The Reluctant Prophet

I'm Sorry Doesn't Fix It

"You disappoint me." The unmistakable voice calls to her from behind. That bone chillingly deep voice that entices you in while making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. The stench of death that can't be washed away, the sudden chill, that unmistakable feeling of impending doom that follows him. It was him unmistakably him. She could feel him there with her, that tingle the pull of two souls forever tangled together, that undeniable longing. Aurora dropped her shoulders to the ground, her eyes down, her hands bound behind her back. No matter what Alexander said she knew her status was gone, tossed aside when she left him many life times ago. She knew better then to look at him, to speak to him. "No snide comment, no pleading?" He walks close enough to her that she can hear each moment his feet hit the ground, feel the air move as his shoes brushed by her. He stops in front of her his black cloak and boats the only thing she dare to look at. Her eyes close feeling the tip of a knife slide over her shoulder and down her arm. Don't flinch echoed in her mind fully prepared for him to finish her off, only to feel the knife slip between her wrist into the rope. She immediately dropped her arms to her sides, sliding them out in front of her along the floor, palms up. This was an extremely submissive posture she learned long ago could get her out of tight spots, or at a minimum open up negotiations. Diplomacy came in many forms, for a woman being what they wanted, expected, could go a long way. She felt a quick tug at her feet knowing he had freed her ankles as well. She sighed in relief as well as to catch her breath. Her lungs and ribs still in a great deal of pain. She could feel the sutures tug with each breath, the ache in her chest, the stabbing pain down her back and through her ribcage. She could tell it was a field medic that patched her up and not one of his doctors. "As much fun as it is to see you tied like a captive animal, it is unbecoming of someone of your status." Her forehead rested on the tiles her eyes focused on a single spot at the end of her nose trying her hardest not to react, to speak, to move, yet knowing she must.

"I have no status, no title before the lord and master of darkness." She takes a deep breath knowing any moment he could end her life with a single thought. He places his knife tip beneath her chin lifting her head with the point, forcing her to look up. She drops her gaze trying not to look at him. Desperately trying to cling to the protocol she knows he is expecting. She knew all too well she had messed up. Maybe if she hadn't let herself get so close to him, it wouldn't be so hard to keep her distance now. In her mind she deserved to be punished for what she had done. "May I beg for my place with you?"

"I was unaware that I or anyone else revoked your status." She slowly sat back onto her legs, her palms resting on the tops of her thighs, every movement agony. "My dear Angel, how did we come to this."

"I am no Angel, my lord. " Every word is spoken slowly with careful consideration. "I am nothing without your consent." She ignores the trickle of blood dripping down her chin, the pressure from the blade working its way into her skin. She submitted to the pain letting the full weight of her head rest upon the tip at the mercy of the darkness.

"You are an angel, a guardian of the first order. Not just an angel, the Angel." He raises his voice taking the blade away from its resting place. The agitation at her response clear, his reaction to it uncertain.

"I am unworthy of any title." Her voice rises slightly. He kneels in front of her forcing her to look him in the eyes.

"You're slipping... Humanity does not suit you." She fought with herself, her eyes looking down fighting every urge to run. "At least I can say I was the first one to kill you." She relented looking up into his eyes very much recognizing Damien Demonte. A million scenarios ran through her head, each one worse then the next. Damien was removed as vesel why was he here, how could she not have known it was him. He made her skin crawl, the very soul she saved from the beast, the young man that ran her through with Michael's blade. How she loathed him. It was never the blade, never a flaw in the armor, it was him. The very evil that resides in him that was far beyond the ability of his soul or lack there of to contain. This was the memory she clung to, this beast that above all else was always truth, always the same, and always so very real. Demon, this to her was a term undoubtedly created from the informal form of Damien, Damon. In this moment he was just a pawn, a thing Destroyer was using to conjure up the hate he felt for her in the moment she turned on him. He was angry, understandably so. What she had done no matter the capacity was unthinkable. A thing so horrendous that it not only hurt him, but her as well.