Michael: Last Angel of Earth
Into the Night

After the attack on the village earlier today, Barjon became distant from everyone. When the Abbot went to speak to him, Barjon quickly grabbed his sword and locked himself in his room within the church, leaving his friends to clean up the mess made by the Ravagers. Throughout the day, he never left his room except when he needed food. But he never stayed with the others and returned to his room to eat. Margret began to worry. She knew more than anyone why Barjon was upset and what was going through his head. Finishing her dinner, she returned to the church, hoping to talk to Barjon. She knocked once as she approached his door and waited for an answer. All she got was silence.

“Barjon, I know you are in there. I can see your shadow. Please open the door.” She saw a faint outline of his shadow through the door’s cracks but nothing more. She then let out a sigh.

“I see you are still in no mood to talk. That’s fine. So, I’ll talk.” She cleared her throat before continuing. “Look, I know these last few years have not been easy. We have seen so many good people be led astray, and I don’t want that to happen to you. I know you still blame yourself for what happened those years ago and are unworthy of being that person again, but I see this spark in you. It’s amazing. That is why others push you, especially me. But it’s yours, and I know you will be amazing whatever you choose to do with it.” She paused for a moment. “There are people here who care for you. Whenever you want to talk, we’ll be here.”

She then left Barjon’s door and went back to join the others. On the opposite side, Barjon heard every word Margret had said. His eyes were tear-ridden. As he whipped them away, he listened to the same voice again. Turning his head, he saw a being made of a shadow sitting on his bed. The figure mockingly shook his head.

“Why the hell are you back?” exclaimed Barjon. The shadow man looked at the former angel with his blank face.

“Look at you, crying like a newborn babe. You have survived worse,” stated the shadow.

“What is your point?” questioned Barjon. The shadow then zipped to the window, looking at the night sky.

“You opened your sword. What happens when others find you? You’ll have to kill them, too. Can you?” The shadow then zipped over to Barjon.

“Will you be able to when the time comes? Maybe they will kill you. Or is that what you want?” Before Barjon could react, the shadow vanished, but now before leaving behind a sinister laugh. It echoed in his room, and he was left alone once more. Sitting on his bed, he went to grab Hellfire. Grabbing the sword, he slowly unsheathed the blade partly until he saw his reflection on the steel. In the reflection, he saw a broken man. He was a man who had lost everything, and just when he found some small measure of peace, he lost it once again. But he would not let them suffer the same fate as the others. It was here he decided his fate.

“He Gone!?” yelled Fiona. The following day, the village was awoken by a loud shout from the church. Margret, Fiona, Colum, and Ambros found the door to Barjon’s room open with his bed, and the other content remained, except for his trunk and a few articles of clothing.

“He must have left in the middle of the night,” stated Colum.

“Where would he go, and why?” asked Fiona.

“I do not know where, but I know why,” said Margret. The others turned to her for answers. As she told them what she remembered as a young girl, her story mirrored what Barjon had told Ambrose. The Abbot stroked his chin upon hearing more of the story.

“Tell me, Margret, was Barjon the one?” inquired Ambrose.

“Abbot?”

“Was he the one who started all this? Was he the fallen?” Margret nodded her head yes.

“The fallen? What are you talking about?” asked Colum.

“No time to explain. Right now, we need to find Barjon. Margret, get your things; please bring him back to the village. Tell him I need to speak with him.

“But Ambrose, what if Barjon does not want to come back? What then?” she asked. The Irishman let out a sigh.

“Tell him of the name Azrael, and I have something that might help him on his path to redemption.” Before Margret could interject, the Abbot shooed her away. As the young woman left the church, the friends talked amongst themselves.

“Ambrose, what are you getting at? Who is this fallen? And what is this about the Angel of Death” asked Fiona. Ambrose reached into his habit and pulled out a scroll he had received many years ago.

“My friends, it is time to tell you the story of the watcher named Michael.”

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