Michael: Last Angel of Earth
Rome or Bust

“I don’t know whether this plan is foolish, suicidal, or both,” said Vanhildr after learning about the quest from Barjon. The former gladiator champion was still processing. The former angel could see her mind at work.

“It’s a lot to take, I understand,” stated the former angel. With her processing complete, she turned to Horus and Ruzla.

“What do you guys think? Do you believe this plan will work?” The stone guardian and Egyptian prince both looked at each other. They would be lying if they said yes. Like Vanhildr, both had secret doubts about the success of this mission. However, they could not deny that the fates had been on their sides up to this point. Whether or not that would change was hard to say.

“Honestly, I don’t know. But at this point, there is no going back,” replied Horus. Taking that as her answer, Vanhildr left the tunnel’s safety and went outside to stretch her back. With a few pops, she was back to normal. Following suit, Barjon and the others accompanied her and looked around to see if the coast was clear. Seeing that they were alone. Colum pulled out a map and placed it on a nearby tree stump. He called for everyone to gather around.

“Based on our current location, we are still over two weeks away from the Vatican and running low on supplies. We can’t keep going on foot. We need an alternative,” he replied.

“Are there any towns with running cars close to where we are?” asked Margret. Scanning the map, Colum landed on Lomberg, less than a mile from them.

“What do we know of Lomberg?” said Fiona.

“I could tell you,” replied Vanhildr.

“What do you know?” inquired Barjon.

Vanhildr explained that designed on the bottom of a hill, the town of Lomberg was home to wood elves led by Master Hagwin. This town wasn’t built by a mountain by accident, as it had old tombs, which were of great importance to the people of Lomberg and its success. The settlement itself looked stunning. With its maple wood rooftops, maple wood walls, and calming riverfront, Lomberg had a magical atmosphere. Lomberg had an unhealthy economy, mainly supported by fletching, trade, and wood production. But their biggest strengths were successful mining and sustainable hunting. However, Lomberg needed more people skilled in jewel crafting. Despite its strengths and weaknesses, Lomberg was most likely headed toward a gloomy future under Master Hagwin. But according to Vanhildr, that remained to be seen.

After she finished, Barjon wanted to know more about these wood elves. According to Vandhildr, these wood elves are very secretive and cautious. Masters in the magical and martial arts will kill any entering their home. Truthfully, Lomberg was not their original home. Their origins traced further east of Berlin, but after a bloody civil war, the survivors created the town of Lomberg, a place to call their own and bury their dead. Their leader, a half-elf named Master Hagwin, made it his mission to protect and defend the people of Lomberg.

“Who is this Master Hagwin? Doesn’t sound very elvish?”

“He’s a half-elf, born from a wood elf mother and human father. That was the cause of the civil war. Many wood elves were not fond of their people intermixing with the local humans. As a result, Hagwin and his people were forced into exile. As the ruler, I have gathered that many people hate Hagwin, but his trouble and hostility are just the tips of the iceberg. That’s without even stating he’s also envious, unstable, and unfriendly, but at least they only show in smaller doses and mixed with behaviors of being kind. But even careful encounters have been ruined because of this, and his hostility, as sad of reality as this may be. Fair is fair, though; Hagwin does have some endearing sides. He’s charming and caring in good amounts; it isn’t all doom and gloom. Unfortunately, his hostility will forever be something to deal with.”

“I hope we do not have to fight him as well. I’m about done with fighting for a while,” said Marget. The others nodded their heads in agreement. Taking the map in his hands, Barjon and the company quietly made their way out of Berlin and toward Lomberg. Following a dirt road, the company was begging to feel a sense of peace, something they had not felt for some time. Their newfound peace allowed them to take in the forest’s beauty.

“Strange, you can hear the sounds of the birds,” said Ruzla, feeling the soft wind blow past her wings. However, only some were okay with the tranquility. Horus used his eyes to constantly scan the surrounding area in the front of the company, always looking for some abnormality.

“See something?” whispered Colum.

“No, that is why I’m so suspicious. We are nearing Hagwins territory, and still no sign of anyone,” he replied.

“You think they are watching us?” replied Colum.

“Most certainly. Wood elves are elusive, but just because we cannot see them, does not mean they can’t see us.” The dirt road slowly turned into the beginning of a grassy field, and soon they were walking up the side of a slight incline. Reaching the top, Barjon and the others overlook a small green area, and right down below them is the town. It was everything Vanhildr said it would be, except that they could not see anyone.

“Where are the elves?” asked Margret.

“Horus, do your eyes see anything?” asked Fiona. The Egyptian god scanned the city for any signs of life.

“Nothing. There is nobody inside the town. It’s as if they vanished?” he stated. Before they could go down and investigate, the ground beneath began to shake. At first, they thought it was an earthquake when the dirt beneath them suddenly opened up, and they all fell down a smooth slide. The suddenness of the trap caught them by surprise as they tumbled and slid down through the ever-turning slide. Their chaotic joyride ended as they landed on each other, tizzy and confused.

“Where the hell are we?” questioned Vanhildr, rubbing her head.

“I think they could answer that,” replied Barjon. Turning their heads, the company was greeted by a host of archers with arrows drawn. They each wore leather armor mirroring scales and were covered in thick dark green hoods covering most of their faces. As everyone got up, they saw who appeared to be the head archer making their way toward them.

“Who are you?” said the archer in a heavy German accent.

“My Barjon, these are my friends,” replied the former angel.

“By what way did you come?” inquired the archer.

“Berlin,” he replied. The archer then sheathed one of her knives with blinding speed, resting it gently on Barjon’s collar, just touching his throat.

“Why were you in Berlin?” asked the wood elf.

“That is our business,” quipped Margret.

“Quiet,” he told her. The head archer removed the knife from the archangel’s neck and told her soldier to take their weapons and bind them.

“Bring them to Hagwin; he’ll extract the truth from them,” she replied. A handful of archers lowered their bows and went toward the trespassers. They then took their weapons and tied their arms behind their back. Now, as their prisoners, the head archer and her company took them deeper into the earth. Just a few feet from where they were taken, they were brought before a small hole in the ground. Walking through it, the elves and the company arrived at the actual city of Lomberg. It was a bustling town full of wood elves and traders. Roots from ancient trees far in the distance became bridges for the residents of Lomberg, and soil was modeled into varying sizes for homes and other institutions. Following a sturdy root, the ensemble walked towards a massive building in the center of town. The bundling itself was not impressive, rather plain. It was three clay stories, rectangular cuts across the sides acting as windows, and had only one way inside.

Gently stepping down from the root, they all went inside, where they were taken aback by the sheer contrast. Barjon and his friends were in the throne room, nothing like what was outside. Great braziers attached to one side of each of the fourteen ivory columns lit up every part of the throne hall and blanketed everything in a warm glow. The intricate and symmetrical design patterns on the sloped ceiling danced in the flickering light while sculptures and statues looked down upon the mahogany floor of this opulent hall. An onyx rug ran from the throne to the doors and matched smaller ones on either side of the aisle while swallowtail banners with burnished borders decorated the walls. Between each flag sat a shrine-like ornament covered in candles; many of them had been lit and, in turn, illuminated the depictions of late royal family members below them.

High, tinted windows were hidden by curtains colored the same onyx as the banners. The curtains had been adorned with decorated edges and burnished corners. A sublime throne of silver sat atop an elevated platform and was adjoined by two smaller and less elaborate seats for those aiding the royal highness in all affairs. The throne was covered in layered emblems, and a sapphire flower head was fixed on each tiny ear. The thin pillows were a dark onyx, and those, too, were adorned with illuminated borders. Those wishing to witness the ruler could do so on the countless impressively carved iron benches facing the throne. Those of higher standing could sit in the embellished balconies facing the benches below.

The head archer placed their prisoners on the carved iron benches and asked one of her subordinates to get the king. As he did so, the head archer unbounded her prisoners but kept the weapons.

“All rise for the king,” said one archer. Placing an arm across their chest, the arches showed their rest to their king. Not wanting to cause any trouble, Barjon told his friends to do the same out of a sign of respect. As everyone in the room bowed, Barjon raised his head and took a glimpse of the ruler of the wood elves. A heavy frame elf covered completely in herded wood armor was taking a seat on his throne. Covering his head was a rounded helm with a faceguard shaped like the face of an owl. The shoulders were oval, very long, and moderate in size. They were decorated with three large wooden spikes of applewood on each side, lined up from back to front.

The upper arms were protected by rounded, half-covering rerebraces made of oak which sat nicely under the shoulder plates. Vambraces covered the lower arms with a bear claw attached to the outer sides. The breastplate was made from many layers of rounded walnut sheets. It covered almost everything from the neck down; it narrowed near the groin and exposed some sides. The upper legs were covered by a skirt of many layers of hickory sheets reaching down to the knee. Greaves protected the lower legs with several layered mahogany sheets on the outer sides. As imposing as the ruler was, he was not the sole interest that kept Barjon’s attention. It was what rested on the ruler’s lap.

Laying atop the ruler was his preferred weapon, a crossbow. But there was no bow. This superior compound crossbow had been delicately constructed of exceptional osage. Its string was made from excellent quality horsehair, a rare material around these parts of the world. The limbs had been decorated with rune-like symbols and ended in slight curves ornamented with dragon bone. The stock was wrapped in obsidian and decorated with leaves. The bulky quiver was made from a soft hide and was supposed to be worn around the archer’s back. The outer side has been decorated with animal bones, likely meant to make the archer stand out. In the hands of a trained archer, this bow could fire arrows up to 156 meters while still retaining destructive power.

“Who are these miserable trespassers?” asked the ruler.

“We came seeking aid from your highness,” replied Margret. The elf ruler turned his head to look directly at her. His stare, hidden behind the mask, was complex and menacing. Margret could feel his eyes looking right through her as she shuffled in place.

“Four humans, a washup prince, an ancient relic, and a battle-worn gladiator. What could you possibly want from us?” he stated coldly.

“Three humans,” said a voice.

“Pardon?” said the king.

“Three humans, your majesty,” stated Barjon. Hgwin slowly got up from his throne and walked towards the outspoken prisoner. As he got towards him, the elf king studied him. To get a better look, he asked the prisoner to step forward. Doing so, Hagwin strolled around the former angel. Hagwin was meticulous and thus looked for every detail, no matter how minute they were. He looked at the tattoos, his eyes, his face, even the sword his head archer held in her hands. After his examination, the elf king stood directly before the man and laughed.

“How long has it been? Three, maybe four thousand years?” inquired the king. Barjon had a puzzled look on his face. The king smiled underneath his mask.

“You don’t remember, do you?”

“What exactly am I supposed to remember?” questioned Barjon. Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ (ꜰind)ɴʘvel.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“Perhaps this will refresh your memory,” said the king. Reaching for the helmet, the elf king slowly removed it from him. Holding the helm in his hands, his face was exposed for all to see, and at this moment, Barjon remembered. Red, well-groomed hair, tight in a ponytail, revealed a handsome, warm face. Hollow silver eyes, set handsomely within their sockets, watched eagerly over the throne room.

A tattoo of a small lion was almost hidden on the left side of his neck, leaving an amusing memory of an unusual alliance. This was the face of Henebul, AKA Hagwin Halfelf, son of angel Hadriel and wood elf Delsanra Dorxisys, and king among the wood elves. He stood high among others, despite his heavy frame.

“Last time we met, I missed you in Teutoburg,” said Barjon. Hagwin snickered and pulled down his collar, relieving an old arrow wound.”

“Nope, you got me good,” replied the elf king.

“You two know each other?” asked Fiona.

“Everyone, meet Henebul, the byproduct of an angel and wood elf and former leader of the Nephilim movement.” Hagwin glared at the former angel. He then asked his archer to leave the room. The head archer protested, but Hagwin insisted. Obeying her king, the wood elf and her archers left the throne room, taking the weapons with them.

“You haven’t changed one bit,” said Hagwin. “Well, that’s not entirely true. You and I are the same now.”

“We. Are. Not. The. Same,” stated Barjon.

“We are both Nephiliums. We are both disappointments and both looking for new purposes.” Barjon held back his tongue, knowing anything he said would jeopardize his friends.

“So what happens now?” he asked.

“You still have not answered my question. Why are you trespassing on my lands?” exclaimed Hagwin. Barjon explained to the Nephilim their situation and where they were going while also leaving out critical details regarding Azrael. After hearing what Barjon had to say, Hagwin thought to himself for a moment. Taking a seat back on his throne, the Nephilim king debated his options. Snapping his fingers, the king agreed to help them with their troubles. Everyone let out a sigh of relief and felt that things were going their way now. However, only some were convinced, namely Barjon. He stepped forward in front of the group and asked Hagwin for his conditions. The king said he had known, but Barjon knew that was a lie. Back in the group, Margret could hear the tone in Barjon change dramatically. She had not heard nor seen this side of him before.

“Don’t cross me, Henebul. I know you too well,” said Barjon. The Nephilim sighed and looked Barjon directly in the eyes.

“When you go to Rome, I want you to meet the pope,” replied Henebul.

“Meet him for what exactly?” questioned Barjon.

“For forgiveness for the thousands of innocent Nephilim you slew! Nephilim, who only wanted to be seen as equals to you and the other watchers!” Henebul shouted, slamming his fist on his throne. His voice vibrated and echoed throughout the room. The rest of the company was taken aback by the sudden shout and moved slowly away from the throne. After the echo subsided, it was filled with a burst of soft laughter from Barjon. The reaction applauded Henebul as he tightly clutched his crossbow.

“You think this is funny?!” yelled Henebul. Barjon slipped a smile through the laughter.

“I do. You want me to go to the holy father and beg his forgiveness for something sanctioned by the church and the Creator? Why in heaven’s name would I do that?” Henebul left his throne and stood directly in front of the former angel. Barjon could feel his hatred and heat from his breath. Everyone was scared of what might happen next.

“What you did was wrong!” seethed Henebul.

“No, what your fathers did was wrong. They broke their vows and sided with the traitor Lucifer and Xathaniel. Many angels died because of it. And to add even more shame, they fostered children. Your kind.” Barjon’s last sentence was filled with hatred and anger. All held their breaths at this point. Letting out a deep sigh, Henebul looked to the floor and back up at Barjon.

“Is it that difficult to ask forgiveness? The faith you angels helped bring into existence preaches forgiveness. To forgive all sins. Why is it so difficult for you to acknowledge what happened? What did we ever do to you?”

“You were born,” said Barjon. Henebul let out a small huff and slowly returned to his throne. He then called back his archers. As the head huntress and her archers entered the room again, Henebul ordered them to be bound and thrown into the dungeons. Everyone protested but was helpless and was once again bound and gagged. As they were escorted out of the throne room, Henebul called out to Barjon again. The former angel turned his head and locked eyes with the half-elf king.

“Perhaps a thousand years in prison will change your mind. And if not, no worries. Time matters not to us elves.” Henebul then issued his archers to take them away.

“Well, this is some mess you got us into, Barjon,” yelled Colum. The Irishman paced back and forth in his cell. Each was given appropriate compartments; they were all pissed off with Barjon. As for the Angel, he shared his cell with Margret.

“Why the hell did you say all that?! We were in the clear! For once, things were going our way on this blasted quest!” ranted Colum again. Fiona pounded her head against the stone wall gently, though. Horus lay down on the floor in hell while Ruzla sat in the corner of hers. Vanhildr, on the other hand, hummed a little song to herself. They were all in their little worlds right now. As for Barjon, he was still caught up in his anger.

“I swear I’m gonna kill that half-elf ba...”

“Enough,” said Margret. Her words took Barjon by surprise.

“What?” he replied.

“I said enough. I am tired of listening to your rambling and ranting! I’m sick of it.” Margret’s shouting soon grabbed the other’s attention, and they all listened to the argument between her and the former angel.

“Margret, you were not there. This matter happened thousands of years before you were born! I had a duty to uphold. I was ordered...”

“Ordered?” Margret exclaimed, cutting him off again. “Ordered to kill Nephilim, whose only crime was being born. They are not responsible for what their fathers did, Michael.”

“You. Weren’t. There.” he said to her. His voice grew louder by the second.

“But you were! Why are you incapable of moving on? Why do you hate them so much? Answer me!” she yelled back.

“I don’t answer to you,” he spat at her.

“Hell, yes, you do. You owe me!”

“Excuse me?” he said. “I owe you?” This is where Margret laid down the law for Barjon.

“Yes. Since that night four years ago, I never wanted you dead for what you did to my family and others, but I would be lying if I said the thought did not cross my mind. But I held back my tongue and saw you change during those dreadful years. But if you still cannot tell me the truth, you are not the man Ambrose believed you to be and only a butcher. Nothing more.” Barjon was at a loss for words. He was stunned by Margret’s defiance and for calling him out. The young woman’s speech took even the other members of the company.

“Damn,” said Fiona and Colum. All was quiet in the cell as Margret’s speech died. Taking a seat back on the floor again, she composed herself and once again asked Barjon to answer her question. The former had his head down to the floor, but Margret saw tears falling from his red eyes as lift his head up.

“I cannot forgive them because they took everything from me.”

“What do you mean?” Barjon was going to reveal parts of his past that he had not told any angel or human before.

“When I was born, I was raised and placed under the care of two watchers. They taught the meaning of duty and honor and safeguarding and protecting humanity. When I reached the time to begin my training, the civil war began. My parents and the rest of the watchers battled against the combined forces of Xathaniel and Lucifers Nephilim and the demonic army. In the beginning, we were on the losing side. Many watchers died in the process. Then, one day, a few young angels and I were abducted from the outpost and taken to earth.” Barjon paused for a moment as he brought up more painful memories.

“They kept us in a cage, like animals. They left us with little to survive on. Yet, at that moment, I met my closest friends. Raphael, Uriel, and Gabriel. We promised that if we survived our ordeal, we would seek retribution not only for ourselves but for all those who died. For nearly three years, we waited until we were rescued by Metatron and Azrael one day. They brought us home and tended to our wounds. Though our bodies healed, our spirits were still broken. Realizing we would need the training to exact our revenge, we indoctrinated ourselves into the Archangel Corps, where we earned our merits. The training nearly broke us, but we were already broken. After achieving our status as archangels, I petitioned the holy council to enact a purge of the Nephilim on earth. At first, they were hesitant, but I persuaded them that the Nephilim’s on earth posed a dangerous threat to humanity and, if left unchecked, would upset the power balance. They then gave their blessing, and thus we enacted the Great Purge.”

Barjon continued his story by stating that he and his fellow warrior angels discovered the Nephilim encampment in the Teutoburg forest and slowly butchered all but two of them. The survivors were forced to admit what happened to their European allies and bring their comrades’ heads as proof. Since that engagement, Barjon said no Nephilim was left alive on earth, and if some survived, they were left to carry the tale of heaven’s wrath. After telling his story, the dungeon was quiet. No one said a word throughout Barjon’s story. What could anyone say?

Any animosity towards Barjon was gone. Minutes passed, and finally, one person in the company spoke up.

“The Holy Fire crusade. That was you?” asked Horus.

“Yes,” stated barjon.

“I heard about that back in Egypt. Your reputation was known and feared throughout the world,” replied Horus.

“And it helped set a point,” explained Barjon softly. Just then, it was Margret’s turn to speak.

“What of Henebul’s father? What happened to him?”

“He was the first one I killed. It was he who took other young angels and me many eons ago. At Teutoburg, I found him amid the fighting. I took him by surprise, and when he was at my mercy, I drove my weapon through his heart. With him dead, the Nephilim quickly dispersed, but as I said, we were not done with them.” Barjon let out a deep huff after telling his secret. It wasn’t easy letting go of such a memory, but it was necessary. With everything out in the open, no one knew what to say next.

“I understand your hatred for what the former watcher did to you and others, but can you still pass that judgment on their children? After all, no one chooses their parents,” said Fiona. Her words left the former angel wondering. Should he have hatred towards Henebul and the others? Did they even know what their parents were doing? His concentration was broken when there was a clang on the cell door. He unturned his head and saw one of Hagwin’s archers.

“The king would like to see you. Alone,” said the archer. Barjon exited his cell and followed the archer back towards the main hall, or so he thought. Following the elf, he noticed they needed to return to the throne room. Instead, the elf was taking him somewhere else. After traversing through the city, they arrived at their destination. It was a small church.

“He is waiting for you inside,” said the elf. Barjon pushed open the oak doors and saw a figure kneeling before a small altar. Barjon cautiously entered the building. As he looked around, his eyes marveled at the various murals that decorated the inside of the church. They told the story of the Nephilim being born, their struggles living on earth, and the ending with the Great Purge. The images capture in great detail the horrors they faced. Stopping halfway in the center, Barjon noticed that Henebul was not wearing his armor as before. Instead, he opted to wear an elvish regal suit. The former angel could not determine what the king was saying, but it almost sounded like a prayer.

“Amen,” whispered Henebul. Finishing his prayer, the half-elf king turned to meet Barjon.

“You wanted to see me?” questioned Barjon.

“Yes, I did. Please have a seat,” said Henebul. Barjon accepted the offer and sat beside the king, although something felt off. Less than a moment ago, Henebul wanted to kill the former angel, yet now his personality seemed different, almost softened. The two did not speak for a while. They sat in the church in silence as if admiring the simplicity.

“Is it true?” said Henebul.

“What ?” stuttered Barjon.

“What you said in the dungeon. Is it true?′ Henebul asked once more.

“How did you...”

“When your mother is a wood elf, you inherit certain traits,” said Henebul. Barjon closed his eyes and let out a sigh.

“Yes, it is all true,” he finally managed to say. Barjon expected Henebul to lash out and call in his guards, but something happened. Nothing. Nothing happened. Then Henebul spoke up once more.

“I suppose this is the part where I forgive you or kill you,” he said.

“Have you decided?” asked Barjon. Henebul rightly gripped a knife close to his belt.

“To be honest, I don’t think I can do either,” said Henebul. Barjon could hear the conflict in his tone of voice.

“There is still a part of me that is so...angry. And it will always be angry. But no, you are not the one who needs to die. I do see that.” Henebul turned and faced Barjon, locking eyes with him.

“Everything that has happened between us...” Barjon raised a hand to an elf king.

“No need to explain. Not to me. Not for that,” said Barjon. “I do not regret what I had to do for the council... and never will. But the decision for your existence and everyone else should have been yours. I should not have robbed you of all that choice,” stated Barjon. The men sat in silence together and quietly made amends with each other. Henebul summoned his head archer into the church and gave her a simple command.

“Release the prisoners. Return their belongings, and give them transport to Rome.” The head archer bowed and quickly left the church to complete her assignment.

“Thank you, Henebul,” said Barjon.

“One last thing Michael. Why are you going to Rome? And the truth this time.” Barjon knew this was going to come up. Taking a deep breath, he began his story.

“Do you know the story of Azrael?”

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