There was nothing unusual about the night. The bell at the cathedral tolled, once, softly. And the man sitting in solitude, in the front pew, retrieved the voice recorder from his pocket and replayed the audio.
"You can't trust her," said the voice. "She'll do something, I know it. Whatever you do tomorrow night, just don't trust her. Listen, I think you should involve the priest."
There was a crackle and a static hiss. He pressed the next track button. "Honestly, I have no Idea," the voice said. "But I was able to get some information about the spell. Yes, she's right—you can't be a vessel with the halo in you, you'd have to take it out. I think this is a very bad idea."
He paused it. Dragged in a deep breath.
He sat in the stillness a while; flames pirouetting in the scones and the candelabras, drapes billowing gently, clock tick-tocking.
He pressed the play button again. There was a white noise, a hiss, and then. "Yes, I understand," said the voice. "I saw Herma today; I couldn't resist going close. Sometimes that's all I want to do; I feel somehow everything would fall into place if I just show up. I'm scared, what if she freaks out? What if it all begins again?"
And then. "Listen David, taking out your halo isn't the problem. The issue according to my source is that you become vulnerable, a little less than an angel. Elris could do anything to you. You can't trust her—"
Then. "Best we have a backup plan. You should tell the priest. I know my mum, she doesn't care. People deserve a second chance, not Elris livers."
Paused. He dropped the voice recorder next to him, and brought out a journal and a pen from his chest pocket, tore out a page and wrote down something. He stopped, contemplated, cancelled it, tore out another page and wrote down. "If you find this, then something happened. I've made a mistake. Your answers are in Ezekial 28."
He read it, picked up the recorder and pressed play. "You have every reason to be worried Ducan," said a voice. "But everyone deserves a chance to make amends, and that includes your mother. I'm certain she must have lived the past years in regret. Everything will go well, trust me. All you have to do is find a way to be at the cathedral tomorrow."
He paused it. "Everything will go well," he repeated, under his voice, reassuringly, and let out a deep exhaled.
He flipped the compartment door open and slid the SD card out and placed it in the note.
A bright sheet lightning—bluish-white, flashed through the clouds outside, seeped through the sombre window, faintly, and softly illuminating part of his face.
He folded the note, glanced around the church—the empty pews, the flickering flames, the drapes billowing gently—his eyes utimately landing on the altar, on the towering figure nailed to the cross.
His gaze lingered for a moment, soft and somber—nearly begrudging.
He stood up then, dragged his feet heavily towards the altar, slipped the note beneath the pulpit then stared up at the statue—the crown of thorns biting into the sculpted brow, the serene face staring right back at him.
His stare intensified, grew fiercer and fiercer, and—
His eyes eventually lowered shut.
________________________________________________
The Fogs were drifting along the spires and barbed wire on the walls outside, gliding lazily about the open field and the surroundings. It was dead quiet, aside the howling wind and the ominous low guttural cry of a big black bird. It flew from the bell tower and landed on the roof of the cathedral, and adjusted its wings.
A bright headlight shone and spilled through the bars of the gates, piercing through the fog, and falling on the walls of the cathedral's Imposing facade. Engine sputtered and tires crunched over granites as the car jerked to a halt, puffing out a burst of smoke from its exhaust.
The woman released her grip on the steering wheel. She looked through the windshield at the cathedral ahead, then over at the seat beside her, at the knife which rested on a leather-bound, medium-Bible sized grimoire which rested on the seat.
"You sure you want to do this?" asked a man's voice from behind. He was silhouetted in the dark with a figure leaning on his shoulders. She grabbed the knife and the grimoire.
"We ought to go in together."
"No," she said. "You stay right here. Stick to the plan."
"And what If he doesn't? What If he takes you unaware?"
She hesitated, but hardly gave it a thought then said. "If that happens, I'll think of something. But now, you stick to the plan. Stay here and guide the golem."
She pushed the door opened and alighted. "I should be out in thirty minutes," she said to the man in the back, through the window.
She proceeded to the gate, loosen the chains which held it; the chains clanked and clanged and rattled, and finally, thumped as she dumped them to the ground.
She pushed the gate opened with a loud, ear-splitting squeak. And she entered.
The man's head jolted out the window. He watched concernedly as she made her way towards the cathedral. Midway in her journey— a considerable distance from the gate—he thrust the door open, stepped down, and shut it back with a slam.
He rested against the car and lit a cigarette.
________________________________________________
His eyes were still shut.
The door to the cathedral grated inward, a little. The woman came in through the small opening, squeezing herself through, and, immediately, shutting it behind her.
She stopped, scanned around the pews and every corner cautiously—her eyes landing on the man standing before the altar.
She started towards him, walking down the aisles, heels echoing off the floor, and stopped beside him, few inches away.
She shut her eyes, muttered a prayer, then made the sign of the cross—then, opened her eyes and turned to him. "I'm sorry for keeping you waiting," she said. "Got caught up in a task."
His eyes opened.
"Herma was having a hard time falling asleep."
"Is she okay?" he asked.
"She's fine, I just didn't want her asking me questions."
The man observed her, then, calmly. "You came with the book?"
There was a deafening silence; she leered at him. She was six inches shorter, and looked much older. Her hair was shiny black and it fell down in curls and the dark circle under her eyes were evident despite the eyeliner.
"You are with it, aren't you?" he asked.
She slipped her hand into her voluminous coat, brought out the book and handed it to him.
He collected it, flipped through the pages. "Which spell was it?"
"I don't want this," she said, calmly. "I don't think it's fair, what you are doing. Duke is dead."
"He is alive," said the Man.
"It doesn't matter. We had a burial for him, think about that—think about our lives. We are finally starting to move on."
"His wife doesn't look like she's moving on."
"She will, I assure you. The moment she learns to love again, she'll move on."
He stopped flipping on a page, the title proudly proclaimed 'Ritus Memoria Alternandae' There was a drawing of two skulls, and above the skulls, two brains, and in between them, a dotted curved arrow drawn from the left one to the right one.
At the bottom, left corner, was written in a fine handwriting, different from the writing in which the spell itself had been written: By the laws of the mind: Memories remain eternal, forgotten but never erased. To rewrite what was, the memory must be lifted and bestowed upon another.
"This's the one, isn't it?" he asked.
She gave it a glance and nodded hesitantly.
He re-read it, this time, the spell. "We'd have to wait. We'll begin once Ducan arrives."
There was a moment of silence; she gave him a nearly inquiring and distrusting stare, then, she said. "It's a show, isn't it? All of this. You know what happens if Ducan shows up. You know he won't want to see my face, that's what you want, is it not?"
She scoffed. "Had you wanted to help, you would have done the necessary before now. You know such spells don't work on your kind, yet—"
He glared at her. "What? Have I said something wrong?" she asked. "Tell me, is this about the elections? Is that why you are doing all this?"
"I don't need to take out my halo," he said. "The spell should work just fine on me. I haven't been an angel for the past 6000 years, I remember nothing about that life."
"That's not how this works," she said. "The spell doesn't work on angels because they are angels or not, but because they carry an essence of the divine light—your halo. And so long it is in you, everything—all of this—getting Duke here is for a show, it is useless. No ritual will take place, you'll only land him in more trouble."
His gaze softened, and he took a good look at her hardened face. He shut his eyes, and when he reopened them, they blazed golden and otherworldly.
There was a hum—a vibration at exactly 20Hz, and a bright light simmered from a large ring above his head, outshining ever other light.
She held in her breath and started to back away slowly, slowly.
His hand reached out to grab the ring, and the light in his eyes dimmed and returned to their normal state.
"Done," he said. She stared at him in complete disbelief, a bit awed, and managed a shameful nod.
"The book," she requested.
He handed it to her, then spun to place his halo on the altar. "Why are you doing this?" she asked, curiously. "what's your reason? If I hadn't known better, I'd say you love Helena."
"I do," he said. "She's worthy of love."
She closed the book and inserted her hands into her coat. "But it's not just for her," he continued, his words sounded, reassuringly personal, and his grip around his halo tightened.
He kept it on the altar. "It's about a child who needs her father…" He turned to her and, before he could let out the next word, she plunged a knife into his chest.
His breath hitched, and his eyes widen—veins on the temple visibly bulging out as he struggled to take in the shock. She pulled the knife out and sent it back in, deeper, further in.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I can't allow you ruin our lives with your meddling. Duke is dead, gone and buried. And even if he wasn't , it's best he remains wherever he is."
His hand shakily found its way to the hilt of the knife, wrapped around it, as he crumbled gradually, strength and life ebbing away. He collapsed to the ground.
There was a low grumbling and rumbling and, lighting flashed, struck the window, shattering the glass to the ground. The wind blew in angrily, sending the drapes flying and knocking the lights out, plunging the entire cathedral in darkness, saved for the glow from the halo.
The door was pushed open.
"It's been over thirty minutes," said the man. "Everything okay?" He was carrying a lifeless being, its head resting on his shoulder, and his arms wrapped around its waist.
"Come on," said the woman. "I need your help."
She pulled the knife out and wiped the blood off it on her coat. "Drop that on the pew."
The man obeyed. His eyes moved around the scene, the glowing large ring on the altar, the body lying in the pool of blood. He stared, stunned.
"Yes, they bleed," the woman said.
"Take him to the car."The man lifted the body and rested its weight on his shoulder. And, in the same positioned he had brought in the lifeless being, led him towards the door, stopped, turned and said, "You should hurry up. I'm not certain, but I might have seen someone lurking about."
"Alright," she said, then. "Thanks."
And he continued his journey down and they exited the church.
The woman glanced around, taking in the state of the church, the pool of blood, which gathered on the nave and ran in drop down the aisles.
Her gaze settled on the lifeless being on the front pew. It looked just like him. The exact, brown eyes, perfect hairline, chiseled jawline, unique face, which somehow, unexplainably carried a contrasting beauty—cold and warmth, anger and hope, peace and war, love and hate.
She grabbed it, effortlessly raised it up, jerked it to the ground, picked it back up—half the face covered in blood. She pressed the part that wasn't covered in blood against the halo and it smeared and fried and burned, sizzling and emitting smoke.
She dragged it then, towards the window and, pressed its face against the broken glass, sat it up right on the front pew.
She stepped back and observed her handiwork. It was perfect. Excellent. It looked like he had been in an unfortunate accident.
Her eyes fell on the blood, and she paused, quickly took off her coat, and wiped the floor clean—the pool and the drop, sparing some drop.
She lifted the being once again, and dropped him on floor, positioning his body in quite an unnatural manner.
With the coat, the part stained largely of blood, she lifted the halo from the altar, wrapped it in, in a way that prevented it from touching all other parts unstained.
Then, she made her way out of the cathedral.
The night, when she stepped into the vestibule, was far colder than it had been before, darker and quieter. There were noises of crickets and insects. The fogs had died down.
The bird observed from the roof of the cathedral as she scurried towards the gate, and out the gate, as she struggled to chain the gate, and as she successfully did it, and as she entered into the car.
She banged the door shut.She threw the coat, along the knife and the grimoire on the front passenger seat, took a deep breath and then darted behind.
"He's still breathing," said the man.
"Yeah," she replied. "I didn't think it'd be easy to kill him." She pressed in the key and the engine roared to life.
The tires rolled back, tilted, reversed—and the car glided down the road, slowly and gradually picking up speed.
______________________________________________
The bird had witness it all. It made a Kree Kree noise then fluffed and unfurled its wings—and landed to the ground, stretching and becoming a man. A hunched back and bald man. He looked around and then, "Well," it said. "That was fun to watch, wasn't it?"
In the dark, In-between the trees, the young man's hand curled into a fist.