3.3-3.5

-3-

            Loki heard the slam of his door first.  And, then, the guttural scream.

            His eyes wide with supplicated fear that this anger might have been brought about by either Lords Lucias or Raziel, he was unable to voice his sheer surprise that it was Michael that stepped through his library door.

            “Tell me how on which moon I am to remain a virgin whilst fucking one of Aiken’s Gods be damned, ill begot creations!”

            Loki, shaking his head swallowed.

            He had heard of Aiken’s mischief.  Being Aiken’s best friends, that was a given.  But the rest of Michael’s diatribe was confusing to him.  His mind had been on the book that he had been trying to translate and on the odd thought in his mind since Ishitar had read a word from it that Ishitar knew how to read the strange language in which it had been written. 

            “I don’t . . .” He sighed and pointed to Lord Lucias’ favorite chair.  Hopefully by taking it Michael would calm down.  “I wasn’t part of Aiken’s misbehavior.  What has it to do with you?”

            “I must live amongst them as a God would.” Here his expression darkened.  “But oh, no!  I’m not to be their God!  Just to breed their God!”

            This part, Loki could ken.  Evanbourough, who had once been Raphael’s lover, had told Loki what punishments Raphael—and by rumor, he knew Camael—had faced for having been caught straying from the extremely platonic bed that the Quorum shared with Lord Noliminan. 

“While still a virgin and then to be punished for no longer being a virgin.” Michael turned his dark—and generally unreadable eyes—to Loki.  This time, Michael’s pain was palpable in his expression.  “I am to adhere to one order whilst betraying another.”  He grumbled.  “Or to be considered as having betrayed another!” 

            “What is he playing at?”  Loki growled, his anger toward Lord Noliminan coursing through every vein in his body.

            Michael rolled his eyes closed and shook his head.  He wanted to cry.  Loki knew that.  But Michael was as fundamentally masculine as was Loki.  He would never cry.   Not in front of anyone. 

Especially not in front of Loki.

            What Michael did say was, “I know not.” Followed by, “My Lord Loki, please . . .”

            “You weren’t here.”  Loki assured him, understanding everything.  Then, licking his lips, he said, “There is a way to beat his trap.”

            Michael started and stared at him.  And then he laughed.  A disbelieving, almost mad laugh, “How?”

            “Are you willing to disobey him?”

            “Never.”  This was a whisper.

            But that made Loki grin.  Of course he wouldn’t disobey Lord Noliminan.  This was Michael! And Michael was, above anything that Loki might say against the archangel, the most loyal of all of Lord Noliminan’s Quorum.

This made this particular situation all the more ironic.

“The seed doesn’t die immediately, Michael.”

            “My Lord?”  He asked, confused.

            “Lady Anemoi owes me a favor.”  He grinned.

            “I fail to see how the Lady of Winter—“

            “Can freeze your seed?”  Loki asked, brow rising.

            Michael seemed to crumple.  “The Gods . . . .”

            “You would be able to obey both orders at once.”  Loki assured him.  “And whatever fuckaroo Lord Noliminan is up to would be completely thwarted.”

            “He never bid that I must have sex with them.”  Michael swallowed, raised his gaze and then smiled.  “I would have obeyed both orders.”

            “And,” Loki sighed, “more importantly:  saved your virginity for whatever soul you believe deserves it.”

            Michael let out a tired, almost painful gasp.  “My Lord Loki.”

            Loki smiled in response.  “My Lord, Michael.”

-4-

            Ishitar was in his bedroom when he heard the low, growling scream.  Na’amah, watching him, found herself extremely interested as he lowered the wood that he had been whittling into a fairy that he meant to give Lord Lucias for his castle’s board and stared at the door.  He stood, his brow furrowed, and slipped out of his bedroom. 

Na’amah, also curious, followed him. 

            When Ishitar stopped just outside of the library and began listening to Loki and Michael’s conversation, Na’amah was more than a little surprised.  What little time she had known him, she felt that she understood his fundamental nature, even though he was still somewhat guarded with her.  Given all of that, Na’amah wouldn’t have expected him to snoop or spy.  But he clearly found this conversation one that he couldn’t tear himself away from.

            Until that was, Michael’s voice calmed and it became a conversation between two men who seemed to admire one another rather than one man seeking counsel from a better that he very obviously admired. 

It was at that point in the conversation between Michael and Loki that Ishitar turned away from the library door and returned to his bedchamber.

            He sat on the bed, his brow furrowed and his lips curled into a frown.  Na’amah, who still wanted to gain his trust and confidence so that she could destroy him—despite her father’s words; she didn’t believe that Sappharon wasn’t simply trying to keep the peace—stepped toward him, laid her head upon his knee and turned her eyes up to him after giving him what she hoped was—for a dog—an understanding sigh.

            “Why would my father issue such conflicting orders to Michael?”  Ishitar asked her as he laid his hand between her ears and began to rub her there.  “Why would he set Michael up to fail?”  He sighed.  “Zadkiel has always told me that Noliminan is unforgiving.”  He smiled tightly.  “Didn’t I see that for myself when I applied salves to Zadkiel’s back?”  She whined again.  She hadn’t heard that story.  “But Michael is one of the two most loyal to Noliminan of the entire Quorum.  He has never in his life acted against Noliminan’s orders that I am aware of.”

            What was Na’amah to do but whine at this sentiment?  So she did.

            “Why would he punish Michael for doing exactly what he had been told to do?”  Ishitar shook his head.  “Why would he want to put Michael—obedient, loyal Michael—in his place?  He already knows his place!  This makes no sense.”

            Na’amah, who agreed with that sentiment, whined again.

            “Hush.”  He replied, though he was smiling down at her, his eyes full of his love for her.  “I’m getting one of my damned headaches.”  He raised his thumb and index finger to his nose to rub the bridge of it, almost as if to make the point.  “Michael will be okay.  He’ll find the perfect angel to serve him; to help him.  And he’ll be okay.”

            Na’amah, knowing that making Ishitar’s headache worse would anger him, licked his hand and then fell still.  He snorted at that and rubbed her head again.

            “I miss Zadkiel.”  He muttered under his breath.  “He would tell me why Michael was in trouble.”  Na’amah raised her gaze to meet his.  “Don’t look at me that way.” He smiled.  “He would.  He was a good father.”  He laughed then and shook his head.  “A good brother, I should mean.”

            Na’amah, who didn’t know how to respond to that, barked.

            “I wish that I could see him.”  Ishitar muttered.  “I wish that I could talk to him.”  Another chuckle; another shake of the head.  “But, as I told Zuko, if I went to visit him then he would be punished.  I couldn’t bear the responsibility of causing him more woe in his life than I already have.”

            Na’amah barked again.  She didn’t understand Ishitar’s complete adherence to the rules.  If he wanted to visit Zadkiel, then why in the name of the Thirty Hells didn’t he visit Zadkiel?  If he loved Ishitar as much as Ishitar seemed to think that he did, then Zadkiel wouldn’t care if he were punished for Ishitar’s visit.

            Rather, from what she had overheard Ishitar say about Zadkiel, he would face them with pride.

            Ishitar laughed.  “Stop it!  I told you that I’m getting a headache!”

            To this she did a combo whine bark.  And that made him laugh all the more.

            “Alright.”  He said, standing.  “You’re hungry.”  And then with a shake of his head.  “And from what I understand, Aiken has another body in the cooling cupboard.  This time a talking monkey—as he and Loki so glibly call the humans—I think.”  He laughed again as his nose curled in distaste.  Both at Aiken’s ability to eat the meat from the bodies of the mortals and from Loki and Aiken’s name for the humans.  Which, he knew, was also his mother’s name for the humans.  “I don’t get his taste for it.”  He leaned down and rubbed her head.  “Or yours.”  Then with another laugh.  “But I’m not a fairy.  Am I?”  His smile grew.  Na’amah found herself puzzled by her covetous feelings for that smile given that she wished to destroy him.  “Nor a dog!  So eat what you will.  And I shall broker no judgment upon you.”

            Na’amah had no other response than to whine her agreement.

-5-

           

            Some four days after learning about what had taken place with Michael through Raphael, Metatron found himself glaring at the plate before him long after the three Gods that had been sitting at the table next to him had taken their leave.  He wasn’t one to eavesdrop.   But these three Gods had been boasting so loudly about their request to Lady Raguel to raise a vote to return the angels and demons to their original hermaphrodite state that his attempts to ignore them were utterly in vain.

            Listening to them, the anger in his soul began to brew. 

            Metatron had been one of the few of his brothers who had not fully believed in Lord Lucias’ cause.  He understood the issues raised and that his father was trying to make life better for the likes of him.  Yet he had seen enough in his overly long life to understand why Lord Noliminan needed the angels and demons to be obedient.  That rouge demon of Aiken’s had been evidence enough of Lord Noliminan’s reasoning if nothing else had ever been.  He had convinced nearly the full court of angels and demons—not to mention an addition six hundred and eighty two of the angels and demons who served in the various kitchens and washrooms—to join his cause when the last issue that Lords Noliminan and Lucias had agreed upon had been overturned. 

            But Lord Noliminan’s order that he strip Zadkiel’s back of its skin to punish him for wanting to protect Ishitar had pushed Metatron’s contemplation of what was right and what was wrong to its limits.

            Followed close on its heels with Raphael’s visit, in which Raphael handed Metatron Michael’s sword and explained to Metatron in a moment of anger the conflicting orders that Michael had been given. 

Michael, who, like Metatron, rarely ever took a step out of line.            

            And, now, this . . .

            Swallowing his anger, Metatron stood.  He’d lost all appetite for lunch. 

            He decided, as he began storming through the Courtyard, that what he really needed to quell his anger was to see his father’s face.  Not to talk to him.  That would be against the law and would only serve to get them both in trouble.  Just to see him.

 And, as it so happened, Metatron knew, at that particular moment in time, exactly where to find him.

            It was commonly known that Lord Lucias still held meetings with the Gods, angels and demons that served Lord Noliminan in order to gain a broader scope of support.  The meetings were always held on the afternoon of the day following the full moon.  The meeting would be in full swing by now, which would afford Metatron the opportunity to slip in without being noticed.

            Metatron stopped at his small cottage and donned a cloak that would cover him from head to toe—being made of flames, Metatron was bright and difficult to overlook when not hidden beneath his cowl—and then made his way to the large structure where rumor held that these meetings took place.    

            As he slipped within, Metatron was relieved to find the place both crowded and dark.  The angels and demons here were those that were both in service to the Gods and those that worked the kitchens, wash rooms and brothels.  As for the Gods, though there were less of them, they ranged in all functions from critical members of the Council to secondary replacements, those waiting for an assignment, apprentices and, even in some cases, the very young. 

            The overwhelming smell of their anger was palpable.  It gave rise to a stink that Metatron immediately associated with the sweat of a hard battle.  These people—these desperate, angry people—were on the verge of exploding. 

As Metatron looked around the room, he realized that not a one of them were sitting in their seats.  In fact, Metatron marked, many were so caught up in Lord Lucias’ rally that they were actually standing on their chairs!

            As for Lord Lucias, Metatron couldn’t even hear his father’s voice over the roar of the crowd. 

            Curious as to what his father was saying that would evoke such angry passion, Metatron literally fought his way through the crowd in the shadows at the side of the hall until he was close to the makeshift stage.  As his eyes fell upon his father’s face, he was forced to bite back a small cry of regretful sorrow and to force his feet to stay his where they were rather than to run up to him to sweep him into a long overdue embrace.

            Now that Metatron could hear his father, he realized that Lord Lucias was literally screaming at the crowd.  His voice was heavy with his passion and his face was stern in its offense. 

And his words . . .

They were eloquent and to the point, sweeping even Metatron into unwanted anger until, half way through Lord Lucias’ pretty speech, Metatron realized that he, too, was screaming his father’s name.

            “My brothers and sisters!”  Lord Lucias cried, “Now is the time to denounce the atrocities that the Council would thrust upon you!  Will you let a small handful of Gods decry the sacrifices that we all have made?  Would you let them betray those children brave enough to join us in our cause, those too loyal to you to put you at risk or those too frightened to find their own voices?”

            “No!” The crowd raged backed at him before their voice became a jumbled mass of words that were indistinct from one another.

            “My children!”  He cried, “My sons!”  Here he pounded upon his chest.  “The very Quorum who serve and protect you in all things that they do!  Are we to have no say over the fate of them?!  Noliminan would take away their masculinity for the simple joy of putting me in my place.  I will not sit idly by and let them be disfigured!”

            The crowd began screaming at him, each of them calling out the name of their favorite archangel.  Metatron, standing amongst them was stunned to find himself crying out on behalf of poor, dear Zadkiel.  And for poor, loyal Michael.

            “They have always supported us!”  Lord Lucias screamed at the crowd.  “They have always sacrificed their own happiness for us! Now it is our turn!  We must support them!”

             The crowd, Metatron included, howled its agreement.

            “They will never join us.”  Lord Lucias’ tone softened to a note that verged on sadness.  “They will not thank us for fighting for their rights or in their names.”  He seemed to be meeting each pair of eyes that made up his audience in turn.  “Some of them may even be forced to see to our punishments.”

            Metatron listened to the crowd screaming his and Michael’s names.

            “That does not make them love us any less.”  Lucias assured them.  “It makes them love us more!  Because they know that what we do we do for them this time!  For them,” he screamed, “and for their hundreds upon hundreds of brothers and sisters, be their wings white or black!”

            The roar of response was deafening.  Metatron’s voice, loudest amongst them, was failing him.  Yet he was helpless but to cheer his father on to the bitter end. 

            When the meeting was over, Metatron pressed himself into the shadows and watched the crowd disburse.  His father remained, talking to each and every one of the members of the audience who dared to approach him.  Metatron listened to him issue his gratitude time and again until the only three left in the auditorium were himself, Lord Lucias and the very pretty—and very pregnant—demoness that joined Lord Lucias on the stage after the rally met its conclusion.

            When they three were alone, Lord Lucias turned his eyes in Metatron’s direction and smiled.  “I was wondering when you would come to me, Metatron.”

            Metatron swallowed, reached his hands to the hood of his cowl and pushed it off of his head and onto his shoulders.  Meeting his father’s gaze, Metatron was immediately overcome with love, pride and a resounding respect that would ever thereafter shape his actions.  “Father . . . I never . . . “

            “Come here, child.”  Lord Lucias held out his hand.

            Metatron, his lips trembling, stepped toward him and took it. 

            He was immediately pulled into the warmth and safety of his father’s embrace.  He felt Lord Lucias’ lips upon his cheek and his strong hand at the back of his neck.  When Lord Lucias pulled away it was with obvious pain and reluctance. 

            “Father, I . . .” Metatron lowered his gaze, ashamed.  He should have known that his father would never turn him away or judge him for, now, standing before him.  “I know that I should have come to you sooner.”

            “You came to me when you were ready to do so.”  Lord Lucias replied.  There was no judgment in his tone.  No admonishment.  Only the love of a father for his son.  “When did you learn of the proposal?”

            “Today.”  Metatron felt the bite of his tone on his tongue.  His gaze immediately raised as indignation flooded through him.  “The Gods at the table next to me were bragging about it.  They’ve bartered enough votes to win through!”

            Lord Lucias made the funny little whistle he was so damned fond of through his teeth and then seethed, “I will not stand for it!  I ended my war with Noliminan with your sexuality being a final condition!  He has no right to—“

            “He has every right to.”  Metatron spat. 

            “Not with my sons, he does not.”  Lord Lucias stood tall and proud.  His dark brown hair seemed to catch fire in the lights from the torches that surrounded them.  “If he tries, he will have another war on his hands.”

            “Who is going to fight with you?”  Metatron asked, his hands spread.  “The benandanti have disappeared in vast numbers.  The blood of the mages is diluted by years of mortal breeding.  And the angels of the last five revolts are concerned with the protection of that Gods be damned elf from those Gods be damned vampires.”

            “You saw for yourself who will fight with me.”  Lord Lucias replied, indicating the empty hall. 

            “Second rate Gods with no vote at Council.”  Metatron replied, crossing his arms over his chest.  “And third rate angels and demons.  Servants and whores.  That’s who will fight with you.”

            “Servants and whores.”  Lord Lucias agreed.  “But angry servants and whores.”

            Metatron closed his eyes, leaned his head back and sighed.  Finally he asked, “What do you need of me?”

            “Nothing.”  Lord Lucias replied.  “For now.”  And then.  “Metatron, you do know the price that you will pay for standing by my side if you are caught?”

            Metatron opened his eyes and met his father’s gaze.  “I was forced to watch Michael defile Camael.  I, myself, was punished for something that I did not do but for which Lord Noliminan believed I had done. And just lately I was forced to whip the skin from Zadkiel’s back simply because he was trying to protect Ishitar.”  He nodded. Never mind the rest of the vile and terrible things that he had done in Lord Noliminan’s name and at Lord Noliminan’s command.   “Yes, Father.  I most definitely know the price.  But it isn’t half as great as the price my soul has already paid for all of the harm that has come at my hands to my brothers.”

             Lord Lucias’ dark eyes searched Metatron’s face.  Finally he said, “I believe you’re probably right on that count.”

            “Whipping Zadkiel was enough to tear me from my tether.”  He sighed.  “But this is the last piece of it.”  Metatron’s tone was stern to his own ears.  “I have served without complaint or compunction even when I knew from the deepest reaches of my soul that Lord Noliminan’s actions were wrong.  But this . . . ?”  He shook his head.  “I can take it no more.  Whatever may become of me, the punishments and abuse over little and less at my hand must end today.”

            Lord Lucias’ eyes were dancing over Metatron’s face.  For a long moment he said nothing.  Then, finally, “What, exactly, did Noliminan do to you for his belief that it was you that gave birth to Camael’s son?”

            Metatron shook his head.  His punishment had been that when he wasn’t serving Lord Noliminan he had been forced to stand in a small, square hole with no light but that which radiated from his own body, no food or drink and no room to sit, stretch or move. 

For more than fifteen thousand years he had lived in that hole.   From the day that Camael’s son had been discovered until the day that Camael’s son had died by his own request at Zadkiel’s hand. 

Metatron often believed that his sanity still remained there.

            “Never you mind.”  He told his father.  “Done is done.”  His eyes darted to the demoness, whose fiery eyes were drinking in every feature of his face.  He knew that he should know her—her face was familiar—but he couldn’t place her at the moment.  Besides, his father was known for trading one woman for the other when it suited him.  He forced a smile her way and then returned his attention to Lord Lucias.  “When will I hear from you?”

            “Soon.”  His father promised as he raised his hand and set it upon Metatron’s shoulder.  “If he agrees with the Council to return you to your hermaphrodite state then you will hear from me sooner than you probably care for.”