Title: Angel Dust
A/N: I was walking to class and this came into my head. I find the idea incredibly adorable and it explains so much. Simply my take on what could be Alexander Anderson's past. I apologize in advance for how much it sucks…
Disclaim: I don't own; if I did, I wouldn't be writing this crummy little fanfic. I do, however, own Azekeail.
Alexander gazed about the world from a broken perspective. His mother had left him, alone and scared and beaten, on the steps of a church. His father had long since left him. For him, there was truly no-one. He stared about his dismal world with teary green eyes; his soft lips pouted in a petulant way that only a five-year-old can truly muster. And he sat. And he waited. He was so sure that eventually someone would be able to love him.
Seasons trailed past him with changing leaves and browning grass, and fluffy snowflakes and ice on the streets. Spring attempted to warm him, wrapping soft arms around his little form, but he didn't dare venture from the sanctity of the crawlspace beneath the church's steps.
He watched the people pass him by, oblivious to his plight, his need for love. It seemed as if all the people in the world were too preoccupied with themselves and their families to care about the little, lonely boy left at the church.
Then one day, she was there. She sat on the bench across the street, the heavy black jacket tucked in close around her form, staring at him with dark, dark eyes. The wind tossed her dark hair across her face and pushed the stray strands back. She never moved, as if stuck or simply a statue to linger on the bench. And he watched back.
Hot food appeared before his door, and he gobbled it down. He didn't have to ask; he knew. She was taking care of him. New clothes were left, and he dressed himself respectfully one day before crawling from his hole. He knew his face was grimy; as he stared down at his dirty hands, he wondered what she was like. Alexander stared down the street as she walked slowly toward him, the long, black coat brushed against her legs. He felt stuck, though something in him wanted to flee.
She knelt beside him, and her long, cool fingers touched his face tenderly. He stared down into those dark eyes, like staring into the depths of the universe, and he saw loving things he'd never seen, even in his own mother's gaze. "Why," he croaked out softly as tears bit at the backs of his eyes. She stood up, rested a hand on the top of his head and pulled him against her legs. "Because, my little one, the bigger ones should always protect the little ones, not abandon them." Her voice was low and calming, and oddly devoid of any accent at all. He could feel her running her fingers gingerly through his matted, dirty hair, and he rested his face against her hip. She smelled like sage and rosemary.
Her body pulled away from his, the long black coat sweeping against his frame, and she began to stroll silently away. Unthinkingly, he followed her, chasing her footsteps away from what had been his home for so long. They moved slowly down winding roads, through the center of Dublin and out into the farms, where people were sparsely littered like dropped coins that had rolled far from each other.
The little building had, he was sure, once been a tiny church for the farming villages far from places like Dublin. The windowpanes were spider-webbed with cracks, shingles had fallen from the roof, and the tiny fence that surrounded the worn-out building leaned and had been broken in places. But he almost immediately saw it as home. She brushed the crooked gate open and walked on old stones, and he followed in her footsteps.
Inside, the tiny church was far better off. Down the middle of the aisle ran a velvet runner and the pews sat silent and old, candles flickered on the altar, grey feathers were strewn casually about the floor and Jesus Christ stared down at him from behind the pulpit. She pulled the coat from her thin frame, draped it across a pew back and dropped gracefully to her knees, her head already bent in prayer. Her thin fingers rolled each bead as she prayed, systematically running through the rosary. He reached her as she said her last Hail Mary.
Slowly, Alexander sank to his knees beside her. "So, little Alexander, do you pray?" He gaped at her as she knew his name without him telling her, though she appeared not to notice as her eyes lingered on those of Christ. "Yes," he whispered, and she turned those dark eyes on him, "Then pray." He clasped his hands together on his lap and bent his head. "Heavenly Father, who art above, I ask for someone to love me. I ask that no other child go through what I did. I ask that me mum and da before forgave for what they did. Amen." He sighed deep and low, lifting his gaze to meet hers. "What's your name?" She smiled, just the barest twitches of a smile, and he could see the outlines of her teeth. "My name is Azekeail, but you may call me Zeke if you so desire."
He stared at her before touching her prayer beads questioningly. His mother had had some, but none like this. Azekeail's beads were a dark, blood red and smelled lightly of cedar, strung together on a silver chain with a small crucifix dangling at the end. She handed them to him. "You will need them." The beads were warm in his grip. "I say one prayer for one person on every bead." Azekeail licked her thumb and rubbed the wet pad across his cheek before slipping down to run questioningly along the narrow, bent scar creeping up from his jaw. "Child, you are filthy. Come, bath time."
Numbed, Alexander slowly stood up and trailed obediently after Zeke. Her long, dark hair fluttered out toward him as if it were a living being. Its dark tendrils reached out for him, ghosting lightly over his skin as she led him on toward her rooms. The door creaked open, and she turned on the light. Her bedroom was sparsely furnished, and feathers littered the floor. He bent down and picked one up. The feather was soot grey and nearly air light in his hand.
"This way," Azekeail beckoned, stepping through yet another door and into a cramped room that consisted mainly of a huge, claw-foot bathtub. A sink was crammed into one corner and a toilet in the other. She began to run the water, and the old pipes creaked as water rushed from the faucet in the wall. He watched the water swell in the large tub and wondered if she was going to leave him to simply soak like his mother had.
Azekeail turned back to him, and her long fingers tenderly plucked at his clothing. She pulled off his shirt and pants, his shoes and socks and his underwear and helped him into the tub. She held the flannel and slowly cleaned away all the mud from his pale, bruised and scarred skin. She hummed softly under her breath all the while.
Alexander stared at her. If he had been older, he would've thought her to be exceptionally beautiful as her dark hair fell over her face. Her shirt was white, covered by a black vest with a dark grey tie tucked into the vest's neck. Her black slacks covered black military boots. A heavy silver cross dangled down her chest on a thin silver chain. When he looked back up at her, her dark eyes stared deep into his. Slowly she got to her feet and lifted a towel off the sink. "Come along young Alexander, we've still got class before meal and sleep."
He stepped out of the tub and nearly slipped. Her narrow hand shot out and held him up by his upper arm. She carefully draped the towel about his shoulders while holding him up. Azekeail knelt before him, rubbing the large towel gently across his skin. When she had dried him and pulled away, she produced clothes and left him to dress. Slowly, he dressed with care to make sure no wrinkles soiled his new clothes. Staring at himself in the mirror, he smiled and slipped out of the door.
Her narrow fingers grasped hold of his arm gently as he nearly passed her where she was hidden in the shadows near the door. Azekeail pulled him close against her and cradled him to her chest, murmuring words in a lilting language that made him think of Heaven. He blinked large green eyes at her, and she smiled tenderly. "Come. Let us pray." He followed in her footsteps, his tiny fingers curled about her own.
Their footsteps were muffled against the velvet runner as they moved into the sanctuary and to the foot of the altar. Christ stared down at them with wooden eyes. Azekeail slowly, gracefully unhinged her knees and sunk to kneel on the worn carpet. He followed her down, his fingers still curled tightly against hers. Her fingers tightened comfortingly around his as her head dropped, her long, dark hair spilling about her into the air. Alexander dropped his head as well and stared at the worn carpet beneath his knees, where two rounded indents surrounded his knees. His knees fit perfectly, as if he had been there before, kneeling before Christ and holding Azekeail's hand. She whispered again in that lilting language that seemed made for the Angels and that made his eyes slit and flashes of pearly gate, gold-paved roads and beams of silver-gold sunshine dance across his eyelids. Then she spoke again, her voice low and soft as her words curled around and into his ears. "Heavenly Father who art in Heaven, who giveth and taketh away, we thank you. We thank you for the sunshine and the spring air; we thank you for the flowers and the birds' song; we thank you for the air that fills our lungs and the words that spill from our lips. We thank you, dear Father, for taking us beneath your wide wings and providing protection. I thank you for sending this little, lost lamb to linger beneath my own wings, to show young Alexander what it truly means to love someone. I promise to teach him right, my Father. Amen."
Something about what Azekeail had said made his heart curl in anticipation and left a curious smile on his lips. He tried to get up, but her fingers curled gently about his. "Stay. We must ask for protection from the Angels." Silently, he sunk back down beside her and wondered at this. Never in Mass had a priest prayed to any of the Angels or Saints. But Alexander said nothing as he let his head drape back into the proper praying position and let his eyelids drift close on their own accord.
"Beloved Michael, protector of the weak, show us the way. Give me strength to take this path, knowing the end that is to come, and to raise this child as my own flesh and blood. Allow me to love my Alexander like I have loved none other than yourself and our Father. Lend me the strength to carry this through and be done. Please, I beg it of you. Amen."
Alexander lifted his head and stared into Azekeail's dark eyes. She smiled tenderly at him, her soft-looking lips pressed tightly against one another. "It is time for class, and then we will eat and put you to bed, yes?" She lifted his tired head with a bent knuckle and chuckled softly at his sleepy expression. She stroked a bent finger along his cheek before getting to her feet and lifting him easily into a strong, easy embrace. Alexander relaxed against her chest, his face buried in the crook of her neck. Long strands of her dark hair stroked along his face as if almost crooning him asleep.
She placed him on a bench in a stone room warmed by a fireplace larger than he was which wasn't saying much as he was a small child, even for his age. Azekeail produced an old, worn out Bible with silver page edges and silver script dancing across the black leather cover. "What language is that," he asked her softly as the sleepy attitude left his head. "It is Hebrew. This is one of the first original Bibles, and it is very old. Many Catholics learned Hebrew a long, long time ago to be closer to God." He gazed up at her, "Will you teach me?" Her lips parted in a smile, revealing perfect, white teeth. Dulled canines peaked at him, resting softly on her bottom lip. "I will teach you many languages…well, try to teach those languages to you. Which languages we continue with until you are proficient speaking, writing and reading them are up to you and how easily you grasp the concepts."
The Bible's spine creaked softly as Azekeail opened the old book and laid it flat on the table before them. "We will start at the beginning and go to the end." Her lips moved over the Hebrew language as if it was her native tongue, and he listened in awe as she made the harsh language seem smooth. Halfway through, he figured out that she was telling the story of Creation.
Azekeail got to the second chapter and stopped, looking at him with solemn eyes. "Your turn." He stumbled over the first few sentences as Azekeail gingerly corrected him. By the time he had finished the first chapter, she was smiling at him. "Very good, now we will read it again." The second time he read it, the words flowed with a little more liquidity. They continued to stumble through the Hebrew language until he could pronounce most words naturally. Slowly, she rose from the bench, disappeared through a door and returned a while later with a bowl. She placed it before him on the table and settled next to him. "We will continue the lesson tomorrow, now eat and I'll put you to bed."
He ate slowly, and the stew was rich and delicious. It was, in his opinion, the best thing to eat he'd had in quite some time. When he finally put the spoon down, she began to walk out of the room. He followed her quickly, almost chasing her down the hallway before she stopped at a room. It was a relatively small room, with most of the space taken up by a bed and dresser. He noticed there were no feathers on the floor. "This is your room. My room is at the other end of the hall if you should need anything. If you do need something, do not hesitate to come and get me. Also, there's one room in between the bedrooms where the door is locked, which obviously means you are not to enter." He sat down on his bed and looked at her. "Thank you Azekeail." She smiled at him, her perfect teeth visible over her lips. "Alexander, I am your Guardian Angel. I will protect you with every breath my lungs intact. I would kill for you. I would die for you little one." Her fingers carded gingerly through his blonde hair, and she smiled tenderly before leaving his bedroom.
The days morphed into weeks, months, and finally years as they slowly worked through the Hebrew Bible, and she began to teach him other languages. Azekeail taught him French and Italian, Latin and German. By the time he was ten, she was teaching him a language he had never seen before. When he had asked what the language was called, she had lovingly stroked the loose-leaf parchment that was yellowed from age and curled at the ends from use and told him that the language had no name, that the language was supposedly what Hebrew descended from and was the language of the Angels.
At the age of twelve he experienced his first growth spurt, and he towered over the lean frame of Azekeail, though she was still able to still all his thoughts of movement with a single look. He constantly wore her rosary beads, rolling the worn-soft wood between his blunt fingertips and whispering prayers in his mind. Sometimes, he didn't even remember what his mother looked like; all he could see was Azekeail.
In the past seven years, she had changed little. Her pale skin was still nearly translucent, her hair still as dark as shadows in the dead of night and her eyes still more vast than the entirety of the universe. She taught him in the way of the world, in a sense homeschooling him into something better. Every night, they read the Bible aloud until the scripture ran pointedly through his head all day. They carried on conversations daily in all the languages he had learned, and his favourite was the unnamed one. He recognized it as the language she sometimes sung in, as the language she often reverted to when praying. The language sounded right lilting from her mouth as it did.
Many nights he would look out his door and see her leaving the locked room, her shoulders sagging as if exhausted and weighted and return to her room. He often wondered, as most teenagers do, what lay behind that door that was so important that Azekeail felt the need to lock it. He was as curious as a cat, and when she next entered the room, he prowled closer. From under the door he could hear her soft voice curling and wrapping around the syllables that made up the unnamed language. She spoke to God and Saints and Angels, as if calling home. She begged for strength despite the end drawing in, and her words startled him.
Unable to keep it in any longer, he carefully pushed the door open. Candlelight flickered over her naked body, bathing skin as smooth as porcelain in bronze light. Her skin was hairless, with the dark expanses of hair falling mostly down her back in great waves. Her body was lithe and sleek, an androgynous Barbie doll. Delicately black Gothic script fell down her back in curved and curling lines of the unnamed language, scriptures of war and death, judgment and love, of God and Angels. She turned to him, and he stared openly at her sleek frame.
Her translucent skin was pulled tightly across her frame, showing sharp joints and narrow bones, and she seemed to glow. Feathers were scattered at her feet, stuck in the floorboard cracks and in puddles of wax. The heavy silver cross hung down, barely brushing the arch of her ribs. Her dark eyes narrowed to thin slits as she stared at him. Slowly, she relaxed and let out a heavy sigh, her shoulders slumping as if a heavy force was pulling them down. "Azekeail," he whispered. She smiled softly with perfect teeth. "Alexander, I am tired. Do you mind if I retire?" He stepped forward, pulling his sweater off and wrapping it about her fragile-looking frame. Her slight body disappeared into the black wool, and she stumbled past him on unsteady feet.
In the morning, he cooked their breakfast silently. A few moments before he was to get plates, Azekeail walked slowly into the small kitchen, procuring the dishes and fixing tea for the both of them. He set the food down on the table and settled in his place across from her. She dipped her head, her long, dark writhing in the air about her still form as she whispered a prayer blessing the food and the day. He looked at her for a while after the prayer had ended as she began to eat slowly. The words "I'm sorry" leapt to the tip of his tongue, but he found he couldn't say them. "You should eat," Azekeail whispered softly. "You'll need the nourishment for today." Silently, he began to eat. She sat across from him, sipping sagely on her tea.
"Do you know what a guardian is Alexander?" He looked up at her, his low voice raspy with his growing accent, "They're a protector of something or someone, aye?" Her lips curled about the lip of her teacup in a smile. "Yes. There are certain priests who have been trained to protect mankind from the Damned. Do you know what they are called?" Alexander looked at her in great thought, staring into her dark eyes. "These are the paladins, aye?" She smiled a vibrant flash of perfect teeth. "Very good. Today, we are going to begin your training." He gaped at her, his fingers shaking against the thin china of his teacup. "What?" She smiled, but didn't elaborate. Instead, she slowly got to her feet and left the room. He gazed in wonderment after her.
Later, when the warm afternoon sun pooled and lounged in the small yard of the church, he followed Azekeail out. He carried a heavy wooden trunk and tried to walk quietly like he had been taught. But it was difficult, being fifteen and all awkward, gangly legs and knobby joints. She stopped in the center of the yard, letting the sunlight lap over her like water before turning her dark eyes on him. "This is most important Alexander. I was chosen, and I have chosen you. When I die, you will be one of twelve paladins that protect mankind from the Damned."
She folded her legs and settled on her knees before the massive trunk, opened the heavy top and slowly began to remove blade after blade from the seemingly bottomless box. "Try a few out, and we will discover which blade best fits your style." Azekeail picked up a curved sword and swung it almost delicately through the air. "When I was taught, I used swords. But you, you strike me more of a knife person than a sword." He looked at her before picking up a bayonet that was nearly as long as his arm. The weapon was perfectly weighted, the blade sharp and the handle an easy hold. He raised his arm and dropped the blade in an arc, listening to the sharp edge slicing the air.
Azekeail pulled a narrow sword from the pile and swung the blade at him. Instinctually, he brought the bayonets up in an X to keep the sword from swinging any closer. The blades hissed as their edges were dragged against one another. She attacked him again and again, moving effortlessly and driving him backward. She instructed him on stance, on the way he blocked and struck. And all the while, she continued to push him back. "Go on the offense," she bellowed at him as he tried to melt into the wall. "Don't just stand there and take it, fight back. Survive!" He swung at her; it was heavy blow that crashed awkwardly off her sword. She pressed in on him again, and he used both bayonets to drive her back. He blocked her blade and struck at her. Alexander missed her thin chest, but she stepped back. She struck again and again, and he followed and became more determined to nick her pale skin.
The sun melted from the sky, and his chest burned with each breath, but still he fought on. He forced himself to follow her, chase her down, retreat from her and go back on offense. His muscles ached, but he couldn't stop. Her sword came up and nearly cut his throat, but he jerked back at the last moment. "You'll eventually get the hang of it," she told him in a taunting tone. It drove him on, forcing him to want to prove to her that he had the hang of it. He ignored the fact that he felt like one big burn or like he had swallowed fire. He tore off his shirt and continued on, drawing in panted breath after panted breath. He chased her all about the yard, blade cracking against blade until he was forced to double over to alleviate the burn in his lungs as he breathed.
"Come along," she said to him in a soft whisper as his breath flared sharp and hard from his lips. Azekeail's skin held barely a flush, while he was stripped to the waist and still burning up. He could feel the slick trails of sweat slipping down his frame. Drawing in one last deep, shuddering breath, he dropped the long bayonets and watched their sharp edges sink effortlessly into the dry ground. He straightened and picked up his shirt before following her back into the church.
They trailed deep into the church and down a set of old stairs, into the belly of the old building. Azekeail disappeared into the dark pit, leaving him by the stairs, and one by one, candles flickered to life until the room was bathed in yellow light. A long table laden with books took up most of the room's space. Azekeail lit the candles on the table before sitting and motioning to the bench across from her. Alexander sat and looked at his mentor and mother. "What's this then?" He reached out and touched a book, running his fingers tenderly over the soft, old cover. "You have read the Bible, learned the past of the world and religion. But it is different for paladins; these books will tell you all things."
He gave her a befuddled look, but bit his tongue. Azekeail pulled a book close to her, her narrow fingers flipping through pages until finding what she appeared to be looking for. "The original paladins were Angels, sent down from Heaven to protect the world after Adam and Eve were banished from the Garden. God left Michael at the Gate to the Garden to keep people from ever returning, and He placed Angels among the living to protect people from Satan." She sighed, stroking her fingers over a sketch of twelve men and women, each beautiful in every way. "The originals are most gone now, killed out by the Damned and Beasts. Each one could sense when the end was nearing, and they chose their predecessor carefully. The child, for it had to be a child, could not have come from wealth or a loving environment, for if the child did then he or she would never know true suffering. If the child had never known true suffering, then the child would not care. The paladin had to love the child so truly, so completely that that love was the only love the child remembered."
Her dark eyes leveled at him, her barely perceptible pupils flickering over his face. "I searched for a long time to find my child, and I couldn't find it. I waited for decades to feel a stricken pull on my heartstrings when I sighted an abandoned child, but it never came. I was actually afraid that I would never find it when I met you, Alexander. You were dirty and scarred, and so alone and lonely. You didn't pull at my heartstrings; you nearly ripped them from my chest." Her fingers idly fiddled with her cross. "I want you to know, that I have faith in you. I know you can do this task that I am laying at your feet, even though I won't always be there to pick you up when you fall."
Azekeail pulled the silver cross from about her neck, her fingers squeezing the metal until her knuckles protruded bone white from her skin, and her hand shook from the force. "Give me your hand." He stretched out his right hand, and her fingers opened limply. The cross slithered from her grip, the chain whispering along her palm as the heavy metal coiled in his palm. "This is your destiny, and your path. When I go, you will be left to protect these people. You will be a force to be reckoned with." She stood up, the bench scraping backward softly. "I want you to read as much as you can, then pray. Pray for anything and everything you've ever done, will ever do."
The candles fluttered as she passed. Her hand touched his shoulder briefly before she disappeared up the stairs. He could hear the door stutter shut behind her, and his hand curled about the cross. He stared at the opposite wall, emotions fluttering in the pit of his stomach. With a deep breath, Alexander pulled the cross over his head and picked a book from the stack.
He was diligent in his studies and his training, driving himself to and then past his humanly limits to please Azekeail, to make her proud. He learned to be quick on his feet and driven in his attack. History swarmed his thoughts, intermingling with the scripture as sharp blades nicked his skin. The scent of blood raised something in him, and Azekeail always smiled when she could see it in his eyes. After blood was spilt, he would throw himself into the fight viciously, and after many long, almost endless fights, he finally got her back. She stood before him, a thin scratch on her upper arm that was leaking dark blood. He stared at her, his legs wide spread and his body bent, and she laughed. Her head fell back on her neck as a soft, melodious laugh trickled from her lips. "Very good Alexander," she told him with a smile dancing on her mouth and in her eyes.
The days became a waiting game. Sometimes, Azekeail would pull him from his bed in the wee hours of the morning to fight until he was nearly exhausted. Other days, she would lock herself in the hall room and pray for hours upon hours. Some days, he didn't see her at all. The restlessness drove anxiety into his frame, so he read the Bible over and over and practiced with his knives.
Then one morning, Azekeail came to him, and he knew the wait was over. He dressed, and they left the church in the silence of dawn. They boarded a boat and made their way to Italy. All the while, Azekeail appeared preoccupied and simply fiddled with her cross. His mind ran over silent prayers as his hand trailed over the rosary beads in his coat pocket. Azekeail and Alexander arrived at a small town about one hundred miles outside of Rome. The village was silent, save the tolling of church bells. All he could smell was blood the closer they got to the church.
Azekeail strode past him, purposefully into the church yard, and he meekly followed. Never before had he seen a beast damned to forever rot on Earth. The vampire was tall and spindly, almost more shadow than flesh. Vicious pink eyes glowered out from behind long blonde hair as lips curled in a snarl. Azekeail simply pulled a long knife from her coat. Her lips began to whisper over the unnamed language, damning the beast to the deepest pits of Hell. Alexander chased after her, his heavy boots disturbing solemn pools of blood. He had been training for this for the past five years. He was ready; he would have to be ready.
A growl tore from his throat as he pulled a bayonet from his coat and slammed it through a ghoul which was slowly climbing to its unsteady feet. The beast howled in pain, effectively drawing its master's attention as Azekeail sliced the machete down taking off the vampire's left arm. The creature howled and lunged forward, driving her thin form back into a wall of the church, its heavy fangs snapping at her.
Alexander felt a sharp pain tear across his back, and he reflexively turned, swinging the bayonet out and into the neck of the creature. His attention left Azekeail as he fought with the ghouls that had swarmed the church yard from the surrounding town. The creatures attacked him, tearing at his skin and clothes; he fought back as best as he could when every little movement plucked a string of pain somewhere in his body. His hands shook as he stared about wildly for anything left moving before he shifted his gaze to the tumultuous roar of noise that had consumed the fight between Azekeail and the vampire.
He spun on his heel and chased down the sound, ignoring the blood that squelched in the bottoms of his boots. Azekeail's body was slumped, her chest heaving in a tired way as blood slicked out like oil from her clothes. Flashes of pale skin stared back at him amid the blood slipping from her form. Her hair had settled about her form, covering half of her face before she threw her head up and lunged. The sword had come seemingly out of nowhere, driving the beast hard into the wall. The creature's long fingers reached out, digging into Azekeail's throat, tearing the fragile skin and tendons. Blood gushed from the gaping wound.
His body felt weak. The creature was screaming in a foreign language, as was Azekeail. Their words crashed into each other, like the screech of metal. She drew back, breathing heavily from the hole in her throat as blood trickled from her lips. The vampire pushed against the wall, forcing the sword deep and deeper still until the beast collapsed to the ground. Azekeail produced another blade, staring down at the beast with wide, unfeeling eyes.
The vampire lifted its head, laughing softly. Those pink eyes locked on Alexander's own green gaze. The beast moved quicker than he had anticipated, almost as if shifting the very time about its form. Azekeail was in front of him, her body bared for the attack. Feathers filled his vision, shades of heather and soot and rust. He felt a light body slam into his, felt the force push them backward. He collapsed in the grass as Azekeail yanked the sword up, ripping through the vampire's body. Her wings drew up sharp as her arms wrenched the blade through the creature's skull. Her narrow hand shot into the torn asunder chest, wrenched the black, un-beating heart from the creature's chest and crushed it in her fingers, sending black blood to course down her arm.
Her body swayed tenderly, almost as if made heavy by the wings, and she toppled into the vampire's remains on hands and knees. He stared at her, eyes wide in shock and terror. Alexander scrambled to his knees and crawled toward Azekeail. Her body shook and stuttered as she tried to draw in deep breaths. He could hear the watery gurgle that accompanied each intake of breath. Her hair swayed listlessly about her frame. He tenderly pulled her to him. Under them, he could feel their blood puddling. Her wings were splayed about them, long feathers bent at unnatural angles. She gasped in a soft breath, licked her lips in a semblance of normalcy. Her dark eyes searched his face before she lifted a shaky, blood coated hand and plucked a bloody feather from where it was stuck on his neck.
"You make me proud Alexander," she whispered in a soft, watery voice. He felt tears jump to bite at the backs of his eyes. "Well now, that's good, aye? Let's get you cleaned up." Slowly, he lumbered to his feet, cradling his mentor, friend, mother in his arms. Her body was light, her clothes gummy with rapidly drying blood. Her wings trailed in the dirt beside him, leaving grey feathers behind them.
Azekeail's head lolled listlessly on her torn neck, her dark eyes fluttering restlessly without ever focusing. Her chest barely rose in breath. His own body felt heavy, weak but he stumbled down the dirt road, his boots seemingly catching on every dip and rock. There was blood smeared on their faces, coating their clothes and visible skin, dripping on the ground behind them where feathers were stuck as if set in glue. The small town rose up amid the rolling hills covered in grapes and grain, where small, dark children played soccer. Azekeail's body grew lighter and lighter, turning to dust and slipping from between his fingers as silently as the tears slipping from his eyes.
Those children had deserted their soccer game and stared at him with shocked eyes, before one bolted back toward the red clay building. He could vaguely hear screams of "Father Regnald" before he collapsed to his knees. He buried his face in his bloody palms and sobbed. Feathers and angel dust clung to his sticky coat, his shoulders and chest. A blonde child stepped up beside him. He felt its little hand rest on his shoulder, and Alexander stared up into soft blue eyes. The little boy offered a smile before the priest shooed him away.
The cross around Alexander's neck felt heavy but he turned his face up to the elderly priest. The man's lined face portrayed shock and disbelief. Alexander tried to swallow down his sobs and simply got to his feet. He wiped his bloody right hand on his shirt and held it out to the man; he introduced himself as Paladin Alexander Anderson. The old priest helped him into the orphanage and left him in the infirmary. The nuns there unclothed him and scrubbed his broken and scarred flesh. A man came into the room once they had left; he stared down at Alexander with calculating eyes.
Alexander simply turned away, curled in on himself and softly began to recite the Bible in Azekeail's language, feeling just a little closer to his fallen Guardian Angel. A needle prick stung in the joint of his neck, sending him down into a thick darkness. Azekeail waited there for him. She smiled with perfect teeth. "They're going to make you better Alexander. These priests are going to heal your broken flesh." She stirred from her perch; the white gown stroked along the ground as her wings slumped behind her. Her eyes were worried once she reached him. "But they are going to take away your humanity."
A tinge of fear rippled through him. "They call you the Messiah. You're injuries were great, and you survived thus far on your own. They want to make you virtually invincible." She plucked a feather from his hair. "You're the Vatican's pet against the Damned and Protestants." He shook his head. "I don't want this Azekeail." She wrapped her thin arms about him and pulled him into an easy hug. "I know my little one, so you must stay as close to the orphanage as is possible. Protect the little ones and let the rest come as it will. Just remember Alexander, you must not see simply with your cross and heart. You must see with your mind, because a lie no matter how prettily said is still simply a lie."
Unimaginable pain swept through him, destroying Azekeail's visage. He felt his back bow as his lips peeled back from his teeth in a soundless howl of pain. The air around him felt too clean, too cold. He forced his eyes to open and was momentarily blinded by the stark whiteness of the room. Several people in white stared back at him. Alexander forced himself from the floor. His body felt weak, heavy, as if he had been inactive for a long time. His head hung listlessly on his neck as he regarded the people in the room. A man, the same man from his hospital room, stepped forward. "Welcome back Father Anderson." He felt the corner of his lip curl up in a snarl. The man simply smiled and stepped closer. "Do you feel any side-effects? Heavy? Tired? Listless?"
Alexander sighed and swayed forward barely, noticing and uncaring that he was completely naked. "Who are you." It wasn't a question, but merely a growled out demand. One of the women was beckoned forward and handed Alexander a pile of dark clothes and a pair of large, military boots. The cross swung heavily against his bare chest. He swiftly dressed in the dark clothes, laced up the boots and ran his blunt fingers down the front of his cassock. The man smiled at him. "I am Archbishop Ramses. You've been under evaluation for four years. You're in the middle of the Vatican." He gazed about the assortment of people in the room with him, until he caught sight of his rosary beads wrapped around a young man's wrist. He stepped forward slowly, his boot-falls sounding ominous in the near silent room.
The young man stared at him with terrified eyes. Alexander held out his large hand, staring at the young man hard. "Those are my beads boyo." The man hastened to pull the dark rosary off his wrist, and Alexander's fingers curled around the crucifix. He turned away from the man, who had shrunk back as if expecting a blow. Alexander moved languidly toward the door. The Doctor called out to him. "Where are you going Anderson." It was meant to stop him, but Alexander simply looked over his shoulder briefly. "There's an orphanage where I am needed." He let the door close behind him.
He placed Azekeail's rosary in his coat pocket and walked away from the Vatican, following the old cobblestone roads until the cobblestone disappeared into dirt. He trod down the packed dirt road, following his instincts back to the orphanage out in the middle of nowhere, and yet so close to the church where he life had been torn from him and replaced with another. The boys were still chasing a soccer ball; the priests were still watching them from the shade of trees.
The same blonde boy came out to greet him, just four years older. The boy stopped before him, staring up at Alexander with pale blue eyes. "I'm Enrico," he said with authority that made Alexander smile. "I'm Father Anderson." He followed the small boy back into the walled yard, where he greeted the other priests.
Easily, he shifted into life at the orphanage as the years passed. He watched the children grow, keeping the rambunctious boys in line and teaching them about God. Occasionally, he was called upon by the Vatican to take control of a situation, but normally he was simply left to be a normal priest in a small orphanage, where he could take care of his little ones.
Sometimes, he dreamt about Azekeail. He spouted off scriptures to keep her proud, praying in the angelic language he had learned and keeping the children safe. He watched his children walk away from the orphanage and range off into the world. And he waited for one of the children to pull on his heartstrings, so that he could just disappear and not worry about the world anymore. Alexander felt so much older than he truly was. Every time he opened his eyes, he felt the weight of his soul grow even more. And then Azekeail came to him in a dream, stole into his mind in the dead of night and sat beside him. She held his hand and just sat there. In the morning, he had found a single feather on his covers.
Then the Vatican called to him, sending a priest to fetch Alexander like a beast rather than a priest. He felt disappointed when Enrico sent him out to battle the Protestant whore from Hellsing and her vampiric dog. But he went.
The little town had reeked of blood and decay. Near the town, Hellsing and her troops had rallied. Alexander went straight to the source. He followed the vampire through the house before attacking. All the ghouls the vampire had created tried to protect their master, but it was too late. He stood in the center of the carnage, feeling the smile on his lips grow and grow until he sighed, and the expression disappeared. He listened as heavy footsteps started up downstairs, and he smiled knowing it would be the dog. Slowly, he descended the steps.
He got hung up at the bottom step, staring at the creature with dark hair trailing halfway down its back, covered in red and for a moment Azekeail's name crept to his lips. Instead, he skewered the blonde vampire and left the steps alone. The creature in red turned and looked at Alexander, calling him by name and staring at him with red eyes. Alexander bantered easily, but remembered none of what was said. He did remember being riddled with bullet holes and then climbing to his feet and attacking the vampire when its back was turned.
Their fight was satisfactory, and it alleviated the pain his weary soul held. It felt good to be torn apart and rebuilt, and he knew the vampire was enjoying himself as well. The blonde was the only being of the three that didn't seem to be having fun. And then Sir Integra Hellsing was there to ruin the fun. But by then, Alexander was more than ready to call it a night and only put up a half-hearted fight to stay. He returned to the orphanage and slunk into his room, sighing contentedly despite the fact that the stench of dead blood began to saturate the air. He crept to the shower and scrubbed the dried remains of blood from his scarred skin and thought about Azekeail as he left the steamy room. He wondered if Alucard was to be the beast to bring his death about. He dropped down on his bed, rustled beneath the covers, murmured a pray and slipped off into sleep.
In his dream, he dressed quickly before strolling through the darkened church to the altar. He dropped to his knees and bent his head. He whispered his prayers in the unnamed language and ignored the eyes that stared at him from the shadows. The vampire slowly leaked into the room, and Alexander lifted his head. He watched the creature that looked so like Azekeail creep up close to him. Slowly, Alexander got to his feet and lit candles for people who had been taken from him. He lit candles for the souls that he had killed. He lit candles for the Damned beasts and Protestant morons.
Alucard shifted into time next to him, the undead's breath nothing more than a mimicry at life. "Why do they call you Angel Dust," the vampire rasped out softly. Alexander distanced himself from the creature and settled in a pew. He stared up at Christ and pulled his rosary from his pocket. His blunt fingers ranged over each bead as he whispered a prayer. Then Alucard was beside him again, curiosity in those blood-red eyes. "Well Judas Priest? Tell me why." Alexander's thumb and forefinger fiddled with the crucifix at the end of Azekeail's rosary. "You've heard the saying 'dust to dust, ashes to ashes' aye? Well, when I was younger, the priests found me covered in Angel dust. They made me into a monster after a monster had killed my mentor and mother-figure. I watched an Angel die, carried her in my arms as she slowly reverted back to dust."
In the dream, Alucard stared at him with unblinking eyes. "You've met an Angel?" Alexander nodded slowly. "She's the one who made me a paladin. I'm what I am because of her." He ran a broad palm over his short, blonde hair. He fiddled with his glasses, better situating the lenses on his nose. Then the damned beast was gone, and the morning broke.
Alexander rolled out of bed, feeling as if something had intruded his thoughts and blatantly ignoring the flashes of the No Life King and himself talking civilly in a church. He made his way into the church, all the way to the altar and dropped to his knees. The cross swung away from his chest, and his fingers curled around the warm metal. He whispered his prayers to God, to Michael, to Azekeail. He ignored the eyes that regarded him from the shadowed corners and got to his feet. He left the sanctuary and went out to care for his children.
Somewhere, in the back of his mind like the tickle of a cough caught in his throat, he was anxious about meeting Alucard again. He was anxious about staring at the beast's form simply because the way the damned creature looked made him think of Azekeail. He was anxious for the time when the beast would slay him down and send him up to Heaven. He was anxious about seeing Azekeail again. He was anxious to become Angel