Freed is an absolutely underused character. Writers always seem to see the psycho and never the priest. Personally, I really like the mostly unexplained theological side to DxD. Sure, we have the commonplace evil Catholic Church. What about the eschatology and soteriology? Surely the higher-ups are aware of this if a defrocked exorcist can chill with the Grigori. Frankly, I debated putting this story in the "spiritual category."

A flaw I feel that Highschool DxD suffers from is weak villains. I really wanted Freed Sellzen to be more than a psychopath, to be a psychopath on a mission from God not unlike a more twisted version of The Boondock Saints. I feel that he is so underutilized as a character, especially his priestly side. I hope that my characterization is enjoyable.

Fear. That man was utterly terrifying. Just like Reynalle. How had I survived that first encounter? Bravado. Surprise. Perhaps it was a stunning depth of ignorance that made me just act to preserve myself. Here, I knew better. Here, I was paralyzed by fear. A man that had spent thousands of lifetimes slaughtering beings more powerful than me. The cat and the canary. I gasp. Free at last. Cocky. I've got to be cocky and ballsy to even think of surviving another encounter that I can't escape. At the same time, wounds to the front are just as wound-ish in nature as wounds to the rear. They make you equally dead.

I go to my room like a zombie and bury my face in my hands. My life is simply spinning out of control and collapsing into shards like a shattered mirror. I want to laugh. I want to cry. It's a mad, mad world out there.

What the hell should I tell my parents?

I can just see it now. I go right up. 'Mom, Dad,' I would tell them, 'I'm going to quit school for the foreseeable future to run away from demons and fallen angels. They're real or something. Thanks for raising me. Love you.' Wow, it's fucking nothing. Fucking ridiculous notion.

Maybe I'm just hysterical. It's been a wild few (two) days, and I've been trying to act as though nothing strange has happened. I can't stay. I hope that all my Tuesdays don't suck as much as this one. I sit back and look at the collected detritus of years. Posters, porn mags, and video games. I sigh. So many wasted years. The plain walls must be screwing with my ability to think straight because I'm feeling a bit sentimental. Even if they weren't what I wanted, those wasted years were fun. Beating the game. Shooting the shit with my buddies in our own lonely otaku way. Even sleepless nights spent fighting online waifu wars. I wistfully smile.

Really, the thing that bugs me is that my parents didn't stop me. Maybe it was the facade it put on. Maybe it was the silence of shame. Maybe I was just too stubborn for it to register, hearing but not listening. I'm a shitbag like that. That or I'm just a typical teenager dragged down by regret and empty nihilism. Why? I truly hold responsibility for my actions, but I've been molded to some extent into the man I am by my surroundings. I find the notion laughable that this malaise is somehow universal, but I don't know why. Why don't I know? Am I that blind or is the answer so obvious that I'm overlooking it?

Fuck it. I've got better things to do. If I've been molded into a fucked-up person, it's my onus to unfuck myself. I'll do it. I lay back in bed and tighten my fist in the blanket. I'll leave a note and leave them.

I pull out a piece of half-smashed, ragged looseleaf from my backpack. What should I say? If I tell the full truth, it will be a ridiculous letter of chuuni nonsense. It will be right, but in such a way that nobody would believe it. What I have to do is express what I feel in a way that they can believe. Slowly, a message takes form. A farewell. It's hard to put the enormity of this decision into words. Even then, my feelings are conflicted. Part of me wants to leave a "Fuck you" note instead of a thank you note. How have I put it? I recall now; I'm a teenage dirtbag.

I struggle. I write. I erase. I do it again and again until the paper is torn by the fury of my erasure. I calm down and pull out another piece of paper. This time, I'm collected and outwardly dispassionate. I never expected severing ties like this to be so painful. The deepest, wine-dark seas of my heart churn with storm and turmoil.

I still manage to put my farewell down in writing and tape it on the fridge. I decide that I could go for some soul food and enjoy some rice balls. Today must be one of those days, considering just how many I've had.

Ah, dark wings. Just as I was sitting down to eat. The supernatural have no sense of timing. I'm on an edge, even as Shady rises up behind me. I have an escape route mapped out. Two jumps and I'm out. From there, I'll have to wing it; but I think I can manage.

It's not that Dohanseek or whatever his name was. I'd be scared out of my wits if that were the case. That man invokes in me a feeling of primordial dread. He's on a completely different level. I shove those feelings aside for a moment when its is revealed to be Reynalle. She looks somewhat worse for wear. She is bruised and scraped, and she smears blood with every heavy step. Her wings are ragged, buffeted. Bereft of their previous proud presence. She steps forward, furls her wings which disappear behind her, and pulls up a chair.

"Do you have a beer?" she asks.

I don't like seeing her like this. I just don't.

I go back to the fridge and fish out a can of Heineken. I figure that if she is, in fact, a fallen angel, she just might be old enough to drink. I smile to myself. Boy, do I crack me up. I toss it to her, and she catches it. Taking a sip, she turns to me.

"I hope you've said your goodbyes, Issei."

"I figured it would come to something like this. It feels unreal, like the onset of a dream. I feel like maybe I'll wake up and find that none of this ever happened."

I laugh. Hollow as my words.

"I'm not going to let them take you, but I'm only one woman," she says, "So we have flee. Simple as that."

"I can fight with you," I say.

I was never one to volunteer myself for, well, much of anything. Now, it feels right. I can't place it, but something uplifting flits through my heart at this declaration.

Reynalle raises an eyebrow at me and states, "You'd just get yourself killed. That trick is bizarre; I've never seen anything like it."

"Shady is one of a kind," I say, pulling up a chair myself.

"It has a name?"

"It does, Slim Shady. Once it appeared, I knew who it was. Well, kinda. He is a part of me."

"But it's not a Sacred Gear. How?" she whispers.

She looks pensive, and I feel lost in the English mumbo-jumbo. She takes a sip of the beer and then decides to drain the can. A stiff drink would probably be nice. The vodka gave me plenty of liquid courage and a fire in my belly (and the means by which made a fool of myself). I still want some, at least this time. I mean, if a leading official could give a speech drunk, I can fight demons and fallen angels while I'm a little tipsy.

"Would you like something to eat before we hit the road?" I ask.

She gives me a tired look which turns into a bright smile. She seems peaceful and restive despite her battered visage. It can't be much compared to the feasts of heaven that she once knew, but I think that the physical is not nearly so important as the emotional aspect of the gesture. I get the rice maker a-ricing and start to cook up an okonomiyaki with a bit of diced ham and chopped green onion. The smells of sizzling meat, eggs, and onion begin to waft through the room. It's one of the few things I can cook well, and there's a certain immersion that takes me out of the real world and into the pleasant hum of the kitchen.

It is ready soon enough. I just let her eat and sit back. I go upstairs, grab a bag, and toss in some clothes and personal items. It then strikes me: I'm not lonely anymore. I might be throwing away everything I've known for no gain, but I won't be alone for the journey.

"Issei, we have a problem."

Fuck me! What now?

I rush down the stairs, feet clomping a one-two rhythm. The dishes are in the sink, and she is standing up and waiting for me. She presses her finger to her lip to shush me. I creep catlike until I am by her side. Slim Shady follows.

"It's Mittelt, another Fallen Angel. She's waiting, probably just playing with us."

"That's okay," I whisper as I pull Reynalle close, "I already plotted out an escape route."

I smile, snap my fingers. The world is painted an airless black.

In a dozen gasping jaunts through that cold void Slim Shady called home, we arrive in the local department store, oozing out of the shadow behind a pillar. He floats there, waiting guarding. The fluorescent lights flicker with flitting harshness. I sigh and slump down. Reynalle squats to my level.

"Is it exhausting?"

"Not as far as I know. I realize that I'm alone in a mad, mad world that's gotten much bigger and much scarier."

I sigh. This sucks donkey dick.

I look at her and realize that she looks catlike. In the sense of a cat that has been dragged kicking and clawing through a car wash. Shopping? I might be a stingy, middle class son-of-a-bitch, but I do have a sense of decorum. And at least theoretically, I am pecunious enough such that I can soak something more expensive than I would like. Middle class values. Or something.

I ask her what sorts of clothes she likes.

"I like light dresses, but I always ruin them when I get in a fight."

"What sort of clothes don't get ruined when you start tossing around laser spears?"

"The ones I bring with me?"

I quickly realize that she is referring to those – well, I wouldn't call them clothing – strips of tar or leather that show off the joys of bountiful oppai. Can't complain, but I understand why she might. Practicality, which is to say the comfort of having dental floss digging its way up your ass, rears its ugly head. Still, Oppai. That's right, Oppai. Not oppai. But I digress.

So, she gives me some measurements so that I can go buy her clothing. And what fine measurements they are! Again, I digress as is my wont. The reasons are plain. She looks like a domestic violence case. I look like her boyfriend. All things considered, walking around in the mall hand-in-hand like lovebirds, is not the best idea. I am not a dumbass. Nor was that Nixon fellow a crook. He had a little dog named Checkers to prove it.

Her shoes aren't ruined, those espadrilles from before. There's no need to mess with a good thing. Spats? Athletic? Yes. Durable? Unlikely. Fetishy? Undoubtedly. To buy or not to buy? Unfortunately, no. In the end, I go for designer jeans. With pockets, motherfucker. Boner or wallet? Is this even a question? I'd rather hurt my wallet than vice versa. It's not even my wallet at this point.

Dropping ten grand on a pair of jeans, no matter how well they accentuate any one ass, still doesn't seem right. And the ass is only in my mind's eye. Damnit.

I spy with my little eye a knock-off Gucci top. Floral, faux crepe de chine. Most importantly, cute as all hell. It looked good, and the price of five thousand was not terrible. I hope she likes it.

Reynalle likes it, twirling around girlishly after having cleaned herself up in the bathroom. It must be in the inhuman part of her, but she looks much better now than she did even a few minutes ago.

"Why don't you get something for yourself?" she asks.

A school uniform, I reflect, no matter how cool is still uncool. I bet I can make it cool like I'm some kind of manga character. Upon some reflection, I buy a pair of pins to stick on my collar. One of them is the peace symbol and the other spells "Born to Kill" in English. I could say some bullshit about the duality of the human condition. Mostly, I think they look cool together.

Reynalle and I strike a pose. Absolutely fucking fabulous. I assume the "come-hither" position, cocking my head at a funny angle. Reynalle crouches by my side, making a finger gun. Selfie material? Hell yeah, motherfucker. The shutter closes, capturing this moment. Forever. We giggle like little kids once I show her the picture. A warm feeling. Taking off some of the edge of fleeing for our lives.

We walk into the parking lot. It's late now. The sky is wine-dark. The lights of cars glow bright white. It feels wrong. The eerie blue of the new streetlights. Like I'm underwater or in some realm of madness. The parking lot is mostly deserted; the town gets quiet at night. Unless someone is having some sort of house party. All in good fun. It's why I'm here. As the butterfly flaps, anyway.

Pop! The parking lot is filled with glass shards and sparks as every lightbulb explodes at once.

"Run, Issei!"

Reynalle takes my hand and pulls me somewhere in the dark. Footsteps. I hear footsteps following us. Scanning the skies. Nothing, but an attack could be sudden. As I learned all too well. I look back, and Shady scans sightlessly. Left, then right. Reynalle shepherds me, running left down an alley. She hits the chain link fence running and fluidly swings herself over the top. A flickering bare bulb. Freezing blackness. But I'm past the fence.

Snap-hiss. Fires of purgation and hate. Armed by faith. Father Freed, Sellzen or some gobbledygook like that was his surname if I remember correctly. Smiling. Like a psychopathic shark. A psychopath shark with a fucking lightsaber.

"You've been a very naughty girl, Reynalle," he says.

"And you're a fake priest, defrocked for his atrocities," she retorts.

His face flashes with rage.

"I am not a fake. Do not presume to know the permanent mark of the priesthood on the soul, you who with perfect will had but one choice to make. I'll cut out that pernicious tongue of yours, you silly little bitch."

She turns to me and smiles, "You're starting to see why this fellow was defrocked, right?"

I can only nod blankly. It's almost sickening to think that I told this man my darkest secrets and failings. Everything that makes me a wicked and weak man.

"I would still be fighting the darkness with the Lord's light if that 'Adeomalleus' hadn't personally stepped in to defrock me."

"Who?" I blurt out.

"'Adeomalleus.' It means 'Hammer from God' in Latin, son. It is the nickname for the man currently sitting in St. Peter's, Pope Hilarius II. Please, let her die like the wicked bitch she is, and we'll get this sorted out."

"Is this the killing me kind of 'sorted out'? I really hope not because I'd rather not die."

His carmine eyes spark with light of his fiery sword.

"Count yourself in luck, boy. You have something far more interesting than a Sacred Gear. Do you know what a charism is?"

I nod blankly. Reynalle scowls and conjures twin lances of burning purple light.

"Of course not. What was that term you used for yourself, an atheistic pagan? Ah yes, that was it; that conversation in the confessional seems so long ago, does it not?"

"Issei!"

"Silence, whore!" he roars.

And even the fallen angel listens. She has something to say, all right; but she bites her tongue.

"It's a Greek term for a gift from God that allows one to fulfill his mission within the catholic Church. We can't quite call that a Sacred Gear. We ought to because all Sacred Gears are charisms, but that's the same as some primitive who's only seen airplanes suddenly encounter a helicopter and call it an airplane. It fits, but it doesn't."

He sure must like hearing himself talk, but I remember the confessional. He listened well to what felt like hours of my sins. He must care about me in a twisted way if he's chatting rather than disemboweling. Let him. I can run away in a thought.

"You, my boy, have the power to slay monsters. That is the ability God has bestowed upon you; it is your choice to use your power the way it was intended."

"What are you getting at?" I ask, harsh and simultaneously nervous.

"I will only ask this once. I want to leave a legacy. I like you. Join me and illuminate the dark. Now that you are acquainted with the night, the shadows will never leave your vision. Please become my apprentice. I never had these thoughts until I met you. My faith tells me that this a sign from the Lord."

"God is dead, false priest. I witnessed Him fall in the battles that rocked the heavens," says Reynalle coldly, speaking as though she is not entirely in the present., "Your only guidance is your delusions. I've been in the business of killing your kind for millenia. To me, you are nought but bacteria. Before time existed, I was."

He ignores her.

"Issei Hyoudou," he says, using my name for the first time, "there are two kinds of time, chronos and kairos. Chronos is the flow of time as we normally experience it, a sort of linear progression. Kairos is the decisive timeless moment when the line is drawn, where character is built, and where you make your choices. Now is a decisive moment: either you trust me or you trust her. The choice is yours."

His eyes glow with hope and madness. Those eyes show the courage (or madness) of a man who would burn the world for his faith.

Reynalle's differ. Everything I can see in her eyes is easily grasped. Devotion. Regret. Anger. The same protective instinct that drives a mother bear into a berserker rage to defend her cubs. I believe that it was in that single moment that I first loved Reynalle.

Now. I can't stand on the sidelines. I must choose.

"Thanks, but no," I say.

"A pity."

He charges, Swift as death. A lance of light shrieks forth. A sure deathblow, piercing his heart. He cleaves it in twain without breaking stride. Lance and sword clash with iridescent fire. They enter a deadly dance. That man is perhaps the most deadly thing I've seen in action. He expertly counters every thrust. Pushing them aside just enough to create an opening. Every blow rings with power. Never losing sight of the goal, he always aims to cut his opponent as if her weapon was inconsequential. It wasn't. Were he not an expert swordsman, he would have died in seconds. By now, this clash has lasted for a full minute of nonstop fighting. Neither giving in. Neither advancing. Neither retreating. I feel so helpless.

No longer. I have the power to make a difference.

Shady arises from the shadows of his chest. An uppercut. I'll punch Father out. Every man has a knockout button. Tap it, and it's lights out. He bends backwards at the waist to dodge a thrust while at once countering it with a whirling strike from his sword. Pain. Blood drips down my right arm from where he slashed it. It burns. Searing. Angry. Slim Shady melts into the shadows.

I see. So any blow that strikes Slim Shady hurts me. I imagine it goes both ways, that any wound on me will similarly degrade Shady. Too damn long. The amount of spiritual firepower these two are throwing around will quickly attract attention. Even I can feel this pressure. Spiritual fallout.

So, I go into the thicket of blades. Beautiful and deadly. A dervish dance. Shady moves at the speed of dark, dancing from shadow to shadow on the false priest's form as the blade moves to slash both Reynalle and me. Trying to hit him was fiendishly difficult. Like trying to pin jello to a wall.

All it took was one single, tiny fuck-up on his part. He was starting to get tired. Sweating. Breathing more heavily. One slightly slower return to his guard. Reynalle brains him with the shaft of her spear. I suppose it would have normally killed him. Melting his head like it was the Arc of the Covenant (the movie version; but at this point, I nothing would surprise me). He somehow manages to interpose his blade between the spear and his noggin. That's enough for Shady to catch him with a brutal uppercut that snapps his jaw back and leaves him reeling.

Dark wings. A cloud unmasks the moon. Three of them, including the terrifying presence of Dohnaseek. I send out Shady, but he stopps. Not as if he was yanked or hit a wall. A sudden cessation of motion like a puppet remaining motionless on its strings. So that is the limit of my range? about thirty meters. That could be inconvenient.

Blazing light. Ready to cast down thunderbolts. Feet pound the dirt. Reynalle already has two bolts in her hand, hurling them at the menacing monsters meandering in the heavens. They hurl theres.

Everything goes white. Then black. Soundless, too. I can feel concrete splinters tearing my skin. I can't take it. So, I jump into that airless void. Slim Shady. He's there. Almost asking when I would like to snap back to reality.

Now. Please.

I whirl around. Dust. Rubble. No Reynalle. Fuck. No priest or his buddies. Moderately better.

"Issei."

She wraps her arms around me. A hug. She kicks off into the air. Maybe not. My face feels like someone is trying his damnedest to rip it off. Oh fuck. I think strong thoughts of "Ignore the flying woman." Not that I'm going to protest. We land in the woods around the city. She swiftly strikes. I follow her through the gloomy forest to a small brook. She reforms the clothes I bought her out of those strips. I can't help but quirk the corners of my mouth up in a smile.

"Let me wash up," I say.

Almost. She brushes past me, but I can tell that all is not right.

"I never thought you'd be that brave."

I'm personally concerned with cleaning up the cut from that sword. Soft hands. Caressing my wounded arm.

"I didn't know you'd bleed for me."

"It was the least I could do."

I get up and let her clean herself up. We walk, and walk we do, until we come to the road to Tokyo. I check my watch. It's past one in the morning. We look like hell. Well, I do at any rate. There's just something about a pretty girl that makes a man's face light up.

A car, a large Mitsubishi, then comes with a family. They show pity and give us a ride to the next motel where a bus line runs to Tokyo. The Grand Royale.

It was past two in the morning when we arrived at the Grand Royale Motel. It looks like it dated back to the early 80s, and it seems cursed with the quick decay of so much modern Japanese architecture. We thank the family that had let us hitchhike with them. They see us off, and we are acquainted with the yellow glow of electric lights. The automatic door open impersonally and lead us into the lobby, a clean, well-lighted place in spite of the dilapidation unfolding throughout the building.

A young clerk, half-asleep and unsympathetic, gets the two of us a room. He shoots a glance at the two of us. About our identities. About my relationship. About the purpose of our stay. But curiosity is quickly replaced by apathy. I purse my lips and shrug. Reynalle clings to my shadow, hovering like a bird of ominous portent. My bird (or so I think).

We trudge across old concrete and unkempt grass, passing a pathetic square of a pool, and come to our room for the night. The key jiggles uncertainly in the lock, and a door swollen by moisture requires some elbow grease to open. A tug on a chain reveals the room in incandescent light hooded by a dingy shade. It's not much. A futon. Cheap polyester drapes. Yellowing bathroom tiles. A leaky shower. A tiny CRT television in the corner. It's enough. We set our bags on the floor.

I sit on the futon and think. Reynalle comes and sits beside me.

"What happens when I die if God is dead?" I ask.

"You end up as a shade, a ghost."

Memories of many ghost films inadvertently flash before my eyes. Too spooky for me. I say as much. She chuckles.

"Sometimes, something big and nasty eats your ghost. It's just waiting, endless waiting for souls that half-remember who they are. You can call it Sheol, not that you'd get the reference."

Verily, I do not.

"Issei," she says, "I don't need you to love me, but I need you to want me."

She crawls toward me on the futon, hips sashaying and swaying. My heart beats loudly. Her nose is mere millimeters from mine, and I can feel her breath on me. And her eyes! Dark. Cynical. Seductive. Desirous. Loving. My orbs feast upon her form.

This is what I fucking wanted. All those years. All that time. All those failures. And now I'm about to fuck a creature of darkness cast down from heaven, an assassin who tried to kill me.

I advance upon her as a general, but she lasciviously retreats and stands up. She peels off her tight jeans and hastily unbuttons her blouse. It's black, lacy, and sexy. Had she been planning this?

I fumble with my pants and shirt until her nimble hands make them effortlessly slide from my body. I want her. I take her. My hands slide along the creamy softness of her body and draw her near. I trail kisses from her bosom up her neck until I seize her lips again. My hands slip lower and unite her hips with mine.

Clumsy hands work. The lacy bra falls.

Submission. She's mine.

She worships my body as a temple. Her only pleasure the knowledge that she is pleasing me.

A gift. Love. She opens herself for me.

We make love for the first time. Entangled. Euphoric.

It's not gentle. I take her hard, fueled by lust, hate, and love. I pull her hair. I bend her over. I care not for her pleasure. But it makes her wrap around me all the tighter. It makes her mewls all the more joyous. It makes the look in her eyes all the brighter.

I lose all sense of the night. She, writhing underneath, bares her throat.

I spark and explode within Reynalle.

For how long we lay there, simply breathing, I do not know. I made love to an angel. As I remain supine with arms behind my head, Reynalle turns over and nestles herself into my side. She lays her head against my chest. Her sex-mussed hair spreads out like a dark halo.

"Issei," she whispers "Now you know why I was cast down from Heaven."

Her eyes fix themselves upon me.

"I gave myself to a human like you. I gave my entire person."

I run my fingers through her hair and brush it out of her face.

"A man cannot serve two masters. I was either totally given to God, or totally given to Man. I chose Man," Reynalle says

"Do you ever regret it?"

"I can't," she says, "such is the will of the angels."

I am acquainted with the night.