.

Hope, Thy Daughter of Babylon

~~o~~

Chapter Two: The Malpais Legate

To follow the word of the Lord was to be the carrier of his shield and helm. To be the right hand of justice was to borrow the wings of his own Raguel, and carry the left hand of might to stay the darkness of evil. For all that would oppose would feel the fires of the sun, for the divine had come to walk his land once more, in the form of God.

He believed he had been that warrior, once. Bathed in the blood of the fallen; cleansed the weak from the pure; lusted for the temptress that was ascendancy, and subdued her. For he had the innocent by the heel, and cracked the cords in their necks, one note after another. He had held the profligates at bay from his holy temple. For He was the armour. He was the shield. He was the hand, and he was divine.

Baptised twice, elder by age, how far he had come to realise. He was just the mar of a shadow. The chink thought immortal. And in return of such travesty, God had purged Zion in fire and water.

By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion. Remember, O Lord, The Children of Edom in the day of Jerusalem who said, "Raze it, raze it, even to the foundation." O daughter of Babylon, who art to be destroyed. How happy shall he be, that rewardeth thee as thou hast served us. Happy shall he be, that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones."

How he thought he knew such holy script, transcribing the language over and over to those deemed worthy of his ear. Clutched his bible, he did, until the pages were burned and the ink melted rivulets. And what had come of his new doings? Of kindness and wisdom and teaching? Only the dead held the answer, and the dead were a longing feast to be sated.

With eyes bowed and knees sunk deep, only one thing could he recall. Rebuild. But what could be done when even thy very earth could not be risen? When thy stones were naught but rubble? When thy roots and soil and earth were soot, clinker and cinder?

Over shredded wrappings, he felt the ash rain through shaken fingers, scatter over distant bones in grey salt. He had sowed the seeds of retribution, had concluded to drown in the sorrows of the sinless. Had it not been what the Lord had wanted? A disciple born of Joseph, telling of experience and love to end a martyr? No, he was still alive. Always alive.

Even when the fires of hell conceded to rip the sun from his flesh, he breathed. Even when the pure rivers of Babylon strove to cleanse the sins from his soul, he breathed. Even when Zion itself sought to consume him, he breathed. And lay in the bones of children.

But to the mind there was only one who could be called in the name of the Lord. Only one that demanded the eternal wrath of a father to adopt the justice of the lord, if only for a short while. And so, bathed in the dust of the loved, of the betrayed, the once Malpais Legate ascended from the tidings of fire, darkness looming at the ankle, wrappings shedding in the ashes of Sorrows.

Through the flames he walked, amber and gold bathing his path in flares. Through water he dove, swam, drank. Like the birth of an ark over the sea, set for a southernly course. When the smoke rose into the sky, clouding the warmth that was God's love, darkness descended in thick and true, heralding change.

He passed the corpses of White Legs, felt the nip of their sin still fresh. For those he did not bury, not that the fires would not consume all. For the evil did not deserve a burial. Only a mark for where Satan could claim them.

And when Zion fell to anguish, nay did he weep. For he was the Archangel Azrael. The guardian of death. Incarnate, body made flesh. Long his shadow walked, wings dipped at the heel. The sun rested over Zion. It rose to dawn the Mojave.