Of Angels and Demons

Chapter Six: Oliver

Chapter Six; Oliver

Arthur’s continued sleep was by no means his choice. Nor was it particularly restful.

“Arthur,” a voice purrs. It can only be described as a purr. It sounds dark, dangerous.

Eerily familiar.

“What do you want?” Arthur snarls. This was the voice from when he was alive, the voice from the battle to protect his daughter.

The voice that had haunted him at his every turn. Every assignment. No matter where he went, or how much he drowned himself in drink or sleep between jobs. It didn’t matter how busy he kept himself.

Or how desperately he tried to run away.

But that voice, that damned voice, had never actually shown up in his dreams. It had always been a few taunting words here, a laugh there, once in a while a sarcastic comment, but always while he was conscious. And never a conversation. And even now, the voice wasn’t answering him. Just laughing, laughing, laughing…

“I said, what do you want!?”

Again, with that bloody laugh. It still turns him cold, even after all these years. That laugh, and then the sickening realization that no one had won. The slow turn, to the sight of Alice’s soul, shattered and twisted. And the anger, at Headquarters, and at the voice.

That voice had possessed the damned frog. It had made that bastard turn on him when he’d needed an ally most, though it had not fought for Headquarters either. And, after, a mixed blessing; rearranging the Demon’s memory. Making it so that Francis hadn’t begged for forgiveness, probably still thought that he’d been out scouting when Headquarters had launched a surprise attack, and been too far to hear Arthur calling him.

But Francis had been on the battlefield, laughing, but not with his own voice. With that one. Had given that last, bloodcurdling laugh as they all realized their mistake, and then stopped. Francis, on the ground in a heap, and Alice, gone past even death.

Maybe if he hadn’t stood in Headquarters way, then at least Alice’s soul would still be whole. But that didn’t matter now.  Now, all he could do was pay penance. Pay penance, and hope that time would heal his daughters wounds.

And he couldn’t blame anyone but himself, not even the bloody frog, because he knew it wasn’t the Frenchman’s fault. The voice knew Arthur’s weaknesses, knew Arthur better than Arthur knew himself (which is totally unfair, because Arthur knows next to nothing about him.) The voice knew that Arthur wouldn’t be able to stand losing both Alice and Francis. Never. Though he’d also never admit that to the French Demon. And Headquarters couldn’t have known what the result of their actions would be. If they had, they would have stopped once Arthur had made it clear that he would resist them, no matter what. They didn’t believe in waste.

“Well, then, it’s been nice ‘chatting’ with you, but if all you wanted to do was laugh at me, you can do it while I’m conscious.”

More laughter. Arthur tries to wake up, focusing on contacting his physical self, only to find a barrier.

As if it can sense his frustration, the voice begins to laugh more vigorously, guffawing as though he had just been told the funniest joke in the world.

“Bloody ecstatic that I amuse you. Really, I am. But, if you don’t mind, I’d like to wake up now.”

“Oh, but Arthur,” the voice whines, “You just got here.”

“Yes, I did,” Arthur concedes. “But I’ve seen, or, rather, heard, enough for me to know that once is more than enough for me. So, if you please, I’d like to wake up now. If you must, you can contact me while I make sure that Francis doesn’t turn that boy into a criminal mastermind.”

“Such a gentleman,” the voice taunts. It’s closer now, in his ear. As if someone were whispering a secret to him while hanging upside down. He could feel hair, cut short, maybe even in a similar style to his own, and cold lips.

“But you see, Arthur, that would simply be no fun. I’m finding that it’s much more amusing when you actually talk to me.”

Arthur bolts a few feet, to rid himself of the sensation of whatever-that-was, and turns to see… nothing.

Of course. It couldn’t ever be that easy.

But that did slightly narrow the suspect list. Whoever was tormenting him had to be invisible, capable of turning invisible, or very, very fast.

“Let me see your face, you coward.” Arthur spits, disdainful and disgusted.

Not a full laugh, this time. A chuckle. “Oh… Very well.”

A face flickers in. Arthur catches a few glimpses. A shock of strawberry-blond hair. Blue eyes, ringed with pink. And the unsettling feeling of looking into a funhouse mirror.

Then he’s looking into Francis’s face, the frogs arms behind his back, just below his wing joints, and beneath his knees.

He closes his eyes again quickly. Damn it, but he’s tired. More tired than he’s ever been before, even when he was alive. Tired, not just of a long life of service, but of everything else, too. Tired of existence. Tired of guilt. But more than that, he was just plain exhausted.

He manages to hear snippets of a conversation, something about not getting lost, before falling into a mercifully dreamless sleep.