Dogs of the Father: A Legion Fanfiction - Episode 1: Little Prophet

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Get up, you jackass!"

A voice filtered through the pain which permeated every inch of Gabriel's body like a noxious fog. From the high-pitched lilt, the voice sounded female, filled with contempt, but also fearful. There was something about that voice that sounded familiar, something ancient, filled with authority, a voice gifted with heavenly power.

Was she a prophet?

"I said get up!"

His arms, his legs, all blended in a painful blur. He could tell he still had a body because daggers shot through the places where his bones had shattered upon the rocks, but when he tried to explain his inability to move was not intentional, blood seeped out of his punctured lung, causing his breath to come out as a pathetic gurgle.

This didn't feel like heaven...

"Aw, shit," she said. "He didn't say nothing about you being all banged up."

He moved his mouth, but couldn't make his lungs work together with his vocal cords. All his life he had carried the word of god, but it had always been the Father's words he'd carried, never his own. Why would he need to speak when the Father's will was so magnificent? But the Prophet had ordered him to move, so he needed to move.

Pulling together every ounce of strength that he had left, he moved his arm and reached in the direction of the prophet's voice.

"Father," he whispered. Please? End my suffering. Let me come home?

"I ain't your goddamned father, asshole!"

Oh, god! He'd been sentenced to purgatory! Even death was being denied to him. With a whimper, Gabriel slid back into merciful unconsciousness.

*

The fires of hell burned through his body. His lips felt parched, and his tongue felt swollen and dry. Never in his life had he known thirst or hunger, but he felt it now, a great, big aching need. As he fought his way towards consciousness, he became aware of something pressed against his lips.

"Drink."

Drink? He didn't know how to drink. He'd never had any occasion to even try. He tried to communicate with the prophet who spoke with such authority, but no words came out of his mouth.

"You don't want to drink? Fine! I'm wasting my goddamned time!"

Her footsteps retreated as the prophet muttered in disgust. She was leaving? No! Please don't leave me to suffer in this hellhole alone! For the first time in his very long existence, Gabriel felt afraid.

"Please..." was all he was able to squeeze past his traitorous lips, little more than a hiss, before he slid back into unconsciousness.

*

Shivers wracked his body as, for the first time in his existence, he experienced what it felt like to be cold. S-s-so cold! His teeth chattered. He tried to curl up into a fetal position, whimpering as his broken body screamed in pain.

A hand touched his forehead.

"You're burning up." There was a hint of sympathy in the prophet's voice. She touched his cheek. "Gabriel, you need to drink."

A hand cradled his head and placed something hard behind his neck to hold it upright while she pressed something against his lips.

"Drink," she said. "You need to try."