Hope's Light

Chapter 3

by Erisian

Book 6

 

If you have yet to read the saga - the tale starts here:

Into The Light

Hope you enjoy!

 

Chapter Three - Sin

 

Languages are magic.

Think about it. By making weird sounds or scribbling strange markings against a surface, we transmit ideas, conjure images the recipient has never seen, and organize the very way we think. And it’s not limited to only verbal or written mediums; there is language in music, in mathematics, in dance and motion, and yes, in the act of making love. They are the tools by which we interact with each other and the universe at large, coordinating our very perceptions into meaning.

Mostly we use language to manipulate the thoughts and ideas of others, but some…well, some use it to manipulate the world directly. And what lies behind it.

Quite literally, that’s magic. And from what I’ve seen, it’s part and parcel of reality, a set of waiting levers built-in to the layers of spirit and physicality.

Of course, the language utilized will guide and limit what can or can’t be done. Fae invoke wild-yet-constrained passion in their songs and runes to harness raw elemental power, witches channel bliss and fury to blend nature with desire, priests chant litanies and combine the names of chosen deities to open channels to the divine, and even the throat-scorched curses hurled by demons slam their hatred and greed directly upon their enemies - and themselves.

On Earth, words are translated between languages all the time, what with the numerous different tongues deployed across the planet. Nuances occasionally fail to transfer, subtleties lost in the shift of perceptual and cultural context, but still mostly come across intact - as they are all languages of souls based on the shared experience of being human.

In Hell, those souls have a single language spoken natively upon their arrival - while the patterns of their original remain within their conscious minds. It’s a strange thing, and the cross-linguistic pun wars are simply ridiculous but possible. Demons and devils also have their own singularly shared speech and writings, one not designed for throats formed in the patterns of mere mortal souls.

As for angels, I’ve heard it said we are the language of the Source of All made manifest. When we speak - or even act - Creation is rewritten directly. We are our sacred Words, and from our combinations is the fundament itself forged. Spreading wings and feathers wide, I have glimpsed this clear: tremendous beauty unfathomably complex and transcendently simple. And I have shouted my Name upon those threads, with consequences my usual consciousness has yet to properly comprehend.

Where it gets outright wiggy is for beings born of both angel and other. In caves outside El Paso and atop a rooftop in Boston, I’ve seen the twisted writings of a Nephelim. Hard to describe, but imagine the divine language scribbled in crayon, full of misspellings and errors yet meaning is - albeit barely - legible. Part angel and part human. As a former software dweeb, it’s like looking at a third generation computer language interspersed with raw assembly. But perhaps a better way to describe it is akin to reading words scrawled on a page, but with loops and whirls of the script reaching past the page into three - or four - dimensions - yet still not being complete, for the symbols attempting to be invoked are properly tenth-dimensional constructs.

Or higher. For at that level the words are themselves the abstract under description, enjoined directly.

The script of the Lilim, beings born of angelic mother and a multitude of demonic fathers, is weirder still. Like two opposing brushes dueling across a canvas, the conflicting strokes streak across the entire portrait in warps and folds, with colors screaming conflicted emotional expression. Yet when expertly deployed, the contrast can be used to gain the artist’s desired effect. Outcomes such as being invisible to souls and demons both, or splitting a space into different vibrational levels where each no longer interacts with the other.

But I could see such workings. And more, I could touch them.

Hence the business end of an energy pistol abruptly being held but a scant few inches from my nose, with two larger cousins similarly aimed from a few yards distant.

A man, short but with an impressive quick draw from the shoulder holster, grunted with a finger hovering over the trigger. “You are not Lilim.” Pale wisps of blond poked out from under a beige cap, and suspenders over a white dress shirt clasped to business slacks lent an air of officiousness, even if the shirt’s sleeves had been rolled up. He was also clean-shaven, smooth skin testifying to the sharpness of whatever blade had been used.

I smiled, holding up hands to show being unarmed. “Nope! But neither are you three.”

A second man sporting military-cropped black hair, sleeveless black shirt showing off numerous scars across forearms, readjusted a grip on a larger weapon. “Then we should shoot her. Do it, Edgar.” He appeared younger, but I knew that in Hell such things could be deceiving. The comfort he had in wearing combat pants and boots, with a thick belt holding two knives, and a set of grenades, spoke to a violent past. There were also deep circles under eyes set over hollow and sunken features stretched tightly over the skull.

“Wait, don’t!” Off to the other side of the corporate pistol-bearer stood a woman taller than even me. A deep purple cloak kept her outfit from being visible, but the toes of a metal-tipped boot stuck out due to the braced stance as she lifted yet another blaster in my direction. Her eyes were an amazing river blue, but that beauty sat above the wreckage of her lower face. If I’d had to guess, someone once hit her with an acid-filled balloon - or worse. Skin the color of hummus looked to have melted from the jaw, and coffee-stained teeth sat visible through gaps stretching between strands barely managing to form cheeks.

It wasn’t a wound inflicted here in Hell either. Her soul had maintained the appearance she’d gained in life.

My heart winced at the realization.

Mr. Suspenders (okay, his name was obviously Edgar, but I liked Mr. Suspenders better) frowned as he looked me up and down, clearly not quite knowing what to make of what he saw. “Who are you? How did you get here?” The finger tensed but held steady.

Partially answering the (literally loaded) first question, I said, “I’m a friend of the Lilim. Specifically of Vance and the Twins, Ruyia and Yaria.”

Soldier guy behind him snorted. “Anyone could claim that. Got any proof?”

I gave a slight shrug. “Just stories. I saved his life, and they saved mine. Forms a bond.”

Mr. Suspenders fought back the edges of a tired smile and lost. “Quite calm for a soul who is held dead to rights.”

“You know, you may want to redo the math on that assumption. Despite the padlock the Lilim left on this place, I did just waltz on through.”

The hint of friendliness faded.

His companion wasn’t even close to smiling. “You threatening us, lady??”

I snorted. “Dude, if I were threatening, you wouldn’t need to ask the question. Look - awhile ago I was told that friends of mine were staying here along with my stuff; I came to find them - or at least get a clue as to where they went. But from the sight of it, the Lilim cleared out of here pronto-like.” I gestured to the rest of the large space around us - except unlike before the shift it now wasn’t empty.

It was just a mess.

At the center stood a pair of twenty feet tall rectangular stones, with a shorter one resting across to form a single henge. The slabs were decorated with some serious Lilim workings, though the power in them lay inert as the stonework had clearly been used for target practice by an array of energy-hurling weapons. Small circles of further sigils were also carved on the floor in front of the henge: one set on each side, and a third in front of it. Off to the side of all that a kid-you-not wading pool had been laid into the floor, circumscribed with stones inscribed with even more complex magic, holding back stinking and brackish water.

The purpose of the defunct spells on the henge seemed clear enough, but the pool’s were harder to fathom. Just looking into the not-so-clear water, which nevertheless glowed with reflected skyfire from above, kicked off a headache - one which would need at least a pair of wings to dispel. If not two pairs.

As for the rest of the space, the far side filled with rows of tall wooden scaffolds of large rackhouse storage - though all the slots were empty and good chunks of the wood had been chopped free, in fact one shelf entire had toppled over. Nearer the trio on this side of the henge, the stone floor had been busted up to form a cooking pit, one that hadn’t seen much recent use as far as I could tell despite the plentiful wood to feed a fire. A set of leather office chairs had been wheeled over to hover outside its circle, and beyond those lay a pile of mismatched coats long used as blankets and sleeping mats.

All three showed clear signs of hovering on the brink of starvation. Already the adrenalin rush of a sudden invader had begun to fade, the woman barely kept a grip on that blaster.

“Jesus,” I breathed as two and two came together into our three plus one. “They all escaped through the henge’s portal and left you behind.”

“Your friends,” demanded the woman. “Tell me their names.”

“Maddalena and Twitch.”

The ruin of her lips pursed, but were too suspicious of something to give it voice.

Mr. Suspenders (okay, okay, Edgar) however lifted the finger off the trigger and asked, “And what of yours?”

“I am known by many. But most call me Jordan.”

The woman nodded in internal confirmation. “Lower the guns.”

Edgar didn’t hesitate, but with stance stiffening Carlos growled, “Why?”

Following her own order, the woman’s shoulders relaxed and the tip of her weapon dropped to the floor. “She’s the one the priestess spoke about.”

Carlos risked a glance away from his target. “What the fuck you talkin’ ‘bout, Nadia?”

Weary eyes of crystal water, fluid yet hard, met mine.

“If she’s even half of what the priestess promised,” Nadia said, “then she’s going to save us.”

Geeze. No pressure, right?

 

~o~O~o~

 

After telling me not to go anywhere, Nadia walked off towards the empty racks - leaving me standing awkwardly with the two men busily exchanging confused glances.

Motioning towards the office chairs outside the rudimentary camp, Edgar said, “Sit.”

His companion slung the long blaster over a shoulder, but kept a hand close to the belt and its knives. “We ain’t gonna feed her, are we? Our supplies suck.”

Edgar glanced towards where Nadia had gone. “Perhaps.”

Moving as casual as possible, I took the offered chair. “Is Nadia in charge?”

Carlos spoke quickest. “Hell no.”

Edgar merely shrugged.

Noting the awkward dynamic, I then asked, “Are you guys stuck in here?”

“No,” Edgar said. “We can-”

“Shut it!” snarled Carlos, the scarred hand resting on a blade’s hilt. “Don’t tell her nuthin’!”

“You know,” I said quietly, “if you really want my help, I’ll probably need to know more.”

With a sigh, Edgar collapsed onto a second worn and leather chair. “Your help matters little. We are abandoned souls. When we go to forage, there is risk of being taken by any demon. Our marks are gone, unlike yours.” He nodded towards the golden star softly glowing across the palm of my hand.

Closing fingers over it, I felt the warmth from the skin. Since arriving it had been trying to reach out to reconnect properly to whomever still bore its likeness, but on the advice of Tsáyidiel I’d been suppressing it. Should any of my old crew of berserkers have been captured and held by an enemy, the sudden burst of power from their mark would make my return immediately obvious. Heck it could also ruin any undercover work they were trying to do right now. My Hunter had insisted on stealth in all ways first, at least until we had scouted what had happened to everyone - and therefore not put any at risk.

Hard to argue against. Though the skin itched like crazy.

Carlos remained standing. “That sigil. Who’s your master?”

“It’s not like that.”

“You saying it’s not a demon mark? Sure as shit looks like one.”

I looked at the two of them. “The mark is mine. The others who bear it - they’re bound to me.”

Alarm raced across Carlos’ face, and in a smooth motion pulled a knife and pointed it. That he reached for a knife before the gun slung over his back was interesting. “You’re a fucking demon?!”

“No.”

Edgar’s gun, still held in his lap, resumed its aim as well with forced focus returning to shoulders and face. “You appear as a soul. But none has ever owned a mark. What are you?”

I was about to reply, but someone else did for me.

“She is, or was, a Nephelim.” Nadia had crossed the reflective floor behind us, carrying a felwood box perhaps one foot by a half in size. “Like the Lilim, she’s half angel.”

“Bull.” Carlos shook his head. “She don’t seem like no-”

He fell silent for my eyes filled with power as tendrils of light stretched through and behind the chair, providing just the outline of wings.

Blinking at that brightness, Edgar began to stammer. “You…you are really…can you…” He fell silent, but behind his eyes much became clear in that light.

 

Steam trains belching exhaust speed down rails with boxcars packed full of supplies and people - women, men, children. All according to his carefully planned tables and ledgers, yet the provisions were not for passengers - as upon arrival they’d soon have no needs at all. Horrified he had learned of this… and yet had done nothing, said nothing. A burning shame to haunt the rest of his days…

 

I found myself speaking. “I am many things, Edgar Heinrich Becker. As to who I shall be for each of you, such depends on choices made here and now.” My gaze swept across Carlos who flinched and turned away, and so the illumination continued on to focus upon Nadia.

She met the light without the sorrows of her companion, for inside burned deep-seated rage - an anger tightly controlled wishing to lash outward, yet its fires aimed chiefly at targets within to dance besides a fierce and burning pride.

Using that pride as anchor, she bravely held out the box. “The priestess left this. Take it. She warned it was sealed by her faith, and that only you could open it.”

Taking the item, a finger ran across the carvings embedded in the dark wood: A sun extending its fiery halo to caress the sliver of a moon, surrounded by sigils hermetic in nature. But below those sat four symmetric points reaching outward from a shared center.

Placing my palm upon it, a star met its match and the black metal latch popped open.

Inside lay a tiny scroll which unfolded to reveal an elegant script written in old Italian, whose meanings equally unraveled in my mind:

 

My Queen,

Word of the rescue of Beliel’s world from the ancient Darkness by the brightest of lights has reached us, and we gather now past the Lilim’s gate above the plains of Epsilon. Forgive, for I intend to carry your sacred weapon, the bow of crystal power, to wield her strength in thy name. Your treasure shall also be safeguarded, but for the few tokens we leave here should you have immediate need. Where we shall go after this moot I cannot yet say, other than that I pray to continue walking the path the Goddess has set before us, in hopes to remain always within the shine of your blessed grace. In love and light, we await and prepare your holy return.

Your Faithful Servant,

Maddalena

 

Outpost Epsilon.

Emotions swirled at the thought of returning to the desolate wastes under a vacant sky of absolute darkness. Logically it had only been a subjective year or so since Twitch and I had returned from our reaper sweep to find the outpost which had been our refuge gutted and aflame.

Yet somehow it felt much longer.

Swallowing back pain still lurking behind my own glowing orbs, they dimmed and turned to the damaged henge dominating the center of the vast hanger-like room and the three circles before it. Somewhere, likely in the Spires near Epsilon, sat its twin. “They needed three souls to hold it open for their transit, didn’t they. And you were ordered to destroy it after.”

Carlos snorted. “They were probably going to from the other side anyway.”

“We had to,” Nadia added. “A gate without anchor on the other side could let other…things…through. Or so I was told.”

“Makes sense.” I thought for a moment, then asked, “If I can get you to the Lilim out on Beliel’s Rock, would they take you back?”

The three considered, but Edgar spoke first. “Nadia was their accountant. She is brilliant. And Carlos was…” He paused.

Still holding the knife, Carlos stared at the floor. “Useful. I was useful. As a soul I can sneak into that they could not.” He left unsaid what he’d been expected to do once in such places.

Upon my palm blue flames consumed the scroll and I looked to Edgar. “What about you?”

The man’s eyes kept flicking to the wings. “Warehouse supervisor and logistics coordinator. But they have no need for such anymore.” He gestured at the wreckage of shelves.

“I’m sure they could find something else for you to do,” Nadia said quietly.

“It is all I know.”

I tapped the top of the box. “There was another gate - a bigger one - from that realm to Dis, right? One to move agricultural goods to the city, in exchange for manufactured items. Any idea where that is?”

“That too has been destroyed in the war between factions,” said Nadia. “Which made the fighting get a lot worse, as only so many towers support hydroponics.”

Edgar nodded. “Demons have appetites for plants only for so long before deciding enemies make a better meal.”

Well crud, there went that idea. Camael had carried me between the realms to transit from Dis to the Rock, but I’d been rather shutdown power-wise at the time. The nuances of that trip had been beyond my perceptions as a result, were I to try now who knows where I’d end up. And while Tsáyidiel likely had the skill to go map out the ways between everything, that could take too long.

Of course I had a more urgent mission right here on Dis.

Still flicking guitar-plucking fingernails against the box, I asked, “Is there anywhere else in this stupid city you three could go and be safe?”

No one spoke up, but the rise of tension across faces and postures indicated an ongoing disagreement.

“I take it this is a sore topic.”

Carlos rolled eyes in disgust. “Go ahead, Nadia. You’re gonna say it anyway.”

She crossed arms hidden within long purple sleeves. “There were rumors-”

“By idiots,” muttered Carlos under his breath.

Nadia ignored him. “-of a place souls could go to escape. They call it Sanctuary.”

Eyebrows raised. “What if they were already marked?”

Edgar answered. “There are claims that Sanctuary can erase them. And set souls free.”

I stopped drumming against the hard and carved felwood. “Huh. Know anything else about it?”

Nadia shook her head, causing deep brown strands to fall free from under the hood. “Only that the Pilgrim carries the message.”

“Pilgrim?”

“No one knows who he is. They say he is sworn to silence, yet provides aid - and points the way.”

Now that was interesting. Hmm.

Flipping the knife and catching it, Carlos pointed the tip at Nadia. “It’s gotta be a trap.”

She glared back at him. “What do we have to lose?”

“Much,” Edgar said, getting up from the chair. “I would prefer hunger to being swallowed by a demon.” He let the gun-holding hand drop to his side.

“Alright, hang on,” I said. “Maybe I can find out more, heck I may even have a lead or two. In the meantime - with your foraging around here, can you buy supplies if you had money?”

“Souls don’t have their own bank accounts,” Nadia said.

Edgar nodded. “With the continuing war, electronic debit chips may not work. Barter and trade will rule instead.”

“What if you had cash?” I asked. “Specifically, cash from another realm. Would that be fungible?”

All eyes went to the box. Carlos braved the question. “Is that what you got in there?” Fingers tightened on the knife.

Eyes glowed again, this time in warning. “Mistake not generosity for weakness.”

Edgar stepped between us. “There are those nearby who may take coins. They would sell food, provided they have spare. The pipes here work still, through luck or Lilim sorcery, thus water is plentiful. But…why not take us with you?”

I didn’t want to lie. “A couple reasons. I may need to travel in ways and to places you simply cannot. Also, in order to keep you safe even from those I travel with, you’d have to take on my mark. Something,” I said, looking past Edgar at Carlos who was again studying the floor, “which I think not everyone here would wish to do.”

They went silent at that, but then Nadia blurted, “I’ll do it. Then I can be the one to more safely buy supplies.”

“Nadia!” Edgar looked at her in surprise. “Bound by her mark, you could be forever trapped! An angel she may be, but she too has fallen to Hell!”

Under the hood the woman attempted a smile, and across those devastated cheeks the expression was more tragic than warm. Though the sentiment was genuine before hardening again as an inner fury spoke. “The god I worshiped in life allowed this,” she said, gesturing to the ruin of her face. “Yet the goddess whom the priestess follows sustained her while she lay trapped within a demon’s belly - and sent her only daughter to Hell to pull her free.” She looked again to me, nervous and angry, yet expectant as if she dared me to contradict, or worse - to fail. “I would choose to trust in such a deity.”

I stood, cradling the box against my chest with one hand. “You must understand, I do not serve my spirit’s mother. And Artemis did not send me to Hell.”

Shredded cheeks frowned. “Then whom do you serve?”

The question hit eardrums like an ocean crashing against a cliff. Unlike the angels above, I had taken no oath to Elohim. So I didn’t serve anyone, did I?

Except that wasn’t right.

I’d agreed to work with my greater spirit, to walk where she needed feet to tread and wings to fly. Even though they had led me back to Hell.

Which hadn’t been fought against or even debated. Because she and I, we both in truth did serve something.

Something we’d been willing to give everything for.

Light exploded across the space as wings slipped free once again. And many levels of consciousness spoke in a single voice to fill the wide chamber.

“I serve my heart of hearts, and the Light of Lights from which it shines. I serve all who would walk within that glory, be they able to see it true or no.”

Sinking to knees, and with a clear and brave voice she asked, “Even those whose own hearts remain burdened by sin?”

In silent answer, I reached below the covering fabric to rest a hand against the ruined face and saw then what lay behind her strength...and her pain:

 

A youth, the mayor’s son, rank with sweat-covered cloth as he forces himself upon her in an alleyway - because she had refused his numerous propositions, because that day her brother decided it was too hot to accompany her to market. When lust’s imperatives concludes, then does he spit and toss upon her face the contents of a flask - to burn and bubble skin and flesh so no other would ever again touch…

 

Recovering in hospital, agony ripping across jaw and spirit, mother and father curse the shame of having a daughter so bespoiled. And the trouble the wrath of the mayor will bring upon them should higher authorities dare arrest his son. While a brother only by birth laughs that he’d achieved a high score on a video game during her hour of pain and humiliation…

 

An older nurse, wrinkles too numerous to count folding alongside compassionate eyes, leans close to whisper the family’s plan, their intentions upon her release to rid themselves of further burden. A bundled coat presses into fingers, laden with cash…and a weapon meant to defend. But desire to flee burns not in her heart - for pain and panic cross unto rage, a rage of hardened ice unlike any she has ever known…

 

And I see a market, shelves and carts full of spices and produce, trinkets and tools, buyers and sellers scurrying to beat an incoming storm. From under thick cloth she waits, she watches, and there he is: flanked by his own brothers, flashy watch upon wrist, laughing and free. Head down she approaches, and only after the thunder that was not thunder does she let him view the results his cruelty has wrought. As he falls to the mud-strewn earth - and as brother aims deadly reply - only then does she see past to a woman behind. Carrying bolts of freshly purchased red-dyed cloth, the matron also collapses to the wet dirt as the light brown of her robe’s back flushes brighter to match the color clutched within her hands.

 

The tormented soul didn’t collapse, nor did she sob, as a new star burned free across her forehead. Only a single tear escaped those fierce eyes: a drop filled with the still-boiling rage fighting against terrible guilt, as it slipped past a flap in shredded cheeks to lose itself upon bare teeth underneath.

Lowering to one knee and with wings still spread wide, I spoke more softly.

“Especially them, Nadia. Especially them.”

A shudder passed through her, and her head bowed lower still. Behind, however, Carlos stood and stared.

Not in awe, but raw unbridled anger.

“That,” he snarled, “is so much bullshit!!”

Fuming, he turned and stalked off between damaged and empty shelves.

 

 

 

Thanks for reading...and for commenting!

- Erisian