Socheniel now sports a tongue of fire above his head. If that’s not a giveaway his so-called exile wasn’t really a calculated move by some way higher-ups, I don’t know what is.
He had to be ejected from the ranks. He had to see Brother Superior’s betrayal. He had to spend time with the Company of Others and see this wretched and beautiful world for himself. And it worked. Whatever he discovered about himself, it is elevating him.
The blight is now his cloak of office. His six wings are inflamed, brilliantly white, and devouring darkness all at once. He still wears rags wrapped around his hands and eyes.
The black cloak is worn draped over his head so his face is always in shadow. But where the light of the tongue of flame touches it, the cloak’s color changes to a deeply bloody crimson.
It reminds me what Socheniel was under Brother Superior’s guidance. An executioner. It reminds me of the first name I had divined for him. “The Knife of Woe.” It reminds me that with very few exceptions, angels in the Bible were soaked in the blood of their victims.
“Are you my executioner, friend? Are you the one to serve judgment on the apostate that I am?”
“You’re not running.”
“I won’t insult you like that.”
He placed his hand around my head. The strength in his grip could crush my skull with ease. The blight poured over me and soaked into my skin. But instead of infecting me, it transformed into mycelium and joined my dormant Shambling nature.
“There is your answer. Friend. I did not save you for the purpose of destroying you myself. Still you are immune to the blight, though it seems because you are a form of blight yourself.”
“Socheniel. [Knife of Woe]. What are you, angel? And what are you becoming?”
He smiled for the first time this encounter. He gripped my head again and pulled me close. Wordlessly, he kissed me on the forehead. As he pulled away, the light from his crowning flame uncomfortably warmed where his lips touched me. He patted me on the head and left.