Michael: Last Angel of Earth
Last Stand

After the dust had settled, the survivors inside were overcome with shock and horror. Never in their lives had they seen such power before. Even the Roman Gods were startled. However, the realization soon dawned upon Barjon’s friends, and none took the brunt of it more than Margret. The young woman fell to her knees and wept loudly. Her friend, her savior all those years ago, was dead. Fiona knelt down and wrapped her arms around her, comforting her. Colum himself tried to hold back the tears. As for Vanhildr, Ruzla, and Horus, the three mystics were saddened by the loss of their friend. No tears were shed between them, but sadness took hold of their hearts. Henebul, the elf king, gazed outside the window, looking out to where Barjon once stood. Through the clearing, he saw Xathaniel and a reminder of his forces beyond the trench made by Barjon. Grunting in pain, the Half-elf king got up and began walking to the door. He was only stopped by his trusted archer.

“My liege, where are you going?” she asked.

“Outside, to finish this war once and for all.” He grabbed his gear and placed his hand on the door.

“Stop!” someone shouted. Henebul turned and saw the Mystics and the Roman gods staring at him. In the center was a teary, worn Margret, her eyes severely red. The young woman walked directly toward the elf king and wanted to slap him, but Henebul quickly grabbed the hand and pulled her into a tight embrace.

“I miss him too, dear child. We must honor his legacy and continue-”

“The demons have crossed the ravine!” shouted a human. The news cut the tender moment as everyone quickly turned to the windows. Sure enough, the demons had crossed the ravine. Zarakoth and his forces surrounded St Peters completely, leaving no possible way out. Everyone gathered what little arms and weapons they had left and prepared for the final assault. Then, all of a sudden, there was nothing. No more sounds were heard from outside. Still using his divine sight, Horus surveyed the enemy to find an explanation. Sadly, he could not find one.

“Why have they stopped?” stated Horus. Soon a sense of uneasiness filled the rooms and halls of the Vatican.

“What devilry is this?” questioned Cathrin. No one had an answer for her. Knowing a battle was imminent, Henebul called over the humans.

“Fiona, you and the others take the wounded to the catacombs deep in the Vatican. Once there, commit to the position,” he told her. Fiona nodded her head; she knew very well what Henebul meant.

“Cathrin, Lawrenz, and Matteo. You and your men will go with her. Do not let them be taken,” he said to them. The three soldiers understood the order. Gathering their men, the surviving Swiss guards, Hospitallers, and Teutonics assisted the wounded to the hidden chambers under the Vatican. Margret protested this.

“You need all the help you can muster,” stated Margret.

“My elves will be staying behind with us. Right now, I need you with the others. If they get past us, then all is lost. Do you understand?” Margret wanted to reply, but she knew that Henebul was right. Grabbing her riot shield, she gave the elven prince one last hug before joining up with Fiona and the others. The remaining mystics and gods contemplated what came next with the humans out of the main hall.

“This is the end, isn’t it. We are all doomed,” said Ruzla.

“Our predicament is dire, yes. But do not despair. Remember, we are gods and children of gods,” exclaimed Henebul. His declaration brought a soft smile to their faces.

“How quaint,” said a raspy voice. Everyone got up and went to various windows of the Vatican. As the survivors got into the position, the voice spoke once more.

“You are surrounded. Your army is decimated. Make peace with the Heavens now, for this is your final outcome. But, know that I, Xathaniel, am not complete without mercy. I will grant you all a warrior’s death. Prepare!” shouted Xathaniel. Before anyone could react, they then heard the sounds of footsteps approaching them.

“I can’t see anything,” said Horus.

“That noise,” said Ruzla.

“He is coming. Alone,” stated Henebul.

“We can’t face him,” said an elf warrior.

“We must try,” shouted Henebul. Soon the footsteps were steadily growing louder with each passing, but still no sign of Xathaniel. Several Roman gods were becoming extremely anxious.

“He’s close, but where?” asked Bellona.

“It’s all around us,” stated Vanhildr.

“Calm yourselves,” said Jupiter. Sweat perspiration from his head and down his nose. Soon the footsteps sounded as if they were right outside the door.

“Steady,” said Henebul to the others. Suddenly the main door of the Vatican bursts, letting the dust and cold air inside. Everyone braced for what might come next. Then, the footsteps stopped, and an uneasy quiet filled the room.

“Steady,” said Henebul once more, tightly gripping his dagger. Suddenly one of Henebuls elves yells a war cry and charges toward the front door, weapons in hand.

“Wait!” shouted Henebul. The elvish prince tried to pull the young elf back inside, but just as he exited the front door, a massive black figure crushed the elf instantly. Henebul stopped himself and was shocked by the sudden death. The figure then reared up and revealed itself to the mystics. It was Xathaniel, but something had changed about him. He was now much taller than before, seven in height, and his appearance matched his towering presence.

His skin was pale and drained of color, except for the black veins surrounding his eyes. His eyes glowed and more vibrant orange, and he wore a hood. His armor was more gothic and sinister than before. The colors that permeated were black and dark, stained gold. He had three spikes on each bracer, small blades over his armored gloves, and boots seemingly connected to his chest plate. As for his cloak, it reached down to his ankles and was a deep, pale purple. In both hands, he wielded two different weapons. One hand still held the Spear of Longinus, though its features had become more gothic. In his other hand was a sword, but not an obsidian blade he wielded many years ago during the Watchers’ fall. This sword was from a more ancient time. In his hand was a very long, narrow, smooth blade made of sky iron held by a grip wrapped in elegant, royal blue cloth.

The sharp, dual-edged, black-stained blade made this weapon the best choice for cleaving and stabbing enemies with ferocious power. The blade had a barbed, straight cross-guard, creating the ideal weight balance and allowing for smooth and accurate swings. A wide pommel was engraved with the sword maker’s signature, yet the mark was of unknown origins.

The blade itself is adorned. Ancient runes mixing Norse, Celtic, and other cultures were etched onto the sword.

This weapon was unlike any sword used by an angel before, and now it seemed it would kill them all.

“Get back,” yelled Henebul, dagger drawn in hand. In a flash, Xathaniel lept back into the air, almost without a sound. Taken aback by the sudden death of one of his elves, Henebul came back to reality and slowly moved back inside the Vatican. Once with the others, the survivors formed a circle with their backs. They moved as one, slowly walking further back inside the Vatican. As they moved, everyone’s senses were on high alert. Eyes were glued to the ceiling, hoping to catch a glimpse of Xathaniel. If only their eyes were pointed directly above. With the sun’s turning, the shadows hovering over the group shifted and revealed Xathaniel directly above the survivors on a rafter. Drawing his weapons carefully, he patiently waited for the right moment to strike. Then, as his prey entered his kill spot, he lept upon them with the might of a jungle cat. Hearing a low whistle, Henebul turned around to see a glint of armor falling toward him. Shouting at the others to scatter, they did just in time, as Xathaniel landed on the ground with a heavy thud. Now came the carnage. Hoping to take the initiative, the survivors all attacked Xathaniel, but the former angel was far too skilled for them. Even the Roman gods, titans themselves, found it difficult to beat a being they would consider beneath them.

For Xathaniel, this was nothing more than a warmup for him. Using his years of magic training, he caused his weapons to act independently, almost with their own life. Serving as both swords and shields, the two weapons protected their master. None of the survivors’ attacks could break the defense. Seeing Henebul, the former angel began to turn his attention to him. Henebul was on the defensive, blocking all the strikes directed toward him. Shifting away from his magic, Xatheniel grabbed his weapons and went for the kill. However, Henebul was not easy pickings. He was still a formidable warrior, but compared to Xathaniel, his only option was to stay alive. As he defended himself, the other mystic saw this moment to attack Xathaniels flanks, but to their horror, the fallen had another surprise for them. Two sets of bladed iron wings procured the angel’s back and, using them as swords and axes, defected every strike of theirs.

“Dodge this!” shouted Jupiter as he threw a lightning bolt toward the fallen angel. Xathaniel eyed the lighting streak and easily dodged the blast, jumping again into the air. This time, he landed on the side of the Church wall. Then, like a cannonball, he propelled himself forward with such force that the sheer blowback pushed several mystics away, except for Romulus. The Roman Demigod charged blindly at the fallen angel. Xathaniel effortlessly blocked all the attacks from the young Roman. Romulus then tried attacking Xathaniels spear hand, to which the former angel pulled his hand away from the spear and slashed Romulus across the stomach, cutting through his armor. The young Roman fell to his knees, hunching over in pain and blood loss. Then, before the Roman could react, Xathnaiel grabbed the spear and drove the tip through Romulus’s chest, forcefully pinning him to the ground with a loud thud.

“NO!” Mars cried out. Jupiter retaliated with another bolt of lightning. This time, Xathaniel blocked the oncoming attack. Thinking him defenseless, Horus, Vanhildr, Mars, and the other Roman gods all decided to attack at once. Yet again, they severely underestimated Xathaniel’s power. Soon, sharp, jagged metal spikes erupted the ground and skewered the oncoming attackers. Blood gushed from their wounds and dripped down their armor and clothing.

To make matters worse, the fallen angel used his power to propel the attackers into the ramparts with the spikes still in their bodies. Multiple thuds decked the top of the rafters. That left Henebul and Bellonna left. The two remaining mystics were now at the mercy of the fallen angel. Fear gripped their hearts tightly as they desperately fought back against the Nephilim. As the pair battled against Xathaniel, the fallen angel could sense their fear, almost taste it. He had them right where he wanted them. Just as Henebul was about to strike, Xathaniel ducked and kicked the half-elf prince several meters back. With the elf prince temporarily out of the fight, Xathaniel turned to Bellonna. The Roman War Goddess now had to draw upon every last bit of strength and rage she possessed. Unsheathing her second sword, the Spatha, she resided herself for the onslaught. Xathaniel did not disappoint.

An unrelenting barrage of thrusts and slashes bombarded the Roman Goddess. Despite her power being drawn from combat, it was still not enough to defeat this being. Bellonna was beginning to suspect that this Xathaniel was not merely a fallen angel. Perhaps he was a god in disguise. Whatever he was, he proved to be a fearsome opponent. Blocking, she finally cut the fallen angel across the face. It stunned him for a moment, allowing Bellonna to catch her breath. Regaining her composure, she saw the cut she delivered across Xathaniels face. A smile crept onto her face, but it was quickly gone as the wound healed rather quickly. Now the fight has changed. Xathaniel was out for blood.

At the far end of the church, under a pile of rubble, Henebul pushed several broken timber and stones off him. His body was screaming in pain from the kick and the hard stone floor that cushioned his fall. Slowly getting up, his vision was somewhat coming back to him, to which his ears picked up a yell from Bellonna. She was screaming for help. Eyes widening, he quickly pushed the rubble out of his way and ran back to her as soon as possible. As for Bellonna, Xathaniel knocked both swords out of her hand, yet before he could deliver the killing blow, Bellonna used her magical braces to shield the strike. The braces did their job and absorbed the impact, but the shockwave still sent her flying backward into another corner of the church wall, debris soon piling over her.

“”No, Bellonna,” Henebul gasped. It was just him now. Turning back around, Xathaniel eyed the half-elf prince. Henebuls heart beat in his chest. Looking down at the ground, he spotted his crossbow. Lunging for it, Xathneil quickly crushed the weapon under his mighty heel. Shocked, Henebul disengaged and got back to his feet. He scanned the floor for weapons. Seeing an elf’s long sword, he grabbed the elegant weapon and centered himself. Xathaniel smiled wickedly and fully extended his armored wings. The mighty wingspan, coupled with his towering height, made Xathaniel an imposing figure. Sweat beads trickled down Henebuls face and nose. His breathing was ecstatic and rushed, but he had to calm himself as best. Hardening his eyes, he shifted his body weight and waited for the final strike. Then, like a killer bird of prey, Xathneiled jumped high into the air and propelled himself downward upon the half-elf prince. Seeing this as the end, Henbul closed his eyes and said a final farewell.

“See in the beyond, brother,”

“You did not kill them; why?” said Zarakoth.

“I have other uses for them,” replied Xathaniel.

“And the humans?” inquired the dragon king.

“They will be sold into slavery, like all the others,” Xathaniel said simply.

“Sire, this one is coming through,” said one soldier. Turning his attention to the soldier, the fallen angel and the dragon king approached one of the survivors. Xathaniel gave a false smile seeing who it was.

“You’re a resilient bastard, I’ll give you that,” smirked Xathaniel. The weary prisoner brought before him was Henebul, who somehow managed to survive the battle in the Vatican. Henebul, however, was barely clinging to life. His right eye was swollen shut, half his face was damaged or bruised, bones and organs were broken, punctured, or torn, and a large section of the elvish blade protruded from his chest. Yet he survived. Struggling to raise his head, the former elvish prince locked eyes with the fallen angel. Seeing Xathaniels smile made the prince seethe with anger, but his pain overtook his rage.

“Does it bring you pleasure to see me in pain? Why not just kill me now and be done with it,” Henebul wheezed. Xathaniel shook his head.

“Do not ask for death so quickly. I intend for you to be quite useful,” stated Xathaneil.

“I would rather die,”

“Please don’t be boring. Everyone who says that dies,” Xathaniel said sarcastically. Kneeling before the damaged man, Xathaniel asked Henebul a simple question.

“Where is it?” he inquired.

“Far from you,” stated Henebul. The half-elf prince knew Xathaneil was referring to Azrael’s tomb.

“My men are searching every crevice of this place. We will find it soon,” exclaimed the fallen angel.

“Even if you find it, it won’t change a thing,” whispered Henebul.

“Why? What do you know!” shouted Xathaniel. Henebul stood silent. He said nothing more. Xathaniel let out a grunt of frustration until a cruel idea came to his head.

“Perhaps I can make you talk?” stated Xathaniel.

“You can try, but no amount of torture will break me,” said Henebul. Xathaniel chuckled.

“I’m so glad you feel that way; otherwise, I dragged her here for nothing,” replied Xathaniel. Moving out of the way, Henebul saw a female elf brought before him in chains. His expression flipped upon seeing the elf. Xathaniel noticed it, too, and smiled. It was the female huntress, the one many elves believe to be the right hand of Henebul. With her hood removed, his hidden face was now revealed. Her curly red hair was mangled and dirty. The pale complexion of her face was covered in dirt, blood, and bruises. One of her purple eyes was swollen shut, and she was missing half over her elvish ears.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” she whispered. Grabbing a piece of the Vatican, they placed the female’s hand on the surface. Henebul struggled to break free, but all he could do was watch. Suddenly, an enormous Troll emerged from the crowd dragging behind him a bearded ax. Turning to Xathaniel, the fallen angel gave the toll a slight nod. Accepting the order, the troll raised the ax high above his head and hacked the female huntress bound hands clean off just above the wrists. The female huntress cried out in pain while the horde cheered in applause and satisfaction. She was then taken away, her stumps still dripping blood. Now Henebul was furious,

“You Murdering whoreson!” he shouted at Xathaniel.

“Isn’t that the person I am,” the fallen angel retorted.

“You betray all that is to be an angel. You betray God!”

“I...I betray God!?” Xathaniel yelled back, sounding surprised.

“This world was passed onto us by our forefathers and their fathers before them. We were born to rule. It is our birthright! Given to us by our Creator!” Xathaniel’s rant drew in a crowd, as many in the army were eager to hear the commotion. The fallen angel then leaned down close to Henebuls face.

“You cry for the humans, and in the same breath, you curse those who protect them! You dare to question me and the lineage of Watchers who came before me! The Great Angelic Royalty of Iltou. Who forged this planet from barbarian hordes, and noble and pure! Who gave it the order? Meaning and even faith to millions of years of loyal subjects, and it is all now questioned by you!?” Henebul could see how passionate Xathaniel was in his rant. Weirdly and uncomfortably, it was almost moving. Xathaniel then grabbed Henebul’s neck and pinned him to the ground.

“And we are forced to abide and listen to your whims. Forced by you?! A half-breed bastard! I am the blood! I am the Lord’s right hand, and you will never dictate how I am to be an angel!” finished Xathaniel. Henebul was at a loss for words. Words could not escape his mouth. Taking a deep breath, Xathaniel gathered and moved away from the captured prisoner. He then gave the order to two soldiers to have the elf king’s hands and feet chopped off and then be crucified in the Vatican, along with the rest of his elves. As the soldiers took Henebul away, Xathaniel moved away from the army and into a clearing overlooking the massive barrier made by Barjon not too long ago. The fallen angel let out a deep sigh as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulder. Zarakoth soon joined him in his silence.

“My men will continue looking for what you seek, but soon we must return to England to report to Lucifer,” he said. Xathaniel was not paying attention. Instead, he was in deep thought, remembering something long ago.

“Did you know I secretly ate all of my Lord’s delicious golden apples when I was a child? The next day, he called me over and presented a young female angel he accused of the crime. He then placed her on the table and ... delivered the punishment. That night, shame overcame me, and I approached my Lord and confessed to him that I had done the deed. And do you know what he said?” Zarakoth said nothing, allowing Xathaniel to finish his story.

“He said, ″ I know, I know. That is why I only cut off her wing. You see, Xathaniel, any action against the House must be dealt with ruthlessly, for that is the only way to maintain an angel’s absolute power and authority.”

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