text: Hal gaped. “An angel?” “...One of the fallen,” the priest breathed in a hushed voice. The angel’s head snapped to face them at the sound of their voices, and Hal could see, though still obscured by the dark shroud, that the being’s eyes were bound with cloth. “Lost souls.” Hal and Father Donahue both cowered beneath the quaking volume of the fallen angel’s voice, at once beautiful, even as it was terrifying. Slowly, Hal lifted his hands from where they had fled to his ears. “Uh... yeah. I guess that’s sort of us...” _Jesus H. Christ, how am I supposed to speak to a freaking fallen angel?_ “Um-uh... who are you?” The shrouded angel regarded Hal with his blind gaze. “I am Gadreel.” “Gadreel...” Father Donahue whispered, wincing again at the volume. “One of the watchers...” Hal cast a skeptical look at the bindings around the angel’s eyes but said nothing. “I was once one of the Almighty’s most trusted, cast down into darkness for imparting knowledge to His children.” Perhaps Gadreel had sensed the discomfort his volume had caused Hal and Father Donahue, because his clarion voice seemed slightly more moderated as he spoke. Hal turned a confused look on the priest. “That doesn’t seem so bad,” he murmured, voice low. “How’d he end up here?” But Father Donahue shook his head, leaning in close. “The more obscure religious texts describe the fall of Gadreel with conflicting certainty. One thing most agree on, though, is that he was the angel who let the serpent into Eden to tempt Eve with knowledge. And then later, taught mankind the art of war and weapons. He was cast out of heaven for following Lucifer in a rebellion against God. He is not an angel in the traditional sense. Be careful.” Hal could feel his stomach dropping lower as the priest talked, and though they had been keeping their voices low, Gadreel’s masked gaze on them was unfaltering. _Dammit, why is he making me do all the talking?_ “We-uh, we were told you could get us out of here.” His words sounded ridiculous, even to himself. “That you could-ah... grant us a wish?” _Yeah, because -that- sounds any better._ The dark, sinuous wings flexed beneath the shroud before folding slightly in on themselves. “For the love I bear humanity, I will grant a gift to any whom find their way to my feet.” Father Donahue stepped forward at last, a probing sound to his voice. “Your gifts didn’t end so well for humanity in the past--love notwithstanding.” Gadreel surveyed him with his sightless gaze, then turned his face unerringly to the nearest window, the red glow illuminating his shrouded face in a haunting silhouette. “My gifts were meant to enlighten, to protect, to embolden... but such gifts, it seems, were not within the scope of man to cope with, and they turned that knowledge on each other. It was my bitterness, my hubris, that spurred my fall from grace. But it was here, when I saw the perfection of the Son--the lengths to which the Almighty was willing to sacrifice, all to correct my mistakes--it was here I found glory again. I abide here, now. Hopeful of the day He might descend once again and lift me up like Abraham. Until that day, I will help his lost children as I can.” “Then you can get us out of here? Out of Hell, I mean...” Hal asked in a rush. “I can deliver _one_ of you.” Hal froze. He cast a worried look over a Father Donahue and then back at the shrouded angel. “One?” “And then I must rest. My powers are not as they were on Earth or in Heaven. Once expended, I must rest the seven cycles before I am capable once more.” Hal stared up at Gadreel. _That freaking ghoul! That’s why Amun didn’t want anyone following us from the fissures..._ He shook his head, grinding his teeth until his jaws hurt. Amun had never intended for any of them to see the inside of this place. They had been his protection, his transportation... _And I had been the goddamned bus driver!_ Hal’s mind was racing as he tried to focus on Gadreel’s words. “Seven cycles--cycles of what? How long is a cycle?” Father Donahue’s face was scrunched, as if he were trying to remember something from a long time ago. He brought one hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “It has something to do with Sabbath years... cycles of Sabbath years--each cycle is seven years, I believe... So, seven cycles would mean--” “Forty-nine years...” Hal breathed, then he rounded on Gadreel. “You want one of us to wait almost fifty years to get out of this place?” Father Donahue pulled gently at Hal’s arm, but he drew away, running a hand over the crisp remnants of hair covering his scalp. _Shit..._ He paced to the opposite window and back. _Shit!_ He couldn’t ask Father Donahue to stay here in Hell when he was the reason the man was here to begin with. Fifty years in Hell... “Hal,” the priest called gently, but Hal kept pacing. “Hal, I want you to go.” Hal stopped his frantic march, running a weary hand over the burned, cracked skin of his face. “I will stay behind and watch for Amun.” Hal gritted his teeth and spun to the man. “I can’t ask you to stay behind. Not here, not like this.” “You didn’t. I told you, I will stay and guard the way.” He crossed to Hal and squeezed one of his shoulders. “Amun cannot be loosed upon the earth again. Not in an age that has weapons capable of destroying the entire world. I was never a good shepherd to my flock while I lived. I can protect them better from here.” Then, releasing his grip, Father Donahue gave Hal a parting nod. “I will wait.” And then he walked quickly to the back of the church and through the threshold. Hal wanted to scream. He wanted to shout and tear his hair out in great chunks all over the sanctuary floor. Instead, he took deep, ragged breaths, raging silently at the injustice of it being he who made it to the end. _And now they’re all trapped in Hell because of me..._ He turned to stare at Gadreel, who was still facing the glowing window. He seemed mournful, somehow. Maybe it was the set of his shoulders, maybe the slight droop to his wings beneath the shroud. Then, unexpectedly, the angel spoke. “I hear them, always--crying out in agony... all trapped here, in Hell, because of me.” Hal’s eyes widened at the angel’s words and he blinked hard for a moment. One man’s mistakes... one angel’s... He shook his head. _God, this world is twisted!_ But as he thought about the strange, unexpected similarity between himself and the fallen angel, he had a sudden thought. His head snapped up. Maybe there was still a way to fix this... “So, do you just send me back to Earth, or what? How does this work?” Gadreel turned to face him. “The request is of your choosing. I will simply make it so.” Hal took a steadying breath, forcing himself to act before his determination gave out. “Then make it so I never existed. Make it so--that I was never born.” Gadreel’s gaze was piercing, even through the shroud and cloth around his eyes. “I cannot.” Hal swore and spun away, stalking over to the window again. “Creation is the sole domain of the Almighty,” Gadreel continued in solemn tones as Hal paced away. “I have no power to strip from you that which He has given.” Hal leaned heavily against the windowsill. The stone was cool beneath his hands. Just as it would have been, had he been alive... Lifting his gaze, he saw Father Donahue in the distance, kneeling at the foot of the bridge, the first five minutes of his fifty-year sentence in Hell already begun. But then, staring at him, he remembered the first time he had ever seen the priest, and he hurried to turn back to Gadreel. “Gadreel,” he called, “I know what I want.” -- Hal seized as pain shot through his body. A flash of light lit behind his eyelids but quickly went dark again. He could feel himself slipping. He jerked again, muscles involuntarily bunching in a unified jarring response to the violent shock passing through his body. Light bloomed again, a bright red behind his heavy lids. He heard a steady, rhythmic beeping begin. Something was pressed uncomfortably hard against his face, and he coughed spasmodically as a burst of air was forced into his lungs. The pressure lifted from his face and he moaned. His whole body hurt. It felt like he had been struck by lightning. White light pierced his vision and then faded, only to return immediately in the other eye. Groaning, he turned his head away, blinking against the splotchy after-image hovering in front of his eyes. He blinked again. _A crucifix?_ Frantically he searched for a face, but his head was forcibly rolled back to stare at the ceiling. Someone was pressing against the back of his jaw, forcing his mouth open, and he felt something hard press against his tongue. Nearly panicking, he swiped his arm up, knocking away the hands attempting to intubate him. “No tubes,” he managed weakly. “No tubes, no vents... I refuse.” A familiar voice answered back, sounding slightly impatient. “Sir, I need you to lie still, alright? This is going to help you breathe.” “I can breathe fine,” Hal argued, turning his head away from Doctor Benjamin Turner as he came toward him again. “Please, I need to give confession.” Hal watched the young doctor hesitate and look over to Hal’s other side. Hal turned to look as well, moving gingerly, searching the space over his shoulder, hoping, praying. “My son, there will be plenty of time for that once your health is a bit more stable.” Hal breathed a sigh of relief as he heard the calm, kind voice of Father Donahue reach him from above his head. “Father, I am in immediate fear for my life and I want to confess my sins. Right now.” The priest shifted around the side of the gurney to allow Hal an easier view of him. “It’s not important, not right this very second. Let the doctors do their work and then--” “--It is important. Right now.” “My son, I--” Hal reached out and grasped the sleeve of his jacket. “--Father Nathan Donahue, from one unworthy servant to another...” Father Donahue froze in his motion to call the doctor back over. “Please.” He studied Hal’s face for a long moment. “I’m sorry... have we met?” Hal nodded, giving the priest a fierce stare. “In another life. Father, it’s very important. I need to speak with you. I’ll refuse any more medical treatment until I do.” Father Donahue cast an uneasy glance at Doc Turner. “Would you agree,” he began hesitantly, “to accept treatment if I promise to meet you in your room? I can have a nurse tell me where to expect you.” Hal could feel the worry begin to show on his face, and the cadence of the nearby beeping increased. “My son, you have just suffered a major heart attack. You need medical attention.” Hal turned his head to look at Doc Turner, still arrested in a position of waiting, his gloved hands held casually away from his body. Slowly, Hal nodded. It wouldn’t do him any good just to wind up back in Hell before he had a chance to fix things. He still held a tight grip on the priest’s sleeve. “You’ll wait there for me? Go nowhere else?” Father Donahue nodded. “I will wait.” With a horrible pang, Hal remembered the last time the priest had said those words. He released his sleeve, swallowing back the thick lump in his throat as he relaxed back onto the gurney. “Alright, Doc. I’m all yours. --No tubes, though.” -- “Bless me Father, for I have sinned...” Hal hesitated, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. “That is what I’m supposed to say, right? I’ve never done this before.” Father Donahue lifted an eyebrow at him in a speculative manner. Hal had adamantly refused the blue curtain beside his bed when the priest attempted to screen himself from view, requesting instead that he sit facing him. He needed the reassurance of being able to see Father Donahue’s face for this. “Haven’t you ever gone to confession before?” Hal grunted a laugh, wincing at the lingering pain in his muscles. “Father, I’m not even a Catholic. I didn’t believe in any of this stuff until--” But he cut off his words, turning his head away and clenching his jaw. “I’m right about this, though? Whatever I tell you during confession, you have to believe, or something like that... I think I heard that in a movie once, or... something.” He was babbling and he knew it, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Father Donahue eyed him for a long moment, assessing him. “Why don’t you just tell me what’s on your mind. Start at the beginning.” _The beginning..._ So, Hal took a deep breath, and told him. He told him about the bus, and Doc Turner, and Amelia. He told him about Amun, and the things he’d said, what he’d done to the others... He spoke of their journey together, the church, and of Gadreel, trapped forever in a prison of his own guilt, and finally of the priest’s own self-imposed penance to protect the world from Amun being reborn. He told him everything. And then he cried. Three days later, Father Donahue wheeled Hal to the small covered bus stop by County General’s main entrance. Grunting a bit, he hefted himself out of the oversized hospital wheelchair and sat heavily on the long bench, not even minding the slightly sticky feel of the dirty metal. The Priest had left Hal’s room after his nightmarish confession that first day in a state of silent reflection. ...Or stunned disbelief--Hal could have easily believed both. He was sure his story had completely blindsided the man, but Father Donahue returned the next day while Hal was eating breakfast and began peppering him with questions, trying to poke holes in his story, likely, but seeming more and more fascinated the more he challenged it. The following morning, he returned again, two large coffees in hand and seeming different, somehow--more animated, more... alive. Hal had no other word for it. He gave Hal a brief pat on the shoulder, now, before bending to lift the worn middle of the wheelchair seat to collapse the bulky frame. “I’ll take this back to the greeter desk. Be right back.” Hal leaned his head back against the plexiglass barrier of the bus stop and closed his eyes, only to open them again as he felt someone join him on the bench. He glanced over. The girl gave him an uncomfortable look when his eyes didn’t immediately return to where they had been. She reached up and began twisting the end of one pink-tipped, black pigtail. “Umm, can I help you?” Hal suddenly realized he had been staring. “No-ahm, excuse me. I was just--that’s a very beautiful cross.” Two teenage boys, their greasy, dyed-black hair swinging identically forward into their eyes as they sat, took the bench next to her, one of them rolling his eyes a bit and shaking his head at Hal’s comment. But the girl reached up and fingered the tiny silver cross at her throat and smiled a bit, making Hal feel a little better about his slip. The familiar hiss and whine of heavy brakes engaging brought his attention back up to find the bus rolling to a stop in front of them. Bracing himself with one hand against the back rail, he began to struggle to lift himself from the bench but quickly gave up, flopping back down to give it a second try. Small hands took his elbow in a firm grip. “Um, were you a patient?” she asked, casting a quick glance at the plastic bracelet around his wrist. “...Do you need some help?” Just then, Father Donahue came jogging back around the corner. “Hal? Oh, good, is this one you?” Hal glanced at the bus, watching the two boys climb the rubber-coated steps. “This one’s me,” he confirmed, “And I’ve even enlisted some help to see me safely to a seat.” Father Donahue turned to look at the young woman at Hal’s elbow and his motions hesitated. His eyes passed rapidly from the neon-pink hair, to the artfully torn black clothes, to the black platform boots, then finally to the cross at her throat. Hal knew what he must be thinking; he had described Amelia in great detail during their talks. “Father Nathan Donahue,” he said then, extending a hand in introduction. “It’s very kind of you to offer to help, Miss...?” He left the question hanging. She took his hand with an embarrassed sort of smile. “Amelia.” Father Donahue’s quick intake of breath was subtle, but Hal had been listening. “Amelia,” he repeated, releasing her hand after a brief squeeze. “You know, the hospital is always looking for volunteers. You seem to have a knack for it.” She gave a quick laugh and another shy smile. “Yeah, sure... I’ll look into it.” Then she glanced down at Hal. “Ready?” Between Father Donahue and Amelia, Hal was able to make it onto the bus without difficulty. Taking his seat, he turned to look out the window. Father Donahue was back on the curb, contemplating the sidewalk with a level of attention that told Hal his mind was off somewhere very distant. As the bus started to pull away, though, he looked up. His face was drawn and intent, and he didn’t break his gaze with the bus as it finally turned out of sight. Taking a deep breath, Hal leaned his head back against the seat. Good. This was good.