Picture entitled: Dark Angel Rising © by John D. Stanton 2006 www.3AMBlue.com.
GEMMEN
by Michael Hanson © 2006
"Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell." -- William Shakespeare
Gemmen floated in silence, invisible, above the ancient battlefield. The stench of voided bowel and bladder, the sweet reek of arterial gore, and the echoes of terror and horror had long since faded. Once, thousands of years ago, feral dogs had hovered at the periphery of such killing fields, salivating in anticipation of coming feasts.
"And now?" Gemmen mused. Now this wasteland was nothing more than a graveyard, a memorial to all of mankind's passions and hatreds and final desperations. A last stand. The end of all that was and ever will be.
A shadow that cast no shadow, Gemmen moved downward, surveying the weird glistening landscape. Though long patches of dust and sand obscured its one time perfection, still the miles of reflective ebony was dazzling to behold at sunrise. An ancient desert converted to black silicate in a momentary holocaust of Godlike heat and pressure. A man-made apocalypse.
In the distance, a hundred miles at least, Gemmen's keen supernatural eyes could see that The Anathema was forming. And slowly approaching. Gemmen trembled in anticipation and considered the surroundings once more.
Thus had ended the last tribes of mankind. The final fragments of sentience casting their destruction upon one another, ending forever the final covenant, which bridged the mortal world with that of eternity.
And so the cosmic imbalance was formed and it boiled and churned across the dead Earth for two thousand years, gathering strength, power, and purpose. A rebirth of that which was cast down from above so very long ago.
And now, that which had no name, the bane of all life, an ugly unstoppable tornado of anger and hatred roared to within a mile of the stealthy Gemmen, before slowing in confusion and hesitation.
Then Gemmen, the only offspring of the Arch Angels Zerachiel and Araqael, corporealized for the very last time. The end of an ancient theurgic bloodline, duty and honor and balance shouted for appeasement. For as the legions loyal to the All-Being of Creation had defeated the followers of The First back in the dawn of time, so had fallen many of the mighty, including Gemmen's parents, in that ancient conflict which had cast down The Adversary.
The Anathema took instant notice of Gemmen's appearance and rumbled forward to quickly close the distance separating them. And as the juggernaut of evil approached, Gemmen shed a single tear. Not for the loss of the ancient pact. And not in fear of the oncoming onslaught. No. Gemmen shed a tear in loneliness. For among all of the legions and hosts of the all-powerful, Gemmen, and Gemmen alone, was appointed this final, unenviable, and seemingly impossible task. The multitudes of eternity had long since left this sphere of reality. And so had Gemmen been left to wander the barren planet alone, without purpose for two thousand years-until today.
The Anathema slowly halted its forward momentum a mere one hundred yards away. Then, furious with a rage barely contained in a miasma of ancient hatred and madness, it shrank down from its mile high undulating shape. It condensed and contracted into the towering grey form of a sexless bald warrior of old, head and torso sheathed in bronze armor, with legs, arms and lower face left bare. At fifteen feet from skull to foot, it glared down menacingly at the ten-foot tall naked champion with the flowing red mane and the flashing silver broadsword.
Then Gemmen, standing upon this great sparkling landscape, spread beautiful white wings wide and lifted the thaumaturgically-forged sword to a defensive position, guard at eye level, point a mere foot off the ground.
Spitting its hate, The Anathema lifted a mighty black spiked mace high into the air and charged forward.
And thus, upon a one hundred mile wide arena of shimmering black glass, the Titans of Good and Evil battled for final supremacy of The Earth.
