Arms wide open, I stand alone.
I'm no hero, and I'm not made of stone.
Right or wrong, I can hardly tell.
I'm on the wrong side of heaven, and the righteous side of hell.
"Wrong Side Of Heaven" by Five Finger Death Punch
They caught up with him at night. After so long, he had forgotten the danger. He had gotten careless. It had been a mistake. He had caught their scent, but had dismissed it as irrelevant. Aleron had removed himself from the games of those above and below. He was no longer part of the struggle. He had walked away. The last thing he had expected was for six drones to descend down on him and demand he return to Michael.
Aleron believed that Michael was deranged. He acted so pious, so perfect and yet called for the killing of his brethren. The claims of being the voice of their creator was false. Ale knew, like so many others that only a few remained that actually listened and heard.
As for the Morningstar, he had his own issues. Forever craving the sound of that heavenly voice and still mourning the loss of it to this very day. Aleron liked Star better then some, but his wallowing in the banishment from Heaven was a major downer.
Aleron still kept the records. A tally of souls lost in a battle for dominance that wasn't sanctioned or right. So his answer had been a firm "No." Or perhaps one might say that was the gist of his more profane response. "Get the frak away!"
Perhaps he was feeling his age. Maybe the drones of today were built better than his memory recalled. Either way, they took umbrage at his refusal and responded in a manner far from holy.
Even in the midst of the beating he was taking, Aleron found himself thinking of all the things he still needed to do. This was the second time he had been so violated, so he now needed to find a new place to live for one thing. Maybe something more upscale this time with security, instead of his rustic, albeit gothic tomb. He now needed to protect two small girls, who didn't fully understand who and what they were. Maybe have a family of his own one day, although the thought of that was almost laughable. He still needed to learn patience. The Architect was always telling him that. He had long given up on piety and purity as well. He was neither heavenly nor hellish. Caught in the middle between both.
Wings of black and white snapped outwards, sending one drone toppling, sliced in two just that quick. Black vita splattered across weathered stone walls of the nearby tombs and gravestones, from that devastating action, leaving five now circling. Nice to see they were being cautious. He had once been an Archangel and he did like to think they would remember that detail. Aleron may no longer hold the title of that celestial station, he still retained the knowledge. He really doubted they would care. They seemed to be little more than *Galeari after all.
In those moments of time when everything slows down, the mind recalled the oddest of details. The sound of bones snapping. The roar of rushing of a cool night wind. The rapid, heavy beat of a heart with every action. The crushing thud of a fist meeting face. The startling sting of pain when he hadn't moved fast enough. Three more lay bleeding profusely, unmoving at his feet. Then there was only two.
Aleron believed that Michael was deranged. He acted so pious, so perfect and yet called for the killing of his brethren. The claims of being the voice of their creator was false. Ale knew, like so many others that only a few remained that actually listened and heard.
As for the Morningstar, he had his own issues. Forever craving the sound of that heavenly voice and still mourning the loss of it to this very day. Aleron liked Star better then some, but his wallowing in the banishment from Heaven was a major downer.
Aleron still kept the records. A tally of souls lost in a battle for dominance that wasn't sanctioned or right. So his answer had been a firm "No." Or perhaps one might say that was the gist of his more profane response. "Get the frak away!"
Perhaps he was feeling his age. Maybe the drones of today were built better than his memory recalled. Either way, they took umbrage at his refusal and responded in a manner far from holy.
Even in the midst of the beating he was taking, Aleron found himself thinking of all the things he still needed to do. This was the second time he had been so violated, so he now needed to find a new place to live for one thing. Maybe something more upscale this time with security, instead of his rustic, albeit gothic tomb. He now needed to protect two small girls, who didn't fully understand who and what they were. Maybe have a family of his own one day, although the thought of that was almost laughable. He still needed to learn patience. The Architect was always telling him that. He had long given up on piety and purity as well. He was neither heavenly nor hellish. Caught in the middle between both.
Wings of black and white snapped outwards, sending one drone toppling, sliced in two just that quick. Black vita splattered across weathered stone walls of the nearby tombs and gravestones, from that devastating action, leaving five now circling. Nice to see they were being cautious. He had once been an Archangel and he did like to think they would remember that detail. Aleron may no longer hold the title of that celestial station, he still retained the knowledge. He really doubted they would care. They seemed to be little more than *Galeari after all.
In those moments of time when everything slows down, the mind recalled the oddest of details. The sound of bones snapping. The roar of rushing of a cool night wind. The rapid, heavy beat of a heart with every action. The crushing thud of a fist meeting face. The startling sting of pain when he hadn't moved fast enough. Three more lay bleeding profusely, unmoving at his feet. Then there was only two.