Next chapter then. Just to dismiss something a reviewer put. This is by no means a crossover with angel sanctuary. It is Noir, with angels, as in mythical beings, not any anime variation on the myth. So its just Noir and the myth. No other animes. Sorry about that, but wanted to explain now, before some people got it into their heads that other characters would be appearing.

Here, have a very meaningful and prophetic chapter heading.

Scripture II - God be praised, that to believing souls gives light in darkness, comfort in despair.

Two years later...

The door slammed open. Ricocheting loudly off the wall in a resounding clap of thunder as the furious blonde woman stormed into her apartment. Her face was wrathful, her bright blue eyes, normally so calm, were ablaze. Long golden blonde hair wafted angrily as she crossed the floor with unnatural grace, suggesting a hunting wolf. A tight fitting sleeveless maroon top over a black miniskirt, long pale legs which were sheathed in high heeled black boots.

Mireille Bouquet, aged twenty, professional assassin for hire.

Was defenitely pissed.

Slowly, so as not to draw undesired attention to herself, a small Asian girl with tanned skin ghosted into the apartment, pushing open the door which had slammed back on itself. With fine Japanese features and short black unruly hair, Yuumura Kirika quietly entered the apartment.

Where her partner was angry, so she was calm. Deep brown eyes, tinted with a hint of red stared expressionlessly at nothing. Her face was completely calm, no, empty. What one would at first assume was calm, was actually nothing at all, just emptiness.

She herself was dressed more practically than her Corsican blonde partner. A dark green skirt, under her favourite white jacket. Apparently horrible looking pink shoes were worn over her feet. She herself couldn't see what could be so offending to the blonde about them.

But then, Mireille was a completely different person when compared to herself.

Kirika was an amnesiac. Where Kirika had a past she wanted to remember, Mireille had a past she desperately wanted to forget.

And had done so for many years, right until Kirika had popped into her life. Perhaps it was to be expected that the Corsican assassin was a little cold to her.

"I'm going to take a shower! Get a cup of tea ready, will you?"

Kirika nodded to Mireille's retreating back, pretending it was a request more than the order it really was. When she heard the bathroom door close, she slowly walked up to the window. Mireille took long showers, and would not need her nightly cup of tea for a good while.

The outside streets of Paris greeted her as she stared out into the rain. Nothing was happening this night, the rain had forced people to stay at home. Down below she saw a single man in a coat rushing down the street, dodging from one shelter to the next as he tried to get home as dry as possible.

Kirika wished she could be like that, with no more worries than getting wet. That delicious, unattainable boredom that the streets seemed to hold was a different world from hers.

Murder and death was her life. Blood spilled to earn her daily bread. Swirling darkness, purest sin. Life and death, she held both in her hands, but gave only death to others.

Why should I be the one to live? The question haunted her often, and yet she knew she would never have the bravery to kill herself and free the world from her presence. But then, that didn't matter, that was where Mireille would help. Their promise... After it was over, after they had found out the truth about the Soldats, then Mireille would kill her.

Kirika didn't mind. If anyone was to kill her, she was glad it was to be Mireille. Which reminded her, as she scrambled to her feet, the tea had to be made, Mireille would be finished soon.

Whilst Kirika was not afraid of the blonde's anger, it was not something she relished receiving either. Not when it was simple enough to avoid, just prepare her tea for her, and stay out of her way. Kirika had never expected a warm reaction from the blonde, and she hadn't therefore been disappointed when she had been made into some kind of servant for the woman.

Focus on the tea, not your sorrow. It was easier said than done.

Mireille sighed as the warm water beat against her skin, it felt good, after all this stress to have a nice warm shower. It gave her time to peacefully think through what had happened to them.

Their last job had been far from simple, and the rewards had been far from satisfying. They had been sent to kill a mafia kingpin, and having done so had been made the target of the Intacobbile, Sylvana Creone, the brutal princess. She shuddered again as she said that name. Even though she was now dead, and Mireille had been the one to kill her, she was still afraid of the woman.

It's over now, she's gone and you're still here.

And after all that stress and near death, Christ Kirika had been shot twice! The stupid girl, Mireille had managed to get through suffering no injuries, for a girl who was supposedly Noir, she had a penchant for drawing bullets to her.

But the contract they had gathered as their reward? The information was useless... Soldats was old...

"Dammit.." She sighed as she leant her head on the tiled wall of the shower. What a waste of time, money and blood.

She was also annoyed at herself, for so nearly dying, because she had been too afraid to pull the trigger, had stood there whilst the woman charged her with a knife. A knife dammit! If it hadn't been for Kirika...

She positively loathed being saved by someone, of having to rely on someone else, so had not taken that well either. She had to admit that she's been a little unfair to the girl, never once thanking her for saving her. But she just couldn't bring herself to like the girl. She had her good points, she was cute, quiet, well mannered, never made a mess and was willing to obey almost all of Mireille's commands.

But... there was just something about her that Mireille found threatening. Perhaps it was just the lack of trust between them? They were too new to each other to really have bonded, and being an assassin made it hard to bond to anyone.

The question was however? Did either of them want to bond?

"Do I?" Not really, she had promised to kill the girl. How was she to bond with someone she had to kill? It was better for both of them if their relationship stayed this way, with Mireille commanding and Kirika quietly obeying.

"The tea's ready." Kirika whispered as Mireille walked down the steps and into the main area of their shared apartment. The woman was dressed in her loose white sleeping shirt, suggesting that they would not be going out tonight. Kirika was glad, she was too tired to want to go to a restaurant.

"Thanks." Mireille answered automatically as she sat down behind her computer and began opening emails. Kirika was not perturbed by the lack of any real gratitude from the blonde. She wanted answers, not thanks.

Again the blonde ignored her presence entirely, engrossed in her work on the computer as she occasionally sipped at her tea. Kirika was aware that she did not fit into the blonde's life, it did affect her somewhat. It made her disappointed, could she not even relate to another assassin? Was she destined to always be a stranger?

Remaining calm she walked over to the window and sat down, staring outside. The rain had become worse, and now no one inhabited the streets. She stared down at the wet emptiness, happy to lose herself in the rain's simple song. She sighed sorrowfully as a slow lone tear escaped down her cheek.

Mireille heard the sigh from her place at the desk. Her eyes widened at the uncharacteristic show of emotion as she searched for the young Asian girl. She was sitting on a stool staring out of the window, head rested on her arms.

What's bothering her? I thought she was happy to stare out of the window all the time?

Silence... nothing was said, and no more sounds came between them.

Shrugging it off easily Mireille went back to her computer, there were jobs to choose and Soldats to hunt down. What was one small girl in the grand scheme of things?

A good two miles away, in the midst of the pouring rain, two figures danced on the top of a large stone building, feet splashing in puddles as they twisted and weaved within each other, flashes of silver occasionally arching in the night. A tall willowy figure swerved to the side to avoid being impaled on a long black spear, swinging his silvery rapier towards his enemy's neck. The stocky grey faced man sneered in contempt as he leaned his head back to avoid the cut, before swinging his foot low into the young man's knee.

Ramiel cried out in pain as the metal tipped boot connected with his kneecap, sending waves of agony up his leg and causing him to stumble.

Not stopping himself he fell to the side to avoid the point of the infernal spear, instead it plunged into the stone roof of the building, cutting through the cement like soft wood.

Gritting his teeth Ramiel climbed to his feet and adjusted his loose white leggings to stop it from sticking to his pained knee. He was dressed in his loose trousers, which ended in light brown boots, shod with metal. A tight fitting light blue and white top, with numerous belt like strips that wrapped around his body to keep it tight, it was sleeveless, allowing him greater mobility, even as the light brown gloves on his hands allowed him to touch sin without pain.

A long grey hood fell behind his back, ready for him to use to conceal his features when necessary, and he also wore a divided light grey robe that fell down to his boots. Long cuts up the left and right to allow him to run without tripping. His clothing was soaked wet, hanging heavily over his tall frame as the downpour continued to soak the clothing to his skin.

His hair was long and dark blonde, falling behind his head in a ponytail that reached the centre of his back. The rain had plastered the fringe to his head, and soaked his hair completely. His skin was pale, yet tinted red with exhaustion, and his eyes as colourless as the rank and file angels, empty of colour, like glass. His face was youthful and fey, as he actually was. Whilst facial features were no indication of age, Ramiel was in fact only nineteen years of age.

And outclassed.

His opponent was easily as tall as him, with a slightly lighter blonde for his own hair colour, his eyes were pitch black. Suggesting that he was a rather important Fallen Angel, one with years of experience. He wore armour too. Where Ramiel relied on his speed with the rapier and skill with a bow, this angel relied on his power with the spear. And even wearing black segmented carapace like armour, the fallen angel was almost as fast as himself.

This fight was drawing to an end... Ramiel's.

Ever since the High Seraph had died the war had been a losing one. Where the Angels needed hundreds of years to replace a Seraph, for the Fallen Angels, a few months was all that was necessary to obtain a new Dark prophet. Without their divine wisdom, for only the Seraph could commune with the father, the Divine Angels were left reacting to the Fallen one's attacks. Rushing to thwart them with no guidance.

They were stretched out.

And dying.

Time to go, I cannot win this battle, and Michael would be angry if I allowed myself to die here. So saying, Ramiel took his chance and leapt from the building into the rain filled night air, hoping that the Fallen Angel would be content to let him escape. Flexing his muscles he expelled his wings from inside his back, wincing lightly as they tore through skin and flexed out into the cold night air. Ignoring the pain from his quickly healing back he spread his wings wide to halt his fall, gliding to a reasonable speed from which he could fly away.

The beat of black wings could be heard behind him, as the Fallen one took chase on wings as black as the night itself. Ramiel glanced behind, his own white wings were almost two metres in length, quite powerful for someone his age. But the Fallen Angel had wings almost twice that size, black and spindly they propelled him through the wet air with far greater speed than Ramiel could achieve.

Damn. I'm dead. Diving, he frantically tried to shake the Fallen Angel before he could catch him, twisting between bends and past lamp posts that he hoped the Fallen Angel, with his larger wingspan, would not be able to fit through. Another false hope, as the older angel easily swerved through small gaps whilst still closing the gap between them.

Ramiel knew they were over the city the Mortals referred to as Paris. He also knew that he had no idea of what Paris was like, and as a result no idea where the nearest gateway to the Seraphic Sanctuary was.

Wings beat near his own, swearing at his lapse in concentration Ramiel dived to the side abruptly whilst swinging his rapier behind him and spiralling down, one wing tucked in, manoeuvres so confusing that it should have lost him.

Would have lost him, if he hadn't already been so close. Arms grabbed his own as a heavy armoured body smashed the wind out of him. His rapier was knocked flying by a gauntleted fist, right before a forehead connected with his chin, knocking his head back in pain. Too close for a spear to be used.

Growling, Ramiel kicked low with his metal shod boot, catching the Fallen one in the back of his knee, where there was no armour. A metal fist into his stomach was his reward. Reflexively he tucked his wings back behind himself to keep them safe. What he didn't realise was that the Fallen angel had been using Ramiel's own wings to keep them descending slowly, like a glider. With both their sets of wings tucked in, gravity and aero dynamics pulled them down with greater speed.

The armoured Angel swore in fury as he tried to break their fall by spreading his wings wide, one clipped a rooftop and was instinctively drawn back in, throwing them further of course. Ramiel had the presence of mind to kick the Angel some more as they hurtled towards a building.

At least they would both die. He hoped.

Where he expected the sickening crunch of bone against solid wall, Ramiel received the fierce explosion of glass breaking on his unprotected back, slicing through his clothing and cutting his wings and skin alike. His head cracked against something wooden and solid and he fell into darkness.

He thought he heard screams as he fell under, and saw a small dark shape run the dazed Fallen Angel through on his own infernal spear. He hoped it was true, even if the mortals killed him too.

Eyes closed, unconsciousness beckoned him, and beyond that...

Death.

Riiight. Well, Noir was here. A very unhappy, anti-social Noir. I know you're thinking "Where the hell was the romance!" Weeellll, that comes later, as I said, I want to get the entire transition from allies by necessity to Two maidens of Noir.

Ramiel was here too! All will be explained later. Pronounced "Ray-me-ul"

REVIEW! Please. I need them, they make me want to write, I sound selfish, but if you've ever written, then you'll know what I mean, it just makes you feel like you're writing for a reason, and that there ARE people out there who care about your writing. So please... for me...?