3-2-2017
Revised 02-07-21
An
Angel from Hell story
By
Christopher Leeson
Chapter 1, Part 1
Jetrel awoke to darkness and felt something covering his face. He swept the thing away, with a hand that had the weight of lead. But the darkness remained. sitting up, he banged his head with a hollow, metallic ring. Surprisingly, the collision hurt, and he had almost forgotten what pain felt like.
What was this? What had taken him from his former state? Groping, he touched a smooth plane above him, and similar planes on both on both his left and right-hand side.
Jetrel struck at the metal walls with clutched fists, but the effort hurt his hands and brought no results. With each blow he cursed with frustration, but his voice echoed thin and reedy, instead of thunderous.
He rested back and his dazed mind struggled to think. This prison was worse than his last. How had he come to be here, and where was here? Of a sudden, something mechanical clicked and light flowed in behind his head. Shifting, Jetrel glimpsed a man in a white coat, but, just as quickly, the stranger dodged from view. As the phantom’s footsteps scuffled away, Jetrel heard him shout: “Get a doctor!”
The prisoner was bemused, but the open portal was offering him an avenue of escape.
With effort, he dragged himself out of the coffin-sized shell, sliding on his back and buttocks. When he made a wrong move, Jetrel felt himself drop. His head struck something on the way down and everything went dark.
#
The returning light registered on his lids, causing Jetrel to open his eyes. Figures were bustling around him. “Doctor, she's conscious,” some female voice stated. All was a blur, but someone touched his face. Jetrel made quick to seize the impudent hand, but the resultant effort was fumbling, futile.
“Miss! Can you hear me?”
The female was speaking English. He tried to dismiss her with a shout of “Begone!” but only managed a breathless moan.
“Easy,” a male speaker said. “Are you in pain?”
Jetrel's vision cleared a little; the walls and ceiling, all white, were moving and their movement made him feel ill. He blinked several times and and the spin of the architecture subsided. With increased clarity, he could see a man looking at him, wearing a white, unfashionable costume. The device hanging around his neck bespoke the trade of healing.
Jetrel made an irritable grab at the healer, but realized in chagrin that he still lacked the strength to move agilely.
“Do you know where you are?” the doctor asked.
Interrogation! The effrontery of the mite! Furious, Jetrel glanced about the white room but saw nothing that was either interesting or informative.
“Maybe she's foreign,” offered in the female mortal. Jetrel turned his glance her way. Stout and plain, the assistant healer presented a very poor specimen of the daughters of man. Jetrel glanced away; women lacking beauty never held his attention for long.
But had he heard her refer to him a “she”? He had never before been mistaken for a female under the gaze of mankind. Such an insult more than justified an expungement in blood!
“Call for orderlies, Nurse!” the healer exclaimed. “We need to get the patient to the examination room!” The one called “Nurse” muttered a reply before her footsteps clicked away.
The male intruder then addressed another bothersome inquiry his way, but the words broke off. Like a withheld breath, the white room had gone silent. Jetrel, squirming, attained a new position. He could see that the white-clad man was standing there stiffly, like a manikin displaying clothing.
At that instant, Jetrel felt a touch to his neck. Glancing back, he saw no one. But at the same instant, his weakness passed away. His first impulse was to feel his body, realizing belatedly that it felt distinctly strange.
“By all means, touch yourself,” said a voice, utilizing a language that Jetrel had not heard since before the Deluge. “To function in your new role, you will need to become intimately familiar with that wrap of flesh.”
Jetrel propped himself up on an elbow and again scanned the room. There was no one within it, other than the frozen-in-place healer. Behind the man, he noted, was a metallic cabinet which displayed three rows , each with five small doors of glossy gray metal. One door hung open, a cot of some kind jutting out of it. Intuitively, he guessed that his small prison cell been this very cabinet when he had first awakened.
Jetrel also took note that he was lying on a cot. More and more aware that something was wrong, he touched his body once more. His hands cupped warm, firm breasts. He knew them for what they were, having enjoyably fondled many like them in the distant past. But these breasts belonged to no milkmaid or shepherdess; they seemed to be growths from his own flesh -- flesh that be realized was very strange. Sitting up in haste, Jetrel espied a mirror on the wall. He swung his legs off the cot, but they proved too short to reach the tiles. With a slight push, he dropped the few inches to the floor.
What was this? What had taken him from his former state? Groping, he touched a smooth plane above him, and similar planes on both on both his left and right-hand side.
Jetrel struck at the metal walls with clutched fists, but the effort hurt his hands and brought no results. With each blow he cursed with frustration, but his voice echoed thin and reedy, instead of thunderous.
He rested back and his dazed mind struggled to think. This prison was worse than his last. How had he come to be here, and where was here? Of a sudden, something mechanical clicked and light flowed in behind his head. Shifting, Jetrel glimpsed a man in a white coat, but, just as quickly, the stranger dodged from view. As the phantom’s footsteps scuffled away, Jetrel heard him shout: “Get a doctor!”
The prisoner was bemused, but the open portal was offering him an avenue of escape.
With effort, he dragged himself out of the coffin-sized shell, sliding on his back and buttocks. When he made a wrong move, Jetrel felt himself drop. His head struck something on the way down and everything went dark.
#
The returning light registered on his lids, causing Jetrel to open his eyes. Figures were bustling around him. “Doctor, she's conscious,” some female voice stated. All was a blur, but someone touched his face. Jetrel made quick to seize the impudent hand, but the resultant effort was fumbling, futile.
“Miss! Can you hear me?”
The female was speaking English. He tried to dismiss her with a shout of “Begone!” but only managed a breathless moan.
“Easy,” a male speaker said. “Are you in pain?”
Jetrel's vision cleared a little; the walls and ceiling, all white, were moving and their movement made him feel ill. He blinked several times and and the spin of the architecture subsided. With increased clarity, he could see a man looking at him, wearing a white, unfashionable costume. The device hanging around his neck bespoke the trade of healing.
Jetrel made an irritable grab at the healer, but realized in chagrin that he still lacked the strength to move agilely.
“Do you know where you are?” the doctor asked.
Interrogation! The effrontery of the mite! Furious, Jetrel glanced about the white room but saw nothing that was either interesting or informative.
“Maybe she's foreign,” offered in the female mortal. Jetrel turned his glance her way. Stout and plain, the assistant healer presented a very poor specimen of the daughters of man. Jetrel glanced away; women lacking beauty never held his attention for long.
But had he heard her refer to him a “she”? He had never before been mistaken for a female under the gaze of mankind. Such an insult more than justified an expungement in blood!
“Call for orderlies, Nurse!” the healer exclaimed. “We need to get the patient to the examination room!” The one called “Nurse” muttered a reply before her footsteps clicked away.
The male intruder then addressed another bothersome inquiry his way, but the words broke off. Like a withheld breath, the white room had gone silent. Jetrel, squirming, attained a new position. He could see that the white-clad man was standing there stiffly, like a manikin displaying clothing.
At that instant, Jetrel felt a touch to his neck. Glancing back, he saw no one. But at the same instant, his weakness passed away. His first impulse was to feel his body, realizing belatedly that it felt distinctly strange.
“By all means, touch yourself,” said a voice, utilizing a language that Jetrel had not heard since before the Deluge. “To function in your new role, you will need to become intimately familiar with that wrap of flesh.”
Jetrel propped himself up on an elbow and again scanned the room. There was no one within it, other than the frozen-in-place healer. Behind the man, he noted, was a metallic cabinet which displayed three rows , each with five small doors of glossy gray metal. One door hung open, a cot of some kind jutting out of it. Intuitively, he guessed that his small prison cell been this very cabinet when he had first awakened.
Jetrel also took note that he was lying on a cot. More and more aware that something was wrong, he touched his body once more. His hands cupped warm, firm breasts. He knew them for what they were, having enjoyably fondled many like them in the distant past. But these breasts belonged to no milkmaid or shepherdess; they seemed to be growths from his own flesh -- flesh that be realized was very strange. Sitting up in haste, Jetrel espied a mirror on the wall. He swung his legs off the cot, but they proved too short to reach the tiles. With a slight push, he dropped the few inches to the floor.
The jarring contact made his light covering, a faint blue sheet, fall away and pile about his ankles. He trod over it, but his first steps were inexplicably difficult. Whatever the nature of his perplexing infirmity, it was profound. The weight of this strange flesh was shifting awkwardly with each stride, robbing his movements of their accustomed grace.
Even so insignificant an effort had exhausted Jetrel by the time he reached the mirror; he let himself fall forward, catching at the wall for support. But this put his face up against the glass, and he suddenly found himself staring into a pair of blinking eyes. It seemed like a youthful woman was gazing at his face through a window.
“It is far from an uncomely face, Jetrel,” someone said in that ancient language.
Even so insignificant an effort had exhausted Jetrel by the time he reached the mirror; he let himself fall forward, catching at the wall for support. But this put his face up against the glass, and he suddenly found himself staring into a pair of blinking eyes. It seemed like a youthful woman was gazing at his face through a window.
“It is far from an uncomely face, Jetrel,” someone said in that ancient language.
Jetrel, in trying to turn, lost his – her – footing and fell back against the mirror. It felt cool to her flesh, a novel sensation. While she struggled to regain her stance, the speaker materialized from thin air and she knew on sight that this was no mortal.
“W-who are you?” Jetrel stammered.
“You have lost your spirit vision, brother? Well, I suppose that was inevitable. I am Metatron.”
The blond girl blinked. She knew and hated that name. Metatron was the mightiest of all the angels, one who was dearer to the heart of Father than ever had been Michael or Gabriel. She recalled seeing him first when he had been no more than a graybeard human. Only later had the Father elevated the wretch above his natural dignity. Since that time, the Father had, in fact, ceased to create new angels out of heavenly fire; instead, he now chose to elevate despicable mortal souls into his angelic host.
“Don't call me brother, you abomination!”
“Abomination?” declared archangel. “You did not choose to insult me when your kind was importuning me to intercede on your band's behalf to save you from damnation.”
Jetrel raised her chin. "You failed as an attorney, so we owed you nothing. I assume it is the Father who has placed me into ludicrous, perishable shell.”
Metatron replied carelessly. “Are you surprised? Have you not been imploring the Father for mercy over all these many centuries? Tonight you have finally received that mercy.”
Jetrel looked down and touched herself again. "Do you call this mercy?"
Merriment brightened Metatron's features. "Father would call it mercy; I call it merely amusing."
“Why are you here?” Jetrel snarled.
The archangel shook his head. “I bring you good tidings, fallen one. Father bides me to inform you that, should you return to obedience, your heart's desire might at last come within your grasp.”
Jetrel scowled. “Why now? I have shouted out to the universe that I would renew my allegiance. Why should offering that which he wants most earn me this degradation?”
Metatron crossed his arms and frowned. “The Father has never extended to the rebel angels the grace of forgiveness. Mortals, unlike angels, were given that grace. Should you accept a mortal life, you may share in that grace?”
Jetrel winced. “Offer me forgiveness as a mortal? I had never imagined he could hate one of his own creations to such a degree!”
The archangel sighed, which gesture reminded Jetrel of the intruder's human origin. “You should be grateful, Jetrel," the archangel said. "Of all of your miscreant kind, none other than yourself has ever been offered redemption at any price. Remember, a worthy human spirit may attain angelic dignity. Do that, and your will have attained all your desires. Throw away this mercy and you throw away all hope of escaping the Lake of Fire.”
Jetrel looked away. At the End Time, all that was evil in the universe -- sinning humans, fallen angels, demons, and even Satan himself -- would be burned with undying agony in the dreaded Lake.
“If this is grace," she said, "I may indeed prefer the Lake of Fire.”
“The choice is yours. But take care, in case you do not understand that the End of Days looms nigh."
Jetrel was indeed surprised, but refused to show it. “So, the day is coming when the Father burns his rubbish and then forgets about us, not caring that he is condemning us to unending torture. If that day is not far off, why bother to subject me to this addition bit of demeanment? ”
“The need to punish to many of his children brings him to tears, not laughter, angry one. If so little a thing is demeanment, why were you and your brothers not demeaned when you were rutting with low beasts of flesh, giving rise to centaurs, satyrs, and countless other abominations?"
Jetrel maintained a proudly silent stance.
"I thought you Watchers loved the daughters of men" said Metatron. "You collected concubines like jewels. And how many evil offspring did you sire by the conquest of their tender bodies?”
Jetrel looked away in high dudgeon, not shame. Metatron pressed. “Father knows your ways, fallen one, and has observed your ardor for sensual sin. You would abuse mankind's daughters again if he sent you back into the world in shape that you would better prefer."
Jetrel shook her head. “What I find most disturbing is being lectured by a wretch who wears a heavenly body without deserving it."
“If this shape I wear offends you so much, I may deign to wear a different one."
“It doesn't matter what you look like. I'll despise you as an upstart regardless."
Even as he spoke, the image of Metatron began to shimmer. In a moment, a maiden stood in his place, wrapped in a radiant robe of white.
“In this form, I am called Shekinah,” the angel informed her companion. “Unlike you, I can I wear what is a womanly shape without shame. In fact, during these strange days, many of the heavenly host have assumed such forms when going among mortals."
"Why?"
"After the Flood, when righteousness had returned to the Earth, female saints who were elevated to the angel choirs preferred to keep a maidenly appearance. Because many of these novice malakhim preferred to go to the earth and work directly with mankind as guardian angels, mortals have come to expect Heaven's angels to be female.”
Shekinah was beautiful, but Jetrel was not going to compliment her. “Even in this guise, your proximity suits me not at all," he declared.
Shekinah looked askance. "You are a hard one, Jetrel."
"And so I hope to remain."
“Let us speak of more important things. You have been a villain for a long while, but once you were a great warrior angel. The Father remembers your skill and courage, and in these End Times he has need of your courage.”
Jetrel threw up her arms. “He debases me in the foulest way possible and yet the Father expects me to be his champion? Has he lost the all vaunted wisdom that he used to possess?"
The archangel shook her head.
Shekinah was beautiful, but Jetrel was not going to compliment her. “Even in this guise, your proximity suits me not at all," he declared.
Shekinah looked askance. "You are a hard one, Jetrel."
"And so I hope to remain."
“Let us speak of more important things. You have been a villain for a long while, but once you were a great warrior angel. The Father remembers your skill and courage, and in these End Times he has need of your courage.”
Jetrel threw up her arms. “He debases me in the foulest way possible and yet the Father expects me to be his champion? Has he lost the all vaunted wisdom that he used to possess?"
The archangel shook her head.
TO BE CONTINUED, Chapter 1, Part 2
