Wings that Guard Me

Chapter 2 Raphael

"Raphael get your miserable hide over here." I look up at the sound of the harsh, scratchy voice of Lucifer calling me. With one beat of my wings I'm at his side. I close my wings before landing and drop onto one knee, enjoying the stinging pain as my legs make contact with hard and scorching ground.

"Master, you called?" I say to the sooty ground. "Stand up and pay attention!" I stand at the loud, scratchy command. "I have a job for you. The righteous have recruited a new guardian. One who doesn't play by the same ancient ways. A revolutionary. An independent think on their side could spell bad news for our cause."

I wait patiently, knowing he won't have me speak until he's finished. "You have proven that you can handle more than one righteous in a fight. You have the sharpest wit of all my nasty little followers. I have full confidence that you can handle this independent thinker. But if you fail me the consequences will be beyond severe."

I nod my understanding. "Take as long as you need, days, months, years even if you must. But make sure they do not threaten our cause. I don't have any more details to help you get started. But if you are as good as your reputation says then you don't need any of that."

"What is the name of this righteous?" I ask curtly, trying my hardest not to let his short temper think I'm being disrespectful. "Seraph," he spits the name live venom. And I know he is much worse than any venom. With a short, quick hiss I'm dismissed from his presence to make my preparations.

I fly away from him but land once I'm a safe enough distance away. It's dangerous to fly too much down here. The air is acidic and hotter than smoke from any normal fire, the ground is burning rock and painfully cold icy rock. Rivers and lakes of lava and acid are common. I walk carefully, testing every step because the ground likes to cave into pits that go on forever. I'm cautious though I'm taking the oldest route to my cave.

All of us darklings live in caves, there are no recourses at all so there is no chance for building shelter. Every time one of us leaves our cave we know there is a chance that it will not be there when we return. And the weather is as temperamental as our leader. Leaving this pit, even if it's for a mission, will be like a pleasure cruise. Those pitiful humans have no idea what Hell is really like, they have no idea how good they have it.

I make it to my cave in one piece, only a few cuts and burns that still throb in dull pain. I ignore it though and grab my only bag, which I keep packed at all times, that contains what few belongings I own.

I stop at a wide river before starting my journey. I look at my warped reflection. My tousled black hair that hangs over my eerily mismatched eyes. My tanned skin from the harsh conditions I live in. The crisscrossing of scars on every inch of visible skin. And the dark lines of the tattoos I had acquired over my several missions. To any human I would look merely attractive, sometimes even intensely so, the curse of an angel. But to the darklings here I am desired after by almost all, and it sickens me. My scars and tattoos are like trophies to them, symbols of my power. But I'm disgusted with my own appearance. That's part of what makes me so good at my job, I am unaffected by pain and disgusted by vanity. That is why I am one of the darkest of the darklings, some even call me a demon.