Undone by a Broken Angel

15.) Joshua

“Perhaps an angel may come to their aid- one of God’s thousands of angels, who remind us of our duty.”

-Job 33:23

Joshua eyes his painting critically and sighs in frustration.  No matter how he approaches the idea, he just can’t capture the idea of true love.  He’s never felt it before, and no matter how many mediums he uses to soak up the idea, he just cannot portray something he’s never felt.  And how could he?  He’s never met a woman falcone- he doesn’t remember his mom either.  She passed when he was too young to keep her image locked in his mind.

He tries to paint one now, but the features are all wrong- too human, he decides.  He can’t get the build right and the passion he’s trying to fill her with looks forced.  Instead of pleasure, he sees constipation.

He wilts visibly, his shoulders caving in.  Damn it, he thinks.  Oil paints are expensive and he shouldn’t waste it on a subject he doesn’t know enough about.  In his box of tools, he retrieves his mineral water to clean his brushes.  Might as well call it a day, he decides.

Clear, sharp bell tones ring over the city from Notre Dame’s bell towers, announcing the hour.  It’s later than he thought and the sun is starting to set over the lush gardens he set his easel in.  He doesn’t like being caught in the city after dark.  Paris is the largest city in Europe, besides London, and a higher population means more reapers.

He’s not a fighter like the others.  They wield swords, daggers, and knives as easy as breathing.  The closest talent he has with a weapon is the bow and that’s only because he wants to be as far away from a fight as he can get.  Combat never came easy to Joshua, but he carries his bow and a few spare arrows on his back just in case.  They, and his red wings, stay hidden beneath his cloak.

The other artists in the garden eye him questioningly, wondering why he would leave when the lighting is just about to be perfect.  And it’s true, the soft hues from the setting sun cast the perfect light onto buildings, casting shadows for perfect depth and definition.  Joshua doesn’t need to look at it when he can already see it in his mind.  He looks at their paintings and drawings as he passes by and notices how much better they are than his- he deflates.  He works so hard to be noticed but instead he is forced to watch others succeed instead.

A whirlwind of sorrow catches him and he bites back tears as he walks through the city to his flat.  Nathanael sent him to Paris to watch for any indication or a sign that the girl could have found her way here.  Wouldn’t it be something if he did find her?  The others would always remember him for it and he would be written down in the history books forever for it.  He perks up then, knowing that something good could come if he tried hard enough.

Though he’d rather be at home, cozy in his reading nook with a nose in poetry, a novel, or diving into some form of artwork, he hits the parks everyday to keep an eye out for something out of the ordinary.  Anything that would indicate a winged woman.

So far, he hasn’t seen anything to indicate she’s here in Paris.

He steps up into his apartment complex and unlocks his door with the massive skeleton key.  He hears the mechanism unlock and he swings the door open into the musty room on the other side.  There are clothes littered all over the floor, unwashed dishes piled by his sink, and papers and art supplies strewn in every corner of his small space.  His bed is set along the far wall and it’s blankets are all balled up.

A feeling of calm washes over him and he’s glad he’s home.  The smell of his room makes him feel at ease.  Throwing his bag next to his other painting, he heads to his kitchen.  He’s starving.  He doesn’t keep much food on hand, preferring to grab something from an establishment, but he’s a little short on coin at the moment.  His paintings haven’t been selling well lately.  Not dwelling on that thought, he grabs a few eggs and onions he keeps stocked in his pantry, and goes about to make an omelet.  It doesn’t take long to start the stove- he used a bit of body spirit for assistance, and slammed a cast iron pan on top of the growing flames.  He added salted butter next- he keeps it next to the stove for convenience- and waits for it to melt.

As his eggs cook, his mind drifts to his true job.  Looking for the girl is pointless, but he hopes Nathanael will let him stay.  Paris is full of artists like himself and he loves pulling inspiration from them.  Besides, if she were here, the reapers would have caught her scent by now.

He flips the omelet carefully, smelling the food as it cooks.  The onion odor fills the small space making his stomach knot up in hunger.  Once finished, he takes his food to eat on his bed- he doesn’t have a table or chairs.

The first few bites he inhales and as the flavor registers, he thinks it’s good even though the chefs’ in the city’s food is much better.  He looks around his room as he eats and sees nothing but unfinished projects.  He’ll finish them, he tells himself, he’s just waiting for the right motivation or inspiration.  The first one he looks at is based on a statue on the Louvre.  It’s towards the top of the main entrance- angels, guarding like sentinels.  He doesn't think his people ever made it obvious to humans that falcone were made in order to protect them, but small details like this make him wonder. The artists of the time dressed them in next to nothing, togas mostly, to show their shape and their breasts.  It’s in those statues alone that Joshua can picture what a woman falcone could look like.  If the girl ever is found, he pictures her like these statues- beautiful, full, and filled with passion.  His painting reflects this, but it’s missing personality.  The eyes are wrong- they still appear to be stone.

His eyes shift to the next painting.  The inspiration was a little girl, two perhaps, with dimples and perfect ringlets in her hair.  She was squealing and laughing while she played among the blooming flowers.  He was set up in another park, and she drew his attention in all her purity.  She had meaty hands and pudgy cheeks.  The dress she was wearing was simple, but looked to be her Sunday best.  The sight of her shot a feeling of longing in his chest, and he was sad in that moment, knowing he’d never father a child.  He wanted to add wings to her portrait, but knowing that falcone don’t develop their wings until after puberty stopped his hand.  Against his wishes, he left her as she is, but he still considers it unfinished.

Sighing, he looks upon a half dozen others unfinished.  He sets his finished plate aside, stands up, and makes his way to the painting of the little girl.  He pulls out his brushes and his paints and chooses a yellow color.  His brush sweeps it onto the canvas and cuts through the darker shades around it, pulling the viewer’s attention to the little girl’s head.  He’s seen hundreds of paintings that show holy beings with a halo, Jesus, namely, but here he just sees innocence.  She has nothing to worry about, nothing to weigh her down.  He throws his signature on it in white paint and calls it done.

He’ll take it to some galleries in the morning.

He contemplates doing some cleaning, but shrugs and opens a book instead.  It gets dark quickly after that and he’s forced to light a lamp, noticing how low he’s getting on fuel.  He hopes he gets a good price for his painting.

A scream pierces the night time silence.

He’s on his feet in an instant, trying to decide which direction it came from.  It was in his building, he thinks, and rips his door open to find the source.  The hall is pitch black and his eyes dart back and forth wondering where he should start looking.  A rustling sound meets his ears, followed by whimpering. To the right, same floor.  He takes off, running as fast as his young legs can take him, practically flying up the stairs.

But then the sounds stop and he’s left panting in the hall, his heart beating erratically.  Nothing happens for a long time.  His limbs are frozen, his wings half extended, ready to take off at a moment’s notice.

The creak of the front door sounds too loud as it opens and then closes.  Quietly, he tip-toes to the end of the hall and waits, listening for any indication of an intruder.

Instead, a well known resident slowly creeps in, her cane thumping on the wooden floor.  He tucks his wings behind his cloak again before he steps into her view.  It sounds as though she’s carrying something.

She can’t see him in the dark, of course, so he greets her with a soft voice, his heart slowly returning to normal, but he can’t take his mind off the scream.  Where had it come from?  “Good evening, Marie,” he says in perfect French.  “What are you doing out so late?”

She starts some, her heart beats faster for a moment, and then slows back to normal when she recognizes his voice.  “Joshua, is that you?” she calls out.

“Just stay there a moment while I grab my lantern,” he orders and ducks inside his apartment, the light from inside spilling out into the dark hall.  He’s back in a flash, his lantern in his left hand, and he extends his right arm for her to take.

She’s carrying a large bag and he wonders what’s so important that she has to carry it around at night.

She takes his arm with a smile and pats it.  “You’re too kind to me, Young Man.”

He escorts her up the stairs to her rooms.  Months ago Joshua tried getting their landlord to allow them to switch apartments- there’s no reason why an old lady needs to walk up and down stairs everyday- but he wouldn’t hear of it.  Something about price differences.  Now he helps Marie when he’s available and at first she took it offensively.  “Quit babying me!” She’d scold.  “I’m not a feeble old lady!”

But she is.  So he stubbornly helped her anyway and eventually she softened to his help and gives him a wide smile whenever he offers her his arm.

“Why were you out so late?” he asks again.

She looks up at him and he gives her a stern look.  “Out with family,” she relents.  “It was my granddaughter’s birthday today,” she tells him proudly.

That would explain her bag.

“And they didn’t help you get home?  It’s so dark out,” he rants, annoyed at their treatment of their elder.

She chuckles.  “I wouldn’t let them.  You know you’re the only helper for this old woman.”

He rolls his eyes.  At least she’s honest. 

“Did you hear that scream earlier?” she inquires.  “Boy it about made me fall over in fear!”

“That must have been a sight, but I’m glad you didn’t.  I heard it as well,” he admits.  “Do you know where it came from?”

She thinks for a moment.  “Outside, I thought.  The alley maybe.  Poor girl, another soul lost to the city.”

The way she says it sends a shiver up his spine.  The crime rate has been steadily rising, another reason why he doesn’t like going out after dark, but he still needs to check up on the girl.  She may need his help.  He can just imagine what she’s going through if she’s still alive, that is.  He makes sure Marie gets into her apartment safely, and then takes off.  He pauses at the front door, shaking with fear.  If it’s a reaper out there, he can handle it.  He knows what to expect from a reaper. 

It was twenty years ago, when he was four, that his parents perished.  They were en route to help bring back soldiers fighting in Germany.  Their forces were hit hard and only a few of them remained.  They required security to make it back to Eden safely- it seemed like everywhere they rested, the reapers would find them.  Rest was hard to get and nourishment even harder.  Only four years old, he said good-bye to his father for the last time.  He clung to his leg, begging for him to stay, tears streaming hotly down his face.  His mother pulled him off him, also a crying mess, and held him close.  The last thing he remembers of his dad was the soft, loving touch he placed on his young son’s back.  When he never returned, his mom went searching for him, powered by grief.  From then on, he was left in Nathanael’s care.  From then on he was trained and educated to handle reapers.  He learned how they move, how they fight, and how they behave.  He knows them inside and out.

On the other hand, if the perpetrator isn’t a reaper, it has to be human, and he has no idea how to handle an evil human.  They don’t think the same.  They could change their mind at the last minute, or do it in a way to never be caught.  If it’s a human, he may not be able to end their life to save the girl.

He carefully pulls out his bow from under his cloak and steps into the night, using his lantern to chase away the shadows.  He can hear people laughing in the drinking establishments, talking from families inside their homes, and...other sounds... from inside the brothels.  He rounds the building and holds his light up to see down the alley.

The stables are located here, and a half dozen horses snooze solidly on their feet.  The tang of their stench reaches his nose.  He doesn't mind, he associates it with civilization.  Taking a step forward, his light falls on a form in the hay.

It’s a dog, snuggled into the soft bedding for warmth.  It doesn’t wake when he passes by it.

He continues down the length of the building and finally finds what he’s looking for: a woman passed out on the cobblestones.  Her skirts are pulled up over her knees and tears stream down her face.  A large figure looms over her, but hasn’t noticed him yet.  He notches an arrow, pulls back the chord, and loses.

If there’s one thing physically he does well, it’s hitting his target. The arrow buries itself in the figure’s shoulder, and they fall forward onto the paving stones.

The man lets out a pained yell and Joshua runs up to him and kicks him over onto his back and he sees that he’s human, his clothing askew.  Joshua concludes he is a r****t.

“Did you harm this woman?” he demands to know.

The human man nods in his pain, trying to reach back to pull the arrow out of his back.  Joshua kicks him back down, but he can’t bring himself to harm him further.  Instead, reaching into his body spirit, Joshua prays a blessing over him and lets him go.  He knows it’s not enough.  He knows he could harm more women in the future, but it’s not his place to lay judgement on them.  That’s God’s place.

He stoops down to consider the woman’s condition.  She’s breathing, but wounded, and not just physically.  Healing isn’t his forte, but he can, however, nurse her back to health if need be.  He tucks his weapon away and scoops her up, deciding to take her back to his rooms so he can better see her ailments.

Back inside, he lays her out on his bed, aligning her limbs out straight, and tucking a pillow beneath her head.

She doesn’t appear to be bleeding anywhere, but she won’t wake up.  He’s not sure what to do, so he goes to his water basin and wets a rag for her forehead.  He pats away her sweat and looks around his messy room.  Leaving the rag on her forehead, he decides to clean up.  There has never been a woman in his rooms before and he’s not sure what her impression of him would be if she saw this mess.

He spends a long while cleaning, and by the time he’s done, his oil lamp runs out of fuel and he’s thrust into darkness.