The Falls of Raziel

And then they were alone. Raziel, commander of the largest of the Seven Legions of Sarafan, awaited his fate. A fate that befell few. He was to be struck down by his own hand. Of course, others had fallen on their swords, some intentionally, some not, but his death would see the expression take on a new, more literal meaning. A vampire would no doubt consider it poetic justice, to have the Sarafan general slain by the vampire incarnation of himself, but Raziel brimmed with hate. Self loathing, for his vampire self, for the slaughter it had visited upon his Legion, and, soon, his brethren. Hate for Moebius, who had brought about this sorry state of affairs. Hate for himself, the Raziel who stood in this room now, for allowing this to happen. Hate for the anonymous vampire who would raise him from his rest in the centuries to come, so that he would become a reflection of the bloodthirsty fiends he had devoted his life to destroying. Hate for his brethren, who accepted their fates, forcing him to watch them die. Not brothers by blood, but tied together by bonds forged in battle, that hell from which the survivors emerged reborn. And here came a wraith, a demon, and worst of all, a vampire, to bring all this to an end.

His thoughts were interrupted by screams, pillar guardians crying for aid, and a familiar vampiric voice raised in challenge and mockery. It was a testament to the Sarafan Generals' despondency that this came as no surprise, and when Turel spoke, he sounded almost thoughtful.

"Vorador. I had never believed he would have the courage." They had never succeeded in killing Vorador, but they had come close, cutting him badly several times, to the point where he avoided conflict where he could.

"Hot blood breeds incaution." Zephon, broken, doomed man that he was, was proof of that. "We slew his sire." Raziel sighed. Despite lives dedicated to purging evil, they would leave vampires alive after them. With Janos' death, Vorador was the last surviving Elder Vampire, and none survived of the High Blood. "Do you think he'll escape the stronghold?" If Vorador fell today, the vampires would be crippled for generations, effectively decapitated. Then, they could claim their sacrifices had not been in vain.

Turel appeared hopeful, but that could easily be a façade. "If he does, he will bleed for it. Malek or Moebius will not be hospitable."

Raziel almost snorted in disgust, but restrained himself. "Do you think so? Moebius ever has his own agenda. We're caught in one of his machinations." He trusted Malek, but Moebius' betrayal in allowing them to die with the land uncleansed, however necessary, still stung. Turel, ever dutiful, shrugged.

"Whether he does or does not, there's little to be done now. We must accept our fate." Raziel couldn't help admiring such a perspective. It was true, but it ever had rankled him to accept another's will. He could endure being a pawn, but never willingly a puppet.

They heard, then, a gate lock nearby, and voices raised in challenge. Painfully familiar voices. Voices who shared their own fate.

"Come to take your revenge, demon?"

"Back to hell with you!"

So. The slaughter had begun. Turel, unable to listen to clashing steel, stood abruptly. "Our time wanes. Good luck." He moved to an embrace, a gesture so out of character for him that Raziel was instantly suspicious, an instinct which was proven right as Turel lunged at him with a dagger. He managed to get a blade to his throat, but Turel was quick too, and Raziel felt steel prick his own. He was stunned. Turel was always faithful, even through torture. Which made his betrayal now all the more jarring.

"I should have you strung from the fortress walls!" Raziel hissed, almost snarling. Turel, a traitor? Impossible? How had the vampires broken his mind?"

But Turel was smiling under the prick of steel.

"How unbearable. I should be executed by Sarafan Council tomorrow instead of murdered by our blue demon today. What a fate! I should become bored!" Raziel had to smile, but did not lower his blades until Turel explained further. Apparently, he had attempted the attack to draw Raziel from his depression. It had worked, briefly, but Raziel was recalled to his fate almost immediately by the falling armour. Melchiah or Zephon, now murdered. Nonetheless, he was grateful for the brief respite and thanked his comrade, aware as he was of the absurdity of the gratitude.

The second suit of armour fell, and the gate was heard rising, along with soft, quick steps. Dumah and Rahab rose and donned their helms, exchanging some final words, before challenging their foe as he entered.

"Have you come to reclaim the monster's black heart?"

"You'll have to get through us, first."

Turel looked at him. "Time is short. Go." And Raziel could do nothing but flee, clashing steel punctuating his escape. He wondered, then, what would happen if he turned back to fight alongside his brother, but the way back was sealed, so he ran on. Upon entering the Chapter House, the room of his death, he suddenly realised he had left his helm in Janos' vile Retreat. Some struggle of the beast had knocked it askew, and he had torn it free, and neglected to retrieve it as the building collapsed around them. He'd fight bareheaded, then. His murderer would know who it was he was slaying. Behind him, one suit of armour fell, then the other. Locks snapped open, and Turel raised his voice.

"Get back to the pit you crawled from, demon!" Then steel began to clash again. Like the others, Turel lent him time. Time preceding his death. Raziel readied himself. Eventually, armour fell yet again, the final clang resonating in his mind, a death knell preceding his fall. Then the same tread. This time, however, the step was measured, wary, giving Raziel time he didn't need.

Come, demon. I want this done with.

And then his demon was there, portcullis slamming down behind him and sealing in his death with him. Although he'd known his slayer would be a spectre of himself, Raziel was unprepared for the sight by his brief glimpses in the retreat and through Moebius' scrying. It was as though he was looking out through the eyes of the Skull, or into a mirror while wearing Mortanius' death mask. This ravaged creature, muscle, sinew, and skeleton, was unlike anything he had ever seen, but it was undeniably him. A bitter joke, perhaps. Recovering himself, he spoke, not needing to feign the hate in his voice

"So, vampire...here we are." I don't know what you are, but you are no vampire.

"You've destroyed my brethren-" –damn you- "-and now you've come for me. You'll find I'm not such easy prey." Such arrogance as he spoke. Empty threats were a part of vampiric clashes often. Then the corpse spoke.

"I don't want to kill you, but I will if I must." Oh? You would spare me, then, leaving me knee deep in the corpses of comrades? I could never live with myself if I turned tail now.

The corpse continued, blissfully ignorant of his thoughts.

"Return the heart to me, and we can end this now." You shall never have it, Raziel. I will not see my life's work in vain. Even in his mind, addressing the corpse that stood before him by its true name was chilling. Responding, Raziel made his tone mocking with an effort.

"So you've come to avenge that filthy parasite, and reclaim his foul heart? You're a righteous fiend, aren't you?"

"Apparently I am." Raziel could appreciate the humour, bitter though it was. So...he knows who I am, and who he himself is. So...shall I give him the heart?

"No, vampire."-shall ever command me while I draw breath.

"This is where it ends," for better, or worse.

"-but you won't be leaving this room." Or will you? If Moebius is lying...

"Now, let's finish this. I'll make it mercifully quick." I hope.

"As you did for Janos?", the corpse interjected, misinterpreting.

Raziel laughed bitterly. His last triumph. "No, that beast had eluded us for far too long. It would have been a shame to end him too quickly." One grain of truth in his little speech. "It's ironic, really, the great Janos Audron turned out to be no challenge at all –thanks to you." Ha. Even my vampiric self aids in the purge. For that, I can be proud of you, my friend. Now come, kill me. I tire of this.

"Did you hear his cowardly screams when I tore that black heart out of his carcass?"

His restraint broke, and the corpse charged his former self, reaver gained at such difficulty in his grasp. Stepping aside from the first stroke, Raziel swept his blade across his counterpart's eyesockets, a weak, quick slice, but nonetheless a maiming blow to a human, and incapacitating for a vampire, leaving them exposed for the follow up thrust to the chest. His corpse soaked up both strikes with barely a pause, and Raziel was surprised to feel a sword scraping off his armour. Not quite penetrating, not yet, but not far away. An instant later, he had to snap his head back from the same move, mirrored and turned on him. His brethren had fought a demon blind with rage, but they had dulled it, and now the demon fought with all its craft, awakened after centuries of never needing to use it, relying on vampiric and then wraith agility and strength. But while thecorpse still had those advantages, now he utilised his long dormant skill, granting his former self a respect he'd never shown to the others. However, the Sarafan Raziel had the advantage on his corpse in that he'd fought himself before, courtesy of Moebius' little conjuring trick, something of which the corpse had not had the luxury. So he was better able to turn aside the strokes seeking his blood and respond with counterstrokes. Unlike his brethren, he was fighting with more than a token resistance, anxious to prove to...himself...that vampirism was not godhood.

Corpse Raziel lunged, leaping around and over his counterpart to unleash attacks from every side. Spinning to face them, Raziel blocked and dodged, strokes sliding off his armour or his blade, countering with strikes he knew were in vain. He took a gash to the forehead, a light , not quite fully fended off stroke that impaired him little, fragile though he was by comparison with his future self. Corpse Raziel was incredibly quick, flitting around him using what appeared to be remnants of wings, dancing back and around his attacks with them trailing behind him like veils, as well as what appeared to be a faded banner wrapped around his face like a mask. Once, Raziel succeeded in turning around his adversary, and struck with all his might at his back, driving his corpse to its knees but failing to so much as gash the cloth. Lunging away, Corpse Raziel avoided the next strike, spinning in midair to land facing his adversary, before attempting to lunge back as Raziel attacked with a lunge of his own. Raziel's blade struck his counterpart's veil, piercing it and driving through the space where a jaw should have been. The momentum of the Corpse's lunge drove it deeper, through the throat beneath, emerging the back of the corpse's neck, between the muscles, through the bone. Raziel thought he saw shock in his Corpse's eyesockets for an instant, but he could not be sure. The wound healed instantly, the shher strength of the healing power forcing the blade out of the creature's neck to such and extent that Raziel was propelled backwards, almost losing his blade. The counterstroke almost caught him then, but he managed to cut it aside, the strike sliding off his shoulder plate, but impacting with enough force that he was numbed, forcing him to retreat further. His Corpse, stunned, charged him ferociously, and he was forced to retreat, on the defensive. But he smiled, infuriating his opponent. He'd proved his point.

I had you then. Mortal, vampire, or wraith, had your blade not sustained you, I had you then.

His back hit a pillar, and he could retreat no further. Fighting as best he could, he drove his adversary back to the centre of this, their arena, but he was tiring, and there his future incarnation ran him through. As the sickening drowning sensation filled his lungs, his corpse drew him close, dead, glowing eyesockets meeting eyes, living but not for much longer. And his corpse spoke.

"I Renounce You."

Had he been able to speak, Raziel could have returned the sentiment. As he fell, he noted with savage satisfaction the blade writhing like a snake in his murderer's hand, before twisting in his grip and impaling him.

Hahaha...Moebius told the truth. Enjoy my doom, Raziel.

His consciousness fled.