10023/Path of Glory: Though I Walk Through the Valley

Path of Glory: Though I Walk Through the Valley
Date of Scene:	05 February 2022
Location:	The Astral Plane
Synopsis:	The first of Jon's torments is physical in nature. Forty lashes and a revelation about Jon's true nature is revealed. (Warning: Scene is Rated R. Contains disturbing content. Reading discretion advised.)
Cast of Characters:	Michael Demiurgos, Jonathan Sims
Tinyplot:	Path of Glory

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Michael Demiurgos has posed:
    Jon is shrouded in darkness as soon as the Church winks out. Empty air the only sound in this vast blackness. He floats in the dark, no up or down or sides, just space. Michael's voice comes to him from the dark. I had envisioned this going differently," he says to Jon. "Do you know that? No war. No great calamity. No death. Just one versus one when the time came to it. But even I am not certain of what the future holds."

    A flare of pain flashes across Jon's chest. "I would've liked to have a duel with you... not have you burn my wing and have to resort to... this..." the voice of Michael says again as another lash of pain flares on Jon's back in the void. "I will not say I do not take pleasure in this act. That would a lie. But know that I am honest, when I say that I would rather not have to do this." Another lash and another along Jon, back. Lines of fire and pain tearing at the physical flesh of the man in his capitivity.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon expects pain. That's what this is supposed to be about, after all--retribution, for the pain Jon gave to Michael. So he grits his teeth and keeps in mind the things that Tim has been teaching him, the methods the Gotham vigilantes use to endure torture. He doesn't bother holding back the sounds he makes when the lashes hit--Michael can surely tell what he's doing, and what's the point in trying not to 'give him the satisfaction'? Maybe this will be over faster the more pain Michael thinks he's in.

    But there's something else he has to do here, besides simply endure pain. He has to gather information. To try to understand Michael. Because understanding is the only way through this whole business. So when he can manage, he says, "A duel? What... you thought you and Gaea's Champion would... duel and that would be the end of the business?" He's confused, trying to gain perspective. "Aren't you the one who decided to /invade/?"

Michael Demiurgos has posed:
    Jon's immediate answer is more pain. The void becomes an angry red in color and the feeling of blisters erupt over his entire skin. "I did. But that was because at the time of my arrival... it was unavoidable, your group and those you consider allies had already arrayed themselves against me. What more is that if not a war?"

    The red intensifies and the blisters burst. The red fades and Michael and Jon are in a room. It is barren save for the stone make of it. There is a single window that looks out onto... space: nebulae and stars as far as the eye can see. Jon is chained up, his arms over his head, a single eyelet the connective point of the bindings. His legs do not touch the ground. Michael stands before him, looking completely perfect as he always does (save his left wing still showing the damage that is the reason for this exchange.) He is in a simple white tunic with sandals wrapped around his feet and ankles. In his hands is a whip: a cat-of-nine.

    He surveys the room and nods. "A simple prison. Not unlike those in the days of Greece or Rome or Egypt. It will suffice."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "You said you were bringing--" Jon gasps, and stops, has to shudder against the pain. He closes his eyes, as the blisters burst, and when he opens them... he's chained up, and /very/ uncomfortable. This is how Caitlin was holding him, just a few hours ago, and it reminds him of how /helpless/ he felt. Feels. How useless everything he's done has seemed.

    "You said you were bringing an army," he manages, peering at Michael. "You said you were invading. You brought /billions/ of angels. What were we supposed to do? Was I supposed to stand out there on my own and face all of that down? I'm not a warrior!"

Michael Demiurgos has posed:
    Michael walks around Jon and instead of answering he starts to flog him. He counts with each strike of the cat of nine tails. The barbs on the flog tear into Jon's skin, opening rivulets in the dark flesh and staining the dirty floor a deep crimson. "One, two, three, four, five." He stops at five and then he repondes. "Amd yet you arrayed yourself against me in that alley."

    He snaps his fingers and Jon's own voice echoes in the confines of the cell: "I won't let you hurt them. Whoever or... /whatever/ you are. This is /wrong/. Listen to your own book's words: 'For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.'"

    He walks to stand before Jon. "Those are the words of a warrior if I have ever heard them. A challenge of one fighter to another."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    At first, Jon doesn't respond. He's still whimpering, because he was screaming. He has to catch his breath again. To blink blearily at Michael. He doesn't need the angel's parlor trick to remember his own voice; he remembers all too clearly. He remembers /everything/ all too clearly.

    "Wh..." He frowns, peering at Michael. "That wasn't... I wasn't..." He swallows. "I'm a... a /doctor/. A..." He tries to find the right words, through the haze of pain. How can he explain?

    "The Archivist," he finally manages, "is a... /protector/. A judge. Law enforcement, not... not a /soldier/." His frown deepens. "...You have no idea what that even means, do you? Fuck."

Michael Demiurgos has posed:
    What is a protector if not someone who fights for those who cannot?" Michael asks tilting his head. "You put yourself as a the sheild to my sword? Both are active tools of warriors. Even law enformcement is about protecting: serve and protect. Fight for the duty of law. Fight."

    He moves around again and delivers another ten lashes to the man. Counting slowly as an echo to the wet slaps that come from Jon's flesh. Again after five more he stops: bringing to total to ten. "In the face of that logic? Are you still convinced you are no warrior?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "But... I'm not..." Jon shakes his head, stubbornly. "That's... the Archivist. My ancestors. Not... not /me/. I don't... /enjoy/ the... battles..."

    He trails off. That's... not entirely true. In fact, that's blatantly /untrue/. He /has/ enjoyed the battles, the adrenaline. How thrilled has he been, every time he's gotten one over on Michael? How much /satisfaction/ has he had in every victory?

    "That's my ancestors," he repeats, still stubborn. "That's the /Archivist/. That's not... /me/. Jonathan Sims is a doctor. A therapist. A /healer/. Not a warrior."

    How /jealous/ was he, every time Martin went off to work at his exciting SHIELD job? How /thrilled/ was he, when Elias offered him a chance to learn to use magic, to fight and save the world?

    He shakes his head, closes his eyes, like that can shut it all out.

Michael Demiurgos has posed:
    "And yet" Michael replies, mixing words with lashes. Eleven. Twelve. "You relished in the victories you've had. I could feel you exhileration each time I arrived too late to stop you. Each time you managed to secure a victory at one of the sites?" Images float before Jon's eyes. His wins against Michael. Memories.

    Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Even with his eyes closed the images remain. They were a part of him. "Don't you understand, Jonathan? You -are- the Archivist. You haven't been using the bracer as anything more than a focus for your seals for how many battles now? And yet... you have grown in skill--in power--without it."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "That was Gaea's power," Jon gasps, barely able to focus through the pain. "Th-that was... wasn't... Gaea chose a scholar. A healer. I'm not... I'm /not/. I'm..."

    Why is this so important?

    He manages to pull himself together enough to shake his head. "Y-you're... you're trying to... you want to duel me. /You're/ a warrior, and you're trying to... to... if we dueled, your power against mine, without... anything from Gaea... I'd lose. You're trying to... to... put things on a... favorable footing." He coughs, and winces. How much blood is he losing? How much blood can he /afford/ to lose?

Michael Demiurgos has posed:
    You think so little of me?" Michael asks, sounding wounded. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. "That I would seek a weaker opponent? When I fought my brother, we were equals? I do not seek lesser opponents, Jonathan. With or without Gaea's power... I would fight you as an equal if we dueled."

    Nineteen. Twenty. "I do not seek favorable advantages. I seek the challenge. And that is why I engaged with you, even before you received her power you were a worthy challenge. A fighter on par with my own ability."

    He looks at his work, the mass of mangled flesh that has become Jon's back and lashes him one more time. Twenty-one.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon laughs, though it comes out as more of a pained gasp. "You think... little of... me. Like... I wouldn't... put up... wards. You've been... you've... how are you so..."

    He peers around, trying to look at Michael. "You're /bad/ at this, you know? War, I mean." He coughs, and lets his head drop.

    Oh, dear gods, this /hurts/.

    He closes his eyes, draws in a shuddering breath and then lets it out. "Brother," he mumbles. "I... I was... Saint Uriel made the... the Archive. Uriel's not a... not..." Why does this /matter/ so much? He frowns, trying to think. It's important, for some reason, even if he can't grasp why. Not quite. It's right there, if he could just /think/. But it hurts, so, /so/ much. And it'll be forty, won't it? Forty lashes. They're only halfway done.

    He whimpers, and gives serious thought to begging Michael to stop.

Michael Demiurgos has posed:
    Michael laughs at the mention of Uriel. He waves a hand and while the damage to Jon's flesh is repaired the pain of it remains. He stars anew. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. "My brother Uriel is the only person in heaven who can best me in single combat." Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Twenty-six.

    "I do not understand the rules you employ. Humans. You scramble for advantages and counters that are beyond my own scope. I look at numbers. Position. Land transfer." Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. "Perhaps... you would call me archaic." Twenty-nine. Thirty. More red paints the floor under Jon.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Sun Tzu was archaic," Jon murmurs, staring dully at the floor. "'Supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting.'"

    Oh.

    This war won't be won by battle alone.

    /Oh/.

    Jon starts to laugh, and then coughs again. "You're right," he manages, lifting his head to blink up at the single window. "I hate that... that you're right. All my life, I've... I fight. I... run toward the danger. I... I /am/ a warrior." His head spins, his entire worldview shifting.

    "B-but... I got hurt." He squeezes his eyes shut. Never this badly, but for far less reason. "People ganged up on me. Beat me up. S-so I... became small. Non-threatening. Too many to take on, and I didn't... know how to fight, so... so... be nice. Be kind. Don't... don't make a scene. Don't stand up for yourself. D-don't... don't let them see... let them think you're weak."

    He sobs. "B-but then... you're a target. S-so... so make yourself useful. Friendly. Helpful. N-not... not that I don't care. I /care/. G-gods do I... care." He laughs. "But... but... if... if I'm on their side then... I'm not a target. If I'm useful. Helpful."

    He shakes his head, just slightly. "Lies," he mutters. "And useless, too. What good's that done? Just left me hurting more."

Michael Demiurgos has posed:
    "And to think that all it took was you letting go of the barriers you built in your mind" Michael replies before laying in again. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. The lashes were coming slower now. The heat and pain drawing out over the moments between. "I'm glad you understand. I would hate for this entire experience to take place with you learning nothing from it."

    That was one of his names, wasn't it? The Revelator. He who reveals. Michael's Purpose on display in the most terrible and antagonistic way. "You need to shed yourself of the misconceptions you let others give you. The lies that they have put on you." More images swim in Jon's vision. All the times he was set aside. The times he was told that he wasn't a warrior. That he wasn't a fighter. That he couldn't lead. "All these falsehoods placed on your back. Rid yourself of them." Thirty-three. Thirty-four.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon shuts his eyes, but he can't shut out the visions, and he can't shut out the pain. He keeps sobbing, the pain too intense to manage a scream. Six more. He can do this. He has to get through six more.

    "Wh-what do you want?" he gasps. "Is... is this... helping? Is it... does it make you... feel better?" He has to stop, as fresh sobs well up in him.

    "Please," he whispers, "/please/ don't... drag this out..." His cheeks are stained his tears, his back with blood. Is it helping? Can it /possibly/ actually be giving Michael what he wants?

Michael Demiurgos has posed:
    Michael answers with three more lashes in slow succession. Thirty-five..... Thirty-six..... Thirty-seven..... "We are almost complete. At least with this aspect of the ordeal. You need only do one more thing." He leans forward, looming over Jon even as the man hangs suspended above the ground.

    Admit your defeat in this exchange. For the first time in a month, I have bested you... and even in your own field." He smiles. "We all have our strengths, Jonathan. I am not simply a brutish thug bent on breaking everything I encounter." That was, in fact one of the -other- Archangel's Purpose.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "If I did... a therapy session... with /whips/... I'd lose... my license," Jon gasps, glaring up at Michael for a long moment.

    But he can't keep up the glare for long. Because the truth is that he /did/ lose.

    He breaks the eye contact, hanging his head. "You win," he admits. "You managed to break through all my... carefully constructed self-image. And all it took was thirty lashes." He says it bitterly, for both the admission and the way of the victory.

    He lifts his head to look at Michael with tears in his eyes, expression pleading. There's no more need to cling to dignity. "Now, /please/," he wails, "finish your work and let me go."

Michael Demiurgos has posed:
    Michael smiles and nods. "Thank you for your acknowledgement," he says before stepping back and delivering the final lashes with slow methodical force. Thirty-eight..... Thirty-nine..... Forty.....

    After a brief pause there is the hiss of steel on leather and the chains holding Jon up are cut, dropping the man uncermoniously to the ground in the pool of his own blood. Michael moves to stand before him, a sword of orange flame in his left hand, radiating heat. "Oh? You think that physical torment was the extent of your punishment for inflicting such damage on me?" he asks incredulously. "I am terribly sorry to disappoint you, Jonathan. But there is much, much more for us to discuss."

    His left arm moves with speed beyond visibility. There is a sharp, agonizing pain in Jon's right shoulder and the smell of charred flesh fills the cell. A second later there is a wet thud to Jon's right and his own right arm lies in the pool of blood, severed cleanly and sealed from his body by the sword of flame.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon whimpers with each lash, but counts it in his head. Two more... one more... no more. It's done. It's /done/. It's over. It /has/ to be over. This is the worst pain he's ever felt in his life. It /has/ to be over.

    For a moment, as he collapses into the pool of blood, Jon just sobs with relief. For a moment, he lets himself believe that the worst really is over.

    But then Michael starts speaking and Jon looks up sharply, eyes widening on seeing the sword. Even before the archangel strikes, he knows what's coming, and twitches feebly as he tries to move to defend himself. "No--!"

    The scream that rips out of Jon as Michael cuts his arm off is louder than any he's ever given before. It resounds in the cell, a scream of pure, raw agony, ripping his throat raw and straining his vocal chords.

    But it's short. Shortly after that wet thud, Jon's eyes roll up into the back of his head and he passes out from the pain and the shock, falling over to land with his face stained by his own blood.