Dream Brother

by Aurette

o

When in the night I sleepless lie,

My soul with heavenly thoughts supply;

Let no ill dreams disturb my rest,

No powers of darkness me molest

– “Tallis' Canon”

o

Chapter Nine: Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heav'n

The night wore on, and Sunday was beginning to feel more and more anxious. Peter hadn't told her exactly why he and the beast he called Praesul had shown up outside of Bastien's estate. She sat with her back against a tree, and her knees pulled up to her chest as the man and the so-called angel had a quiet discussion. Praesul's not-voice was rumbling at the edges of her perception, but it was too low to properly make out the words.

Once Praesul understood that Sunday had no real interest in trusting the divine, he promptly ignored her. Peter hadn't said much about that, instead drawing the great beast away from the girl to speak. And speak. Sunday didn't have a watch or a cell phone, so she had no idea how much time had passed since she burst out of the mansion. She hoped Abigail was okay. But her roommates were there, as well as Bastien, and they would take care of her. She wondered then that Bastien hadn't followed her. Perhaps he knew she wanted to be left alone, to sort out her thoughts.

She was being left, but she certainly wasn't alone. Every now and then Peter would glance over at her, as if to make sure she was well. He truly was embracing his role as her protector. She pressed her fingers to her forehead and temples, trying to work out what had happened in the past few days, since Asmodeus had showed up on the doorstep three days ago. Tomorrow would mark the fourth day in Bastien's time table. So much had changed in so few days, it was unreal.

Someone had told Alphonse to beat her. To send a message to Bastien. The only person she could think of who would have given the order was Asmodeus. But why wasn't Legion allowed to touch her, and Alphonse was? It didn't make sense.

Unless...

Sunday got to her feet, and strode over to the strange pair.

I am only saying that perhaps we should take her away from the city. Removing her seems the best option.

“You know as well as I do that they will find her no matter where we go.” Peter glanced at Sunday, and stopped the conversation. “Are you okay?”

“Praesul,” she said, feeling horribly foolish for addressing a creature she had until quite recently not believed existed. “I need to ask you a weird question.”

I shall answer to the best of my ability.

Well, that was slightly more reassuring than Bastien's evasions.

“Can a... fallen...” She trailed off, and gulped. It hurt, literally hurt, to say this. “Can a fallen angel harm a human?”

Praesul tilted his leonine head to the side, a gesture not unfamiliar on a house cat and utterly terrifying on a lion's head. A lion with four wings, no less.

How do you mean harm? There are many ways to harm.

“Physically. Beating.”

Praesul righted his head and shared a glance with Peter. He snapped his raised wings down, and then up again. Sunday felt the draft of air sweep by her, tangling her hair.

I am sure one could, if they slipped past the rules.

“There are rules?”

Peter laughed, but it was lacking in mirth. “It may not seem like it, but there are. The War of Souls is vicious, but all the more vicious because there is far more emotional damage than physical. And because the fate of the soul is eternal.”

Sunday Seraf, should I wish to harm a human agent of a demon, I could not crush him under my hooves, just as I could not hurt you if I tried.

Sunday felt a flare of frustration. She let out a sigh. “Asmodeus pulled my hair.”

Hair pulling is not on par with battering somebody, Sunday Seraf.

“He's right. Demons have some mobility when it comes to physical destruction, but anything greater than a few scratches and a hair pull? They can't. Unless, of course, they find a way around the strictures.” Peter spoke matter-of-factly, and Sunday wanted to scream her hatred of everything he was saying. That demons were real and she was caught in their games. “They're terribly good at it.”

“What's stopping them? For the most part, I mean.”

God.

As if that explained everything. Sunday let out a screech before she could stop herself. “I've had it! I can't take this anymore. I never asked to be a part of this. All I wanted to do was survive. And what do I get for my carefully self-imposed ignorance? Spiritual warfare with beings I don't even believe in!” she yelled, and kicked at a sapling. It bent under abuse, and whipped back up. She growled, and turned her back on it and the Cherub and man staring at her.

They say seeing is believing, but even the strongest evidence won't sway the hearts of those who are afraid to face it.

Peter put an arm around Sunday to try and calm her. She let him, though she loathed the touch. She didn't know Peter well enough to let him do this. But she figured the problems she would cause if she pulled away would be worse than her anxiety at letting him touch her.

“Please don't fret, Sunday. I know it's hard to face. Well, not from personal experience. I've always known there was more to the universe than the physical realm. But I can't imagine how hard it is to suddenly be faced with this. Most people go about their daily lives, never understanding the struggle below.”

Sunday slumped against Peter. Not for comfort, but because her knees just wouldn't support her anymore. She was tired, emotionally overwrought, and she couldn't handle anymore revelations. She'd snap, and then whatever part she was playing in this war would probably turn out quite badly. She didn't want any part of a War of Souls. All she wanted was to be safe, content, and away from the world.

And no one, absolutely no one, was letting her do that. Not even Bastien.

Peter Osmond, perhaps she should sleep. She is in emotional shock. I did not mean to distress her.

“I know, Praesul. And hopefully she'll understand too.” Peter gently lifted her in his arms, showing no great exertion. Sunday didn't fight back. She felt her body go limp as she fell into the blessed oblivion of sleep.

o

She picked her way through a rusted dumpster, the smells of half-rotted vegetables and stale french fries intermingling with the fear and distrust of the other street rat kids behind her. They had tried to jump in after her, but her sharp kicks and nails pushed them away.

She had laid claim to this alley, and she wasn't about to let anyone steal her bounty. She shared with David sometimes, as he was the only one nice to her. But no one else. She sank back on a ripped trash bag, and let out a crow of joy as she opened a Styrofoam box to find a half eaten burger dripping with fast congealing grease. A serving of french fries was on the side, smeared with ketchup. She ate quickly, knowing that if the kids found out she had such a feast they'd attack her.

The food disappeared down her gullet, with her barely stopping to chew. She shoved in the french fries till her cheeks bulged. Once she was finished, she frowned as she picked some stringy lettuce from her hair, and popped out of the dumpster.

The kids, all as skinny as she and equally as dirty and hard-scrabble, glared at her. She threw a rotten uneaten baked potato in the general crush, and the kids scattered. She smiled triumphantly and pulled herself from the dumpster. David was due back any time, and he said he was going to have his little sister with him. If Abigail was as nice as David, she wouldn't mind sharing with her either.

She closed the lid of the dumpster and sat on top of it, giggling as it bent concave with her weight. She stopped when she heard the click click of high heels come down into the alley. It was a lonely sound, that spoke worlds of vice and hunger. And not physical hunger, either. She looked over to see a woman dressed far too nicely for the shitty system of streets she was walking in. The woman's dress was golden, snug in all the right places and showing off her shapely breasts. She wore bright red lipstick, and her hair tumbled down her back in waves that might have matched the girl's if she could have kept clean.

The woman walked straight towards her, a strange smile distorting her face grotesquely. She stopped until she was nearly touching the girl's knees. “What a pretty little girl you could be,” she said, and stroked the girl's cheek. “What a pretty little thing you'd be.”

The girl snarled, and kicked, but the woman caught her leg, and pulled her off of the dumpster. She fell to the ground, and her skull cracked open, and all she could think as the blood poured out was that she wasn't so pretty anymore.

o

Sunday slowly came to awareness. She tried to open her eyes, but the harsh light seared so strongly she screwed them shut again. She heard soft voices.

“I wasn't going to bring her back here.” Peter. “There is no reason for you to keep her here.”

“Then why did you?” Bastien's calm, emotionless voice. She fought back a groan.

“Because she would make me. I know her better than you might think, for our short acquaintance. She cares about you, deeply, though God only knows why.”

“Did you speak with her?”

“At length. You should tell her the truth,” Peter's voice turned chastising. “She deserves that.”

“You don't even know what the truth is, boy.”

“Saint Peter at the gates!”

Sunday opened her eyes to see Abigail bound into her bedroom. Peter and Bastien were on either side of her bed, and she lay on top of the covers, still fully clothed. She did groan as Peter looked at Abigail in bafflement.

“You don't need to call me that,” he said. “Just Peter is fine.”

“Sunday Services is awake,” Abigail said, looking at her and not sparing Peter another thought. “I knew you'd come back.”

“Yeah. That's me. Always coming back.”

The sarcasm was lost on the happy girl, but Bastien and Peter looked at her strangely. Abigail moved to jump up next to Sunday, but she stopped when she looked at Peter again. She took a step back. Her mouth dropped open as she regarded him, searching his face for some answer.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

Abigail shook her head, but didn't take her eyes from Peter's. “I thought you were-” She cut herself off, glanced at Bastien, then turned to Sunday. She crawled on the bed and curled against the older girl. “I thought it was going to happen to someone else.”

“What does that mean?” Peter asked, his curiosity piqued.

“I don't know.”

Bastien cleared his throat. “You brought her back, Mr. Osmond. There is no further need of you here.”

“He's always needed, but she won't take him.” Abigail rested her head on Sunday's shoulder. She was acting like a child, afraid of the dark or the monsters under the bed. Sunday was a little annoyed at her dependency, but tried to tamp it down before anyone noticed.

“I see where I'm not wanted.” Peter straightened, and he stared at Bastien. “Tell her.” He turned, and left without waiting for anyone to reply to him.

“What's wrong Abigail?” Sunday asked. Abigail let out a sound deep in the back of her throat and turned her eyes away from the light. “What did you see when you looked at Peter?”

“I didn't see anything. I just knew something that doesn't make any sense. I don't want to think about it anymore.”

Sunday frowned, but didn't press. She looked up at Bastien. He stood, staring at her closed door with his hands in fists at his side. He looked at her from the corner of his eye, and jerked his head towards the door. Sunday extricated herself from Abigail, who was more than eager to curl up and close her eyes. Sunday turned off the light for the girl, who had dried her hair and changed into warm clothing at some point. She followed Bastien down the hallway, hyper-aware that her hair was no doubt a wild mess despite her attempts to tame it earlier that day.

She caught her breath as she realized he was leading her into his bedroom. His one sanctum, the place no one was allowed without his express permission. She had never been there, so it was strange to look at the large four poster bed, covered with black and red velvet covers. The walls were painted a blue-grey, making it even more dark and cave-like. No windows, but a huge mirror on top of a mahogany dresser demanded the most attention of anything else in the room.

There was one painting on the wall. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Sunday knew the painting was an illustration of Paradise Lost. She'd never been to high school, so she couldn't say exactly where she knew that. The painting was of a darkened angel falling down from the heavens. Stars spangled the background, and the angel plunged towards roiling clouds below. As she stared at it, she remembered she'd seen it in an ancient copy of the horrible book in Bastien's vast library. The Fall of Lucifer.

Bastien didn't seem to notice her fascination with the painting. He sat down on the foot of his bed, looking at his feet, deep in thought.

“Sunday, there is much of me that you do not know.”

“Yeah.” Sunday knew that much. She had never cared to find out more. Until now.

“You have surmised that I am not like you. At least in terms of humanity. I am no human, and never was.”

“I don't believe in God.”

Bastien looked up finally, his brows raised. “Do you believe in angels?”

Remiel's warning crossed her mind. You must never betray yourself to him. You must never tell him. She shivered. Even though she doubted Bastien was the 'him' of Remiel's warning, she decided not to tell him of her meeting with Praesul. Peter no doubt hadn't said a word, and it wasn't her place.

“I saw something in my room today that I cannot explain. But no. I don't believe in angels.”

Bastien's mouth twisted into a smirk. “Then you don't believe in me.”

“You're not an angel.”

Bastien shook his head, his hair falling into his eyes. He raised a pale hand to tuck the strands behind his hears. “I used to be.”

He didn't say anything else, but he rose to his feet.

“What are you now, then?”

“One of the Fallen.” He looked at the painting on the wall opposite the mirror. “I made the wrong choice. A choice I can never rectify because we never got the chance to change our minds.”

Sunday remembered enough theology from her meager Sunday School classes to know that in the rebellion of heaven, some of the angels had joined the side of Lucifer. And because of that, they were cast out of Heaven into Hell. She was a bit shady on the details, the finer points of Revelations not prime course for an eight-year-old's Sunday school lessons. Parables, Old Testament stories of the Ten Plagues of Egypt, and the Easter story being far more interesting fare for the little minds.

“Why are you here?” Her voice came out thin and strained, and she hated herself for it.

Bastien seemed to understand what she meant. “Because I was given the chance to walk amongst humans and to turn their hearts to evil. Or more evil than they already are.”

Sunday's brows drew together as she stared at him. “You're not doing that.”

“No. I'm not. Think of Asmodeus.”

She did, and she nearly fell backwards in surprise. Asmodeus had threatened her safety, as the safety of the others who shared Bastien's house. We're all brothers under the skin. She had taken that to mean they were real brothers. Some blasted, wild hope that clung to the normalcy of the world. But they weren't brothers, for they had no parents. At least not in the conventional sense of the world. They were brothers, under the skin. If they were Fallen Angels, they had rebelled together.

“Bastien, why did you take me in?”

He let out a harsh bark of laughter. “Is that what you're asking me now? Not what I required of Asmodeus and his brethren? Not why I changed my mind, or anything else? No, only why I chose you.” He turned his back to her until he stared out over the bed.

Sunday crept forward, and wrapped her arms about her waist. She pressed her cheek to his back, taking comfort in the warmth of his not-human body where she couldn't with Peter. “Why?”

Bastien sighed, and she felt his ribs expand with the breath of air, and then collapse as he let it out. Did angels need to breathe? He certainly felt human enough. With a heartbeat and everything. Remiel had claimed it had no heart. “Because I knew where you had come from, Sunday, and I couldn't let you wallow in that mire. I may have made the worst decision of eternity, but that doesn't mean I can't do good.”

“I would have died out there if it weren't for you.” Sunday spoke the words into his shirt, not wanting to let go. “It was killing me. The uncertainty. The hate and fear. I can't begrudge you keeping secrets when you took me out of hell.”

Bastien laughed, and shook his head. He turned around to wrap his arms around her. “You have no concept of hell, Sunday. You may not believe in the spiritual realm, but I am part of it. I am flesh and blood as long as I make Earth my home, and I may be warm and inviting. But what I truly look like? I am different.”

“I don't care.”

Bastien chuckled again, and rested his cheek on top of Sunday's head. “May you never experience hellfire, Sunday. What Abigail said, about lakes of fire and all of that? The imagery can never fully embrace the agony and torture of hell. Many say hell is their lives on Earth, but true hell-” Bastien's voice caught, and he couldn't continue.

Sunday pulled away enough to look up at him. “I don't want to hear it. I don't believe in such a place. Nothing that bad could exist if there's a God who supposedly loves us. And there is no God, so there is no hell.”

Bastien's blue eyes were sad as he smiled. “Your willful ignorance isn't becoming. You want so much for it to not be true that you are lying to yourself, and you know it.”

Praesul had said pretty much the same thing, but Sunday didn't want to think about the unexplainable right now. She knew in her heart that both the Cherub and the Fallen Angel were correct. She just couldn't admit it. She looked up at Bastien, and rose to her tiptoes.

“Bastien, there's a lot that I'm ignoring.” She kissed him, gently. She had never been so bold with him. Physical contact between the two wasn't a common thing, but she had no qualms about it, like she had with other men. But she had never crossed the line into something so intimate.

Bastien wasn't surprised, or if he was, he hid it very well. He didn't tighten his hold, but he kissed her back, just as gently, and pulled away. “It doesn't work this way Sunday,” he whispered, his eyes dark and his voice like a sepulchre. “All the willful ignorance in the world won't change the truth.”

Sunday closed her eyes, and pretended Bastien hadn't just rejected her. She hadn't intended the kiss as a proposition, but he was rejecting far more than her body. He was rejecting her feelings for him. “There is something between us. I can tell.”

“Of course there is. I wouldn't have taken you in if I hadn't cared so deeply for you.”

Sunday pulled away from him, and clenched her fists. She had never understood Bastien's initial interest in her, but she hadn't complained. Now, she wondered what the point of anything was. Her life was changed and there was nothing she could do about it. The one person she wanted to trust wasn't letting her.

“Why can't you let yourself just roll with it?”

Bastien's sigh was gentle. “Because it's not fair to you.” His voice was strained, and she didn't feel like working out the implications of that. “Please, Sunday. I don't mean to hurt your feelings.”

“I know. That doesn't mean they aren't hurt.”

Bastien put a hand on her shoulder, and squeezed. “Sleep in here tonight. Abigail won't bother you, and you'll be safe.”

Sunday hadn't realized how much she'd longed for him to say such a thing. But there wasn't to be anything underlying his offer. Just a friend to hold her as she had her dreams. “My nightmares have been coming with more frequency,” she spoke up. “But they're strange. They will start as a vivid memory of things that actually happened. But they always end differently, with people who weren't there. People I didn't know at the time.”

Bastien looked concerned, but said nothing.

“You. Asmodeus. Legion. Lilith.”

At the mention of the last two, Bastien's concerned expression turned alarmed. “I see,” he said in that sepulchral whisper. “Don't worry, Sunday. I'm sure it's just in response to the horror you've recently found yourself in.” He brushed a few strands of hair from her face. “They're just dreams.”

Just dreams. Sunday let out a sigh of her own, and as they got ready to sleep, she couldn't help but think that sleeping in the same bed as a self-proclaimed Fallen Angel firmly fell into the list of things one shouldn't do.

She just didn't care.

Author's Note: Things have been insane around here. School is becoming a bit overbearing (long story), and I've been working on costumes. And it's crazy. And I have to be in a children's show in November and I kind of don't want to because I have so much other crap going on. Buuuut no one cares about that. Chapter title is a very famous line from Paradise Lost, which I studied partially my senior year of Honors English. Good times, great oldies.

Finally, some information on what the heck is going on. But not enough, because what fun would that be? I don't envy Sunday's nightmares. I used to get horrific nightmares, so bad I didn't want to sleep. Now I just can't sleep. It's kind of lame.

Random information about me: I know the dance to Thriller. Now whenever I hear it, I have the urge to dance (I'm performing it on Saturday at a masquerade at a convention, because I'm just that much of a dork). I'd like to see the cast of Dream Brother dance to thriller. You know Praesul would rip it up on the dance floor.