Angel Halo, Edited

by Spiritblade

The edited chapters of my Angel Halo: Time of Judgment story.

1. Prologue

Prologue

The Order of St. Michael

The Forgotten fortress and the imprisoned Sword

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust

The first to be sacrificed are the great and the good. Such is the bitter lot of heroes, whose deeds may be vilified for an age before they are exalted. But in return, for all they have endured for humanity, they are made immortal. One can only wish that such a thing was true.

The personal diary of Cardinal Wesley Garett, 1993 A.D.

Israel, Golan Heights, National Geographic Expedition Site, 25th December 1967

There it is. There, miles beneath the surface in a place regarded as sacred to those I had once served under, is the resting place of a legendary relic that had seen the passing of the ages. Standing in the calm heart of a blazing inferno close to the molten heart of the planet was a black-and-gold cross that gleamed with the light of the sea of fire that surrounded it. It stood impaled on an altar, held in the hands of a statue carved in the likeness of a being I had seen only once before whose beauty and terrible power dwarfed even the magnificence of the morning star itself. So fierce was the anima of the statue that I had expected the statue to speak, to welcome me. I almost expected those perfect stone lips to move, for the folded wings to unfurl, for the serpentine tail and long mane of hair to sway sinuously in the hot wind.

'Welcome, my Bloody Angel,' a soft voice spoke amidst the thunderous sound of the mountain's heartbeat. I looked around, trying to find the source of the disembodied voice, before chuckling. The blood loss was getting to me; I was starting to see and hear things. I shook my head to clear my blurring vision before turning my gaze back to the gleaming cross held in the statue's hands.

Even from where I stood, I recognized it. That cross was the legendary sword wielded by Lucifer himself during his uprising in a bygone age. A relic older than time and imbued with power that is said to dwarf that of the lost Lance of Longinus, the latter of which was said to be the reason of Nazi Germany's rise to power during the Second World War. The sacrifices made to reclaim the Sacred Lance had been horrendous. And now, over two decades later, in the aftermath of the Six Day War that pit the might of six Arab nations against the fledgling state of Israel, the same sacrifices were being made to deny those who would wish to use this most unholy of relics for their own ends. That relic had many names, and over the centuries, its power had been used for both good and evil by men and women who themselves became legend. Unlike the Sacred Lance, however, the sword of the Morningstar was broken, shattered at the end of the Morningstar's rebellion. The broken shards of the Morningstar's sword flew far and wide across the world, falling from the sky like meteors, each imbued with the same power that could split the sky and sunder the Earth. Each of these shards, as written in the Liber Pandemonium, became the weapons wielded by heroes and gods of legend. In that same book, I saw it as the staff in the hands of the Beast-master Dar; I had seen it as the rune-engraved spear of the man who eventually became the Norse God Odin, and who passed it along to the woman who became Athena; I saw it as the hammer Mjolnir, weapon of the Thunder God Thor; I saw such a shard become the legendary coral sword that the old legends of Japan said forged the land. And I saw such a shard that became Excalibur, wielded first by Julius Caesar of Rome, and then by the young girl who became King Arthur. I closed my eyes, remembering that young heroine's passing, remembered the angry scream of one of the Archdukes as he was denied his prize.

The unbroken half of the sword now laid here, sealed by the Morningstar's own power – and God's, from what I've heard – so as to prevent the enemies of both from claiming it. Chains lashed out from the far walls, binding the sword in an embrace that only God Himself could break. Here, it had hidden, lost to the memory of the ages. Until an Israeli Army Recon team had found the massive entrance hidden behind an abandoned monastery. That had led to a chain of events that saw to Professor James Dover, a renowned archaeologist, break open the centuries-old sigil the monks had put into place to contain the evil that lain slumbering within the unholy fortress. Within days, Arab shock at the surprise defeat of their armies soon became anger. It wasn't long before those Arabs who had come under Israeli occupation took up arms. It was during this period, lasting several weeks, that the fighting was at its most brutal and would sow the seeds of conflict for years to come.

I am not surprised by the intensity of the conflict. Hate is an easy emotion to engender in the hearts of men. All one has to do is push the right buttons, a nudge here and there, and the consequences can be terrible to behold. It can turn meek men into monstrous murderers, and turn heroes into black-hearted madmen. It can make just any atrocity and betrayal. It can – and often does – blind any man or woman to the concept of mercy or compassion. And I have seen it happen so many times that I find it hard to believe that anyone would turn the other cheek when he or she is wronged. It takes a strong heart to forgive; I, like much of humanity, am not that strong. And I most certainly am not going to let the one who wronged me off. Not after all that has happened. A part of me applauded the manner in which that bastard had planned all of it. It had been, for lack of a better word, perfect. Within two months of the Order of St. Michael was all but extinct. Of the 15 that had stepped foot into the Holy Land, only 5 remained. I am among them but, unlike them, I am not a Paladin. Not even an honorary one. I am – and I always will be – a champion of the Unholy Host. My name is one whispered in many worlds outside of this one as a huntsman of souls and a destroyer. I have committed atrocities and deeds which would rival that of any madman past and present. As such, I should have been the first to die. The Tyrant has a lightning bolt with my name on it but his aim, as always, was horrible. It always has been. It was always those that deserved to live that die first, while those that deserve to roast in Hell endure.

But, the Order of St. Michael did not simply bow their heads and wait for their end. The decision to ride the tempest to its very eye was made when the Order of St. Michael's commander, Wesley, revealed to us the reasons why his group had been sent in to claim the Sword. The fact that they had been the very best the Inquisition could offer was immaterial. The entire group had been ear-marked by the current Inquisitor-General for elimination. At first, I thought that my presence had been the reason, but I was only half-right. Wesley had, as we made our way through the Golan Heights, explained that our previous missions had uncovered some very damning evidence that their enemies had managed, over the course of decades, infiltrated the Church and subverted the loyalties of several key members within the Inquisition.

Some of those members were servants of my mistress's rivals in the other Legions. Eliminating me, one of the champions of the Crimson Legion and acquiring the Sword of the Morningstar would be a coup to the faceless Fallen and his masters whom I would repay in kind should I live to see the sunrise. But I had to hurry. Time was against me. It was against Wesley and the last survivors of the Order of St. Michael who, even now, are fighting the undying guardians of this underground city-fortress and the lackeys the Inquisitor-General had sent to ensure that the people he had sent on this doomed mission were truly dead and unable to condemn him for his act of treason. I turned my gaze on the smoking ruin of what had once been Aziel Helmraz. My lips curved in a contemptuous sneer. I warned him. I warned him not to take the blade, but the arrogant swine had turned a deaf ear to my entreaty. The wounds that I suffered were the rabbi's parting gift as his sanity gave way under the weight of so many awful revelations.

"You are a servant of the Enemy, Shateiel. How and why that pup I call my leader has ever trusted you is beyond me. Your soul is black with sin and your body with the blood of innocents. You are worse than the animal that had persecuted my people during the Second World War. I will not let you take the Sword of Lucifer; Wesley's reason is, to me, unacceptable. Only a man of God, a man with true faith, can wield such a weapon of Evil and be unsullied."

I got to my feet, my every movement a lesson in agony. Aziel's Charm had been a combination of a simple spell amplified manifold and unleashed. But such agony was nothing compared to what I had endured in the training halls of the Crimson Legion and honed on the battlefields of Hell and on worlds the people of this planet never knew existed. Nonetheless, it took me five minutes before I could even start walking.

"I know for certain that you will take it back to your vile brethren and usher in the final conflict with the Almighty. But I will deny you your victory, demon."

I remembered Aziel's eyes, afire with triumph and madness as his hands wrapped around the Sword's hilt. "Bear witness to the victory long denied my people! Bear witness, thou false angel, to the end of your vile kind! With this weapon, I shall deliver my people from those who would seek to destroy us. With this, I can ensure that, forever after, sacred Israel shall belong to my people and their descendants forever after!"

Aziel's mind had been broken to the point that he did not feel the pain as the Sword unleashed its terrible powers upon the rabbi for his temerity – among other things – for daring to touch it. Had Aziel been a servant of darkness, he would have gotten a charred hand for his troubles. But, as he was a servant of God, the Sword immolated his body in flames a thousand times hotter than the sun. I saw Aziel's skin slowly melt, his blood boiling away into crimson mist, and his flesh and bones being reduced to ashes. Even as he died, Aziel continued to laugh and mock me.

Another voice entered my mind, and whatever hatred I felt for the arrogant rabbi faded.

"Yo, man! So, you're Shateiel, eh? I've heard some nifty things about you from Wesley. You don't mind if I find out the truth, do you?"

I smiled, then. In my mind, the dark-haired and skinned Raphael Carleon was alive once more, his long sword held at the ready. The South African was skilled with both gun and blade, and I had seen him in action to know that his peculiar fighting techniques were effective. Raphael was thirty-five years old, with a sense of humor as big as his heart.

"I'm not gonna sit here and tell you the same shit you're already sick of hearing. I'm gonna tell you that you're an okay man. Hell, you're better than some men I know – and that's saying a lot. So what if you're the bootlicker of some hot bitch in Hell? Your heart is in the right place, and that's all that should matter."

Raphael was an easy-going fellow and wasn't the type to hold grudges against anyone. It took a LOT to make him angry and, the moment some stupid bastard managed to succeed, I knew that the bar or club where the brawl erupted would be in shambles for weeks afterwards. Raphael was more than capable of taking on half-a-dozen brawlers in a straight fight. And I had seen it happen.

"Oh, bloody -! Shateiel, you mind…oh, got started already eh? Come on, maggot – show me what you're made of!"

Raphael was the closest friend and rival of Ezekiel Rage. It was common sense and knowledge within the ranks of the Inquisition to not get in the way of Ezekiel and Raphael during the Inquisition's annual Crossed Swords Tournament. The two would be pounding each other silly with Charm and weapon without caring who would get caught in the crossfire. And when it was over, they would regress to being children, laughing at the mess they made (which often involves dozens of competitors – friend and foe – suffering from concussions; the Tournament Masters ensured that the entire event was non-lethal despite the use of very lethal weapons). I always believed that the two were rivals for the sheer hell of it than anything else. It gave back to them the years they could no longer live.

"Ezekiel, don't do this…"

I took another step. Those had been Raphael's last words, imploring his friend not to kill a Jewish girl the latter believed was still possessed despite the fact that the demon had already been banished back to Hell. That duel had ended with Ezekiel crushing his friend's skull and Raphael putting twenty out of thirty-two inches of blessed steel straight through his friend's heart.

"So, you're the…new man that Wesley told us about. Welcome. My name is Ezekiel Rage. I'll be your instructor in all things starting from today. And trust me, boy: you're not going to have an easy life while I'm on duty."

Ezekiel Rage was a golden-haired albino. Built like a quarterback and standing at over seven feet, Ezekiel was easily one of the biggest and strongest men to wear the colors of the Inquisition. His strength and stamina, unenhanced by Charm or Discipline, easily matched mine – and that was saying a lot. Reinforced by either or both, I held no illusions in my mind that the ensuing fight would be long and bloody, with my decades of fighting experience being the only advantage I had against this titan. Had Ezekiel gone into professional boxing, there was no doubt in my mind that for the next half-decade he reigned as champion, no one would be able to take the title from him. Nobody dared to cross Ezekiel, period, unless one had a death wish written down somewhere. If his stern demeanor and crimson eyes did not put off troublemakers, the next ten minutes would be enlightening for the latter. Fortunately, like his friend, Ezekiel was a patient man. The only chink Ezekiel had in his armor was the rivalry he had with Raphael. If Ezekiel had a flaw, it was that he disliked losing, especially to Raphael. Combine that rivalry, Ezekiel's dislike of losing, the unholy miasma that covered the entire region and one had a ticking time bomb waiting to blow.

I took another step.

"Knowledge is like power, Shateiel. It is something that is neither good nor evil. It is how you use it that decides whether it is one or the other," came the voice of one Michael Adel, one of the three sorcerer-scholars within the Order of St. Michael. With his brown hair, purple eyes, spectacles and lanky build, Michael had the look of one whose entire life was spent around books. But Michael was not the average nerd – this one, unlike the rest, was more than capable of taking care of himself. Proficient in four different types of martial arts and the use of every firearm ever created, he would put a good number of SAS commandos to shame.

"Knowing God is perhaps the highest praise I know."

But no one can know the Will of God, Michael. Not even His most loyal servants. But, even so, Michael was knowledgeable about anything and everything that went on in the Vatican – including some things that would have ruined the reputations of several key Vatican officials. He had access to places that even Wesley had difficulty getting to. But, what surprised me was that Michael had once, during his days as a novitiate, had had a fling with a female werewolf.

"There are some things that the world is better off not knowing."

It was Michael's death that made the Wesley and his companions realize that they were dealing with an enemy that was both potent and who knew their every strength and weakness – and who, they found later on, wore the same robes as they did. Albeit that the color of his robes were crimson and gold, the symbol of one of the highest-ranking officials within the Inquisition itself. For all his strength and skill, Michael could not defeat the assassins that had been sent to silence both him and his companions. Were-beasts, vampires, the Fallen and their servants: these he could deal with. But what Michael fought against was one of my kin: an Abyssal Exalt. And that Exalt had not come alone. It was during that time that the lackeys of the traitor Inquisitor-General made themselves known, revealing just how deep the corruption in the Church had gone. The confrontation had caused one entire section of the centuries-old catacombs to collapse, burying Michael and his adversaries under tons of rock. Those catacombs would be Michael's gravestone, his name remembered only by those who knew him.

"You cannot tell whether a person is good or bad by his vicissitudes in life. Good and bad fortune are simply matters of fate. Good and bad actions are Man's Way. Retribution of those actions is simply taught as moral lessons."

The aged, smiling face of Hayami Kuro appeared in my mind. Hayami was the oldest member in the Order of St. Michael and was a veteran of the Second World War. He was, by unspoken agreement amongst its members, the Order's second-in-command. Fond of literature and philosophy, he had purchased a plot of land in the country where he and three other St. Michael Paladins (including myself) lived, worked and trained. I had always found Asian philosophy more to my taste. It focused chiefly on personal discipline, moral rectitude and philosophical introspection than penance, submission and evangelism that were the chief attributes of God's lackeys. Hayami combined the ways of the samurai and the teachings of the Church into one harmonious whole. Those who had been his students often ended up emulating their teacher's mindset and habits (including his one chief vice of drinking sake and smoking the pipe).

"Make your decisions in the space of seven breaths, Shateiel. Keep your mind focused and decide swiftly. In battle, as you already know, you may have but one – or none at all. Also, there are some battles that need not be won with the sword, but with wit and guile."

Hayami was responsible for molding the man Wesley is now. The sole survivor of our predecessors in the Second World War, Hayami was spared their doomed fate as they spirited the Spear of Destiny away from Nazi Germany when he returned to Japan to help defend it from America. He was one of the survivors at the battle of Iwo Jima, where the Japanese Army had held the island from invading American forces for over two months. Hayami was – is – the embodiment of human spirit and determination. He reminded me of everything I wanted to be.

"I will die eventually, Reiha-kun. That has been written in the stars and whispered in the wind. I have lived long enough – too long, I might add. I can but choose the manner of my passing. I will not dishonor the memory of my friends whom I left behind all those years ago, or the choice I made to return to my homeland and defend it. But tell me, Bloody Angel…if it was your turn to die, how would you meet your end?"

Like you, Hayami. With my head held high and with dignity; I have done many wrongs, and I see now that to avert my gaze as my sins are read out to me is to say that I have done them without considering the consequences.

"Reiha – in my language, it is a combination of the word 'rein', which in English means spirit, and 'ha' which means blade. That is your family name, correct?"

You, Hayami Kuro, gave me a human name, not one bequeathed when I became a champion of a rebel angel princess when she took my hand and elevated me from my humble, mortal roots. I cannot remember the world I came from, save that it was far from the one I am fighting to save. Of all of the Paladins of the Order of St. Michael, only Hayami had died a natural death. Old age, exhaustion and heartache had finally caught with him. We found his body on the rooftop of the rented house in the newer section of Jerusalem that we made our base of operations. He had passed on under the stars he so loved to watch, his body wrapped by a warm cloak and a quiet smile on his face. Several bottles of sake laid spread out before him on the mat.

I took another heavy step forward. I dared not lose my balance now. I know that, if I did, I would not have the strength to get back up again. But, it is not easy, considering the amount of blood I've lost swatting the enemies to get here and Aziel's damn Charm.

"An Abyssal Exalt? Here?! Captain, are you out of your mind?!"

The stern, admonishing voice of Victoria Northfield entered my mind with the force of a thrown lance. With hair the color of unconquered snow and blue eyes, the tempestuous and beautiful Valkyrie of the Order was not a woman to be taken lightly. Even amongst the other Paladins and Inquisitors, there was debate as to who was really the real captain of the Order of St. Michael. Victoria carried herself with the confident hauteur that was rarely ever present in Wesley. The Northfield family had Viking and Celtic blood in its veins. For generations, the family had served the Inquisition faithfully despite the fact that there are a good number of Inquisitors who would love nothing more than to excommunicate the family for its pagan practices. But, there was no doubt that some of the Charms utilized by the family were undeniably potent.

"While I agree with Aziel that having someone like you amidst to the armies of God is an invitation to betrayal, I cannot deny the fact that if you were to return to God's grace, you would be a potent addition to our ranks. But, before I even say yes, I hope you do not mind indulging me. I've heard stories about how powerful you Exalts were. Show me just how powerful – and don't insult me by holding back."

As if she ever did. Victoria never did anything by half-measures. Her determination to win; her refusal to back down in the face of overwhelming odds; her pride and strength – she shone as bright as any of Michael's angels. Telling Victoria that it was a lost cause was a surefire way of bringing her mile-wide stubborn streak to the fore. Victoria's most cherished dream was to attain the captaincy of the Order of St. Michael. Her disappointment, when she discovered that Wesley had been chosen over her, had been a bitter pill for the proud woman to swallow.

"Will you turn command over to me, Wesley? I have more experience in dealing with situations like this than you ever will in your lifetime."

Victoria's chief flaw was her pride. It was that one weakness that had led to her downfall. The corruption that had escaped this cursed place and twisted the hearts and souls of every man, woman and child for hundreds of kilometers in every direction blackened Victoria's as well. Why had she been passed over for captaincy of the Order over a child whose breath still smelt of his mother's milk? Why? What was it about Wesley that made him a more suitable candidate over a veteran who had spent over a decade since her twentieth birthday fighting the Archenemy? Victoria's years of faithful service to the Tyrant God ended in an act of betrayal that – at that point in time – seemed like the right thing to do. Wesley had no choice but to kill a friend that he could no longer recognize.

"I have dreams like everyone else, you know. What about you, Sinner? What are your dreams like?"

Dark, Victoria, as blood and endless shadows can be. I want nothing more than vengeance against the Tyrant God and His servants. I want to repay for centuries of persecution in the name of false justice and sanctified murder. I want to hang God's saints and prophets from the ramparts of Heaven, their rent bodies staining it black and crimson as my wings. I want to hang generations of murderers, rapists and genocidal madmen who have killed and murdered in the name of God from the very archways lining to the Tyrant's Imperial Palace. I want His Reign to end.

Because I want Creation to be free and strong; free of God's tyranny and free of the Morningstar's mad ambition. But, my dreams are just that – dreams. To think I can defeat God or His Adversary is ridiculous; I am nowhere close to the Archdukes of the Legions in power, guile and influence. No, this game will go on long, long after I am removed from the board. But one day, I hope to see a world where lovers laugh and children run.

"Ni hao, Sha Ziya. My name is Chen Huishen. I shall be your team-mate here on out."

Hayami had given me my Japanese name. Huishen gave me by Chinese one. She and two others were assigned to be my team-mates (and watchdogs, to ensure that I did not turn traitor and stab them in the back). Huishen came from a family of renowned exorcists who had close ties with the Inquisition. Huishen's proficiency in the use of Charms was phenomenal, easily the equal of an Exalt of the Five Unholy Dragons. She would have made a fine lieutenant in my army, and a wonderful caretaker to my children who have refused to swear fealty to the Morningstar.

"My position within the Order of St. Michael is an honorary one, Sha Ziya. Victoria and I have the same problems with the puritans in the Vatican; to them, we are one step from being heretics ourselves. But, that does not matter to me. My family and I swore to fight Evil – and so we shall."

And of course, that was impossible. I do not turn those who will not turn. And to turn a soul as pure as Huishen would be cruel; I have not fallen that far. The world needs more people like her to make people like me irrelevant. I smiled. Huishen is a cute girl – make no mistake about that – but young. With her large sapphire eyes and black hair, perky nature and carefree personality, she was the Inquisition's poster girl for convention breaking. She could drink and sing better than a church choir. But, when it came down to a fight, she was perhaps the most clear-headed of the entire order, formulating plans almost five to six steps ahead in a heartbeat. Her skill in the use of gun and staff was formidable, befitting her place in the Order of St. Michael.

"Why do the servants of God do such things to themselves?"

If Huishen had one weakness, it was her gentle heart. For all the fact that she was good in a fight, she hated having to kill. The fact that she was able to suppress that reluctance when battle came bespoke of her stern discipline. But, whenever innocents came into the picture, that impenetrable wall would crack. She died trying to protect a large group of school-children from a group of extremists. And she was willing to break Masquerade to do it.

"Tell me truthfully, Bloody Angel. Are there things you regret?"

I have plenty of them, Huishen. More than a man can hold in one lifetime. And the fact that I had not been there to help you added one more to the pile. I thought that it would not matter, that the death of another of God's champions would be one less I would have to kill later on. But, it did. It did. I started to care. I started to remember WHY I chose to accept the bargain I made so long ago.

I strode closer to the chained sword, and took an involuntary backward step as the ground beneath me shook. My head whipped upwards, and my lips pulled into a sardonic grin. Our enemies were seriously regretting having pushed us into the corner. I could tell. Wesley and the others were no longer pulling their punches. They were, to utilize a commonly used phrase, throwing everything but the kitchen sink. Though, in this case, that would be quite the understatement.

"I cannot believe I'm going to be led by some guy worse than the creeps the cops throw into the slammer, boss!"

The annoying voice of Randall Masters, the gun specialist of the Order and a long-time veteran of the Inquisition, echoed in my head. Strange how one's memories are so crystal clear and vivid when one's end was about to come; I'm starting to understand why those I have killed on the battlefield sometimes died smiling or, at the very least, died peacefully. No matter how my companions in the Order of St. Michael have perished, I remembered them as they were before. They may have failed. They may have been weak. They have been blind. But, then, so am I. I am all these things and more.

"I see it but I don't believe it. Tsubaki has the hots for you? What did you do to her?"

Randall has always been the roguish sort. If anyone stood up like a sore thumb in the Inquisition, it was Randall. Even I could not believe that he had been one of the Order of St. Michael when we first met. Just when I thought I saw everything, Randall would go ahead and prove me wrong. How in the holy name of God and the Morningstar did this man remain within the ranks of the former and not get shot is beyond me! He once managed to sneak prostitutes into his own room for a night of fun once, and the following morning saw to him cleaning every last latrine in the Vatican with a toothbrush – after Wesley was through pummeling him within an inch of his life.

"Man, Shateiel, you're smooth. You could bed that girl if you wanted to, you know? Make her a real woman. One day, she'll look back and remember her first love – you – and how you shaped her life afterwards."

Randall had always liked Tsubaki, a Japanese shrine maiden who was also part of the Order of St. Michael. The latter, however, clearly disliked him and kept their interactions strictly professional. Or maybe, it was something else. Tsubaki's intuition was sharper than Huishen's where sensing evil and corruption was concerned. I remembered the miko's silver eyes, filled with amusement, when she described the corruption that radiated from my soul reminiscent of molten steel and rain on roses. It was a kind smell, she said, befitting one who loved Creation enough to accept damnation for its sake. I had laughed, then. It was akin to saying that shit smelled like perfume. Tsubaki had further pointed out that the time I had spent as a champion of the Unholy Host had allowed me to develop a high resistance to the corruption that permeated that dark kingdom created after the Fall eons ago. But, Randall does not have the strength of will to resist the temptations I have already known and tasted, and I cannot help but agree with Tsubaki's assessment.

But, I cannot help but wish that Tsubaki had been wrong about Randall.

And I wished that she did not look at me that way. It reminded me of my past, of why I became an Abyssal Exalt. Centuries cannot wipe away the clarity of an epiphany or the pain of betrayal. My hands tightened around my katana, as words spoken from treacherous lips – lips belonging to the women I loved – echoed in my soul, bringing back the memory of resignation and despair.

I shook my head. No. Now is not the time to reminiscence about people long dead. I can do that when I have claimed the sword and my allies have vanquished the curs that covet it. I walk towards the Sword, remembering how Randall had died. Envy and lust had always been Randall's greatest weakness. In the newborn nation of Israel, where the air itself held an evil taint released from millennia of imprisonment, it had slowly twisted Randall till he was everything he hated. His fall from grace had not been instantaneous, but it had begun long ago. I had learnt that the cancerous seed of damnation can be planted long before it can bear fruit. The hunger to possess Tsubaki reached a fever pitch and when he tried to brutally rape her, I killed him before Tsubaki could stop me. I heard my former mistress's soft laughter at the back of my mind that time, mocking me, as I stood over the bloody ruins of what had once been my friend.

"This mission may well be our last, Shateiel. I am glad, when all is said and, to have known and fought beside you."

The ground shook violently as another explosion rocked the massive underground city-fortress. For the love of Hell's seven thrones, Wesley, do try to remember we're underground! Any more of this, and we'll have the biggest fucking tombstone in all Creation next to Satan's when God finishes the job of killing him!

"Ah, Shateiel…! Good to see you! You're in time for dinner! I've managed to save an extra-large portion for you. Ah-ah, not a word out of you, my boy; you work hard and long – the least that can be offered is good food and second helpings."

The cheery voice of Richard Sanders entered my mind. He was a big man but, unlike Ezekiel, Richard was fat. He acted as the caretaker of one of the largest orphanages in Rome. Every time I saw Richard, he was always accompanied by a battalion of kids. They would listen, spellbound, to his stories. And when Richard made me tell stories, they began begging for mine. I told those children lies, well-crafted lies that were as close to the truth as I could give them. I did not want to ruin Richard's hard work; I did not want to add to the pain of some of them who knew how ugly and cruel the world really was. Richard was intuitive; he saw a point to my stories, and used them with an effect that was better than the lash.

"And then, he charged forward, his sword on fire as he crossed swords with the champions of the Seven Princesses. He had long ago known that this was his fate. Seven Princesses and Eight Knights; seven of both who held kingdoms and power, but the last of the latter had only to his name lost glory and sad memories. Long have these chosen 15 fought and suffered for their dream, but among them, only one would pay to full price of it all.

"14 blades struck the false traitor deep, and he fell, laughing at the irony of it all. He had nothing; the legacy of his House was a memory even to those they had once served and protected. He was the last of his family, and it was one whose name was already sullied by their enemies. But, even then, he wanted to fulfill that oath. He would defend the Seven Princesses. It would cost him everything and gain him nothing. But, when he closed his eyes and drew his last breath, he was glad. He saw the stars and the moon; those he loved and had died loving him would be waiting for him at the promised place. It was as good a reward as any, if not better. He had not failed them."

"What was the Fallen Prince looking for, Father Sanders?"

Richard had looked at me then, before answering the children.

"Peace. And, like any prince, someone – or something – to love."

I remembered how some of those children – those who were quick on the uptake or those who managed to put two and two together – turn to glance at me knowingly. I had ensured that my face had the expression of interest in Richard's story, but I was fuming inside as I contemplated ways of making the fat priest pay. But, now, when I think of them, I did not have the courage to tell those children that he man they loved and looked up to as a parent would no longer be there to tell them stories, comfort them or tuck them in. I cannot take Richard's place in their hearts.

"Each child is special, Bloody Angel. Each of them can change the world in a way we cannot."

I dare not tell those orphans how Richard died. The Order of St. Michael had been investigating an old museum in the southern city of Gaza, where one of Wesley's contacts had suspected that the late proprietor had kept hidden pages from the fabled Book of Judgment that the Vatican's inner circle kept under lock and key. A priority order came down from the top, indicating that Wesley's contact had also informed his superiors, and that they wanted it retrieved. The museum was enormous, and the team had to split up in order to cover more ground. Richard had chosen to search one of the exhibitions on the upper levels. When he didn't return at the appointed time, we went to look for him…and found what was left of him.

His body looked like as though someone – or something – had been using it for a chew toy. Upon closer inspection, the Paladins of St. Michael realized – to their horror – that their compatriot had been the one responsible. It was at the scene of his masticated corpse that Tsubaki found the manuscripts that we had been searching for. They had been hidden behind the portrait of the Last Supper. And on one of those manuscripts was a scene similar to the one we now stood around.

"I bless you, Shateiel, in the name of our Father who Art in Heaven. May thou be the aegis against the Darkness and may you one day be Tsubaki's husband. God knows she needs someone like you."

I smiled at the image that took shape in my mind. It was – is – an impossible image. Although I had lovers aplenty in the Crimson Legion and children by them, I wanted this long, long ago. This impossible dream, taken for granted by so many, and cherished by the few who understood its value. I remembered how the children how the children of the orphanage tightened their holds around me, hoping for the same dream someday. But, without Richard…they would lose that strength. I knew that, when I returned to the Vatican to settle the score, that I had to deal with the children Richard had left behind. To do otherwise would be irresponsible, and the Crimson Legion of the Unholy Host frowns upon such sloth.

"I praise thee, oh Holy Father. May thy grace bless thy children and thy hands protect them against Evil."

The prayer that was heard at the edges of my mind caused the strength in my legs to give way, sending me back to the unforgiving, rocky ground with a crash. I gritted my teeth as white-hot pain scorched my every nerve-ending. Aziel's damn Charm…did he integrate a secondary Charm from the Book of Retribution into it? I spat a black curse – one that died on my lips as the voice that spoke the prayer earlier spoke it again, crystal clear and vivid amidst the agony. I've heard that same prayer so many times I could recall the entire verse from memory. I did not need to attend Sunday Mass – or any Mass – to know what was written in the so-called Holy Book. Each and every line had been edited, altered or had some part omitted. The original message was lost long ago. Any truth that the Divine Word might have contained was twisted by the false saint, a certain Paul of Tarsus, whose schizophrenic tendencies would torment a world centuries after his death. I had seen this insane fool many centuries ago, back when civilization would have benefited from the wisdom of past empires, preaching that the works of heathens were an insult to God. With the backing of an Emperor, he had brought his insane world ideal into being. I had wanted this bastard killed and hanging from the battlements of Pandemonium, begging God for mercy. I wanted him dead before countless innocents would suffer just because some egotistic bastard who wanted the Tyrant's favor would carry out the edicts written in the false saint's book.

But, the voice that spoke that prayer was one that could make anyone believe in God again – even one who fell as far as I have.

"God's Word is not a lie, Shateiel; His mercy and love are granted to all. Even to those who fell as far as you have…"

Silvana's warm, quiet face appeared in my mind. Red-gold hair framed her rosy face like a halo and her lean form was due to a Spartan regime of discipline and training. She was the younger cousin of Richard Sanders. At 23 years old, she was 15 years Richard's junior and the same age as Huishen. Though related by blood, the two were as different as night was from day. Richard was an extrovert whom everyone found easy to get along with; Silvana was his direct opposite, introverted and thoughtful. She was uneasy in the presence of anyone not of the cloth. Silvana was also Wesley's lover – a fact that was frowned upon by a good majority of their peers.

"Faith is akin to light. Truth is the road in which Faith illuminates. That is the basic truth in the Divine Word, regardless of religion. It is disappointing that adherents of any faith start valuing Faith over Truth…and, as you have pointed out, Bloody One, it is but a prelude to great tragedies."

Unlike the other dogs of God, I did not disapprove of Wesley's relationship. I have fought in worlds where the chaplains of the Tyrant were married and had families and were the better for it. Indeed, Wesley became more confident with Silvana around. I did not have to worry about the 'inexperienced captain', as Victoria put it, about him screwing the nearest hound. Silvana was – is – Wesley's guardian angel, right up to the very end. It was not the Archenemy – my side – that killed Silvana, but common thugs. When Wesley and I found her, it had already been too late. The thugs were busy taking turns raping her.

"Wesley…I'm sorry…I couldn't…"

I still remember Silvana's dying whisper, the pain and emotion that was heart-breaking. My memories of when I was human erupted in a roar that deafened Wesley's vocalization of fury. The Beast in me was howling pissed and hungry for blood. For once, my Beast and I were in agreement. Before Wesley's broadsword left its scabbard, I was already throwing the one who was balls-deep in Silvana and spilling his seed into her violated womb into the nearest wall, smashing him into a pulp and decapitating the ragged mess that remained with my katana. It was only minutes later that I managed to chain my Beast once more, to find myself standing amidst the bloody ruins of twenty thugs. My anima banner was flaring, illuminating the entire area in unholy light reminiscent of a dying star. I saw my friend – one of the rare few I considered one – clutching his lover in his arms. I could not say a word. What could I say?

"Have faith, Shateiel, and God will have mercy."

I will never hear that voice again, telling me that everything will be as God wills it. I would never see the blush on her face when Huishen would ask her embarrassing questions about how good Wesley was in bed. I would no longer see her cooking for the orphans at the orphanages her cousin watched over. I will not see the children she could have given a good man.

I got back to my feet, fighting back both the pain and the wave of emotions that threatened to send me back down again. My conscience, a shriveled thing, shouted from its grave, asking if the sacrifice of people as good as this was worth the fulfillment of my mission. Yes, it was, I replied, for if any other hands gripped that Sword, then the entire world would burn. This way, we have a chance of postponing the inevitable.

"I will lead the traitors away from here, cousin. You and all the rest go to the Golan Heights. Too many of us have died. We must ensure that the Sword of Lucifer does not fall into the hands of Galford, his lackeys, or the servants of the Archenemy."

Yes…that was the name of the Inquisitor-General: Galford D. Christchurch. Heh, I must be getting old to have forgotten that bastard's name. Wolfe Galahan was a well-built man with red eyes and hair. Formerly an ex-agent of the American CIA, he had joined the Vatican after a fiasco that had left him and several key agents out of work. Wesley had swiftly recruited them, using their skills in espionage and intelligence gathering to better increase his chances of finding his prey. Of these, Wolfe was one of their best and was their de facto leader.

"Hatred is a poisonous cancer that can eat away at one's soul, Bloody Angel. I know you know this. And I know the reasons why Wesley chose to rescue you instead of leaving you to die. Few of your kind, so close to achieving full demon princedom, will have even a shred of humanity left; you are cold, merciless killers and ruthless generals – the very essence of the Morningstar's cold wrath and icy hate. But you…you are – you were – a hero once…and it shows."

Wolfe Galahan was Wesley's half-brother. They shared similar features and had the same preference in weapons and fighting style. Wolfe, like Michael, had a love of books and could be found in one library or another – or hunting for books during his free time. Not only that, Wolfe loved alcohol. I've lost count of how many times he was caught trying to smuggle liquor into the Vatican for our late-night binges. He had the Discipline Masters of the Orders looking for some excuse to smack him with the nearest sledgehammer. On those nights, I would tell him about the worlds I had seen and the wars I've fought in. I would tell him about the heroes and heroines who tried to stand in my way, only to die at the end of my flaming sword. I've cast Kings and their families from the battlements to the adulating cheers of my troops, who howled my name and raised bloodied weapons to the ashen sky blackened by the dust of a burning city and the heavy with the screams of its people. Tsubaki would join us, provided that sake was available – and Wolfe always ensured that it was.

"Promise me that you will not let Galford get away with this…"

You do not need to ask, Wolfe. I'll have this idiot in the last level of Hell and hanging from a gibbet – and that is if he begs me for mercy. I've lost enough friends over the decades I've been alive. I don't make friends easily, but I treasured those I had.

I looked up. I was getting closer to the sword.

"I would never have believed that he would have gone this far just to see me dead. He had plenty of chances back then to betray me…so why now? What have I done to have caused him to turn against everything we believed in? Was he jealous of my taking the captaincy of the St. Michael Paladins? Was it because I have won the esteem of my brothers and sisters in the only way that mattered? What…?"

I closed my eyes and tried to banish Wesley's voice. You, Wesley, are the one of the few people I wished I had never met. Had it not been for you and your Paladins, my past would have remained in the dusty recesses of my memory, never to be resurrected. You amazed me by the fact that although your position was equal to that of Galford's, you never let it get to your head. You were always found in the thick of battle, till I could almost swear that you were insane; it is as if I was staring at a mirror image of myself. Two Bloody Angels, one armored in gold and silver, the other in black and crimson. But, you are not me. You are not inured to betrayal and how low humanity is capable of sinking in order to get what they want. That naiveté had almost cost you your life.

"Rolf is right. We must end this – one way or another. Tonight, we are going to the Golan Heights ahead of our peers. We cannot risk Galford's lackeys or the servants of the Archenemy getting their hands on the Sword. If we don't…there is no telling what will happen. If that Sword is as powerful as you say, Shateiel…then no one on this Earth can be trusted with it."

And so, you send me to avert the Apocalypse. Send a devil prince to conquer a prince amongst devil princes. An excellent, if not risky, choice; I am the only one that can even have the slightest chance of touching the Morningstar's Sword without being turned to ashes as Aziel had been. Your trusting me may be the biggest mistake you make, Wesley.

"No matter how deep you are in Hell, the Order will come for you. Yes, even Victoria and Aziel. You are worth that much – and not as a hostage."

Thank you, old friend, for being one of the few people in Creation to believe in me. I suppose, in exchange for that, a betrayal of this magnitude should be good enough a repayment. The Morningstar will be enraged, though. I grinned. The sheer thought of tweaking the Morningstar's nose with such daring was irresistible. It would gain me a reputation for being insane and suicidal, but it would be worth it! The Archdukes themselves would raise a toast to the idiot who dared to beard the lion in its very lair.

"If this is the best you can do, Satan had better start thinking on how to lose with grace. His champions are…lacking."

The mountain roared again, the sound of its molten heartbeat the echo of Wesley's swords and mine crossing.

"Focus, Bloody Angel, is the one thing you lack. You are mighty, yes, but you can be mightier still if you can control that raging inferno that is the source of your powers."

Aoshi Shinomori, a man of action who spoke little. Born in Japan the day after Hiroshima was incinerated by nuclear fire, he was born to a samurai family who had struggled to help its country rebuild, surrendering what little dignity it had for the greater good. Aoshi was a master swordsman and leader of an obscure group of highly-trained assassins known as the Guren. The assassin group's birth dated back not long after the birth of Christ, during an age that the vampires of the Camarilla whispered was when the gates of Gehenna itself swung open. Their skills and methods for hunting and killing whatever beast the Pit spawned were instrumental in the formation of the organization that was the Inquisition.

"The easiest choice is not necessarily the right one. So, tell me, Bloody Angel…why did you choose to turn on your compatriots?"

Simple, Black Ice Aoshi: I hated them. It is good enough a reason to betray them, is it not? We, the children of Adam and his lovers, are not above betrayal and murder. The story of our race's birth is one drenched in blood, sex and betrayal. It is a story of damnation, a tale so sad that even the Morningstar refuses to hear it told. To speak of it, to even glance through the book that is kept within His Majesty's chambers, is to invite Final Death. Not even God's most trusted servants are allowed such a privilege, so my mistress had once told me.

"Remember: the Beast that your Exaltation is the source of your power was originally part of your soul. It is the gift that the Darkness gave during the creation of humanity. Once, long ago, our oldest stories bespoke of humans who were born without Evil being part of their souls. So, when they came into contact with an external source of that same Evil, the effects were disastrous on both body and soul.

"Also, if one can harmonize one's soul, it is possible to allow that Beast to take a form of your own choosing. It's a high-level technique and one that anyone can master, given time."

Aoshi was skilled to a level that he awed even me. No human I had ever known could wield the twin katanas with the level of skill that Aoshi displayed. I have seen my Exalted kin backpedal in the face of the storm of blades he could unleash. Inspired, I had taken to incorporating his fighting style into my own. Aoshi had a gift: he was able to speak to his ancestors and learn from them. It had a cost, however: Aoshi was forced to pay with his very life-span. I doubted that he would live to see his fortieth birthday – but never once did he complain. He knew the price of power and duty and went about paying it with regal dignity.

"A starry night; the cold winter nights before a fire; to watch the sakura fall in my homeland – these are some good reasons to enjoy sake. But, I believe after a fight like the one we just had is just as good a reason to enjoy it more."

Forget about getting Aoshi to surrender; it simple takes too much effort – and the fact that once he makes up his mind to kill someone or something, it was pretty much pointless to change his mind. Tsubaki and Hayami told me that Aoshi's sobriquet of Black Ice fitted him to a T. He was a man hard to terrify or intimidate. The emotionless look on his face would always be there regardless of whether he faced an angry bishop or a demon prince.

"You are perhaps the most human person I know."

I froze and turned about, half-expecting to see the silver-haired, silver-eyed priestess behind me. Tsubaki Katsuragi was a traditional Japanese shrine-maiden and was part of the Guren organization Aoshi headed. Even after she came to the Vatican after accepting Wesley's invitation to join the Order of St. Michael, she did not abandon the traditional garments of her homeland nor her religious Shinto practices. That had earned her the enmity of the hardliners in the Church, who regarded Tsubaki as an infidel and a pagan. Twice they had called for her expulsion, and twice Wesley had stepped in to deflect their demands. No matter what Tsubaki did, it would never silence the simmering resentment and dislike within the hardliner factions. But, she did not care about their petty hatreds.

"Hatred is a sign that people are afraid of you."

Tsubaki did not hate me. When we first met, it was like she had been waiting for me. The first words out of her mouth had been a simple welcome and that she had been waiting for me. I was confused at first, but the months that passed showed me their meaning. And I treasured every day of it. It had taken seven hundred years for my hate and anger to end – but it had ended, just like my mistress said it would one day. I remembered my time with Tsubaki clearest of all. The long nights in the library, drinking under the stars in the countryside, the long hours training together…the memories caused my heart to ache. I wished I had met Tsubaki all those long decades ago. I wished that, when I fell under the weapons of those I had loved, that I had been strong enough to not hate them for what they had done.

"One day, I would like you to come to my country, Shateiel. There, we can refine your skills, among other things. My family has expressed interest in wanting to meet you."

That dream is over, Tsubaki. But it was – is – a good one. And I thank you for wanting to share it with me.

"We cannot change fate, but we can change our destiny."

Can I do that? Do I have the power to change my destiny?

"You can make your own destiny, my beloved. You can stride on your own two feet and choose with your eyes open. I am glad I have met you – even if it was but for a moment. Your mistress was right about one thing, though...."

I strode up the steps of the altar where the Sword of Lucifer laid bound.

"Like freedom, the price of redemption is high. Tonight is the night you pay for walking back into the Light. That is…if you choose to do so."

Should I? Should I do so? My mind was awhirl with the possibilities of that future. Can it still be mine? Is there a chance that I can reach for that star?

"Father…"

"Shateiel, my knight…"

"Papa…"

"We will all wait for you, my love. You belong to us. We – as one – chained ourselves to you."

"The night has no rainbow, idiot. It is a proverb amongst my kind…but I like the way it sounds. Full of hope and defiance…it is what life is all about if you've got the guts to make it your own!"

"I love you, papa."

"Is it wrong, papa, for me to love my brother?"

"You belong to me, Shateiel. And that means you are the property of the Crimson Legion of His Majesty's glorious army. From here on out, you will do as you are told, when you are told, and have those tasks done as soon as possible. Am I clear? Good. My name is Cameela. I will be your captain – and that means you take your orders from me, and me alone. Are we very clear on this?"

"My name is Uranus, warrior. What is yours?"

"I am Silana-Calaster, of the sect of the Rising Moon."

I froze instantly, my hands inches away from the Sword of Lucifer's ornate hilt. Crimson rivulets from my open wounds streamed down past the cross-guard and down the rune-etched blade. The runes began to glow a soft crimson light and I heard whispers amidst the roar of the mountain's heart. It was hard to make them out as there were thousands of voices speaking at the same time. But, I knew each one of them. Some were centuries old, but all of them had names. My lovers and my children; my comrades-in-arms; my enemies…I knew them all. In that instant that spanned a thousand years, I knew what I had to do.

"What is at the end of the sky?" Wesley.

"To live is to learn. No man is without his flaws. No man is without his strengths. As we live, so do we learn to accept the first while strengthening the second." Hayami.

"Blood can always be washed away." Victoria.

"You can, one day, walk under the sky of this world as a free man." Huishen.

"Life is a blank ticket, man. That's the way I like it. My rules, my road, my way…but I'd best check the speed limit, eh?" Randall.

"I want a future where I can see my children grow up without fear, Shateiel." Silvana.

"To not know fear is foolishness. To act despite it is courage." Aoshi.

"Don't die for nothing." Raphael.

My fingers closed around the hilt…

"Dark power invested in a man does not make him evil. Look at you. I tried every which way to blacken that soul of yours…and all I got was wasted effort and cutting my own legs from under me! But, I don't regret it. I saved you that time…because you were a choice soul. Letting someone else get you would be a mistake on my part…" Cameela.

"I am willing to be your shield, and give power to you, the blade. If you want me to die, you have but to ask." Tsubaki…

Tear spilt from my eyes. The mental image of Tsubaki lying dead on the cold stone floor in the upper levels of this damnable place told me that there are far worse fates than honoring a pact I made long ago. I closed my hands around the Sword of Lucifer. The sword shuddered violently, then, as the chains that bound it uncoiled and lashed back before falling into the lava. The mountain shook violently, the tremors of felt for miles around. To me, however, it felt like the whole world was shaking in fear. It knew what was about to come.

I smiled.

One last dance, before the end, I spoke softly to the statue of the Morningstar. Her perfect stone lips curved into a smile, and one of the wings reached forward to brush my face.

'Granted.'

To be continued…

(O)

Author's afterword:

Well, here it is – the second draft of Angel Halo. It took me some time to get it done, but this is the first step to fulfilling my promise to making a (good?) story better. So, to those who are reading this story, I apologize for the sudden stop in my first draft. Some of my reviewers – and my editors - wanted me to take a chisel and hammer to this, and I agreed with them. It was time to clean up. I am now working on the next chapter, and will post it up soon.

Character profiles:

For those who play D20, I extend a challenge. Most of the characters below are in epic class, and thus, I will appreciate if any of you will create a template for each of them. I am not only writing a story; I am also creating a scenario where YOU can play in the world I created – and hopefully, enjoy it. So, send in your entries. I will give credit to those I post up.

Shateiel Spiritblade

Wesley G.

Victoria

Aziel Helmraz

Michael Adel

Richard Sanders

Silvana Sanders

Chen Huishen

Raphael Carleon

Ezekiel Rage

Randall Masters