Cruel Angel's Thesis

3

OUTSIDE LAENINGAR

THE BORDERLANDS OF THE GOLDEN KINGDOM

A luminescent trail of blood meandered along the soil. Its path was erratic, disturbed occasionally by footprints on one side and lateral scuff marks on the other. Allain tried his best to deny the fact that somewhere, on the other end of the glowing line of evidence they were leaving behind, the demonic hordes were tracking them. It would hardly be a difficult task.

The liquid light that coursed through angelic veins would have been lost against the radiant backdrop of their own territory. But they were now behind enemy lines, and the dark, barren soil of this place only made their presence blatantly obvious.

“Come on,” Allain said, bearing almost all of Amthardel’s weight.

The Iryllur was looking duller by the second. His legs were covered in his own blood, spilling freely from the gash on the left side of his abdomen.

They both knew it was fatal, but Allain didn’t want Amthardel dying in a place like this. As he hefted the soldier across the rough soil, he looked down into the valley to the north, seeking solace in the iridescent forest now less than a mile away.

“It’s beautiful. You’ll see,” he assured his friend.

Painful seconds lengthened into excruciating minutes while the two soldiers hobbled across the land. In this Golden Kingdom, where even light and sound were immortal and the passage of time was irrelevant, Allain was oddly aware of every moment. It truly felt like an eternity before they crossed the line that separated the territory of the Holy from the Unholy. Finally leaving behind the desolate, shadowy Kingdom of the demons, the two Irisviel descended into the protection of the towering trees.

~

Thick grasses grew tall around the water that roamed peacefully through the flat lands below, fed by an underground spring. From the rich soil, the surrounding trees grew massive, like giant sentinels keeping watch over the glen. Their leaves danced in the breeze, the shimmering outlines scattering a multitude of green hues in every direction. In concert with this rhythmic motion were the lingering echoes of songs that seemed intertwined with the very spirit of this sacred place. As the gentle passage of air rippled the surface of the lake, melodies were stirred up and tossed along the glassy swells, colliding with harmonies that had been lying dormant for years.

But all of this, Allain had seen countless times before. Now, in the last moments of Amthardel’s life, the only thing he noticed was the distant look in the eyes of the Iryllur sitting next to him.

“You were right,” Amthardel said. “This is a good place to die.”

Allain clenched his fists, but kept his eyes fixed on the face of his soldier.

Amthardel took a deep breath, then winced. “Don’t let them win,” he said, turning his head. For a brief moment, his eyes seemed to brighten with clarity and that faraway look disappeared.

Allain wanted to say something. But words were insufficient. Instead, he closed his mouth and nodded—a silent promise. Then, they both turned and looked out over the waters of Laeningar, the Valley of Healing.*

Why do we keep doing this? How long are we supposed to watch each other die? Is there even victory on the other side of this war?

One after another, faces sprang into Allain’s mind. Iryllur. Seirre. Vidir. Soldiers. Friends. He closed his eyes, but the memories only became more vivid. Ages of loss concentrated into one moment. When he opened his eyes, tears rolled down his cheeks.

Amthardel was leaning more heavily on him now. Gently, Allain pulled his arm out from underneath his friend’s and leaned away to look into the face of the soldier who had been with him through countless battles. The angel’s eyes were closed and the dim light that shone beneath his skin only moments ago had now faded.

In the distance, a faint howl sounded. It echoed through the valley, a chilling reminder of the enemy’s relentless aggression.

Allain remained seated on the shore, holding the last member of his team. Despite the peaceful rhythm of dancing leaves and the soothing melodies of trickling water, this sacred valley failed to ease his constricted throat. He could still see the confused faces of his soldiers. Their innocent questions reverberated in his ears.

And what did I tell them? That everything would be fine. That this mission was just like all the rest.

These were all the same words that Allain had heard from his own superiors. He regurgitated them just as a loyal soldier ought. And in the end, they turned out to be lies. As he gently lowered Amthardel’s body to the grass, he noticed the cuts and scrapes on his own forearms.

Why was I spared?

Why were his injuries so miniscule by comparison? Why was he the only survivor when he was the one who had led them to their deaths?

Another howl echoed through the valley.

Reaching down, Allain pried a vaepkir from the now stiff fingers of his friend. Amthardel had clutched it tight until the very end, a testament to his unwavering determination to fight. Lifting the weapon from the pool of blood beside his soldier, Allain held it tight and felt the weight of it in his hand. He examined the three sharpened talons that diverged from the primary blade to cover his knuckles. Even in the near formlessness of the Borderlands, the weapon still appeared graceful. On the other end, at the very tip of the deadly instrument of war, the dark stains of demon blood marred its otherwise gleaming surface.

Another howl sounded. It was just over a hundred paces away and now accompanied by snorting and heavy breathing.

Allain stood up and walked a few paces away from the water, facing the direction of the forest from where the howling had come. He realized now that his silent promise to Amthardel only moments ago might also have been a lie.

Don’t let them win. Don’t let the demons win. But I can’t control the outcome. I promised all of them that it would be just like every other mission. And I couldn’t control that either!

What he would normally push aside for a more convenient time, he allowed himself to feel. It had been a pointless battle—an utter failure and a staggering waste of resources. He and his soldiers had no business being pulled into that operation. Now, he was the only one left of a highly-trained and specialized group of soldiers. But more than that, they had been his last remaining friends—the only ones he had trusted, and the only ones who had trusted him. And now, he was alone.

Allain’s hand began to shake. Only then did he notice the bulging knuckles and strained tendons of the fingers that had unconsciously tightened around the hilt of the weapon—a blade that had ended the tortured lives of innumerable demons.

Shadows moved between the trees, keeping just out of sight. They were waiting for something.

Allain remained still. His body, rigorously trained by ages of conflict, reacted with a simple determination. There would be no more running. Amthardel had died in a place of peace and beauty, not in the wasteland of the demons. That objective had been met. And now, while his thoughts were consumed, his winged, warrior form readied itself for its last stand. This would be the end.

Suddenly, the whole forest darkened. Demons poured from between the dense trees and came into the open in one coordinated movement, blocking the radiance of the woods with their emptiness. Their bodies were collections of nothingness, reflecting no light. Instead, as the negative mass of each demon moved in front of an object, the light around it distorted and bent inward.

Small shapes crawled over the ground on four legs. Their talons dug into the soil as their elongated snouts inhaled loudly, taking in the scent of their prey. In the trees above, larger, flying creatures settled on the branches, extending their angular wings to either side. In between the darker sections of structural bone, the thin membranes that made up their wings absorbed less light, giving a pale appearance.

Allain’s eyes narrowed at seeing the demonic counterpart to the Irisviel—the soldiers of the Marotru who had descended upon his team from above. But eventually, his gaze landed on the largest and darkest creatures—the ones who destroyed the angelic army from beneath. The Nedaret moved now across the grassy surface with barbed tentacles, hard as stone, raking the fertile soil for traction.

The entire formation slowed to a stop. Though Allain had eliminated hundreds of them on the battlefield this day, the enemy’s reluctance to attack was not due to fear. Instead, they relished the fact that they had the lone angel surrounded.

With his back to the water, Allain looked out upon one after another of his enemies. There was no escape. The odds were impossible. He stared at his own death and couldn’t help the defiant grin that overtook his face.

The winged demons took to the air.

The small ones scrambled forward along the ground.

The massive ones lurched into motion.

Allain crouched forward with his vaepkir ready to strike. But something inside him hesitated.

Your function is not to think, but to act! he remembered, as the words of his superior came to memory. The words spoken just before the battle.

Yes, my Rada!

In that single, obedient response, Allain had committed his soldiers to their deaths.

This is what they’d want. For me to act. For me to fight!

The smaller, faster demons had now come within striking distance. Two sprang from the ground with their claws ready to rip his stomach open.

His lightning-quick reflex cut through both shadows in one swift movement and the demons vanished into a brilliant flash.

Think! What would they not want you to do?

Spinning to face three more demons, his reflexes took over now. His muscled limbs propelled him through a dance of death, hacking and slashing his way through the infestation of darkness.

Go where it is forbidden. Where the demons cannot follow. Regroup.

Allain sprang from the ground as his wings thrust him upward into the nearest shadow.

The blade of the demon came down on him. Its serrated edge glanced off his vaepkir, leaving behind crimson sparks that perished into swirls of smoke.

Allain plowed through the absence of light and brought the protruding tip of his own blade across the demon’s neck. Pale green and purple flashed as the enemy slipped by, spiraling downward to its death.

The Teres Kingdom!

In a small pocket of safety before the next winged demon, Allain cast his weapon away and willed his body to shift. Though he wore the winged form of an Iryllur, he was not bound by their limitations. He was one of the Moines—the race of angels who could shift their existence to any point along the spectrum of creation.

What had once appeared as a cloud of winged shadows and snarling fangs suddenly became a dizzying array of swirling ashes—a mixture of pale and dark, colorless blotches that quickly gave way to empty air. The sky, once deep orange, drained of color before it took on shades of blue. In the distance, the brilliance of the trees dimmed and the green hues seemed to become encased in more distinct forms.

As Allain moved through the layers of the creation spectrum, he could almost feel the confusion among the ranks of the Marotru. A Shaper masquerading as a soldier was rare enough, but even his own kind would have been shocked. The Teres Kingdom had long ago become forbidden to those who used to shape it. Though it was a violation of the laws of his Kingdom, he kept pushing himself until he felt the firm lift of air beneath his feathered wings.