Fallen Pride - 1. Chapter 1

Kiorl heard the tone of the muttering outside his room, if not the actual words, and then someone thumped unceremoniously on his door. The panther sighed, and uncurled himself from his deep tweed and leather sofa jumbled with furs. After the last time Kiaza had teased him about his decorating, the demon had decided it was time to abandon his Ottoman era furnishings, and had become enticed by the Danish idea of Hygge. He wrapped the thick knit and rabbit fur throw around his shoulders and opened the door with a wave.

To his surprise Zai stood in the doorway, looking fractious, but it wasn’t Tobias with him, but Atoki.

“Yes?” Kiorl couldn’t keep the querying tone out of his voice. Something which needed the attention both his bloodsucking friend and the mate of a Son of Ifrit was unlikely to be good.

“We need another bathroom,” Zai spat.

“Sorry?” It was not quite what Kiorl had been expecting to hear.

“He’s right,” Atoki folded his arms over his narrow chest, “the situation had become rather untenable.”

“Kiorl?” Zai, impatient as ever, was pacing in his room, his claws snagging on the thick shagpile rug Kiorl was always very careful not to destroy. The major demon shot him a look, and Zai muttered, but ceased his motion.

“We’ve managed perfectly well with only one bathroom for the last two centuries, why is it we need another one now?”

“Because Kiaza and Jen are always in there.” Atoki looked unhappy even as he said the words, and Kiorl got the impression it wasn’t just their presence he minded.

“Seriously Kiorl, I’m as accepting as anyone here, but there is only a certain length of time I will go without a shower. I hate having matted fur.”

“You should stop letting Tobias bleed all over you then,” Kiorl quipped.

“You want me to get him to feed you kitty-kibble?”

“Point taken.” Kiorl sighed, “it surely can’t be all that bad?”

“You get to wash at the Palace,” Atoki replied. “They have been fucking in the shower for an entire week. It’s like they breathe water or something.” The human ran a hand through his blond hair and grimaced, “And I would really like a bath.”

“I’ll speak to them.”

“Why can’t we just have another bathroom. You or Kiaza could magic one up in two minutes.”

“It’s not quite as easy as saying it. We’ll have to put in a requisition for resources at the palace.”

“Why?” Atoki frowned.

“I’m assuming you want running water in this new bathroom?” Kiorl snapped. He stopped himself and took a breath: Atoki had been with them long enough to be part of the furniture, but his stay could still be measured in double digits, there was a lot about the inner circle of hell he didn’t know. “Water is a precious resource down here, unlike lava, it’s not limitless. If it was, we’d all have en suites, and I’d never have to walk in on you and Vruuaska doing… that.”

“Hey!”

“Don’t remind me,” Zai groaned good naturedly, “I mean I’m twisted as a corkscrew, but even I don’t go in for the feral thing.”

Atoki flashed them both a smug smile, a wicked look in his eyes.

“You don’t know what you’re missing.”

Zai made a retching noise, but Kiorl just shook his head. He’d changed his hairstyle along with his décor, and the blue streaked mohawk was gone, replaced by a complicated layered braid which fell over his shoulder and ended just past his sternum. He’d gone back to black too.

“I’ll go the relevant department and deal with it. We’ll see what we can do, eh?”

“Thanks Kiorl,” Zai rolled his shoulders, “now Imma go throw that fuckin’ snake outta the bathroom.”

“Oh this I have to see,” Atoki jogged along the corridor after him, and Kiorl closed his door manually, rather than watch them go.

Moments later, there was the sound of things breaking, but Kiorl decided he didn’t care, and instead used a sliver of magic to power a music box he’d brought back from Upstairs on his last visit, and let the chords of a classical orchestra play through his room. He’d kept it a secret from his house mates, because if Jem or Atoki found out they could have music, Kiorl knew there would never be an end to the clashing tastes of the people he lived with. Plus it would always be his or Kiaza’s job to power the damn thing. Unlike the lights, which kept themselves powered and maintained, electrical devices needed regular and controlled surges of power, and a special kind of touch so they didn’t explode. It had taken Kiorl a few attempts to work that one out.

The panther went back to his sofa and curled up in his nest of furs. He was considering summoning a book from Jahke’s extensive collection, but a voice in his head stopped him.

Indulging in guilty habits are we?

Nassau, the bastard always knew when he was unhappy, and for some reason over the last few years, had made it his business to try and improve his oldest friend’s mood. Kiorl hated no matter how hard he tried, he never seemed to be able to shield his mind from the most powerful empath in hell.

Go away Nas. Kiorl made the thought into words, assuming Nassau was still eavesdropping on him. He hated too that he wouldn’t be able to hear the Prince unless Nassau decided to speak. If he concentrated very hard, he could feel the presence of the empath in his head, but he couldn’t do anything about it. Nassau was too skilled, and whereas Kiorl could shut Tobias or Zai out, and could tell they were there far easier, Kiorl had always had a weak spot where his oldest friend was concerned.

Talk to me Kiorl. It’s not good for you to be lonely.

That’s rich coming from you.

There was a long silence.

Fine, came the terse reply. Another pause. Wanna go Upstairs and get drunk?

Kiorl grinned.

*

Pain.

Lahja couldn’t see anything, but pain ripped itself through him. His mind tore at his consciousness, trying to find a way to escape as another wave coursed through him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t find the safety of the choir song or the light which should have been all around him. There was nothing but pain. Pain unlike anything he’d ever known, pain which required nerve endings and synapses he didn’t own, pain threating to push his mind to the very edge of sanity. Some part of his mind which was not subject to his will opened himself up, and suddenly the pain was subsiding. Lahja turned his mind to the action, and watched as his subconscious repeated the motion. As the pain faded, he became aware of a sensation outside his mind, something which was as impossible as the lack of light, and Lahja realised he was breathing.

Breathing.

Which meant a body. An actual body.

Lahja’s mind roamed around the space it occupied, and found it far from limitless. He wasn’t where he’d been moments ago. He was in a body.

Who’s body?

There was no answer from the darkness around him. There was no one else there. Lahja tried to recall what he’d learnt from angels who’d worn bodies down on earth, and remembered he was no longer going to be able to see with his mind. He searched around for his eyes, and opened them.

Pain hit him like a fist in the face, and Lahja snapped his eyes shut again from the sensation. Brightness and colour and warmth flooded brand new senses, and Lahja couldn’t process it all. There weren’t colours like that in heaven. He let the body take a few more breaths, trying not the think about the overwhelming amount of information being sent to him from his nose, and tried to open his eyes again, but less. It wasn’t so bad this time, but everything was out of focus and dim. After a while, he began to think about what he saw, and objects became solid in his vision.

The ground, stretching away from him, an uneven plane of gravel and sand, all of it black. A rock, a hunk of something shiny and dark, sitting in the foreground like someone had just left it there and wandered off. Fire. Lots and lots of fire.

Lahja had heard of fire, it was in all the Scriptures, but he’d never seen it, didn’t expect it to be so bright, or move so much, and was aware when just looking at it began to sting his eyes. Water rolled down from his eyes, and Lahja lifted hands to wipe his face. The contact of skin on skin made his mind leap back from the sensation, but there was nowhere to go, and Lahja realised his mind couldn’t separate from the body he was in. He was tethered there. Even as he thought about the hands, they appeared in his vision. Pale and clean, with fingers and joints and tiny patterns in what Lahja supposed was his new skin. Lahja looked down at the body.

He was naked.

Of course, like Adam and Eve in the garden. Our Lord made humans perfect. Lahja smiled to himself, remembering words he’d never been without. The Scriptures were as indelible to him as his name. As he looked at himself, as pale as his new hands, a human body perfect in every detail, he felt something twisting and turning in the back of his mind. Lahja barely had time to examine the thing before he felt it.

An emotion.

Suddenly Lahja remembered why Adam and Eve had stopped being naked, why now humans covered themselves in cloth, why being nude was sinful. A completely different type of pain was flooding through him, and now his eyes stung again but without having anything to do with the fire.

This is what they call shame. The knowledge made Lahja cry all the harder, and then he found he couldn’t stop. The pain came again, until Lahja realised he was no longer breathing, and for a time he was trapped in the cycle of shame-pain and body-pain until something else prodded, quite literally, at his consciousness.

He was uncomfortable.

It was a shock, as much as everything had already been. The body, lying on the stony ground, was demanding things of him. His hands weren’t touching anything, but Lahja found other parts of the body, all other parts, as was rapidly transpiring in his mind, could feel things. With some trepidation, Lahja allowed the body to move it what he hoped was considered a natural way, and sat up. He shifted his feet underneath himself, braced one hand on the ground, and tried to stand. He fell forwards and his other hand and chest scraped the ground.

“Ow!”

The noise was inside his skull, but he heard it outside himself too. Lahja tried to look around his mind for someone else, but there as no one there, only his own will, tied to the body. His body had come with a voice.

“Ow.” He tried again as he sat up once more.

A voice. An actual voice. Lahja replayed the sound in his mind. Why would I need a voice to worship Our Lord?

Another thought, unbidden, came to the forefront of his mind.

I wonder what my name sounds like.

“Lahja.” It was overwhelming, a cacophony of noise. Even as the two syllables faded from his lips, Lahja could feel the brain scrambling around, working out what it’d heard. Next time, he was ready. “Lahja,” he said, and felt the shape of the word, heard his voice through his own ears, and heard his name for the very first time. “Lahja.”

Lahja felt something strange happening to his face, and reached up a hand to touch the skin again. His mouth was making a shape he knew from watching humans down below. He was smiling. Just as he was about to try out his name again, he became aware there were figures approaching him across the black and fiery landscape. Lahja knew his Scriptures, knew of the war in heaven long ago, and knew without being told, that the figures walking towards him were demons.

He opened his mouth, and screamed.

*

“Who is that?”

“And what is he doing so far out here at the flames?” Shax regarded his companion with an arched eyebrow. “Fuck, make him shut up will you?”

His partner on patrol made Shax seemed small by comparison, and the demon watched his minotaur shaped friend stride towards the naked human. He reached down to grab him, and the boy promptly fainted.

“What did you do?”

“Nothin’,” Graccas turned to the small demon, “I haven’t even touched him yet.”

“What do you think we should do with him?” Shax reached up and rubbed one of his highly polished bison horns as he thought. There was the vague, extremely unlikely possibility that the boy had broken in from the crop circles, though what a human would be doing out there was anyone’s guess. But if he’d come through the flames, he’d have been at least a bit filthy, even if some magic or other could keep him protected from the heat. This young man was clean and pale and pinkish. “I suppose we should take him back with us. We are on patrol after all.”

“You can carry him then.”

“What?” Shax glared at the minotaur, “You wanna watch me struggle?”

“Yes.” The bigger demon smirked, “really I can’t wait to be rid of you.”

“Jerk.” Shax hated how long it had been since he’d been Upstairs. He was out of barter items, and various people he supplied were getting aggravated. Shax would never admit it out loud, but several of his regular clients terrified him, particularly the big naga Inai who always seemed to be on the verge of wanting to eat him anyway. “Fine.”

He walked up the unconscious young man on the ground and bent, intending to pull him up and over his shoulder where he would be as easy to carry as a fresh kill. But that didn’t happen. Shax reached out, took the boy’s wrist and his world exploded in a light so bright, he could not name it.

“What the fuck was that?” Graccas helped him up automatically, not taking his eyes from the strange human. Apart from the after images of the light burnt into his retinas, it was as though nothing had happened. Shax staggered to his feet, and stared at his hand. His normally purple-dusted black skin was bleached where he had touched the boy. As he stared, the colour began to gradually creep in at the edges until the strange pale place had faded altogether.

“I think we should go to the palace. We need to tell someone.”

“You know what it is?”

Shax remembered Iyah’s stories, traded over chess games and long drinks late at night. Iyah had always warned Shax not to touch him, just in case, and now Shax understood why. Graccas was still staring at him in confusion.

“That’s an Angel.”