Michael: Last Angel of Earth

The morning air was crisp, and the dew cleansed the green all around him. In the trees, he heard the chirping of birds and the melodies of others. These little things often put a smile on his face. Walking through the forest, he thought about Margret and the others. He felt terrible leaving in the night, but he had no choice. If he had stayed, the village would have been in even greater danger, and he wants to be responsible for that again. Continuing down his path, he could sense that he was being followed. Taking cover behind a few trees, he rested his back against one and moved his hand to his sword. Hearing the sound getting closer, he slowly began drawing out the blade. However, before he turned around and attacked his follower, his nose picked up a familiar smell, flowers.

“Margret?” asked Barjon behind the tree.

“It’s me. You can come out,” she replied. Moving away from the tree, Barjon let go of Hellfire.

“What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.” Barjon shook his head.

“Margret, I cannot go back. The village is better off with me gone.”

“We need you back at the village.”

“Maybe you did not hear me. I cannot go back. I used Hellfire. Every satanic warmonger and hellspawn will be looking for me. I’m a beacon now. That is why I must leave.” Margret protested.

“You cannot run forever, Michael. Sooner or later, they will find you, and you must stand and fight. Please, come back.”

“I have made up my mind, and there’s nothing you can say that will change it otherwise.” Barjon turned his back to Margret and was about to leave when she stopped him again.

“Does the name Azrael mean anything to you.” Barjon stopped and glanced over his shoulder.

“What did you say?” he questioned.

“Azrael. Does the name mean anything to you?” she repeated.

“He was one of the original watchers. Dubbed the angel of death and also rebirth. He fought against the hordes of darkness when factions still ruled them. The council said he was one of the best warriors. How do you come up with this name?”

“Ambrose told me to mention it to you. Said he knows something about this angel that can help you on your path of redemption.” Barjon did not know what to say. His fear told him to continue with the plan, but in the back of his mind, his conscience told him to return. With a heavy sigh, he agreed to go back with Margret, but under one condition.

“I’ll stay to hear what Ambrose tells me, and then I am truly leaving,” he replied. Margret nodded, and the pair made the trip back to the village. While the duo continued returning to the village, deep in the woods behind them, two cat eyes watched them from afar. The figure then pulled out a gem from his cloak and uttered an unknown incantation. Suddenly, an image made of black smoke appeared.

“Report Maneater,” said the voice.

“The Angel is returning to the village. I believe he will find the welcome ... quite impactful,” replied the Maneater.

“Very good. Keep me informed of what happens, and remember Maneater. When the chance opens up, I expect you to deal with him,” stated the voice. The Maneater nodded and told his master that the mission would be finished. The Maneater continued stalking his prey from the shadows with the smoke lifting, ever keeping a watchful eye. Speaking of which, back with Barjon and Margret, the pair was little more than a mile away when a stench filled the air. It was a foul odor but uncomfortably familiar.

“Smell that?” asked Barjon. Margret sniffed the air.

“Smells almost like smoke, and there is something else to it. It almost smells like-”

“Old paper,” finished Barjon. Suddenly, the realization dawned upon them.

“THE CHURCH!” they shouted. Running as fast as they could, the duo followed the smell until they could see the smoke through the clearing of the hills. As the smoke became more in focus, so too was the village. Nearing the village gate, they stopped before the opening and came upon a familiar sight. Slowly walking inside their home, all around them lay the bodies of the villagers they had grown to love. Men, women, and children were scattered all across the emerald land. Houses were torched, and the fields were set ablaze. But that was not the worst part. What tore their hearts, even more was the sight of the church. A building, once a symbol of bleak hope in a world of darkness, is now nothing more than a crumbling ruin with its Celtic cross eclipsed by its shadow. They ran toward the church with fear gripping their hearts to see if there were survivors by some miracle. Bursting open the charred door, Barjon and Margret entered the building.

They found nothing but silence and death. Cautiously going further, nothing remained. The benches were destroyed, the altar smashed, and their rooms were ransacked, except for one closed door. Barjon motioned his sword tip against it. Pushing ever so slightly, he dodged out of the way as bullets rippled through the door.

“Go away!” yelled a female voice.

“Fiona?! Fiona, is that you!” shouted Barjon.

“Michael?! Your back. Is Margret with you?” she yelled back. Barjon was stunned for a moment. He cannot remember the last time he went by his old name.

“Yes, I’m here,” said Margret. Unlocking the door, Barjon and Margret saw Fiona covered in blood with her hair in shambles. Her face was dirty, and her hands were still shaking.

“Fiona, what happened? Where is Ambrose?” questioned Barjon. Fiona moved aside and showed Colum bandaging himself and the abbot lying on a bed with a massive hole in his chest. He was barely clinging to life. Barjon quickly moved past Fiona and rushed to Ambrose’s side. The former angel got on his knees and began praying for forgiveness.

“Abbot. I am so sorry. This is all my fault. I should not have left. If I had stayed, then-” Amborss shushed him.

“Angels do not let fear come over them,” he said weakly. Barjon was shocked.

“You knew?” he exclaimed. Ambrose nodded.

“The tattoos. The sword and the warrior nature. I knew you were Michael. It was not that difficult,” he chuckled softly.

“But why didn’t-”

“I confront you? It was not my business to bring up. I knew you would tell me in your way when you were ready.”

“And do they know?” he said, guesting at Colum and Fiona.

“After we sent out Margret to find you, Ambrose told us who you were. And believe me, our reaction was not pleasant,” said Fiona.

“But Ambrose soon helped us understand your perspective,” replied Colum. Turning his head back to the abbot, Barjon asked if he could do anything. There was one thing. Colum handed Ambrose the parchment he had in his robes. He then requested BArjon to unfold the document. Upon inspection, Barjon’s eyes light up.

“Is this-”

“A map leading to the secret location of the tomb of Azrael. During the Darkness War, I was tasked with locating holy relics to help fight against the army of darkness. Alas, I found nothing except for this document. After the war, I spent the next four years researching more about this tomb. My research has concluded that Azrael’s tomb is located within the Vatican, rumored to house the legendary armor and weapons of the angel of death. And last I checked, only an angel can wear the armor of another angel.” Barjon soon realized what Amborss was getting at.

“Ambrose, I-I can’t.” The Abbott clasped Barjon’s hands.

“I know you are scared. I know that you have lost hope. But I need you to fight again. There is some good in this world, Michael, and that is always worth fighting for,” stated Ambrose. Ambrose could still find the fire within him, even in his weakening state. Barjon let out a sigh and looked the abbot directly in the face.

“Abbott, what must I do?”

“Put aside the Nephilim. Become who you were born to be,” replied Ambrose. Suddenly, a violent cough took over him. He knew his time was running out. He then asked Fiona to hand him his diary. Giving it to him, he then handed it to the former angel.

“What is this for?” asked Barjon.

“If ... you are go-going on this quest...you will need allies. Inside you will find records... of three contacts I have made in Europe. T-they are mu-much like you. You... need to m-make them ... hope again,” said Ambrose. He then tightly held his friend’s hands.

“Promise me you will do this, Michael. Promise me,” said Ambrose. Barjon looked at everyone in the room. All their eyes were on him. The pressure was intense. With everything the abbot said, he thought it was impossible to fight back against the army of darkness, yet a human reminded him of what it means to hope. Squeezing the abbot’s hands, he nodded firmly.

“I promise you, Abbott. I will not fail you.” Before he let go, Ambrose gave him one last piece of advice.

“Before I meet our creator, I tell you this only once, Michael. In your quest to save the world, pray you do not destroy yourself in the process,” he stated weakly. With his last breath given, Ambross’s story ended. Soon the room was filled with silence again. Barjon felt tears forming in his eyes and slowly removed his hands from his friend’s limp grip. Placing them on his chest, Barjon made the cross sign, as did everyone else.

“Rest in peace, Abbott Ambrose.”