by Han, George
Her thoughts darted to Maganus and other Guardian Angels. Anxiety for their safety fed the virus, now creeping across her chest and devouring her senses. Her sights were affected and she was seeing colours!
Gwyneth tried to summon Marz with an intense whistle. However, the effectiveness of her whistles was impaired by the venom, and was frail and brittle. A good hour elapsed without any traces of Marz. She could no longer feel her legs. It took ages to shift herself. She laughed, with bitterness at her own disability.
The powerful White Angel, Gwyneth the Fair, has been reduced to a struggling mortal, a sight that would please the Demons. As the undercurrent of negative emotions stirred in her, it began to snow. The chill brought an ironic comfort—she felt better. It was a soothing respite. Then the realization hit her. Snow is her ally and she can summon it. Snow contained the possible element to retard the spread of the demonic virus.
The words in the annals on the virus began to ring in her ears. The demonic venom was a strain of poison extracted from the depths of Hell. It fed on the negative vibes of human emotions. If it was transmitted through the blood of human beings, it means instant death for mortals. There were certain elements that could be used to slow or retard the growth of the virus and snow was one of them.
Her wait for Marz was in vain. She feared demise in the secluded woods.
The White Angel was helpless. Defenseless.
As time flowed by, and life ebbed away, Gwyneth drifted into frequent spells of darkness. Sudden movement in nearby bushes yanked her back to consciousness. Marz? Or could it be a hungry bear?
Then it came; a tiny being emerged from the snow-clad bushes and flittered around her. It was a butterfly whose appearance was ,paradoxically, both an intrigue and relief.
Gwyneth stuck out her pointer finger for the insect to alight upon and then studied the animal. She smiled, in partial self-tease. For all her prayers, only a butterfly responded?
“I wish you could help,” she whispered.
Abruptly, in an overwhelming response to her whimper, the butterfly leapt from her finger and formed a path of gold in its flight. Sensing danger, Gwyneth clutched her golden cross, her last line of defense, ready to respond.
She was blinded by a burst of light as the butterfly exploded into mist and soon, right in front of her, stood a winged dark horse. Gwyneth watched agape at the transformation and the sight of the handsome mane, which had a silky, red texture. The eyes, which were glimmering rubies robbed her attention. The sheer beauty of the winged creature belonged to another realm. When she saw the rider, she could hardly breathe.
He had the aura of an ancient and accomplished warrior. The boots were lined with bold red and silver, the regal colour of a Demon Lord. The mask, the plume, and the armour confirmed her suspicions.
Gwyneth clenched her fist for a possible fight. Her fear had fed the venom in her, and she felt poison coursing through her veins like a serpent. Her defiant composure, raised head and jutted-out chin, did little to hide her trembling.Her legs were numb, and soon her arms would go.
The towering figure dismounted and landed with a heavy thud, and sauntered towards her with sure footsteps, each of which resonated with intimidation. Then the figure stopped just a yard away. He raised his hand and gently flicked open the mask.
Shocked, she began panting as she looked into the unmistakable face of Prince Vassago, one of the most powerful lords of the demonic worlds. The thick moustache and proud goatee, with his self-assured gaze, spoke of an aristocratic background. It was the mole on the right corner of his lips that confirmed his identity.
The realization exacerbated her physical pain. Her final moment?
“Gwyneth the Fair.” It was a mellifluous voice, a smooth-flowing river that swept away the debris of wariness. He scanned her from head to foot as if Gwyneth were a tradable commodity in the bazaar.
“Pathetic,” the Prince said. “Look at how you tremble.”
“Prince Vassago, what else can I be after an ambush?”
“Never underestimate the powers of the Demons.”
“Pride?” Gwyneth frowned, her eyebrows twitched as the pain lurked in her chest. “You are…are behind this?” she asked.
“Don’t frown,” the prince said. “It is hurting you. Shed anger, hatred or anything negative will only worsen the venom that now flows in your veins.”
“That’s very kind advice.”
“It is for your good.” Vassago’s lips curled in disapproval and he continued. “Medicinal application is what you need. From the colour of your complexion, I do not need to do much to kill you. And if it’s this easy to finish off a formidable Angel, I need not come personally.”
Gwyneth swallowed. Vassago was right.
“Doubt will not help save you, Lady Gwyneth.”
“You are genuinely here to help?”
Prince Vassago’s eyes widened as his irises mutated into a dark maroon and a gust of wind hit Gwyneth on her face.
“Where is your faith in the good?”
“Vaporized, scorched by the treachery of your race.”
Gwyneth regretted her sarcasm as she witnessed Vassago’s irises turn a deep red and his ears glowed. The fury lasted only for a moment for the iris soon returned to the usual blue, and the ear dimmed.
“I don’t blame you, Angel. However, despite our very different agendas, surreptitious methods in handling opponents are beyond me. I have always conducted my affairs, diplomacy or wars against your race, with reason and fairness. I do not like Gabriel and the lot, but I do not hate them.”
Gwyneth could feel the strength of honesty, fierce and uncompromising emanating from the Prince’s eyes. “I am sorry, Prince Vassago.”
“Who can blame you?”
“Events in the last few days, with Kings and kinglings brutally murdered, left me with no
reason to believe you came with good will. Such attacks are against the rules of engagement。”
The prince shrugged nonchalantly.
“Prince Vassago, is it too much to ask for a reasonable explanation to all this madness?”
“I don’t owe you one.”
“Then I plead for one,” Gwyneth whispered.
“Barbatos,” Vassago muttered.
“He is behind all this?”
“With the backing of Lucifer, of course.”
“I am surprised.”
Vassago stroked his beard. “I came to you without his knowledge.”
Gwyneth struggled for words.
“Are you touched or plain dumbfounded?” Vassago asked, his strong features glowing with pride.
“I am no more enlightened, Prince.” Gwyneth asked.
The Prince sniggered. “Barbatos is capable of great things. However, his ambition outstrips his abilities. His sense of reality, of the balance of power between Angels and Demons, can be distorted. You raised and guided him. You should know better.”
Gwyneth stared into the distance. At this moment of vulnerability, she did not need to be reminded of her past mistakes. Vassago’s paradoxical ways.
“Lady Gwyneth?”
“Yes?”
“I meant that you groomed him. You were his mentor. He was your friend and then enemy.”
Pains in her chest sent Gwyneth into uncontrollable coughing and she spit blood.
“You need immediate help, Lady Gwyneth.”
The prince studied her wounds and clucked his tongue. “You called yourself a Guardian Angel?”
“I suppose you could show some respect to your victim by not gloating, Prince Vassago.”
“You heal faster with your mouth shut,” the Prince warned, then raised his right
hand over the wound and begun to chant in a tongue that sounded like a cross between a grunt and an alien snort. Gwyneth tried to resist but gave up when she realized Vassago was trying to heal her.
As she watched, she was impressed by the aura of authority that cloaked Vassago. He was intense and sharply genuine.
> The wound on her arm transmuted first to a pale green, then a gentle yellow before gradually dissipating. Simultaneously, the load lifted off her heart and the pain that was like a constricting serpent just minutes earlier, had faded away like vapour.
Vassago studied her wounds and once satisfied, dropped her arm. “You shall live on to create more trouble for my fraternity!”
Gwyneth was nodded her thanks. She struggled to stand and was soon on her feet.
“Your powers have not been fully replenished. Do not over-exert.”
“Thank you, but enlighten me on your true motives, Prince.”
Vassago rose to his full height, almost a head taller, and in his armoured robes, looked intimidating.
“Use your instincts. Feel the answer.”
“Do you know Barbatos’s specific plans?”
The prince smiled.
“Barbatos has always aimed to be the overlord of Hell, after Lucifer. Barbatos wants be the first Lord of Demons, the Primoris Senior. That is his ambition, but his methods and ways are beyond to us all.”
“The usual domination agenda?”
“It is always an aspiration of Demon Lord to control humanity totally.”
Gwyneth clenched her fists. “We will make a response.”
“What is the point with the serious degeneration of the state of the human world?”
“That is a very poor excuse. You are going to just sit back and watch Barbatos destroy the old order?”
“I had lost control of my legions,” the prince explained. “Barbatos had overall control. Lucifer gave him access to the resources, and whatever that might be needed to achieve his objectives.”
“I am surprised.” Gwyneth said.
“He is set on domination. Lucifer needed somebody to lead the charge.”
“If he fails …” Gwyneth prodded.
“Somebody has to take blame for a silly campaign should God send his Angels.”
“Barbatos is walking a tight-rope.” Gwyneth spoke with resignation.
Prince Vassago nodded. “High stakes but worth it. You see, the human race has made such progress in the last century, and achieved such a level of awareness and understanding of themselves, that it was hard for the Demons to manipulate their minds. However, history has reached a critical juncture; problems in the last decade have been worrying. After the Obama administration, the country has become a rudderless ship. The widening budget deficit has crippled the nation’s financial system. The wars started by George Bush continued into their twentieth year and had turned into a quicksand for the world’s most powerful war machine. The flu epidemic has waxed and waned, and now returned with a vengeance, immune to the vaccines doctors have thrown at them. Humanity is restless, stirred by unemployment and governments unimaginative in their resolution of these crises. Human leadership is vulnerable. Your Kings are weak.”
“A collision of our worlds is about to occur,” Gwyneth said. “A major war that will involve Man, Angels and Demons.”
Vassago stroke his moustache.
“We will put a stop to this.” Gwyneth asked.
“Your prerogative to try but I am doubtful of your success.”
“Why are you here?”
“To mitigate things.”
Gwyneth smiled. “Just that?”
Vassago swung around with a self-assured look, his chin firm. “Again, I am insulted.”
“I am sorry.”
“I am always different from the rest. Always”
“May I have the luxury of an elaboration?”
Vassago smiled. “I am tired of an existence that is filled with hatred. It is equally tiring for us to harm the humans as it is for you to save them.”
The Prince’s words flowed into the gentle breeze and weaved effortlessly into Gwyneth’s ears.
“Demon no more?” Gwyneth asked.
The Prince chuckled, moustache dancing. “Once a Demon, always a Demon. Despite my credentials, I am no longer the vanguard of the Demons. Some have termed me soft, some have termed me stupid, but I prefer to be termed changed. I have seen the senselessness of our tussle.”
Vassago stroked his moustache “The human race, despite their foibles and gross stupidities, have qualities worthy of admiration. The strength of their faith, though blind at times, but strong nevertheless. Their ingenuity and resilience is like a flame that does not seem to have any chance of being put out. Despite the Demons’ best efforts, humans always came back stronger. Their bridges get stronger, the buildings get taller, and they live longer and are happier.”
Gwyneth’s smile stretched into a grin.
“What are you smiling at? You think your bunch of Guardian Angels deserve the credit?”
“We were just the supporting cast.” She said.
The prince said, “Humans just kept going on despite our best efforts to destroy them. Their resilience is impressive. The Demons can create disasters, spread failure, and plant fears, and mankind will cower in fear initially but then they came back in full vengeance and end up further than they were. Their creativity, courage, and …”
The prince stopped as he stared at Gwyneth. “By the way, you now owe me a favour that you must repay with interest. Some day.”
Gwyneth repeated “It is in my mental ledger.”
“Good.” Vassago stroke his moustache.
“What now?” Gwyneth asked.
“You should really focus on the big battle ahead.”
Gwyneth’s eyes widened.
“Barbatos is going for a big contest of strengths. He has plans and is now planting the seeds for a future that is owned by the Demons. Although I am not sure what triggered him to act now but he has already moved. So I can only wish you luck.”
“I need specifics, Prince Vassago,” Gwyneth pleaded.
“I can only help with one single bit of information.”
“What is that?”
“One clue. I cannot help you outright. It will take away the thrill of our tussle. I still enjoy the fight, though I do not vote for total annihilation.”
Gwyneth threw up her arms in exasperation. “Contradictions.”
Prince Vassago leaned towards her. “Hill meets the river. Bastion on valley. Castle Valmar. Barbatos,” he whispered and turned towards his steed. Then he swung around almost instantaneously, and with a wink, said. “I said nothing to you.”
The prince’s dainty expression gave way to a serious frown, his bushy eyebrows raised like ugly caterpillars. “You better hurry. Time is running out.”
“I must leave now.”
Gwyneth’s wings extended gradually as light glided down the feather. She had regained some of her strength and Gwyneth felt light and bright as before.
“Don’t be too happy,” he said. “You need to conserve your energy. Remember, you just came back from death.”
Gwyneth bowed in thanks. She felt strength, warmth coursing gradually through her veins as she flew into the chilling night, with a smile.
#
The glittering event that Gwyneth witnessed at the New York City Hall was the Annual Ball for Children of the World—a charity event organized by the Canner Foundation. The chairman of the foundation, billionaire Pat Canner, was an important donor and an ardent supporter of Victor Palmer, having made generous contributions to his previous three campaigns. The event had been chosen as the platform for Victor Palmer to deliver a keynote speech.
It was not unusual for politicians to be chosen for the event, but something unusual had been planned for that evening. A segment had been inserted before the auction, which was used to raise funds for the nominated charities. In turn, the Canner Foundation pledged a dollar for every dollar raised.
As guests streamed into the main hall and passed through stringent security checks, Victor Palmer and his close associates congregated on the second floor, where two rooms has been set aside for them.
After moments of frivolity with members of the Canner family, Victor Palmer excused himself. His a
ide, Jean Potts, was at the door.
“They are here,” she said.
Victor nodded. Once inside the second room, Victor sat on the couch, just by the window. His palms were wet and his heart raced like Saturday hounds in the circuit. He felt as if he were going to meet the president of Russia.
Victor thought of getting a drink but decided against it. He should wait. For a moment, he felt stupid and an odd sense of unease crept into him. Am I really going to do this? Then he remembered the nights of turmoil and the sheets of paper he had scribbled. It was a hellish process trying to come to terms with his conscience, after the intriguing conversation he had with Boris Komorov.
However, he came through. His mind was made up and now there was only one thing to do. Just do it. Victor clenched his fist and shut off the restraining thoughts. He would not be swayed. But as he waited, he realized there was something outside the windows. He stood up and caught sight of snow falling. It was quite a surprise as it was only September. Climate disorder? However, he had little time to ruminate about the fact as the door opened.
He turned to find his guest present. Boris Komorov looked handsome in his black suit and purplish tie that is bordered in glimmering red. The Russian wore his trademark smile, one of those cocky and reassuring ones that only winners wear. However, the Senator was sure there would be more than just one winner.
“Senator.”
“Good evening. You are smiling?”
“I am invited to an important function, and I am sure we have a friendship now.”
“Yes, maybe,” Senator said. “I have something specific to discuss with you.”
“I know.” Boris said much to Victor’s discomfort. Does he know everything on my mind?
“It is about the issue that we discussed.”
“Yes. I suspect your decision will warm my heart.”
Boris bent forward and whispered into his ear. “Senator, seize the day. Time wasting is never the hallmark of great men.”
