Welcome to Gaia! :: View User's Journal | Gaia Journals

(yes, the other part was a prologue. don't be mad. sweatdrop )
Chapter 1

It hadn't been so much an easy day as a great one. No homework, a good job, fun atmosphere, the works. And vacation coming up, too. Guess I can rule that out, thought the teen, glancing at his captor. Before, in the diner, he'd been pale, albino pale. His hair had been snowy white, his eyes blue. He was changing.

The boy hadn't really figured that was what the Angel looked like anyway, all pasty pale and serious looking.

It was his eyes that changed first. They lightened, or darkened--he couldn't tell which--until they shone like dawn light. His skin darkened, turning a rich tan. His black wings stayed the same, clothes changing from almost business-like attire to more casual, less business-like clothes: shirt, jacket, pants, boots.

"Stop looking at me." His voice made the fifteen-year-old nearly leap out of his skin. So far it had been a silent journey, the void filled mostly by his inner thoughts of the situation. Mostly that the Angel was off his meds. His voice set off bells in his ears, caught his breath and stole it away. Flushing slightly, he looked away. He hadn't even realized he'd been staring.

A shudder passed through his entire body as they touched down in front of an old, disused church. He back up against the man, eyes on the doorway that loomed darkly ahead. He hadn't really been afraid of the Angel in the diner. He hadn't really wanted to hurt him, had he? He'd saved him from the fire, hadn't he? The aura that resonated from inside the building spoke of death. Death slow and painful. Malice beyond his comprehension. Screams had been let loose inside that place. Screams that would surely haunt it forever.

Then he was propelled toward the doorway, the man's strong hand never leaving his shoulders. He was glad for it as he slowly pulled his wings back into his body with a grinding of bone, the creak of muscle, and the closing of an eye in a wince.

A man stood in the hall. Radiating cold, radiating that deathly feeling. He looked as the Angel had in the diner: albino pale, suit-clothes, white hair, blue eyes. Well, almost pale. His skin clung raw in patches where it seemed he'd suffered many third-degree burns.

He drew in a breath, sharp and grating. The sound reverberated off the walls and ceiling to them. The boy flinched back, eyes widening as the albino-man spoke.

"Why?" His voice was harsh. "Why, in the Creator's name, have you brought that blasphemous creature here, Uriel?" Uriel. So that was his name. He looks Indian, the teen thought to himself, biting his cheeks to stall his smile. He swallowed as Uriel clapped a fist to his heart, bowing.

"Lord Verchiel, I brought this..." His eyes lingered on the fifteen-year-old, as he searched for the right words. He couldn't make his tongue say the word his mind wished to, the word he'd always used for them. "...I have brought it here because it is unique. It isn't of age. I thought this may interest you. Perhaps it can be of service."

The fifteen-year-old couldn't help snickering at the--apparently--lead Angel's name. He was on the floor before he knew even that his face was numb, glasses cutting a jagged line across his brow before clattering onto the stones next to him. Uriel eyed his leader, eyes moving from the form staring blankly, nearly unseeingly, at them from the floor, defenselessly sprawled. Verchiel wiped his sullied hand on his coat, sneering.

"What use could this abomination be to me?" The words stung like ice-picks into the boy's heart. Swallowing hard, he found his tongue.

"I-I-I c-can..." He swallowed again, forcing the words out in the slow language he'd heard just moments before. He realized he was speaking something other than English. He wasn't stupid. "I can...can...w-work..." He forced himself to a kneeling position, head bowed. "I c-could...f-f-fix you guys up i-if'n you get hurt..." His eyes darted around. Something...anything... They fell upon a boy younger than him, curled into a ball in a corner, rocking. "I could take care of him." He pointed.

Uriel sighed, relief flooding over him. He shook it away. Relief, why? Why should he be relieved? Verchiel eyed the child calculatingly before snarling, "Very well. Our healer is near death anyway." He turned, walking off to distance himself from the wretched sight and putrid odor.

Uriel stiffened as a hand grasped his arm. He shook it off instinctively. The boy fell back to the floor, staring up at him. Looked ready to burst into tears. Stilled its quiverings, picked up its glasses, and walked toward the corner where the tracker lay silently. The black winged man watched him go. Almost acknowledged the pang of guilt as the image of the boy, face ready to become awash with pain.