Michael: Last Angel of Earth

There was a loud ringing in Barjon’s ears. As he opened his eyes, he looked all around and sawdust and rubble. Turning his head around, he saw his friends rushing towards him. He looked at them with confusion as he could not hear nor understand what they were saying. However, after a few minutes, the ringing dies, and the former Angel again hears.

“Barjon, we need to fall back!” shouted Horus. As Barjon could see, many of the mystics were scattered all over the city, yet all could hear the thundering footsteps of the demons approaching from behind and the swiss guards desperately holding them back. Shaking his head, he centered himself and took action.

“We need to get the civilians to the Basilica,” said Barjon.

“We may not have enough time,” said Ruzla.

“Then save as many as you can,” replied Barjon. Before Barjon continued, he noticed they were missing people.

“Where are Margret and others? Henebul?” he asked. The others looked around and could not find them. Barjon knew for sure that they were right beside them before the breeches. Yet, amid chaos, they were nowhere to be seen.

“I see them!” yelled Horus, using his magic eyes.

“Where are they?” exclaimed Barjon. Horus stated they were trapped in a crumbled building and about to be overrun. Barjon knew what he had to do.

“I’m going after them. Everyone else, stick to the plan and help out wherever you can!” shouted Barjon. Running to his friend’s aide, Horus, and the others went to work. Some assisted the swiss guards, while others helped the civilians get to St. peters. Barjon ran as fast as he could to save his friends when suddenly a sharp pain stopped him. He knelt and clutched his side. As he looked at his hand, he saw blood on his palm. His eyes widened as he looked and saw a massive wound with a piece of slab protruding. He wanted to remove it but knew the second he did; he would bleed profusely. Ignoring the pain, he got back up and continued forward. As he arrived at the scene, he could already feel himself growing weaker. Panting hard, he stopped for a moment to catch his breath. The wound had grown more significant, and the blood loss was equally more. Slowly getting up, he moved towards the destroyed building.

“Margret? Colum? Can you guys hear me?” he said. No reply. Finding a broken window, he crawled through and found himself inside. The room and the rest of the house were destroyed beyond repair. Inspecting all the rooms, he found no sign of life. He was about to leave when he heard a slight creek noise from one floorboard. Stepping on it again, he realized he had found a hidden cover. Reaching down, the former angels removed the weak floorboard and many others and found a small door. He slammed the weapon down on the handle with his shield in hand. After a few blows, the door gave way and loosened up. Grabbing the handle, he opened the door and saw his friends.

“What took ya?” jabbed Colum. Barjon noticed that they had sustained injuries from the blast.

“Let’s get you out of there,” stated Barjon. Helping his friends, he noticed they were still missing one person.

“Where’s Henebul?” asked Barjon. Fiona pointed to the far end of the room to a loveless body. The former Angel walked over to his fallen comrade and knelt before him. He noticed the cuts, arrows, wounds, and bruises across his body.

“After the explosion, we heard people trapped inside this house. We got them out but found ourselves overrun. Henebul found a secret door and hid us there. He held them off as long as he could, but...” Fiona could not finish her sentence as sadness overcame her. Barjon traced his fingers along Henebul’s face. When he touched his neck, Barjon felt a pulse. Though faint, it told Barjon that Henebul might still be alive. Slinging the half-elf over his shoulders, he turned to his comrades.

“We are leaving now,” stated Barjon. Getting off the floor, Margret and the others followed Barjon out of the collapsed bundling and back into the madness. Once they reached the main walkway leading to St. Peters, there was chaos and blood around them. Innocent civilians lay dead in the streets surrounding the Vatican while soldiers tended to the wounded. In the center, Barjon was greeted once more by Horus and the others.

“We are losing ground fast,” shouted the prince. Soon the Roman Gods made their way toward the group.

“How many civilians?” asked Barjon

“Five hundred dead. Another two hundred wounded or in critical condition,” stated Ruzla. Barjon let out a deep sigh and grunt. Things were going from bad to worse. They needed a plan. As everyone talked about what to do next, Barjon looked around him. He saw the carnage he brought to this place. The lives he ruined. All this madness stems from those many years ago in his arrogance. Closing his eyes, he made his choice. Handing Henbeul over to one of the Roman gods, Barjon gave his final command.

“Have the wood elves give me their most potent and strongest elixir. Afterward, Get everyone inside. Bard the doors and make sure nothing gets in. Not even me,” he said. His allies were confused by the order.

“What are you saying, Barjon? If we lock you out, you’ll die,” explained Vanhildr.

“That’s the point,” he replied.

“NO!!” shouted Margret. The young woman walked up to the former Angel and slapped him with tears in her eyes.

“Out of the question! You are not doing this! We need you!” she yelled. Her words stung the Angel’s heart, but his mind was set. He knows what must happen.

“Margret, this is the only way now. All of this is because of my actions many years ago. I must make this right.” Margaret’s tears were becoming more apparent, and the young lass soon buried her head in his chest.

“But you die,” she said through a muffled sob. Barjon lifted her head and smiled at her.

“Then perhaps I will finally pay for my mistakes, once and for all,” he said. Seeing no other option, the other mystics carried out Barjon’s final command. With some getting the potions and others escorting the civilians into the Vatican, Barjon was left alone until Naldak emerged from the smoke. The young Vard was covered in blood and missing patches of fur, yet the creature seemed unfazed.

“You...fight...alone,” he said.

“Yes,” said Barjon.

“Then...I fight...alone...with you,” replied Naldak.

“This is my fight now, Naldak. You have no business in angelic quarrels,” stated Barjon. Naldak growled and ignored the comment. Standing next to the former Angel, the pair waited in the center of St Peters for the army to come. As they waited, millions of thoughts danced in Barjon’s head. In these thoughts, he heard an eerie familiar voice again—his shadow.

“This must be the stupidest plan you have ever constructed,” said the shadow.

“I don’t have time for a lecture now, especially coming from you,” spat Barjon.

“Even drugged up, you honestly think you can stop an entire army?” asked the shadow. Barjon was tired of the shadows’ presence and told him their existence would be nothing more after this encounter. Huffing in defeat, the show materialized just as Margret returned with all the viles and elixirs.

“This is everything the elves had on them. You will have twenty minutes of unlimited potential if you consume them all at once. However, they warned that the drugs would begin to wear off around fifteen and start attacking your nervous system. After that...”

“So I better make those twenty minutes count, is what you’re saying?” finished Barjon. Margret nodded her head and gave Barjon what he needed. The young woman wanted to speak, but no words escaped her lips. Instead, she quickly walked back inside the Vatican at the sound of the approaching enemy.

“Ready?” asked Barjon once more.

“Need...you ask?” responded Naldak. The former Angel smiled and stared directly at the incoming enemy soldiers. Inside the Vatican, the civilians, Pope, the clergy, the mystics, and the elves all waited in anticipation. The Pope, still clutching onto his rosary, made the cross sign and uttered a quiet prayer for Barjon.

“We need to do something,” said Vanhildr.

“What can we do?” responded Fiona. All held their breaths as the final hour drew near. Back outside, Barjon started down the massive demon army. He took notice of all the various heathen and hellish forms of life that Xathaniel had mustered. Speaking of which, the fallen Angel himself made his way through the soldiers and was in perfect view of Barjon. Removing his helmet, Barjon finally got a good look at the Nephilim’s face, as did Xathaniel.

“Look what has become of you. The famed warrior Michael is not reduced to a mere mortal. A rat,” sneered Xathaniel. Barjon was unfazed by his words.

“Look what I have risen above,” said Barjon. Soon Zarakoth emerged from the army as well, his scales glinting.

“You are quite a difficult man to kill, Michael.” Zarakoth extended his wings as if to make him more imposing. It did not have the effect the Dragon king wanted.

“This army has come to kill you and your friends, but perhaps it’s worse to leave you here, festering in your squalor.” Silence covered the field between the two forces. No words were spoken for a moment. Then, without provocation, Barjon walked towards his enemy. His boots gently tapped the stone cobble floor. His face was calm and devoid of any outward emotion. He finally stopped just a few feet from Xathaniel and stared at him. The uneasy calmness made everyone unsettled, even those in the army. Zarakoth himself was perplexed by the Angel’s sudden inaction. Then, after a few minutes passed, Barjon spoke.

“If I am a rat, then you are the dirt beneath the rat,” said Barjon. The sudden statement caught everyone by surprise. Xathaniel, trying his best not to lose his temper, flared his nostril and let out a deep sigh.

“Please explain how you came to that conclusion?” asked the Nephilim.

“I don’t have to. Actions speak louder than words,” stated Barjon. Xathaniel let out a laugh.

“If you are referring to my actions, my actions have reshaped the world, boy. I have power. Dominion over this feeble planet with my allies. I. AM. A. GOD!!” shouted Xathaniel. He thrust his spear directly toward Barjon’s face, taunting him.

“Now, does that sound like someone who is dirt?” sneered the Nephilim. Barjon, remaining calm, gave his response.

“If you define yourself by your power to take life, the desire to dominate, to possess? Then you have nothing.” Now Xathnaiel was furious. Swiping at the air with his spear, he planted the shaft into the cobblestone floor.

“And what do you have!?” yelled Xathaniel. “Why come to this place, not simply to find the tomb of Azrael?” Moments go by, and Xathaniel begins to put the pieces together. He sees the potions in Barjon’s hand and notices that the former Angel neither possessed the armor nor the sword itself. Soon a smile creeps onto his lips.

“Oh, you have a purpose here. Perhaps you wish to “die” like a martyr? No... you want to die like a warrior.” Barjon said nothing, but his hardened gaze was all the response Xathaniel needed.

“Before we go any further, answer me this. All these years of killing humans, why not live with them in peace?” asked Barjon. The response was a burst of roaring laughter.

“Because they’re different. And killing is much easier than tolerance,” stated Zarakoth. That was all Barjon needed. Popping off the caps of all the viles, he guzzled down the potions and elixirs and threw the glasses away. The combined mixtures at first tore Barjon on the inside, and it seemed that he would die there for a brief moment. His body contorted in different positions until suddenly, Barjon slowly regained his composure. However, he was silently different than before. He had the powers of his angelic past, but the combination altered his appearance. Around his eyes was a dark highlight, almost mirroring charcoal, with black lines running down his face. His skin was also much paler, making him look like a ghost. However, it was his eyes that drew the most concern. His eyes now had a dark red hue, almost blood red. This sudden change made the demons in the army uneasy. Some even moved a few inches back. However, Barjon would not let them leave, and as he spoke, even his voice had a sense of power and dread.

“For as long as I can remember, I have always held back my full power, fearing that someone would die by my hand. This fear has caused me to believe I live in a cardboard world. But you, Xathaniel, can take it, can you? We have a rare opportunity for me to cut loose and show you how powerful I am.” Before the Nephilim could respond, Barjon lunged at lightspeed and punched the Fallen Angel in the face with the side of his shield. The shock sent a ripple so powerful the civilians inside the Vatican thought it was an earthquake. Flown backward, Xathaniel landed into a crowd of demon knights and other hellish warriors. A few unsuspecting demons cushioned the fallen Angel’s fall. Grunting in pain, Xathaniel quickly got up and glared menacingly at Barjon. He then felt something in his mouth. Spitting it out, he realized it was a tooth. Xathaniel had lost a tooth.

“KILL HIM!!!!” he shouted in the air. Needing no further order, a tidal wave of enemies descended upon the lone former Angel. Barjon smiled. Then, moving unholy, he cut a dozen enemies with a swing of his sword. Body parts went flying. None of the men had fought a being such as this before, and to make matters worse for them, they also had to contend with a lone Varg, who was almost raking up his kills. As if a gust of wind, Barjon swept through the enemy with ease. He felt powerful, almost unbeatable in his mind, but he knew this feeling was limited. With the waves of enemies not slowing down, Xathnaiel stood next to Zarakoth, watching the carnage unfold.

“Incredible. And here I thought the Angel of war had lost his wings,” said Zarakoth.

“Do not be fooled, my lord. This presentation is only possible through the magic of the elves and the elixir. True, it has given Barjon some, if not most, of his former powers back, but he knows as much as I do that he will soon run on empty. And when that happens, the Angel of war will finally die,” stated Xathaniel. The fallen Angel was right, of course. Barjon was indeed powerful, but not even with his newfound power could he possibly hope to defeat an army like this. Speaking of which, Barjon was beginning to feel the effects of drugs wear off, and the pain was coming to fruition. After hacking off a draugrs head, Barjon clenched his stomach as he vomited up blood. The liquid was thick and black, like tar. However, he could not stop now. He needed to take out as many soldiers as he could. Naldak then appeared beside him, holding a severed arm in his mouth.

“How many are left?” Barjon groaned.

“Too...many,” growled Naldak. As Barjon straightened up, he could feel his body ache all over. He knew his time was running out. He had to change his method. With enemies drawing nearer, he formulated a plan. A plan so suicidal, it just might work.

“Naldak, take my sword. Create a trench around the Vatican, but not too deep. Then give the sword back to me.”

“What...is...plan?” asked Naldak, but Barjon said no questions. Handing the sword, the Varg grasped the weapon in his jaw and followed the former Angel’s order. While the Varg did that, Barjon used the shield’s powers to heal him just enough for the next phase of his plan. Uttering holy phrases in angelic tongues, he summoned a barrier to be placed around the Vatican. This sudden defense caught the enemy soldiers off guard. It also took a lot out of Barjon. Coughing up more blood, the former Angel clasped his hands together and began to recite an old prayer.

Inside the Vatican, the survivors watched with anticipation and fear as the hordes of darkness began to encircle the dome shield that Barjon had created. As for Henebul, the half-elf recovered somewhat and awoke to a nun tending to his wounds.

“Thank you, sister,” he said weakly. Nodding her head, the nun left Henebul to attend to needy others. Getting off the ground, the half-elf king walked to the windows where everyone had gathered.

“He’s going to do it, isn’t he,” he said. His statement caught the other’s attention. Margret smiled.

“I am glad you are awake. How are you feeling?” she wondered.

“Sick and dead,” he replied. Moving closer to the window, he saw Barjon outside, praying behind his shield.

“Bastard’s going to do it,” he said.

“Going to do what?” inquired Fiona.

“Unleash the Reaper,” stated Henebul. The others were confused by the statement. Henebul further explained.

“Long time ago, my father told me that Azrael, the Angel of Death, had a secret not even the Holy Council was aware of. According to the story, the Angel of death had learned secrets of the dark arts from demons and created a new form to combat the tide of evil, the reaper. In this form, Azrael was said to have destroyed countless armies and civilizations with a single swipe of his blade. His power was fueled by the very darkness he swore to destroy. However, the more he used it, the more he realized it drained him of his angelic power. When it was discovered, Azrael, in secret, bestowed this power unto the first warrior angel Metatron, originally the Angel of war, and placed a curse on the title of warrior angel so that only they and they alone could use this power. There was one drawback. To use the reaper’s power, the Angel must sacrifice all of his life force.”

“You’re saying that...” stuttered Margret. Henebul nodded his head.

“Barjon will unleash the reaper’s power onto the sword and send a wave of death so powerful that not even Xathnailes’ army could withstand it.” Margret did not know what to make of this. None of them could. All they could do was pray.

Outside, Barjon finished reciting his prayer and made all the final preparations. As Naldak returned with the sword, the varg noticed that Barjon had changed significantly. His skin was paler than before. His eyes were sunken, and black blood veins were ever-present across his face and the rest of his body.

“How...much...longer?” asked Naldak.

“Not long,” gasped Barjon. He was growing weaker with each passing second. “Did you do as I asked?” Naldak nodded.

“Good. Off to the Vatican with you. From here on, I fight alone,” stated Barjon. Naldak wanted to argue, but he could see on Barjon’s face that what would come next would be a way trip. Running back to the Vatican, Barjon began to lower the shield dome around the holy site, much to the glee of the demons, who had struggled to break down the magical barrier. However, not every monster was excited by this. Xathaniel and Zarakoth were questioning the meaning behind this.

“What is he planning?” wondered the dragon king.

“He wouldn’t dare,” stated Xathaniel.

“Xathaniel?” inquired Zarakoth. The Nephilim ignored the dragon king and ordered the army to attack as soon as the shield was down. Barjon was hoping Xathaniel would make this mistake. As the dome barrier slowly dissipated, Barjon flew into the air at blazing speed, using the last of his power. Survivors and demons all looked into the sky as Barjon almost disappeared into the clouds. Reaching the elevation he needed, Barjon clenched a fist and began reciting an old angelic prayer.

“quamvis ambulem per vallem umbrae et mortis, non timebo mala, quia tu mecum es” (although I walk through the valley of shadow and death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me). With prayer recited, a greenish-black glow began to emanate for his first. It soon engulfed his entire arm, and his red eyes were solid black. His wings had turned to smoke, and his armor began to rust and decay. The reaper had been unleashed. Sensing the barrier was nearly gone, Barjon rocketed back to the Vatican. His powerful aura penetrated through the clouds. On the surface, the armies of hell eagerly awaited the fresh slaughter until one hellspawn noticed something in the sky descending upon them. Soon everyone turned their attention upwards. As for those inside the Vatican, the survivors also saw the green glow rapidly flowing toward St Peter’s Square. Here, Xathaniel realized what was happening and was overcome with shock.

“Fall back!!” he shouted. “Fall back!!” He, Zaraokoth, and several honor guards fled the scene while the remainder of the army was still perplexed by what they saw. It would be the last thing they would ever witness. Then, at the pinnacle moment, time seemed almost to stop. Barjon was engulfed in black smoke; his body was practically a skeleton. His fist parley millimeters away from the sword hilt, and the barrier was just seconds away from depletion. No one could describe what happened next. As soon as the wall was gone, a cloud of blast smoke and green energy propelled forward toward the army of darkness. The sheer destructive power of the blast did not even make a sound, but the destruction and carnage it left in its wake were accurate enough. In a matter of seconds, various demonic entities began dying on the spot, their bodies quickly decaying and deforming. Not even the winged were spared. By sheer luck, Xathaniel and Zarakoth escaped the blast with a handful of soldiers and honor guards. The rest of the army was no more.

As for the Vatican and its survivors, they were spared. The blast had created a massive ringed trench thanks partly to Naldak and Barjon. But what of Barjon? Where was he? In the center of the explosion, an enormous crater lay in its wake. Deep in the earth laid the broken body of the former Angel. His features were no longer recognizable. His armor was nothing more than broken pieces of metal and torn fabric. Only the shield and sword had survived. This was the end of Michael, the Last Angel on Earth.