Spinning Darkness. Voices.
"An Incarnation of Happiness? That hasn't happened in four centuries."
A low, rumbling response. "Do not worry, old friend, We shall watch her."
The darkness stops twirling about and covers the newly formed Necanthrope. She has emerged changed, with dove gray wings and long golden hair that spills down her back. It is a long time before she opens her eyes and attempts to stand. Her legs are weak, and she is unsure of where she is for a long moment.
Flashes come back slowly. The black Dark Lament van. The falling. And then the church, and the question.
"Lead or steel?" The woman asking is a goddess, and a joy such as the Necanthrope has never known fills her. She presents the deity before her with the Claymore that has served her so well, requesting to die by her own blade. This is granted, and she falls some more, finally resting. Finally home.
In the present again, she reaches up and feels the new gore cannon resting on her shoulder. It is crystalline, looking much like a gatling gun that she saw once in a picture. It responds to her touch in a limited fashion, almost purring on its perch. The reach unbalances her, and she falls the short distance to the ground.
Now someone is lifting her, gently, bringing her to her feet. She leans for a moment, her body gathering strength for the walk out of the cathedral. She cannot, will not, fall again. The person lifting her picks her up as one would a child, carrying her out into Mort's warm rain. Finally, the Necanthrope opens her eyes, seeing a young Ebon before her, and herself reflected in his bright silvery eyes. Startled, she reaches behind, touches her wings, and stretches them out to the fullest before settling again.
He smiles and carries the angel home to rest. Tomorrow, there will be debts to pay and a life to close. Tomorrow, she shall learn of the true nature of her new life. But tonight is simply to care for this being that Teeth has made him vassal to, and to accept. And with that understanding, there is joy.
Mail to: Denise Blahm