Chapter Text
How you have fallen from heaven,
morning star, son of the dawn!
You have been cast down to the earth,
you who once laid low the nations!
You said in your heart,
“I will ascend to the heavens;
I will raise my throne
above the stars of God;
I will sit enthroned on the mount of assembly,
on the utmost heights of Mount Zaphon
I will ascend above the tops of the clouds;
I will make myself like the Most High.”
But you are brought down to the realm of the dead,
to the depths of the pit.
Isaiah 14, New International Version
//
Penelope Shaw trailed after Faland in near-silence. Already the roar of the fire and the stomping footsteps had disappeared into the hushed whispers of the winter winds.
She had stopped crying not long after Iven and the German fled the burning building. Indeed, they had not been walking long when the redness in her eyes faded, and the only color left on her pale face was from the cold turning the tip of her nose pink.
He thought about whistling, but the wind would mask it; besides, it felt impolite. Faland tucked his hands into his pockets and slowed his stride. Shaw looked at him suspiciously and stopped.
“Come now, we have a ways to go,” he said. “I won’t spend it in silence. Won’t you tell me a story?”
She held her head up high. “Monsieur, you’ll have to pardon me for wanting a moment to myself,” she said. Faland found it hard to take her seriously with her squeaky voice and small stature, though the dried blood flaking off her hands was enough to give him pause. “I just murdered a man, and I very much would like to get out of the cold and wash my hands.”
She put on a brave face, but she was not as unbothered about their agreement as she tried to present. He flashed her a grin. “Already having regrets? You didn’t even get to step on the body like you did in the mirror. I would’ve paid to see that.”
“Not for him,” Shaw said truthfully. She returned her gaze to the snow-capped trees ahead.
“For your dear Laura,” Faland surmised. Shaw began to walk, and he fell in step beside her. It wasn’t sportsmanlike, but he couldn’t resist the temptation to twist the knife. Just another of his God-given defects. “You had a chance, you know. Let the general’s lovestruck nephew cover it up; let the German take the fall. Go back to the hospital and comfort her because she lost her baby brother, and it was all for naught.”
Shaw stepped on a branch. It snapped in half with a crack and sent a spray of snow across the tops of both their shoes. “She didn’t lose him,” she snapped.
“Oh, she did. And you’ll end up the same. Only this time, Laura won’t brave the battlefield a third time for you.”
“I wouldn’t want her to,” Shaw said resolutely. “Laura deserves better. Someone who can love her so completely that she will never hurt again.” But, when she spoke again, she quavered and lost the fire in her voice. “And that cannot be me.”
She spent the rest of the journey in quiet meditation. Faland itched to fill the silence, but he did at least have enough restraint to leave a grieving woman be (never mind the fact that he was the cause of said grief).
When there was no place for words, music remained his steadfast companion. He thought back to the general’s murder, calling to his mind the fury in Penelope Shaw’s beautiful face; the smell of the gunpowder; the viscera painting the door and dripping from her shaking hands; and the pure venom in her being when she spat, I hate him.
Though the violin was safely tucked away in the case hanging from his shoulder, he felt the strings pressing into the fingertips of his left hand. His hand emerged from his pocket and fell to his side. His wrist flexed and ordered his fingers into motion. He heard the breathy notes of the gun wavering in her trembling hand. He heard the sharp drag of the bow across all four strings as her rage reached its apex and she pulled the trigger. It ended in a slow, fading denouement as the adrenaline melted into numb, grim acceptance.
Faland frowned and held up his hand as if something were wrong with him. The music was there, but it sounded hollow. It wasn’t just incomplete, like Wilfred Iven’s music had been until he buckled and gave Faland his most cherished memory. It was a mere play-by-play of the events that occurred. Penelope Shaw was reading her lines, but she was not acting her role.
It didn't matter, he thought. In time, she would tell him her version of the story. He already knew how it’d go: an angel, beautiful and pious, corrupted by forces outside of her control.
An angel, cast-off and betrayed, turning against her nature to save her sanity.
An angel, wrathful and wretched, vowing revenge on the one who tore her wings from her.
An angel, vengeful and ravenous and hellbent on making the world feel his pain.
He’d tell their story and play it from the top of the Tour Eiffel, where their song would pierce the heavens. And finally, He would not be able to ignore Faland any longer.