CHAPTER TWO
Here With Me
There was pain; terrible pain. The pain of what she was being reft from her, the pain of birth, and rebirth. It was pain so dreadful, so fundamental, that there were no words for it. There was his pain too; she was aware of every moment of it.
And then, worse than pain—the loss.
It was unfathomable. For every moment of her existence up to this point, she had always, always, been submerged in the company of her Siblings. Humans said that the angels sang the praises of God; they even called it the “choir” of angels. That was only partly true, as were all things that humans thought they knew about the Siblings. The Siblings Sang, yes, but they Sang the great Song of all creation, echoing all that had been and all that was. Sera had been a part of that Song, had sung her thread of that Song, and it had been woven through her every thought for as long as she had been, along with the awareness of the Infinite—sharper and more defined than for a human, but still, even an angel could know only a fraction of what the Infinite was.
And now that was gone, and she was alone, terribly alone, in her own mind.
The pain of that loss was not one she had anticipated. The loss of her immortality, yes. Her invulnerability, of course. Her power, certainly. But not that. Why would the Infinite take that from me? Why must I be removed from the solace of the Song? It was not so much a thought as a cry of anguish.
She came to herself in the protected and sheltered bounds of a sacred circle, encased now in a heavy, mortal body, weighed down with loss that she thought she might die of it at that very moment of her birth, wracked by such grief that she could not even breathe.
It was the mage’s circle; it was the little, perpetually terrified mage, and not her protégé, who found her there. It was the mage who coaxed her into that first breath, who clothed her in garments that smelled of incense and came from a hidden closet; a loose white tunic of the sort the Greeks had worn, which could be draped around her wings—long on the mage, knee-length on her. It was the mage who dried her tears and brought her to the CCCP HQ, making her understand that John had returned, reborn as had been promised. And that gave her the first lightening of her grief; she might not have the Song, but she would have his love…she might not have the knowledge of the futures, but together they would surely find the right path. As she had sustained him, his love would sustain her. She needed that love now, needed the bond between them more than she needed food and drink. She had lost her Siblings, but she had him.…
She vibrated with sorrow and anxiety and need of him as she followed the rest to where he had been taken. She peered around Bella’s shoulder, the feathers of her wings rustling as they trembled with that need.
He looked—wonderful. Strong, sure, clean, none of the terrible guilt he had carried for as long as she had known him. No shadows. His soul was unscarred. Her heart leapt. This was as it should be—now he could help her see the way clear, and he could become all he had lost and more.
And then he looked straight at her—and did not know her.
She thought that she would die, in that moment. His look of blank unrecognition fell on her and nearly drove her to the ground. Unable to bear it, she fled, speeding away on wings that beat the air at the same frantic rate as her heart, tears pouring from her eyes, struck mute by this, loss, this loss that was—oh yes, it was—as great and as terrible as the loss of heaven.
She knew, in that moment, why he had looked so unshadowed, so innocent. The soul that gazed from those eyes was not the John Murdock she knew. Literally. This was another John, a John from the time before the Program and all the things that had been done to him and with him. That John was gone. Perhaps that John was dead. This John did not know her, because he had never known her.
As she sped high above the city, she cried out her despair, in a wordless wail of agony and loneliness so profound, so unendurable, that those who heard even the faintest echo of it were rocked where they stood, and psions and sensitives across Atlanta suddenly found themselves, without warning, weeping for every grief, every loss, they had ever felt.
She came to rest in the abandoned graveyard; it seemed fitting; she hid her head in her arms, propped on a gravestone, and wept soundlessly. So…this is the rest of the price to be paid. She accepted it. She had made her bargain; she would not repudiate it. Though she was in despair, this was still the only hope she had seen for the rest of this world. Duty as well as love had brought her to this; duty would hold her to whatever life she had left. And it would probably be short. Verdigris and Peoples’ Blade would not cease to stalk her; never mind that what they wanted from her, she could no longer give them.
But without him…without the Song…life could not be short enough.
Everything was lost to her. Everything. She wept onto the headstone, and could find no comfort.
* * *
Bella followed the anguish. Sera had come to earth, but it had taken Bella this long to get a minute away from Echo business. She’d managed—ironically, thanks to Sera’s training—to wall off most of that terrible grief, but even walled off it was more than enough to follow.
“This is being bad idea, wandering about without bodyguard—” Saviour, however, looked as if she relished being out here in this wrecked neighborhood, heading for what looked like a jungle but which, according to the city map, was a city graveyard. Then again, right now there wasn’t a lot of money to spare to maintain graves old graves; too new ones had needed digging after the Invasion. “Verdigris would to be only too pleased to be finding you out here alone.”
“I’m not alone. That’s what you’re for,” Bella replied. “I figured if he sent his goons, or even Fei Li after me, you’d kill me if you didn’t get a shot at them.”
For answer, Saviour only bared her teeth. They gleamed whitely in the street lamp.
“She’s in there,” Bella continued, pointing at the graveyard. She remembered, vaguely, that the Seraphym had been known to come here, before, when she wanted peace and quiet.
“Affirmative,” Vickie seconded. “Whacking big magical energy source.”
The three women hurried towards the graveyard, Vickie quivering like a hound on the scent, Bella trying to think of anything she could do when they found her angel, and Saviour looking hopefully around for something to break into tiny pieces. Verdigris didn’t oblige, and the local thugs had learned better, finally. The only living thing they found was a winged woman in a crumpled heap on an old grave, shaking with silent sobs.
Saviour stopped first, frowning. “Shto?”
But it was Vickie who answered the many questions packed into that single word. “She’s—exiled. Lost. She’s human now, or mortal, at least. I think—I don’t think she’s Fallen, I think she sacrificed part of herself to save Johnny. That would account for why he’s got Celestial fire now…maybe other things, I haven’t dared test him after the zap I got the first time. But Commissar—the Seraphym has just lost literally everything. Think about it. Home, friends, family, everything she’s known, most of her powers—it’s the loss of home, friends and family that’s the worst, I think. She knows it’s all still there, but as long as she lives, she can’t speak to them, hear them, see them, feel them, not anything. It’s all gone. It’s as if you got exiled to the moon with no way back and no way to speak to anyone; no matter how comfortable you were, it wouldn’t matter if you were completely alone and isolated. Everything she ever knew is lost, and she doesn’t know if it can be found again.”
“Borzhe moi,” Saviour muttered, but Bella and Vickie were already sprinting towards the prone figure.
Bella got there first, putting her arms around Sera’s shaking shoulders, trying to get her to sit up. “Come on, sweetie,” she murmured, as she would have murmured to one of her patients. “Come on, you can’t lie here in the dirt. You have to stop crying sometime. Come on home.”
“I have no home,” came the heartbroken whisper. “I have nothing.”
“Bah,” Natalya replied brusquely. “You are having duty. That is not nothing.” The Commissar stood next to them with her hands on her hips, looking down sternly. “In the Great War most in Stalingrad had lost home, family, friends, lovers—they fought on. For Mother Russia. For duty. You are—we all are—being have duty to human race to fight these svinya to the last breath. Da?” Bella could tell that Natalya felt uncomfortable; she wasn’t used to many situations that involved tears, and couldn’t be solved with breaking something or an interrogation.
Bella felt the angel draw a long, shuddering breath. “Da,” she whispered.
“And you have us,” Bella reminded her. “You still have us.”
:I can’t be the Song of your Siblings,: she said into Sera’s mind, :But I’m here. I’m with you, elder sister. Your heart isn’t entirely empty.:
She felt the fluttering wings of Sera’s heartbreak, the brush of that last loss, when John didn’t recognize her. But the reply came clearly, though sadly enough. :Aye. You do well to remind me, younger sister. I am not entirely—alone.:
Vickie joined Bella in urging the angel to her feet. “Come on, you can sleep in my workroom for a while. It’s warded and sealed to a fare-thee-well. Nothing magical can track you in there.”
Sera rose slowly to her feet, every movement graceful, the grace of someone dancing on bleeding feet and determined not to show it.
“Nat,” Bella used the familiar name—one leader to another. “I think she needs to join CCCP.”
“Shto? Nasrat. Nyet!” Saviour spluttered. “Marx would be to spin in his grave like sturdy industrial turbine! An angel—”
“She has to go somewhere and Echo’s not safe,” Bella said firmly. “I don’t know how many more moles Verdigris has planted in my ranks. If she’s going to fight like the rest of us, she has to have support around her.”
“I must be told where and when to fight,” Sera whispered humbly. “I can no longer see where I am needed.”
“Marx said—”
“Marx said that religion is the opiate of the masses, Nat. I don’t recall anything about angels. Sera, do you espouse any particular religion?”
Finally the angel raised her head. Her face was tear-streaked, tears still falling…and now Bella could see that her eyes were entirely human. Blue, in fact. “Names do not matter. Structures do not matter. Evil done in the name of Good is still Evil.”
“There, you see?” Bella said, triumphantly.
Then Sera said something in Russian.
Bella and Vickie—who both spoke tolerably good Russian—stared at one another. Had they really heard that? Did it mean what Bella thought it meant? Remember Worker’s Paradise, Natalya. Remember what you saw. Who you saw there.
Was Sera being absolutely literal? Because—Saviour had died under a building that Ubermensch toppled. Bella had brought her back but only with Sera’s help.…
Bella remembered something else Sera had told her. When the Door is passed, mortals go to a heaven they expect. Or a hell.…
Natalya Shostakovaya would certainly have expected a “Worker’s Paradise”…
“Bah,” said Commissar Red Saviour, but the tone of her voice held resignation, and Bella knew she had won this round.
“Come on, sweetie,” Bella said then, putting her arm around Sera’s back, beneath those wings. Wracked with anguish though she was, Sera was human enough now; she needed to hydrate, to eat…eventually, to sleep. Right now, that was all that Bella was going to worry about. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”
* * *
It was into Vickie’s care that Bella entrusted the—well, Vickie wasn’t sure what to call the Seraphym. She wasn’t an angel anymore. She wasn’t human. Sera, then. That would have to do.
Vickie could tell that just being in Sera’s proximity was straining Bella’s strength, and she could certainly understand why. She could also understand why Bella needed to get some distance between them, some walls and shielding. There was only so much of that terrible grief that an empath could bear, and Vickie was very glad that she was not gifted—or cursed—with that particular power.
But as she made up a bed in her shielded workroom for Sera, wracking her brains to come up with something that was going to be moderately comfortable for a creature with wings, she found herself wishing there was something, anything she could offer besides a bed and the protection of her magic. Neither meant much in the light of that terrible pain—
It wasn’t as if she had anything in common with—
—wait—
Then it hit her. The way in which they were all too alike.
So she came, bearing boxes of tissue, and sat gingerly beside the grieving creature and dared to cover one of Sera’s delicate hands with her own. Sera looked up into her eyes, as tears coursed down her cheeks, slowly.
“I can’t heal your heart,” Vickie said, sadly. “I’m not an empath. I can’t even guess about what it feels like to lose what you’ve been for—forever. But there is one thing I can offer you, Sera.” She gently squeezed Sera’s hand a moment. “This will always be a place where it’s safe to cry.”
And the beautiful creature put her head on Vickie’s shoulder and shook with silent sobs.
After all, who could understand her pain like Vickie? Someone who worked every day with a man she loved with all her heart, whom she knew would never, ever love her back? The Seraphym had lost paradise. Vickie gazed on paradise from the wrong side of a locked gate.
Oh yes, she thought, giving the Seraphym another handful of tissues and surreptitiously wiping her own eyes. Not so different except in degree.