Chapter Text
The moment Lute’s sword met flesh, she was alone. Adam, her fallen sisters; all vanished in an instant, even their voices echoed into nothingness inside the confines of her mind.
Well.
Not fully alone.
Sera slumped back in her arms, gasping for air; six snow white wings lined with periwinkle fluttered uselessly; eyes flickering in and out of existence as she tried and failed to shift into her true form. The two feet of angelic steel run through her back and out the front of her chest anchored her, kept her from drawing on upon the massive power of a Seraph. Golden blood trickled from the corner of Sera’s mouth, staining the metal of Lute’s prosthetic that was even now clamped tight against her jaw to stifle any cry for help she might have tried to give.
“N-no… no, no, no!”
What the fuck did she just do?
Instincts, embedded deep in the exorcist’s mind by Sera herself, screamed at her. Leave the sword, keep her prey trapped. Finish the job. Kill, without mercy, without hesitation. Strike again, if necessary. There was a knife in her boot, another on her hip. The back of the neck, between the ribs – she had struck a lung and it would take Sera a long time to die. Her right hand, the one that was still hers, twitched around the hilt of her sword.
Lute did none of those things.
She had already failed enough. Failed Vaggie, failed Adam, failed the exorcists given to her to lead and protect, failed Heaven… failed Sera, now, too. Tiredness washed over her suddenly, her limbs leaden and sore. Had she been sleeping? She couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter anymore. The only person left alive willing to extend even a modicum of grace to an exorcist as feral as her was gasping for air through a punctured lung on Lute’s sword. Whatever fate awaits her she would accept with her head held high; it matters not so long as Sera lives. What is the life of an exorcist worth, compared to that of a Seraph?
There was only one person to whom Lute could now turn, and thus, body trembling, exhausted from days without sleep, without food, she gathered herself for one last push. A final act of contrition, belated though it might be. With reverence and care, so, so much care for the woman she had more than likely slain, Lute gathered the immense Seraph in her hands and cradled her like a lover.
Once Lute had wondered if she loved Sera; now she knew that she must not have – after all, how could she kill someone she claimed to love? Exorcists were not made for such gentle pursuits, this, more than anything, confirmed it.
Standing was a herculean endeavor; Sera was twice her height at least and Lute beat her wings awkwardly to maintain her balance. The tip of her sword waved dangerously close to her face, a golden blur that pulled her gaze in, enthralling and deadly. No. She cannot be distracted. Lute had precious little time to spare. One booted foot in front of the other she carried Sera out of the isolated meeting room and into the court proper.
Tucked away as they were in the Old Court, a realm of dark stone, stained glass, and secrets; Lute met no angels as she began her trek. These halls had long since fallen into disuse, and only the ancient or the desperate tread these corridors now. They were one of each, Lute thought, and she prayed that they would both live out the day.
She’d settle for the next half hour.
Her muscles burned, tremors ran down her arms. Sera groaned at the jostling. But Lute had spent centuries burning weakness from every facet of her existence; she’d not come this far to fail now. In her arms, Sera’s breath hitches. It is a rasping, awful sound that grates on Lute’s ears – and a sound that she knows well. Death, something no angel should have ever feared, lurked in Lute’s shadow.
There was not much time.
Guilt nipped at her heels while duty and stubbornness hauled the drained exorcist forward.
‘Not fast enough. Not again. Please, God, not again.’
And though she had not slept in three days and hardly eaten for twice that, Lute was forged of the strongest steel that Heaven could offer. Her muscles are corded from centuries of vicious training, while scars cross her skin in a testament to her resilience. She would not fail now, not in this, perhaps the very moment she had spent her whole existence preparing for though she had not known it at the time.
Lute broke into a run, staggering and clumsy though it might have been, and Sera cried out as the sword in her chest shifted with the rough movement. There was nothing to be done for it; seconds mattered and Lute could hardly cause worse pain than she had already inflicted. Her boots pounded against the marble floor, a death knell sounding as she skidded around a corner and crossed over into the well lit halls of the New Court. Dull gray stone and torchlight banished by gold, and marble, and sunlight.
It felt like the first gasp of air after too long spent underwater.
It felt like hope, dangerous, dancing hope.
Here, there were angels; they turned, gasps of shock and shouts of surprise trailed in Lute’s wake. She could not blame them – after all, she sprinted through their midst with nary a word and the dying High Seraph in her arms – but there was no time for her to slow down, to explain, to entertain their reactions. Not when she was nearly halfway there, precious cargo clutched as tightly as she dared squeeze.
In the light Lute was invigorated. Angels were not designed to haunt dark places, no, they were meant to bask in the light of Heaven. Yet Lute had found comfort there of late, another sign that something was broken within her. Broken, failure, maybe even a traitor just like Vaggie. Lute laughed as she ran, a cruel and mirthless sound that echoed down the halls of gold.
As she went the crowds grew dense. Her progress slowed, lest Sera’s legs or head snag on someone and send them both to the ground. Lute could scarce afford that now, when a fall could finish Sera off and she thought that if she fell she might not possess the strength to rise again.
It was fortunate, then, that Adam saw fit to teach Lute certain aspects of command, and that over the years she had internalized them well. Push down her emotions, become the lieutenant, and do whatever is necessary.
“Move! Get the fuck out of the way! Make a hole, you worthless cunts, right the fuck now!”
Vulgar, but the sensibilities of the high and holy angels of the Court scarcely factored into her concerns in that moment. It worked, was what mattered most of all, and angels stepped aside to let her pass; perhaps recognizing that the what and the why could be considered later, when lives no longer hung by a thread.
Later would come sooner than Lute had thought or would have liked, as her keen hearing alerted her to the sounds of pursuit. Multiple angels trailed after her, this macabre pied piper of Heaven. Even fresh and unburdened by twelve feet of Seraph they all struggled to match her pace; her wings steadied her around corners and pushed her forwards, faster, faster, always faster. One final burst of effort was all she needed.
Blood bubbled and sprayed from Sera’s mouth and the glowing splatters marked their passage. But it was good, in the smallest of ways, that she still drew breath and had blood left to bleed. There was yet hope. Hope, that Lute had not ruined everything – at least, any more than she already had. Perhaps this, now, was the worst failure of her life, and with a twisting in her heart Lute realized that she ought to Fall for this. It would only be just, for she had forsaken her oaths and honor both.
So long as she could get Sera to safety before she was cast down, she would face her deserved punishment with her head held high, Lute resolved as she flexed her wings to pull herself around a corner.
It was the last corner; her destination was within reach – a plain, wooden doorway in an unassuming hallway no different from a hundred others in the New Court. The Archangel Raphael’s office, a Seraph himself and the first healer in all Creation. If anyone could save Sera it would be him, and Lute did not spare the time to knock. Doors in Heaven, outside the Old Court and the Exorcist Compound, were decorative and few of those could withstand the raw strength of a desperate exorcist. Lute spun, kicking out backwards like a raging mule and the door tore free of its frame, clattering drunkenly to the floor while Raphael looked up, shock written upon his face.
In an instant it was gone, a mask of professional calm slammed into place as Lute turned and revealed her precious cargo to him. A look that Lute knew all too well.
Had she not donned that same mask herself?
Her’s is merely harsher, crueler. And what good had come of it? Little, she realized, precious little. Friends and lovers both forsaken; her only family cut down before her eyes and burned upon the pyre of her own arrogance and blind hatred, fueled by her boundless rage. Now Lute fell to her knees before the Archangel of Healing, pleading with her eyes, begging him, desperately hoping that he might salvage whatever is left of this, her greatest and most terrible failure.
No matter Sera’s fate, may she live or die as the Most High should decree, Lute saw that all paths for her converged. For the first time in her life the warrior angel feared – not death, exactly. She was a soldier, and she knew how to die well. No, what she feared was dying in ignominy, a pariah and a traitor to Heaven. God, but she had never thought it would have come to this; an Archangel before her as she offered up the High Seraph like a lamb brought before the altar.
‘Here I am Lord, accept this offering from my unclean hands, for all they know and have known is to tear down and be torn down in turn. I write this prayer in the blood of the righteous and of the martyrs fallen in service of Heaven. I pray that you might take me sacrifice in her place, for her duties are not yet over… but mine are; Heaven has no place for a vicious carrion bird kept alive past her time. In all things, Thy Will be done.’
Guilt held her gaze upon the floor, but Lute could feel the weight lift from her arms. Raphael, that ancient Seraph, has answered her plea and Sera might yet live out the day. Released of her burden, the ache in her muscles clawed its way to the forefront of her mind. She slumped over to stare numbly at her bloodstained hands. Her right hand, still made of flesh divine though it might be, shook violently, knocking against her knee. Lute ought to clean them, but her arms have turned to lead alongside the rest of her body.
‘What now? What will become of me?’
There on the floor of an office Lute knelt, as Raphael carried Sera away. Her feathers dragging on the tile as the door behind Raphael’s desk closed was the last Lute saw of the High Seraph, and perhaps, the last she would ever see of her. Alone, silent tears poured down her face. Not for long. The rush of blood in her ears slowed, slightly, enough for the murmur of voices from the hallway to reach her mind. A crowd has gathered, drawn by her maniacal flight, following the trail of angelic blood – a novelty, no doubt, to these angels of the Court, but something Lute is all too familiar with.
It still stains her hands. Sera’s blood. Her blood. A faint glimmer still shines in the lamplight. Abruptly overcome by the need to get it off, to clean her hands, Lute shudders, violent and involuntary. Her shoulders shook while her breath came in frantic, panicked gasps. Darkness flooded her periphery, choking out her vision until all Lute could see was her hands splayed upon her knees. Sera’s blood. With barely working fingers on a hand that feels more like a club, Lute tears at her prosthetic. Lute’s arm, Lute’s own hand that had covered Sera’s mouth. The scene replayed again and again in her mind’s eye, so terrible in its intimacy as Lute pulled the Seraph close, like a lover, and into her deadly embrace.
Bile coated the marble floor. Lute’s throat stung, it burned; she did not relent in her assault on the catch of her prosthetic. It needed to come off, this filthy, stained extension of herself. They both need to come off, both her hands, for they have wrought such damage, such destruction. Heaven would be better without them, and so would Lute.
With the snap of breaking latches Lute’s arm came free at last and she hurled it across the room, denting the wall but Lute didn’t care, she didn’t, she simply needs it to be away from her. Behind her the voices hushed, perhaps fearful, perhaps judgmental, and Lute didn’t care about them either.
Not when the only person whose judgement she cares about lies dying in another room with Lute’s sword through her chest.
There was a buzzing in the air, a low hum as voices cried out in the distance; it was as though Lute was underwater, and she feels like it. With her one hand she claws at the neck of her armor, she is drowning, her breath won’t come. Steel mail tears as the coif yields to her strength and comes free, releasing the sensitive, downy feathers underneath. It was not enough, nothing would ever be enough; her fingers dug into the down, tearing and clawing, bloody feathers coming free by the fistful. It didn’t help, nothing can fucking help, she was fully hyperventilating now and sparks danced across her eyes until static was all she saw and all that Lute could hear was her own frantic gasping for air that never came.
She pulled another handful of feathers from her neck.
And another.
And another.
And a-
Something warm and gentle encased her hand, like the thickest molasses possible. Immense strength, enough to overpower a determined exorcist, pulled her hand back as Lute fought to bring it to her face and clear her vision. She needed to clear her vision, she could not see and there were sparks in her eyes, she needed to see, damn it! Thrashing to escape whatever holds her Lute found all her limbs similarly stuck. Exhausted muscles, blessed by Heaven and honed through a lifetime of violence, strained against the restraints to no avail. There was give, whatever held her yielded – but not much.
Someone was holding her, then, and fighting her as she thrashed. A growl vibrated in her throat; hate, for herself, for the world, for everything and everyone, spilled forth. It burned hot and cleansing through her soul, scouring it.
A chime sounded above her, and Lute’s soul shifted. The world became colder. Her feathers fluffed up, but did nothing against the sudden chill.
“…Lute! LUTE!”
Her name… she has a name?
‘I have a name. My name is Lute’
A lifeline for her to cling to, even as the voice faded back out into a river of rushing blood. Lute. Lute. Lute. Lute. She repeated her own name over and over and over, a mantra to cling to as hands, too many hands, clutched at her body.
‘Are they real? Does it matter?’
Beneath her the world shook and Lute tensed; back muscles strained against wings that wouldn’t unfurl. Her limbs remained trapped, pinned in warmth that should have felt suffocating but more and more felt comforting. Safe, almost, but Lute was an exorcist. Exorcists were not supposed to know safety, so it must be false. Whatever surrounded her had hardened now, stone cast around her body, it entrapped her wholly.
“…can you hear me Lute… breathe… okay? Lute, it is okay.”
Not stone then, no, but just as strong and as sure. Rock, but her rock was dead and buried while the river churned wildly around Lute, a shifting current throughout all Creation that swept away all the truths and certainties she had known one by one until there was nothing left, nothing but battered pride and a burning hatred, until the river snuffed even that out.
Better to have let her drown in the river, let the current take her away. Better for everyone.
Air moved, something pressed against her – a person? Not restraints? Who would hold her now? She ought to be dead by now, shouldn’t she? Did they wish to play games with her before they got on with it? Perhaps make an example of her? Or – she shuddered again, and the person squeezed her slightly – was she to be cast down? Sent to hell alongside the traitor, to live out eternity staring up at the light of Heaven that would be denied her evermore?
Was Lute in any position to resist, if they decided that either would be her fate?
‘No. I swore. I deserve it, and more. For Vaggie, for Adam, for Sera.’
But that voice she heard twice before was cutting through the haze in her head and she could feel the rise and fall of someone’s chest pressed against her back. Instincts from the part of her brain molded in the shape of a creature that moved in flocks took over. Though her breath hitched and stuttered at first, she tried, God how she tried, to breathe with whoever this is. Whoever has seen fit to take pity on a broken and sinful angel.
She wanted to say something to them. Tell them not to waste their time when she is damned already, or else, if it is pity that drives them she would cling to her bent and broken pride, the only thing she had left, and tell them where they could shove their fucking pity. When she opened her mouth though, her voice hitched and cracked while her breathing faltered, and sobs caught in her throat. Like a dam fit to burst she could barely hold them back, and she hiccupped; pain lanced through her chest but she has had worse, so much worse, and what did it matter when Sera lay dead with Lute’s sword in her chest?
In a shattered voice between bitter, choking sobs, Lute asked the only question that ever mattered.
“Why?”
Why what, though? Why bother? Why care? Why not kill her on the spot? Why her, out of everyone?
“Because you’re hurting,” the voice said, as if it was that simple. As if that was a good enough reason to comfort a sick, ruined killer. A poorly wrought tool, a weapon that was as dangerous to the hand that wielded it as it was to its enemies.
It made no sense, it made too much sense, and all Lute could do was lean into the once suffocating embrace and cling to this madman, or woman, whoever they were. A rock, in the storm that Lute herself heralded. And the person who held her rubbed a gentle hand through the feathers between her shoulders until her muscles went limp. Until the static and sparks faded from Lute’s vision and her breath no longer caught in her throat, until her tears ran dry.
When Lute finally opened her eyes, it was to look up into the gently worried face of Emily.
Sera’s sister. The sister of the woman who Lute has, in all likelihood, slain in a fit of rage and zealotry and a desperate attempt to silence the specters who haunted her.
“Fuck.”