Fallen

Chapter Thirty One

Cold.

That was the first thing Harper could sense. Not sound, or taste or sight. But touch. The impossibly cold feeling of stone at her back, hard and unforgiving as her body slowly came awake.

Her eyes remained closed as she returned to herself, the sensations of reality slowly creeping down her body. Methodically, she took stock of herself.

Her head felt fuzzy, as if she had drank too much alcohol. She did not have the headache that usually accompanied this, but instead the lightness that came with uninhibited freedom. Her body was stiff, and she was able to remember quickly that she had probably been lying on this horrid slab for hours. She was freezing, her skin feeling as though coated in ice, her feet bare to the elements.

In her hands, she could feel long stems. She knew she was in the mourning room, and therefore, flowers must be in her grasp. As customary, she would be here for three days.

Well, she would have been there for three days.

Slowly, she opened her eyes. The stars above her were the first things she recognized, glittering through the openings in the mourning room ceiling. The night was clear, empty of clouds, the stars so bright it was as though she were far from the city.

Her breathing was difficult, her chest heavy. She had been warned by Father Josiah that as the potion paused her life, her body would be resistant to come back to function. As her lungs filled with air, a gentle burn scorched their lining, causing her to shutter against the feeling.

Carefully, she released her grip on the flowers which lay on her chest, and let a hand fall to her side. She expected to feel the cold of the alter beneath them, but instead, and surprisingly, she felt the slick touch of liquid.

Turning with as much speed as her body would allow, Harper rolled her head to the side. When her eyes met the sight of blood, her difficult breath was stolen.

Painfully, she pushed herself up, the flowers falling like rain to the floor. Her eyes locked on the shard of stone beneath her fingers, as she slowly pulled her hand away. Looking at her fingers, she was confused as the blood slowly began to slide down them.

It was only then she noticed his form. Still and crumpled, she was not certain at first who he was. But quickly she recognized him as she would no one else, her body jolting.

"Michael?" she whispered, moving to swing her legs over the edge of her altar. Reaching down to him, she nudged him. He did not move. "Michael!"

She was on her knees then, the speed and weakness in her legs causing her to crash to the stone floor painfully. The skin of her knees tore away, opening deep abrasions, but she did not care. Quickly, she pushed at him, her efforts in turn rolling him onto his back.

Her eyes drank him in, both in relief at the sight of him, and in fear. She could not see any sign of injury or harm, and yet, there was blood on the slate shard which still sat on her bed. Reaching down, she pulled his head into her lap, her hands stroking at his hair.

"Michael?" she cried, her foggy and confused mind desperate. "Michael please wake up!"

But her pleas went unanswered. Reluctantly, she reached down, placing her fingers at his throat.

She felt nothing.

A strangled sob left her, as she felt over him weakly. Landing forward, her hand caused a small glass bottle to skitter across the floor. It was then that she figured it out.

Angels could not die by mortal hands. No weapon on Earth could end their immortality. But she remembered a lesson, long ago, of a perfume. A special mixture, almost forgotten, that would allow an Angel to die.

The panic that overtook her was harsh. She realized that her message had not reached him. That Grace had not found her letter, and Michael had never been told of Rahmiel's pardon. And when he learned of her death, he thought it true. And in turn, chose to end his own life, rather than live without her.

He was gone. Where, she did not know. She knew nothing of the afterlife, especially for the pure. But the pain that surged through her chest at the thought of carrying on, of life on Earth without him, was unbearable.

To be reborn now, would be to condemn herself to the fate she fought to escape. She would have to explain her choices, and in turn, risk Miles involvement being known. Despite his mortality, he had been granted pardon. He would be able to live without the weight of sin. But to bring him back in to her mess, would be to condemn him all over again.

She would, then, be paired with Micah. When the pain, the confusion and the accusations ended, it would be inevitable. The fate of the Fallen would be decided with or without her, and regardless of the dramatic events that had plagued the community in recent weeks. None of that changed, as none of it altered the reality she faced.

She was Fallen. And betrothed to Micah Farwell.

Her rebirth was even more damning than her death. Both were a jail, trapping her without chance of freedom or future.

She could not live like that. She would not live as a pawn in a game.

Looking down, her hands traveled over Michael's features. So stunning, even in death, he looked as Angelic as he once was.

She had known love. True, unyielding, passionate love, the likes of which she could never return from. To carry on without him, at the side of another would be blasphemy. In Harpers eyes, it would be like erasing his memory, and as though he had meant nothing.

She could not do that. She would not.

Looking around the cold room, the tears that fell in waves from her eyes blurred her vision. She could see lights beyond the door of the mourning room, the call of voices.

Someone was coming.

She knew she had to act quickly. Before being found, before they would be able to stop her, she had to make her choice. Looking down to Michael, she felt resolved.

He was her choice.

Quickly, she reached out, plucking the cold, sharp shard of stone from her altar. It felt foreign in her grasp, and her hand shook with fear. The blood in her veins, which had been slow to return to life, was quick and singing with adrenaline.

She looked down at the stone, a momentary fear. It would be painful.

Another shout beyond the door, the lights now closer, Harper moved. Leaning down, she whispered a final worship of love, before pressing her lips to his.

"I love you," she whispered. "The sins of my ancestors, the desires of my family, are no longer in my hands. I am no longer in their game. I am pure, I am yours. I leave them to their fate, as they have chosen it for themselves. As I chose mine. I choose a life with you, and a death at your side."

Grasping the stone in both her hands, she let her eyes fall to Michael. She wanted him to be the last thing she saw.

Just as a figure burst through the door, Harper plunged the shard into her chest.

She barely at the chance to register Graces shocked expression, before everything went dark.