Warning: Violence.

What breaks a man' That's what was on Dev's mind when he stepped up the steps in his new home. That's another new term for the man. Home. What does that even mean' A random dive in some city where no one knew him, a string of motel rooms rented by the month. They had nothing in common. Wait, yes they did. They were all empty. Up the stairs he went, heading for the third door on the left, the third floor of the place. The room's dark, nondescript. So much like the man who spends his time there. A large mirror on the back wall, god how he hates it. Black walls, a bed with black bedding and a few muted posters of Johnny Cash. The floor, well that's black and white tile. It's easier to clean. And of course, a roll top desk with a chair behind it, both black as well. Above that, one would notice the "Love Me" wall. Framed badges, US Marshal's Service, his Texas Ranger Star. A few framed sets of body armor, shattered and glued back together. Bullets hurt, yes they do. If anyone were to enter, they'd hear the Ipod on the desk. Well, they'd hear the Ihome that's playing the music through it. He's from Texas, you know the drill. Tear in my Beer country mixed with Classic Rock and some Orchestral scores thrown in for balance.

And that bed is where Devlin found himself, sitting on the edge with his head in his hands. As soon as he walked in, he threw the hat at a wall, an explosion of curses leaving his normally placid mouth. "This place, ain't gonna be the same. I ain't gonna let it be the same." He paused and looked up at the ceiling and blew a long sigh between tired lips as he whispered "Lexi, I promise to God. It ain't gonna be the same. I know you are sittin' up there and watchin' me, you gotta hate seein' me like this. All I can tell ya is I'm tryin'. I promise you that." As he spoke, his face dropped into a deep frown, something that he had perfected. That scowl, that thousand yard stare, that look that says 'I wasn't there, I'm just tellin' ya about it." He fell silent, as he often did, and lef this mind to ponder through things.

Imagine it, if you will. Imagine sitting at a small desk in a small office and hearing that code go through the radios. "Hostage call, 756 WhiteFawn Lane, Chicago." Devlin's head snapped up from the papers he had been toiling over. His hand went to his heart, the other reaching for the radio, demanding a repeat of the address. "Dispatch, this is Marshal Devlin, Repeat address." And sure enough, it came back as the same thing. That's his home, that's his wife and those are his twins she's carrying. A quick mental scan showed him that all other officers were tied up and SWAT was reacting to a bank robbery. No time to call any of them off, and he's the only one at the office. What else could he do' The radio was picked up once more, and in a halting voice, he spoke into it. "Dispatch, Devlin will respond to the call. Moving now." He stood and checked both pistols at his hip and picked up his hat, a final swig of the lukewarm coffee, anything to take his mind off his wife and put it back on the job. Soon enough, the familiar sights were back. His front yard, the roses they had planted there. Together. The porch swing they had sat on for so long, dreaming of a family. The family they had started. Only this time, he was carrying his pistols off safety, chambered and loose on his hips. That same door, the door she held open for him when he left this morning. It all came back in a rush as he carefully pushed it open, the words already coming to his mind. "Look, you can leave this house one of three ways. You can leave this house as a dead man, you can leave this house as a killer and spend your life in prison or you can leave this house with a firearms charge and a breaking and entering charge. That ain't gonna be so hard on ya, maybe ten years as opposed to life. I'll see what I can do with the judge." And the door was held open, and he saw it. He saw his life falling apart. John Tend. He had played football with this kid in the park, he shared a locker with him in high school. He had wanted to marry Lexi, but Dev had had the inside track, and he had sealed the deal. And then John spoke, that same carefree voice that had masked a laugh for all of those years. Only this time it was unstable, cracked and broken. "Look Dev, you got ten seconds to shoot or I shoot. Make up your mind and do it now." Devlin didn't even need to hear the words, the tone was enough to tell him what was going to happen. Even before John's words landed in his ears, Devlin was drawing his left hand pistol, a motion far too fast to be tracked by a normal eye. Somehow, time slowed down and he let his mind wander. He'd bee born for this, he knew it back in Texas. He hunted with pistols, he did everything with a gun by his side. It's almost ironic. The man who lived by the gun was going to die by the gun, but only his body would walk on. His heart was waiting to fall, everything he is was standing on the edge, a few inches from the darkness that waits for a man like him. Reaching up, taking everything away with a grip that no one can fight. We all lose in the end, don't we" And then back to reality, his left hand flashing up. Time slowed even more as he slapped the trigger. His wrist was out of line, a few inches to the left. He could almost see the bullet cutting through the air, and he knew where he had put it. He fired again, a split second after. This time, it was more to the right. He could see the same trail, he knew where that one was going as well. Even as the rounds impacted, he dropped the pistol and started walking towards the man and his wife. He knew what he did, make no mistake. Two blood splatters on the wall, two identical holes in two different people. Right between the eyes on John, right in the temple on Lexi. Devlin fell to a knee beside his wife and didn't even shed a tear, but that's when it broke. His mind shattered, lost in the space between. A few words, that's all he could say. "God, I love you. You know I had to try. What else could I do?" The pistol was left on the floor as he walked out of the door. His boss was there, and the look on Devlin's face told him all he needed to know. The words that followed sealed the deal. "Top, I'm done. Goin' back to Texas. Do me a favor" Tell the news that I got here late and he killed her. Don't tell them that I fired that shot. Please?" He didn't even wait for an answer, he simply stepped into his car and started driving. He didn't stop until he was in Texas, back home. Back in font of the house that his parents left him after they died. Back at the house where he saw his youngest brothers body in the front yard. With a sarcastic grin on his face and a star on his chest, he muttered to himself while he walked towards that door. "This has to be a new start. I't's gotta be. Promise myself, it has to be somethin' new. Get away from the bottle, get back on the job." Only it wasn't. By ten that night, Devlin was sitting on his couch with a bottle on Jim Beam in one hand, a burger in the other. Did his reflexes slow" No. Did he stop working" No. But he stopped living that day. Make no mistake, he was gone.

A few hours later, Devlin woke up in a cold sweat and pulled his boots back on. Change clothes? Why bother. The door to his room opened once more and the killer stepped out, heading back towards the Inn and another try. Oddly enough, he muttered the familiar credo. "It's gotta be a new start 'round here. Might be the last one. Gotta make it stick here."

The range, it's always been a place for Devlin to think. There's nothing like the sound of gunfire to calm the man, it's his therapy. So much that he doesn't even think when he shoots. It's just the nature of the beast, come unwound and let go. That's what scares people about him, or so they like to say behind his back. Of course, no one would say that to him. No one from back home, but they mutter when he walks out of a room. " "That's a man so tightly wound, so completely in control. Does he need anything?" "Ever see a man so complete" Just needs his drink, just needs his gun." And the last, the thing they liked to say the most. "Somethin' wrong with him. Just gonna come undone and start spraying lead all over the place, less he gets some help."

Of course, they were all wrong. The complete control, the perfect poise that he put on display, even now, attests to that. Two pistols filling his hands, lead being thrown downrange in perfect patterns, to the chest, one to the head. It's all under control and it's time to think. That's what is never under control. And this is where his thoughts went.

A dreary day in mid November. It gets cold in Wyoming, make no mistake. Devlin had been tasked with bringing a fugitive back to Texas, a man named Jay King. Jay had been charged with the slaying of two police officers in Tampa, but had run and ended up here. A marshal is trained with any manner of weapons, and so the heavy barreled .30.06 bolt action rifle felt right rested against his shoulder, the scope simply looked normal with his eye behind it. And it was even more normal, when at twenty four minutes past three in the afternoon, Jay King walked out of the trailer he had rented and died. He fell with a large bullet hole in his upper chest, blown back into the house. An accomplice rounded the corner and he was met with the same fate. A few hours later, Devlin was standing over the body of America's Most Wanted and simply staring, both arms folded over his chest.

Devlin already knew what made a man, sure. He also knows what breaks a man. But what reaches out for a man when he stands on the edge of a cliff, when his toes touch the hard line in the proverbial sand that makes one right and one wrong" Is it a badge" Or is it belief in a sense of morality' What makes his finger the one that is allowed, even encouraged to take a life"

Now, years later he woke up in a cold sweat in his bed, bolting upright at a noise he heard in the hall. One hand had reached for the pistol near his bed, the other already supporting him in his lean. If anything came through that door, it would have been met with a few ounces of solid lead. It's that very thought that bothers him. He toes that line every single day, every time he thinks. He can't help but enter a room and wonder where the choke point is, where the funnels are. How many people could bring a weapon out before I got mine" Who is in the cross fire, who is the most dangerous here" Who would I fire at first, will I die today' Try as he might, they won't go away. No amount of time spent in a bottle, there's not enough nights to spend with a warm body in a warm bed that can even begin to make this go away. That cold thought of death, it's a looming shadow on every bit of a normally sunny life. There's no escape for a man who lives by the gun. That's a lesson he learned at a young age. Anyone can day, no one is the fastest in the world. There might be the fastest today, there might be the fastest this second, but at the end of the day, there is always someone who is better. You can't win them all, and when you lose with guns, you die. Normally, that thought is so far from his mind, but for some reason, the dream about Wyoming brought it to mind. And deep inside of him, he knows why. He knows that it will forever be his weakness. You see, in everything, he has given the man a chance. He's called him out, he's stood in front of him and let him have an option out. Much contrary to what the news said, he never wanted to kill anyone. And in the back of his mind, he knew that he walked that line between Justified and Homicide that afternoon in the middle of nowhere. A few words were breathed into the night, lost and alone, forgotten and drowned in alcohol. Hidden behind years of carefully built walls, but they rang with clarity even behind all of that. Who can hide from what they are"

"I never gave them a chance."

What makes him any different from the men he hunts? Deep inside, Devlin knows one thing. The Badge is the only difference. Murder is murder, death is death. And when it's all said and done, there's one thing that rests on his mind.

"I'm a murderer."

Have you ever made a deal with the devil" No' Good. Neither has Devlin. But that doesn't mean he didn't come darn close to it. Let's go back for a while, I'm going to paint you a picture of a dream he once had. Our hero is asleep, passed out in some random hotel on Interstate 44, somewhere between Saint Louis and Tulsa. An empty hotel room and a man in a suit, thrown onto the bed in a random heap of dark clothes and darker thoughts. Now folks, here's the dream.

Imagine yourself standing at the edge of a cliff. Devlin looked down and saw the bottom of the cliff, he saw it, make no mistake. Nothing but hell fire and damnation. And a solitary figure rising out of it, hands gripping the cliff's face near his boots. A single word started to echo in his head, a snide and cruel voice murmuring "Fall." Over and over again, that's all he heard in his head. On a whim, Devlin looked up to the sky, purely blue and not a cloud in sight. There floated an angel, beckoning down with one hand, saying only one word in a voice so pure and so bright that it might have hurt your ears to listen to it. "Stand." The voice fought in his mind until there was nothing but that noise, that random screaming. "Fall! Stand. Stand. FALL! Fall. Stand. Stand." Devlin's hand shot up to his ears as he rocked back and forth, torn between the decision he was going to have to make. For what is reality, if not unique" It's a dream, but it's real enough and the implication' Well, they are real too. Devlin stood there, hell fire licking at his boots and angelic light falling over his shoulders, and he rocked back and forth, clutching his head the way an insane man might, anything to chase the voices out. Make it go away, make it stop. If you've heard them, you might understand. Either way, back to the story. Devlin reached one hand down and said a few words. "Can ya bring her back?" And sure enough, his wife floated out of the flames, a perfect picture of her. Too perfect, and Devlin shook his head. The eyes were different, nothing but twin orbs of flame, mocking and cold, inviting and almost on fire at the same time. He recoiled in shock, a flinch as sure as if he had been shot in the chest. His eyes drifted upwards and he said the same thing. "Can ya bring her back?" The angel shook it's head sadly and said "I will not lie, what is done is done."

Now, here's the turning point in our story ladies and gents. You see, most people make a deal right about now. They end up siding with who can give them the most. And what did Devlin do' Well now, let's just find out.

Devlin shook his head and the angel and began to cry. Real tears, evaporating as soon as they touched the burning air around him. An effort of will had silenced the voices, silenced them for good. Or so he thought. And with slow steps, Devlin simply walked away from the cliff. The voices were shut out for a few days, maybe even a few weeks. And then slowly, one voice came back, a female's voice. Something he'd know even if he only heard it one more time in his life. "Come back to me Dev, come on down to me." And once again, he simply walked away, this time adding his own voice to the mix.

"I'm sorry honey, but I can't. Ya see, the Good Lord told me that it's done." And with that, it was. It's all over now, that's what he has to believe.

But here's the moral of out story, here's the secret to our hero. He's human, sure enough. Nothing more and nothing less. But on that night, during that dream, well something changed. Can you guess what it was"

The devil lost an executioner and God lost a judge. Lost in this world, cut off and alone, Devlin wandered. Now, that's a bad choice of words. He still wanders, he's doing it right now, I reckon. Lost between awake and asleep, alive and dead. Here and there, then and now. And you know what? I bet those boots are still walking. Where to' Who knows" But anywhere has to be better then right here. And still, his own voice is playing that same tune in his head.

"It's gotta be better here, it just has to be. I can't walk much further, gotta take a rest. Gotta let it go."

And then there's another voice in his head, cold and calculated, sweet and seductive. "Yes, let it go Devlin. Let it all go and fall." And one more, folks. One more voice, pure and bright, so hot that it almost burns the soul. "Like has purpose Marshall Devlin. I did not create you to die, nor did I create you to kill. I created you to bring my wayward sheep back home."

Love. Love is hate, love is hope. It's passion and it's the darkest pit that a creature can ever stumble into. But what you can fall into, you can climb out of. Most of the time. That was Devlin's train of thought as he made his way down the stairs and into the gardens of the Bristle Crious grounds. Flowers always calmed him, and this time he held eleven white roses and one that was as black as night. It had been white, but that changed as soon as he touched it, as soon as he let that essence draining chill seep out of him and into it. The monster he had to control, the life he could never understand. But back to his thoughts, back to the pages that a man writes in his own mind, the things he says to himself in the quiet of the night, in the light of the morning.

Love, it's a fickle matter. People say that we love a person, but don't we love an idea" If love never ends, then how can we move on and find another" To him, that sounded like you loved an idea. You loved that she was gentle, tender, smart. You were in love with her because of this, because of that. Because of what she was and what she wasn't. You fell even more in loe when she burned the cake for your birthday and cried. Oh, you didn't say anything, you ate that burnt cake and you acted like you thought it was the best cake in the world. And God how you love when she blushed the first time you kissed her in public. But if one woman can do that, can't another" Can't that one, can't this one" We love a person for the ideas that they represent, the way they make us feel. And another can have that same effect. So can drugs, so can alcohol.

Speaking of alcohol, he took a few faltering steps and pulled another long drink from the bottle he was holding. You guessed it, Jim Beam. It's the fourth bottle of the day. Even after all that, his eyes are still bright. Maybe a little too bright, and by bright, I mean they are flashing red and green. Both of his hands shot up to his head, holding his face and trying to stem the tide of the light. It wasn't enough, not even close. As the light trickled between his fingers, it started to take shapes. A blonde in the rose bushes, tending the gardens. As she looked up, she turned into the very picture of hate, the Devil himself. The demon turned and stared at Devlin, laughing and pointing. As soon as he laughed, it turned back into a woman with long dark hair and a cowboy hat on. His hat. The hat faded, the dark hair turned red. This time, she moved closer, whispering promises and then turning away. All of a sudden, the images mixed back into the blonde, but with a bleeding hole in her temple. From the floor, she pointed up and Devlin and laughed. "You did this. And you keep doing it."

He didn't know what to do. Have you ever lashed out in anger and not cared" Both hands flashed down to his hips and came up. They never made it over his hips though, he was firing from there. Twenty rounds, caliber .45, ripped into the rose bushes where the pictures had been, before he dropped his hands and shook his head. A few soft words fell from his lips. "Ya'll aren't real. Go away, please?" For a moment, he was at peace. Calm, poised and ready. And then it happened again, the voices. This time, they were in his head.

It came from every corner of his head, a twisted and random voice. It was her's, it was his. It didn't matter. The message was the same. "You did this. I didn't damn you. You damned yourself Marshall. Or should we just call it like it is" A spade a spade, a killer a killer" When you are all alone, just know this. You did it."

Morality is nothing more then a set of scales. Perception and reality are both unique, and the word normal is a lie. Who can stand in front of another and tell him that he is wrong for what he does" Have you walked in his shoes" Until you have, until you have seen what he has and done what he has done, you simply can not.

Devlin stood in front of his mirror and placed a hand on the polished glass, staring at his reflection. Only, it wasn't his reflection. Nor was it his wife. This time, it was a winged creature, a burnished halo floating over it's head. Will he apologize" No. He simply wanted to get a weight off of his chest.

"The people, they call me a killer. Without remorse, without compassion. If only they knew." He chuckled a few times, low and under his breath. Of course, the figure didn't speak back. They were past those times, make no mistake. As if to remind him of that, the black flames started to run there way up Devlin's body. In response, he twitched and started to shake, screams becoming muted as the silence fell over him once again.

"I don't understand how one can judge another for what he has done. Who is able to say that things are right and wrong" For me, I am right. For them' They are right. The invading army is right in the mind of the soldier, but in the mind of the villager who has his farm burned" They are wrong." His speech trailed off as he lost himself in thought, an introspective eye turning towards the heart of this man, the empty hole that can be filled by nothing and anything, all at the same time. It's as black as the river he crosses every night, but it's as pure as judgement itself. One might say that the circle is no complete. Balance was found within the imperfection that has become so unique to the man. Balance, that might be a bad word. Acceptance might be a better one. For the first time in a long time, he stopped looking out and looked in. There never was balance, there was only a choice, and the scales that we hold in our own mind tend to balance themselves when we let them.

A gloved fist smashed into the mirror, shattering the glass and the image that it held. "I found it, without your help. This I know to be the truth, don't you see" None of this mattered. It's us, it's those who walk the mortal paths that make the decision." He smiled, a cruel and rather callous thing, devoid of any emotion other then hate. Sullen and cold anger, rage and hate. "I know what I am and I know when you went wrong. You gave me too much freedom, don't you get it' And now I make my own choices." He turned away from the mirror, like he'd done so many times and stepped back into the main room. Hands clasped behind his back, he began pacing with that same smile etched onto his face. 'It's done now. It's all over. I'm dead, so anything I do is a bonus."

He sat down at the desk and began to write, almost feverishly at first. The pen slowed and he scratched out a simple message at the bottom of the page.

"I a justice. Cold and impartial justice. Repent, all ye sinners, for I have come to this place and you will be judged." The pen started to crawl once more, a signature.

"Marshal Devlin."

Truth. It's all a lie, that's the only real truth. It's all a lie based on half truths and statements that might be true, words that might be false. That's the key, it's what we understand to be right and wrong. Morality is unique, perception is left for the masses to decide. Right to him, wrong to her. Good for them, evil for us. What's it all amount to' Just another excuse to fight, just another justification for the war, just another cause to die for. That's the moral of this story, this twisted and conviluted struggle. One man's fight against those that would lie, those that would hide there actionns unde the guise of morality. It's nothing but one big lie, I promise you that.

Those were Devlin's thoughts, his companions and his solace. Today, he was making his way out of the Coven and heading for the garden. There's something peacheful about the smell of the flowers, the quiet that is the early morning. Most of the world is still asleep, and those that walk in the night are looking for there beds. You might call it an in between time, and you might call him an inbetween man. A becnh was found, the dew brushed off and a relaxed seat was taken. That's what he is, relaxed. At peace, finally. There's peace in war, you just have to look for it. The book was taken out and rested on his knee, the bleeding book that never left his side. A pen began it's steadily crawl across paper as he brought his thoughts to life.

"There is no right, there is no wrong. That's what I've come to learn and that's what I've come to understand. That's me, I guess. Nothing more and nothing less then the proof. Back a few weeks ago, I might have called myself the truth. But I know better then that now, I know it all too well. There's no truth, and even I'm just a walking deception. That's the beauty of it all, that's the freedom. We make our own truth, I think. What we believe, what we accept, that becomes truth. It's what we accept. There's no truth in a bottle, there's no peace in a life that's spent running away. But you know what? All I've been doing is running." THe pen stopped there, both hands folded on his lap as he took a deep breath, the first one that he had taken in so long. The world looked alive, things jumped out at him and latched onto his heart, opened his mind and warmed his soul. It's a false warmth, the warm of Spring before the next frost, but it's a step down the right road. In a hurried explosion, the pen came back to life.

"And it's friends that did it for me. It's people willign to accept me for what I am. That's what allowed me to become who I am. That's what allowed me to understand that I'm a demon, sure. I stand gaurd over the lower gates of Hell, make no mistake. And I like it. But at the same time, I don't have to be that all the time. I can be a man, I can be a murderer. I can love, I can hate. It's just a matter of letting myself do it. That's the risk. I told someone that I was afraid of having something to lose, and I am. But at the same time, I'm going to do it. I'm going to let myself hold something close and I'm going to enjoy it. And if I lose it' Well, I can keep right on running." The book was closed gently and slipped back into a pocket while he leaned back into the bench, both hands coming to rest behind his neck, supporting his head as he leaned back. He began to mutter towards the sky, a placid smile on his face.

"It's gonna be fine. I know it is, I promise ya that dear. Gonna try again, ya know? Got a long way to go, but this has to be the first step on that road. Gotta start somewhere."

In the last episode, we saw the final evolution, the cirlce that ended, one line breaking free and starting another. But this new line, it made no circle. It made a straight line, one heading towards a singular goal, bound to end. One might say it's on a collision course with the one thing he can't fight. The walls, they have holes. His armor, it's dented. Once, he thought he was running. That might have been true at one point, but he's stopped. Stopped, and he's fallen to his knees. Once a human, always a human. Some things can't be taken from us, but like the act of pulling the old bandages away, some things hurt. Even when they are good for us. The burn, it cleans an old wound, the needle forces the numbing agent. It's funny just how deep you can force a needle. Anything to just feel better, right"

On his knees, that's where he was. Kneeling near the side of his bed, face pressed to the black sheets in his room, the third story of the Coven. The window was open, the curtains throw wide as well. Pale moonlight bathed the room, it cradled the man, opening it's arms, holding out the warmth for him. It's a cruel game, the teasing and the dangling, the things he can barely recall, the things he won't ever know again. For the first time in what seems life forever, tears stained the sheets. Both hands clutched at the cloth, holding onto it, reaching out for anything. It's with a muted gasp that he took the next breath, ragged and shallow. Finally, his head lifted and he stared at the window, caught sight of the moon and simply stared, eyes wide, body racked with a final sob. A broken man, a shattered human, left alone and cold. His Devil in the shadows has gone for the moment, it's left him cold and alone, lost and forgotten. A single word broke the silence, something murmured to the bed, murmured to the moon. "Sorry."

It's the same picture, the same laughing face, the same blood stained cheek staring down. Mocking, arrogant. So sure of itself, reminding him day in and day out of what he has done, what he has failed to do. It twisted his words against him this time. "And you once said that pennance was a lie. If that's true, what are you doing on your knees?" The laughter that followed it cut him deeper then the words. It help pity, scorn and contempt.

For his part, for the part that this shell of a body has played for so long, he simply shrugged. The facade broke though, the careless arrogance faded away as he practically screamed at the moon, ragged and tattered, a voice that's detached, bereft of anything that might have been sane. "You think I got somewhere else to go' You think I wanted all this" You didn't watch me die. You didn't lose everything you ever held close, you ain't done it. Hell, you got the easy way out. Wanna trade?" He pasued for a breath, paused for a mere moment and made up his mind. His left hand flashed towards his hip, returning to the bed. Sure enough, it was filled with the comfroting weight, the easy grip of the black pistol. The muzzle found his temple, resting and waiting, his thumb found the safety, forcing it down and off. The light in the room flared, grew blinding, and out of it stepped a woman. She held a hand to him, delicate and almost transparent.

"You think I didn't lose anything" I have watched you for all these years. And I lost you. I'm losing you even now. Can't you see" Don't make me watch this." And then it's gone, the message delivered, the point taken. He dropped the weapon to the floor and placed his head back on the sheets, the sheets wet with the first tears he's cried in seven long years, the first wall that's broken. He slept like that, at least for a few hours. When he woke, all he had to offer was a long sigh.

"It's over now. All just a dream, right?" He had to believe that, he had to let himself accept that. It's not real, it's just one of his games, his twisted games. A body dies, but a soul never does. Flesh fades, bones turn to dust. But what makes us lingers, it ligners and welcomes the pain. Anything to remind us that we are real. We cling to it, we embrace it. And when everything else is gone, we need it. "Gotta give me something to hold onto. I gotta find it and I gotta do it quick. Figthin' a losin' battle." With that, he shook his head once more and forced himself to believe. It'd been a dream. But, oddly enough, one thing was the truth. If it had been a dream, why was his pistol on the bed"

It's amazing how everything comes full circle, if given time. It we allow time and fate to work through us, and we accept what comes to pass, we understand that the puppet master who pulls the strings is often correct. At least, that's what he's come to learn. On a more specific note...

Devlin popped out of the bed, a few minutes after seven in the morning. The sunlight, well it poured through the windows and lit up the room, bathing him in the warm light. It just felt....right. Almost perfect, almost serene. And that's the beauty of it, the light that reveals the truth. In understanding that humans can feel pain, in letting himself feel the pain given by another, his eyes were opened and he saw what he had become. And what did he do' He ran from it, he ran far away and he turned his head towards the sky, towards the light. He ended up on both knees, his hands folded over his chest. "Please, please take me back. I'll make it work this time, ya know I will."

A voice came, falling from the clouds. Ageless, calm and collected. It's a language that most have forgotten, a tongue that most minds can't even start to fathom. It's the voice of an Angel. No, no it's not. It's the voice of the Father, the creator and the protector. He who forgives. "I knew that you would. In all of this, you proved that you understand. Now, you will stand before those in the middle. Your wings will be the shield they hide behind, your hands will be the sword that avenges them. Go now, go my son."

Devlin stood and nodded once before the image faded away. He was still in his room, still in the Coven, sitting at his bed. Something felt different though, it felt off. No, it felt complete. Perfect and finished, the ending of a book, but a chapter that points towards a new volume. He decided to try it, to call on the emotion locked inside of him, he let himself go. It's blinding, the light that took over the room. When it faded, there stood the man, but it's like night from day. Golden robes, the richest of all colors covered his form, reflecting the light, almost dancing in it. A hood covered his head, the face is empty, black and alone. So black that it almost absorbs the rest of the light, feeds off of it and controls it. But the wings, those shine the brightest. Twin webs, almost transparent energy, dazzling white light. There's no feathers, that's not his ward. His is truth, and the light that burns from those wings is the light that forces the dark away, hold it at bay and shows us the way to what we want to be, where we need to go. It's all gone in a flash, but that peaceful calm, that serene bliss stayed with him. It wouldn't go away, not this time. He understood his purpose. Heaven wages war on Hell, Hell seeks to destroy the middle planes, the humans on Earth. And for those humans, he will fight. The words his Father had spoken rang true, and the circle is complete. He understands love, he can feel pain. He knows what loss is, and he can understand gain. A bridge between the three planes, that's what he has become. There are those who forgive, and there are those who judge. He's neither, simply a tool. The long arm of the law" That was then. Now" He's the long arm of the truth, an incredible weapon. But he's always been a weapon. What makes a weapon dangerous? Not the edge on the sword, not the bullet in the chamber. It's the person who holds the weapon. What's harder to do, to know when to shoot or when not to shoot' He can now understand both. It's a lovely word.

Compassion.

Sometimes, you don't wake up from a dream. Sometimes, they are so real that they shock you into change, messages from some hidden voyeur, there's someone miles away staring at you from behind a hidden image finder. And sometimes, the person is right in front of you, burning holes into your soul and telling you all the things you can't hear on your own. That screaming voice, begging and pleading for you to come back, needing you to step back into reality, quit hiding and face the light. That's what he hears, that's the tone that cuts into Devlin's perfected arrogance, his wall of truth. His very armor. That was the point of the dreams, so real and so final. It's a test, you see. When one is given power, one has to understand how to use it. One has to know when to use it, when not to use it. You only really understand that when you see the damage it can do. Not the damage to others, we accept that, His angels understand that there will be damage to the world. But it's the pain that we inflict on ourselves, it's the shot in the night that cuts through the self medication, the excuses and the justifications we have. And if an angel survives that, if he can rise above the flames, he understands. And in understanding, he finds truth. In acceptance, he finds peace, freedom and the very thing that he can give out, but he can never give to himself. Hope.

The transformation is an ordeal, the shift form the living to the undying, the mortal to the ageless. One's body remains fragile, but his spirit, his soul and his very essence join the ranks of the timeless, the ones who count time in centuries, not seconds. It's easy to see. Gone is the pale skin, the almost ghost like look. Gone is the blank mask of a face, gone is the shell. It's filled with the hope for a population that doesn't care, it's full of the need to serve those who take everything. More then that, his ward is the selfless preservation of a set of ideals. There's no thanks and there is never a need. That is the love of an angel, the never ending love and compassion that asks for nothing, yet it gives everything. This essence glows from those who hold it, and he can't help but be what he is.

His eyes are no longer black, but a pale, almost pupil ridden white. And in that pale stare, there's light. It falls from his eyes, bathing the area near him in an oddly haunting light. His skin is tinged with gold, almost burnished bronze, and it seems to glow. His whole image flickers when looked at, it bends with the light in a subtle fashion. That's the promise, that's the assurance. He's nothing more then a projection of his own will, an image that he controls. His mind is the same, his spirit and his soul remain untouched, but the final form, the ending transformation is waiting to come out, biding it's time and showing it's anger with each passing second. For that is the ultimate promise of the Gods and of the angels, of all the celestial beings. Forgiveness, hope, compassion, love. An undying need to serve, a timeless understanding and infinite patience. But under that, there is the simmering anger, the boiling rage that is justice and truth. There's bitter hurt and sullen anger, anger for those who would dare turn there face, hurt for those who won't accept the truth and the help.

There are few creatures who understand eternity better, few who can fathom the depths of an infinite existence better then those who walk on the clouds. And with that, few can guess the pointlessness of it all with more clarity. It's a long time, surely, and it's a long time filled with nothing, empty promises and hollow threats. It's forever, and it's already written in the books of Fate and Time. And who stands at the end of all days? We won't know that until the end times do come, but we can be assured of one thing. There will be those who stand, and there will be one who stands in front of them.

It's already been written, and there's no point in avoiding your fate.

Faith. Morality, hope and religion. Questions I get asked each and everyday. When people understand what I am, they recoil and flinch Religion has become a dark stain, and we all knew it would. If only people understood the truth behind all of it.

The words were written in a leather bound journal he kept in his desk, and said journal ended up back in it's drawer as he began to speak to the wall. No one was listening, but maybe someone would hear his almost desperate plea.

"It's not about religion, it's not about faith in anything other then yourself. Why can't you understand that?" The words came out clear and concise, almost hurt. "Religion was created by men, and it was created for men. In our darkest hours, we need something to look forward to, something to move to. If we are not running towards something, we are doing nothing but running from the past." He blew a long sigh and shrugged. His message was clear, short and impossibly hard to fathom. "Have hope in yourself. Find the real faith. When we create our own light at the end of out tunnels, we have found real faith. Go where you will go, but go with a good heart. I will not judge, for you must sleep with your own actions. Not me."

With that, he stood and simply faded through the door. It didn't open, but walls and door, material things, can't hold this man, they can't even bother this angel. Nothing more then a specter created of light and barely controlled chaos, he simply moves where he will. And tonight, a long date with Jim Beam would help.

A long break, a hiatus from the social life he normally lived. For his own reasons, he needed to leave this place to calm the storms that burned in his heart of hearts. That and he was called back by the Most High, for the work of the righteous is never truly done. Oddly enough, the angel ventured back to the same church, the same ruined town. The sign on the highway read Alma, 1.2 miles.

Time hadn't touched the flames, nor had it altered the same lingering hate that Devlin felt as he approached the altar, brilliant wings trailing behind the golden armor he wore so often these days. Before, he stood as a conquering hero, a righteous man, one that redeemed souls. This time, this night, the strangest thing would be seen. With his head bowed, Devlin, or Raziel, for the names are the same, took a knee in front of the fire. Eyes the color of the moon took in the scene, took in the pain and took in the anger. As he stared, his body shimmered and danced in the fire's light, a fading light. Where time had not touched, the Most High would. This is what he learned when he was gone, this is what the endless wars had taught an Arch Angel.

"I'm sorry I never thought of it this way. I tried to make it better on the outside, I thought that if I got rid of the evil, I'd make the world perfect. Little did I know, I have to take on the burden." The voice was the same, perfect and ageless, something too melodious to have been made by a mortal.

"I'm sorry Mother, I'm sorry Father. Let me try again?" That's all he said, a simple question thrown out to a broken home, a broken building and a broken mind. More then any of that, a question he needed to ask his own broken heart.

People change. Tomorrow changes, we lose yesterday and we gain the day after tomorrow when we give up today. When we realize that all we do is nothing in the vast ocean that we call life, we are free. Freed from the need to understand, freed from the need to try and change things. When we simply exist, we are free.

If only life was that easy for some people. Devlin sat at the worn desk in his room, feet kicked up on the side of another chair. In one hand, a bottle of Jim Beam. In the other" A small black book with only a few names, a few dates and a few scribbled messages. Worn with age, the book had been with him at the dawn of time, had seen the Magna Carta written, had watched London fall to the Plague. It had seen Nelson at Trafalgar, is had watched brave men die at Da Nang, seen soldiers charge the steep shores of Normandy. As a recent friend had said, Devlin had seen the worst and the best of this world, seen the rise and fall of empires, the birth of kings and the deaths of emperors. And he'd not cared.

A perfect situation, for justice is cruel and uncaring, it's perfect and it knows no grey area. Right and wrong are moot, action and reaction count. In his world of threats and answers, he had been content. But that was falling apart around him. For once, he cared. With a sarcastic grin, Devlin shrugged and knocked back another shot. "Ya know, I do care. Care 'bout each and every one of ya'll. Hell, I done died for most of ya, but I'd do it again. Now I jes' gotta find one thing." Another shot, another night in an empty room. Another night to sit and stare, wonder and remember so many faces, so many people. Laughter and tears, hugs and sweet kisses that seemed to start at midnight and stop when the sun rose. Of trying to get dressed while falling out of a window, of shaking his head when she asked about forever, offering that cynical grin and never coming back. That's what his life has been, simply watching time pass. Ignoring the hurt that he held so close. He'd moved on physically, but mentally' Never.

Trapped in eternity, he simply watched everything near him die, he watched people grow old, he held a child's hand and comforted a dying mother in the same breath. Now" Now, of all times, of all pivotal times in his private war, he cared too much.

"I stand sorrounded by the walls that once confined me, knowing I'll be underneath them when they crumble, when they fall. With clarity, my scars remind me, ash still simmers just under my skin." There he paused, yet another drink taken, the chair kicked away as he stood and made his way towards the door. He'd drink with company, but still he sang to himself.

"Indifference smiles again, so much I hide. How is stepping back a move forward" Now I'm forced to look behind, I'm forced to look at you. You wear a thousand faces, tell me, tell me, which is you? Broken mirrors paint the floor, why can't you see the truth' You wear a thousand faces, tell me, tell me, which is you?" Towards the famed Inn he went, a sad smile painted across his face.

Don't you ever hear a song that seems to be written just for you?

We, in this narrative, have seen what breaks a man and what makes a man, we have been shown the price of redemption and the path to perdition. We have seen how an angel falls and the price he pays to rise. But, there is more to the story, and this event is the start of it all. Not the life of Marshall Devlin as we know him, but the creation of his true persona, the second Arch Angel, Raziel. Now, shall we digress"

When time was young, the Angels were already ancient. When Celestia was created, thousands of years had passed beneath the careful gaze of these seven, these watchdogs. The wolves that guard the flock, often not bothering to look like the sheep themselves. Unseen were these soldiers, unheard and unknown. Unknown to the masses, and only a select few ever saw the face of an angel. It was through this watchful nature that the council of seven found Celestia. For them, it would become home. It would serve as a tether, a tangible place for the worthy to join them. With these angels, there is no God, there is no religion. There is simply right and there is wrong, there is justice and there is truth. Action and reaction, and these celestial warriors keep the peace, doling out true justice to those who dwell in the middle planes, that layer of existence captured between Celestia and the Abyss. And there was war, there was hundreds of thousands of years of brutal war between the keepers of peace and those who would stand to destroy the middle planes, to ensnare the wingless ones. And who fought this silent war" The council of seven, those arch angels. Each had his place, and each has his own history. Brothers all, kin and shared essence. But that is neither here nor there. What is here is the second among the council, Raziel. The Angel of Secrets, the Keeper of the Mystery.

What, you might ask, was Raziel sent to do' He was ordered to live among the wingless ones, to understand them and record all that he saw. Towards this end, he alone was gifted with free will and living intelligence. His brothers were all built for a single purpose, and each of them knew only to perform that mission, to become what they strove to be. But not this one! Raziel was given the most dangerous of gifts, the destroyer of men and the creator of shadows. He was given the ability to think.

And now, now we come to the time that Devlin slipped through the Nexus and found Rhydin. Of all places, this world could use the subtle hand of a pure being, one would assume. Among this collection of reality, truth would shine through. Alas, it was not to be. This place gave him the second most dangerous gift a man could ever hope to receive. Love. For all things done of love must be for a good purpose, and an act of true love will always shine with grace. Often, grace and truth can be double edged swords.

For through this love, Devlin became biased, he became ensnared by the wingless ones, the very ones he had sworn so long ago to defend. And in his bias, he became attached. When things grow attached, they can become detached. And in the inevitable detachment of the target of his infatuation, Devlin learned of the most damning traits, the trait that his kind was never supposed to discover. Self pity. In his grief, Devlin lost the world he had been given, lost the ability to see the truth, that all things fade, that life ends and that love too must die at some point.

Upon his return to the council of seven, he reported his findings not within a tome, nor did he spout wisdom to his brethren. He simply was, he simply stood and stared at them. What did he do next' He demanded to know why, why was he sent' Was was he sent to learn of the pain that these beings face, the weakness of a human heart, the destructive forces that drive a less then pure soul? These questions were asked, and these questions were answered by none other then the first Arch Angel, Tyreal. One might ask what his answer was, what grand plan had been working for these many, many eons.

"You, Raziel, were sent because you alone could see the end. Having been shown your end, you alone can understand that there is an end to all things. There is an end to war, there is an end to suffering. Also, hope dies, love fades and faith is lost. Angels die, demons fade from existence." When Tyreal's speech was over, Raziel stared at him, baffled. The meaning was still not clear to him, this mind that understood all things with clarity could not fathom the purpose in any of this.

"The end of these things is the promise that we have given those we serve, the promise that you alone will deliver. You will be merciful, for you know there is an end. You will be true, for you can not lie. You will be understanding, because you too will meet this same end. You, my brother, are no longer Raziel, who's name was stricken from these very ranks, who's face will no longer brighten these hallowed halls. You fell as Raziel, second Arch Angel, Angel of Secrets, Keeper of the Mystery. You alone understand the secret, you alone can unravel the mystery. Life is death, and all things will come to an end. You, my dear friend, can give this gift with passion and love. Fall Raziel, fall never to rise again. Twisted you were, but pure you have become." There, the leader of the council took pause, collecting his thoughts and composing his volatile nature.

"Rise again, rise with the name Azrael. Rise! Stand among the wards you serve as the specter of death. Be true, and bestow this gift on the worthy, sift the wheat from the chaffe and call the faithful to your side. Rise, my friend, and walk alone, as you always have. For this is the end of Raziel, and this is the start of Azrael, Arch Angel of the Endtimes, He who holds Death in his palm."

At this moment, the court adjourned, and Devlin found himself on a windswept plain north of the city, north of Rhydin. A slow nod fell over the white hood, already his armor was turning black. Already did the angel understand. For once in his life, the man was at peace with the angel, the angel understood the purpose he was designed for.

Another step back in time, another location that Marshall Devlin forgot. You see, the actions that shaped him as a man turned him into the angel that he always was, the rampant and arcane abomination that he has ended up as. But still, there's that man locked inside or outside, given the situation and the time. And this, this my friends, is a telling scene in the life of one Marshall Devlin.

Two people stood side by side, two people at a bar. No one else was there, no one but Dev and a woman named Lilly. Lilly, blonde and tall, was barely a woman, she couldn't have been more then nineteen. It was too soon for Dev, there was still a tan line where his wedding ring took it's place on his hand. As close as they were, standing chest to chest, she couldn't help but notice. "You said you were a Fed before you came here, right?"

"Yeah, that's true. U.S. Marshal, actually. Jus' quit a few weeks ago. Why ya askin'?" The bells were going off in his head, the tell tale alarms, questions he didn't want to answer. His hand was dragged away and forced into a pocket. "That so hard to believe?"

"Yes it is. Agents don't do well with married life, and you wore a wedding ring for quite some time, didn't you?" Lilly was still talking in that playful manner, assuming that Devlin wasn't anything more then most men, out while he was on business and looking for a few drinks and a pretty girl.

With that, Dev turned on a heel and shook his head. A few steps took him towards the door, he had heard enough. It was time to get out of this place, time to get out of this town. Maybe the next stop would be better, maybe no one would bother to ask. Lilly, however, was not to be put off so easily. Her steps followed his, and her hand rested on his shoulder. "What's wrong" It's fine, a lot of men come and, well...you know. Just want a good time come a Saturday night. I won't tell if you don't tell." As young as she was, her eyes spoke of a knowledge that she shouldn't have at that age. Hell, why was she even in this bar"

All of that cunning was gone in a second, of of the feminine charm. Anger banishes that with ease, and Dev's eyes blazed with barely controlled rage. "We were happily married wit' one on the way. Were, and I mean that." Oddly enough, he didn't shrug away from the touch. Not this time. "And ya know what? I'm happy wit' what I got now, and that ain't nothin'. Sho', I killed 'em both, done made peace wit' that. But I didn't have no choice, and I ain't gotta answer to you. Like I said, I was a Marshal."

Easy to emotion, Lilly stopped and stared. "Wha-"

Devlin put a finger on her lips and shrugged down at her. "Don't ask, you don't want to know, I promise you that. What I can promise is this, I ain't like the rest of 'em. Jus' wanted to sit and take a drink."

"Dev! Stop it, please?" She wasn't fooled, she'd known him for far too long. At least she's seen him drinking, seen the way he didn't talk, seen how he had eyes only for his bottle. That's why she wanted him, that's why she needed him. He didn't want her, he was a challenge. Forbidden fruit. "You loved them, right?" The question was rhetorical, she knew he did. "Don't let this take the woman you loved, the child you made and the man that they loved. It killed them, don't let it kill you. Please?" Lilly's eyes, so full of promise before, were full of understood pain. She could relate, but she had no idea the hurt, she couldn't stand in front of the anger this man held so dear. Her eyes lowered, finding a home in between the feet there.

Devlin, for all of his restraint, laughed. Just once, and far from an amused noise. Lilly looked back up, hope in those blue eyes. A smile formed itself on her face, maybe she got through' She stepped closer, both hands on his chest. "What do you say w-.."

"It's too late for that. Already killed me." Hardbitten pain, callous anger fuel the man we all know as Devlin. With that, he shrugged away from her touch and moved towards the door, a final glance shot over his shoulder. "Like I said, you don't want to know, and you don't want the kind of trouble I am. Told you, it's too late. Already killed me." Dev was gone, he walked out of that door and never looked back. Another town, another set of people.

Hope for the hopeless, faith for the liars. Truth for the ignorant and blessings for the damned.

Up until now, this has been the story of Dev's life. It took a turn, it changed when Dev decided to write in a little black book, the book of souls. History can be changed, but reality is a matter of perception, and perception is hard to sift though, more so when reality has been a lie. So starts the journal of one Marshall Devlin, Azreal, the Arch Angel of Death.

She asked why I was here, and I've grown tired of the half truths, I've grown sick of the interesting stories that really mean nothing. In reality, there's a simple reason why I'm here. Remember when He died on the cross" I was right next to him, the criminal who prayed with him. I put my faith in some nonsense and it burned me. He lied to me, and I knew it. I knew he would lie to me, didn't I" I see time as it passed, not at is passes. I can stare into the future and sometimes get it right. Fact is, I knew he would lie to me.

And as I sat there with the bottle in my hand, looking like a sad excuse for a man, I had to answer her. It hurt, really. I had to tell her the truth. So what did I do' I told her a story.

There was once an angel sent to the second altered plane of humanity, sent to research and study these humans. Odd creatures, things who love and things who care. Those aren't emotions that someone like me can understand, but I started to figure it out. When I was called back to the council, I told them of my findings, I told them of all the flaws and all of the good things. I let them know, and I told them straight. What was the answer" I was told, no, I was commanded to destroy the world, I was ordered to eliminate these weak beings. Should I have" Yes.

Did I" No. Truth be told, I loved them. Each and everyone. And why am I here" Well, that's because when I was told to kill them, I said no. And what was I told" I was given a choice. Them or me. I could save my humans, but I would never step foot in Celestia again. I'd lose my spot on the council, forever cast down and erased from the roll calls of the Heavens. Can you guess what I did"

Right, you can. And now, ask yourself why I hate you, ask yourself why I love you. Ask yourself why I'm here. That angel" It was me. I did it and I'd do it again. I don't know how to show it, but I love you. All of you. How much do I love you? I died for you.

Not just once, but a million times. Each night, I can feel that blade slipping into my heart, I watch my blood spill for you. I shed tears when you cry, I scream into the night when you are hurt. But who listens" Not you. But who stands at the gates, keeping you safe" I do.

Now, ask why I'm bitter. Ask why I don't care. When I refused to turn my back, when I died for you, you left me. Ask yourself why I am what I am, and then look in the mirror. I am what I am because this is what you made me.

"What makes a man work 'till his kids get to old to kiss and hug, keep on climbing that imaginary mountain, when is enough enough' What makes a man build a kingdom only to lose his woman, how high is too high, how big is too big, how far will we go just to slip off the edge" Yeah, we all fall down, life takes us out."

"The sky starts spinning when our heads get above the clouds, the higher the we fly the harder it feels when we hit the ground. Yeah, we all fall down."

"Yeah, we all fall down."

"How does a man pick himself up when he's let himself down" Tell me, where does he find the courage to turn his world back around. Will he break down and cry, like someone just died, what can he say about the man he used to be when he can't even speak though he's dyin' to scream that we all fall down?"

"When we find out that the sky starts spinning when our heads get above the clouds, the higher we fly the harder it feels when we hit the ground. Yeah, we all fall down, yeah we all fall down. He's the only one to blame and the only one who knows how low he must go to win back his soul."

"Yeah, we all fall down. Yeah, we all fall down."

(Darius Rucker, obviously not my work.)

The song made so much sense that day, that cold and rainy day. Nothing was different, not really. That's the sad part, it was all the same. The demon should have let go of him by now, that's why he left for a time. It should be over, you know" But it's not. Those talons dug far too deep, those hateful chains were far too tight this time. It wasn't going to let go.

The scene made so much sense, even if it was ironic. Him and Renna, sitting there at the bar, talking about with veiled words about redemption and forgiveness, at least that's how he took it. A good and kind man, that's what the stories said" What stories has she heard" Someday, he'll have the courage to tell the world, some day people will stop assuming it's over a girl. Someday the whole world will here what he's been dying to scream at the night, all the words he's been dying to whisper into the rising sun. But not now, not today.

Dying to say' More like killing to say. It's started, the systematic purge. Dev knows, that's the cruel irony. He's always known this is what he is. All the lies people think are truth, all the misconceptions people hold are just funny games and funny stories. How low will a man go to win back his soul" How low will he go to win back t he souls of a world, a world that he held in thrall, a world he ruined"

That's not the question. The question is how low has he already gone, how much lower will he go' That's the truth behind it.

About all that wasn't veiled was the pleading cry, a desperate set of words offered to one who most likely really understands, something he should have told the world, something he needs to tell those who have shown so much faith in this broken creature, shattered man and fallen angel.

"No matter what they say about me, no matter what you see me do, I'm just the same man as I've always been."

A poignant reminder that all along, Dev knew. Every single action, he understood. A harsh reminder to the self imposed torture. He thought he was making the right choices.

Peace on Earth, peace for men. Peace is not more then a pause in war, a war for the very hearts and souls of men. Violence is tangible, hate is not. Hate is an ideal, pain is an emotion and these things can never be killed.

This last night, in the darkest of nights, when the moon was swallowed by the clouds, when the stars had hidden their flickering light from the eyes of mortals, the council met, the Angiris stood in the hallowed places, six angels, six creatures who could never be whole, a family that had cast down it's oldest brother. And so the summons went out, the ghostly voices called into the forests, the echoes danced with the waves. "Come back, brother. Come back for one night."

Of course, Azreal, eldest of the true angels, the last primal angel heard the summons. Within moments, reality fell apart and mythical became corporeal. The specter of said emotions, hate given life and terror given form stood in his place at the left hand of Tyreal, compassion and justice stood united once more. His brothers, Azreal's kin would not meet the baleful gaze of their wayward brother, six sets of glowing orbs locked onto the floor, and as one, they began to murmur the words he had waited so long to hear. "Come back to us. Too long have you waged your war on our creations, too long have you destroyed them in our name. You were....right."

Azreal's answer was worse then they could have ever imagined. Did he speak" Not yet. From under the hood, from behind the angled mask he had taken to wearing, he laughed. The noise was hollow and metallic, the sound echoed in the corners of the great hall and took solace at his feet. "No." That was the word he could fit in between bouts of mirth, the one word they never expected. "I've already won, so why should I stop?"

"Be strong, once more. Take it on your shoulders. Let go of the hate and allow us to settle the score. Tyreal stands ready to fall with you so that the balance is maintained." So said the six voices, six voices melded into perfect harmony.

If anything would have shocked Azreal, it was this. A glance showed him the truth, the master liar could not be lied to, for truth is justice and justice is his ward, his alone. The single jury saw the verdict, and the single judge stayed the executioner's gloved hand. "No." Again, the single word was spoken, but not in between laughs, it was spoken in between shocked silences. "If you are prepared to do this, then I offer you a deal."

"A deal?" Six voices spoke, and six voices answered with confusion. "Lord, speak of this deal, extrapolate."

"The wars will never end." Armored shoulders lifted in a casual shrug, this he knew. "I know how I will die, and I will die by the same fire I lay claim to. Soon enough, my rage will consume we. Worlds will die, yes." Azreal nodded, and if he could smile, he would have. "I will destroy them, of course. This is my right, and this you can never take from me. At the same time, my concession is this. Never again will I strike without provocation. If the mortals can handle what I am, they will be spared."

This statement forced a gasp from the assembled lords of reality. "Then you, the prince of liars, will shed the deception' You will walk among them as you are" And what will you do when they are afraid?"

"You still don't get it, do you?" The mocking voice turned back into anger, pure and perfect fury. It grew and it grew until it flooded the large room with it's hidden threats and masked promises. "For once, they will be able to judge me. Give me back the emotions, give me back the humanity and I will walk among them, as them. These are my conditions, this is my deal." With the words spoken, the Lord of Death faded into the night, the Destroyer of Worlds simply wasn't there. His brethren stared at each other in shocked silence, before Tyreal, known for his wisdom, spoke. "He gambles his very sanity, what he has left. He plays with the strings that bind us all, and the All Father himself will tremble if he loses this last gamble. I fear for us all, my brothers. We dare not move against him, for he has left the Gates. He is mortal, but he is in his perfect form." With a shrug, the group faded as well, for there was nothing more to do, nothing more to be said. Even in the group of six, none could stand, none could oppose the awful force that is justice, none could deny him his rights.

A single voice echoed in the mountains north of Rhydin, the place the angel chose to descend, the place where he showed the world his truth. His last confession sang it's song to the trees and the empty mountains, sang to the ever changing rivers and the ever present night sky. "I have seen planes leveled and all life rendered to dust. It brought no pleasure, not even to a heart as dark as mine."

Thus begins the rendering of truth, thus begins to slip from perfection or humanity. Thus begins the war to be fought on the middle planes themselves. Thus begins the last stages of the Pandemonium wars, the night's events set the stage for the final age, the age of man.

Within the new residence, the creature folded himself into the throne that was his right. Neither pleased nor content, not angry and not standing on the edge of a rage, the Angel of Death simply sat and stared off into the darkness, his oddly dull eyes seeing sights that only one of his kind can hope to fathom. Honestly, there are a few questions that govern men and women, but each question has a million answers for each who ask, and all of them can be right, all of them can be wrong.

"Pitiful, pathetic I have become." Metal clad fingers balled into fists as he brought them down on the arms of the stone chair, disturbing the dust of ages and sending splinters of black stone into the air. From under the hood, he offered forth a long, long laugh. Dull and dry was the noise, ever present was the voice. The creature's glamour is incredibly powerful, allowing him to inhabit two planes at once, giving him the skill to straddle both of them with the ease of a master wizard or a king of the Fae folk, even though he is neither of those things. "Or human?"

Slowly, the hood dipped in a nod suitable to one with his grace. After all, he was a king watching over his domain. AT an errant though, worlds perished. At a gesture, races became extinct. Each accepted the promise, for they had no choice. The promise was death, a final peace. This is justice, for this life is harsh, and it ends in sleep. "Yes, human. But not mortal." The fists came down again, the pricks or white light flared to a brilliant red and again, a world faded under his baleful gaze, his anger had a target, it always did. The hate never did, but the hate he can control, the anger is a dog with no leash unless it's master points it in a direction.

Again, he pulled himself back together and began speaking once more, a hollow voice that came from the corners of the room, it danced among the shadows and twisted the fabric of reality itself. This isn't a creature who measures time, nor does time give a place to the king of the fallen. No, he is simply there, in all of his awful glory. Glory, yes, but not a glory that most can understand, not that many question. In the presence of a God creature, a mortal does not ask questions, he simply falls on bent knee and begs for mercy, he understands only that he is vastly inferior to this horrible specter who stands in front of him. And, of all times, Devlin has lost control, he has slipped too far away from what he was built to be and come to close to what he wants to be. The angel has taken control, yes. A god creature landed, one among so many, but one more all the same.

"Lord of the Unreal. The Lord's Angel. The Destroyer. The Angel of Death. He who holds Death in His Palms. The All-Father's promise." A shuddering breath was drawn, as if he was tasting the air for the very first time. In truth, he was tasting reality for the first time. He was accepting all that this life could give him, he was letting go of the arrogance and the fallen pride. He was starting to understand what it was that drove these wingless ones to do the things that they did. "Master of Chaos, they called me. All of these things, they have called me. Azreal, Marshall Devlin. One and the same, yes?"

"Such a small thing, such a little person who could bring me to such heights." He was speaking to himself again, warring with the forces that sought to hold sway. "But yet, she has done it. Such a strange thing, acceptance. I never felt that I would need someone to validate my existence, yet here I am. And finally, I am done with this. Freedom, complete freedom." If he could have flashed a smile for the world he stared down at, he would have. Still, it would have been a sad smile, twisted and ruined with time. Nothing will change the nature of the beast, nothing will remove the innate hatred. Still, for the first time in his long life, he could look over the world with a wry smile and a shrug of acceptance.

"Such a small one, yes. Still, I must remember to get those puppies...."

The Arch Angel was in his war gear, fully armed and attuned to the words of his All Father. "If he hurts you, understand that you will carry the damage into the reality you now call home. Should you fall here..."

That unsettling thought was pushed far away from Azreal's mind, locked up in the corners of something that spans eternity, now and forever. He was walking into Death's plane, and there would be no time for those sort of doubts, there could be no chance for the temptation to dig it's way into the angel's armor. Not this time, at least.

The space around him seemed to be a dead place, shadows danced along the edges of his vision, his feet kicked dust and ashes with each step. As his wings fanned out behind him, smoke was pushed into strange patterns, weaving dust devils among the ashen floor. Fires lived and died where the ashes had yet to take hold. He was standing at the famed Pandemonium Gates, the entrance to the Evervault. Millenia ago, he had started his wars, only to lose them, and in turn, he had locked himself and his enemies away into the vault, forcing the two armies to wage war eternally. Only recently, had he been able to free himself from said vault, but with his freedom came a price - Aglalis had returned, or so it seemed.

Around him remained the walls of the vault, gothic spires twisted and cut into gargoyles and demons, windows that lead to nothing but the vast and frigid reaches of eternity itself, for this place was locked inside the Fade itself, neither here nor there, neither changing or growing. For all time, it would simply stand as a killing ground, haunted and chased by the spirits of those who died in the flames of war, only to serve in the same capacity in undeath.

"Long has it been since I stepped foot in fabled Kas'rinuus." The words were thought more then spoken, and the ghosts and wraiths answered the call, if a bit slowly. Shadow parted, smoke twisted and a path was cleared for the Lord of Death. His armored steps, slow and methodical, took him towards a path cut of obsidian, a flat and well polished set of stairs. So polished, in fact, that they reflected the smoke and the fire. The floor itself seemed to burn, and each step only added to the flames as the Arch Angel let his wrath be known to those around him, those who had failed. His famed sword was held in his left hand, the black flames only added to the confusion of lights and sound that are the eternal chaos of this unholy place, the chain dangled from his right hand, leaving deep scrapes where the pointed end dug into the polished rock floor. These weapons would be put to use soon enough, or so he assumed. A few moments later, he found himself in the deepest parts of the Vault, a large and flat area cast in darkness that not even his eyes could penetrate, the darkness that can only be manifested inside of man, twisted and torn until it becomes a living thing.

Out of that darkness, a form began to take shape. A large man, much, much larger then the angel stepped from the shadows, a man with leathery wings of black, a man with pin pricks of fire in his slightly human visage. Two hands ended in scythe blades, each blade was larger then the creature who stood before the monstrosity, and two more hands ended in four fingers. There were no words exchanged, there would be no point. Not this time, at least.

There would be no battle of wills among equals, there would be no battle of the mind. Long and bloody would the fight be, for the two generals had finally met on equal terms.

The chain flared to life, but it hit nothing. The intent was simply to weave in front of the demon, more to annoy him then anything else. Black wings flipped around the Arch Angel, the surest form of armor. Dancers steps took him towards the menace, blade held under the dance of the chains. Predictably, the demon stepped in time with the first of the fallen, and the black edged blade met the black scythe with near perfect timing. And thus the war continued, each weapon singing it's tune with such speed that the ringing sounds became one, the parries and thrusts became no more then a blurring dance, lines that could not be divided.

Until, that is, Azreal took his chance. The blade worked against one of the scythe blades, spinning around it while keeping enough contact to force the blade wide. The chain was in performing it's own dance, slapping against the other scythe blade, again, more as a distraction. Both of Aglalis' weapons were pushed wide for a split second, but a split second has always been enough for this creature. With all the grace of a hunting cat, both of Azreal's weapons were drawn back towards him, and he stepped forward, the blade of his keen edged weapon found purchase deep inside the demon's neck. It was a blow given with a terrible cost, for when the chain had been withdrawn, it was still attached to the left handed scythe. Said blade whistled into, slamming through the Arch Angel's wings and more conventional armor, leaving a gaping wound on Azreal's side. Still, the wound he had inflicted would prove fatal. Sure of that fact, he turned and began to walk away, not even bothering to give the demon another glance. His wounds would need time to heal, and that time was fading.

A voice, grating and harsh, sounded behind him. Aglalis, it seemed, has raised himself up in his final moment. "You've become human, or so it would seem." Even as he spoke, he lay dying. The words were pushed out on the wings of black blood, blood that burned the floor. Azreal's steps were already faltering, and he didn't take the time to turn or answer. "Remember what he said, Lord of Death. You hurt, and I rise again. It's always been like that, hasn't it' They believe more in what?s easy." And with a final laugh and gasp, the creature died. For now.

And with the words, another shocking thought pounded it's way into the Arch Angel's mind. The spirit of such evil won't ever die, and I'm becoming more of a man.

(Missed post, this ends the current thread. If anyone knows how to delete a post, please pm me and I will delete this. Both of these adjusted posts can be found elsewhere.)