SendOne Angel Down, Lord

Whiskey Lullaby

Rating: PG13 for blood

WARNINGS:

Sabertooth OOCness, god help us

It's in the Catagory 'Spiratual' For a reason...There ARE angels in this fic

This is a bit short, a bit forced,you've been warned!

A silent figure hovered in the air above a grueling scene, the air about his body illuminated by golden light. His wings, seeming barely more than a trick of light and dust, beat at the air to hold him aloft. His face, features fine and well carved, had darkened with despair. It would seem that such a creature would have been observed by the mob of men and elder boys below him, but alas, not so. No many often saw specters of his type. At this point, he wished it otherwise. Now watching the act of prejudice play out below him, he raised his eyes to the Heavens, where his master abided, singing softly, "Send one angel down, lord, send one angel down."

A searing pain pulsed up the mutant's side, sending flashes of throbbing heat through his body as he lay on the snow covered ground. His eyes, only partially open, were focused on the face of his assailant. The lad, (he couldn't have been older than his early twenties) knelt, sliding the blade of his knife through the folds of his victim's jacket, wiping it free of the crimson substance hat had dripped from it only seconds ago. He sheathed the blade, stepping back into the throng of 'friends', all of whom clapped him heartily on the back.

Gang initiations were ugly things, especially when it involved claiming another's life. In this case, it was Mortimer Toynbee's. They walked away, leaving the ailing mutant to his fate, talking of liquor all around to celebrate their newest addition.

The mutant stared into nothingness, feeling the blood drain from his body, and there was not a thing he could do to prevent it. His entire form was covered in bruises, perhaps a few broken bones. His arms lay useless, one twisted at an odd angle. His right sleeve had been torn off his arm, a symbol for an Anti-Mutant organization carved with cruel detail into the greenish skin. His chest rose and fell slowly, the last breathes he would take unless a miracle was worked on this night… And a night of miracles it was. Tonight was Christmas Eve. How ironic. His lips, despite his predicament, had curved up slightly at the edges in an amused quirk. The snow surrounding his body had become stained with scarlet; his life blood.

He sighed, expelling a puff of frosty air from his lips, along with several warm droplets, stark red against the greenish tones of his skin. With each breath, he floated closer to the edge, painfully aware that he would soon be gone. His fingers clawed at the asphalt, trying to vent the pain ripping through his sides and chest. It wouldn't be much longer. Wouldn't Eric be proud, learning his lackey died at the hands of an Anti-Mutant mob?

Blood now trickled in tiny rivulets down the side of his cheek, his eyes, once bright and intelligent, were glazed over as the pain continued on. A hiss of air expelled from his lips… Not much longer. Another shuddering breath struggled into his lungs, he gasped, his eyes widening. Blood continued to trickle from his lips, bruises continued to form where their blows had fallen, and the world continued on, ignorant to the life passing under their very nose. Not as if it would matter.

"Eric…" He whispered the word, his voice distorted as blood filled his mouth again, causing a strangled cough to gurgle from his throat. "Why haven't you rescued me?" He voiced his thoughts, though already bloody well knowing the answer. Wouldn't Eric be proud, learning his lackey died at the hands of an Anti-Mutant mob?

Strange, how the man who's birth this night claimed to celebrate had whispered similar words so many hundreds of years ago; 'Father, why have you forsaken me?" His head lolled to the side, blood rippling from his mouth and pooling about his face. But then, according to the pastor of the local church, that man had been dying for the sins of others…. Mortimer's life at this point was being taken from him for his own follies.

There had been in the orphanage a picture of the Christ, his arms hooked under those of a fallen man, holding him from the muddied ground. The savior's face had been so full of love and sympathy for his fallen 'brother.' He had once been told the moral of such a picture. Why? It was still a mystery why any one would have taken their time to tell him of it's significance; Christ's compassion. A strange sensation he had not often savored. …Or suffered for that matter.

"Feel free," he rasped into the night's air, "to spread a bit o' tha' love over here." His sarcastic words echoed into the darkness. Lids slid closed over once vibrant eyes, now dull in death's tow. Here it was, the finish, curtains close. A sigh, in the form of a frosty breath, rose from his lips. The chill overtook his body. Death, it seemed, had a way of teasing him… Of dancing just out of his grasp… Closer and closer, and now nearly gone.

By the time that Victor Creed found his fallen 'brother', it had nearly been too late. He scooped up the listless form, brushing a layer of fine snowflake from him in doing so. The frog-man's body, having been badly chilled and weakened, responded quickly to the warmth, relaxing and now shivering the slightest, a sign that his systems were beginning to work again. The young man whimpered silently as Victor jostled his many hurts. He adjusted his hold, careful now of the badly twisted limbs. A look of disgust took the hard features of the Cat-like man's face as he observed the Anti-Mutant insignia that now marked his comrade's upper arm, the blood from which leaving a similar symbol stained into his fur-lined jacket.

Having now fulfilled Eric's wishes, he started back towards the beaten up vehicle he used for transportation. He deposited the fragile bundle onto one of the worn and torn seats, now lumbering over to his side of the truck and swinging himself in. The engine started with a rumble, accompanied by the heater's full blast.

Victor's dark eyes studied Mortimer's marred and bloodied face, taking in each newly carved groove and patch of blood. How often he had seen the Toad's face in such disarray. How often he had been sent to retrieve the troublesome mutant from an alleyway or gutter, finding him in a state similar to his present one. A strangled cough from the amphibianiod broke the silence. Partially alarmed, Victor extended a powerful arm out, pillowing the smaller mutant's head and propping him forward so that he could catch his breath.

Watching the younger man struggle, his face contorted in agony, Victor's mind drifted to the lyrics that had poured from the Choir singers' dark lips during that night's church session. Now, driving down the long, twisted roads that would eventually lead to the brotherhood hideout, he whispered those words silently, the tune distorted in the husky tones of his voice.

"Send one angel down, Lord, send one angel down."

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Ooc: And to my reviewers whom commented on my instertion of A/Ns in the story, well noted... See? click deleting!