Michael: Last Angel of Earth

“You live,” yelled an excited voice. Michael’s eyes blinkered a few times, and he saw Naldak hovering over him. The young Varg jumped in excitement to see that his friend was alive. Getting up, he realized he was not in the crater but back on the grounds of the Vatican.

“How did I get here?” he asked.

“I...carry you out,” Naldak said gleefully. Michael was in disbelief, but he had more pressing matters to deal with.

“Where are the others?” he asked. Naladak informed him that the humans, Roman gods, and mystics were taken back to England as slaves. But Henebul and his levis paid the dearest price of all. Naldak then showed Michael the crucified bodies of the elvish prince and his entourage. The ghastly sight makes him vomit. After the horrific spectacle, Michael then knew what he had to do. Grabbing the sword and shield, he and Naldak went back inside the Vatican and followed the secret passageway to the “tomb” of Azrael. Once inside, he walks over to the inscriptions on the wall and traces his fingers over the last phrase. As he attempted to decipher the last parse, he realized it was not a statement like the previous ones; instead, it was a riddle. The riddle read:

I BEGIN BUT HAVE NO END, YET END ALL THAT BEGINS.

Michael knew the answer. A simple one at that, but difficult if one does not know Old Angelic.

“Death,” said Michael. Suddenly, the room began to rubble as the giant stone wall began to open from the center. Making a loud thud, Michael found himself in front of a set of stairs leading further down into the earth. Somewhat hesitant, he knew he had to keep going to find the truth. Grabbing a lit torch, he and Naldak descended into the darkness of the unknown. Soon the entrance began to grow smaller and smaller with each passing step. Suddenly the air grew cold and stale, yet they continued onward. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, they found another opening leading into a much larger room. Walking inside, it was still dark to see anything, even with the torch. Aimlessly looking around, Michael then stumbled upon what felt like a stone. Placing his hands over it, his fingers ran across what seemed like an opening for a sword. Unsheathing Hellfire, Michael gently inserted the blade into the opening slit. Then, with a firm push, he embedded the sword in the stone. Suddenly, a crackling was heard, and sudden bursts of white flame encircled them and lit up the room, reaching the top. With the room now lit, Michael and Naldak could see where they were. The young angel placed a hand over his mouth at what he saw.

Massive braziers encircled the bottom of each of the eight obsidian columns. Between each column were rows and rows of stone angels, each clad in different suits of armor from the two significant orders. The ancient glass of the windows in the embowed ceiling dance in the flickering light of the flame while carved images and sculptures look down upon the stone floor.

An azure rug ran down from the center of the room before ending, while rounded banners with adorned borders hung from the walls. Between each flag sat a shrine-like ornament covered in old candles. Draperies covered extravagant, stained glass windows of heavenly mosaics colored the same azure as the banners. The curtains were adorned with delicate patterns and intricate embroidery. Naldak was perplexed by his friend’s expression.

“Know this place?” asked the Varg.

“This is the Sanctum of the Order of the White Wings. Then that means..,” gasped Michael. A sense of joy came over him. He finally found it. He found Azrael’s tomb.

“I knew you would find it,” said an unknown voice. Looking around, Naldak and Michael tried to find the location of the voice. Just then, emerging from the flames, clad in full armor, was Azrael. Michael quickly dropped his sword and bowed before the revered angel.

“My lord Azrael,” stated Michael. Azrael smiled. He placed a hand on the young angel’s shoulder and told him to rise. Michael still could not believe he was in the presence of one of the original angels of old.

“How...how is this possible?” stuttered Michael.

“During my time as Leader of the Hidden Army, I had not chosen a successor to take my place. My fellow angels suggested I pass down the mantle to an archangel; however, I knew that such a mantle should not be given so easily. Thus, in secret, I placed a piece of my essence into my sword, allowing me to choose successors myself. When my time came, my sword was returned to the Watchers and transformed into its original form...”

“Hellfire,” gasped Michael. Azrael nodded his head.

“Correct. I saw the next generation of Angels emerge in Hellfire, but none were worthy. That is until the sword came into your possession.”

“You mean...”

“Yes, young Michael. I have been with you since the very beginning. It was I who was your shadow. I apologize for the torment I have dealt you, but I needed to know if you were the one. And I can confidently say that you are indeed my worthy successor.” Michael did not know what to say. He had many questions to ask the Angel of Death, but now he had more important matters.

“What happens now?” he asked the spirit.

“Once you pull the sword from the stone, you will be forever changed. You will become the new Azrael, have all my powers and command of the Hidden Army. Fear not; you will not lose your personality or your individuality. You will be both Micheal the warrior and Azrael the Avenger.”

“An Angel of Rebirth,” stated Michael.

“Precisely,” smiled Azrael. Michael turned his attention back to the sword and slowly walked over. He gripped the handle directly in front of the blade and began to pull but found resistance. He grunted and strained to pull the sword out, but to no avail. He started to grow frustrated until he remembered what Metatron had told him. Taking a deep breath, he claimed himself and grabbed the sword once more. As he pulled, he began to feel the blade slowly give way until, in a quick motion, the sword was removed from the stone. Once freed, a wave of white flames engulfed the young angel yet did not burn him. Instead, he found warmth and safety in a fire. Yet this fire did more than comfort him; it changed him.

Dissipating, Michael had ascended and became Azrael, fully armored and ready for battle. His armor was white leather, holy steel, and polished iron. Chain mail lay beneath everything with leather above it. Plate armor covered the arms and legs. Together with all the belts, the armor came with a chain mail hood. Along the top of the hood, all the way down was a red cross symbol. Under that hood, a dark face tattoo in the form of a skull covers most of Michael’s face. His eyes were now a deep piercing blue with green veins surrounding them. As for his sword, it, too, had changed.

The blade remained the same, while the sword hilt was golden and patterned like feathers. The cross guard resembled a pair of wings, and the pommel was in the shape of an eagle’s head. Together with the shield, Michael felt invincible.

“It’s good to be back,” said Azrael. As he turned around, he was startled by two new angels standing before him. Both wore different sets of armor.

“We knew you would return,” said one angel.

“You took long enough, ″ said the other.

“Who are you two?” asked Azrael. The larger one stepped forward and bowed.

“We are your lieutenants, Azrael. I am called Khamael.” Khamael was a towering figure, despite his muscled frame. His blonde, shoulder-length hair awkwardly hung over his chiseled, friendly face. His expressive amber eyes gave a sense of persistence and honor. Wearing a Roman Lorica Segmentata over his red tunic, the armor protected the shoulders and waist. The armor was made of iron strips held together by leather straps, with many bronze fittings on the inside. In addition to the armor, he wore bracers on his arms and legs, fully protecting him. As for his helmet, he wore an iron imperial gallic helmet with a plunging neck guard. A brow guard to deflect sword strokes, and cheek pieces, topping it off with a red motif. In his hand, he held a shepherd’s cane. Eight feet tall and made of hard maple wood and capped with an iron spike at the end, this was no mere human cane. This cane was imbued with the power of Moses Cane and his brother from the time of the Exodus. Together, Khamael was the shield of the Hidden army.

“A pleasure to meet you, Khamael, and your name?” he asked the other angel.

“You have heard of my name before. Gabriel, I believe. You may call me Jibril,” he replied softly. Jibril was of average height with an athletic build. Black, curly hair almost fully covered his long, charming face. His eyes were brown and small, and fire left a mark stretching from the bottom of the left cheek, running towards his right nostril and ending above his right eye, leaving a satisfying memory of restored honor. Unlike his fellow angel, Jibril wore armor resembling the past’s Islamic warriors. Wearing a pointed iron-bronze helmet called a Tarikah, it paired with an avential covering the back of the helmet. The face was half-covered with the tail of a green turban that protected against the strong desert winds. Finishing off, he wore a chainmail hauberk with hardened leather lamellar armor. His choice of weapon was an equally powerful holy sword called the Zulqifar. This scissor-like, straight double-bladed weapon was the same sword given to the human prophet Muhammad during the rise of Islam. Its handle and grip resembled Muslim sabers and swords of the era.

“I am glad to meet the both of you. Now time is of the essence. Are the men ready?” asked Azrael.

“They await your command, sire,” said Jibril. With a thundering bellow, Azrael saw the legions of Angels that surrounded them. Many wore the armor of both Jibril and Khamael, while others dressed similarly to those of the crusaders, Arab warriors from Spain and North Africa, and even the Ottomans and Byzantines. These men and women were ready to lay down their lives for humanity and the earth. Raising his sword into the air, Azrael let out a bellowing speech.

“I see the same determination that beats in my heart in your eyes. A day may come when the world of men fails, where we forsake them and break all bonds of brotherhood! But it is not this day. Today we fight! By all that you hold dear in your faith, in your creator, I bid you stand, sons and daughters of the light!” The room then roared in cheers and chants of his name; the angels of war had returned. Extending their wings, Azrael and his army ascended into the air and flew out of their sanctum and into the open sky. However, before they pressed on, Azrael remembered Henbeul and his elves.

“Hold,” ordered Azrael. Jibril and Khamael stopped mid-air, as did the rest of the army. Returning to the Vatican, Azrael unsheathed his sword and freed Henebul. Laying him down on the ground, he turned his attention to the rest of the elves. After releasing each of them, he laid their bodies on the ground in a single file. Then, clasping his hands together, he took a deep breath in. Opening his eyes, he breathed green mist out of his mouth, which entered the lifeless bodies. As the fog filled their lunges, their bodies began to contort and change color. Their skin became pale, and their eyes were now shades of green. Their hands also returned to them. Soon they were brought back to life, all of them. With their souls turned, the mist exited their bodies and returned to Azrael. Henebul let out a deep cough, showing that he was alive.

“Where am I?” he shouted.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” chuckled Azrael. Heneburl quickly turned around and saw Michael or Azrael standing before him. The elvish prince was in disbelief at what he saw.

“How. How is this possible?” asked Henebul.

“It’s a long story. But right now, We need you and your elves to help us free the others back in England.”

“Michael, I don’t know if you have noticed, but my elves and I are finished. I don’t know how much help we can give you and...others?” Henebul’s statement then turned into a question as he glanced up and saw hundreds of thousands of angels hovering above them. He had never seen so many angels before, not since the great purge.

“As I said, long story,” said Azrael.

“If you have this army with you, why do you need us?”

“Because I need every angel with me.” “But I am not an angel, nor are my elves,” stated Michael.

“That can be arranged,” smiled Azrael. Before Henebul had a chance to speak, Azrael snapped his fingers, and suddenly Henebul and his elvish warriors were covered from head to toe in green fire. At first, they began to scream in pain but realized that the fire was not harming them. Instead, it was evolving them. Their bodies transformed in the fire, and they were no longer elves when the flames disappeared. They were reborn as angels. All the elves were given new armor, reminiscences of the Watchers of old. Even their bows and arrows were given Angelic aesthetics and powers. As for Henebul, he got the best upgrade of all. His wooden armor had transformed into ostentatious and composed-plated body armor. The cuirass, spaulders, bevors, and arm bracers were adorned with gold ornaments. His wooden mask was replaced with a lobster-tail pot helmet and jackboots. The armor had a red and white color scheme and was girded with a tanned animal hide. Henebul’s arsenal had increased as well. He now carried a high-powered repeater crossbow rifle with bayonet, dual repeater crossbow pistols, and one short blade modeled after a german saex and berated ax. Yet despite these significant improvements and vastly superior weapons, Henebul’s true focus was on the magnificent, mighty wings attached to his body. For so long, he dreamt of having his own one day, but unlike most Nephilim children, that was the one aspect of their identity they were denied. Not anymore.

“I cannot tell how much this means to me,” said Henebul. Azrael was glad for his brother in arms.

“So, are you and your fellow angels up for a fight?” Azrael smirked. Henebul replied with a boat of confidence.

“Let’s show those demon bastards what happens when you mess with angels.”