Pain wasn’t a sensation that angels frequently experienced. They could go for millennia without suffering even the slightest discomfort in their bodies and, until the demons had revealed themselves during the first war, many of them had never known any kind of physical suffering. Though it may have been commonplace for the Minors, pain affected angels only on the rare occasions when they had suffered some kind of accident.
But Diago was discovering pain like none he had ever known, not even during the Wave. It was the first thing he felt when he slowly regained consciousness and, little by little, his control over his own body was returning.
The torturous agony Diago was experiencing ranged from a terrible burning sensation in his abdomen to an intense, burning ache in the bruises all over his extremities. His head was pounding and he was in a state of confusion. But his wings were delivering the worst of his suffering. Excruciating cramps were shooting through them and into his back, causing violent spasms.
He slowly opened his eyelids and looked around, realizing that he could only see out of one eye. He was in a large, empty room with bare brick walls and a metal door, which was directly across from him. Above him, he noticed a rather large droplet of water forming in the middle of the ceiling. Every now and then the accumulated water created a heavy enough droplet for gravity to pull it down to the floor.
A spasm grabbed his back and his whole body shook involuntarily. His mind was clearing, quickly increasing his sensitivity to the pain. Another quick examination of the room revealed that the ceiling was rather high. He looked down and saw his feet floating some six feet off the floor, swinging ever so slightly. He raised his eyes and saw a lamp just above his head. Two chains were hanging on either side of him; at the end of these were hooks that went through his wings and kept him suspended in the air. That explained part of the pain that was gripping him.
He felt a surge of rage when faced with the disheartening prospects of his current situation. His memories were still somewhat confused but he was swiftly assaulted by the image of Nilia yanking his arm after he had—like a complete fool—reached out his hand to shake on their agreement. He’d fallen for her trick and he knew he was going to pay dearly for it.
He didn’t know how long he’d been here. The first thing he remembered was Nilia sticking his wings into the hooks and then hoisting him up like a side of beef.
“Welcome, Diago,” she’d said to him with a smile. “I’m so happy that you and your honor have accompanied me here.” She’d put her hand up to her face, the dagger in her hand glowing with a blue halo. “You can’t possibly know how excited I am to dedicate one of my marks to you. If you have any particular preference, I could put you on the same side as one of your friends. There must be a few of them among the lines on my arm . . . Unfortunately, that will have to wait. I’ll just have to be content to give you a small advance.” She then stabbed him in the eye and pulled the dagger out, stained with blood.
Diago had contorted in pain, his agony intensified by the thought of her looking at him with a syrupy-sweet, falsely compassionate smile.
“They’ll rescue me,” he’d managed to whisper. Blood was spilling from the socket like a fountain. “They will have followed us . . . They won’t abandon me.”
“So, you’re holding out hope? What an idiot!” She began stroking his hair. “I’m so very sorry, but they’re not coming—at least, not for a while. They went running back to the Nest.”
“You’re lying.”
“I don’t need to lie. We provided them with a new friend that looks just like you, and they took off for home with him.” She grabbed him by his bloodied beard and pulled his head up, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “Remember, I gave you a chance to take your little boyfriends with you and leave us alone. I warned you but you paid no attention to me. Now, you get some rest.”
Diago remembered how Nilia had cleaned her hand on his chest and then had dealt him a blow that had knocked him unconscious again. He didn’t know how long he’d been out but it could have been hours . . . or days.
The door opened with a metallic, grinding sound. A silhouette of someone covered in a cloak and a black hood entered the room and came over to him.
“I am immensely pleased to see you’ve awakened,” said the hooded man. “My preoccupation with your wellbeing plunged me into a tremendous state of nervousness and agitation.”
“Your voice sounds familiar.”
“That is easily explained, since it is the voice of an old and dear friend that is flowing through your ears right at this most memorable moment.”
“I don’t think so.” Diago was sure he knew that voice but his muddled, confused mind couldn’t identify it. There was something very familiar about it, something almost . . . pleasant, which was impossible. “A friend would free me from these chains.”
“How right you are to point out my complete thoughtlessness. My lack of attention is inexcusable.” The self-proclaimed friend withdrew a hand covered in a black glove from between the folds of his cloak. Diago heard sparks above his head and he fell to the floor with a hard thump. He slipped in a puddle of blood and feathers twice before he finally managed to sit up.
“I beg your forgiveness for not having lent you my humble hand, but I am not in favor of blood stains. I suffer from a disproportionate obsession with keeping my magnificent clothing spotless.”
“I see, ‘friend,’” said Diago bitterly. “May I at least know the name of the man who’s going to torture me?”
“My perception will never be elevated enough to understand why my intentions are always the object of such profound misunderstandings,” he said, seemingly offended. “Torture you? I believe it is unquestionable that your situation has experienced a notable improvement since I arrived. Even so, this is the second time that you’ve called my attention to my manners, and not without reason. My name is Capa and there is nothing further from my intention than to cause you any harm at all.”
“A friend wouldn’t hide his face behind a hood.” Diago’s bewilderment continued to grow. He still could not place the hooded man’s voice no matter how hard he tried, and his name did not ring a bell. Nevertheless, there was nothing intimidating about his voice. Something about his strange behavior—or perhaps it was his speech—made Diago feel all right with him. He was probably swaying him in some way Diago still didn’t understand. He fought against the comfortable feeling.
“A very notable assessment you have just made, and it is not lacking in intelligence. You are appealing for a second time to our friendship so that I might act on your behalf, and your voice betrays your reticence to believe me when I present myself as a friend. Finally, considering my two unforgiveable errors in manners that you have quite justifiably hastened to point out, I will consent to your wishes. I hope that this noble gesture on my part will serve to calm your fears with respect to my person.”
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Diago’s heart skipped a beat when Capa pulled back his hood and showed his young face, his blue eyes. If he’d been given a thousand chances to guess to whom that voice belonged he’d have missed each and every one of them. It was still hard to believe that it was really him, his best friend from before the War. But there was no doubt it was him. His boyish face, his jet-black hair and that unforgettable, beguiling expression on his face that made it impossible to imagine he could ever look sad . . . they were unmistakable. His name was the only thing that had changed. Nevertheless, he should have recognized the voice of his old friend—the friend he’d missed so much.
The time they’d spent together before they’d been separated by the War could not be measured in years or centuries. Memories flooded Diago’s mind. They used to enjoy watching the Minors together, spending long stretches of time contemplating them from the Balcony and, from the beginning of time, they shared a passion for traveling to Earth to mix with the Minors and experience their lives. There wasn’t a single thing one of them could suggest that the other wouldn’t agree to do. Their friendship became a way of life. Diago was convinced they would spend all eternity enjoying each other’s company, but then came the War. When he found out his dearest friend was part of the opposing side, something broke inside of Diago that would never heal again. Reflecting back on his feelings and emotions, he knew nothing had ever inflicted such a horrific suffering on him as his friend turning out to be a traitor; not even the Wave nor the disappearance of the Elder had caused him such torment.
And now they were meeting again. Diago could not sort out his feelings. A jumble of conflicting emotions coursed through him.
“I see you changed your name,” he finally said, in a effort to end the uncomfortable silence.
“Very perceptive,” replied Capa.
“How could you do it?”
“A matter of esthetics, really . . .”
“Not your name!” he cut him off, furious. “The War! How could you betray us?”
“Oh, that! I didn’t understand. Since you asked me my name . . . I thought . . . Well, it doesn’t matter. The War. That wasn’t for esthetic reasons, you can be sure. It was ideals, and those kinds of things. Don’t misinterpret if I tell you politics is not among my favorite choices of topics for a chat with a dear old friend. The thing is, my boss is expecting me to draw on all my talents to make sure this conversation goes down more interesting paths.”
“Politics? You’re calling your betrayal politics?”
“Of course,” responded Capa, seemingly surprised. “What other way is there to classify the rebellion of a group of people against a dictator?”
“Dictator?” Diago was disgusted and astonished at the same time. “I can’t believe this. I knew you, or at least I thought I did. That’s how you define the Elder—as a dictator?”
“Oh, come now; don’t get angry. I won’t deny that ‘dictator’ might not be the most precise word. It is possible that if I try harder I might be able to come up with a term more in keeping with reality. Let’s see . . . my memories show me someone who made all the decisions in a unilateral manner and then safeguarded them under the incontestable label of ‘unquestionable.’ You’re right; ‘dictator’ does not do justice to the way of handling things to which the Elder had us accustomed. ‘Tyrant’ should have been the word employed.”
Diago did not respond immediately. After the War he’d always held out hope for Capa. He’d tried to convince himself his treachery might have been due to them deceiving him by brainwashing or some other kind of pressure they applied to him, forcing him to support the traitors. These and other lies he’d told himself had helped him endure his horrible loss. In some dark corner of his mind, he’d clung to the absurd dream that he’d meet up with him again some day and find out that he really had been innocent of taking part in the worst act ever perpetrated. But listening to how Capa justified his betrayal so confidently and with such certainty convinced him he was no longer dealing with the same person that had meant so much to him in the past. At least his words healed the old wound. He would suffer for him no more.
“You’ve changed,” said Diago calmly. “There is nothing about my old friend left in you.”
“Naturally there have been some changes in my person.” Capa made an incredulous face, as if he were explaining the most obvious thing in the world. “It can be no other way with the magnificent vacation that you all guaranteed us in the Hole. I would suggest you do your best to believe me if I tell you there is no way you can imagine, not by a long shot, the wonderful thing you did for us by placing us in Hell; it’s a therapy for which you’ve gained our most sincere affections.”
“So, you were all expecting to be rewarded for your actions?”
“I can’t speak for everyone else; I suppose you understand that, but personally I was expecting a victory. Sadly, it was not to be, and now I feel the inescapable obligation to repay you all with the infinite gratitude you deserve. Especially you, my dear friend.”
“You are completely out of your mind. You’re alive thanks to me, do you remember that? I could have killed you in the War but I didn’t. I let you walk away in honor of our friendship.”
It was the last time he’d seen Capa. Diago was fighting on the first level of the Citadel. He looked down and saw two Guardians defending themselves as best they could from four rebels who had them cornered in an alley. One of the Guardians was bleeding from his right arm and it was just hanging there, limp. The other one had a broken wing, but their ferocious attacks were keeping their four assailants at bay. Diago had an order to protect the Armory and was not to abandon his post under any circumstances, but he knew the Guardians in the alley wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer. The angel with the broken wing was no longer fighting with any precision, no doubt due to his exhaustion, and he was losing ground. In a few seconds their backs would be against the wall and they would be lost.
Diago decided to go to their aid. He couldn’t let two of his brethren die without at least trying to save them. He spread his wings and sharply descended on the four enemies. As he bridged the distance, he saw one of them circling the Guardian with the wounded arm. He was piercing him in the side with a fiery sword. The other angel turned when he heard his comrade howling behind him and the traitors took advantage of his distraction and pounced on him. Diago fell on the group, crashing into all of them and stabbing one of the enemies in the back.
Fury guided him during the rest of the bloody battle. He struck fierce blows as he screamed in rage; he became a storm of destruction. He brutally took down two more of the enemies and then saw the last traitor, who had his back to him, cleanly cutting off the head of the Guardian with the broken wing. Besieged by a new wave of fury, he leapt on the last and final adversary and dealt him a murderous blow in the back. The force sent the rebel’s body flying across the ground and into the wall. He tried to get up but Diago was on him; one savage kick and his face hit the ground again. He lifted his sword of fire up with both hands, prepared to avenge his two fallen companions with one last strike. The sword began its lethal descent, cutting through the air with a high-pitched whistling. But when the traitor turned, Diago stopped the blade barely and inch from his face. It was the familiar face of his closest friend.
Diago lowered his weapon. He tried to say something but words simply refused to form in his mind. He had to finish him off; it was his duty, his obligation. No one could rise up against God and go unpunished for his actions. His entire upbringing, all his beliefs, the very basis of his existence required him to raise his sword again to execute his friend, but he could not do it.
Something as simple and as pure as friendship had come between Diago and his own will. He felt his hand trembling as his friend stood up and met his gaze. The traitor was still for a moment and then fled—and Diago made no attempt to stop him.
“I didn’t even capture you,” he continued. “I could have stopped you but I didn’t. You owe me your life.”
“It is my duty to disagree with your simplified version of our last encounter.” Capa frowned and looked up, as if deep in thought. “In honor of the truth, I don’t mind acknowledging that you did have the opportunity to kill me and you did not make use of it, but I only owe my much valued life in part to you; the part that makes you a weakling. If your intention is, as I truly believe, that sincerity should guide our words, then you must admit you could not kill me and we both know that there was absolutely nothing keeping you from doing it except for your own lack of courage when faced with what you imagined to be our friendship. You betrayed all that you believed in.”
