***
He awoke to the clattering of weapons and war cries all around him. He tried to sit up but as soon as he moved, the pain in his chest reminded him how close to death he had come. He collapsed back to the ground and brought his bloodied hand to the location of the pain in his chest. He felt it and as soon as he felt it, the expression on his face turned to complete confusion. Was the wound closing up or was he imagining it? But how could this be? He sat up and looked around him. There was a chaos of humanity all around him. Some were engaged in battle, while the rest were either dead or dying. He shook his head as if to clear his mind. He looked to his left and saw someone standing still, not fighting. The man was just staring dispassionately at him. Then suddenly, the man smiled, waved at him and disappeared. He shook his head as if to clear it of the irrationality the battle was visiting upon his mind.
He staggered to his feet. But as soon as he was on his feet, an enemy soldier, judging from the man’s outfit, came charging at him with a short spear. He moved on instinct. He faked a step backwards but suddenly, he charged into his attacker. His attacker moved in for the kill. He took a backwards cross-step and sank his hips downwards as he caught his attacker in the neck. Using the coiled momentum of his sunken hips and the forward momentum of his attacker, he executed a sideways throw and crashed his attackers head into the ground. His attacker’s neck snapped, severing his spinal column. Death was instant and almost painless. He spared only a brief glance at his enemy’s carcass before he turned around and fetched a sword from another dead soldier.
The weapon felt natural, like a perfect extension of his arm. However, his movements were even more natural than even he himself expected. He moved among his enemies like a gentle stream of water at first. But a few minutes later, he moved like a raging river nearing a waterfall. Every death was a beheading; clean cut and in one blow. His movements were efficient and effective, no more than two steps. One by one, they dropped and one by one he climbed upon their bodies as if they were stepping stones towards the next assault. He drew his enemies towards him like a magnet of death; and he was irresistible to them. They saw their comrades kiss his blade of death and charged regardless, as if they were hypnotized by the promise of a painless perdition.
He was angry. He was not sure why he was angry, but he was. And his anger could only be quelled by the blood of the strangers he found himself fighting against. He was furious and his fury blanked out all rational thinking and rendered him emotionless. He felt no fear, no empathy, no sympathy and no remorse for anything and certainly not for anyone. And even when the enemy finally started retreating out of fear for what they were beholding in front of their very own eyes, he felt no pride or satisfaction. But every calm step he took towards them was equivalent to his enemies running away with whatever vestige of pride and life they had left. No! They seemed to say wordlessly. They would not face this alien creature in human form, who was possessed by the gods of war themselves. No! They seemed to reiterate wordlessly. They would live to fight another day, but hopefully against a human army, and not against a one-man army that was an embodiment of a legion of death itself.
Amidst the cheers and chants of victory that he did not seem to care about, he could make out a man dressed in very special regalia and riding on the back of a creature on four legs. The man was clearly some kind of leader, judging from his countenance. The crowd parted until the man stopped a few feet away from him. The man stared down at him and he stared right through the dark shadows behind the slits of the man’s helmet.
“What is your name, soldier?” the man asked.
The soldier gave no reply.
“When Lord Nimrud asks you a question, you reply, peasant!” another screamed and moved towards the soldier.
The screaming soldier realized his mistake a heartbeat too late. Nimrud raised his hands as spears were drawn and aimed towards the soldier. Everyone lowered their weapons. Nimrud descended from the creature that walked on four legs, took off his helmet and walked towards the soldier. But suddenly, another soldier burst through the crowd, dropped to a knee next to the soldier and bowed.
“Forgive my friend, Lord Nimrud,” the soldier said. “The war has made him lose his mind. He does not mean any disrespect.”
The soldier nudged his friend in the thigh and ordered him to drop on his knee as well. His friend obliged, more out of courtesy than respect.
“I see,” Nimrud spoke icily. “Does your friend have a name, soldier?”
“Wazimud, Lord Nimrud,” the soldier replied. “He is an orphan and an only child, like me. We grew up together and have been in your service now for a little over five years. It is our honor to live and to die for you, Lord Nimrud!”
Nimrud sized both men for a few seconds before he spoke.
“You two will be my guests tonight!” he ordered as he remounted his horse. “I want to know how he got so good at fighting and I want to honor him for bringing me the victory today.”
And with those words, Nimrud rode off, ignoring the multiple words of gratitude from the soldier for such an honor.
Wazimud and his friend were lifted high and hailed all the way back to the city. Their comrades sang songs of praise and glory in honor of Wazimud, the lowly comrade they never knew of who brought them the victory. They sang tales of the gods taking up human form and fighting for them. “If the gods are with us, then who can stand against us?” they chanted repeatedly. The questions came from everywhere. Everyone wanted to know more about this stranger they had never seen. They wanted training sessions with him. They wanted to be his students. Even the fair maidens all wanted to be his wife and they would not mind sharing. A good number of them would happily lose their virginity to him, even if they did not end up marrying him. But Wazimud seemed numb to the world around him. He seemed numb to his instant rise to fame and glory. His friend did his best to shield him from all the attention but failed woefully.
It was only after his friend had invoked the name of Lord Nimrud that the city had finally given Wazimud some space to at least prepare for the banquet at the palace in his honor. It was a banquet indeed and by that time, Wazimud had started feeling… human. It was a strange feeling and he knew it. He knew the body he lived in was not originally his. And if this body was not originally his, then where was he from. And better yet, who was he? But he would worry about it later. Tonight, he would play-pretend. The more he blended, the lesser the chances of him arousing any suspicions from anyone else, and especially from Lord Nimrud. Speaking of suspicion, he had some questions for his friend who seemed to know so much about him.
It was a phenomenal banquet and the brew did a great job at loosening up Wazimud a lot. He just may like it here after all. Well, enough with the worries, he reminded himself. Tonight was a night to celebrate; whether it was a celebration of victory, a celebration of death or a celebration of a new life, he was not sure. Subconsciously, his hand went to his chest where he had the wound; HAD! There was not even a scar in its place. He nodded slightly and raised his cup to his lips but it was empty. But when he turned to ask one of the maids to pour him more brew, his friend was right there already, as if reading his mind. His friend filled Wazimud’s cup and then his. They semi-banged their cups together and each man took a big swig from their respective cups.
“I never really thanked you for what you did earlier today, my friend,” said Wazimud. “You were right. All that fighting, death and destruction somehow got to my head. I was not myself. Thank you for stepping up for me and thank you for keeping everyone away from me.”
“At least for now,” Wazimud’s friend said, grinning mischievously. “You don’t want to keep the maidens at bay for too long, you know. Best to forge a sword while the metal is still hot, right?”
Wazimud laughed and nodded, even though he had no idea what his friend was talking about.
“I shall drink to that, my friend,” Wazimud said.
Wazimud’s friend raised his cup to his lips. It was empty. He
cursed.
“I swear this cup has a hole in it,” Wazimud’s friend said.
“The only hole I see is that big one in your face,” Wazimud joked and both men laughed as Wazimud’s friend signaled to one of the maidens.
She came over with a jar of fresh brew and refilled his cup.
“Would that be all for you, Fakud?” the fair maiden asked and batted her eyes very seductively at Fakud.
Wazimud was grateful the maiden had mentioned his friend’s name especially since he had no recollection of this ‘friend’.
“Later Mikeena,” Fakud replied and when the maiden turned to walk away, Fakud smacked her rear end, much to Mikeena’s giggly delight.
Wazimud raised his cup once again towards Fakud and held it there for a few seconds. Fakud did the same and both men said nothing in those few seconds. The palace was abuzz with the sound of music, reverie and spotted orgies. Wazimud then broke the silence.
“To friendship, Fakud,” Wazimud said.
“To friendship, Wazimud,” Fakud replied.
And as both men drank, The Scribe, under the guise of Fakud, relished in his unbelievable good fortune; an angel walked among the humans yet again.
THE END OF PART TWO
PART THREE
A SHEMSU’S SACRIFICE II
LUNOK FACED THE Council again. He had just returned from his second fall. His mission had been successful and that was all he told The Council. No amount of prodding was going to make him divulge any further details. Given what he had done to save so many when the darkness in Fallok became free, he was now the most popular and important Shemsu in Atlantia and Asah. While he was happy his second fall was a success, he realized that there was a much bigger threat out there that made the darkness look like nothing.
“You say this being is called The Scribe?” Salok asked.
“Yes, mother,” Lunok replied flatly.
‘The same Scribe we believed was a myth?” Collok asked.
“The myths only scratch the surface of what The Scribe is, father.”
Lunok was starting to lose his patience. Why were they asking him such stupid questions? Do they not realize the gravity of the situation? The Scribe was going to unravel all of Creation!
“What happened out there, son?” Salok asked. “You seem very different.”
Under normal circumstances, he would have gladly shared his experience with The Council and his team. He had had multiple encounters with The Scribe, all of which were unlike those during his sojourn in Necheru Realm. How could he explain to The Council or his team? Where would he start. As such, Lunok chose to remain silent.
“As you wish, child. So, what do you have planned?” Salok asked, choosing to remain stoic despite her deep concerns for her favorite Shemsu..
“I’ve been working with Akasha,” Lunok replied. “She shares my concerns and wants this creature called The Scribe to be dealt with appropriately. So, with her help, I have formulated a plan and I strongly believe it will work.”
“Why Akasha?” Collok asked flatly.
“The Scribe is her creation and therefore she feels responsible for his actions,” Lunok replied. “That is the first reason. The second reason is… Well, respectfully, this is Akasha, father,” Lunok added.
Collok nodded.
“But if The Scribe is Akasha’s creation, why not let her deal with the creature?” Mulok asked. “Should she not be the one to clean up after herself?”
Finally, a good question, Lunok thought.
“Akasha can only be involved indirectly and working with me has been her most indirect involvement so far. We plan on keeping it that way for now,” Lunok replied and waited for the next question.
“What do you mean by ‘keeping it that way’?” Mulok asked with a note of skepticism.
“Akasha’s involvement will only be through me,” Lunok replied confidently. “Whatever she does to draw out and apprehend The Scribe will be through me and through me only.”
“And will you be functioning as a Shemsu?” Salok asked and Lunok smiled before replying.
“No, mother,” Lunok said. “I will fall again and, this time, I know exactly where and when I am falling to. I believe my responsibilities ought to extend far beyond my Shemsu prerogatives. Like I said already, Creation is in grave danger from The Scribe, and I believe I can defeat The Scribe.”
“We trust and endorse you, child” Salok said. “Go forth with our blessings!”
“Thank you, mother!” Lunok replied and headed out to fall for the third time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE MARK
MALICHIEL WAS RANKED among the top ten archangels in the realm, based on his personal assessment. Whether this personal boast, or claim, to put it mildly, was true or not was irrelevant. The truth was that, being among one of the first angels to be spawned in the realm warranted awe, respect and even adulation by default from the younglings. Malichiel would not say he was in competition with any of the other top archangels; but he did concede to the fact that some of his peers were superior in combat than he was. Malichiel held silent admiration and respect for these few; Raphael, Zukael, Gabriel, Samael, Drusiliel and the default pair, Michael and Luciel. However, only one of these was his better in both combat and intellect: Uriel.
Uriel! Oh, Uriel! Uriel was special. She really, really, REALLY was special. Malichiel spasmed at the thought of Uriel’s seductive intelligence and ravenous body. He could not help it. He was madly, insanely and unreasonably in love with Uriel; a sentiment that Uriel never reciprocated and, from all indications, might never reciprocate. Perhaps she did not reciprocate his feelings for her out of her ignorance of his feelings for her? If that was the case, then maybe he should tell her how he felt. It was the most logical thing to do, but the fear of rejection rendered his last vestige of courage useless. Thus, Malichiel preferred to play it safe and do nothing. He would take his gamble with fate and hope that, in due moment, fate would unite them as one.
“You’re in charge now,” Malichiel ordered another angel as he dismissed his training weapon.
“Yes, Malichiel!” affirmed the archangel and stepped forward to take over the training session.
Malichiel teleported to his domain and crashed on his bed. He let the soft beddings embrace his body; a moment of surrender, it was. Drusiliel ought to be making an entrance any moment. He dismissed his clothes as he continued to enjoy the comfort of his bed. He felt a familiar presence in his domain and smiled. His eyes remained shut as he felt a naked form slowly slide across his body. He felt naked breasts press against his feet, shins, thighs, groin, and torso until they finally pressed against his chest. Then, two soft lips pressed against his. He responded in kind before they both angled their heads and locked lips in a very, very passionate kiss.
However, though Malichiel had a crazy crush for Uriel, he always fantasized about Luciel when he was bonding with Drusiliel. Well, with Drusiliel, it really was not bonding. It was strictly physical for him. Whether or not it was physical or emotional for her was of absolutely no consequence. But apparently, she kept coming back for more. So, she must be having a great time as well as he was. Keeping his eyes closed most of the time helped a lot. It was not because Drusiliel was not physically appealing to the eyes. On the contrary, she was even more beautiful than Luciel was. Keeping his eyes closed was strictly for the purpose of aiding in his fantasies.
Drusiliel peeled herself away from Malichiel and nestled against his chest. Malichiel kissed her forehead and pressed her closer to his body. She moaned. Malichiel could tell she enjoyed their session a lot. Her eyes were still closed and she had still not said a single word even after several moments had past. Finally, Drusiliel broke the silence and the couple started talking about everything and nothing. Her eyes remained shut during the span of their conversation. When she was ready, she sat up from the bed, managed a short, kind stare at Malichiel, leaned over and kissed his lips as she summoned garments over her resplendent form before she
teleported away. Malichiel was, once again, alone in his domain.
Malichiel slid off his bed, stretched, and flapped his wings several times. He then walked towards his study and picked up a tablet from the shelf that formed out of the wall as he approached. He traced a few glyphs on the tablet and many smaller glyphs glowed on the tablet. He sat a butt cheek on the edge of the table that slid out of the wall and he began mindlessly reading through the glyphs. His mind drifted again towards Uriel and Luciel. He heaved his shoulders as be began to analyze his attraction for those two. With Uriel, her acute wisdom made him crumble to his knees and with Luciel, it was her dominance. Luciel was most likely the only female archangel who could best him at sparring. He felt himself extend and become harder at the thought of being sexually submissive to either or both Uriel and Luciel at the same time. The things he imagined them doing to him! He cursed and wished he had not let Drusiliel depart so soon. He may have to pay her a visit very shortly.
And then, it hit him! The sudden pain was acute, sharp, surprising and most of all, unbearable. It was above the middle of his shoulder blades, right below his neck. He crashed to the floor and screamed as the worst pain he had ever felt in all his existence seized his very essence. The pain died almost as quickly as it had struck him and confusion set in. Very slowly, he reached for the point of origin of the pain with his right hand and touched it. There was nothing. It was as smooth as the rest of his skin and he was grateful it did not hurt when he touched it. Slowly, he rose to his feet and flexed his shoulders and neck. But just when he was about to flex his wings, a second wave of pain that dulled the first hit him.
His entire body quaked as he crashed and writhed on the floor. He screamed as the pain burned through every fiber of his body. He felt as if his existence would end but it did not. Bright, golden light flared from his eyes, nostrils, mouth and ears. He must have lost consciousness because when he awoke, he could barely remember what happened a few moments ago. But, as the daze cleared off, his memory gradually returned. He summoned a mirror for fear of triggering another wave of pain by touching whatever he thought was on the back of his neck. He saw what was on his back. It was a mark of a seven-faceted crystal.
Celestial Crisis Page 24
