One again.
~Celestial Arrogance~
~*~
Lying in a pool of their own blood isn't something many see or care to imagine seeing, before the final curtain call falls. Even a soldier trained and experienced in many wars is humbled in awe struck amazement as they lay upon the floor, watching their body weep crimsons tears from wounds.
Nallen was the exact same, however he knew how he ended up here and had entered in to this half-expected to see his blood spill onto all that white marble. What was surprising to him was that he could bleed this much and feel no pain, only the warm current of blood flowing freely from his mortal wound.
'Mortal wound.' He thought, stifling a laugh that caused a sharp pain to pierce his chest. 'How ironic a term for someone such as myself, though here I am, lying here before the eyes of my God, wondering what games He plays with all His creations.'
His eyes rolled up towards the ceiling of the chapel, as if his gaze could cause the roof to give way to the heavens and to God himself. Wasn't God supposed to appear for him, answering all those questions that plagued him? Or did that happen later, if at all? In spite of such whimsical thoughts, he knew nothing would be forthcoming but his own death. He looked back to his surroundings.
This church held no memories for the young man and there would be no more past this moment. It was to be his final resting place in this world. The last background to his life story. He could see the irony in all of this.
Life was such a dark comedy, such a macabre of hope.
"Please, do tell your God a hello from me, the person who ripped your physical form from this reality." The shrouded figure eyed the blood pouring from the wound. "Not to over state the obvious." His words echoed from a pillar some distance from Nallen. It seemed further than it had seconds ago.
His eyes widened at the words, not out of fright but in an attempt to spot the figure hidden among the ebony-dappled marble pillars. Even with his dimming sight, he could spot the ends of the dark twirling cloak as his assailant moved between the pews, making a bee-line straight for him.
'Well, God, if You could save my soul, now would be a great opportunity.'
Icy blue orbs watched the figure stand before him a few yards away, clipping a fresh magazine into his sidearm, named 'Devils.' He pushed the clip in slowly, dark eyes watching him expectantly, waiting for untold terror to take the last bit of control from his features. The sliding metallic noise was cut short as his gloved hand pulled back on the shaft and raised the gun, taking careful aim.
"Farewell, friend." He jeered as his trigger finger pulled back. The bullet shot forth, rippling the air around its smooth surface as it spun at an incredible speed towards the unmoving Nallen.
It should have taken less than a second for the bullet to hit home; ripping through his chest and hitting deeper things to finish what the first shot had started. Mid-flight, the projectile twisted into its own momentum, warping around on itself a breath before it struck the marble floor a hair's width from the dying man. The odd angle caused the projectile to ricochet, burying it harmlessly into a pew, some distance away.
A snarl echoed from the cloaked figure as his lips thinned in frustration, taking aim once again and firing three quick successive shots at Nallen. Once more the bullets twisted upon the cool air and missed their target by mere millimeters. Beyond frustrated and bordering hysteria, the man pulled forth another firearm with his free hand, the 'Companion' was its name and he fired a volley of bullets towards the fallen man, one rapid fire click after another. When the guns clicked empty heartbeats later, only the pews showed signs of damage. None had come closer to hitting its mark than the first had.
"You shall die and experience first hand what happens to mortals in the afterlife." He promised in a voice that dripped with scorn. "Isn't that why you are here, Nallen?" He hissed in annoyance as he bent towards the guns, trying to load both weapons at once.
Nallen did not care for his own death, did not care that he was about to die, but his mind was reeling as to why all the shoots had been coiled away for he was sure that his own innate powers had played no hand in it. The swirling confusion of his thoughts was pressed back as he picked up on the soft steps of someone coming forth.
The assailant had not registered the sound. He remained confidant that the church was empty at this late hour and knew that his target could pose no treat, was merely a bug to be crushed at leisure. His own thoughts were preoccupied with his weapons, eyes scanning them over as he reloaded, thinking the problem to lie within his trusted fire arms.
"Dorn." Whispered Nallen, half choking as crimson liquid tinged his thin lips.
The shrouded man, both weapons now loaded, straightened himself and was lifting his guns back into range when he heard the wounded man call his name. Ashen brown eyes bore into the sorely defeated man, disgust written clearly on his face. He fought back the urge to yell his response, so angered was he at this show of weakness.
"You, my friend, are pitiful. What are you going to say? 'Please, Dorn, help me?'" He sneered, rising the guns again. "Your life on this world ends now."
Dorn had seen the scene play through his mind a million and one times as he had been busy loading his weapons. Over and over again in his mind's eye, he watched Nallen's limp body recoil across the marbled floor into the pews. Drawing his memories back to what had happened less than a mere ten minutes ago, a cinema of climaxes played out for his amusement.
Stalking was a past time for Dorn and Nallen was someone he had tracked for many weeks; however, it had been a chance meeting that had led to the confrontation out on the street outside and a sheer (though ironic) coincidence that they would finish this fight inside a church.
How perfectly symbolic, Dorn thought. The fight though had not lasted long, to Dorn's great disappointment. A stray bullet had pierced into Nallen's side and with one look the practiced marksman knew it had ripped into his victim's liver. It may have taken the long battle he had envisioned from him, but the death, the death would be his to savour.
In the finale to his thoughts, he envisioned his arms pointed forwards as he riddled the body with bullets.
How overkill excited him. Fully elated, Dorn was now ready to live out his imaginings. One arm raised a little and straighten, sighting perfectly sighted to kill. It took Dorn a moment to realise that the other arm hadn't risen with the other. He frowned, trying to will the arm into motion. Nothing happened, but this was to be the least of the problem. It took him a second to realise he could no longer feel his arm anymore. Lowering his eyes to his right side, he spotted his lifeblood flowing freely from his shoulder joint from where it should have been connected to his arm. The appendage in question lay on the floor beside him, twitching with spasms.
Pure astonishment overpowered Dorn more than pain or fear. He watched as the arm stopped moving, the curled fingers relaxing in their hold of Devils, sending it slipping to the marble and into the growing pool of blood.
Thoughts, thousands upon thousands, fired through his head as he tried to work out what had just happened. There was no wound of a weapon and there hadn't been so much as a sting of pain. He knew Nallen could not muster such power. He should have fallen prey to his bullets, bullets that had gone deceptively wide. He should be dead. It defied logic and yet Dorn stood, watching a man that was taking his last few breaths, watching him as Nallen gave him a somewhat smile.
"How?" Spoke Dorn, eyeing Nallen with accusation and hatred. Nallen did not have to answer; the creak of a nearby pew told him that they were not as alone as he had thought.
Seemingly unhindered by the loss of his arm, he spun, raising Companion to the precise area of the noise and quickly firing off two shots. Dorn's eyes narrowed and quickly widen in disbelief at the sight before him. The bullets seemed to float in the air, locked flight, both still rotating as if they had hit an area of very thick air, almost as if moving in a different field of time from the rest of the world. However, this was not what caused fear to ripple through the shrouded man's body. It was the person who caused the bullets momentum to halt that his eyes locked on.
"Voss." Whispered the man, as if the name was cursed and those that spoke it were, in return, cursed. In answer to the spoken word, an invisible force struck him, sending Dorn crashing into the pews like a rag doll.
"Fool! You dare touch one of us?!"
The man before them both spoke with the authority of a seasoned general and the patience of a fisherman sitting with his baited line. The speaker, Voss, was tall and imposing, resting his backside casually against a pew. One of his long arms was raised, palm open and facing them. Seconds ago, he had used his hand to call forth an invisible power, striking out at Dorn. The hand stayed fixed in that direction as he turned his head to regard Nallen. Cold eyes, with the colour and sharpness of a worked blade, locked onto Nallen's own dark blue stare. The man he had flung across the pews seemed forgotten, so intense was his gaze, but Voss did not straighten or make any gesture of moving towards his downed comrade.
"Rest friend, for your days here will end." He said. His voice held the conviction of one who was emotionally in control, but was not without compassion for the younger looking partner he now faced. Unconscious of the movement, he ran a hand through his hair, causing it to fall forward from behind his ears. Short, light brown hair fell to frame his cool eyes, adding to the sincerity of his words. "Forgive me for not being here to help you. I was on a mission and had not known that you were targeted by them, nor followed."
Nallen made no response, nor did he think he had the strength left to if he wished. The young man simply watched on, feeling his soul drift from his corporal, and all too temporal, body. Neither cared or fully realised that the smaller, shrouded Dorn had managed to squirm silently from the rubble of wood and slip away into the shadows.
"Be at peace as you go forth. You shall be a watcher and hopefully see a change in our situation." Voss watched the last of Nallen's life slip across his eyes and from the Earth before lowering his own in silent acknowledgment. Flashes of Nallen's exploits filtered in to his mind, memories of their partnership together. Finally, he closed his eyes. The features of his deceivingly young, thirty-something, face scrunched with emotion and quickly relaxed. He breathed in slowly and his eyes reopened with a fire of determination and not a hint of anger.
People of his kind did not try to stand out, as their enemies did. They did not go for Gothic or flamboyant clothing, only things that were simple and comfortable. Sneakers, pants and a light jumper adorned Voss, all basic colors. The effect was a somber appearance, unremarkable, that hid well his latent strength and vast knowledge. To any who passed him by, he looked average, middle class, and even a little fatherly. All of those in his family dressed in that way or very similar. Of course, their enemies, those that hired the likes of Dorn and those that worked beside him, try for a more personal, standout, style. They choose mostly garments of all black or crimson red, in cuts that suited a Gothic, seventeenth century flavor. A few wore suits, favoring a more modern, but no less dramatic, flare.
Voss gave a slight sigh and turned, scanning the wrecked area for the assassin. He turned his neck from side-to-side and as he watched the shadows he could neither see, nor pick up on Dorn's aura. He decided against trying to pick up the still warm trail. Voss chose prudence and felt that he should inform those in his family about the incident. His news would come as no surprise, for no doubt they would have already felt the departure of both predator and prey.
Bending low, Voss scooped up the weapon that took Nallen's life, a devious gun he recognized by the name of Devils, and slipped it under the waistline of his pants before he turned towards the old wooden doors of the church, leaving the scene behind him.
~*~
"You talk as if our role here is for naught, my friend." Commented Victor as he watched Voss take the seat before him, surrounded by seven others. All were men and ranged in appearance, some looking in their late-teens to their mid-thirties. Victor looked to be equal in age to Voss, if not a little older and both were senior members of the gathering. Both respected each other, despite clashes of character and had become friends. Both also knew well the implications that Voss spoke of and knew what losses could result.
"You realize that if we do not know the extent of their allies and their numbers, we could be wiped out?"Victor was the leader of this family, though it was a very human term for such a position, and the burden of leading security fell, ultimately, on his shoulders.
"I do not recall Archangels to be known for their compassion towards their enemies, let alone themselves, friend." Replied Voss evenly, not breaking the eye contact with the man. They closely resembled one another, their bodies were of the same build and height and their features were identical, with the exception of Victor's darker auburn hair. Mirroring grey eyes watched each other intently as if silently communicating their thoughts, though all in the room knew that they could not.
Those particular channels had closed long ago. God no longer spoke to them. They had been chosen. "Banished" some of the more bitter ones called it, to this world to fight the Others. His will allowed a new member to be "made" every now and again, just so their numbers did not deplete but all knew with time they would be no more. Their numbers were in the singular now while those they fought were growing in the thousands, if not tens.
"What do you suggest then, friend Voss? Should we march right in and wage war upon these devils, knowing that innocents could get caught in the cross-fire? You know as well as I that we have one unspoken rule from Him. We do not harm innocents." Victor eased back into his seat, motioning with his calloused hand as he spoke, breaking the eye contact with Voss.
Sitting there, Voss did not answer. He knew that Victor had turned the information he had presented him over in his mind many times and had come to agree with his view on things.
Victor continued on. "Friends, we are to strike an offensive against our aggressors for the first time in a thousand years. Prepare for tomorrow night. We shall strike death and vengeance upon those devils that wish to taint God's creation."
None yelled in celebration or offered words of encouragement to their fellows. The Archangels always strove to wear a blank expression, even learning to take painful blows with no sign of pain. They did not hold any doubts for they took everything as an order, trained soldiers that did not question. All but three filtered out of the room. Voss and Victor still sat opposite each other while the third, Mateo, sat in the corner of the room, not leaving but letting the two talk with one another, uninterrupted.
Archangels always had a partner or companion. It was important to travel in pairs to ensure that there was a measure of protection and also to watch so that they did not fall, like so many of the angels had done once, some time back.
Voss looked at Victor and listened as his friend spoke of Nallen, of how he had been targeted and stalked by a human many of the angels knew as Dorn. 'Dorn' thought Voss, loosing his senses of the area as he was lost in thought. 'You will pay for the loss of angel life, and not just Nallen's but for all their blood that you have spilt.' As he came back to reality and listened to Victor, he thumbed the weapon in his pocket, the weapon that Dorn had used to kill Nallen that would now cause the downfall of Dorn.
~*~
Dorn breathed heavily, for he knew that the amount of blood he was loosing was becoming fatal and without help, he would perish, much like his recent target. ˜Hurry and heal me, please, oh please' He kept screaming in his mind, as if doing so would will the man before him to send help, but Dorn knew that this man hardly cared for anyone, even one as proficient as Dorn. Beads of cold sweat slide over his pale brow, making his facial features sickly, combined with the blood staining his garments, he looked like a man that at that moment would fall and not get up.
"You come into my office un-announced, stain my Tuscan rug and Elizabethan arm chair and now you order me to help you? Dorn, you poor wretched fool, did you at least get the job done?" The man before the assassin was Jerek, a self-made millionaire, or so he told all. Jerek was a human with connections to those of the darker realm, and thus, delved into greed, lust, vanity and many other mortal sins. Sitting himself into a plush highchair, he looked over the man beyond a rather large dark oak desk. The room itself was rather large and filled with many ornaments, manly from historical battles, royal blues and reds filtered the room from drapes, curtains and shades.
Jerek himself was a person of vanity. Clothing that did not cost more then double-digit thousands did not touch a body that was toned to mortal perfection. Crystal blue eyes set his face perfectly, enlarged somewhat with long lashes and thinned eyebrows. Facial features were tinted with femininity, slender, angular and with a dark brown hair with black streaks that hung below his ears, gelled and greased a little from products so that it sat well of him. When he smiled, women swooned as they set their eyes of a man only marked as beautiful as white, perfectly set teeth shone like pearls.
But, now Jerek's facial features were twisted in anger, yet tinted with a vile amusement as he watched the man before him. "Well?"He purred, tapping a manicured index finger against the desk in fake impatience, for he had all the time in the world, or so he was told.
"The man, Nallen is no longer. I had done what you ask, so please, please, help me. I do not think.." Dorn trailed on, but nothing sunk into Jerek's mind except that one more angel was down, leaving but a few for the picking.
"They will be delighted with this news and how I will be rewarded." Jerek smiled wide, standing and moving over to the man, watching him look up at him, begging for help as Jerek placed a hand on his wounded shoulder. "Fret not, good Dorn, for help will come for you, trust me." And with those words, a servant appeared, not showing any sign shock about the wounded man, but simply walked over to him, helping him up and removing him from his masters office. Jerek did not see the action, nor cared for he was in a state of pure happiness. The eradication of his masters enemies made him wring his hands in anticipation.