The sky over the Cirque de Gavarnie grew ominously dark, end of the world dark, the kind of dark that made the hearts of mortal men cold with fear. One minute, it was a bright, sunny day, and the next there was a storm brewing, or so it would seem to any mortals who were unlucky enough to be close by. But unlike most storms, no rain preceded the roll and clap of thunder. Angry, black clouds covered the sky, obliterating the sun from view, unnatural and foreboding. The mountains themselves seemed to shake and tremble as bolts of lightning struck the rocky peaks, flashing an eerie light across the darkened sky. Anyone who was watching might notice a lone figure appear as if out of nowhere at the breach in the mountains where the sword Durendal had cut the rock open and inadvertently opened the Gates of Hell.
One figure appeared surrounded completely by white light. For an instant, it seemed as though there were wings at his back. He stood tall and straight, with those white wings unfurled, a bright, shining sword held aloft in one hand, surrounded by a light that shined brightly in the darkness. He stood alone on the breach for but a moment, a beautiful lone figure shining like a beacon of righteousness against the gathering darkness. The mountains shook again, and the dark clouds rolled closer, another flash of lightning and the shining white figure was no longer alone.
Darkness lanced down from the clouds roiling above that open scar in the mountains, pooling deep in writhing coils of grey and purple that hissed and spat the dangerous sparks of lightning toward that shining lone figure. The dark mass that had fallen from the clouds dissipated slowly, to reveal a figure as stygian as the waiting warrior was radiant. This figure, too, was armed; the long sword held away from his form as black as the eyes that studied the being he faced. No words were spoken, but an understanding passed between the pair. Here and now, at the center of the breach, the time had come to end the conflict that had raged between these two beings for years. Here and now, the fate of mere mortals all over the world would be decided.
The Angel Rathanael stood his ground, waiting patiently for the arrival of his foe, a foe he'd sworn to defeat before he'd agreed to be incarnated as a mortal, born to a man and a woman who had been deemed worthy and given the name Rhys. He'd grown to manhood with no knowledge of his true origins, struggling to find his own destiny, a fate which had been determined before his birth. And now, after all these years, all of his struggles, all of the pain and the grief and the fight to stay alive, all of it came down to this final moment in time that would determine not only his own fate, but the fate of the humanity. No words were spoken, no words were needed. This moment had been destined since time immemorial. Two angels - one fallen and one chosen - only one could be victorious.
Swords flashed like lightning as angels and demons filled the space around them, locked in combat, Hell versus Heaven, a battle that would determine the fate of the world. Amidst the violence and bloodshed, two swords came together, clashing with a sound like thunder that would echo for miles around.
Back and forth the battle raged, angels and demons shedding blood, ending one another in blasts of light and dark, sending the roiling, thunderous sky above them into a terrible frenzy. Yet there was no sound but that of clashing blades, of falling bodies, of tumbling rocks from the stone gateway that loomed up on either side of the warring combatants. No sound, that was, until a mortal was allowed to join the fray herself, a single representative of the race this battle was being waged for, armed with a blade given to her by one of the many angelic warriors. She let loose with a battle cry that originated many centuries before her birth, forcing her way through the struggling masses to catch even a glimpse of the violence around which this storm raged ....the eye of the battlefield, where Rathanael and Abaddon fought one another for the truth of the destiny they both sought.
Rathanael's goal was three-fold. Not only did he seek to destroy his enemy, but in accomplishing that task, he would save Mankind from destruction and seal the Gates of Hell forevermore. He had agreed to this task because of his love for humanity, a love that was so profound that he had become one of them himself in order to know what it was to be human and to know human love, experiencing for himself the joys and sorrows of being human, the never-ending cycle of life and death, of loving and hating, living and dying. It was that love that gave him the strength and the determination to do that which needed to be done - to defeat Abaddon and his minions once and for all. Swords clashed and blood flowed as each struck the other in their final dance of destruction and retribution, both equal to the challenge, neither giving way to the other, until one's attention was distracted momentarily by the arrival of a mortal - a woman who was more important to the battle than she could ever know.
The Angel Rathanael heard the battle cry that rang out over the mountains, and the part of him that was human was distracted for a brief moment - the length of a single heartbeat - but it was enough, it was what his enemy had been waiting for.
The face of Abaddon's chosen vessel creased into an expression of deeply malicious triumph in that moment, the glint of black eyes seeing a hesitation that a mere mortal would have missed. With a skill beyond any seen by mortal eyes or known by mortal hands, he twisted the heavy black blade of his own sword from its engagement with Joyeuse, and thrust it into that minute crack in Rathanael's defenses.
Mortal eyes, brown and loving, acutely fearful for the life of a man who had proved to be an angel in their short liaison, saw too late the opening, the distraction ....the cruel opportunity her presence had given the evil Rathanael battled. A scream tore from her throat, horror and pain and fury intermingled in a terrible cry of loss. "Rhys!"
Time seemed to stand still, though the battle still raged around them, as the human part of the angel, the man known as Rhys, staggered backwards, glancing down to find a stain blooming darkly on the front of his shirt, pain the likes of which he'd never known dropping him to his knees. He knew it was over; he knew he had lost. He heard a familiar voice scream his name, and he recognized the pain and the terror in that scream. He turned mortal eyes toward the sound of that voice, and the part of him that was human, the part of him that loved her, acknowledged her by whispering her name, like a prayer upon his dying lips. "Natalya..." He seemed to forget his foe for a moment, all of his attention on that one lone mortal soul on the field of immortal battle, and suddenly he understood and remembered what it was he was fighting for. He wasn't only fighting for humanity; he was fighting for her, he was fighting for a future that had been promised before he'd been born
One figure appeared surrounded completely by white light. For an instant, it seemed as though there were wings at his back. He stood tall and straight, with those white wings unfurled, a bright, shining sword held aloft in one hand, surrounded by a light that shined brightly in the darkness. He stood alone on the breach for but a moment, a beautiful lone figure shining like a beacon of righteousness against the gathering darkness. The mountains shook again, and the dark clouds rolled closer, another flash of lightning and the shining white figure was no longer alone.
Darkness lanced down from the clouds roiling above that open scar in the mountains, pooling deep in writhing coils of grey and purple that hissed and spat the dangerous sparks of lightning toward that shining lone figure. The dark mass that had fallen from the clouds dissipated slowly, to reveal a figure as stygian as the waiting warrior was radiant. This figure, too, was armed; the long sword held away from his form as black as the eyes that studied the being he faced. No words were spoken, but an understanding passed between the pair. Here and now, at the center of the breach, the time had come to end the conflict that had raged between these two beings for years. Here and now, the fate of mere mortals all over the world would be decided.
The Angel Rathanael stood his ground, waiting patiently for the arrival of his foe, a foe he'd sworn to defeat before he'd agreed to be incarnated as a mortal, born to a man and a woman who had been deemed worthy and given the name Rhys. He'd grown to manhood with no knowledge of his true origins, struggling to find his own destiny, a fate which had been determined before his birth. And now, after all these years, all of his struggles, all of the pain and the grief and the fight to stay alive, all of it came down to this final moment in time that would determine not only his own fate, but the fate of the humanity. No words were spoken, no words were needed. This moment had been destined since time immemorial. Two angels - one fallen and one chosen - only one could be victorious.
Swords flashed like lightning as angels and demons filled the space around them, locked in combat, Hell versus Heaven, a battle that would determine the fate of the world. Amidst the violence and bloodshed, two swords came together, clashing with a sound like thunder that would echo for miles around.
Back and forth the battle raged, angels and demons shedding blood, ending one another in blasts of light and dark, sending the roiling, thunderous sky above them into a terrible frenzy. Yet there was no sound but that of clashing blades, of falling bodies, of tumbling rocks from the stone gateway that loomed up on either side of the warring combatants. No sound, that was, until a mortal was allowed to join the fray herself, a single representative of the race this battle was being waged for, armed with a blade given to her by one of the many angelic warriors. She let loose with a battle cry that originated many centuries before her birth, forcing her way through the struggling masses to catch even a glimpse of the violence around which this storm raged ....the eye of the battlefield, where Rathanael and Abaddon fought one another for the truth of the destiny they both sought.
Rathanael's goal was three-fold. Not only did he seek to destroy his enemy, but in accomplishing that task, he would save Mankind from destruction and seal the Gates of Hell forevermore. He had agreed to this task because of his love for humanity, a love that was so profound that he had become one of them himself in order to know what it was to be human and to know human love, experiencing for himself the joys and sorrows of being human, the never-ending cycle of life and death, of loving and hating, living and dying. It was that love that gave him the strength and the determination to do that which needed to be done - to defeat Abaddon and his minions once and for all. Swords clashed and blood flowed as each struck the other in their final dance of destruction and retribution, both equal to the challenge, neither giving way to the other, until one's attention was distracted momentarily by the arrival of a mortal - a woman who was more important to the battle than she could ever know.
The Angel Rathanael heard the battle cry that rang out over the mountains, and the part of him that was human was distracted for a brief moment - the length of a single heartbeat - but it was enough, it was what his enemy had been waiting for.
The face of Abaddon's chosen vessel creased into an expression of deeply malicious triumph in that moment, the glint of black eyes seeing a hesitation that a mere mortal would have missed. With a skill beyond any seen by mortal eyes or known by mortal hands, he twisted the heavy black blade of his own sword from its engagement with Joyeuse, and thrust it into that minute crack in Rathanael's defenses.
Mortal eyes, brown and loving, acutely fearful for the life of a man who had proved to be an angel in their short liaison, saw too late the opening, the distraction ....the cruel opportunity her presence had given the evil Rathanael battled. A scream tore from her throat, horror and pain and fury intermingled in a terrible cry of loss. "Rhys!"
Time seemed to stand still, though the battle still raged around them, as the human part of the angel, the man known as Rhys, staggered backwards, glancing down to find a stain blooming darkly on the front of his shirt, pain the likes of which he'd never known dropping him to his knees. He knew it was over; he knew he had lost. He heard a familiar voice scream his name, and he recognized the pain and the terror in that scream. He turned mortal eyes toward the sound of that voice, and the part of him that was human, the part of him that loved her, acknowledged her by whispering her name, like a prayer upon his dying lips. "Natalya..." He seemed to forget his foe for a moment, all of his attention on that one lone mortal soul on the field of immortal battle, and suddenly he understood and remembered what it was he was fighting for. He wasn't only fighting for humanity; he was fighting for her, he was fighting for a future that had been promised before he'd been born