Description
Lifehouse wrote:I wanted you to know;
I love the way you laugh.
I want to hold you high and steal your pain
Away.
Memphisā face isn't one of true beauty, or even substantial beauty for that matter. His healthy and surprisingly young looking grey hair comes down to hang around his ears, his scarred and tattooed face has him looking very disturbed and even frightening. His eyes, a very light green, stand out against his tanned and leathery skin when his power is focused on them. Otherwise, his eyes fade to a blank white, pure and unflawed as Christmas snow. His mouth is a bit lopsided, but when he smiles, his white teeth distract from anyone looking too closely at the scars that off-center his lips, yet more evidence of his troubled times on earth. In short, he is a young man in a withering body, a body that's seen much too much peril.
His body structure is one of a man who not only runs often, but pushes great weight with his legs as well. While his upper body could be described as āleanā, being cut and trimmed, with veins poking through his hard muscles, his legs are massive tree trunks of bone, skin, and muscle, evidence of a man who uses his legs often to escape, fight, and various other strenuous tasks. His kicks are powerful without his power, but his steps are light in contrast, every flex in his leg clearly displayed underneath the clothing he wears.
Memphis, in an attempt to blend in, made some very strange choices in regards to fashion. Originally, he wore a purple windbreaker on top of black track pants, but when he received scorn for his outfit, he changed it to a navy blue flak jacket that he stole off of a police officer, (The yellow print stating āN.Y.P.Dā clear on the back) a white t-shirt underneath. His pants choice varies, but he favours dark jeans, taking small pleasure in the comfort and feel that jeans give to him. His shoes are bright red converse, and have been with him since his first week on earth. Around his neck, the one article of clothing that he will never remove, is silver plated cross. Imprinted on the cross in raised lettering is āGABEā, the nickname of his love.
Memphis is roughly 5000 years old, and he didn't bother keeping track once he hit 4982. He looks to be about forty.
Equipment
Weapon:
Broadsword, steel toed boots.
SPECIAL ABILITY: Enhanced Strength.
When Memphis was a full angel, he was a beast of a man- almost 7 feet high and weighing 290. However, through his fall and his trials, Memphis lost a lot of size, becoming a much reduced 6ā4 and weighing in at 190. However, his size reduction has not impacted his power whatsoever.
Memphis has the unique ability to create extra force behind blows utilizing his enhanced strength. This ability is not limited to any part of his body; he routinely enhances his eye strength to see at night, his wing strength to fly faster and farther. But being nearly human has changed Memphisā tactics when using his ability; he focuses now on his legs.
Because of his love for flying, and out of his yearning for it, Memphis trained himself to make impossible leaps ā up to twenty feet in the air ā by channelling his energy into his legs. This allows him to have a chance in combat against other angels and demons with flight capabilities, and levels the playing field a tad, as was Memphisā intention.
However, Memphisā ability is not limitless. The strength of the ability is only at its peak power when itās focusing on one body part. If two body parts are being channelled to (ie: Eyes and arms) the power is quartered, while the rest of the body behaves as normal. Therefore, Memphis can only channel his power to a maximum of two body functions, and his standard is legs and eyes.
If he takes the power off of his eyes for only a second, however, Memphis becomes almost completely blind, because of a side effect of tearing his wings off. Also, he can only sustain a body function at full power for a maximum of 30 minutes, or he starts getting dangerously exhausted.
History
Winter raged about him as Memphis screamed in pain, the saw dragged across his back, ripping through his left wing. Around him, black feathers and bloody cartilage fluttered in the snow-laden wind, a stark, bleak reminder of his terrible deed in the face of losing everything he had ā finally.
He considered it a sacrifice. He had to consider it a sacrifice, or the insanity of his actions would catch up to him and suffocate him, forcing him to admit that what he was doing was selfish, undeserved, evil, even.
He was an angel. An angel who was supposed to not only help people, but allow them to be saved, to provide shelter from the evil of this world. He was supposed to be good.
He had failed.
With another cry, he shoved the saw deeper into his wing, slicing through it. He fell forwards, coughing, surrounded by black feathers, blood, and pain. Pain of who he was, what he once was, and what he would become. He used to be an angel. Now, he was a fallen, a mortal, someone who was able to die, who would be thrown into the fires of life without an exit. He wasnāt able to fly, he wasnāt able to live as he did.
The jagged remains of his wings still protruded from his spine as he gasped in pain, his body filled with feelings heād never before experienced. Cold. Hunger. Exhaustion. These punishments handed down to mortals for not being good enough. These punishments, which it was his duty to prevent. His duty...
Memphis used to be an angel, and now he was something in between. He used to be glorious, and now he was damned. He opened his lungs and screamed, the black feathers slowly being covered by the blizzard, the blood seeping into the cracks in the cement, the wordless yell awakening humans of every shape and form. He screamed, and sirens wailed in the night as his lungs expelled the sound, a warning, a cry, a prayer for mercy. When his lungs gave out and his voice failed him, he fell to the ground, in the fetal position, sobbing her name over and over again, weeping his tears, his hatred, his crushing defeat all over the bleak, snow covered ground.
His final thought before his mind finally shut down from exhaustion and his body could stand no more, shirtless and broken on the snow covered ground, was that he deserved this.
All of it.
===
Some say love is not for sinners, and in Memphisā case, he would disagree strongly with those people. Heād also rip them limb from limb.
[[The Man, the Monster... and the Myth.]]
An extraordinary tale thatās spread through mentors and whispered among students, Memphisā struggle has become somewhat of a legend among those who visit and live in the Seventh. Memphis was a high level Mentor, on his way to becoming an archangel like Gabriel and Micheal, when he suddenly was cast down, downgraded to a low-level mentor for unexplained causes. Some say it was because of his love of a human, and Gabriel was jealous. Others say that Memphis insulted the great angel. The real reason, however, is much worse.
[[Choose, my son; The woman or us?]]
On an assignment for the archangels who were ready and willing to accept Memphis into their ranks, a very unexpected thing happened; Memphis fell in love. The womanās name was Gabriella, and she was a Satanist, a gothic girl who Memphis truly believed he could change. After spending some time together, Gabriella realized that an angel had visited her, to guide her away from her life and turn towards one more suitable to an Angelās path. Before they could be together, however, Gabriella died, shot down by a madman with a gun.
[[An Angel Scorned is a man with wings.]]
All was not lost to Memphis, however, until the last shoe dropped; Gabriella was damned by the archangels to not be cherished in death, but to be released to the wild, never to be mentioned in the Seventh again. Hurt, angry, and confused by these emotions, Memphis challenged Gabriel and the archangels to a duel, angrily declaring that if he won, Gabriella was to be inducted into the righteous; a circle that Memphis created, of the most cherished and honourable humans. If the archangels won, however, Memphis was to never speak of his love again. The fight raged for two days, and at the beginning of the third, Memphis lay defeated. Rather than live without mention of his love, he left the seventh.
[[He will feel the hurt long after the pain is washed away.]]
Blinded by despair and rage, Memphis took a human saw to his wings, cutting them to twin jagged lines that now jut from his back, evidence of a life that once was. Among the angels, his story became almost a myth, a word of warning to young students who believed that they could fool around with humans as their playthings. The mentors point to the sad and extreme case of the angel once known as Jude, who now goes by the place on earth he landed in; Memphis.
[[For a man and a state are one and the same.]]
Two years after his fall, Memphis decided to get back on his feet. Utilizing the meagre powers that were left to him through his fall, Memphisā true goal is to gain some answers from his ex-colleagues. He wanted to visit his master, Raiden, and his classmates, Kolfer and Leon. Above all, however, he wanted to meet with Gabriel, to explain why he acted the way he did.
Memphis just hopes that two years isnāt too long a time for closure.
===
JUDAS:
Occasionally, Memphis will mention a demon named Judas. When Memphis was still named David, Judas was a famous fallen angel, that has since been wiped from the record books, who decided that he hated humanity. He fell to earth and attempted to raise an army to attack a nearby city. Memphis, then a mere student, waged open war on the rogue angel, defeating him and his army and proving himself an early candidate for an Archangel. He rose quickly through the ranks, with Micheal and Gabriel watching him very closely.
So begins...
The echoey, loud silence of the forest always made the man feel like he was slightly off balance, as if someone had pulled the rug out from one of his feet. He was perpetually feeling as if he had to compensate for the quiet of the forest with the way he moved, somehow. Every little footstep was too loud or too quiet, and he hated it.
As he moved, his arms stiff at his sides, salt-and-pepper stubble looking more silver in the sunlight, he pondered. Contemplated. He'd been doing a lot of this lately, thinking about Skyler and Caleb, thinking about Andrew Reynolds and Dr. Light. Thinking about everyone he'd encountered while on this alien world.
He thought about Gabriella most of all.
He didn't cry, anymore. He had stopped long ago, long before his wings had healed over with ugly, olive-tinged skin. Long before he and Cryovizard had fought one final battle, a conflict that had left him scarred and ugly. Long before he had given Gabriella a proper burial and had made his plans for vengeance against the seventh. The tears just didn't fall. Not like they used to. Sadness was a part of his existence.
He stopped, suddenly, at a pair of sneakers poking out from behind a tree. Another being. He inwardly winced. Every time he met someone new on this world, he wound up being pulled into their story, their antics, their general attitude on life. However, something about this particular pair of sneakers... intrigued him. He couldn't put his finger on the reason, but he had to explore it, nonetheless.
He strode up to the figure, attempting to clear his throat. It came out nasally anyways.
"Nice weather," He rasped, the phlegm clogging his throat. He turned his head to cough as discreetly as possible, allowing the awkwardness of the moment to wash over him. Here we go again...
A flash of dark on pale got his attention, dark eyes darting across her forearm to take it in as he caught her hand in his rough one, a raised pink 'X' revealed on the back of his hand. Another gift from Cryovizard. He liked her grip, colder than his own overheated skin.
"They call me Memphis, sometimes," he said, withdrawing his hand. He chuckled at her question, his face turning towards the sun and the oncoming storm clouds. "We can certainly try to make sense of them, can't we? I've spent far too much time trying and failing, it seems."
He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, coming to grips as to why he was so comfortable, so curious about her. The revelation shocked him a bit, but he allowed it to slip over his brain and settle there, using it as a cloak. "So, what's your story? Why are you trying to escape civilization?"
Gabriella, he thought, the surprising warmth of the thought, the ease of which he accepted it, was a pleasant undergoing. She reminded him of Gabriella.
He regarded the offer with a brief flash of anxious scepticism; immediately followed by a healthy shrug and a seat on the grass. He stretched his legs out from under him, noting the tattered holes in the once bright red converse. Good shoes, he mused. It would be a shame to bin them.
"The civilization I talk about," He began, weighing the words on his tongue. He had a feeling this would be a rather interesting chat, to say the least. She looked at least as world weary as he, maybe moreso. Something was... timeless about her. And not just the fact that she looked like Gabriella, either.
"I speak of a civilization of a ying and a yang, I think. One side will offer you the shirt off its back, the other will take it all in a blink of an eye, rape your family, slaughter your children. The yang of this world, the Darkness, has far more agents that peddle its wares than there are champions to combat it." He looked at her, a smile hinting at his lips. "Is this the same civilization you're familiar with?
"SMOOOOKE ON THE WATER!" he cried, headbanging.
Memphis wasn't in a very talkative mood, at the moment.
He was sitting atop a tree, something he very rarely did nowadays, his arms folded against his knees, well-worn red converse sneakers poking out from underneath black cargo pants. His face was drawn, contemplative, dried blood from a recent encounter with an unruly demon bright and contrasting with the rest of the dust on his face. He hadn't bothered to wash from the encounter with R'Daul, instead had come straight here, to the Mountain Pass.
Fighting hadn't held the same sway over him as it normally did. Not anymore. Instead he felt weary, exhausted from the encounter. Perhaps it was the age - he was pushing even the limits of Fallen, nowadays - or perhaps it was from a fatigue that dripped from his very bones, his soul. Either way, he didn't like the feeling.
His thoughts drifted to his time on Earth, ever since his tumble from the heavens, his Fall. Why his thoughts so often turned to this, he didn't rightly know. Was he not done torturing himself with memories of his past? Was he not through being the punching bag of his own existence?
This line of thought was cut short by movement on the path. Another young man, walking in the same kind of weary stance he himself was thinking. Tiredness swept through him, but still he spoke out. Something he recognized in this soul, he supposed.
"Hello there," He nearly whispered, his voice dry and bleeding.
Memphis knew that what he was attemptng was reckless - even dangerous. But there was a burning in his soul, a hole that his heart hadn't filled in many a year, and he was long since desperate, the sensation filling his soul with bitter chill. Appropriate, based upon their surroundings.
He had arrived in the Cold Plains for a single purpose; to attempt to summon Marcella, te one of legend. He'd heard of her through the grapevine, many travellers seeking her strength and the wishes that she could extend. He'd initially disregarded the rumors, but lately he found he was without hope.
He needed something.
The ritual had been simple enough; it was said that if you wander the blizzard, an oddly precise grouping of wind and snow in the midst of the cold plains calling out to her in praise, you would be able to summon her.
It seemed foolhardy, crazy. But it was what he would do.
Huddling in his fur-lined coat, the fallen angel began to cry out, the winds howling and whipping at his graying strands of hair.
"Wise, revered, and exalted one! Marcella! I live to praise thee! I live to serve thee, mistress of the ice and snow! I long to love you! I long to worship you! Please, hear my prayer!" The words repeated, whipped away by the snow.
Just as Memphis had repeated his plea for a fourth time, the storm suddenly halted, leaving him feeling the effects of vertigo. He swayed dangerously, used to walking into the wind and unaccustomed to the sudden lack of force, and spun slightly to catch his balance. When he was fully righted and had brushed the layer of snow from his body, he glanced upward, into the eye of the storm.
There, in front of him, sat a house.
His boots crunched in the thick powder as he began to take jerky steps towards it, gloved hands in fur-lined pockets, the collar of his coat tucked around his throat. He was silent on his walk, as he made it to the frontdoor of the strangely simplistic home.
Glancing around him, he wondered what the ettiquette was. With a shaking hand, he rapped at the door.
"Um," was the eloquent response of the fallen as he allowed himself to be led indoors, grateful to be out of the cold. His wet boots clomped upon the floors as he walked, examining the hallways and ceilings, drinking in the presence of the place. Part of him was looking for exits, he admitted to himself.
"Thank you," he said to the boy as he was led towards the parlour.
Memphis stepped into the hallway after what seemed like ages, and his eyes nearly bugged out of his head.
The parlour - or so the boy had described it - had no walls except for glass, ceiling-high windows that surrounded the outside of the room, looking off into the snowy expanse of the Cold Plains. The sight of it made Memphis silently thankful that he was indoors, rather than out.
At the center of the parlour sat a large circular table, on which a delicate looking tea set, complete with little cups, was placed. There were only two chairs, and in one of which was the form of a woman.
Memphis stepped into the hallway after what seemed like ages, and his eyes nearly bugged out of his head.
The parlour - or so the boy had described it - had no walls except for glass, ceiling-high windows that surrounded the outside of the room, looking off into the snowy expanse of the Cold Plains. The sight of it made Memphis silently thankful that he was indoors, rather than out.
At the center of the parlour sat a large circular table, on which a delicate looking tea set, complete with little cups, was placed. There were only two chairs, and in one of which was the form of a woman.
Memphis's PortraitHe swallowed silently as he took in her appearance, and then immediately fell upon one knee, his salt-and-pepper hair bent low, wet and dripping with melted snow.
"My lady Marcella," he whispered, voice echoing in the eerily empty space. "Thank you for hearing my pleas."
The fallen angel yelped as the embers flew towards him, certain they would scald his skin. As he leapt backwards in a foolhardy attempt to avoid them, he realized his error. Of course, he should've known that she wouldn't bring him here to harm him. The embers provided a blast of heat, and dissapated, leaving his coat dry and his boots and pants feeling... pleasant, against his chafed skin.
He sat, clearing his throat, cheeks tinged pink from embarrassment over the incident. The seat was solid and comfortable, moulding easily to his form, and he shifted against it, his gaze steadfastedly staring at the tea set in between them. He wouldn't meet her eyes. He hadn't come to anyone for help with his problem in almost a century, and asking for assistance was a mortifying experience for the battle-hardened soul.
In a low, quiet voice, he began. "I've come to ask a... favor, Marcella. If it would please you."
He nodded, his gaze falling to his hands. Her speech patterns reminded him of the heavens, of talking with elegance and grace among peers as they protected the mortal realm. In that life, he'd been one of the greater angels to exist, living through example of his duels with demons and his valor in the face of evil.
Now, he was a broken shell.
Why are you deserving of them?
"My name is... Memphis, formerly Matthias," he said, his voice flat. "I was one of the heavenly guard, for four thousand years. An angel," he clarified, in case she hadn't heard of the Guard. "I... fell in love, with a human. Gabriella. She was the most beautiful-"
He choked, then, his face crumpling slightly. "Forgive me," he managed between deep breathes, sighing out his grief in a hefty blow. "She died. I was hoping you could assist me in getting her back."
His mind swam at the change in scenery, and he very nearly scowled at her mocking tone (and even worse; mirth) of his situation. His fingers tightened against his palm, but his gaze was kept in check, leveled directly at her.
"Clearly, you see how far I've fallen," he said through gritted teeth. "I haven't been with the guard for some time, my lady, and their ways are far lost upon me. I am no more 'herald of heaven' than you, at this point. Worse still, since I turned my back."
With a roll of big shoulders, he sat forwards in his seat. "I would ask what you think of my request"
He listened to her word, quietly, waiting as she seemingly indulged in mindless self-promoting drivel. He didn't understand why she needed to insist how amazing she was when he was clearly here, having heard of her power, seeking her help.
But there was time for annoyances later.
"I would answer your question, now." He said.
"For generations, five thousand years, I lived a life of exaltation, being the head of humanity, guiding them on the path based on others' expectations. I've stopped many a demon, many a witch, such as yourself. I lived to see our perception of evil destroyed, decimated, and razed to the ground, one by one."
He paused, and then met her eyes with the full power of his grey orbs. Matthias stared out at her, rather than the broken fallen. "Now, I've lived a hundred years doing the deeds for evil. Cultivating an assault against the heavens, destroying in a century what I've built over a millenia. I now live to conquer what I've sown."
"I deserve this favor because I've walked both paths in life. I've served the darkness and walked in the light. I deserve this, because I deserve my own happy ending."
"And I defy anyone who says otherwise."
He listened to her as she spoke, the words twisting inside him. The anger that he still had for her, held because she was holier-than-thou, flaunting her power, and making him essentially beg for assistance. Deep in his heart he knew that this was her cause on the planet, to have people brought before her imploring for wishes. Still, the old Matthias inside him yearned to have her taste his blade. She took advantage of the sick and needy for her own power trip.
Memphis hated her, a little bit.
Which made it even harder when he watched the ashes, and he looked up at her. "I do not understand. What of Gabriella? What of my wish?"
Memphis paused, tapping his fingers on the desk, searching for a way to make this simpler for him. He felt lost, confused. She could be screwing with him, just jerking his chain, and he had come here with nothing but rawness in his heart. He had bared his soul; and received a cryptic message about a bird and some dust.
The little bit of anger with the situation and the hatred towards her rose slightly, like a thermometer rising to the top.
"I do not lack the love, Mistress," He said, hissing out the first part of the sentence. "I lack the brainpower to solve riddles. Am I to pour this pile of dust upon Gabriella's grave? What of a soul? How can one pour substance on a soul?"
He stared at her.
Stared.
It made sense, in a confusing way. He needed to bring the ashes to Gabriella's grave and cry on them. Or something equally stupid. He hadn't expected the witch to be so... Disney about it. Though, upon further reflection, he didn't know what exactly he had been expecting.
Only his desperation.
"Well." He said, decisively. Standing, and not removing his gaze, he moved towards the ashes, intending to sweep them into a coat pocket. And then he stopped.
"Mistress, would I be able to take a container, of sorts?"
Memphis nodded firmly. His love was not in question; he knew that he had enough of it. Since Gabriella had left him, there was nothing to fill the empty hole in his heart, nothing to fill the silence of his bedroom. He lived every day as a phantom, with no more impact on the world than a shadow.
He needed to become real again. Whole again.
Why couldn't she just speak plainly? Why do witches always insist on riddles and cackling and stretching like cats? What ever happened to the witches of old, who said "No man of woman born will top Macbeth"?
He sighed, heavily.
"I see. I will not need another chance, I promise you this." He faced her fully. "May I take my leave?"
Memphis nodded firmly. His love was not in question; he knew that he had enough of it. Since Gabriella had left him, there was nothing to fill the empty hole in his heart, nothing to fill the silence of his bedroom. He lived every day as a phantom, with no more impact on the world than a shadow.
He needed to become real again. Whole again.
Why couldn't she just speak plainly? Why do witches always insist on riddles and cackling and stretching like cats? What ever happened to the witches of old, who said "No man of woman born will top Macbeth"?
He sighed, heavily.
"I see. I will not need another chance, I promise you this." He faced her fully. "I am ready."
He acted on instinct, his body crumpling in front of the pile of ashes, feeling as if he was wrenched at suddenly. In his mind's eye, he saw her, flowing black dress gathered at her ankles, sweeping down her form onto the floor. When he inhaled through his nose, he smelled dark spice, the scent of her perfume that his nostrils had never let go of, clinging to it like so many small hands grasping at the ankles of her memory. His fingertips summoned the feel of her clothing, her bare back, her hair when she let him take it down. He remembered the war he fought for her, the blows he took for her, the battles won for her, all for her and nobody else. He let his courage, his vulnerability, and his pride swell and break upon the shores of his memories.
The tears came easily in that maelstrom.
Three fat ones dropped onto the pile of ash, and he allowed the sobs to wrack his body, her loss hitting him all over again. But he did it. He did the hardest thing he could ever do for her; relive the night she left him. He watched the man's knife plunge into her breast, watched his own hands tear the man apart in a sudden and destructive rage.
He watched, and felt every blow upon himself. Felt the love pour in as the wounds were reopened. Let it take his soul.
Love.
Memphis staggered backwards, over the spot where the ashes had been, and kept going until he hit one of the windows that surrounded the glass. With a lurch, he used the glasspane to straighten up, his hands moving to press against the glass, fingers gripping idly.
She was a vision, a perfect beauty, but something was immediately off in the way that she looked at him. With respect. With love, with adoration.
But the wrong kinds. She looked on him as if he was a... paternal figure?
And when she spoke, his worst fears were realized.
"No..." He whispered, hand clasping against his mouth as he sunk to the tiles. "What have you done, witch."
The comment was directed towards Marcella, but his eyes never left his long lost love.
He lowered his head, running both hands through salt and pepper strands. "Not like this."
It was whispered and directed at the floor, barely audible over his slight gasping. "She's my blood. I can't... I can't look at her in this way. Can't love her the way I want to." He shook his head, his sorrow-filled eyes meeting hers, hands tightening on his clothing. "Please. Change her back to what she was to me. I beg of you."
He watched her with a pained expression, his thoughts racing and wild as a herd of stallions. He'd never expected this to work, he'd never expected to see her again. Like a vice, her visage overcame him, squeezing the voice out of his throat with iron manacles. He swallowed, and when the action failed to grant him vocals, he did it again with more pain to it, the dry and raspy skin of his throat aching with the meagre pass of moisture.
"She's still... why does she consider me a father?" He asked, the question shaky in the air between them, wavering and pleading. "Why does she... oh god."
He thought about caring for her in any way other than the capacity of a lover, and he came up short. A part of him registered that she may be offended by is ingratitude, but that part was washed away by the waves of disbelief and anger.
As the woman embraced him, cradling her head against her neck, he couldn't stop the pure heat that shot through him. The last time they were like this, he -
No. No, no, no. He couldn't. He wouldn't.
He was.
He breathed her in with a shuddering gasp, his nostrils filled with her. A scent he hadn't breathed in in so very long. Decades, centuries, eons - all flooded back to him as his weak knees gave out, forcing his crouch into a kneel as he wrapped first one, then the other arm around her waist, hauling her against him. He felt two things; one, a desire to hold her as he would hold a lover, embrace her and take her away from this place. The second was different, unique to his place as a human.
He wanted to protect her. As he would protect a ward, a child of his that he wanted to see succeed, a roaring in his chest that he could only describe as paternal. His embrace shifted to one of fatherhood - or what he imagined fatherhood to be. As he let her lean on him, he glared over the woman's shoulder, towards Marcella.
"I will not forgive you this travesty, Witch. Had I known that she..." The anger simmered and cooled as he realized the weight of what he was saying. Had he known that she what? If he had known what state she'd return to him, would he have denied the resurrection?
"Gabriella," He whispered, turning his attention to the woman, breathing her soft hair.
His eyes slid shut as he could not argue against her very valid point. It served him right, really. He was dealing with a woman who dabbled in riddles and manipulated mortals for her own joy, so why on earth did he expect a fair dealing? Why did he figure that the deal didn't come with a catch?
He had been naive. And now he was facing a payment.
Standing on sturdy legs, now iron in the face of the promise of payment to her, he relinquished his hold on his lov- daughter. He squeezed his shoulder when she whined slightly, reaching for him. It broke his heart slightly to see her expression, clearly wanting him close.
Stepping past her, he faced the witch, nodding his head towards her. "What Payment are you planning to extract?"
Gone was the broken man of Memphis. He faced her as an Angel, now. A proud warrior who would not back down from a challenge.
