Dove Caught in a Burning Bush Ch. 08

Crucifel shuddered, heat fluttering in her stomach at the part that wasn't said. It didn't surprise her that he'd dodge the question, but she was determined to hold him to it.

That aside, he was right that they both had a busy day ahead, so she nodded and let some of the tension bleed out of her shoulders. "Fine, but you will not be wiggling out of this."

She paused, then tilted her head to brush his neck with her lips guiltily. "And...I'm sorry for strangling you, I didn't hurt you too badly did I?"

Promethiel's raspy laugh vibrated through his chest. He'd had plenty of time to heal from the assault, and such an ultimately frail attempt at his life wouldn't have succeeded anyway. Perhaps a demon or fallen might have been able to squeeze the life from an angel if they tried hard enough, but divinity was gentle with divinity.

"Next time you wrap your hands around my throat, I hope it's for something more frolicsome," Promethiel grinned, "but no, you didn't hurt me, Dear. It was quite enjoyable, actually."

"You are vile," Crucifel groaned, pulling away and beginning to squeeze out of his grip. "Let me go, I have things to attend to."

He tugged her closer one last time, nuzzling his face into her hair before lifting her chin with a finger. She knew what was coming, but didn't stop Promethiel as he kissed her lips softly. The smile pressed to her mouth could be felt, and Crucifel rolled her eyes before kissing him back with a bat of her wings over the top of his head. While he smothered his laughter, she pulled free and gathered her robes.

After dressing hastily, she stole away into one of the hidden passages that required pushing one of Promethiel's dressers slightly aside as he watched from his bed with amusement. Her brother's final words before she closed the small doorway behind her made the princess's skin burn, yellow eyes glaring over her shoulder in the last sliver of light as they locked onto Promethiel's smirking face.

"I'll be seeing you later for bed and a chat, my Lovely."

Crucifel could only give a derisive snort before she slipped out of view.

She felt like a fool for not remembering the passages before.

In fairness, they hadn't exactly seen much use from her lately, at least not the one leading to Promethiel's room, for obvious reasons.

But now the narrow passageway was a Godsend that had allowed her to reach her own chambers in privacy, gather her things and catch a quick bath before morning mass. Even with that sordid convenience, Crucifel still couldn't help but feel like her sins were clinging to her as she stood on the pulpit before the gathered congregation.

So many pairs of eyes were latched on her, the mountainous weight of their expectations and hope once again pressing down on her head anew.

She'd been Edenara's Prophetess for as long as she could remember, and those looks were far from unexpected or unwarranted. But after just enjoying (God afar, enjoying?) her night with Promethiel, it felt like coming back up for air that stung her lungs. No matter what, if Crucifel stayed beneath the water then she would drown and if she took in that sweet air perfumed with incense then she would choke.

It wasn't all expectations and worry, though, not really.

The cathedral was an absolutely breathtaking display of architecture. Stained glass windows made the mostly stone interior glow in a soft, muted light that blended the warmth of the morning sun and colorful hues of the glass together. Above, etched into the ceiling, stone was adorned with ever more gilded eyes and intricate patterns. Despite its grandeur, there was a simplicity to the design as well that made the whole space seem open and welcoming. This was a place meant for the quiet hum of prayers and soft sounds of singing. A holy space meant for peace.

It wasn't long before the prophetess relaxed into the familiarity of her routine, feeling the weight of her angel's expectations settle into old indentations on her shoulders that she knew could bear the load. No matter what, there was always that first sense of awkward dread, but once she'd gotten through the first few minutes, the rest was as easy as breathing. The prayers, the litanies, the hymns, they all flowed forth as sure as the sun rose.

Once within the safety of this bubble, Crucifel could let her body and voice do the work without much input, allowing her mind to wander safely through the ethereal setting around her. It was a beautiful thing to see the cathedral so full of worshipers, so long as she focused less on the sea of faces turned her way and more on the atmosphere.

Voices rose and fell, songs were sung and hymns chanted into the morning air, echoing into the high ceiling to come raining back down over the congregation. It felt cleansing, pure. Like a river of divine sound washing away the lump in her throat.

When the last vibrating note had died away, the cathedral was still and silent for a moment to allow contemplation before communion was called.

Angels came and went, all eyes on her as Crucifel placed wafers upon tongues and refilled the chalice each time it ran dry of the deep red that filled it. She met every face with a gentle smile, feeling her heart swell when that same expression was reflected back at her, keeping it regardless when the eyes that met hers were less peaceful, more haggard. She was their Prophetess, their guiding light and hope for a safe future. And she would be damned if she didn't try to provide hope for them.

One pair of eyes was more frantic than the others that morning, rimmed with a sleeplessness that was difficult to achieve for an angel.

While they were all beings of divinity and beauty, the bodies that they took on still had needs so long as they inhabited them. And inhabit they did, for safety and out of politeness to their fellow beings. Doors and buildings were not particularly conducive to their burning, shifting primordial forms. And even then, the bodies they took healed faster from abuse so long as it was natural or divine in nature.

The angel that gripped the front of Crucifel's robes looked wild, desperate as she placed the wafer onto his tongue. His icy yellow eyes were bloodshot and burned into her own as he swallowed the morsel.

"Feiniar," he breathed, and Crucifel let her smile slip slightly in confusion.

"I'm sorry?" She asked softly, hands stilling on their way to lift the chalice to his lips. "What did you say?"

Those restless eyes narrowed, brows lowering to shade them as he looked at her as if she'd spat on him. "Feiniar," the angel hissed. "My brother, he was one of the guards killed by the demon attack on your palace."

Crucifel felt her smile slip away. The words were barbed, but bled just as much themselves. This was a being who had lost someone so close, so recently. Even worse, that loss was tied so tightly with an event that had ultimately centered around her in the end.

"I am so, so desperately sorry," she whispered, voice hushed as her wings slid lower in guilty sympathy. "I didn't know you were--"

"Bring it back!"

The sudden scream from the angel tore through the peace of the cathedral, striking her chest like the broken syllables were stone shrapnel. His hand lashed out, catching Crucifel's wrist and knocking the chalice to the ground before pulling her closer with its opposite still twisting in the front of her now stained robes. "You're the Prophetess! Our connection to God, wherever He is! Bring Him back and bring back our complete immortality!"

The angel's desperation was palpable, tears flowing down his cheeks as he shook her between sobs. From behind him, Crucifel could see others closing in to pull the bereaved being away, but she raised her hand for them to stop. Her body felt cold and numb, leaden with panic that was subdued only with practiced calm. The same way she'd been trained since she was young, always the beacon of peace and serenity for her kingdom.

Crucifel for a few brief moments said nothing, maintaining eye contact as she placed her free hand over one of his, squeezing it gently before finally speaking, keeping her voice a warm murmur. "Feiniar's sacrifice will not be forgotten, I promise you this. And I promise that I will continue to do my utmost to call out to our creator every day, for as long as I can."

Her eyes were bright, feverish almost with the weight of that promise and there was no mistaking the sincerity in her tone.

The angel's grip on her tightened, his face contorting into an ugly grimace as he pulled her closer. "How many more of us have to die before you bring Him back?"

His words hit hard, adding to the pressure in her chest threatening to crush her lungs. It hurt to hear, but she couldn't blame him for feeling how he did.

"I'm sorry," Crucifel whispered gently, trying to keep her words steady despite how badly she wanted to weep with him, remaining still even as the hold on her wrist became bruising. "I don't know. I will not lie to you and say that I do, but please, I need your faith just a bit longer. Not just me, but all of us. So please, take your communion, sit back down, and I will continue to do my best to serve you all."

The hold on her wrist and robes went soft, and at last, the Prophetess could crouch to gather the fallen chalice and wipe the sides carefully with her already tarnished robes. Once she felt that the cup was glistening enough, she refilled it and returned to the grieving angel, standing before him with the chalice lifted for him to drink from.

He stared at her for a moment, then allowed Crucifel to pour the red fluid down his throat. A small bit of it dripped from the corner of his mouth, trailing thick crimson that clung to his chin as she pressed her lips to his clammy forehead in a chaste, almost motherly kiss.

As he made his way back into the crowd, Crucifel looked over the gathered angels that had partaken of the sacrament, all of whom were watching her with lips red with holy blood. That metallic kiss would linger on their breath for a time, filling the air with the scent of iron as they silently went back to their pews to pray.

The silence that followed was broken only by slow, measured prayers of angels. It gave Crucifel a moment to ground herself, sending a fervent prayer of her own to their absent Creator as she stiffened her body to forcibly shut out any trembling. She needed to be strong for them, and she couldn't do that if she wasn't centered.

When mass was finally over, Crucifel felt drained but pleased with herself for maintaining that careful calm. It was an increasingly difficult feat as tensions grew in the kingdom with the rising tide of demonic activity.

And yet, some part of her felt strangely at peace just as much as she was fearful. Melancholy, too. She wasn't sure how to describe it.

Walking through the halls of the palace, feeling the warm afternoon sun splash across her in between cool bouts of shadow, Crucifel tried to put her feelings to words for herself anyways.

It was obvious that something would need to be done soon, that much couldn't be denied. Nor did it require a tactical genius to figure out what form that something would take when the proverbial and literal dam broke. Her duty had been pressed into her from such an early age, there was no way it could be a surprise, but knowing just how close to the end she was...it was terrifying.

Like a leaf just before autumn, feeling the days grow shorter and the nights go colder. That was how Crucifel felt.

Finite.

This was her purpose, to give and guide and love until she couldn't anymore. Not in the same way, at least. So why did it fill her heart with such an ache? She should be joyful, pleased that she was so close to accomplishing this lifelong goal, so why did it hurt?

Promethiel's words rattled in her chest, left there like a set of loose stones since that morning; 'Don't you think that you have earned some of that selfishness?'

The sheer blasphemy made Crucifel feel nauseous, but she was far from without enough sin to be casting stones. So for a moment, a brief and hypothetical moment, she tried to see things from his point of view.

If she was allowed to be selfish, what would she want? Without limit or guilt, what did the Prophetess of Edenara want?

Peace for her angels, of course. Safety for them and an end to their worries. She would like to meet God, to bring Him back and restore the slowly shifting state of divinity to what it once was long before her creation. Her mind flitted to her parents, and she felt her inner voice opening its metaphorical mouth...but couldn't find the words. She had wanted so much from them that they could never give.

Crucifel's mind turned to Promethiel, with his claws that tore through the existence of other beings. But the hands those talons sprang from were soft. They held, caressed and squeezed. The arms stretching out from to those hands embraced her, the body that those arms were attached to was warm and solid. He should be a demon by now for all of his wicked deeds, but the lack of horns or even the ashen fade associated with those that had fallen was absent.

Throughout her entire life, Crucifel and everyone around her had known that she was a leaf waiting for the turn of the seasons. She wasn't meant to last, but to become a beautiful, immaculate shield once her light burned out. A holy ring of fire in His absence.

That was how it was supposed to be. That was her destiny.

Never had she taken it personally when other angels would look at her as more of a sacred artifact than a being when she was younger, or even with grateful pity. It had gotten better as she'd aged, becoming a steady presence in their lives. But even now, there were those that looked upon her like if they got too close then she'd break. Or maybe they just didn't want to become too attached to the honored sacrificial lamb.

Promethiel was one of the few who didn't hold back around her. God knows that sometimes she wished he would, but her brother gave her the breadth of his emotions. He spoke of the future as if she'd always be there, looked at her with challenge in his golden eyes instead of pity or sought deliverance. Promethiel didn't treat her as if she was a holy ghost bearing gifts, and in a way, that broke her.

What did Crucifel, Prophetess of Edenara, want if she could have anything, in a universe where she was allowed to be selfish?

Her knees went weak, eyes flooding over as she leaned against an alabaster wall and slid to the floor. Her hands gripped at the white strands of her hair as she tried to control her breathing, throat so tight that it threatened to choke her.

Would it be so bad if she wanted to exist, not have her time measured by a fraying string? Just for a little longer, without owing her entire being to others.

"Is this a bad time, Your Highness?"

Crucifel flinched and stood swiftly, blinking hard once, twice, three times until her eyes had been wrung dry. Lost Heaven, she was so tired of crying, but her mind always seemed to want nothing more than to shift and twist until she wept from the strain.

"No, no. All is well, I was caught up in a particularly fervent prayer," Crucifel finally exhaled, feeling bad for the lie as she turned to smile at the young page who stood before her, wringing their robes awkwardly. "How may I help you, my child?"

"I have a letter that has arrived for you, Your Highness. It came in with a courier from the wastes." The angel bowed low, handing her the rolled parchment and ducking away to hurry down the hallway.

It wasn't the most elegantly packaged letter, made of a thicker, sturdier material than any paper. As she unfurled it, Crucifel couldn't help but furrow her brows when she realized it was not parchment at all, but a thin sheet of leather that had to have been tanned by amateur hands. What caught her attention the most, however, was the crudely drawn eye that stared out from the top of the page.

The text on the page was equally odd, slanting hither and yon with a few words too mangled to even read properly. No matter how rough the lettering and material was, the script was a familiar enough one that she could decipher most of it. As her eyes moved further down the page, they widened and Crucifel nearly dropped the letter before clutching it to her chest with a deep, shaky breath.

She needed to find Promethiel.

Ideally, this letter should have been addressed to the king, but Crucifel could understand why it had come to her instead. It was just a bit, well, impolitic of them to only contact her. That didn't diminish what that ragged scrap meant to her, though. To them.

As much as she wanted to go find her brother now, there were more duties that she had to attend to before reconvening with Promethiel, so the prophetess tucked the leather scroll away into her robes. Now both of them would have something to share when they met again at day's end.

Ah, yes, there was that guilt again.

The remaining hours passed in blessed peace, and eventually Crucifel found herself waiting for Promethiel in his gradually dimming chambers.

Outside, the sun had grown dark and red as it sank below the horizon, bleeding those blushing colors across the rest of the sky like a spreading fire. She felt secure enough to leave several windows slightly ajar, letting in the earthen, floral late evening breeze that came in from over the palace gardens.

That twilight dampened fragrance brought back so many memories as Crucifel sat perched by a window, drawing up a whispered recollection of ankles wet with night dew as she moved across the grass in a barefoot sprint long after she was supposed to be in bed asleep. There was another figure in that memory, another set of feet moving with her as they giggled in the dark, fingers twining with her own to bring her down with him when he slipped.

They'd sat there swatting at each other and squabbling until the first ethereal wail echoed across the sky, sounding almost as though someone had drawn a bow over a stringed instrument. Then, from seemingly out of nowhere, the translucent, ribbony forms of the leptouitta appeared as they swam through the sky.

The creatures were as good as glass lit from the inside, bodies swaying like banners caught in the perfumed breeze as they drifted upon updrafts. Their seemingly endless luminescent tails stretched across the night like a living aurora, mesmerizing her and her brother while those melodic cries soared alongside the leptouitta.

It was about that time again, wasn't it? Within the next few months, the migration would return to pass through Edenara's divine field. Why did that thought make her so sad, then?

Because she didn't know if she would be there to see it?

Crucifel had been so caught up in her memories that the sound of the heavy door opening and closing made her wings fluff out in surprise. She turned to face the doors as Promethiel stepped into the room, glancing around before his golden eyes settled on her with a smile that managed to be stiff and genuine all at once.

"Good evening to you, my Lovely," he chirped, far too happily, before making his way over to where Crucifel sat, stopping several steps away with wings that were as rigid as the smile on his face. Something was obviously wrong.

"You're late, did something else happen with the Council?" She cut to the chase, rising from the window seat. "You look pale."

Promethiel chuckled breathily, cocking his head to the side as he watched her with a calculating expression, mulling over his words. "Everything is settled with the Council, I have made my apologies and all should be back in working order once the dust has settled."

"I don't believe you," Crucifel said bluntly, moving closer to him and standing toe to toe with her brother. "Something happened. You have the countenance of a cringing dog."