The boy sat in the chair, his head hung down, as the adults in the next room talked about things he didn't understand. The uncomfortable weight of caked mud was on his face, and grass stains discolored his uniform's yellow sweater; the shirt underneath it, once pristine white, was now several different shades of brownish-green, and a bruise was beginning to throb beneath his right eye. His hair, normally flax-blond, was just as discolored and disheveled as the rest of him. As he sat, he sniffled a bit, his silvery-blue eyes never looked up, but just remained at the floor. He was a very handsome child even in his current state.
The droning voice of the middle-aged, heavy-jowled headmaster floated into the waiting room where the boy sat. Even from just listening to him, it was easy to tell he was plump enough to sweat after walking only a few meters, and rolled back and forth like a penguin while doing so.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Angel. I know all you've done for us in the past, and I understand your financial situation. But the truth of the matter is-" (he stopped to wipe the sweat from his flabby brow) "-we simply cannot carry on in this manner. This is the third of these incidents that's happened between your son and other students here. As you know…" The boy knew exactly what was coming; the headmaster had a fondness for repeating this particular spiel whenever any sort of situation would arise. "…Saint Eustace is a renowned institute of learning, and we simply don't have any place for students like Arthur if he continues to make trouble. There are many families who would love to have gotten a place for their children at this academy; I know you are a faithful member of the congregation and Arthur is a very bright lad, but he just doesn't get along with others. Even if he's only eleven, I don't know of any way this can be stopped." The headmaster paused. "We, all his teachers…are at wit's end. I'm not sure how many more chances we can give him before he runs out."
Following, the boy heard the deeper tone of his father, his native French accent just barely noticeable, respond. "I understand, Father Gough. I will be sure to make sure that he knows this kind of behavior isn't acceptable."
"Please do so," the headmaster puffed. "As for today, he can go home early. Some of the other boys in Father Adderly's class are not too pleased with him, and I'm afraid more trouble will occur. Thank you for your time, Mr. Angel. Do you need the parish to send you any more food? Helen Rogers next door to you was worried about your family; I know it's hard being a single parent and all, and especially so with the economy being such as it is…I hate that you have to be bothered with this as well. Good day; we all hope you find new employment soon."
The headmaster's condolescences were as false as the man himself. Father Gough, just like everyone in the school, could care less about Arthur and every single thing about him. They all hated him, the other boys who would gather in their circle cliques and cast glances and snickers at him, the teachers who would single him out, judge him when he gave the wrong answer to a question they asked; when the others would just make fun of him off to themselves it was fine, but then they started to harass him, shove him around when no teachers were looking, then start to hit him and mock him. The more they could get away with it, the more they did. And then he fought back, and he was the one to be blamed. The headmaster just assumed because all five of the boys who ganged up on him were saying he hit them first, Arthur was the one who was lying. Because they were the high-class, upstanding choirboys. They were paragons of virtue, weren't they? All the kids with the double barreled names and who carried themselves with an air of superiority, they couldn't possibly bully some kid, could they? No, it was just Arthur Angel the problem child, the loner, being trouble once again.
Arthur hated everyone in that goddamn school. He would never say that word out loud or his father would punish him, but he hated them.
He lifted his head from where he was sitting, to see his father above him. Gustave Angel was a slight man of about five feet and a half, with his dark hair, now thinning, coiffed above his long forehead, and a bit of wispy facial hair, which was as much as he could grow, always present. He didn't look much like his son at first glance, but a stranger could see the resemblance after a few minutes of observation.
He looked at his son. Arthur knew the look well. It was all disappointment. Silently, he got up and followed him, still downcast.
It wasn't until they had gotten into their Ford and were backing out of the parking lot when his father spoke for the first time. "So, you got into another fight?"
"Thomas called me a stupid frog eater, and when I tried to go away he grabbed me and I punched him," the boy replied, softly. "They didn't believe me. They believed him."
"So was he telling them the truth?"
"Papa, do you believe me?"
"Arthur," his father huffed, "I'm not stupid. I've known for ages that Father Gough would like nothing more than to expel you for good so that he can have the perfect parish school of noble boys he's always wanted, and not have some half-French poor kid in there. He's disliked me for a long time too. If I had never married the old priest's daughter, he never would have let you into St. Eustace in the first place."
"So you believe me?"
"Yes, but I'm still disappointed in you. You're better than that."
"What do you want me to do," Arthur replied solemnly, "just sit there while they pick on me?"
"I know this is going to sound harsh," his father sighed, "but you've got to endure it. I know it's hard. But if you fight back, it's just going to get you in worse trouble. The administration is never going to believe you if you say it was self-defense. So, make it where they have no choice but to believe you. Don't stoop to those other kids' level. It will come back to them in time."
Arthur said nothing, but just looked down at the floorboard of the car, which was now merrily speeding along the A-road to Bath at forty miles per hour. He hated when his dad lectured him.
"I'm sorry I did that, Papa."
"It's okay." Gustave sighed, cutting off for a second. "I wish your mom was still here. She'd do a much better job of explaining this than I would, wouldn't she? You just have to be strong. I know you can be."
"I will be, Papa."
"Still, you got in trouble at school, so no Nintendo for you tonight."
"Aw, Papa…"
"You have better things to do than play those games anyways."
Arthur sighed and put his hand on his chin.
The caravan car pulled into the driveway. The suburban house that Arthur's family lived in was tall, blocky, and dull just like every other one on the street, built for the conformity of the fifties but, that period now long since past, was only a place where lived day laborers, young part-time students, and one or two Pakistani immigrants. It was simply average, like every other place in Glastonbury. The pipes whined and the house creaked and the ceiling in the spare bedroom leaked during storms and some of the drywall in the living room had been missing for years and the gutters always got stopped up, but they could have lived in a far worse place.
The boy in the uniform entered the door of his home, his backpack still on, and sighed heavily. Locking himself in his room would do him some good to forget the previous day.
That was, until he entered the guest room and saw a girl of about nine, with the same wheatish hair and blue eyes as him, tapping away at the controller of an NES and muttering something about dying again to the same turtle.
Immediately, he ran up to her and snatched the controller out of her hands. "Hey, I was playing that!" she yelped.
"Sophie! It's not yours!" Concentrating on the television for a second, he scanned out the layout of the level. She was only on the first world. Are you kidding me? A monkey could beat that and you can't…
With the controller in the hands of someone who had beaten Super Mario already, the level was vanquished in short time. Still, Arthur was not pleased. "I swear if she overwrote my save game…" he muttered.
"Give it back!" Sophie pleaded, trying to reach and grab the controller out of her brother's hand, but he held it out of her reach.
Arthur angrily strode over to the console and unplugged the game cartridge. "You can play whatever else you want, but DON'T! TOUCH! MARIO! GOT IT?!"
His little sister made a dive for the cartridge but he whipped it up and she fell to the floor.
"Daddy!" she yelled. "Arthur's being mean!"
"What? I am not!"
"Arthur, I thought I told you no Nintendo," his father grumbled, entering the room. Sophie, still on the floor, gave a smug little giggle. Shut up…
"And you, Sophie, have you finished all your homework?"
Startled, she gave the least convincing poker face ever. "Yes…"
"Go do your homework."
"Yes, Daddy," she said, downcast. Arthur returned her smug glance.
"I hate you, Big Bro," she muttered before leaving. He stuck his tongue out at her as she went.
Then, leaving as well, he went upstairs. He couldn't play video games, so pretty much all there was to do was sleep. Nothing ever happened here anyways. He wouldn't be missing much. And besides, all the trouble today had tired him out.
He thought he would have to lay in bed a long time, but Arthur was fast asleep within a few minutes.
Atop the building, the highest in the small town, the senior exorcist peered through his binoculars at the landscape below. The town, like all other small villages in England on a weeknight, was completely shuttered; it was a late enough hour that even the pub had gone dark.
Four stories wasn't very tall for a building, but the bank was the perfect spot from which to watch Glastonbury. The exorcist peered through his binoculars, searching all over the horizon. In his pocket, a seal on which had been printed an esoteric symbol pulsed with a gentle red light. There were no demons in the area that it had detected. Still, he was on guard, because that was his assignment. All he knew was that there was something in the bank below that needed protection that night, and it was important enough to send a crack squad of the Dublin branch's best Dragoons to guard it.
Under his midnight-blue robe, on which was pinned the green and gold Celtic cross of the Irish Knights, he could feel the slight brush of a small plastic block, a dead man's switch. If the worst happened, it would call in the local police, and put the entire region on high alert. Still, it was the last resort. This was his last year before he retired; he hoped it wouldn't come to that. He wanted to spend more time with his family, and his rank meant he would have enough money to be set the rest of his life. Not every exorcist was strong enough, or lived long enough to obtain Upper Second Class.
He thought of his youngest son, who had always been sickly, and the extra time he would need to spend caring for him, since his wife barely had enough time for the two older children as it was. Maybe they would move to some place in England like here. It was clean and fresh and peaceful.
In the five minutes or so he had been watching, nothing else had appeared. He shifted the assault rifle on his back and put down the binoculars.
Behind him, the younger members of the squad, four in total, were barely paying attention to the surroundings, instead laying back, polishing their guns, checking their radios, or something else.
An Exorcist Second Class with a mop of shaggy silver hair covering his face, yawned. "Um, Commander Silverstein, you got anything?"
"Nothing," the senior exorcist replied.
"Are you sure there's even gonna be anything here? I'm freezing my arse off waiting…can't we go inside?"
The other three offered murmurs of assent.
"There's worse things than cold," Silverstein harrumphed. "Deal with it. This is a non-signatory country, remember?"
"Ahh, who cares," the young exorcist moaned, shoving his hands in his pockets. "We've been up here for five hours. I want to go home already."
"Soderstrom, this is important."
"What's in there that's so important to whoever wants to steal it? Are the Illuminati back from the dead or something?"
"I need a drink…" another of the exorcists commented.
"It's important enough that the best were assigned to protect it," the commander stated.
"Best, my arse," Soderstrom grumbled. "If the Order really cared they'd send the Special Ops team from the Vatican. This is a quick way to suicide."
"Second Class Soderstrom, enough!" snapped the second-in-command, a high-cheekboned, high-strung Dubliner named Strahan.
"Strahan, stand down," Silverstein said, motioning downwards with is hand. "You have something to do now. Check in with HQ."
"Yessir," Soderstrom mumbled dejectedly as he took out the walkie-talkie in his coat. "Blackbird 3 calling Patrick. Blackbird 3 calling Patrick. What's your read?"
A voice crackled from the radio. "Patrick calling Blackbird Squadron. All clear, over. No detection. Stay alert for further instructions." It went silent after that.
The commander stood near the edge of the roof, letting the wind ripple his graying dark hair and beard. The sky was dark and speckled with the clouds of a November evening, rolling by. It sure was beautiful in this little town. It even seemed like time had stopped and it would just be peaceful and idyllic forever where he was.
There was a large cloud in the east, which flashed with light. Was a storm coming? He listened intently, but there was no thunder. That was strange. It almost seemed like it was darker than the night sky itself, and moving faster than the others as well. It was now still closer, pulsing with an eerie blue light. As he watched, something became clear from his years of experience.
That was no cloud.
In one fluid motion, he pulled the M16A2 rifle, loaded with enchanted ammunition, from over his shoulder and cocked it.
"TAKE COVER!" he yelled. "DEFENSE FORMATION, NOW!"
The looks on the faces of the squad members had changed from boredom to sheer terror as they scrambled to find whatever cover they could on the rooftop.
The cloud was now directly overhead, glowing with a light that was not of this world. It was no longer a formless mass but now resembled a being with its wings spread wide and two eyes burning with an unnatural glow.
The radio that Soderstrom had dropped was crackling away with frightened noise. "Blackbird Squadron, retreat immediately! Level 10 threat detected in the immediate area! Possible Prince of Hell! Retreat and call for backup! Do you copy, Blackbird Squadron?"
A Prince of Hell? There's no way that could be right!
A tremendous, earsplitting whine emanated all around the exorcists, and the commander fell to the ground in pain. Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped. When he tentatively rose to his feet, the cloud was gone, but Soderstrom was standing in the center of the rooftop, looking up at the sky. The commander raised his rifle and hesitantly advanced forward.
"Avi Silverstein, what did the gladiators say to the Emperor?" Something sounded off about the young exorcist's voice.
"What do you mean?" the commander replied, shakiness still present in his tone.
"Morituri te salutant, wasn't it?"
"Morituri…te…salutant?"
As Soderstrom turned around, his commander saw that, horrifyingly, his eyes were as black as the sky.
"A fitting end for one such as you."
Silverstein didn't notice the Sig P226 being drawn, or the report of the bullet, until it was too late. The impact crushed into his abdomen, sending him tumbling off the ledge into the street below.
Before he hit the ground, the last thing that went through his mind was the face of his son.
The police cruisers, their lights blazing, had surrounded the bank within a quarter hour. Captain Michael Barry stood, watching the front doors, as the SWAT van pulled up to the curb, releasing ten armed officers. He snapped a salute as their commander made his way over to where he was standing. The commander returned the salute, then began to speak.
"Captain Barry, what's the intel?"
"There's been an explosion in the bank; multiple hostiles expected. You're going to have to deal with it as terrorism."
The SWAT commander sighed and took off his helmet to rub his forehead. "Have we gotten the lethal force authorization?"
"Yeah, Portishead's given the free fire. We're going to send your team in first, followed by the uniforms."
"What could a bomber want out here?" the SWAT officer asked, confused.
"Lord only knows…" Barry replied.
Beside them, an officer called out on a megaphone, "This is the Avon and Somerset Police Department! We have you surrounded! You have one minute to surrender or we will enter!"
"Formations!" the SWAT leader called. The 10 heavily-armed troopers took up positions outside the bank's front door, and the uniformed constables creeped closer to the door. Barry stood behind his car with his pistol drawn, watching closely.
A few seconds passed, and then Barry raised his hand and the SWAT troopers kicked down the door. They spread into the lobby, the other officers following. In total, including the captain there were almost 35 police officers in the bank. Even with that many, Barry still had his doubts they could handle a heavily-armed bunch of terrorists.
The lobby was eerily dark and quiet. There was no movement or even any sign of damage to the bank. What could the people who broke into it possibly want? As far as he knew, there were no valuables of any sort that would necessitate an explosion. Hell, if someone wanted to rob the bank they might as well just walk in in the middle of the day and just take whatever they wanted. Why would they go to all this trouble?
The SWAT troopers, lighting up the marble floor and painted walls with their flashlights, crept over the tellers' desks and surrounded the vault door. One of them touched it, and it creaked open slowly. Looking at Barry, they swung the heavy door open and entered the vault when he gave the command.
It was undisturbed. Not a single deposit box had even been opened. As they stood around in confusion, one of the troopers bent down and pointed to the floor. "Sir, look at this…"
Barry cautiously made his way over to the floor, which had been torn away. Beneath it, something gold glimmered. He held his flashlight to it and gasped.
It was a reliquary, decorated with gold and silver and precious stones, with lapis lazuli inlays and figures of a man with a crown etched into it. Uncial writing ringed the top of it, which was shaped a little like a church. The design was absolutely ancient. It had to be from Anglo-Saxon times at the latest. Where did it even come from? There were the ruins of an old cathedral in town, but all the art had long since been moved or lost. With shaking hands, he hesitantly picked the top off the reliquary. Inside, there was nothing except some dust.
He held the artifact, puzzled. It was worth a fortune if it was authentic, and it had been dug up, but whoever had done it had left it in its hidden vault. There had to be something inside that was far more valuable; it was the only explanation. But what was it?
All of a sudden, the door to the vault slammed shut, and everything went dark. There were confused murmurs and the sounds of guns being drawn from all around. Then, the fluorescent lights above flickered on.
A man with silver-blonde hair, wearing a dark blue double-breasted coat, was standing at the vault door, holding out a pistol.
"Hands in the air!" Barry screamed. "Drop the weapon, now!"
Three dozen police officers had their weapons pointed at the man. He only just smirked.
"Looking for this?" he asked, pulling out a golden vial from inside his coat. The captain's eyes widened. So that was what was inside the box…
He held his hand up, and immediately every single officer in the room loosed their weapons. The sound was absolutely deafening, and dust was kicked up everywhere. There would be a hefty repair fee, but it would definitely be worth it. This treasure was worth a massive amount of money.
The bullets were flying, but they weren't hitting the man. He stood, looking slightly amused, as an orb of blue light flashed around him every time a slug came close, vaporizing the bullet into thin air.
As the gunshots trailed off, the man was still standing in front of the door, smirking. Not even a single bit of damage had been done.
As he stood looking at the strange man, his mouth agape, Barry remembered something. That uniform, that one with the dark color and the badges that almost looked military…that was a member of the Order of the True Cross. He'd seen them on TV, collecting alms for the poor and doing other charitable work. But they don't operate in the UK, right? he thought, sweating. Why is one here and why the hell can he do that? Is he…even human?
It seemed impossible. He didn't want to admit it to his wife, but he loved to read conspiracy books, and many of them went on tangents about how the Order was just a front for some strange, Illuminati-like secret society that let the Vatican get into governments' back pockets, but it was so obviously false that it was funny. Yet here he was, seemingly with proof.
A blue light began to glow at the man's feet. In shock, the police captain realized the man was being engulfed by a crystal-blue flame. It blew his hair back, revealing hideously pointed ears, and his face began to stretch and his eyes took on a black glow.
"Fine," the man said, in a voice that seemed almost demonic. "I'll do what you ask." He dropped the pistol off to his side. "Man, you make the guys up on the roof seem skilled…don't worry though." His smirk grew large and evil, as with terror the police captain saw that he was producing a long, thin sabre, burning with the same flame that he was coated in, directly from his body. "It'll be over quickly."
It was cold. Why was it so cold? Did the heater in the house suddenly break or something? It wouldn't be the first time. Arthur squirmed and reached down to pull the comforter up, but he only felt his fleece pajama pants. Crap, I kicked the covers off… He didn't want to get up, especially if there was still a lot of time before school started.
He reached out to his side, but instead of a soft blanket, his hand hit freezing stone.
Arthur jolted up, his cornflower eyes wide open. He was seated on a floor of ancient stone, the ruins of carved pillars all around. In front of him, a stone table had been broken in two by some rain or wind long ago. There had probably once been a ceiling above him, but now only the stars shone through, so many that even the dusky bands of the galaxy could be seen. It was incredibly cold, and Arthur, noticing it, wrapped his hands around his body and started to shiver. He knew this place. It was the remains of the old Abbey east of town; his primary school had gone on field trips there. What am I even doing here?
There were footsteps on the stone, echoing throughout the chamber. Arthur tensed up. He could just feel that something bad was coming, and he tried to scramble for protection, but there was no cover to be found.
As he sat there terrified, a shadow crossed in front of the old, ruined altar, and the shape of a man, wearing a midnight-blue coat and high black boots, emerged into the moonlight. His hair was an almost translucent shade of silver, and his eyes were purple. As he moved forward, it became clear that he was dragging another person by the hand. It took him a second to make out who it was, but as she turned her face to him, he recognized immediately.
It was his sister.
As she stared at him, he could see nothing but fear in her eyes.
The man stared coldly down at Arthur, and it was like the temperature dropped twenty more degrees. "So, you're finally up?"
Arthur's eyes narrowed, but his terror still far outweighed his fear, and all he could squeak out was, "Who…are…you?"
The man grinned. "Who am I, kid? Oh, that's a good one. Ever heard of the Seducer of Men before? The accursed Swayer of Hearts? Haven't, I see? Then I suppose some introductions are in order. Of course, I don't really care who you are. But it would be best for you to know the name Belphegor."
Arthur hissed out of his teeth. "Let…Sophie…go…"
A giggle came from the mouth of the young man who had called himself Belphegor. "Oh, you two are related? I see the resemblance now! I thought I had just grabbed a couple of random kids, but two hostages are always better than one!"
"I don't know what you want, but just let her go!"
"What I want?" The man was on top of him so quickly that it almost seemed like he had teleported. "What I want is something you probably won't understand, no matter how brave you act, kid."
"Big Bro, don't worry about me…" Sophie barely squeaked out, still in Belphegor's grasp. "Just run…"
"Ah, shut up," Belphegor hissed. "You act like you're gonna die or something. If this works, then I let you go. It's that simple." He tossed Sophie down roughly in front of her brother; she lay weakly on Arthur's lap, breathing in heavily. "By the way, don't even think about trying to run. You won't get past the barrier I put up. Actually, maybe I shouldn't have told you that. It would have been funny seeing you two trying to hit the barrier and scream for help…"
He walked back to the center of the room. "Honestly, how stupid of the Order. They've been around for hundreds of years and they hid one of their most powerful relics in a country they can't even legally go into. Oh well, at least I can focus on the final part of the Ring with not a lot of trouble."
Suddenly, he drove his fist into the floor. Bits of rocks and dust flew everywhere, and Arthur coughed from it going into his lungs. When it cleared, the man was holding a curved sword in his hands. It looked to be a seax, as old as the Anglo-Saxon times, but there was still a bit of dignity in it, even though its hilt was crudely made and its sheen was dull and covered with dust. Belphegor looked down at it, grinning.
"So this is it, isn't it…the Savior of Britain's weapon itself…what the Lady of the Lake made, what repulsed the Saxons at Mount Badon, what even in his dying breath slew Mordred…and now, it is mine." He held up a golden vial, glinting in the moonlight. "Only the blood of a rightful king of the Britons can awaken it, but as this is that very relic of Edward the Confessor, preserved for millennia, I would say I have that, wouldn't I?" He lifted the lid off the top. "It's time for you to return." His grin was as wide as his face. "Excalibur."
He turned the vial over, then grinned and dashed it against the ground, immediately reached out with his hands, and Sophie was suddenly engulfed in a brilliant blue flame.
She was on his lap burning and gasping for breath, trying to cry out, and yet the flames weren't touching Arthur. But what he was seeing hurt far more than any fire ever could.
A dark red orb, flowing like liquid, raised above the convulsing body of his little sister.
Belphegor began to laugh wildly. "The Order honestly thought that cute little trick would work? Putting a fake relic in the bank vault when what will actually wake Excalibur is right in front of me? Did you really believe I needed any sort of hostage when no human can harm me? It might have worked well on the Illuminati, sure. But you can't trick someone whose very name is Deceit."
His sister had grown silent, and her body was beginning to turn to ash.
"Y-You said you'd let us go…" Arthur stammered out, shaking half from fear and the other from anger.
"Aww, did I? Is there anything forcing me to keep a promise here? Anything? I guess not! Well, too bad!" Belphegor sneered. "Kid, you learned something today. Wanna know what it is? Never trust a demon."
The sanguine globe, hovering over Belphegor's head, began to elongate and whirl around the sword. An extremely bright light began to emanate from it, so powerful Arthur had to shield his eyes. When he opened them again, the form of the ancient Saxon broadsword was gone. Instead, a wide, powerful cutting blade with an offset tip was in the demon's hand, with a golden cross glowing on the two-toned burnished metal.
"It was fun playing with you, but I've grown bored. Since you were so fun, though, I'll make it painless," the demon snarked.
"You're a…a…piece of shit," Arthur replied. It felt good to say it to someone who had killed his sister in front of him. Even if, you know, he was going to die too.
"Why, thank you," Belphegor grinned, and swung the sword downwards. Arthur closed his eyes.
There was a flash of light, then…nothing. Was he dead?
When he opened his eyes, he saw Belphegor's face twisted in rage as he attempted to force the sword downwards, but nothing was happening.
He pressed and pressed, but the sword stayed quivering inches above the boy's face.
Then, the sound of footsteps echoed throughout the chamber.
The moonlight lit the frame of Gustave Angel, his attire disheveled but his countenance steely-focused.
"P-Papa?" Arthur breathed, as he noticed the glinting blade he held in his right hand.
"Huh?" Belphegor sneered. "Is that all the Knights have? The famous Right Hand of the Chevaliers de Guyenne, Monsieur Angel, is it? You seem a little…out of practice."
His father shifted his foot backwards, taking a defensive stance. "For years I neglected my duty. I see what that has brought me. I will do that no longer." He drew his sword in front of him, the moonlight reflecting molten silver off the cutting edge. "This is my sword. With it I shall purify you, creature of Hell."
The demon threw the sword he was carrying to the ground. "Ha! I don't even need this useless piece of crap to beat you." His body became engulfed in those horrible blue flames, and several pieces of long, jagged, burning blue crystal materialized in front of him. He grabbed one and, in a flash, rushed toward Arthur's father, laughing wildly. "Let's see what you've got, Chevalier!" Gustave blocked, but the force of Belphegor's repeated blows were taking a strain on him, as he dug his footing in on the ancient stone floor. Suddenly, he flicked his eyes toward Arthur and caught them, then slowly moved them over to the right.
It took Arthur a second, but then he saw his father was staring straight at Excalibur. Before he could even say, "Grab the sword and run!" he had already taken off, sprinting as fast as he could to pick it up.
Belphegor's head snapped around as he saw what was going on. "Oh no you don't, you little brat!" he hissed, moving toward Excalibur, but Gustave was faster, stopping the demon's advance with his sword.
"I've had enough of you!" the demon screamed as the weapon of fire in his hand split into a whip of nine parts, which he flicked over and over the body of the Frenchman. Gustave still held firm, but there was a grimace of pain on his face, and his clothing was beginning to be torn and burnt. Arthur stood next to the form of Excalibur, shining with light, his feet rooted on the ground. If he ran, his father would die…he was sure of it…but he couldn't do anything either…
"ARTHUR!" his father yelled, snapping him out of his trance. "I'LL BE FINE! GRAB IT AND RUN!"
As he turned to yell at his son, the demon ran him through with the blazing shard, and Gustave Angel's eyes glazed as he slumped to the ground.
Without any hesitation, the boy placed his hand on the hilt of the sword. Brilliant white light began to stream throughout the chamber as his cry of anguish for the only family he knew filled the surroundings.
The fire was twisting Belphegor's shape into something inhuman. He advanced slowly, sword of flame in his hand. "Give…it…back…you…little…brat…"
Suddenly, the deep voice of an old man echoed in Arthur's head. You are the one that has been chosen?
With a shaky voice, the boy replied, "Help…me…"
As you wish, my master.
Light filled the boy's vision, and he could feel nothing anymore.
Arthur didn't know how long it had been, but when he came to, he was lying on his back in the middle of a forest, clutching the sword to his chest with both hands.
He blinked, and above him the figure of a man in a coat filled his vision. Behind him, several other figures in uniforms moved. It was another one of those people. The Order or something? Forget it, he didn't care.
The man was wearing wire-rimmed glasses on a strap and a grey balaclava, which he promptly pulled down. "Jesus Christ, that's- Are you okay?"
The only thing Arthur could respond with was a weak, "My father's in there…please, save him…"
The man in the jacket pulled down his glasses and ruffled a hand through his brown hair. Now that his face was revealed, Arthur realized he was an Asian man. He didn't even know that many of them at all.
"I'm sorry, kiddo. The man in there's been dead for hours, and the demon's escaped. That bastard killed five of our best, too…"
He looked down. "I guess that's what he was after, huh?"
Arthur shrank back as the man drew a hand toward him. He wanted to cry, to sob, to scream, but he couldn't even shed a single tear. It was like he never had any to begin with.
"Relax. I'm not gonna hurt you." He bent down to take a closer look at Excalibur. "It picked you? I guess I have to plan around that."
"Who-who are you?" Arthur managed to ask.
"Guess I should have said that sooner. Senior Exorcist Second Class Shiro Fujimoto, Appointed Supervisor for the Order of the True Cross in the United Kingdom. My headquarters are at Dublin like the rest of these guys."
"You're not-"
"Yeah, I used to be chief of the Japan branch, but the idiots in Rome didn't like what I was doing so they stuck me out here." He paused for a second. "You saw something you probably shouldn't have, didn't you?"
Arthur nodded slightly.
"I did too, a long time ago. I hate that it had to happen to you. Once you enter this world, you can't ever escape it. Especially since you have that. That demon is going to be back for you soon, and probably others too. The Vatican will want you under their protection as well. You got any other relatives?"
Arthur slowly nodded no.
He paused, then pulled a couple pieces of paper with writing on them out of his breast pocket, along with a small velvet pouch. "I tell you what. This will be our little secret. I'll be sending you to a friend of mine up in Scotland, on a farm in the country. You'll be homeschooled, so you'll have no reason to leave the property. Give this salt to him. He'll sprinkle it around the property, and it won't allow any demons to cross. This seal is for hiding your weapon. Keep it on you at all times. Don't ever unseal it. And this seal is for masking your powers. Keep it on as well. And most importantly, don't EVER leave the property. You got me?"
Arthur slowly nodded yes.
"It'll only be a few years, kid. Then, I'll come get you. Don't worry." Fujimoto patted him on the head. "I've already got my familiars to take your belongings up to your new home. They work wonders."
Arthur looked back up with him, his blue eyes dull and beginning to tear up.
"By the way, kiddo, I forgot to ask. What's your name?"
"I-I'm Arthur. Arthur Angel."
"That's pretty accurate," the exorcist laughed. "See ya in a few." He made a small salute with his first two fingers, then flicked them off his forehead quickly before pulling out another piece of paper with a seal drawn on it and ripping it in two. The world began to spin, and then it stopped.
Arthur was in a room that looked exactly like his one at home. Everything from the color to the items on the bedside table was just like he had left it. To the right, his window blinds were drawn, and he peeked out of them. Instead of the familiar Glastonbury street, he saw instead a desolate Highland plain, mountains in the distance.
No matter how much it seemed like it, it wasn't home. He could never go home again.
The boy threw himself into his pillow, which did nothing to mask his sobs.
Four years later
Maybe that guy would never come back, Arthur thought as he sat outside the large manor house, looking over the landscape with no one in site, just as usual. It was pretty nice to look at outside. That was pretty much the only thing he liked about here.
What he didn't like was that he couldn't go outside at all. And if he didn't go outside, he couldn't find that…that thing called Belphegor.
Years hadn't dulled his strong feelings. In contrast, they had almost festered instead. They had grown, all the pain, all the hatred, and multiplied.
The only problem was that he didn't know how you could kill a demon.
So often, he would have nightmares, waking up in a sweat from seeing Sophie's little face twisted in agony as the monster burned her alive.
Someday, he would make Belphegor regret what he had done.
But that someday wouldn't be anytime soon.
That was, until he saw the black SUV, its windows tinted out, rolling slowly up the dirt road, and a man with short hair, now speckled with a little bit of gray, and a scruffy beard stepped out, wearing a uniform Arthur knew all too well.
"Yo," Shiro Fujimoto said, raising his hand. "Been a while."
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
Hi everyone! I've been quite busy lately with school and work and lots of other things, but I figured I should get out another idea I've been working on. I originally wrote this a long time ago, but I got it taken down because it was OCs…so I rewrote it to be the backstory of a character who's actually from the series.
I'm not especially good with AUs, but I love to fill in the gaps in canon stories…I think it's really fun to explore more of what's not so relevant to the main story so as to build a world. I love world constructing and that's a huge part of my writing. It also comes from the fact that I get ideas so fast that I have to write them before I lose the idea for good. In fact, this story has been floating around my head for almost a year now, and with the AnE anime returning, I felt it was the best time to publish it!
Updates might be slow since I don't have this series mapped out yet, but I'll do my best, see you soon!