i_watch The Fallen [Narrative]
The knife in his hand was still crimson and wet, dripping down the blade to the hilt and onto his hand. Blood spoke of mortality and life. Blood at the end of a knife… well. That spoke plainly of death.
It was a wonder that Bartleby hadn't dropped the thing already. The instrument he'd plunged into his best friend was still gripped tightly in his hand, and he didn't want to let go. He was lost here and the blood was the only connection he had left to the world he'd come from and to Loki. It kept him grounded, as grounded as he could be.
Bartleby touched down from the sky. He'd been flying since realising that Redbank, New Jersey was no longer beneath him. The church was gone. The muse, the apostle, the prophets, and the scion were too. The pile of bodies he'd taken so much joy in creating had vanished. Nothing below him was the same anymore, so instead of searching, he'd decided to bite the bullet and land.
He used the knife in his hand to cut the straps of his breastplate and pull the bloodstained thing off. It fell to the grass with a thud and a clank and Bartleby was content to leave it there. Underneath he'd worn only a red shift. Then of course there were his wings, which he immediately pressed up against his back. It was safer that way, at least until he knew where he was. To get back to heaven he would need to lose them, but dying was not on the agenda as of now. There was no more consecrated archway to walkthrough. No more Dogmatic law to break.
The world was still in existence. Miserable, pathetic, existence. Another millennium on Earth, this time without…
Stopping, Bartleby looked down at the bloody knife again. He'd cut off his friend's wings and killed him. Quite a descent that was. Possibly lower than Azrael's, and he'd ended up a demon. What could possibly be lower than this?
Nothing.
That was a freeing thought. He'd killed his best friend. Practically anything else he did from this point on would look saintly in comparison.
Bartleby squeezed the knife, letting the hilt imprint into his palm. It was time to repent. There had to be someway to repent for this. He'd find it and make sure that She saw it. It was Her fault to begin with, She'd sent them out of Heaven all of those centuries ago, setting off this entire chain of events. It was Her fault Loki was dead, really. Oh, he'd plunged the knife in, but it was all in the circumstance…
Death had been imminent either way. Either by scion, God, or universal destruction once they'd reached their goal and crossed the threshold. Death had really been the goal of their entire mission if you tilted your head, crossed your eyes, and looked askew a bit.
Bartleby was looking askew. Loki, his best friend and companion for two millennia, was dead by his hand. Askew was definitely the point of view Bartleby was viewing things by. He had to look this way. It took the blame away, and with that went some of the pain. The rest would vanish when he was occupied.
He walked further a bit, coming to the edge of the grassy park he'd landed in. There was a city out there, an entire city. Perfect for repenting, and doing God's work. There was an entire city filled to the brim with sinners. Loki would have enjoyed this, having so many to punish. Bartleby smiled, thinking of his old friend's enthusiasm at carrying out his job. He would just have to continue it for him.
A tribute of sorts. To both Loki, and She who was responsible for his death. He hoped She was ready for this. Both She and the Morningstar. Bartleby planned on sending them plenty of new permanent residents.
He gripped the knife one last time before stepping out of the park.