Cast Out

[Windex]

Click. The lighter flared to life, a small yellow flame hovered cheerfully above cold plastic that proclaimed ‘Bic’ in childish letters. Raising the flame to eye level, Mark sniffed as he stuffed a cigarette between his lips. He was always told that smoking was bad for his health, that his two packs a day was bound to kill him. He always laughed at that.

He drew a deep breath and allowed his eyes to slide beyond the flame. Before him Ely Cathedral rose out of the ground, its towers shooting up towards the heavens like hands raised in prayer. It was a masterpiece of Norman architecture, and visitors came from all over the world to drink in the sight of it. The newer Octagonal Tower shone golden in the light of the setting sun, shouting out ‘Glory be to God!’

It was the height of the tourist season, and though it was late in the day, groups of visitors still scurried across the cathedral grounds, turning their cameras skyward to catch the day’s last images. It was one of God’s most impressive works in England. Norman made, it was covered with intricate carvings and statues, all seeking to impart some bit of God’s teachings to its viewer. Mark shook his head. The Lord’s Word screamed through these stones and yet all these tourists did was take photos. They did not understand what it was they were truly looking at.

The stones pulsed with holiness, yet the tourist did not fall to their knees in repentance. At the slightest weakness of the knee they were cramming more sweets into their greedy mouths, seeking to renew their sugar high in order to continue overtaxing their cameras. Sweets…the devil’s nicer side. They stuffed their faces full of the enemy’s food and ignored the Lord’s call. Here they were, standing on consecrated ground, but they were too blind to see the true glory before them. It was not the beauty of art created by human hands; it was not majesty and overwhelming awe of the cathedral as a House of God. It was the Holy Spirit shining like a beacon in the night of everlasting sin that was the true glory. Cameras could not capture it, and these people were too oblivious to see it even as it danced across their vision.

Mark shook his head again, a lock of shaggy black hair falling across his eyes. He looked from the cathedral back to his lighter with mild amusement. Somehow he felt bad lighting up in the presence of God. It was not guilt precisely. He had long since gotten over the disapproval that came of him flaunting the rules. It was more of a fear of showing a lack of respect. Not that he had to worry about that in the company of all the sniveling tourists. And, after all, it was only a cigarette.

“Ah, what the hell,” he said, bringing the flame up.

Exhaling in satisfaction, he nearly failed to hear the small voice at his elbow. “Sweets may be a tool of the devil, but a cigarettes are his swords.”

Turning, Mark looked down with a frown, “Excuse me?” It was just a little girl with Asian features. She could be considered cute, her wispy black hair caught up in twin pig-tails. Winnie the Pooh smiled up at him from her shirt as she clasped her hands behind her back. Twisting a small foot into the grass, she smiled shyly up at him.

She could not be more than six years old, and she had the blatant confidence that all youngsters exuded at that age. No respect for their elders, none at all. Kids might be cute, but their innocent charms did not work on Mark. Frowning deeply in the face of the girl’s smile, he asked again, more forcefully, “What did you say girl?”

She giggled and rubbed a small palm across her cheek. “My mommy says that smoking is bad.” She tugged at one of her pig-tails, “Only naughty people smoke. Are you a bad man mister?”

Mark stared at the girl with amusement. Damn tourists. Letting their kid run loose like an urchin. All tourists were annoying enough, but the Japanese were the worst. They always stopped in awkward places, making a smooth walk more difficult than it needed to be. And they loved their cameras more than anyone else on the planet. The wind could blow and they would have to take a picture of it, just in case that gust of wind happened to change something that the previous eight photos failed to capture. And they loved group photos. Japanese tourists could often be found huddled together, holding up their fingers in a cruel parody of rabbit ears. It was always the same with them.

Leaning down to the girl’s level, Mark turned up one corner of his mouth in a smile that was not reflected in his eyes. “Judging people is a sin girl. You’d better be careful with what you say.”

The girl’s smile dimmed only a little at this, and she responded quickly, “Mommy says that children have no sin, and are innocent in God’s eyes.”

“Is that so?” Mark looked more seriously at the child. Here was one at least who knew something about the good Lord’s message. Unusual perhaps, though not all that refreshing due to the girl’s young age, but it was a start at least. Still, Mark was not in a good mood, and replied, “And that lolly I see peeking out of your pocket? What is that? It’s the devil girl, and he’ll eat at your belly. Now get out of here!”

With a startled gasp the girl placed a hand over the pocket of her trousers. Taking out the lolly, she threw it on the ground and whirled away, disappearing behind a crowd of tourists chattering about

Straightening, Mark stared down at the lolly. It was strawberry, the favorite of all little girls. “And thus, I smite thee,” he said, grinding the sweet into the ground with the heel of his boot.

[Windex]

Balancing his cigarette on his lip, Mark jerked the collar of his Versace jacket and moved towards the cathedral entrance. The tourists had begun to thin as the priests ushered them towards the exits. The House of God never truly closed, but the case of the tourist was a special case. There was a point at which they needed to be chucked out and told to come back in the morning if they wanted more pictures. This usually resulted in them grabbing as many free flyers as they could for cheap souvenirs, then leaving with happy smiles and eyes full of wonder. The cause of their wonderment? Well, it certainly was not a newfound belief in God.

No, it certainly was not that. Mark tapped the end of his cigarette, releasing a small scattering of ash to the wind. He brushed impatiently at his sleeve as a bit of it landed on the soft material. He was not vain, but he liked to be well dressed. He was not on the height of fashion, but tended to find things to wear that were timeless. He never chose his wardrobe with much care, but it all seemed to flow together reasonably well.

As he approached the arching door the wind picked up, rippling through his dark hair. The air held the promise of a warm night, yet despite that Mark suppressed a shiver. The night was loaded. He could feel it. It was an expectation, as if something was coming, and it was not far off.

Slowing his steps Mark reached inside his jacket and pulled from the inner pocket a crucifix. It was simple, unadorned with the fancy gold and cheap beads that was so common with most modern Christians. It was simple, and it was that very simplicity that gave it its beauty. Holding it aloft in a fist, the Cross dangled just below Mark’s eye level.

Mark looked Jesus in the eye as He revolved slowly in circles. “So what’s the plan?” He was not expecting an answer, and did not receive one. Cigarette dangling from his lips, he wadded the crucifix in his fist and gave it a quick toss in the air, catching it deftly.

[Windex]

Mark reached the door at the same time the last tourists were being ushered out. They smiled vaguely at him as they passed, pleased with their day’s foray. Now they would hole up in some little pub and stay there, looking through their pictures and discussing nothing deeper than whether the fish and chips they just ate was cod of rockfish.

Taking a long pull from the cigarette, Mark turned away from them and faced the door. It was made from thick oak, strengthened with the prayers of a thousand men. The grain of the wood was darkened and worn smooth, touched by centuries of hands seeking absolution. The young priest who had guided the tourists to the door gave Mark a smile that told him to come back in the morning. Moving forward smoothly, Mark wedged his foot between the door and its jam, effectively stopping its motion with a jerk.

He leaned his shoulder casually against the door frame as a flicker of fear dawned in the young priest’s eyes. Tapping his cigarette once more, he reached a hand forward and clasped the priest’s shoulder. “You’ve no reason to fear me. Now kindly let me pass.”

The young man jerked his head, “I’m sorry sir. It’s late, and the cathedral is closed to visitors. I’m afraid you’ll have to come back in the morning. The Lady Chapel is most beautiful in the dawning light. It will be worth your time…”

He stopped at Mark pressured his shoulder. Sighing he said, “I’m sure its beautiful in any light. Now let me by.”

“Sir, as I stated before…”

“Yes yes, you already told me its closed. Don’t become a parrot and repeat yourself. It wouldn’t become one of your station.” Mark stared levelly, but not unkindly at the young priest, his eyes flashing blue in the fading light of the sun. “I’m not your normal houseguest. I want to speak with Father Lawrence.”

The priest clenched his jaw as he allowed his eyes to trace the line of the stranger’s arm to where in connected with his own shoulder. He raised his eyes slowly, and picked his words with care, "As I said….”

Mark didn’t give the young man time to finish. Shoving hard at the door, he sent the priest stumbling backwards, tripping over the folds of his own robe. Striding inside, Mark swung the door closed and dropped the bolt in place. A violent shiver had attacked his spine as he had crossed the threshold, and an icy spike was left to reside in the pit of his stomach. He moved forward quickly before the priest could react, picked him up from where he lay splayed on the floor by his elbow, and pushed him in the direction of the altar.

The young man hesitated and looked over his shoulder, eyes filled with fear. Mark snapped his fingers and pointed towards the front of the cathedral, “Now!”

The priest swallowed and took off at a run. Settling back on his heels Mark sniffed and wiped his hand under his nose. Damn cold. He had been trying to rid himself of it for the last week, but it kept hanging on, resisting all his efforts. At least it was better than it had been. Staring off after the priest, mark wondered how long it would take to rouse the venerable Father Lawrence from his books.

Sighing, Mark realized he still held onto his cigarette. He wondered if here, in this hallowed hall, he might face the wrath of God. It was funny to think about really, for all that he had done for the Lord, he might face his end from a roll of tobacco leaves. He chuckled softly to himself. Moving further into the cathedral, he dipped his fingers into the cistern of holy water and crossed himself. Uttering a quick prayer, he knelt.

He remained there, waiting for the priest to return with his master. He had no fear of the young man going to the police. They had no jurisdiction in the realms of God, and he felt that the young man knew this as well as he. He would bring the older priest, Mark was sure of it. Waiting, Mark chewed his thumbnail as he surveyed the church from his vantage near the floor. It was not the most elaborate of cathedrals, and in that its simplistic beauty was favorable to Mark’s eye.

The last rays of the sun shone through the stained glass and splashed golden red across the cathedral walls. The empty pews stood silent, but echoed with the love of prayers from the faithful. With the absence of the flashing and clicking of cameras, the true beauty of God was allowed to show through. It appeared in elegant curve of the granite pillars, the patterned tiles set in the floor, and the intricate stained glass work, all set lovingly in place. Standing on either side of the nave was two stories of arches, watching over the cathedral and its faithful. The very air hummed with forgotten prayers and hymns in an electricity that sent shivers rippling across Mark’s skin.

The ceiling itself was covered with Jesus’ family tree in an impressive work of art that spanned the entire nave. From Adam and Eve to Mary, they all looked solemnly downwards, wreathed in gold filigree, their halos shining bright in the fading sun. Here was the true story of the Son. Descended of kings, born of a virgin, He had come to the earth to die for the sinner. He died so that His people could live. And what did they do? They took pictures and tromped about with their muddy feet, ungrateful. Unchaste.

Mark frowned and shook his head. He ran his thumb along his jaw as he took a deep pull from his cigarette. People were too blind to the greatest blessing the Lord had given them. A chance for salvation. It would be thought that the masses would drop everything for such a chance, but no. Instead only a tickle of the faithful come each Sunday to worship. The churches stand largely empty, the air that should have been filled with prayer and song rang hollow and cold. It was the devil’s work, Mark was sure of it. Damn Hershey’s, and Cadbury’s too for that matter.

[Windex]

Hearing a foot scuff against stone, Mark stood. Father Lawrence was making his way down the center aisle of the nave, hands clasped before him, a slight smile playing across his kindly face. The young priest scurried with small steps behind, looking apprehensively over the older man’s shoulder. Mark was not concerned with the younger priest. He was pliable at this age, yet Mark felt that he would most likely become a passable leader of men, if not a good one. He just needed to stand his ground a little more firmly. Not that the poor fellow had had much of a choice in the matter.

Father Lawrence stopped in front Mark and opened his hands wide. “Welcome my son. Welcome to this house of God.”

Mark tilted his head and looked at the old man. He was older than he remembered, though he still had a somewhat youthful spring to his step. Age was showing, and it would not be far off from claiming him. Wispy white hair clung to his scalp in defiance of age, and it stuck up in the character of one who spent hours bent over some old tome. The priest’s face was heavily lined, each wrinkle proclaiming some piece of wisdom gained through hard fought battles of intellect. He was plump but not overly so, as yet still wearing his robes well, the white collar of his profession snug at his throat.

At the silence that greeted his welcome, Father Lawrence lowered his hands and refolded them calmly. “I hear you gave poor Thomas quite the scare.”

Mark shifted his weight easily, eyes flickering past the old priest to the young man still hunkered behind his mentor. Sniffing softly, he gave a tiny shake of his head. Taking it as a threat, the young man paled. Shoulders shaking in a silent laugh, Mark raised his cigarette and inhaled. The damn thing was almost out.

At that Father Lawrence’s smiled faded. His face became granite as he frowned at the offending object. Icily, he directed his disapproval towards Mark, “I would have thought you’d have had the presence of mind to leave that outside.”

Shifting his eyes down to the near dead cigarette, Mark shrugged. Sliding his feet across the stones, he dipped his fingers into the cistern, then pinched the smoldering end of the cigarette.

Lawrence was not amused. “That was tactful.” Behind him the young priest was frantically crossing himself, muttering rushed prayers that no doubt asked forgiveness on behalf of the entire human race.

Mark smirked with amusement and held up the soggy thing. “See? Holy water has once again overcome the sins of the fallen.” Flipping it over his knuckles, he tucked it into his trouser pocket for later disposal. “And for Christ’s sake man,” he snapped, directing his attention to the young man, “cut it out. You’ll deafen Him soon enough with your incessant chattering if you’re not careful.”

The man’s eyes bulged beneath mousy hair, but Mark achieved his aim. The mutterings ceased instantly. Father Lawrence sighed with the infinite patience that comes with a lifetime of service to God. Turning to the boy, he placed a speckled hand on his shoulder. “Go on Thomas. See to the chapels. Make sure they’re locked up tight. Then get yourself on home.” He gave a reassuring pat, “And don’t bother waiting for me lad. I fear I’ll be a while.”

The young priest’s eyes flicked over to where Mark stood surveying them both with hard eyes. He nodded, eyes sliding back to Father Lawrence, and turned to leave. As he moved, Mark called, “Boy!” He stopped and half-turned, flushing crimson to his hairline. Mark walked slowly forward until he stood just an arm’s length from the young man. He could hear Lawrence sigh again as he reached out and patted the young man. “Get a cup of tea in you. It’ll calm you. And pray,” he chuckled, “but quietly this time.”

As Mark took a step back, still staring at him with laughing eyes, the young priest took his leave and whirled. He seemed to struggle with the urge to run, stumbling over the hem of his robe in his haste.

[Windex]

“Well I hope you’re proud of yourself,” Lawrence’s voice hung heavy in the air. The sun had gone down, leaving the cathedral in darkness. The odd candle still flickered despite the deepening shadows, reflecting weakly off the curve of the pillars and the gold filigree of the chapels and ceiling. The effect was a smattering of twinkling stars smiling down on the two men. Mark inhaled and glanced about, hands stuffed into his pockets. Maybe it was his imagination, but it was as if the stars were God’s eyes, looking down upon them in judgment.

Watching with hooded eyes, Father Lawrence shifted his weight patiently. He had spent his lifetime in faithful service to the Lord and never once had he questioned his faith. Not many men could say the same of themselves. He had entered the church right out of high school, eager to discover the treasures hidden within the Bible. Devoting himself to his studies, he rose quickly within the church. He was once offered the opportunity to wear the bishop’s mantel but turned it down, desiring to continue service through the guidance of young hearts. Lawrence felt it was more important to work directly amongst God‘s flock, so that they might be better guided by the Lord’s teachings. To be a bishop would be to stand above others, and as such, it would have been more difficult to reach out to those who needed him most.

Looking at Mark, Father Lawrence sighed. “Come on then,” he said, moving past the younger man. “I suppose you want to talk, about what I can’t imagine. Last time you wanted to chat you left in a right storm.” Looking back out of the corner of his eye, the old priest saw Mark smile grimly. He said with a twinkle in his eye, “Just see that you don’t do anything foolish to an old man in the last years of his life.”

Mark gave a small chuckle, “Never you old friend. Never you.”

He turned to follow the priest as they moved down the nave, turned into a small, easily missed hallway that housed offices and a little room the provided rest and refreshments to the fellows and choir of the cathedral. They moved in silence, each man filled with his own thoughts.

Father Lawrence prayed silently for guidance as he led Mark into the small kitchen where he planned to make tea. He motioned the other man to help himself to a seat at the table, the modern appliances and furniture contrasting sharply with their ancient surroundings. Neither he nor Mark took any real notice of the difference however. The House of God was not made according to what filled its interior.

Sitting, Mark leaned back in his chair and folded his hands loosely on the table before him. He looked over at the priest as he busied himself with the electric tea kettle. Filling it with water, Father Lawrence flicked the switch and turned to face Mark, “And now we wait.”

Mark raised an eyebrow at that. Pushing the chair back so that it’s front legs were off the floor, he pressed the tips of his thumbs together repeatedly. The only sound in the room was the creak of the chair and the hiss of the kettle as it heated the water. Both men stared at each other, Lawrence with the eternal patience of his profession, and Mark with an increasingly sour expression due to that very patience.

The kettle clicked, water bubbling merrily. Turning, the priest filled two mugs and dropped in tea bags. Calling over his shoulder he asked, “Will you take milk? Sugar?”

“Yes, no,” Mark answered. He settled the chair on all four legs as the priest placed a steaming mug before him.

As he released the handle, Lawrence said, “Still waiting….”

Wrapping his hands around the cup, Mark shrugged, staring into the depths of his tea. “I don’t know what for old man.”

Lawrence chuckled and blew on the surface of his tea to cool it. “Old man…not one of the most respectful terms I’ve been called, but I supposed it’ll do in a pinch.” He smiled as he sat down across from the younger man.

[Windex]

Tapping the rim of his mug, Mark stared at the old priest. Their meetings were always like this. Mark would initiate them, then clam up and refuse to talk until the priest’s patience got the best of him. In the end he always ended up talking. Usually. The last time Mark had come to the church it had ended with his storming out, dashing his tea against the wall as he did so. There had been a storm that day, and it reflected his mood to the tee.

Clearing his throat, Mark started, “I don’t even know why I come here.”

“And I don’t know why you bother. You come to the same conclusion every time.”

Mark sighed and sipped at his tea. It was still too hot to drink. “I guess I come to be able to talk with someone who knows. Someone who understands.”

Father Lawrence held up his palm. “I do not understand. Do not get confused in that. You flaunted God’s will, His plan. And for that, you suffer. Do not compare your sins to me.”

Mark grunted and tapped his toe against the floor in a slow rhythm. Silence fell between them once again, as it always did. Theirs was a rehearsed conversation. They had been through it often enough, and it always ran the same course in the beginning. After several minutes of silence, it was apparent to the Father that Mark was not going to say anything further. Deciding enough was enough, he raised his mug and looked evenly over its rim. Biting his lip, he asked, “So what is it you’re calling yourself now?”

The younger man looked up. “Mark,” he said in a flat voice.

“Ah…well, it’s good enough I suppose. So….Mark. What would you like to discuss?” Lawrence smiled behind his tea, eyes laughing softly.

Mark frowned and shifted his weight. “I think it was wrong to come here.” Pushing away from the table, he stood. “I should go.”

Father Lawrence shook his head slowly. “No Mark, sit. Please. You need to talk, otherwise you’d not have come to me.” Gesturing back to the table, he smiled.

Mark looked at him evenly, then deliberately shoved the mug across the table. “Thank you for the tea Father.” He straightened and turned to the door, pulled it open, and slipped through into the dark hall.

Father Lawrence remained seated for a moment. Folding his hands in his lap, his eyes raised upwards, he said beseechingly, “Lord, give me Your words. Guide me now in this endeavor, as I seek to reap the seeds You have sown.” At the he pushed back the chair and exited after the younger man.

The hem of his black robe swept softly against the stones worn with a thousand year’s footsteps. As he entered the nave, he saw the younger man steps away from the door. Lawrence knew he had only moments to change the other’s man’s mind, he called out, “Sariel!”

The word reverberated through the cathedral, echoing powerfully off the high ceiling. The candles that still flickered with life flared with life as a chill wind swept through the building. The very work had hit Mark with force, stopping him dead, his spine ridged. The air crackled with energy as he turned slowly, pivoting on his heel.

From his position across the nave, Father Lawrence could see blue eyes flash despite there being no major source of light. He had spoken with God’s authority, with a power that had not been his own. It had achieved its desired effect, for the younger man was moving back up the aisle, slowly, fluidly. His eyes flickered blue under his dark brows, head bent low to the side. Stopping a few yards away, he stood tensely, waiting.

Lawrence clasped his hands and raised his chin, “Sariel….” He stopped as Mark raised a hand for silence, and thought it best to let the younger man have his say.

“You speak with the Lord’s voice.” It was a statement, spoken softly.

“Yes.”

Mark was silent for a moment, then knelt on the stones. “Forgive me Father. I have underestimated you….again.” Not waiting for Lawrence’s response, he stood and continued, “I sometimes forget that you know. That you truly know what I am.”

The priest spread his hands wide. “Are you ashamed?”

Mark half turned away from the priest, eyes flashing painfully. He punched the air, “Ah…God! Yes! I have spent ages filled with my shame. Sometimes it seems like its too much to bear.”

Lawrence nodded soothingly and took a step forward. “Then give your burden to the Lord. Let Him help you…” He stopped as Mark turned back towards him, eyes filled with dark clouds of anger.

“Don’t you think I know that? I was an angel, damn it! I lived it, breathed it. His Word was the very soul of me,” Mark paused, breathing heavily. Pounding his chest with a fist, he whispered with anger, “It was here….and now it is gone. Gone!” Turning, he sat down heavily in one of the pews and ran his hands through his shaggy hair.

Lawrence moved to the man’s side and placed a kindly hand on his shoulder. He stood there, offering a companionship in silence. The priest knew of course who Mark was; who Sammael had been. He had known since the day he had taken his vows so many decades ago. Mark had been there, later telling him that he had been sent by God. There was something between them that drew them together, and over the years they met often. Closing his eyes there in the darkness of Ely Cathedral, Father Lawrence remembered.

He had been young, excited to save the souls of God’s flock. He had still been filled with the power and joy of his new vows when he turned, meeting with a stranger. He vaguely remembered this young man with brown hair and startling blue eyes watching him during the public ceremonies which his parents had attended. They said nothing at first, each waiting, feeling the God’s will surrounding them. He remembered the surprise and unexpected thrill of fear as the stranger told him who he was: an angel. A fallen angel cast down out of the Heavens for the last eleven centuries. And he wanted a friend; someone to talk to.

At that moment Father Lawrence had felt his world change. He had been chosen by God, of that there was no doubt. It was the beginning of a very peculiar sort of friendship, with each of them sharing the roles of teacher and student. And now, standing in the cathedral, Lawrence knew his friendship was needed more than anything else. They had been through a lot of rocky straits together, spiritually and on earth. They had seen little of each other in the last two decades, and Lawrence knew it was important if Sammael had felt the need to come back to him. Looking down at his old friend, the priest smiled sadly. He could still see the golden soul God had given Sammael on that day of creation, even if it was a bit tarnished. He gave his shoulder a small reassuring pat.

[Windex]

Mark drew a breath and shrugged off Father Lawrence’s hand. Standing, he turned to the old priest. His eyes drew in the light and flashed blue as he drew his old friend close. Kissing him on the cheek, he whispered, “You are blessed. Thank you.” Stepping away he turned towards the altar and crossed his arms.

Lawrence stayed rooted in his place. He could still feel the Lord’s spirit coursing through his veins and thrilled in it. Looking sideways at Mark, he studied him. There was nothing truly extraordinary about the man, with the exception of his eyes when they burned like sapphires. He dressed well but did not stand out. He had let his dark hair grow out since their last meeting, and did not seem to be bothered by the fact that it fell across his eyes. Lawrence tilted is head to the side. His friend had walked the earth for eight hundred years but wore it remarkably well. He did not look a day over thirty.

The priest watched at Mark chewed at his thumb nail. It was one of his major flaws; something he had developed over the years that told when he was bothered. Or when he just needed a cigarette. Lawrence suspected it was a bit of both at the moment.

Mark brushed at the wrinkles in his sleeves as he spat the bits of his nails on the floor. He knew he should not have bought the jacket. The material was far too prone to holding wrinkles. Jerking at the cuffs, he spoke over his shoulder, “Do you know Father, what I have been doing these last few years since we last talked?” He half turned and looked at the old priest, his face darkened with shadows. “Do you remember what we talked about?”

Lawrence nodded his head, straining to hear the words so softly spoken. How could he forget? It was the one time that he had seen Mark lose his composure. He had been seeking validation for his sins, and it was not something Lawrence could provide. Upset, the former angel had left the church in a storm

Mark blinked slowly and cast his eyes to the stones at his feet. “I’ve searched…so hard. I’ve been to all corners of this earth, and it’s still beyond my grasp!” He clenched his jaw and made a fist in the air. “It’s just there, but I can’t reach it!”

The wrinkles on Lawrence’s face deepened as he pressed his lips together in sympathy. Folding his hands before him, he asked, “Searched for what?”

Mark’s eyes snapped up and locked on the priest’s face. “You know what for. Salvation.”

“Maybe that’s not what you should be looking for. Maybe it’s forgiveness.”

Mark bit his lip, “Right…”

Sensing an opening in Mark’s armor, Lawrence continued, “And maybe you should start by forgiving yourself.”

Turning away again Mark sighed. He knew Lawrence was right, but he did not want to admit that he had tried before and failed at that task. He was happy in his misery, and could not give it up. It was his self-induced punishment, yet it held him back from what he most wanted: to be accepted back into the kingdom of Heaven.

He glanced over his shoulder at the priest and said noncommittally, “Maybe.”

Silence reigned over the cathedral as the two men brewed in their own thoughts once more. Father Lawrence felt Mark withdraw once more and decided to throw all his cards on the table. After all, it probably would not do nay more harm. Raising his chin, he cleared his throat, “Mark…you should spend you time preparing the way for the Return.”

He received a sharp laugh. “I’m not Elijah.”

“No, no you’re not. But you’d be better served if you did something other than wallow about in your own self pity. It isn’t very becoming on you.” The last was said with heat as the priest frowned. Here was a perfect envoy for God’s Word, and he was willing to let his knowledge and influence go to waste. It was a shame.

Mark shifted his weight and drew a foot across the floor, sending echoes through the cathedral. He flicked his hair out of his eyes. He spoke slowly, enunciating every word clearly so as not to be misunderstood. “I do not just sit around. I still serve Him, in my own way.” He clenched his jaw tightly, “Don’t judge me more than you already have.” He pushed the sleeve of his jacket up to reveal a watch. Glancing at it, he turned back to the priest. “I should go.”

A meaningful look passed between them as Mark moved for the door. The air thickened around them, pressing down on them. Sucking in a breath, Father Lawrence knew what it meant. It was God speaking to him, and he knew what He was telling him. Finding his voice, he whispered, “You won’t be back again.” It was a statement.

The priest’s words cut the air like a knife. Mark came to a stop and threw a look back at the priest. His brow furrowed and he licked his lips. “Yes old friend. Once more. To bring you home.” He smiled sadly, “God has granted me that much.”

The corner of Lawrence’s mouth turned up as Mark pulled at the heavy wooden door and slipped out into the night. The priest knew his friend was not without hope. His heavenly soul still shone through the hardened exterior. It was just a matter or cleaning it up once more. Sighing, the priest walked slowly to the door and secured the heavy latch. God was good, but the outside world could not always be counted on.

He tucked his hands into his sleeves as he walked through the nave. His time with Mark was over. He had done what he could to help him find his way. It was now up to someone else to do that job, and Lawrence vowed to pray for that man to have strength. Goodness knew he would need it with a stubborn soul such as Mark. The priest looked to the stained glass windows through which the hollow light of the moon shone. Sighing, he stood before the altar and crossed himself. His heart ached for his friend as he knelt in prayer.

[Windex]

Chapter 2~

Boots crunched against loose gravel as Mark walked just beyond the entrance of Ely Cathedral. It was dark out and a hush had decided over the town. All the tourists had gone to their little holes to settle down for the night, or had been carried away by the trains to other destinations. The cathedral stood illuminated against the night sky by a soft orange glow. Mark shook his head and huffed. People always felt the need to light up their work to show it off, even if the thing had been built by generations past. It was the same throughout the whole of Europe though. Castles, churches and monuments were lit up at night as if to proclaim their glory to the heavens.

Mark pulled a cigarette out of his pocket as he stepped back to lean against the arched entrance of the cathedral. He heard the door latch drop into place behind him as Father Lawrence locked him out. He smiled and flicked the lighter. It was a mistake to come here. He knew that before he had stepped foot in the town, yet he still came. Maybe it was a desire to see his old friend one final time. Maybe it was because he had no where else to go. In any case, Mark had left feeling unresolved and just as bitter as he had before the meeting.

Exhaling a cloud of smoke, he pushed himself away from the ancient stones and moved towards the street. Stopping at the shallow curb, he looked both directions. It was a quiet night. Most little English towns were dead at night, but there was usually some activity by the local kids. Mark’s brow creased as he noted the absence of teenage squalor. Glancing about, he sighed. There was a slight chill to the air, though that was not uncommon to English summers. The country suffered from a monotony cold and barely warm weather throughout the year. It was not the temperature of the air that made Mark’s frown deepen; it was it’s utter stillness. It was as if nothing breathed.

He shifted his weight as he turned his eyes to the night sky. Bright stars twinkled merrily down at him, only occasionally blotted out by the odd cloud. Mark narrowed his eyes. Every time he looked at the stars he felt as if they were laughing at him. Taunting him for no longer being among them. Mark knew the stars were not sentient, but it made him feel better to have a direction for his bitterness. He bit at his lip and dropped his gaze.

A shiver vibrated down his back. It was not just the stillness that put him on edge. Mark stepped off the curb and walked down the center of the road, twiddling his cigarette between his fingers. The air thickened as he moved; heavy with anticipation. Something was coming.

[Windex]

Mark deliberately placed one foot in front of the other as he traced a path along the winding roads. He encountered nothing so much as a stray cat. The odd light shone from the houses that lined the street, but it was cold; unwelcoming. As he passed a pub he could see silhouettes move beyond the windows, yet no sound of laughter spilled out into the street. Mark knew without trying that every door was locked to him. The air deepened, he could feel its pressure building in his ears. The streetlamps flickered twice, casting odd shadows across his path. It was getting closer. There was nothing to do but wait. Mark flexed his shoulders as he walked on, puffing on his cigarette impatiently. The waiting was always the worst part.

He stopped as a soft white feather drifted down before him, fluttering with a life of its own in the dead air. As he plucked it out of the air, the fragrance of jasmine assaulted his senses. Rolling his eyes shut, Mark titled his head back and swallowed. “Damn…”

“What’s the matter? Not happy to see me?” The voice rang out clear in the still night, bringing to mind the sound of a bell.

Eyes still shut, Mark sighed, “Gabriel.”

“Ah yes. I have not seen you in a while old friend. It’s been what, ten years? Eleven?” Gabriel laughed softly as he emerged from the shadows. “Truth be told I don’t remember. Nor do I really care. Time does, after all, pass differently for those walking on God’s good earth.”

Mark opened his eyes and settled back on his heels. He stared at the angel as he brought his cigarette to his lips.

Gabriel was tall and powerfully built, but not overly so. He did not look like those wrestlers from those cheap American TV shows. It was more subtle than that. His easy posture and the set of his broad shoulders spoke of strength. He wore a nondescript navy suit and polished shoes. The collar of his undershirt rose to just under his chin, giving the angel a regal bearing. Mark huffed as he studied his counterpart. He was well put together. His blond hair was closed cropped and tidy, perfectly matching his ivory skin and setting off his green eyes. Mark was willing to bet that there was not a single wrinkle in the suit, nor a hair out of place. Even his fingernails were manicured to perfection.

Gabriel smiled under the inspection. “You know you’re going to kill yourself with those eventually.”

Mark raised an eyebrow and studied the cigarette with mock scrutiny, “Oh really? Whoever would guess that?” He sniffed and rubbed at the back of his neck, “I’ve been smoking these and worse for centuries and yet here I am. Still breathing. Maybe our good Lord doesn’t have my death on the cards as of yet.”

Gabriel frowned slightly, green eyes flashing. “Or maybe our Lord still has a use for you, though goodness only knows what that would be. You will die eventually. And then where will you go?”

That question was meant to sting, and it did its job well. Mark flinched visibly. Frowning deeply, he flicked his cigarette to the ground and snuffed it out his toe. He had always had a rivalry of sorts with Gabriel, and their relationship was certainly not helped when Mark was cast down. The blond angel always found time to come down and make known his disapproval of Mark’s situation. If he had not had reason to look down on Mark when he was an angel, he certainly found reason enough now that he was condemned to walk the earth. There was nothing to stop him from doing it either. In the eyes of God and His angels, Mark was little more than a mere man. While many in Heaven disapproved and looked down on Mark, there were relatively few who displayed outright disapproval. Gabriel was one of these, and he was not afraid to show it.

To Gabriel, Mark’s fate to walk the earth was not good enough punishment. He had sinned grievously, and the blond angel felt that, as one of the Fallen, Mark should have been cast to the fires of hell for eternity. God was forgiving though, and understood the temptations that led to sin. He cast Mark down to suffer on earth, to walk among those who sinned the most. As it had been his job in Heaven to watch over the Lord’s flock, it was now his penance to walk amongst them teaching of God. In Gabriel’s eyes, Mark even failed at that.

Mark had long ago accepted that nothing he could do would make Gabriel happy. Now, staring levelly at the angel, he dug into the inner pocket of his jacket. Grasping his half-empty pack of cigarettes, he flung out towards the angel, who caught them easily. As the angel squinted at them with distaste, Mark said casually, “Marlboro. They’re better than the cheap stuff you roll yourself.” He paused and added with a slight smirk, “Only the best for you…old friend.”

Gabriel’s eyes rose slowly and locked onto Mark. There was no laughter in his gaze as he clenched his fist tightly around the pack. They dissolved in a puff of smoke that slowly curled in the air as the angel opened his fist. Gabriel’s clear voice darkened, “I would expect nothing less from you Sariel. You have fallen far, and I fear that you have further to go before all is done.”

Mark stuffed his fists in his trouser pockets as his own eyes darkened. He shrugged. “What do you care?”

The angel sighed, “I do not.”

“Then why in hell’s name are you here?” Mark anger rise in the pit of his stomach. The angel’s bearing alone was enough to set him off. He wondered if he himself had looked so puffed up before he was cast down. Surely not. He could not recall caring about fingernails, or clothing. Gabriel had always been more vain than he, if his memory served. But that was eight-hundred years ago, and a lot had happened in that time. Could his memory be flawed? He frowned as he glared at the haughty angel. Mark had always been taught that hate was a sin, but he came very close to applying it to this situation. It would not be so bad had Gabriel not taken advantage of every opportunity to raze him.

Gabriel raised a golden eyebrow and pursed his lips. “I am not here by choice, I can assure you.” He reached inside his jacket and withdrew an envelope. “This,” he said, “is for you.” He nonchalantly tossed it towards Mark, a small wind caught it and carried it into the fallen angel’s outstretched hand.

It was plain and unmarked. Turning it over, Mark slipped a thumb under the seal pried it open. Pulling out the paper, he quickly glanced over it. His brow creased slightly as he read. Looking over the sheet, his eyes met with Gabriel’s. Suspicion lined his voice as he asked, “Why didn’t you just tell me this?”

The angel drew a deep breath and shrugged uncomfortably. It was the first time in the conversation where he was not in complete control of himself. Mark stared at him closely. It was not fright or anger. It was…confusion. In that moment Mark guessed the truth. Gabriel was accustomed to being God’s messenger, His chosen one. Yet here he was, delivering a message he was not privy to, and to a fallen one no less. For all his failings, Gabriel was faithful to the Lord. And He would have known that beyond a doubt. The fact that this message was being kept from the highest of angels was curious, to say the least.

Gabriel met Mark’s eyes, “I do not know what is in that message, or why I was asked to deliver it.” He licked his lips, a sign he was off balance. “Sariel…”

He stopped as Mark crumpled the letter, envelope and all. He threw it on the ground between them. Gesturing towards it, he told Gabriel, “Destroy it.”

The angel frowned. It was obvious that he was intensely curious as to the contents of the letter. He pride had been wounded at not being trusted personally with the message, but he knew God had his reasons. Seeing the letter lying crumpled before him was tempting. He glanced briefly at Mark before wiping the thought from his mind. He would not betray his Lord’s trust and become like Mark. Setting his jaw, he waved a hand before him, igniting the paper in a holy fire.

Mark nodded his approval. The pure flames of such a fire would ensure that nothing could find out the contents of the letter. Even the devil himself would have a hard time discovering the message.

[Windex]

Silence stood between the angel and the fallen one as they watched each other. Tension hummed in the air until Gabriel dropped his gaze. “I should go.” He turned to face the shadows that he had emerged from. Taking a few steps, the angel turned back to Mark. “Walk with the Lord Sariel. You may be an idiot, but do try.” Smiling slightly, he began to walk away once again. As the shadows swallowed him, his voice echoed hollowly out to the night, “But you don’t get points for just trying.” As he disappeared, the heady scent of jasmine that had been filling the air vanished along with him.

Mark shook his head at the mockery that laced Gabriel’s last words. The street lights flickered twice as a slight wind wound its way through the avenues once again. Laughter spilled out from pubs as people stepped onto the sidewalks, chatting about their day’s exploits. Standing in the middle of the street, Mark was aware of the world coming back to life around him. It was just like one of Gabriel’s tricks to shut down a city in favor of his visits. It was not good enough for him to meet where the buzz of people was absent. No, the blond angel had a flair for the dramatic. Mark was convinced that he did it solely for the purpose of showing off; of proving that he was capable of grand tricks.

Frowning, Mark moved to the side of the road as a car blared it’s horn, the sound breaking harshly into the night. The driver was clearly impatient at having a man stand in his way. Mark stood there on the sidewalk as the world moved around him. He wondered if Gabriel was still watching from some obscure corner. He would not put it past the angel. It was obvious that he had been intensely curious as to the contents of the letter. If it had been Mark, he knew he would have kept an eye out for quite a long time in the off chance of discovering some clue. But then again, the angel had better things to do. Especially now.

He thought back to the script that had flowed across the parchment. It was ancient Hebrew, the language of the Old Testament. An obscure language by today’s standard, it still came easily to Mark’s mind. As he had read, Mark had known that no pen had ever touched the paper. It was written by God’s will with His own hand. The Lord of course did not waste His time with mere pens, but nonetheless, it had been His words that Mark‘s eyes traced across the parchment. There was trouble in the world, and He needed the help of one on earth. An agent of sorts.

His troubled thoughts were interrupted when a small object stuck his shoulder. Looking down, Mark frowned at a lollypop lying at his feet. It was Strawberry. He quickly glanced around and caught sight of a small girl running around the corner of an old building. Damn tourists.

[Windex]

He crossed the street quickly and set out to follow the girl. He moved fast and was at the alley entrance within seconds. There was no sign of the girl. Narrowing his eyes, Mark made his way slowly down the alley. He was beginning to think that this girl might be more than a tourist. But who was she? An agent of God? Sweets were the sign of the devil though, in Mark’s mind. So what would a true servant of the Lord be doing chucking lolly’s about in the middle of the night?

The alley was not littered with rubbish bins or any other obstructions, and there were no doors. The girl had had a significant head start on him, and it was likely that she had already disappeared on the other side. Stopping in the middle of the alley, chewed on his thumb with narrowed eyes. The nail was ragged at the edges, standing out against the casual care Mark took of himself. He was not vain, but he did keep himself in good condition.

Mark’s eyes swallowed the dull yellow light of the street lamps as he stood there contemplating. A small scuff behind him brought a small smile to his face. His eyes flashed blue in the light as he bowed his head briefly before turning slowly. At the mouth of the alley the silhouette of a man cast a long shadow in the dim light. He was unthreatening, and Mark had to smile at that. The man’s very form exuded the fact that he was uncomfortable. He was young, and stood bouncing slightly on his toes as if nervous. His coat was cast carelessly over his forearm, telling Mark that the man was either careless of the chilled English air, or had been in a hurry when he stepped out into the night.

The young man stepped forward, his feet hesitating to slide forward. Small rocks scratched across the pavement, the sound echoing down the alley. His brow was furrowed with worry as his hands clenched together repeatedly, scrunching the fabric of the coat he carried. As the light caught his mop of dusky brown hair, Mark chuckled and folded his arms before him. It was the young priest from the cathedral. He appeared no worse for the rough treatment he had received at Mark’s hands, yet the angel felt a twinge of guilt. It was doubtful the young priest had deserved that. However, Mark liked to think that a bit of roughness added character, and therefore dismissed what little remorse had arisen in his heart.

He titled his head to the side, curious as to why the priest was here. No doubt he had followed him the minute he had stepped out of the cathedral. “Thomas, is it?”

The young priests eyes widen slightly at that. “You…you remember my name?”

Mark suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and walk away. What did this man take him for? Was he wearing a sign that said ‘stupid’? His reply was chilly. “Of course. Now what do you want? Do you make a habit of following people about at night?”

Thomas violently shook his head, “Oh no! But….but you’re… Is it true…uh…that--”

Mark could see where this was going and he was not impressed. The kid had probably overheard most of his conversation with Father Lawrence. Given that, he had surely heard at least something that he was not supposed to, and now he wanted to ask if it was all true. He had encountered this before in the past. There had been some who had figured out the puzzle of his identity, or seen something they should not have. All too often they became too eager and the situation always went one of two ways. Either it would become awkward or dangerous. Mark had once found himself accused of heresy and sentenced to being burnt. It was only with the help of Gabriel that he was able to escape, and to this day the archangel never let him forget.

He smiled at the memory. He had been cast out of Heaven, but God had not forsaken him. He had been given enough power to save himself from these very situations. He could remove himself from situations and reappear a short distance away. The act reminded Mark of out of those new sci-fi movies that were so popular in the culture today. It was to be used only in the gravest of circumstances, and God had assured that he would not abuse what little power was granted to him. Mark’s stomach turned at the memory of the one time he had used it. He had been ill for weeks afterwards, was exhausted yet unable to sleep, and even worse was Gabriel coming to investigate. He swore that angel would be the death of him yet.

As he looked at the young priest standing nervously before him, Mark knew it would be ridiculous to do such. The disappearing act would only raise more questions in the young man’s mind, and there was a glint beneath the trepidation in his eyes that told Mark he had more of a backbone than first impressions gave. The priest’s curiosity would be peaked, and with the determination that came with youth, he would probably hound Mark until the ends of the earth. That was not something the fallen angel wanted to deal with, especially now. However, he also did not want to explain himself to someone as yet unable to properly shave, and resolved to use his minimal powers to put the man into a brief state of confusion so he could walk away in peace.

Setting his mouth in a hard line, he raised his hand, fingers spread out before him. It was a small trick, and something he had figured out on his own. It was not something God had granted him. It was born out of centuries of frustration of having to deal with human stupidity. He had developed several such tricks, and had honed his concentration through years of practice.

Thomas’s eyes widened even more at the sight of the outstretched hand. His mind flashed with all sorts of tortures that might soon be coming his way. He took a staggering step backwards, dropping his coat on the ground as he grasped at the cross hanging from his neck. His mind vainly searched for an appropriate prayer for the occasion of imminent death at the hands of one of God’s own, but ultimately came up empty. He then settled for stammering odd bits of random prayers that flashed through his head. He wasn’t too fussed about it really. Was not the whole point just to draw God’s attention to his plight? Surely stuttering His name frantically fulfilled that requirement.

The young priest was too busy stuttering to notice that Mark had stopped and was staring intently at the coat lying haphazardly across the pavement. The fallen angel’s brow drew together in a dark line as he slowly dropped his hand. Moving forward quickly he snatched the coat off the ground and seized a handful of Thomas’s shirt in his fist. Giving the man a thorough shake, Mark released him and thrust the collar of the coat before him.

Thomas stumbled back a step but did not let go of his cross. He looked bewildered as he started at the collar. Not receiving an answer quickly enough, Mark ran his thumb across a small silver pin that was attached to the cloth. A intricately carved cross stood proudly against a background of a rising sun, it’s base planted amidst a swirling fire. Holy fire. The pin shimmered with a life of its own, burning sharply into Mark’s retinas with a pleasing pain.

Thrusting it forward again, Mark asked, “Where did you get this?”

His eyes burned intently as the priest answered, “I…some bloke at the street market. He was selling them…”

Mark interrupted, “When?”

“Uh….this weekend. He…”

“Have you even seen him there before?” Ely was a small town, and the locals tended to get to know each other. If this vendor was new to the area, the priest would most likely know.

He answered slowly, “Yeah. I’ve never seen him before.” Seeing the question burning in Mark’s eyes, Thomas took it upon himself to describe the man. “He was tall, about so,” he raised a hand about half a foot above his own head, “blond, and…”

Before he could finish Mark interrupted again. “Damn it, Gabriel!” He was sure it was the angel who had provided the pin to Thomas. Mark ignored the priest’s bewildered expression and fingered the pin again. It tingled under his fingertips. He had seen this particular emblem many times, but always on writs specifically from the Lord God. It was something He kept for His own use; something that signified His direct orders.

He glanced up briefly. “Do you know what this is?”

Thomas swallowed. “It’s a pin.”

Mark clenched his jaw and sighed heavily. Staring at the young priest with hard eyes, he said harshly, “You’re an idiot.” Despite the hurt now filling the other man’s eyes, he continued, “This is God’s personal symbol. I’d bet my soul that it was Gabriel who gave it to you, though only hell knows why.”

Thomas half raised a hand in protest, “Gabriel…?”

Mark sighed again. “Yes. Gabriel. I trust you went to Sunday School often enough so that I don’t have to give you a lesson? Yes? Good. Now do try not to ask dumb questions. Got it? At Thomas’s sulky nod, he went on, “This symbol. You liked it because it was shiny, am I right?” Again he received a sulky affirmative.

Pursing his lips, Mark looked closely at the young man. “And no doubt you bought it because you are pious and like to display that little fact. I’m not here to patronize you, so don’t take it as such. I’m just good at being an ass.” He smiled slightly to take the edge off of his words, but it appeared to have no effect on Thomas’s outlook. “Anyways…this is God’s own seal. It shines like a beacon to those who follow the Lord’s path. It’s a way for us to recognize each other I suppose, though I’ve never heard of any man short of the Pope displaying it.” He gave a short laugh, “And that was only once. Do you know what happened to that Pope?”

Thomas shook his head, confusion swirling across his face. His took a breath and interjected before Mark could speak, “But how do you know it’s our Lord’s seal?”

Mark could not believe what he was hearing. He shut his eyes in exasperation before responding, carefully pronouncing every word to make sure he did not snap. “Stupid question. Didn’t we talk about that? I’m assuming you overheard some of my talk with Lawrence? No, don’t answer that. I know you did. Young people such as yourself can’t help but to eavesdrop…though it’s a wonder that I didn’t know at the time…” He narrowed his eyes at the last.

Could it be perhaps that young Thomas had been meant to overhear the conversation? That God had shielded Mark’s innate ability to know when he was being overheard to ensure Thomas knew that was a fallen angel? It would make sense when put together with the pin the young priest wore. Such a symbol could only be bestowed upon those in the Lord’s highest favor, and even then it had to be given by the Lord’s own hand. And dear Gabriel, highest in the Lord’s confidence, could do just that with His permission.

Mark nodded slowly to himself and ran a finger along his jaw. Yes, it would make sense, and this would mean that he could not just cast the priest to the side. It was becoming apparent in his mind that their paths were meant to cross. God had something planned for them both, and Mark figured it was best to keep the young priest close at his side. Sighing at the thought of having to deal with stupidity for the foreseeable future, he looked at the priest bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet.

Shaking his head he spoke, “That Pope? He died because he wore a pin like this. He was ripped apart by demons. It shines brightly to us because we follow God, but it also shines like a beacon to the Enemy and his dark followers. They can sense it’s holy power, and it hurts them. Some go mad and attack. That’s what happened to the good Pope…one of the few truly good Popes.” Plucking the pin off the coat, Mark reached forward and attached it firmly to the inside collar of Thomas’s shirt. Grasping the young man by the shoulder, he squeezed. “Keep it close to your body, but let no one see it. Not me, not Father Lawrence. You never know who to trust, and we’d hate to see you ripped apart now wouldn’t we?”

Satisfied that he had made his point, Mark thrust the coat into Thomas’s arms. “Now you have a flat around here I’m assuming? Let’s go. I’m hungry and we have work to do tomorrow.”

Thomas frowned, obviously confused. It was a look that was quite common on him and seemed to fit his face like a glove. “A flat? Yeah…but you’re….you’re not coming home with me…are you?”

Pulling his best innocent expression, Mark said, “You wouldn’t deny hospitality to God’s servant now would you?”

Thomas’s face soured slightly and he huffed, “I’d watch what I claim if I were you. You’re the one who has been cast out of Heaven.” He eyes glinted with a fierceness that had previously been missing from him. “You don’t stand that much higher than me now Fallen.” At that he shrugged into his coat, straightened his cross on his chest and turned back down the alley, motioning for Mark to follow.

Mark smiled as he watched Thomas walk away. So there was a backbone in there somewhere. He cast a final glance to the far end of the alley where the little Asian girl had disappeared, not surprised when she was not there. He tugged his jacket into place as he set off after the priest, catching up to him with a quick jog. Walking alongside the bristling young man he smiled, knowing that the next few days were going to prove to be interesting.

[Windex]

Chapter 3~

Mark woke up to the smell of bacon and sound of frying eggs. He lay stretched across the small couch in Thomas’s cramped apartment. The thing had overstuffed cushions and was only meant to seat two; meaning that his legs hung over the edge. The moth eaten blanket flung over him did little to ward off the chill that lingered from the night. Stretching, Mark rumpled his dark hair and stood, following his nose to the kitchen.

Thomas’s apartment was not exactly messy. The main problem was the size of the place. It was tiny, and reminded Mark more of a rat hole than a place suitable for human living. The clutter had no where to go, so it existed on the floor and lay piled in corners. Stepping over a stack of neatly folded laundry, he entered the kitchen. Thomas was clad in his pajamas and fluttered over two pans that sizzled away with a full English breakfast.

Looking up from his work, he motioned for Mark to take a seat at the little table pushed up against the wall of the small dining area. Mark thought it was more like a closet that had its door removed, but took a seat with a shrug. The two men were silent as Thomas slid a plate full of food in front of Mark, and sloshed orange juice into a glass. Lifting the juice, Mark could see where the glass was smudged with old finger prints. Great. He poked at the food before him. He was sure the sausages and bacon barely contained any real meat, but were formed purely from grease and fat. Sniffing, he put aside his qualms and began pushing the food around the plate, stuffing it into his mouth as a man starving.

Across from his Thomas stared at his own plate, barely touching his food. Seeing this, Mark motioned with is fork and said around a mouthful of sausage, “What’s the matter? Can’t stand your own creation?”

He had meant it as a joke, but could see it stung the young priest. Shrugging, Thomas lifted his eyes and looked at Mark. “It’s just….it seems like it’s a dream you know? I don’t even know who--or what--you are really.”

Mark put his fork down and swallowed. “I thought you nailed it on the head fairly well last night.” He laughed, “Do you need me to explain or something?” Chuckling, he went back to his breakfast, stopping again when he noticed Thomas looking at him with all seriousness. He raised an eyebrow across the table.

Thomas bit at his lip, “Yeah. An explanation would be great.”

“You’re joking. I’m not explaining myself to you kid.”

Thomas frowned. “You owe me!”

“I do not,” Mark flushed. How dare this kid presume himself indebted to him. He stuffed a whole sausage in his mouth in an attempt to hide his rising anger.

Thomas jabbed his fork at Mark, “You slept on my couch. You’re eating my food!”

“Crap food!” Mark scowled.

It was Thomas’s turn to flush, the tips of his ears turning bright pink. “It’s still food. I didn’t hear you complaining a few minutes ago.”

Mark laughed harshly and tossed his fork to the table where it clattered loudly. “I was being nice.” He raised the dirty glass to his lips and to a deep swallow of the orange juice, only to choke on it. Sputtering, he snapped, “This is nothing but acid!”

The two glared at each other across the little table crammed in the alcove. It was so cramped around the table that their knees bumped underneath as they each shifted with frustration. Mark found himself wishing that he was facing that nervous side of Thomas from the night before. It would be a lot easier.

Thomas broke the silence by asking, “What are we doing today?”

Mark’s eyes bulged in surprise. “We? What makes you think we’re going to do anything together? You’re going straight back to the cathedral.”

Thomas looked at him flatly, “No. I spent most of last night in prayer, and I believe our good Lord told me we have something to do today. And since I have no idea what it is, that must mean you do….or something like that.” He flushed slightly, his nervousness surfacing again somewhat.

Mark shook his head. He had thought briefly last night that God had led Thomas to him for a purpose. Could he have been right? He could tell that he was going to have to do some serious praying, and the very thought of that was weighing. Mark found praying a tedious process. It was necessary, yes, but he found himself easily distracted. It had not always been that way. He used to be able to throw himself in prayer sessions that lasted for days; fasting and praying as fervently as any saint. But the last few decades found him lacking in that area. He knew he needed to work on it, but he sighed at the thought.

Mark looked into Thomas’s eyes. The young priest fidgeted, feeling as if his very soul was being laid bare. The fallen angel’s eyes flared briefly with a blue light before fading back to their original brown. At that Thomas’s eyes widened, and he filed it away for later reflection.

Mark sat back, the chair groaning at the new pressure. “Fine. You can come if you insist. I don’t really care.” At that he stood, moved over to the sink and dumped the sour juice down the drain. He was in the process of refilling the glass with water when Thomas asked, “So…what’re we doing?”

Mark smiled lopsidedly. He turned slowly at face the young priest and took a sip of the cool water. It tasted slightly of iron. “Today,” he said softly, “we’re doing exorcisms.”