Something about a crackling fire always triggered introspection in most people. For Malachi, staring into the swaying flames made him think of Hell. And not because he had become so conditioned by his life that fire could only represent the devil, but because he was acutely aware of how many he had sent there.
He didn’t have to look far to find a debate regarding the logistics of the afterlife and judgment, not that it would have mattered, as those details did not concern him. He just knew that there were many that were either in Hell right now as a result of him, or were enjoying the long sleep before waking to their ultimate fate.
He looked beyond the blazing ballet, trying not to look too far. Right after the fire, his great sword rested on a log, but behind that was a thick dark forrest that stretched into the void. The kind of brush that could have been four miles long or four million, and it would make no difference; one would be hard pressed to find the courage to take four steps.
There was so much history in that sword of his. So elegantly designed but with such a grizzly history. Dismemberment, dispatchment, gruesome undoing, all words or phrases to describe what that sword was known for. And he couldn’t help but reflect on those things, given the significance of the day. Some people liked to remember allies they lost; Malachi preferred to think of enemies crossed off.
He barely noticed Half-Wing signaling him. He looked at Half-Wing who sat by the fire, embracing its warmth, a strange thing given she was covered from head to toe in armor, with thick cloth covering her face. Malachi had only recently embraced learning sign language to aid Half-Wing after the latter took a vow of silence for her sabbatical away from the ongoing war. It wasn’t an easy skill to learn, but it had it’s conveniences. The problem was that Half-Wing was new to signing too, leading to many misunderstandings.
Malachi didn’t realize that Half-Wing was warning him of an uninvited guest, until said guest had gotten close enough to be illuminated by the fire. Malachi chuckled. Children’s stories of the dark always amused him, knowing that shadows contorted familiar shapes into horrendous beasts of malintent, convincing lesser minds that the monsters had been there the entire time. Here was Malachi entertaining the question, will darkness give you a monster to face if you look at it long enough?
Malachi gave a standard greeting in his angelic language. A language not embraced by this world, but common enough that most knew this phrase, a phrase that translated loosely to: keep in perspective the fallen.
The visitor clasped his hands together and performed what could only be described as some kind of alternative curtsy.
“You seem dressed for a great battle.” Malachi said. He eyed his sword. This visitor stood between him and it. Half-Wing lay at his left.
“A great battle awaits me.” The visitor said.
“This is a day we honor our fallen. I don’t expect any kind of code from the demons, but you smell human. We don’t look for fights on this day.”
“I bet that’s like asking you to hold your breath for an entire day, Malachi.”
“Yes, it is.”
Malachi reached. The visitor reached. Malachi gripped a branch. The visitor gripped the helm of one of his swords. Malachi began stoking the fire. The visitor drew before understanding what was happening.
“Every year.” Malachi said to no one in particular. He looked up at the visitor, and brushed some of his silver hair out of his face. Then he stood up, noting how tense the visitor got.
“It’s only a fight if you make it one.” Malachi said.
“I intend to make it one.” The visitor returned.
Malachi signed to Half-Wing, a clumsy combination of gestures to communicate: I’m trying. He was skilled enough for his sword and had fought enough who could also call themselves savants, to know that every opportunity for practice should be taken advantage of.
Ordinarily, Malachi would be similarly armored, from his breastplate to his shin guards, to chainmail. But he was trying. No reason to invite challenge. In his baggy robes, he would be cut through like the leaves of the trees that surrounded them. It was a dangerous prospect to travel in Spiritual Realm with no protection at all, even on a day like today. Which is why he insisted Half-Wing not do the same. And it was now the reason why he appeared to be the only of the three not prepared for a fight that almost seemed inevitable.
“There’s a certain mindset I’m supposed to have.” Malachi stated. “For the demons, Hell is inevitable; when I face one of them in battle, I cut them down. For humans, Hell is a decision. So, I am supposed to do everything in my power to avoid a fight. For your kind, the goal is redemption. If Wisdom Woman were here, she’d warn you not to press. I’m sort of hoping you do. Wisdom would give you opportunities in the fight to stop; I might not. And when she inevitably killed you, she’d mourn you. If I kill you, I’ll tell your story with the same zeal humans describe their favorite movies. Is the glory you hope to get by cutting me down worth eternal torment?”
“You think I’ll go to Hell just for killing you?” The visitor asked.
“No, I think you’ll go to Hell for rejecting God. I can’t imagine any man of God killing what they perceive as a victim completely unprompted.”
“You got me there.” The visitor gripped his sword and lunged at Malachi.
Malachi ducked and pushed the visitor away. With a clear path to his sword, he took it, and unsheathed it. As it’s fine Salvain metal received exposure, the reflection from the light of the fire pierced the darkness of their surroundings. For a mere second, Malachi was among the known once again. No shadows to be transformed into monsters. No concerns of children, regarding danger that did not exist. Just the truth that illumination brings.
He parried an attack from the visitor; he parried again. He kicked the visitor away; he sidestepped the counterstrike. He kept an eye on Half-Wing, who seemed to be interested in everything else except this one-sided affair. If not for her, Malachi would have already parted the visitor’s head from his body. But Malachi had seen many take a sabbatical from this never-ending war; he knew the horrors that drove them to do so. His glee had to come second to Half-Wing’s peace of mind.
Usually, Malachi would look to score a few gashes to send his message. But the visitor’s armor was too thick. Malachi could penetrate it of course, but to do so would require force that would remove a limb or impale a stomach. So, at first opportunity, he allowed the clashing of their swords, and maneuvered to disarm the visitor. He dealt a strong blow to the visitor’s leg, knocking him to his knee, and then leveled his great sword at the visitor’s face.
“You are as good as you say you are.” The visitor said proudly.
“I am, but your poor showing would not reveal it.”
“Poor showing!? I’ve trained for years to be-”
“You can’t comprehend how good I am. It’s not for you to understand. You can’t beat me. That’s not what you should be ashamed of. You can’t test me. Wisdom would show you mercy.”
Malachi took his great sword and decapitated the visitor. He wanted to feel pity, but he couldn’t. If anything, he felt annoyed that he exposed Half-Wing to such violence for such a subpar bout. He sat down by the fire again and continued to look at the flames. Once again, Half-Wing had to get his attention as she signed the question: why not mercy?
Malachi could not begin to figure out how to answer that with gestures, so he took advantage of Half-Wing’s ability to hear.
“Ruthlessness for the man who chooses to fight me is mercy for the next man who will choose not to because of it.”
Malachi said nothing more. He was satisfied with the illumination. That brief moment when the area was brightened, and he glimpsed a second visitor in one of the trees with an arrow pointed at him. A nocked arrow that the second visitor now lacked the courage to loose.
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