Phantom Pain (trilogy)

The Sword

Chapter 7: The Sword

The sword lay in a pool of light in front of me. It was somehow even more beautiful than the last time I'd seen it. It glowed with a radiance I had been unable to perceive up until that point. Just looking at it filled with me with a tingling calm. It was cool and soothing, and I walked towards it, longing to wrap my hand around the hilt. As soon as I touched it, a burning power coursed through my veins and I felt whole again.

The fact that Madam Moore had owned it was inconceivable. Humans using it. I felt sick. It was an angel's sword, though it was not mine. I longed for the sword I knew must have once belonged to me, who's beauty and power rivaled this one. Though I found it hard to conceive of anything better than this. Which brother of mine was missing it? How could they have possibly lost something so precious?

Behind me I heard a rush of air and I spun. What I saw froze me, and made the sword feel so utterly wrong in my hand. An angel had landed, and it was then that I realized how much I'd truly forgotten about the glory of my home and family. It was impossible to tell his age, but his face was as unlined as a child's. His hair was pitch black, a stark contrast against his white skin. Light radiated out from around his head, different than any light I'd seen since digging myself out of the first grave. And his eyes, they were an unbelievable shade of blue, and as he stared at me I could not escape.

He was shirtless and from his back extended wings. Looking at them made my heart hurt. They were massive. Each one was the size of his entire body, and they were pure, unbroken, white. It was almost blinding. I suddenly felt so inadequate, so human. He was a step above anything I had ever been. He folded the huge wings, tilting his head to the side slightly, still staring at me.

“Ramiel, brother.” His voice was soft, and it soothed me in the same way the sword had. “I hate to see you like this.”

He walked towards me and I still said nothing, still did not move. Power far greater than mine radiated from him. The edge of his folded wings brushed my shoulder, as he circled me. It was softer than anything I could remember feeling, and it took all of my ingrained manners not to reach out and touch them. My arm tingled, then my spine, and my feelings were equally torn between elation and jealously. He stopped when he was behind me, and I wanted to sink into the floor. I felt so naked, my back exposed like this.

His finger traced my scar, and it felt better. Something I'd thought would never feel whole again did, if only for a second. My eyes closed involuntarily, and I arched my back. I could feel them, as if they were there; nothing compared to the wings of the angel beside me, but beautiful all the same. They were only phantoms, but they did not hurt, instead they tingled. Everything was glittering light, even the single tear that ran down my cheek.

The angel came to a stop in front of me, and I no longer felt embarrassed: for the tear, for the scars, for nothing. He looked down at me, blue eyes kind, and I suddenly felt unfathomably homesick.

“I am sorry brother,” I whispered. “Everything in my head is scrambled. Who are you?”

He smiled. “You have nothing to be sorry for. The amount of knowledge you have retained, it is amazing. Many angels who fall can never escape the cycle of loss.” He placed a hand on my arm, and it was impossible to feel the sadness. “All they ever know on earth is confusion, and the loss of something they can not remember. Many of them end up on their streets, confused and forgotten. Others are put in institutions. Think of how well you have done, Ramiel.”

I stood at attention before him, back straight, arms tight at my sides. It was some reflex from long ago, like some back part of my brain still knew what he was. A little bit of sadness darkened the blue of his eyes, and I felt it too, like stabbing knives in my throat.

“I am nobody.” He looked down at my hand. “But that was my sword once.”

I got down on one knee, holding the short blade upright in front of me. “I am so sorry. I did not know.”

He touched my shoulder. “No, no, brother, rise.” I did as he asked, still holding the sword out. “There is no me here to accept it from you.” he continued. “All I am is a trace, left on something with which I once held a profound bond.” He ran his finger lovingly down the reflective surface. “You are speaking to ghost, an echo of the original.”

I found it hard to believe that the creature I was speaking to was just some grace, left clinging to a sword. The idea of what meeting him in person must be like was enough to make my arm drop back to my side.

“Where are you then?” I asked. “The true you? Do you know that we are speaking right now?”

He met my eyes, dead on, and I was hit by an all consuming wave of sadness.

“The true me is lost, or missing, or maybe gone forever. Maybe all that is left of me clings to this sword. It is hard to tell.”

I didn't know what to do. This was one thousand times worse than my missing wings, than knowing I could never go home. The depression came from an ingrained chain of command I'd followed since birth, a built in knowledge of who and what was important.

“I do not deserve to carry it,” I said.

He shook his head, black hair moving a little bit from the motion. “If I could pick one place in the universe for this sword to be, I would chose with you. You are in need of it more than anyone else, and I feel your pain. If I—or what is left of me—can help ease that, help you through this, I will do all I can.”

Both of my hands clutched the hilt close to my chest. “Thank you.”

He took a few steps back, extending his full wingspan. The halo grew, the light consuming his entire body.

“Remember Ramiel, I will always be with you.”

The white consumed everything, in warmth and grace. And when it faded the angel was gone, but the sword felt warm in my hand. The tip of the blade glinted, and I was overwhelmed with feelings my current body could not process: pleasure, warmth, purpose, safety, and pride.