Angelic Triptych: Part the First

A/N: Yaysecondchapter! I had...so much perverse fun writing this. Thank you for the reviews, by the way. ^^

It occurs to me that I forgot to mention my three inspirations for this story, as well where I drew the various ideas and lore from. Which is kind of amazing, given that I ADORE all three of them to no end. I must mention first Good Omens, written jointly by Terry Pratchett and (THE GOD) Neil Gaiman. If you have ANY interest in angelic figures and humor and the end of the world, you better go out and buy this book RIGHT NOW. It’s absolutely brilliant. Words don’t do it justice. The second is the book I, Lucifer by Glen Duncan. It’s the ‘other side of the story’ and I draw pretty heavily on his version of the Son of Morning, even if I do add maybe a little more class ^_~ Again, this is a wonderfully well-written book and I highly suggest it. The last inspiration is the manga series Earthian, by Yun Kouga which is...mindblowingly well drawn, as well as having an interesting story. If you’ve read it, maybe you kind of know what’s going to happen in the next story of the triptych, though I warn you that I’ve drained every ounce of fluff and funny out of all three. XD;

More detailed crediting of the three will be at the end of the third story, so as not to give anything away.

Also, I edited the warning tags a bit. XD; Removed BDSM because research led me to find out that that refers to bondage play that's CONSENSUAL, which I guess I knew but didn't remember. XD;;; This is not consensual. In the least. As for toys and bloodplay...you'll see? ^^

~*~

His wings were out.

That was the first realization that popped into Raphael’s head when he came to. Wings fully extended - had he opened them during the fight? - and....strapped tightly and rather painfully to a frame. There were leather bands that encircled the bases, binding them to one of three bars that bisected the frame into four relatively equal parts. There were another set of bands that looped around the top of his wings and bound them to the upper edges of the frame, holding the two feathered appendages in an outstretched position.

His head throbbed as he turned it to look at them, and then he grimaced. Nelchael and Samael had certainly done a number on his wings - at least.../someone/ had done a number on his wings - for there were patches of feathers missing, completely torn away. The wounds had bled, though they weren’t bleeding now, suffusing other patches with a deep pink tint as the fluid had seeped into the feathers.

Perhaps the throbbing of his head had distracted him from it before, but now that he focused on his wings, he was shocked to discover how much they hurt. The feathery appendages were so very sensitive. He sustained injuries to them before, but nothing like this. He twisted slightly, biting his lip, only to discover that his wrists and ankles too were bound to the two other bars. The frame itself was wider than his slim body, so that his wings were pulled fully outwards, his lower back exposed.

He’d never been so defenseless at the hands of the Enemy before. If he met the legions of Hell, he met them with sword in hand. And now he was bound and vulnerable.

....At least he wasn’t naked. At least that. On the other hand...he could have sworn that he had been wearing...heavier clothes. It was winter, after all, and he had pulled on a dark red turtleneck and heavy black slacks.

He felt a slight draft tickle its way up his legs, making him shiver. He daren’t look down...

Curiosity, albeit morbid, won out, and he dropped his head to regard his body.

At first, he was quite sure that he wasn’t wearing pants, and a slight growl worked its way out of his throat. What he did appear to be wearing was long white shirt, almost a nightgown at it’s length, classic in style; it had puffy sleeves and lace at cuffs and neckline. Speaking of that neckline....another growl surfaced at just how low it dipped, exposing far too great a portion of his chest for his liking. The long, slashing V ended just above his navel. The lace was dyed crimson.

But he wasn’t completely exposed on his lower half. He could feel a tight fabric on his thighs. Flexing the muscles, he estimated that whatever it was, it ended an inch or two above his knees. It was soft.

“Breeches. Made of velvet.” A soft, amused voice came from his right, and slightly behind. “Samael and Nelchael had a hell of a time subduing you, ripped up most of your clothing. I sort of figured you wouldn’t appreciate being naked, and I couldn’t bear to see you so disheveled. So I miracled you a change of clothes.” Silky chuckle. “I got carried away.”

The voice was so very familiar, and Raphael growled once more as he closed his eyes. “What do you want, false angel of light?”

“Now, now.” The voice chided. “Is that any way to talk to your host?”

“My host who straps me to metal, who sends his goons to beat me senseless? You always were twisted, serpent.” Raphael hissed.

“I have a /name/, Raphael.” Now the voice was...still silky, still smooth and soft, and yet decidedly more dangerous.

“False light.” The angel bit out challengingly. “False angel of light.” He was trembling with the indignity of it all. This...this.../thing/ had ordered others to harm him, had tied him up, had the audacity to dress him up like a doll. Raphael was ANGRY, and had he a sword in hand at that moment, he would have lunged at The Fallen without a thought.

“Don’t make me angry, angel.” It was a growl, now, yet still soft. “You’re in no position to antagonize me.”

Raphael sneered, still not looking over, not even opening his eyes. “What will you do with me, /Beelzebul/?[1] What /can/ you do? If you hurt me - ME, not some lowly angel, /me/, an Archangel - Michael will come after you. You remember his sword, don’t you? You can’t have forgotten his sword. Now. Let me go.”

There was silence, and then that same silky little chuckle. “What a perfect little soldier you are, healer. Such confidence in your general.” A brief pause, and then a deeper laugh. “Or is it something more?” Raphael heard light footsteps, coming from his right until they stopped, standing in front of him. He still didn’t open his eyes. “Is it...love?”

“Hold your tongue!” And now his dark brown eyes did snap open angrily.

Though he didn’t mean it to, the sight of the first Fallen shocked him into silence. It would always be a shock, the Adversary’s appearance. He was so...radiant. Even after falling, even after this long. Somehow, the weakening, sickening affects that falling had on the other once-angels was slower to take hold on their leader, their general, even if it should be the reverse. He should be the first to decay, and yet he was standing there in all his old glory.

His wings, too, were extended, and though they were not pristine like Raphael’s had been before his scuffle with Samael and Nelchael, they were less horrifying to look at then one might have expected. There were too many bald patches, that was true. Too many feathers rotting off, hanging loose. But hardly grotesque.

But then...oh...his face almost made up for it. He was...there was no taint in his face, in what Raphael could see of his body. He was as perfect as the day he fell. Hair like rays of sunshine hung down around a pale face, and set in that face....such eyes....

He’d not seen the fallen angel for...decades. Not since the second World War. They’d all been there, it was too large not to get involved. He’d fought beside Michael, for the British, for a time. And Satan rode with Hitler’s forces, an unstoppable, cruel general.

He hadn’t changed, the same proud set to full lips, the same fine nose and high cheekbones that appeared as if they could cut glass.

Eyes that were harder than diamonds, cold and clear and sparkling blue.

“Don’t order me around, Raphael.” His voice was no longer soft, it was biting and cold now. Sharp. “Don’t fuck with me, angel, ‘cause you’ll find that I bite back. I bite back /hard/.”

“I want to know what you want with me, Dragon.” He wasn’t going to back down now, regaining his voice. “I want to know why I’m here.”

The fallen narrowed his eyes for a moment, and then smiled a cruel smile. “Well. First things first, I /want/ you to call me by my name. Not those silly names I was given later on, not an insult. My name. Or, if you prefer, my full heavenly title. Come to think of it...both. Call me by my name, Raphael, or you’ll find that things will go rather badly with you.”

“You presume so much, to still lay claim to that title.” Raphael spat defiantly. “I will not betray the True.”

“Raphael.” His voice had so...many nuances, so many different inflections. He took on now a loving, chiding tone, the sound of it caressing and soothing to the bound angel. “It’s only three words, darling. What do you lose?”

“My integrity as an Archangel.”

The other sighed, exactly as if Raphael were a petulant child. “Very well. This is your own fault though. Just so you remember, in the end.” He stopped, brows furrowing. “Come to think of it, the reason you’re so beat up and bound is really your fault, angel.” Cupid’s-bow lips curved up into a smile. “You didn’t have to fight, didn’t have to force poor Samael and Nelchael to beat you up. Poor darlings, they’re suffering some nasty cuts and bruises right now. You scratched Samael clean across the face.”

“My fault?” Raphael repeated, incredulous. “MY fault?”

“Mmm.” He walked back to Raphael’s right, out of his range of current vision, and the angel didn’t turn his head. There was a ‘click’ as a drawer or cabinet opened.

“I should have let them take me without a fight?” Raphael hissed.

“Wouldn’t have hurt half so much. I don’t see what you gained by it anyway.” Footsteps, behind him now.

“Not going down without a fight?” The angel scoffed. “You of all people, Tempter. You of all people should understand that.”

“What did I say about using my real name and not some silly little insult, Raphael?” Purring, seductive, dangerous caress of a voice.

“My memory fails me. Then again, perhaps yours fails you, as you seem not to remember that I /will not/ betray my own integrity.”

“Hn. Like I said. Your fault, angel.”

He didn’t have time to ask what that meant. A sudden whistling noise, and then a sharp crack resounded through the air.

The pain came a few moments later, searing his back. The angel’s eyes widened, and he had to bite his tounge - the resulting coppery tang that filled his mouth was revolting - in order not to cry out. He’d....he’d struck him! Nine throbbing stripes...

“A cat’o nine tails, A-accuser[2]? That’s barbaric.” Raphael resolved now more than ever not to give in. He would not bow to physical torture.

There was no reply, save the warning sound of the whip whistling through the air, and then the sickening crack as nine more stripes of pain blossomed on his back.

“Try again, Raphael.” The sweetness in his voice was cloying, mocking. “Oh, and I wouldn’t try disencorperating yourself, angel. I’ve been following you for quite some time, and I’ve discovered that one of the patients at that little clinic you love is schizophrenic. He’s never been actively violent but...well, I’ve had Samael working at him for a couple of months. You leave before I let you go, and Samael will trigger him. You wouldn’t want to have all those patients harmed, now would you?” The voice had transferred to a purr. “So be a good boy, and stay where you’re meant to.”

Another lash of the whip followed, and beneath the deafening sound of his pulse racing, he heard fabric rip.

Wetting his lips, Raphael was mortified to hear the unsteadiness in his voice as he spoke. “You’re g-going to ruin your f-fine craftsmanship, s-snake.”

“Every time I intend to give you a chance to say the right thing, you jump ahead by insulting me again.” The Fallen chuckled. “It’s rather amusing. If pathetic.”

“I’m not the pathetic one in the room.” The brief respite allowed him to regain his breath. He could make his way through this. He was a soldier, after all, as well as a healer.

“I can do this all day and night, if necessary. I highly doubt you can make the same claim.”

“Try me.” Came the challenge.

And the answer. “Very well.”

There were several more lashings that he bore in agonized silence, biting his tounge again when necessary to keep himself from giving the serpent satisfaction. Each stroke was calculated to cause just enough damage, and this was no mortal hand. This was Satan, the leader of the Fallen.

A pained grunt forced its way out after the sixth such stroke - they had been relatively rapidfire - and then there was a pause. With his heart pounding away in his ears, he breathed in a laboured fashion, eyes closing. Raphael could feel the warm little trickles of blood trailing down his back, the flesh a crisscrossed mess of pain.

“Twelve strokes.” Came the caressing voice. “Well. I rather expected you to hold out a bit longer, high soldier that you are, but...not bad, Raphael. Most are crying out at five.”

“M-most?”

“You’re not the first to grace this frame, Raphael. There have been angels - and humans - here before you.” The voice was closer now, and then a finger was tracing along one of the deeper cuts, causing Raphael to hiss in pain, and flex his muscles, which only brought about another, larger wave of pain. He was left panting.

The finger dipped into the wound - at which Raphael saw stars, head spinning with the torment - and then the finger was drawn downwards, across, lifted. Placed back down, drawn down and then back up again in a narrow, inverted arc. Lifted. Letters. L-u-c-i-f-e-r. Written in blood.

“Say my name, angel.” The voice purred into his ear.

Raphael said nothing.

The finger dipped again, into another wound, sharp nail rending the flesh deeper, and once again blood filled Raphael’s mouth as he bit his tounge against the pained moan. He couldn’t stand the taste of it, spitting out the liquid and grimacing.

“...That was disgusting, angel.” But the Fallen was laughing softly as the finger traced shapes on Raphael’s back, just below the bases of his wings. “If you keep doing that, you’re going to bite your tounge clean off one of these times, and then I’m going to have to take the time to heal you, and I won’t be happy about it. So stop it.”

It belatedly occurred to Raphael that at some point, the other had either torn off or miracled away his shirt, for he was draping himself over the angel’s body now, one hand coming around to streak blood down the center of his bare chest, the other encircling his waist. “It doesn’t have to go any farther, Raphael.” He was pressed up against his wings, a heavy warmth. “Just say my name, and I’ll let you rest. I’ll heal you and feed you, even. Just say my name.”

“Why s-should I believe that, thou Father of Lies? Why should I b-believe anything that passes your lips?”

Warm breath on his shoulder as the Fallen sighed. He rested his chin on Raphael’s shoulder, nuzzled softly. “You’re only hurting yourself, angel.” Was the caution, before sharp nails raked his chest violently, causing the angel to gasp and rock back. Where his abused back met the other’s flesh, it burned and he grunted in pain once more.

Again, nails ripped across his chest, a diagonal that was the mirror opposite of the first; he now had a bloody X upon his chest, composed of four gashes on either diagonal.

“Now what was that, Raphael?”

“I w-won’t give in to you.”

“.....Very well.” The warmth and weight was gone, the other stepping back. After a moment, the sickening sound of the ninetails coming down upon his bare flesh was heard, and now he couldn’t help but moan in pain. Five more lashes, and he was twisting against his bonds in futile effort, panting, wide-eyed. The pain was beyond belief.

“My name, healer.” The caressing voice once more.

“Evil One” Raphael rasped.

“Wrong.”

Five more lashes, each more painful than the next. Raphael’s back was red, throbbing heat, and if he moved even the tiniest bit, fresh pain flared. He was gasping nonstop, at this point. The Fallen put a hand against his back and pressed. His eyes almost rolled up into his head, and he sagged against his bonds. Again, the blue-eyed Fallen pressed up against his back and presented a blood-covered palm. “Look, Raphael. Look. How much longer are you going to let this go on?”

Raphael looked, moaning again at the lurid sight of his blood painting the other’s palm. “A....as...l-long as.....you ke...keep aski....ng.”

“What’s my name, Raphael?” The other asked gently, pressing that palm into his chest, forcing him back against him.

“Be...belial![3]” He cried out in his pain.

The Fallen nipped his ear gently, and then pulled away. “As you wish.”

He was merciless, dispensing five more lashes.

“My name, angel.”

“B...beezle...bub.[4]” He slurred uncertainly, the word almost drowned by the sound of his laboured panting.

Four lashes, now, as if the Prince[5] sensed his strength failing him, his resolve cracking. And yet, they didn’t land where the bleeding angel expected them to. Previously, the lashes had been moving downwards, more in the small of his back if anything. They had slowly moved back up, until the last lashing fell, somehow, on his shoulder blades, just below the base of his wings. “My name, Raphael.”

The name came as a shout, mindnumbing pain enveloping him. “Abaddon![6]”

The three following lashes managed to snake their way past the iron bar that bound the bases to the frame, and Raphael shrieked. He couldn’t...couldn’t possibly bear this much longer. The bases of his wings...the most sensitive part of his body. His body bucked wildly away from the frame, leather biting into the flesh at his wrists and ankles, pulling further at the abused bases and causing him further pain. The last lash came with a soft command that he heard even over his own tortured sounds of pain. “My name.”

“Apollyon[7]!” He screamed.

He heard the whip tossed away, heard the resulting whimper of relief rise up out of his throat. His entire body throbbed with excruciating pain, and it was a testament to his angelic will that he hadn’t passed out.

“Try again.” It was almost a whisper.

“Proud One.” He wept.

The body against his again, pressed softly to his shredded back. “Again.” Chiding, the sound...almost loving.

“Son of Morning.” He sobbed, not having the strength to twist away.

A hand was drawn lovingly down his chest as Raphael hung his head, lungs burning from the effort to just keep breathing. Fingers dipped ohsolightly into one of the scratch marks. “Raphael...” Softer still, prompting him further.

“The Morningstar.” He whimpered, tears prickling in his eyes as he crumbled.

“And?” It was no more than a breath.

“Lucifer.” Raphael whispered, tears falling freely.

“Good boy.” Lucifer pressed a gentle kiss to his shoulder, and then pulled away. “See, that wasn’t so hard.”

The fallen angel stepped away to survey his work, and Raphael’s pain-clouded mind struggled to imagine what he saw. From the lines of liquid fire that he felt on his back, from the blood seeping into his breeches and down his legs, he knew that his back was a bloody mess, a horrifying hatched mess of lurid red lines. There was the bloody ‘X’ mark on his chest that he could see quite plainly, as he hadn’t the strength to lift his head any more. Blood had trickled down from those lines too, though they stopped above his breeches. The sight sickened him, and he turned his head to the side quickly so that when he retched, it wouldn’t land on him. Afterwards, he panted, almost retching again at the disgusting taste in his mouth.

“Poor broken angel.” Lucifer purred. “Even though you’ve been a bad boy, I suppose it’s my duty to clean you up a bit. Shan’t help you with the wounds, though. You’ll heal on your own, given time. But I can get rid of the mess, at least. Besides, this is my bedroom, and as soothing a sight as you are right now...I really think it would get tiresome.” He had come around to look at the front, frowning at the vomit. A flick of his hand, and it was gone, from both the floor and Raphael’s chin. The blood too was gone from the carved X, leaving only the deep gashes. Another flick of the fallen’s hand, and he felt the wetness on his back lift away.

He was so very cold, shivering now in his bonds. And the taste was still in his mouth. “W...water?” He croaked, throat raw from crying out.

Lucifer moved over to his bedside table - Raphael hardly registered what the bed, or the rest of the room for that matter, looked like - and picked up a crystal goblet, filling it with water from a dainty china jug. He glided back over to the bound angel, one hand cupping the goblet and the other snaking around to rest on the back of Raphael’s head. “Tilt your head back, angel.” He purred, and then helped the angel to do so, pressing the rim of the goblet to his lips. “Take a sip to clean, first. And don’t spit it out on me, or I’ll whip you again.” His eyes narrowed.

Raphael meekly did as he was told, turning his head once more to spit out the small sip after swirling it around in his mouth. Lucifer glanced at the shining wet spot on the floor, and it disappeared.

“Now, only take a few sips.” Again, the angel did as commanded.

“You’re trembling.” Was the Fallen’s observation after he stepped back once more. There was another flick of his hand, and a fire roared into life behind Raphael. Another flick, and a feather soft garment now covered his upper body, and though he gasped as it touched the wounds on his back, the intense pain faded after a moment, leaving only the dull ache that permeated his very being.

“Get some rest, Raphael.” Lucifer commanded softly as he stepped up to the angel, who was still bound. “You’re going to need it.” Though he caressed the Archangel’s cheek gently, there was nothing gentle in his eyes, and when he kissed the angel on the lips, even though his lips were pillow soft and kind, Raphael felt a shudder of dread run through him.

The fallen angel pulled back, eyes haunting. He then smiled softly, and turned away, striding to the door and letting it close behind him. Raphael watched him go, but when he heard the ‘click’ of a lock being closed, his head fell back down to his chest.

He couldn’t possibly imagine how he was expected to /sleep/ like this, still bound to his frame and aching, throbbing all over. And yet...even as he thought that, his eyes began to slide closed, body forcing itself to regroup in the sweet arms of sleep.

~*~

[1] One of the three possible spellings of ‘Beezlebub’. This one means “Lord of the Dung”
[2] The full name is “Accuser of the Brethren”
[3] “worthless” or “hopeless ruin”
[4] Meaning: “Lord of the Flies”
[5] Either referring to the simple title of Prince/Ruler or “The Prince of the Power of the Air”, which references Lucifer position as the ruler of all the fallen angels.
[6] “destroyer” or “destruction” in Greek
[7] Same as above, only in Hebrew

A/N the Second: ......Ahahaha. I’m so cruel. o_o Also...I’ve fallen in love with Lucifer now, which is probably a bad thing. ^^; I hope the chapter was...interesting, if not enjoyable.
Poor Raphael.

I would like some concrit on this particular chapter, actually. (Concrit on the whole is vastly appreciated, but REALLY appreciated specifically here) I played with not using the name Lucifer until Raphael used it, as a literary...device, but I’m not sure if it came out awkwardly or not. I kind of ran out of things to call him that wasn’t ‘the fallen’/’the fallen angel’. XP Please tell me if that aspect was annoying to you, and if so, would you have any suggestions that WOULD make it work, or do you think that I should just scrap the idea?

Credit for the information on Lucifer’s various little names goes to a helpful website I found: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Rampart/7131/SatName.html Thank you!

Both the references to ‘disencorperating’ (I really don’t think I’m spelling that right, but what I mean by that is...Raphael separating his soul from his body. I.E. death, I.E. suicide. ^^;) and ‘miracling/miracled’ come from Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman (see first A/N). So much love for that book. Both demons and angels have the power to wish, or miracle things out of thin air, as well as making things disappear into it. And obviously they’re immortal, which means that if they die in a human body, their souls merely go back to their respective headquarters.

Lastly, the reference to the schizophrenic was not meant to insult anyone. I do realize that most schizophrenics are not violent. Really. No disrespect.