Flash Points

03 - Mortal Love

Broken and defeated, he lay listening to the approaching footsteps and wished for the strength to turn his head for one last glimpse of that which he had guarded for so many countless millennia. How ironic that while he had fulfilled his duties and let none escape those black and twisted gates, he should instead have fallen to one seeking a way inside.

The footsteps stopped by his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the gleam of a sword. Looking up, he met the eyes of the man who would challenge the Gates of Hell and braced himself for the fatal stroke. But the man seemed to be in no hurry, and finally, unable to bear the tension, he said, "Kill me and be done."

For a moment the man looked startled, but instead of raising his blade, he planted it into the charred earth and lowered himself with a grunt; their battle had not left him unscathed. "You are already dying," he replied, and there was a note of almost-sadness in his voice.

It was true. He could feel ichor draining from his body. As the seconds trickled by, he wondered what drove this man who sat quietly beside him as he died, and then it occurred to him that this might be his one chance to find out.

"Why?" he asked. "Why dost thou do this?" One hand rose in a feeble wave that encompassed their surroundings -- the desolate, blasted landscape; the Gates rising like harbingers of doom somewhere beyond his sight.

The man regarded him in silence, before turning to gaze off into the distance. "Because I must."

It was, as so many things were with mortals, incomprehensible. He must have made some sound, a disbelieving snort or perhaps a laugh that was not a laugh, because the man shot him a quick glance, a shadow of a frown on his brow. He did not seem angry, however; merely anxious, as if it mattered to him that he should be understood. After a thoughtful pause, he spoke again.

"Once upon a time, I too served the One God. I defended his temple, worshipped his name, and slew his enemies. I walked in the righteous light of his love and was happy..."

"What happened?" he could not help asking, when the man's voice trailed off.

"I fell in love." A glint of self-deprecating humor lit the man's eyes and was gone. "It sounds silly, doesn't it? And yet it's true. She was brave and beautiful and a princess of her people, but her people were pagans. And though our priest converted her after her capture, yet she never truly gave up the Old Ways. When others of my Order discovered our blasphemy, they stripped me of my titles and privileges, but her... her they burned for heresy. I could hear her screams from my cell." He shuddered before mastering himself. A deep, steadying breath. "And hence my journey here. I will not have her endure eternity in such agony."

Shocked comprehension flashed through him. "Thou thinkest to rescue her from her fate? A condemned soul?"

"Yes." Simply, without hesitation.

"Thou art mad," he said with conviction.

"So I've been told."

"Knowst thou what lies beyond the Gates?"

"Eternal damnation. Tortures I cannot imagine. Suffering without the mercy of either death or madness. Even so." The man's eyes held nothing but bleak determination. "I would challenge the devil and all his minions, the heavens and all their hosts, merely for the chance to try."

"Thou wilt die, and thy soul will be sent to the Lake of Fire."

There was a terrible gentleness in the man's smile. "I know."

Speechless and confused, he stared up at the man -- at the harsh lines of his face, the grief that sat on his shoulders like a tattered cloak -- and thought about a love so strong as to defy destiny and to dare the Gates of Hell and the wrath of the One God alike.

He had believed he knew all there was to know about love. Had he not, after all, been formed of the Lord's will, shaped and crafted with perfect purpose? And yet... this was not divine love. This was not the pure, immaculate emotion that he had known since his creation.

This was mortal love -- the love of one soul for another -- messy and tangled and fraught with pain and uncertainty. And in some fashion he could not explain, glorious in its own way. For the first time in his existence, he wished he understood it -- the bright, deadly fire that burned so fiercely in this man's soul, that consumed more ravenously the tighter it was embraced.

The light brush of fingers on his cheek surprised him. The man looked embarrassed but did not drop his eyes. "Why do you weep? Are you in pain?"

"No," he said automatically. Then, "Yes, perhaps. I know not."

"Is there aught I can do?"

"Couldst stop time?" he asked, smiling. "Couldst linger and speak to me of thy love?"

"No," the man admitted, and fell silent.

"Wilt tell me thy name?"

"Alaric," the man said.

"Ramriel."

"He who guards Hell's Gates," the man -- Alaric -- murmured. "I am sorry."

"I fault thee not. Dost thou hold thy hand now, thou knowest I will bar thy return."

To that the man had no answer, but merely bowed his head. Pushing himself up until he knelt, he pressed a kiss upon the angelic brow. "When... When I face the final judgment, I think it will comfort me to know that in the end, we were not wholly enemies."

He smiled through his tears. "I hope thou findest what thou art seeking. May the fire in thy soul ever rival the hottest flames of the Pit."

Alaric nodded, stood, pulled his sword from the ground, and saluted.

The bright, shining blade formed a dazzling arc as it swung down.

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Word count: 996