been demoted from. He growled. The fleet’s policies were changing, and his humiliation was building.
“Confiteor Deo Omnipotenti quia peccavi nimis. Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa. Kyrie eleison.”
“Kyrie eleison,” the congregation repeated.
As the last murmur faded, Gabriel cast a quick freezing spell over the church as he passed through its doors. He passed the still priest and approached the altar.
“My God,” a voice murmured and he slowly turned. A young man stared at him in shock and wonder. “An angel.”
The missionary stared back at the human, the sunlight forming a halo around his white-clad form. His green eyes regarded the young man unblinkingly as he waited for him to make a move. He had strict orders to not allow humans to know of his presence and to just retrieve supplies.
“My God,” the human repeated. “Do I dream?”
Ah. Realization dawned on the confused angel, though he was careful not to show it. A psychic. He had heard of these unique breed of humans but had never encountered one before. He had been told most were concentrated in what the humans called the Far Eastern side of the world. “What thou seest is not a dream, but a vision.” Gabriel applied the slightest bit of magic for his smooth voice to echo in the otherwise silent church.
“God has sent an angel?”
“The angel Gabriel,” he tipped his head forward slightly. Angels do not bow to lesser beings. Plans of ways to rid himself of the human without killing the psychic whirled through his mind. “Plays the messenger,” he finished.
The human scrambled to bow to the angel. With the man’s head bowed, Gabriel took the opportunity to glance at the contents of the altar and suppressed his disgruntlement at the plain wine and bread. He turned back to the groveling psychic. “There are others like you–others who possess the gift of visions,” he said. Psychics were nuisances for the angels. They were somehow more tolerant of their magic and those who fought the fleet could severely injure a lower ranked missionary. If he could get this psychic to gather the others in one place, they would be easier to kill. “Seek them out. Those with the gift are God’s servants.”
“Yes, my Lord,” the man said, his forehead still pressed to the floor.
“You must not allow others without the gift of sight to know of your holy quest.”
“Yes.”
A slight rustle, then the sound of voices permeated the man’s senses. He looked up to see the priest looking at him strangely and, flushing slightly, he returned to his place in the crowd, determined to do God’s bidding.
Uranus watched in pride as his apprentice wiped his hands clean on the white cloth of his opponent’s robes. This one was neither the most intelligent nor the most powerful of his students, but he proved obedient, driven by anger. If he could, Uranus would have smiled. Lafayel was the perfect guardian. “Come here.”
The younger angel approached him warily. He was the first not to be foolish enough to challenge his master and knew to fear him appropriately. However, Uranus was sensing the growing impatience within his apprentice and knew he would have to be rid of the angel soon.
He slid the door closed and crouched in his nest, folding his wings in a cocoon around his body. His feathers lay scattered around the otherwise Spartan room. Slowly, gingerly, he brought his bloodied hands to his face, watching the liquid continue to pulse out of where he once had nails. The sharp tearing pain had dwindled to a dull ache with every pulse of blood. Several drops slid down his hands and fell to the floor, splattering the feathers and staining the white with copper-red spots.
Trembling hands reached for a single blood-dotted feather and lifted it. The other hand plucked a loose feather from his wing and compared the two. Gray. The new one was gray. Tainted. Ugly. Unwanted. Several soft bristles brushed against the tender bloodied skin of his fingertip and he hissed, tightening his grip on his feathers. His fingers only stung more.
He dropped the feathers and brought his hands back toward his face again. The clotted blood had been torn away when he dropped the gray feather and fresh blood pulsed out the re-opened wound. He licked it and hissed in pain. He couldn’t risk puncturing his remaining skin cells by gathering energy to heal the wounds. Healing would only bring an irresistible itch and the beginning of his master’s vicious cycle again. He shuddered and curled his body tighter, careful to keep anything from touching his fingers. A few tears squeezed out from his eyelids at the combination of emotional and physical pain.
His nest was white with red-speckled feathers and blotches of darkening gray.
“Something is troubling you. Your aura is unstable.”
Israfel opened his eyes and tilted his head to see his comrade’s face. “Michael.”
The other missionary seated himself next to the four-winged angel and closed his eyes. “If my instincts have not weathered over the centuries, I believe you are being overly anxious about Gabriel again.”
“I have not seen him in a long time,” Israfel sighed. “He has been my companion since birth. I am not accustomed to his absence for extended periods of time,” he admitted.
The corner of Michael’s lips twitched ever so slightly. “You and Gabriel share an unusual relationship. I do not know of any other angel who would be so willing to be concerned for another.”
“Iblis is.”
“Iblis is concerned for the fleet, not any one specific angel,” he pointed out.
Israfel was silent. “Do you…” he started slowly then paused to take a deep breath. “Do you believe that perhaps… perhaps I am a burden to Jibril and his ascent in power?” He winced slightly when Michael smacked him.
“Fool,” the other angel scolded harshly. “The pace at which Gabriel goes by is the pace he sets for himself. You are not forcing him to drag you behind him.”
“If I was not here he would not feel the need to protect me,” Israfel replied.
Michael stared at the depressed angel beside him. But he is not protecting you. Your power exceeds his by far.
“I received your report on the lack of offerings the humans are leaving.”
Gabriel nodded and allowed the commander to approach the viewing platform where he stood staring at the vast space outside the fleet.
“And this gathering of psychics?”
“I believe they will be easier to eliminate if gathered in a single location.”
The commander remained silent as he considered Gabriel’s actions. “You have adjusted to life here well.”
“It is less…” he paused, searching for a word.
“Competitive?” Iblis suggested. The missionary nodded.
“You lead your subordinates well,” Gabriel said. “It is very different than in Heaven. There are times that I wonder why you do not challenge Azrael.” For the past four hundred years he had witnessed the differences in the fleet’s social policies. Though officers and ranks were still determined by challenges of power, they were no longer required to fight to the death and the angels were allowed–no, encouraged–to display emotion within certain designated areas and under extreme cases of stress. He felt freer than he ever had in Heaven. This way of life is better.
“It is different, yes,” he agreed, “but it is not necessarily better.” He smiled as though Gabriel had voiced his thoughts out loud. “You are still young. You do not understand that a sudden change to this,” he nodded his head toward the main body of the fleet, “from the traditional government would upset many older and powerful angels. It has taken many centuries and many challenges for this fleet to change and even now those ranked below me question my authority. As for challenging Azrael…” he turned his head toward Heaven, several galaxies away. “Azrael is a much stronger angel than I, in both power and leadership,” he murmured. “I have no intention of becoming God.”
Gabriel peered into his superior’s face. “You lie,” he said. “Every time you look towards Heaven I see it: your longing. You know you are as capable a leader as he and yet you do not challenge him. The angels would be happier under your reign.”
Iblis stared at the missionary and the hair along Gabriel’s body rose slightly. “A God bears the greatest responsibility imaginable,” he explained. “He can not worry himself about his cherubs’ happiness when he has to insure their survival. What Heaven needs is a strong leader, not a kind one.”
Gabriel remained silent for a moment. “Why do you defend him?”
“Why do you protect Israfel?”
“He is my cherub.”
“Then you should know my answer.”
He was glad to be rid of the fleet for a few years; the other angels made him sick. Pilate boarded the small messenger pod and bound himself to the central control seat, waiting for the dome to open into empty space. When the once-a-decade report was due he seized the chance to play the messenger and escape from the weakening fleet.
When Iblis had first assumed leadership of the fleet after Lucifer had been cast out of Heaven as a shaytan, he initially had the full support of every angel. His cold aura radiated raw and tightly controlled power, which demanded the immediate respect of every angle he came in contact with. However, the past few centuries had made light of the ice angel’s growing weakness.
Lucifer was a great angel. Pilate thought bitterly, even as he suppressed a shudder at the memory of how the previous head commander governed the fleet. He forced images of how his previous apprentice had his tongue torn out and left to bleed to death for just letting a few miniscule details escape him during the mission. He was weak and careless. Unfit to belong in such an elite fleet. Lucifer was great. He had no use for petty emotions or morals that humans dream up. No, his priority was the fleet’s efficiency, not the missionaries’ happiness. It is unimportant. Procula is unimportant….
Pilate readied the report ship for take off. Yes, he would report the weakening of the fleet’s social order. He glanced at the viewing platform where a pair of angels still stood. The social order was truly weakening.
The gravity was shut down and the dome opened. Within minutes the report ship had disappeared from view.
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Allusions and Explanations:
Pilate: He was the Roman governor who ordered the crucifixion of Jesus.
Michael: One of the archangels in Islamic beliefs. He is the protector. (Thanks to neurofeces for telling me this back when I posted the story in 2005)
The Latin: I’m not sure of the accuracy of the translation, but what I have is, “I confess to God almighty that I have sinned. Through my fault. Through my most grievous fault. Lord have mercy.” If anybody has a better translation, please tell me.
Psychics: At this point in time, only the Darklore and Arayashiki exist, but Wiz-dom is starting to form. However, my theory is that Darklore stay more in touch with their animal side than their human side, so angels, who only interact with humans because they worship them, don’t know of the Darklore. Thus, they believe that psychics (the Arayashiki) are concentrated in the Far East.
Lucifer: The fallen angel who became Satan in Christianity.
Procula: Pilate’s wife.
Posted: 30 April 2007
Reposted: 21 May 2007
Next Post: 11 June 2007
Let patience receive her praise
Readers, reviewers, all enjoy the new installment
And though I don’t own JO
Only books and ideas and a computer
I am proud to present to you chapter six
Many questions have been raised about the psychology of angels. Studies have shown that angelic society believes emotions to be a great weakness and hindrance to the constant struggle for power. However, the question as to whether angels are able to strip themselves of emotion completely or not has been raised and if so, how? If not, as is the more popular opinion, how do these creatures survive? Every animal may be able to keep emotions bottled up inside for a certain amount of time, but angels, with their extended life spans seem to have a boundless tolerance to emotional breakdowns. It is likely that they deal with their emotional problems individually and because they live longer have a higher tolerance to long-term problems such as stress and tension. More romantic theorists have suggested that there are in fact many emotionally illicit relationships that are kept from society. However, this is difficult to prove, as no rituals celebrating relationships, such as marriage, exist. It is also questioned as to whether or not it is even possible for angels to be involved with each other romantically as they are all male and have no pheromones or other hormones to attract each other.
Fallen
Chapter 6
Tainted
By Illusion
Israfel kneeled beside his opponent and began to heal the others’ wounds.
“I don’t need your help,” Pilate snapped, shoving Israfel’s hands away. “I can heal myself.”
“You should be grateful for Israfel’s kindness,” another angel said icily, glaring down at him in vague distaste. “Few angels would heal their opponents after gaining the desired position.”
“Michael.” Israfel’s voice was soft. Michael sniffed slightly then walked away. “Thank you for the victory,” the newly promoted missionary said to Pilate before standing and following behind the other angel.
Pilate glared at the two figures until they flew out of sight. He had been in the fleet for thousands of years and had been content to remain in the rank he had just been demoted from. He growled. The fleet’s policies were changing, and his humiliation was building.
“Confiteor Deo Omnipotenti quia peccavi nimis. Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa. Kyrie eleison.”
“Kyrie eleison,” the congregation repeated.
As the last murmur faded, Gabriel cast a quick freezing spell over the church as he passed through its doors. He passed the still priest and approached the altar.
“My God,” a voice murmured and he slowly turned. A young man stared at him in shock and wonder. “An angel.”
The missionary stared back at the human, the sunlight forming a halo around his white-clad form. His green eyes regarded the young man unblinkingly as he waited for him to make a move. He had strict orders to not allow humans to know of his presence and to just retrieve supplies.
“My God,” the human repeated. “Do I dream?”
Ah. Realization dawned on the confused angel, though he was careful not to show it. A psychic. He had heard of these unique breed of humans but had never encountered one before. He had been told most were concentrated in what the humans called the Far Eastern side of the world. “What thou seest is not a dream, but a vision.” Gabriel applied the slightest bit of magic for his smooth voice to echo in the otherwise silent church.
“God has sent an angel?”
“The angel Gabriel,” he tipped his head forward slightly. Angels do not bow to lesser beings. Plans of ways to rid himself of the human without killing the psychic whirled through his mind. “Plays the messenger,” he finished.
The human scrambled to bow to the angel. With the man’s head bowed, Gabriel took the opportunity to glance at the contents of the altar and suppressed his disgruntlement at the plain wine and bread. He turned back to the groveling psychic. “There are others like you–others who possess the gift of visions,” he said. Psychics were nuisances for the angels. They were somehow more tolerant of their magic and those who fought the fleet could severely injure a lower ranked missionary. If he could get this psychic to gather the others in one place, they would be easier to kill. “Seek them out. Those with the gift are God’s servants.”
“Yes, my Lord,” the man said, his forehead still pressed to the floor.
“You must not allow others without the gift of sight to know of your holy quest.”
“Yes.”
A slight rustle, then the sound of voices permeated the man’s senses. He looked up to see the priest looking at him strangely and, flushing slightly, he returned to his place in the crowd, determined to do God’s bidding.
Uranus watched in pride as his apprentice wiped his hands clean on the white cloth of his opponent’s robes. This one was neither the most intelligent nor the most powerful of his students, but he proved obedient, driven by anger. If he could, Uranus would have smiled. Lafayel was the perfect guardian. “Come here.”
The younger angel approached him warily. He was the first not to be foolish enough to challenge his master and knew to fear him appropriately. However, Uranus was sensing the growing impatience within his apprentice and knew he would have to be rid of the angel soon.
He slid the door closed and crouched in his nest, folding his wings in a cocoon around his body. His feathers lay scattered around the otherwise Spartan room. Slowly, gingerly, he brought his bloodied hands to his face, watching the liquid continue to pulse out of where he once had nails. The sharp tearing pain had dwindled to a dull ache with every pulse of blood. Several drops slid down his hands and fell to the floor, splattering the feathers and staining the white with copper-red spots.
Trembling hands reached for a single blood-dotted feather and lifted it. The other hand plucked a loose feather from his wing and compared the two. Gray. The new one was gray. Tainted. Ugly. Unwanted. Several soft bristles brushed against the tender bloodied skin of his fingertip and he hissed, tightening his grip on his feathers. His fingers only stung more.
He dropped the feathers and brought his hands back toward his face again. The clotted blood had been torn away when he dropped the gray feather and fresh blood pulsed out the re-opened wound. He licked it and hissed in pain. He couldn’t risk puncturing his remaining skin cells by gathering energy to heal the wounds. Healing would only bring an irresistible itch and the beginning of his master’s vicious cycle again. He shuddered and curled his body tighter, careful to keep anything from touching his fingers. A few tears squeezed out from his eyelids at the combination of emotional and physical pain.
His nest was white with red-speckled feathers and blotches of darkening gray.
“Something is troubling you. Your aura is unstable.”
Israfel opened his eyes and tilted his head to see his comrade’s face. “Michael.”
The other missionary seated himself next to the four-winged angel and closed his eyes. “If my instincts have not weathered over the centuries, I believe you are being overly anxious about Gabriel again.”
“I have not seen him in a long time,” Israfel sighed. “He has been my companion since birth. I am not accustomed to his absence for extended periods of time,” he admitted.
The corner of Michael’s lips twitched ever so slightly. “You and Gabriel share an unusual relationship. I do not know of any other angel who would be so willing to be concerned for another.”
“Iblis is.”
“Iblis is concerned for the fleet, not any one specific angel,” he pointed out.
Israfel was silent. “Do you…” he started slowly then paused to take a deep breath. “Do you believe that perhaps… perhaps I am a burden to Jibril and his ascent in power?” He winced slightly when Michael smacked him.
“Fool,” the other angel scolded harshly. “The pace at which Gabriel goes by is the pace he sets for himself. You are not forcing him to drag you behind him.”
“If I was not here he would not feel the need to protect me,” Israfel replied.
Michael stared at the depressed angel beside him. But he is not protecting you. Your power exceeds his by far.
“I received your report on the lack of offerings the humans are leaving.”
Gabriel nodded and allowed the commander to approach the viewing platform where he stood staring at the vast space outside the fleet.
“And this gathering of psychics?”
“I believe they will be easier to eliminate if gathered in a single location.”
The commander remained silent as he considered Gabriel’s actions. “You have adjusted to life here well.”
“It is less…” he paused, searching for a word.
“Competitive?” Iblis suggested. The missionary nodded.
“You lead your subordinates well,” Gabriel said. “It is very different than in Heaven. There are times that I wonder why you do not challenge Azrael.” For the past four hundred years he had witnessed the differences in the fleet’s social policies. Though officers and ranks were still determined by challenges of power, they were no longer required to fight to the death and the angels were allowed–no, encouraged–to display emotion within certain designated areas and under extreme cases of stress. He felt freer than he ever had in Heaven. This way of life is better.
“It is different, yes,” he agreed, “but it is not necessarily better.” He smiled as though Gabriel had voiced his thoughts out loud. “You are still young. You do not understand that a sudden change to this,” he nodded his head toward the main body of the fleet, “from the traditional government would upset many older and powerful angels. It has taken many centuries and many challenges for this fleet to change and even now those ranked below me question my authority. As for challenging Azrael…” he turned his head toward Heaven, several galaxies away. “Azrael is a much stronger angel than I, in both power and leadership,” he murmured. “I have no intention of becoming God.”
Gabriel peered into his superior’s face. “You lie,” he said. “Every time you look towards Heaven I see it: your longing. You know you are as capable a leader as he and yet you do not challenge him. The angels would be happier under your reign.”
Iblis stared at the missionary and the hair along Gabriel’s body rose slightly. “A God bears the greatest responsibility imaginable,” he explained. “He can not worry himself about his cherubs’ happiness when he has to insure their survival. What Heaven needs is a strong leader, not a kind one.”
Gabriel remained silent for a moment. “Why do you defend him?”
“Why do you protect Israfel?”
“He is my cherub.”
“Then you should know my answer.”
He was glad to be rid of the fleet for a few years; the other angels made him sick. Pilate boarded the small messenger pod and bound himself to the central control seat, waiting for the dome to open into empty space. When the once-a-decade report was due he seized the chance to play the messenger and escape from the weakening fleet.
When Iblis had first assumed leadership of the fleet after Lucifer had been cast out of Heaven as a shaytan, he initially had the full support of every angel. His cold aura radiated raw and tightly controlled power, which demanded the immediate respect of every angle he came in contact with. However, the past few centuries had made light of the ice angel’s growing weakness.
Lucifer was a great angel. Pilate thought bitterly, even as he suppressed a shudder at the memory of how the previous head commander governed the fleet. He forced images of how his previous apprentice had his tongue torn out and left to bleed to death for just letting a few miniscule details escape him during the mission. He was weak and careless. Unfit to belong in such an elite fleet. Lucifer was great. He had no use for petty emotions or morals that humans dream up. No, his priority was the fleet’s efficiency, not the missionaries’ happiness. It is unimportant. Procula is unimportant….
Pilate readied the report ship for take off. Yes, he would report the weakening of the fleet’s social order. He glanced at the viewing platform where a pair of angels still stood. The social order was truly weakening.
The gravity was shut down and the dome opened. Within minutes the report ship had disappeared from view.
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Allusions and Explanations:
Pilate: He was the Roman governor who ordered the crucifixion of Jesus.
Michael: One of the archangels in Islamic beliefs. He is the protector. (Thanks to neurofeces for telling me this back when I posted the story in 2005)
The Latin: I’m not sure of the accuracy of the translation, but what I have is, “I confess to God almighty that I have sinned. Through my fault. Through my most grievous fault. Lord have mercy.” If anybody has a better translation, please tell me.
Psychics: At this point in time, only the Darklore and Arayashiki exist, but Wiz-dom is starting to form. However, my theory is that Darklore stay more in touch with their animal side than their human side, so angels, who only interact with humans because they worship them, don’t know of the Darklore. Thus, they believe that psychics (the Arayashiki) are concentrated in the Far East.
Lucifer: The fallen angel who became Satan in Christianity.
Procula: Pilate’s wife.
Posted: 30 April 2007
Reposted: 21 May 2007
Next Post: 11 June 2007