Dogs of the Father: A Legion Fanfiction - Episode 1: Little Prophet

Chapter 8

Gabriel crouched behind a creosote bush, his wings flared for balance like the training wheels on a bicycle, trying to master this humiliating lesson in "Being Human 101." Every few days, the Prophet left camp to forage for food, giving him a rare moment of privacy. Just this once, he wished to save himself the indignity of having to be taught something that came automatically to humans.

She'd been right, of course, about the cause of his weakness. The withdrawal of light from the heavenly Father necessitated he consume mortal sustenance. And eating, the Prophet had explained, had an inevitable side effect...

"Father," Gabriel turned his face skyward. "Why have you condemned me to experience such humiliation?"

The wind shifted, carrying the stench of his now-mortal flesh up to his nostrils. It was bad enough that his body required sustenance, was subject to gravity, and for the first time in his life, Gabriel felt pain, but why did he have to stink? He'd had words with the Prophet because cleanliness, the Father said, was next to HIM, but the Prophet was adamant they conserve their water. The place they occupied had no natural water other than the sparse rain which, given the advent of summer, would soon stop. Soon they'd have no choice but to walk out of the wilderness and return to civilization; a civilization she feared would kill any member of the species who had, so recently, attempted to exterminate hers.

If only he could master this confounded 'lesson'!

For countless millennia he'd observed humans and animals, but never had he realized the two actions were connected. He'd been horrified when she'd explained, hemming and hawing, the mechanics of how the mortal shell with which he was now burdened worked.

A task which eluded him despite substantial discomfort ...

"Father," he prayed quietly, "please, at least, spare me this indignity? If she is forced to do this for me, too, as she was forced to do everything else, it will be more humiliation than I can endure."

The pressure in his abdomen increased. Perhaps now? If he had to ask her to explain it one more time, he swore he would die. Although, the last time he had lost control of one of his bodily functions, he'd tried to die. The Prophet had refused to let him go, and the Father refused to accept him back, so here he was. He wasn't sure whether he was glad he was still alive and not cast down into hell as Lucifer had been, or disappointed. He wasn't used to having feelings.

At least he still had his wings. They were useless, for he could barely lift them up enough to walk without using the Prophet as a crutch, much less fly, but there was comfort to be found in the fact that, whatever the Father thought of his failings, it hadn't been so grievous as to tear his wings off.

"Arrrgh!" he cried out, experiencing a curious blend of pain and pleasure. Revulsion nearly caused him to retch up the vile 'power bar' he'd eaten earlier as a sulfurous stench wafted up to greet his nostrils. Even before he could finish the second part of the task, using dried weeds so the aftermath of his shame would not cling to his mortal shell, an army of flies descended upon the oozing brown mess, feeding upon the foul substance which he had just excreted from his own, accursed mortal body.

"Shit..."

For the first time in his life, he understood the expletive he'd heard uttered so many times.