Chapter XXI: His Angel
Oliver Cromwell smiled to himself as he leaned back in his chair, contently staring out the open window of his office and into the beautiful green gardens below. He was currently housed within Londinium's royal palace, which had been transformed into the Great Republic's headquarters after Reconquista took over Albion's capital city. Outside the sun shone brightly and birds chirped happily from within nearby trees. A soft, cool breeze wafted into the window, bringing with it the fresh scent of roses from the bushes below.
Cromwell was very much pleased with himself. Things had been going pretty well with his revolution, so well in fact that he could afford to enjoy simple moments like this. His forces had pretty much swept away all opposition and had taken over much of the country. Even now, more and more noble families of Albion were taking up his banner and joining the cause, as everyone knew that the royalists were all but doomed. If the nobility wished to survive with their holdings as well as their lives, then they would have to join Reconquista or face annihilation. King James was already dead, captured and executed the same day the rebel forces had taken the capital. The only thing left to do now was to kill the Crown Prince Wales and wipe out the paltry remaining forces that were still loyal to the old regime. Then the floating kingdom of Albion would be his, and from there the start of the Glorious Crusade could begin.
It was all quite humbling to a man like Cromwell to be given the burden as well as the duty of retaking the Holy Lands. He was but a mere servant of God after all; despite the title of Emperor he was given, Cromwell still felt in his heart that he was still just a simple clergyman. To think that just a year ago he had been disgraced, censured by the Cardinals of Romalia for his views, then shuffled away to be the Bishop of some tiny, insignificant city in northern Albion where he would remain to be forgotten. All because of his stance that the Church of Romalia should not be so craven when it came to the elves, that all of Brimiric Civilization should rise up against the heretical infidels and take back what was rightfully theirs! It filled Cromwell with a burning, seething rage to think that the lands that the great Founder Brimir had walked upon was currently under the control of people, no, animals that were so unworthy as to deny God's very existence. It was an insult to all of Helkagenia that such a travesty was allowed to continue, and Cromwell would make sure that this mistake of old, one that to this day was condoned by the cowardly leadership in the Church, would be rectified.
Once Albion was truly his, Reconquista would use it as the platform to launch change, change that would spread to all of the continent. The first target would be nearby Tristain whom, despite their reputation for learned academics and the home of brave, romantic heroes, was weak militarily. It would be a simple action to conquer the small kingdom, especially with the full might of Albion's naval forces at his disposal. The capture of the flagship HMS Royal Sovereign, which had been renamed the GRS Lexington, had pretty much won Cromwell the war. The one-hundred-eight gun galleon was the most powerful warship ever made; once it became part of the Reconquista Air Fleet's arsenal, half of the ships in the royalist air force mutinied and switched sides, all in fear of facing the mighty beast in battle.
Once Tristain was conquered it would serve as a staging ground for the rest of the invasion of the mainland. Reconquista's recent (and currently secret) alliance with Gallia would allow for a collective force that would be able to take on the might of barbaric Germania, whose formidable ground forces would be wiped out by the combined Albion and Gallian navies. Hopefully it would not come to such bloodshed, and Cromwell hoped that Germania's emperor would see the fruitlessness of resistance and join Reconquista's forces willingly. But Germanians were known to be hot-headed, and thus it was possible that the fools would try to fight until the bitter end. If such an event was to occur though, then so be it. Cromwell's conscience would be clear even if he had to dig a hundred thousand Germanian graves.
Once the continent was secured and in his grasp, Cromwell would then turn his attention to the Church. Oh how he personally would relish stating his decree to those worthless, weak-kneed Cardinals and the cowhearted boy who dared call himself the Pope. Reconquista would demand that the leadership of the Church of Romalia step down so that men of greater bravery and higher faith could take their place. Cromwell, of course, would fill in the role as the new Pope of the Grand and Holy Church of Romalia, and with a change in leadership would come a change of policy. No more would the lands of Brimir bow down to the filthy elves. The full might of Helkagenia would be a thrusting sword, directed right at the heart of the world, a lance to strike into the Holy Lands themselves. Pure hearted men and women, even children had their place, would serve as the holy warriors in this most righteous of wars. With God on their side Reconquista could not fail. The elves would be driven out of the Holy Lands, or they would be exterminated. Once the Holy Lands were his, Cromwell would usher in a new golden age for all the peoples of Brimir. It would be glorious.
And all of this, all of his accomplishments, all of the wonder and happiness that Reconquista would bring to the world… all of it was because of his angel.
She had appeared to him one dark, dreary night, at his chapel when he had been at his lowest point. Cromwell was afraid to admit that he had been suffering a crisis of faith. He had felt lost and alone, stuck in a position that was beneath him, shunned and mocked by his fellow clergy all because his faith in God and the righteousness of his people were so much greater than theirs. It didn't seem right, it didn't seem fair, that the servants of God and Brimir would act so foolishly and allow such injustice to continue. He had, in sad moments of weakness, indulged in drink. The bottle was his escape from a cold, cruel world, and he had sought escape many, many times. It was in this pitiful, wretched state that his angel found him, appeared to him in all her beautiful and terrifying glory.
His angel came to him as a young woman in a regal scarlet gown. She was quite comely, her figure bountiful, and if he were a less righteous man he would have become lost in ardor at the sight of her womanly form. But her skin was pale and fair, almost snow white in its purity. Her hair gold like fresh cut straw, hanging in soft strands to brush against her shoulders. Her lips, which often whispered words of comfort and wisdom to him, were succulent pink. But her most striking feature was her red, sanguine eyes. They were so beautiful and unearthly, like two perfectly cut rubies that could stare right into your very soul.
And sometimes, when he was lucky enough to see it, those eyes glowed. The eerie crimson radiance haunted Cromwell's dreams, and he could never forget how those twin points of red burned him to the very soul. Not that he would ever wish to forget, of course, for his angel was perfection and a gift to him from God. His divine mark, a set of intricate and detailed ancient runes etched upon the angel's forehead, was proof of that.
She took his hand and brought him up from his squalid state. She whispered warm, tantalizing words into his ear, enflamed his heart and his faith once again. His angel, his sweet, beautiful, terrifying angel, had given him the strength to carry on. She reignited his conviction to fight this war. And yes, it was most definitely a war. A war not only against the elves, but on the indolence and esurience that had settled upon the leadership of the Church as well as the royalty that ruled the people with the Church's blessing.
And so, with his angel by his side whispering soothing words from the shadows in her strange but charmingly accented voice, Cromwell stepped forth and conquered Albion. His angel told him of the anger and rile brewing within the halls of the Albion royal court, of how the nobles chafed at King James's heavy handed ruling as well as his heavy taxation of their lands and goods. She told him of their silent indignation to the wanton execution of his younger brother, the Archduke, for crimes officially unspecified. They seethed at the treatment of those noble families who served the Archduke, like the loyal Saxe-Gothas, who were all arrested and had their lands and titles seized. The political situation in Albion was a powder keg ready to explode, and it was with relish that Cromwell took a match to it all.
Cromwell may have been a drunk and a failure before, but his angel's words had inspired him to new heights. He, in turn, inspired others. As a preacher, he spoke with eloquence and charm as he seduced both nobility and commoner to his cause. He galvanized their nationalism with his grand ideals, of a new form of government that was not at the mercy of a single king but a council of enlightened nobles. He spoke about God's will being the rejection of the corrupt Church as well as the tyrannical royal families that supported them. Cromwell's silver tongue raised their spirits and riled their anger, until what began as a mere angry mob transformed into an organized revolution. Reconquista became a force that stepped forth from the shadows to conquer one of the most powerful kingdoms in Helkegenia. And soon, very soon, it will march forth to spread its flag over all the world.
And Cromwell, as the head of this new movement, this new faith, would bring peace and serenity to all of Brimir's children. Albion would be his. Helkegenia would be his. The Holy Land would be his. Perhaps, in time, the people would come to worship his name as they did Brimir's. He was their savior, after all. He will save them all from tyranny, from corruption, from cowardice, from evil. Why should his name not be praised with the same reverence as the Founder's?
And all this, all of it was because of his angel.
Cromwell smiled, thinking about the woman he owed so much to. Even now, during his approaching moment of triumph, she stayed with him, a dark, beautiful shadow. Currently she was sleeping, deep within the darkest reaches of the royal palace's basements, well away from the sunlight. It was only natural for such an ethereal beauty as her to dislike the bright sun's rays; after all, her angelic features were more for the moon's soft light to touch and not the harshness of the sun's. His angel was most likely resting within her coffin, slumbering and waiting for the moment that Cromwell would need her. Tonight he would visit her, bring her her favorite drink. He had several bottles of the refreshment at hand: pure virgin's blood, fresh from the arteries of his unspoilt followers, given freely and with eagerness by those Cromwell felt worthy enough to know about his angel. Some with lesser faith might have balked at such a thing, of drinking the blood of the innocent, but what else should one expect a holy creature such as an angel of God to be able to partake in? Only the lifeblood of the clean and the chaste can satisfy such a being, an entity of pure good and divine love. Cromwell himself had partaken in a glass; he found the flavor of the drink to be almost sinfully exquisite.
Yes, tonight he would visit his angel. He would talk to her, he would listen to her. He would watch her drink. And he would also hope. Hope and pray for that one day, perhaps one day soon, when his angel found him worthy enough to drink of his life blood as well. That would be the moment that he knew he had proven himself to her, the moment when he knew that she ultimately approved of his work. He knew that when that day came, once she sunk those sharp, delicate teeth into his neck… he knew that he would become closer to God than he had ever been.
How he longed for that moment. For when he would get to feel his angel's painful embrace.