Humanity was it's own missing link, it always had been. Those who had no chance, the weak and the hungry, the poor and the broken made this world into what it was. Not the Gods who sat on high, and surely not the Devils who lingered beneath. Not the elements, and absolutely not the time that passed. No, it was those who stood up to time and shouted back, unwilling to stand passive while events happened around them. For this, the world was created, and for this, the world was defended.

For eons, the Middle Planes had stood calm, entirely unaware of the war waged beneath their very noses. Angelic blades bit deeply into demonic flesh and Infernal flames tore at the very essence of Celestia, but the wingless races had no idea. Every few thousand years, a prophet understood, and when he told the world of it's impending doom, no one listened. Warmonger, he would be called, or worse, heretic. Under the damning lights of the Imperial Church, Avacia stagnated, progress was stifled and all glory was given to the All Father. In return, the All Father grew fat and lazy, content that his world would remain forever, content that his line of chosen Arch Bishops would never fail. There was the great folly, the first disconnect. The All Father sat too high, completely unable to understand the lengths that evil will go, unable to fathom the depths of a man's darkest desires. Understanding this better then most, the Lords of the Abyss gave up the war against His Angels and moved to an easier target.

Man himself. The heart of man is easily tainted, and most men listen to the lies they hear in the night with open ears, and more importantly, open hearts. The Infernal masters understood the vanity of man, and they knew, that with time, they would have an army. Every so often, a true champion of the right rose and denied this impending evil, but once more, he was declared a heretic and burned alive, his soul cast from the light. The irony of the Imperial Church was perfect. In removing their only chance, they gave the Infernal armies more and more soldiers, fodder for slaughter.

A few champions could not be beaten, for they stood above any mortal light. Still, only one of those creatures understood the creeping doom for what it was, because only one of them had stepped foot on a mortal plane and seen man at his best and his worst. Azreal had been reinstated, and as such, his voice was once again heard at the Angiris.

"During my time on the Earth plane, I came to understand the mortal races more fully then any of you, and I say this now. They stand no chance unless we actively aid them in such-.." His voice was drowned out by the angry protests of his kin, most of them shocked by the meaning of his speech. Never before had they shown themselves to man, and a blessing in disguise that had become. A man who glimpses eternity is not often the same man as before. A second's worth of exposure to the awful power, the cold and calculating truth behind these majestic creatures if often enough to shatter a weak mind, and even the strongest find it hard to do away with the horror that these celestial beings inspire in those who trod beneath them. Man has crafted an image Azreal's breed in his mind, and he expects them to carry harps and to sing songs, he wants them to ride clouds and give hope to all of those that see them. Little does he understand that these creatures inspire hope in only the strongest, for only those with true faith can follow in the footsteps of angels. No, at best, these creatures ride death?s wind like a plague, carrying weapons that sing songs of doom, not of hope. They are beings made of primal things, beings that can not understand petty emotion. Things like trust, hope, happiness and even love can, and must be sacrificed in the face of need, for justice holds no room for weakness.

Azreal's voice cut through the crowd. Even among this host, he alone was a Primal in true nature, an entity that had stood at the Gates long before the All Father and his children stumbled upon this world, and his presence inspired fear among his adopted family. "Enough." The word was not yelled, nor was it whispered, but it echoed in the minds of those present, dripping with untold wells of an almost fanatical inspiration. "Enough of this. I answer to none of you, and I call none of you master." The flaring balls of white light that resided deep under his hood lingered first on his supposed equal, Tyreal, and then shot daggers to the raised dias which housed the shadowy figure of the All Father himself. "None of you, and all of you would do well to understand this. We are at war, my brethren, and we are not at war with those who we are accustomed to fighting. I, for one, will not kill mortals. Too many have I ruined, and too long have I repented for my actions." The faded grey hood turned down, and he cast a glance at the living chain that dangled from his hand, a series of black links that pooled around his feet, mocking him with each and every twist and turn of his armored hand. "Look at us, look!" His voice did raise, and thunder answered his call, bells tolled their hollow notes as he let a fraction of his millenia old anger tear through his being. "We stand and argue like petty children fighting over a sweetroll while the world burns beneath us. For what? Why are we here" Did we not, in the first ages, pledge our protection to those underneath of us" What of those who can not fight, what of those who know not how to fight?" A finger rose and pointed towards the dias once more, and the heat of his rage burned throughout the room, forcing those near him to step back and shield themselves with gossamer wings. "You allow your Church to do our jobs, and they have grown too fat on the riches they have stolen. You allow man to judge man, and what did you expect' If we are not perfect, then how can they be?" He shook his head and stepped back from the circle, and as he did, both arms folded over the burnished armor that covered his body.

"Too long have I watched, and too long have I hoped that you would see the world as it is. Forget not the fact that I stood here before any of you did, and forget not the fact that I paved the roads we now walk on. I surely have not forgotten this, but I am thinking it is far too late for the rest of you. Too long have we stood above them, and too long have we failed them. War will be brought to the Middle Planes, and we will simply watch' I say no, I say we fight." The reaction to that was simply astounding to the Celestial killer.

Those closest to him stepped further back, but not from the heat of his anger. No, they stepped back simply due to his words, and the group as a whole answered in one single word, ringing with the combined sound of eight voices. "Heresy."

To this, the hooded creature simply shook his head and turned away from the council. "Call it what you will, but understand that I answer to none of you. This time, for the final time, I strike my own name from this council, and I do it in good faith. I would say that I trust you to do the right thing, but I can not speak a lie." And with that, heavy footsteps took him further away. But not before the council spoke one more time, again with one voice.

"Know the fate of the heretic. We will take action, Azreal, Lord of Death. We will bring you to justice." None of the creatures moved, however. Each one looked to those nearest him, each one unwilling to make good on his promise alone.

Mocking laughter rang out through the halls as the plates on Azreal's shoulders rose and fell. "In that case, I wish you good luck."

He had been right, of course. How couldn't be he, this creature who saw events unfold as he watched time flow in slow currents about his feet. In his own way, he would be his own doom. Much as he had always done, he walked towards it with open arms. Hell, he ran towards it, calling out for it in the streets and demanding it's resolution, for better or for worse. Only before, he had always had something extra to rely on, the simple fact that he couldn't be harmed on this plane. Sure, it would take a hail of gunfire, and possibly a few artillery pieces to do any real damage to the Celestial Primal, but it could be done. That was the prophecy, and that is reality. When the Arch Angel stepped down from on high, so did his counterpart. Another sacrifice had been made, and Azreal stepped towards the altar once again. Some things won't ever change. Maybe that's why he liked the wingless ones so much, he could understand what fighting a losing war was like.

As he approached the door of his modest apartment, he took the mail from a man who looked oddly familiar. Of course he was familiar, what better way to facilitate a dead drop then through mail, seeing as how it's illegal to stop the mail. Devlin almost laughed at Winters joke, but instead, he nodded and pushed his way inside. Once there, he sat at a black metal desk and opened the sealed letter he'd taken from the poor man, who was most likely wondering what he had delivered to the chill eyed gunman. Of course, slapdicks who sit at desks all day never really got it. Personally, Devlin would die before he ever fell into those ranks.

A blade folded out of it's holder, quickly followed by a metallic twang, and when the envelope was opened, he pulled a credit card out of the paper and threw his head back in laughter. It never amazed him how far his employers would let him go, and apparently money laundering was under the umbrella when it came to illegal actions that were called for when it came to furthering his intentions. The card wasn't even halfway close to his name, nor was the bank even a real institution, but it'd be accepted anywhere. Next, he dragged out a series of passports, and his brow ticked up as he noticed one in particular, it had a sticky note attached to the front and was marked 'Urgent' in bright red ink. The credentials listed him as an ambassador of the State, which was normal, but under the first page, another note read 'Effective immediately, head to airport, embark on Non Scheduled military flight, destination Horn of Africa.' He should have known, really. That lost and desolate area had long been a haven for the unsavory, and with a resigned shrug, he opened a sealed bag and dropped the contents of the letter into the bag, a diplomat's pouch. His phone rang, and that stopped him. Winters.

"Don't talk." There was a pause, long enough for Devlin to tap a button on the phone, the noise alerting the man that he was listening. "You were right, and I need you to leave now. No one knows, and no one needs to know why, when or where. Go, now. The bird is waiting." The other line ended, and Devlin quickly got up. He'd buy more clothes when he got there. For now, he was going with what he had, which amounted to a single change of clothes and both pistols.

Of course, Winters meant that only he and the aforementioned Director of the CIA need know. With that cryptic message, he understood the warning and a host of memories flooded into his mind, long since hidden under the stress of his off world affairs. Granted, it made sense. Still, they'd never know that the war soon to engulf this world in flames was one they'd never fight. At last, though, they had someone willing to fight it.

Another thought crept into his mind as his more second body, the favored form of a celestial being shifted in bed, back home in Rhydin. This body could act on it's own, and when there was a need, his awful will would enter the host, and God help anyone who stood in front of those guns. Fae had a dream she told him about, one where she could taste blood. He shifted in his sleep, lost in the blurred lines of two planes, but calmd when his hand came to rest on his love's arm. He tasted the blood as well.

So much of it, and so very soon.

Deep within the privacy of Celestia, there lies a chamber, hallowed by the ages. Millions of years have passed, and still this building stands. White marble columns line the room, podiums rise with an easy elegance, but the room is rather austere in nature. Made entirely of white marble, there is a single podium, empty and made of the darkest marble, a fitting place for the creature who once stood there, and once fell off.

This is the Angiris, where angels decide the fate of men, where battles are fought, wars are planned and souls are weighed. For some mortals, this is the end of all things, and for some, it is the start of nothing.

"My brothers, my brothers. Too long has it been since my eyes have graced this hallowed room, these hallowed halls. I come not to make a deal, so have no fear. Nor do I come in anger." Armored hands rose, as Azreal, Lord of the Unreal, the Angel of Death stepped into the room. Of course, he looked as if he was coming in anger, if the ornate armor showed anything, if the masterwork blade proved a point. But those things were not what his brethren turned away from, no it wasn't. They turned from the face of Justice because they could not see it. They turned from the hood, and they turned from the awful emptiness that lived beneath it. For above all, Azreal is the Angel of the End Times, He who Holds Death in His Palms, That Which Strides Eternity. Under this hood, they saw the awful truth, that all things come to die, that all things leave. Time is not a promise, not for them. For the Primal, for Azreal, last of his kind, time means nothing, not for this sheep herder, not for this wolf.

"Tyreal, I come to speak to you, not to wage war. You of all people know, my brother, that should I wish to destroy this room, I would do it without even being here." Slowly, Azreal stepped towards his podium. When he reached it, his wings flared in salute and a gloved hand ran a single finger across the polished marble, almost lovingly. "So many memories...." His words were kept low, low enough so that the sorrow would not bleed through.

"Then speak your words, my oft errant brother. We value your words, that we do. Of all, you understand things when we can not." The closest to Azreal, Tyreal spoke from under his golden robes and in front of his silver wings. Of all of these creatures, only Tyreal dared speak to the killer of Gods, the Keeper of the Gates.

"I understand now, fully. This has all come full circle, my brothers. I understand what I should have known, and finally, I am ready to throw off my shackles. Perhaps in the near future, I will stand on this podium once more. How I have dreamed of it...."

"Speak now, Azreal. You are a guest of this place, as of now. Tell us these things of which you speak." Even with the creature's anger, Tyreal, first Arch Angel, held a deep seated respect in his velvet tones.

"It is this, my kin. I, simply, have been a fool. I spoke of love, I spoke of compassion and I had no idea what these things were. I do not do this for you or even for her, I do this for myself. Never before have I had something to lose. No mortal can stand in front of, and no God has been able to stand before me. In single combat, I risk nothing. My first sacrifice was for love, and so shall my next. For love, I will risk everything once more." With no right to stand on his podium, the First of the Fallen stood before it, armored arms folded, hood lowered.

"What is it that you speak of, Keeper of the Gates" Why do you tell us this, as opposed to just doing it' You know what you must do." Tyreal glanced down at the shackles Azreal wore, the black links on his wrists. "Remove them, one at a time."

"No, no. This I will not do, not one at a time, at least. I will wager more then that, and I will wager it..." Here, the room burst into shouting. "You said you did not come here to make a deal! We have heard enough of your dealings, Lord of the Unreal!"

With all the tones of a million bells, with the horror of a mother who sees her child die, with the hope of an orphan given a new life, Azreal commanded silence. So great was he that his lesser kin cowered and hid, so hot was his anger.

"I will wager my soul against myself. You take no part in this, and you stand to lose nothing, for am I not already gone" However, you stand to gain everything, for if I remove these shackles, I take my place once more. I have come to understand that I risked nothing these past few years, for I was never at risk. I was never able to lose anything. The Father's point was hidden, his will was not seen, even be me. Truly, he is mighty, for he hid even these truth from me. This morning, I have seen the truth. I must sacrifice myself. I must be the wager. If I lose this wager, I lose myself, as you know me. I will not die, but I will lay my wings down and consign my soul to mortality, never to ascend again. Should I do what must be done, I will remove my shackles, for I understand this thing, this thing that demands my own immortality as a price. What I gained, I must be willing to lose." Here, the great killer shrugged, he sighed and he shook his chains. "I must take them off, for I have been shown the light."

Tyreal simply stared, pale eyes taking in the awful specter in front of him. "You, the avatar of Justice, can not lie. You speak the truth' You would wager your immortality against what? What must you do?"

"I have erred, my brothers, I have failed in the very thing I should not fail at. I have loved, I love and I am in love. I do this not for her, but I do this for myself. Finally, I understand what love is, because I have seen the chance that my love will leave me. I know, finally, what it is to be mortal and to be afraid. Before, I spoke hypocrisy. Now I speak truth. I cast my lot with the mortals, as of now, fully. We are one. With them, I stand, and with me, they rise. My wager is so very, very simple. This is not about her taking me back. This is about me doing what is correct, in the name of love. Should I wrong her again, I lose my wings and I consign my soul to the very fires I have kept for all these long, long ages. Should I resist temptation, should I keep my promises to her, I remove my shackles. My promises are simple, as I have told her and as I will tell you. Regardless of the decision she makes, it will be final. She, for me, is the start and the end. Never again will I love another, never again will I be with another, unless it is her. I have eternity, and I will spend eternity with her or attempting to atone for my mistakes, in regards to her." The ancient killer paused, waiting for a response.

Tyreal stared again, pondering the words that would shape the future of man, one way or the other. "You stand to lose, and so does humanity."

"I know this, younger brother, I know this. I am mortality, and mortality is me. They are my flock, and I their watchful father. Should I fall, they will fall. We are one now. Should I fail, the order that you laid at my feet so many, many ages ago will come to pass. The middle planes will fall without me. Either way, you win. I ascend, or humanity dies." Azreal shrugged, confident that he would not fail, but accepting the risk that is prophecy, the demands that are fate. "Do you sanction this action?"

"Speak the vow, Lord of the Unreal. Perform the rituals, here in the privacy of this chamber, so that others may not know, so that others may not wonder about what they can not understand. Seal this pact." The angel's voice became grave, deathly serious in the calm, calm room.

Azreal strode towards the central podium, the beacon of light that held his younger brother, Tyreal. When the Primal Arch Angel stood before him, he knelt and extended his blade, hilt forward to the patron of Truth. "I, Azreal, consign my wings, consign my soul to the flames of Hell should I fail in this, should I not keep my promises made for the sake of love. Should I keep these promises, these shackles will be removed, and I will ascend to my rightful place among you. By my wings, I swear, by my charges, I promise and, with the Father as my witness, I seal this oath, both in prophecy and fate. This shall be done, as is His, and my will. With the Angiris as witness, I lay my soul before you, so that judgement may be passed."

Tyreal paused, he stared down for a long, long moment. "It is accepted. Rise, Azreal, and assume your podium."

"But...I have done nothing." Azreal looked up, and had he a face, it would have been confused, could he show such an expression. "I have done nothing."

"My brother, you have shown good faith. Look down upon your hands, and look above your podium, on the walls. Removed are your shackles, for now, as is your sin. Should you fail, they remain behind you, in this room. You can not lie, and so you will come for them, should you forget your oath." Tyreal nodded, and with an errant gesture, removed the black links, the weight that held the Arch Angel to his lowly position. True to his word, the hateful metal lingered behind the dark podium. "Look to your wings and look to your soul. Listen to the mortals, and free yourself. You carry an awful burden, but you are not ruined. You, of all creatures, know this. You have walked through fire, and you have come out stronger, for you understand. All along, I knew this would happen, my brother, I knew this. My Father told me of this day, and I have waited, by the Father, I have waited for you. Look to your wings, for they are white." Tyreal stepped down, and his own wings saluted, a blaze of golden glory that dipped low. That, however, was not enough for the angel who held the faith, the voice who retained Azreal's sanity. The angel stepped forward, and armored arms wrapped around his brother, the hood fell onto Areal's shoulder. "Welcome home, brother. We have waited for you."

Azreal let the moment linger, he let the serenity wash over his mind. Slowly, he stepped back and mounted his podium, the brilliant light of his wings shedding grace upon the dark marble.

"Still, Azreal, you are the Angel of Death. Dark will your actions be, but there will be the light of hope in your words. Welcome, Second Arch Angel. Resume your duties, this very day. The armies, they are yours. Death, it is yours. All that which you had, and all that was meant for you is yours. Rise again, brother." Tyreal mounted his podium once more and fell into his posture, arms folded, hood lowered.

"I am glad to be home, my kin. The balance is restored, and I will not fall. I promise you this, with my sacred oath." True to his nature, the Angel of Death leaned on his naked blade, the tip scarring his podium once more. "Your words are my light, and your faith, my hope."

"Go, spread this message of hope that you have learned. You have shed enough hate, you have given enough shadow. Go, my friend, go and give this odd world you live in hope. Be what you are. As my faith is your hope, your hope is my faith." Tyreal raised a hand, and his blade danced in salute. The intricate motions were matched, the black blade of Azreal resting against the golden weapon of Tyreal.

"This will be done, I assure you."

In the privacy of another world, in the lost depths of a forgotten hall, a pact was made, and the fate of the middle planes rested where it once did, in the hands of one Azreal, Second Arch Angel.

The day had been a blur, for more reasons then before. Silently, the killer stepped back into his old room at the Coven. He'd sold his house some time ago and couldn't find it within himself to buy a new one. Not yet, at least. It wouldn't be the same without her, the small things just wouldn't matter. None of it would, not the bed, not the couch, not the day to day things that didn't make sense anymore. Without checking the time, Dev reached for a beer, the first thing he always did when he had to retreat to this place, his first home in the strange, strange city. He sat at the same desk, and his feet kicked up into the same lazy position. "Holy shit."

A man prone to silence, an angel sued to not hearing another voice for decades at a time, he'd grown used to talking to himself, and he did it with a startling ease. Some may say that he should answer, but the warring essences locked behind the glamour answered well enough, voices tearing through his mind and shaping his actions, for the most part.

His mind fell into disarray. When he'd thrown away the shackles, when he'd finally offered himself as the sacrifice, a shred of humanity had beeto him, a spectrum of emotions and the memories that came with them.

"An' I thought I knew what guilt was, I thought I knew what self hate was, really. Hell, I ain't see how ya'll wingless ones deal wit' it. I ain't see how ya'll ain't kill yourself." He shrugged and lost his words in the bottle, his thoughts picking up where they left off.

They ran wild, they ran at light speed, jumping across the eternity that is his mind and landing in his vision. The first one to stop was that awful image, that strange feeling when a fifteen year old child watches his brother die. The way the grass felt when his knees landed on it, how the blood smelled as it stained his hands. The way his throat hurt as he cried and cried, begged and pleaded with the very thing he would come to serve.

"I'll never let that shit happen again, I promise you this. No matter what I got to do, if I can stop it, ain't no one else dyin' like that, unless they deserve it. A kid ain't deserve to get shot down like that, nah, he don't. An old man deserves to die happy."

The next flared to life, a scene two years later, when the seventeen year old man held a gun in another's mouth. He'd searched, and he'd finally found the men who had taken his brother, taken his pride and joy. The memory faded when the gunfire erupted and the alley wall in front of him turned a bright red.

"That ain't happenin' either. I may be executioner, but I ain't judge, I ain't jury."

Again, his memory ran it's merry way through the things he'd forgotten so long ago, the things that had been walled off behind a need for perfection, a perfection he'd failed to find. In that failure, he'd found the point, however. He'd found that the effort was what counted, the things you were willing to throw away, the titles you were willing to lose are what would be stacked against you when time ended, when the world gave it's inhabitants back to the darkness. This time, the scene showed a young man in a dark suit and a dark hat, standing on a small stage. Only a few people sat in front of him, his fiance and a few friends. By this time, Dev's parents had passed on as well, victims of a drunk driver and a bad night. Another man stood next to him and pinned a golden star to his collar, the fabled Marshall's star. Dev's young face, already so scarred by loss, grew into a wide smile. No one had thought he'd make it, yet here he stood.

"I knew I'd make it, I hoped I would. I sweat for that, I cried and I shed blood of my own flesh. I won't forget that. Where there's hope, there's a chance. I turned my back on you, I turned it when you needed me mos'. I'm sorry for that, an' I'm goin' to fix it. Jus' hope in me, yeah?" He sent the plea to his charges, those who toiled in the Middle Planes, ever watchful, yet never knowing that there was a war fought, daily, over dominion and control.

His thoughts skipped another beat and danced into an interview room, a single camera staring at him. This time, many, many more people sat in front of him, all with pens scrabbling. The woman asked a simple question, aimed at the man in the suit. He was older, and the look had been perfected, the way he simply stared, eyes as black as the pistols he'd so readily show you. It came so naturally.

"Did you shoot the suspect, and was he armed?"

"Yeah, he was, an' yeah, I did." Dev reached for the bottle of water and took a short drink.

"That's all you have to say' You didn't even give him a chance to talk. You startled him, and he drew. Some would say you made him draw. Do you think that's fair?" She glared at the man.

Dev stared back for a second, and then shot a stare into the room. The look was so finely made, it simply fit the man who had already started losing his grasp on reality and humanity, years before the angels took him back. "Yup, that's all I've got to say. He drew, I killed him. End of story."

The words had been said before, but how he said them gave the room pause. It was clear that this man, a legend among killers, simply did not care. Not a shred of remorse was seen, he didn't even blink those empty eyes.

"Well then, Marshall, I suppose that's what we needed." The people filed out, the camera was taken away. The next morning, the paper's ran wild. 'Man shot down in Houston, is this the Wild West"' 'Is there a killer with a star on his chest"' 'Exclusive interview with this century's Wild Bill!'

The memories faded, and Dev fell backwards into his bed, a controlled motion that left the empty beer on his desk. "Fuck, I really didn't care. That won't happen again. How am I supposed to work for ya'll, save ya'll if I can't even relate" How was I so damn arrogant to wall that off, for so long? I been jus' a weapon, wit' nothin' aimin' it. That's wrong. Again, I'm sorry."

The killer slept, his dreams troubled by the old nightmares, gunfire in the night, pretty flowers lacing through the sky sped on the wings of death. Those wouldn't leave him, not now. With the good came the bad.

"I'm tired of livin' here, no offense, Coven. I gotta have my own house, you know?" He spoke to the weathered desk and the small bed. Of course, he'd keep the room here. They'd offered to expand it and turn it into an office, but he never saw the point. His mind was his office, reality was his desk.

Towards that end, the timeless killer flared his wings into life and stepped back into the Fade. Somehow, it made sense. When he stood once more, all that had been promised to the horrid specter was his once more.

He stood before a shadowy hole cut into the bleak landscape that made up the Fade, the plane that he was given dominion over. Randomly, the armored figure cut a long line into the air. The finger trailed black flames that gave off no smoke, and when he spoke, he uttered words that broke worlds, words that hinted at the raw chaos he could unleash with such ease. Reality split, time stopped and worlds joined. For this second, Azreal had let his world into RhyDin. His will, however, closed the gate quite easily. It had always been so easy.

In the hills outside of town, he stopped and stared at his work. Twisted metal formed iron gates, the metal the very color of the night itself. Each and every part of the castle held some symbolism. The gates were poignant reminders that the door to Hell opened easily, but the twisted metal showed the world how many paths lead to the same place, this place. Gothic arches rose, spires that reached for the sky. These, of course, represented the people who stood beneath the Lord of the Unreal, hands outstretched towards the sky. The walls were dark, made of a dark stone, jagged angles forming harsh squares. The architecture represented order, the building blocks of his life, built on order and control.

The grass around the place had already died, the trees had already turned to skeletal things. Even the stones were changed, what had been clean dirt turned into dust and ash, a grey pall that tainted the very land itself. There was no wind, there was no sound that came from the place. Light died before it entered the castle, leaving the place left in continual dusk. This, after all, was the Fade.

Azreal stepped through the door and floated down a long hall, glancing back and forth as he stalked his old abode. "Finis Rei, I see you have not changed. This pleases me." He paused before an old door and looked down, where his steps had echoed in the emptiness. Not a trail disturbed the dust, for nothing changed in this place.

A hand pushed the door open, and before him stood the jet black podium, his link home, his link to Celestia and the Angiris. Reverently, the ancient killer stepped onto the podium and adopted his lean, Transcendence's point supporting him as it dug into the marble he stood on. He froze there, stood in his lean and let his eyes scan reality and eternity. From here, the silent guardian watched and waited. After a pause, he murmured a few words.

"It is good to be back, in Finis Rei. For sure, reality ends in this place."

What power did simple words hold" What sheer, awesome power could a simple request have" Surely, the words spoken, softly, over a bar and across a bottle had floored the ancient killer. Such words had broken down the rest of the walls, they had taken the chains away and hid them deeply. Surely, she couldn't have known" Maybe it was a lucky guess, or maybe the woman knew her history, the history forgotten even to time and buried by the few who had bothered to keep the secrets.

"I was wondering....if that anytime soon if ya come across my soul, can ya catch it, and find someone to give it to. Like Icer....Or maybe find someway to bring me back" Not...as my old self....but just....Bah. It's not makin' any sense."

Those few words had stunned the immortal defiler, the creature who had ruined so many worlds, the one who had turned his back when those under him needed him most. They, with the soft breath used, had turned his world upside down. Surely, it had been a guess, surely. There could be no other way.

Dev, the hazy form, had been sitting at the bar when the hushed tones washed over him like the sun's first rays passing across a frozen field. New life began to form in the wake of the warmth, new life gained a hold on such dead, frozen lands. In a blaze of radiance, the world woke, at least in the twisted expanse that Azreal's mind had become. From his podium, the Second Arch Angel stumbled, and he fell. How far did he fall" He fell to a knee. The sound was rampant, it exploded with all the clatter of a million bells ripping holes in the night. Those cracked bells became whole, and the armored specter reached up, ever so slowly. At first, armored fingers twisted into the hood he had never lowered, they stroked the grey material, almost lovingly. This, of all things, had been his secret, the hole in the near perfect armor. She, with her words, had shattered walls, she had done what no siege engine could do, what no army could have hoped for, and she most likely didn't even know. Just as slowly, the murderer's fingers fell, almost reverent in nature. As they lowered, they gained speed, and before he could lose the nerve, he ripped the faded grey material off of his shoulders and cast it down, where it had belonged all along. Until this day, the hideous power could not find it within himself, no matter how long he searched, no matter how hard he tried, yet this simple request had done it.

The face was near perfect, marred not by time or the storms he felt. It was classic, what Dev's ruined face should have been. On it, emotions ran wild. Sadness mixed with the hope of a newly wed, hope fell apart among a broken battlefield. Misery hid when the sun rose, and as always, bells poured out of his mouth. There was one final emotion, one final expression. On one knee, Azreal hid his face in his hands for quite some time, he simply stared into the dark armor he had worn so well. When he finally moved, his face turned towards the sky, and a single tear fell across the wide expanse of flesh. As it trailed, it cut a path between high cheekbones and meandered across his lips. It dangled, sparkling in the light, from his chin, and when it fell in between his feet, it spread slowly. Again, and again, it grew until it fairly covered the floor. More followed, and the twisted creature began to unfold. Millions of years passed, millions of deaths showed in his vision. Without moving, he simply wept, he simply let himself become real, as he had once been. He knelt, and he began to speak, each word cutting through the darkness with a shining ray of light.

"How, how in all the world did this happen" And why?" The voice held no malice, no anger, and surely no disappointment. Instead, it rang with something so strange to this killer. Hope.

"How did she know, that before I was ever Azreal, Lord of Death, I was Raziel, the Keeper of the Secret' How" With a few words, why can I see? Before, I was tasked with just this, this errand. I watched them all die, the mortals, as I flew above them, on gossamer wings that created the dawn's first ray. I watched them die, and I gave them hope, in the final moments, that I would find them and I would bring them back home, back with me, to the fields of Celestia. I would make this easy for them, I would take the pain, I would take the sorrow, and I would bring.....comfort to the dying."

Again, the killer fell silent, and again, the river thawed. The pool grew with the addition of yet another tear, yet another confession.

"I listened to them die, and I heard what they could not say. I was there, and I watched. I loved, and I was inspired by these strange things. With such short lives, they became so much. They did what I was not able to do. They looked at themselves and judged honestly, and I loved. As each one died, I learned more, and I loved more, and this, I took home with me. Upon realizing that I could not save them all, that I could not preach to the damned, I grew curious, and I wandered. And I found Hell, I found the Abyss. I saw what death was, and I looked upon his face. I defied him, you see, I fought him. I would not let my love fall into his hands, and yet they went. They turned on me, and they fell into evil ways. For this, I wept, and this, I reported to the Angiris, as was my duty. Tyreal sent me to destroy them all, rather then open them to temptation. I fell upon them, wielding fire and leading the Host. And....I could not. I could not destroy what I had come to love. I turned my flame back upon the Host, and I destroyed them, I watched them all burn. We were, at the start, supposed to defend, to protect, no to destroy. How had we gotten so lost, that we would condemn a world, rather then fight for it' This, of all things, I could not understand. I reported back, and I was outcast. I was cast down among them, given the mantle of Death, and I was weak. I was angry, and I was hurt. I lashed out, and I destroyed, I killed, and I murdered. If I could not have them, then no one would. I waged war on Hell, alone, and I stood between the Planes and Celestia, alone. I was forgotten by time, cast aside as nothing more then a relic. I, too, forgot my purpose, and I killed."

In a fit of self loathing, the killer flared his hands towards the walls. Upon them grew the very fyre he had come to hate, the black flame. It's reflection danced, it shifted and it grew upon the waters, a conflicted soul at war, even as he spoke, even as he wept for what he had done and what he had not done.

"And now she asks me to be what I was. And now she asks me to be who I was, and with such a simple reminder, I recall those days, and I want them. For all the good this world has done me, of which I deserve none, this simple request has done more. I have failed, you see, and I fail, to this day. But, I assure you this, humanity, I will repay you for this, by my actions from now on. Again, I will be the last sight you see, but I will bring hope, not misery. I will not turn my back, but I will open my arms, and I will welcome you home."

The Angel stood, he rose, and when he did, the fyre faded, but the pool stayed. He stared down at his own reflection, the horrid, awful specter he had allowed himself to become, the picture of hypocrisy, and he realized something, something that should have been so clear. For so long, he had fought the War against himself. He had been his own obstacle. In his rage, he had killed, and he had mourned. He had hated himself for doing what he need not do. As he stepped back onto his podium, the light around him shifted, and for the first time in countless years, the world around him fell under his wings, and it was bright.

Hope, living hope, was the color that shined upon his feet, and humanity was the reflection he saw, among him, within him and of him.