Confessions of a Liberal Puritan

Third of an estimated six chapters (well, at least five and an epilogue) to complete this story, so we're halfway done . . . I hope!


Chapter Three: “War . . . What is it Good For?”

Long is the way
And hard, that out of hell leads up to light.
John Milton, Paradise Lost. Book ii. Line 432.

Several hours later . . .

Angel surveyed the battlefield that had once been a city alleyway in the middle of a block of deserted commercial buildings, basically indistinguishable from hundreds of other alleys in the city. Now, it was quite . . . distinctive.

There were corpses of dozens of different demonic varieties lying in piles all around him, in addition to one honking huge dragon carcass that was completely blocking a nearby street. The remains of several fires caused by the dragon or by the weapons of some of the demon horde were smoking sullenly. Here and there, groups of the winged reinforcements seemed to be tending to their wounded comrades or checking for any still living among the fallen demons.

There were no winged corpses – apart from the dragon, that is. Angel had seen several of the 'party-crashers' mortally wounded during the fight, and each time they seemed to wink out of this reality at the moment of death, in much the same manner as they’d first appeared. Angel was too tired to try to figure out if they were really dead or not, and – frankly -- much too tired to care.

All Angel could think about or care about at that point was finding out what had happened to his own people during the battle. After that, perhaps, he might be able to summon the energy to ask who the . . . heck (somehow, he didn’t care to even think the word ‘hell’ at the moment, having been through enough of it for one night) these reinforcements were, and why he’d been experiencing a major case of déjà vu whenever he wasn’t too busy fighting for his un-life.

The leader of the winged group was approaching him now, and Angel thought this might be a chance to get both of his most pressing questions answered: were the others all right, and if they were okay, then why? Why hadn’t they all died hours ago, as they’d fully expected to? Not that he was disappointed about that . . . really.

Angel stepped into the taller man’s path, just in case the other had thought to pass on by, and tried to put on his most implacable human face, the one that usually made an impression and told people not to mess with him. Of course, it had never really worked on Spike . . . or Harmony . . . or Cordelia . . . or Buffy . . . or apparently anyone who knew him, for that matter.

However, it served at least to get the winged commander’s attention, even if the expression of tolerant amusement on the other’s face wasn’t quite the effect Angel had hoped for. “Alright,” the vampire said, hoping to seize the initiative, “how about you tell me who you are and what the…heck happened here? And keep the answers short and simple, ‘cause it’s been a REALLY long day and an even longer night.”

The other smiled. “I’m called Michael, and we have met before.”

Angel frowned. “Yeah, it sort of feels that way, but I think I’d remember meeting an archangel – I assume you really are THAT Michael? Please tell me this isn’t another repressed Angelus memory, ‘cause that’s never a good thing.”

Michael’s smile broadened, as he replied, “No, our previous meetings go much further back than your days as Angelus." The archangel gestured with his sword-free hand to draw Angel's attention to their bizarre surroundings. "Since this alley and the surrounding area are temporarily sharing aspects of the reality we come from, you should be able to remember our history now, if you concentrate.”

Some part of Angel knew that there were other matters he’d intended to focus on, but it felt as though the archangel’s suggestion acted almost as a command, causing him to close his eyes to the world around him and concentrate on the distant past. His conscious mind seemed to be on a sled -- or something slippery like that -- at the top of a long hill, down which it sped at an ever increasing rate. Amid all the images that rushed past his mind’s eye too quickly to register, several pictures stuck out and seemed to stand still for a moment, long enough for him to take a good look at them.

He saw Michael, looking and dressing much as he did right now, but standing in the midst of ancient Rome when it had still been shiny and relatively new. That version of Michael was juxtaposed with images of a tall, well-developed brunette who was wearing . . . not much at all just then, but what there was of her costume seemed to consist mainly of bits of black beading and fishnet. At one time, he felt he had known that dark-haired woman very well, though not as well as he’d have liked to. Something in him wanted to say “Mine!” when he saw that woman, but there was some barrier he couldn’t cross.

Along with those pictures came other images, still apparently set in long-ago Rome, of a couple of blonde women: one, short and feisty and well-muscled (and almost as scantily-dressed as the brunette), inspiring in him about equal parts of annoyance and desire; the other, taller and softer-seeming in every way, usually dressed in flowing pink, and carrying that particular connotation of affection and intense irritation that screamed “family!” -- in spite of some memories of really inappropriate touching during that little Roman holiday. Of course, he also remembered the shorter blonde and the tall brunette draping themselves all over his naked (and apparently really well-muscled) torso, but that had only bothered him in a good way.

No sooner had he taken note of each of those figures -- and recalled some tactile memories to go with each of the women -- than his mind’s eye raced onward again, this time settling at what felt like the bottom of that particular hill of images.

There, events seemed to be moving at normal speed, finally, and he found himself in open country, engaged in a life-and-death battle with someone. Strangely, it was almost as though the fear and helplessness he experienced as he was thrown a great distance through the air was a new sensation for him, a vulnerability and possibility of defeat that he’d never had to cope with before. He shook his head and tried to focus on who it was dishing out such an unaccustomed butt-kicking. There were four grotesque, costumed horsemen who seemed to come in for some of his feelings of hostility, but his fear and outrage were focused primarily on one other man, the one who commanded the horsemen.

He was wearing an ornate golden breastplate, sans wings, and what looked suspiciously like a long white dress, and he had inexplicably adopted Spike’s bleached blond and slicked-back hairstyle, but it was undeniably Michael who was his enemy in that long-ago battle.

Angel’s eyes snapped open and his mind raced back to the present. Choosing his words carefully, he asked Michael, “Am I delusional, or did we first meet when you were trying to destroy the world?”

Michael smiled ruefully. “I was certainly trying to give that impression, at the time. It was a test for humanity, and the chance for a particular champion to demonstrate the best that humanity is capable of.”

Angel said slowly, reluctantly, “I remember fighting you then, but I wasn’t the champion, was I? You treated me as nothing but a brief distraction, easily brushed aside.”

Michael nodded in acknowledgment. “No, we didn’t consider you a ‘player’ – as I believe you would say – at all, yet. You surprised us by going against your own apparent nature and making common cause with your much-loathed half-brother and his friend. You may only have been doing it for much the same reason that Spike gave for siding with Buffy against you when you tried to awaken Acathla: because you liked having humans to toy with and didn’t want anyone else to trespass on what you considered your territory. But, no matter the reason, you did a good, selfless thing and kept your word for the duration of that crisis, helping your brother Hercules to fulfill his destiny. And from that moment, some of us began to think that you might one day amount to something worthwhile . . . IF you were given the right encouragement, Ares.”

It would be overly dramatic to say that scales fell from his eyes at that moment, but hearing the name that he had formerly carried for centuries of heedless existence as the Greek god of war did make a number of puzzle pieces fall into place in Angel’s mind.

One large piece seemed particularly significant.

He was in some sort of earthquake-ravaged Grecian temple, which seemed to be in imminent danger of coming down on top of him – ‘Olympus,’ his inner voice supplied. The tall brunette was there. Xena. She was dressed in her favorite black leather and battling for her life against more of his former family members. His loyalties were torn as never before. He’d tried to trade his support in keeping herself and her daughter Eve safe from the other gods, in exchange for a promise that she’d have a child with him, grant him the human kind of immortality, just in case Eve really did cause the end of the Olympian gods. He’d repeated the offer many times, but Xena had always turned him down. Now, both her daughter and her best friend were dying from injuries his family had orchestrated. Only his sister Athena could grant the power to heal them, and since she was currently doing her best to kill Xena, that wasn’t likely to happen. With Eve slipping over the edge of death, Xena had lost her power to kill gods, and Athena was about to kill the woman he loved. He had only one thing left to trade, and without a hope in Tartarus that he’d get anything in return.

“Eve and Gabrielle . . . ,” Angel said, his voice unconsciously taking on some of Ares’ cadences. “I healed them, saved their lives at the cost of my godhood. All for the love of a woman I could never have, a woman who was working out her own redemption by battling everything I stood for.”

“Yup,” Michael said succinctly. “Ain’t love grand?”