Character Study: Sascha Armenaud

What Sascha Armenaud lacked in stature, she more than made up for in charm.

It arose from a combination of elements; at five-nothing and a hundred nothing, her clear blue eyes and dimples bespoke innocence and lent her smile a staggering impact. Her smile was common in company- no one who knew her personally could recall her ever looking anything but quietly upbeat.

She wore her hair in a long, simple tail. Its coloration was anything but: a perfect spectrum, replicating the style of a favorite cartoon character whose image was worn on the strap of her olive drab messenger bag in the form of a homemade pin. When asked how she managed such a ludicrous tonsorial feat, she would answer, “Very carefully.”

On the day of her ascension, Sascha was roaming Boston in her normal manner, sketchpad tucked under one arm and camera hanging from her shoulder. She stopped every so often to exchange pleasantries with some of the city's homeless element, trading genuinely interested conversation for tidbits of information. Which alleyways should I avoid this week? Have the soup kitchens had enough volunteers lately? How are the cats?

The shadow of Gabriel passed over her while she knelt in the fire escape of an empty apartment building, attempting to recreate the striking angle on an adjacent playground, also quite abandoned. The long-rusting monkey bars had caught her eye for no particular reason, which was reason enough to record them. The swing set, too, and the little horses on springs- all standing in a lot overtaken by choking weeds. A sobering vision of urban decay, she thought.

It began as a simple chill, hair-standing-on-end. It ran up her spine in a not-unpleasant manner, a rolling wave of static. Then she felt the gentle breeze become a powerful gust. Not enough to upset her balance, but more than sufficient to draw her attention.

He perched on the railing itself, dressed in simple business attire: a white button-down shirt, red tie and black slacks. The black overcoat, double-breasted, must have featured slits in the back to accommodate his enormous wingspan.

They were gorgeous, creamy white with tinges of light brown near the tips of his feathers. He was saying something, but she didn't bother to listen. The image was simply too distracting.

He fell silent and a moment later she managed, “Am I dead?”

“Not today.” His voice was a pleasant alto, full of kindness. He looked down at her, into her eyes, and she was overcome with what they somehow managed to convey. A paternal affection, a deep curiosity... and regret.

“Then, um.” She shifted, sitting against the fire escape's railing, and turned to a fresh page. “May I?”

“Of course.”

They sat in silence for a long hour. Whenever she looked up to confirm a detail or trace a new outline, she was drawn to his eyes. They were such comfortable eyes, the color of sunset. He never moved but to shift his wings, reminding her of their very dramatic existence. They were the focus of the piece, second only to his eyes. The lines at their corners were wise, their brows arched with gentle amusement.

“So,” she began, closing the sketchbook. “What can I help you with, mister...?”

“Gabriel,” he replied. “Just Gabriel. It is very nice to finally meet you, Sascha.”

“Of course.” She felt a little numb, but brought herself to extend a hand. He shook it once, firmly. His hand was very warm. “You know my name?”

“I know all of your names, dear.”

Her stare became owlish before she remembered not to be so rude. It must have been some kind of hallucination- had she been drugged? It didn't feel like drugs. She felt completely lucid. Also completely terrified. Thankfully, she had the book to hold on to. Otherwise he would see the embarrassing, uncontrollable shaking.

“That is not why I come before you today, though.” He folded his hands between his knees, then parted them ever so slightly. A pendant fell from between them, fine silver chain trapped between his fingers.

“I was there at your birth, Sascha,” he continued. “I have been there all along. As He has been there, by your side. Through everything.”

“Everything, huh?”

His words pierced clean through the cheerful veneer.

Sascha had grown up in a home just outside of Boston, nestled in the safety of one of its many outlying suburbs. Her mother had died before she was old enough to know her. The loss had driven her father mad in a subtle and sinister way, or so she had always assumed. He might just have been pure evil.

What she would have wanted, he would say, trying to justify his abuses. They would remain with her forever, though, a black mark on her soul. Be a good girl, now.

When she had finally mustered the courage to bring it to the authorities, she was made a ward of the state. Her father hadn't taken it well, and as far as Sascha knew, was serving life in prison someplace far away.

Upon reaching the age of majority she was cut loose from the system, one of many to fall through the cracks. Had Father Samuel Rorik of St. Jude's Cathedral not found her three days later, curled up in a cardboard box against a three-day snowstorm, she would have happily left her life behind.

He had shown her a new way, though. Counseled her still, in matters of her life and of her past. Two years under his gentle guidance had done more to heal her than five years of counselor-hopping.

“That's nice.” The blank incomprehension was quickly souring to resentment. “It's nice to know you were close by. Enjoy the show?”

That last bit slipped out with some true vitriol, and Gabriel's expression turned grave. It was a slow, monumental change. The sky itself seemed to darken with him.

“Do you imagine He cares to see His children suffer?”

“He certainly didn't seem to give a fuck at the time.” Her jaw set and she looked away, unable to hold back a few tears. I've been through this. I'm over this. Damn it, Sascha!

“Limited is the vision of mortals,” he murmured, and the words rang with something abnormal. They washed over her like the ocean tide, warm with those same feelings she had seen in his eyes. It felt rather like love. “And boundless is their potential. You are strong, Sascha Armenaud.”

“Cool. Good to know.” She couldn't contain the spite infecting her words. It flowed freely now, with an undercurrent of red agony- hatred for this angel who chose this day, far removed from her suffering, to appear.

“Strong, and compassion still lives in your heart. I have Chosen you.”

She caught the amulet without thinking about it, and the world slowed down.

Everything became clearer, sharper. She stood and the simple movement felt somehow easier, more graceful. Her awareness of the world was instinctual, every proximity, every route, every possible move.

He had vanished while she was caught up in the sensory overload, but his voice remained.

“It is easy to feel helpless, living in the world Man has made.” She took a step and it felt nearly like she was floating. Moving was effortless. “It is easy to lose hope.”

Sascha dropped from the fire escape to the lot below, tucking smoothly into a roll to absorb the relatively light impact. It felt like nothing at all, and she rose into a dead run, crossing to the roadside in an instant.

Better than fifty feet in under a second.

“So I will show you a new world- one seldom opened to mortals.”

She looked back at the building in the distance. Maybe she'd misjudged the distance?

“The path to power has been opened to you, my dear. I have faith you will use it well.”

No. She moved again, searching for the incredible speed she'd just employed. Her feet carried her away, and it felt more like she was floating, careening along without any regard for physics. Her senses picked out obstacles far in advance. Every adjustment was easy and natural.

It took better than five minutes of all-out sprinting to even begin to wind her.

“Use your strength, the wisdom of your heart. The enemies of Men are many and ancient- you will know them.”

She skidded to a stop at the broad steps of St. Jude's, overcome with terrible fatigue after pushing herself an extra thirty seconds. Taking to her knees and nearly collapsing into a heap, she realized she still clutched the amulet in a closed fist. She opened her fingers slowly, feeling warmth emanating from the delicate glass spindle.

“Fear not. I am with you- He is with you.”

Light emanated from the orb at its center, a gentle white light. It exuded the same notions as Gabriel's eyes had when she looked into it- which she did for several minutes.

Only when Father Rorik stepped out of St. Jude's imposing front doors did she tear her gaze away, a smile once again gracing her features.

“Father!” she called, regaining her feet with unsteady effort. “Have I got a story for you!”