Akting Out

***DAY THREE: DAWN***

Azrael brought his rear leg up, attempting to force his hip into the technique as Michael had taught him. He tried to turn his hip over, but he lost his balance; his standing leg slipped on the stone marble floor beneath him, and he came crashing to the ground. Despite his frustration, Azrael got to his feet, dusting off his legs as he rose. Again, he took his stance, placing most of his weight on his back leg, his right hand open, facing upwards, and level with his chest, his left palm extended before him. Again, he threw a front-hand talon strike, his fingers extended. He stepped in swiftly with a reaping blow from his right hand. If the blow had actually struck, it would’ve drawn blood. Because the blow came so swiftly, opponents always underestimated Azrael’s reach and paid dearly.

Once again, he brought his knee up, attempting for follow through with his newly-acquired round-house kick, as Michael called it. He recalled Michael’s words as he attempted to complete the technique; put your entire hip into it…

“Hold.”

The calm, authoritative voice caught Azrael unawares, and he slowly lowered his leg as he looked toward the room’s entrance (entrance of WHAT? A room? Then say “the entrance of the room.”). The eldest of them was standing there, the one who would be their leader in the Last Campaign. He stood in the door, his long blond hair draped along his cloaked shoulders. He almost looked like a vampire, completely clothed in black with a gold trim. There was no arrogance to him, though; in fact, the humility in his eyes made him seem approachable.

The Angel entered the room, a gentle smile on his face as he nodded his head towards Azrael. “You’ve been studying with the St. Ambrose boy, haven’t you?” He inquired.

Azrael nodded. “Yes, sir. We were told to begin preparing for–” Azrael froze, remembering what Anders had told him. Everyone wants to know the future until they know the future. “I’m sorry.” Azrael began again, “I’ve forgotten your name.”

Azrael couldn’t decipher the look on the Angel’s face, but it wasn’t hostile. If Azrael didn’t know any better, he would’ve sworn it was…pride? Impossible; Azrael didn’t know this Angel, much less had done anything for him to be proud about. But still, the way the Angel was smiling at him…

“Yes, I apologize,” the Angel said swiftly, extending his hand. “Raphael St. Zeneca.” Raphael leaned in, as though he hoped Azrael would know the name.

Not knowing what else to do, Azrael accepted the hand with his own and shook vigorously. “Azrael Undaras, sir.”

Raphael nodded, walking away. He stepped to the center of the empty room and sat on his knees. “I’m not familiar with the four-way fighting style, Azrael,” Raphael began. Outside, a hawk announced its presence as it alighted in the small, open window. Raphael continued, “But you need to relax. You’re putting too much effort into it; sacrificing balance for power. Without balance, there is nothing.”

Azrael lowered his head and smiled. “My father used to say something similar.”

Raphael nodded. “He must’ve been a good man. Actually, that’s why I’m here.” He extended his hand, inviting Azrael to sit across from him. “May we speak for awhile?”

Azrael still couldn’t decipher Raphael’s mood or intentions, but he had no reason to distrust his future leader, and this may have been a good time for the two to get to know one another. After a moment, Azrael took a seat on his knees four feet across from Raphael. “Please,” Raphael began, once Azrael with situated. “Tell me of your father.”

“He’s a good person,” Azrael immediately replied, surprised by how quickly the words came. He and his father had never been close, and they hadn’t parted on good terms.

Raphael nodded, forcing a grin that appeared to mask regret. “I see. If I may ask…is he where you get your demonic lineage from?”

Azrael nodded. It was a common question. “Yes. My mother was an Angel.”

Again, the phony smile that futilely attempted to hide sadness. What was Raphael looking for?

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Raphael said sadly. The hawk took flight, the flutter of its wings echoing throughout the chamber as it began to circle above their heads. “What happened?”

“She was killed,” Azrael replied, his voice dropping an octave. “During the purge, the Sefiroth came for her. They killed her for seducing the enemy.”

Raphael hadn’t expected that. “So why do you fight for us, and not your father?”

Azrael pursed his lips. Memories of violence following the death of his mother flooded his mind, and for a moment, his father’s words had rang true. “If Yin wins…” Azrael began, “Everyone…humans, Angels, demons…all of us will be killed. Some of us will die at the beginning, some of us will die when we rebel, and more of us will die when we don’t conform to her whims. Yang’s way isn’t perfect, but it’s balanced.”

Raphael nodded, understanding. Above them, the hawk cawed. The echo reverberated downwards as the bird continued to circle the chamber. “You were taught well,” Raphael finally said. “Tell me, Azrael, what is the first memory you have of your father?”

Azrael backtracked through his memories and shook his head. “I don’t have one. I just know he’s been there as long as I can remember.”

“Aside from your mother, was anyone else there?”

Azrael nodded. “I had an aunt…Helena. She came by to see my brother and me when we were children.”

Raphael blanched. “Your brother?”

“Yes, sir,” Azrael replied. He lowered his head, his tone sad when he spoke next. “I have a twin, and unfortunately, this conflict has placed us on opposing sides.”

Raphael exhaled and held his breath. He lowered his eyes in what appeared to be horror, slowly getting to his feet. He placed his hands on his hips, turning his back to Azrael and lowering his head. Azrael wondered if he had said something wrong. “Helena.” Raphael finally said, his voice cracking, “What do you remember of her?”

The thought of Helena brought a smile to Azrael’s face. “She was always happy,” he said, his voice trailing. “She always had something new for me and my brother. The only time she wasn’t happy was when she told us that she couldn’t come back.”

“About eleven years ago…when you and your brother will still children.” Raphael finished, his voice cracking.

Azrael was surprised that Raphael knew that, and nodded. “Yes, Raphael.”

Raphael, his back still to Azrael, lowered his head. That was when Hel became the guardian of Asgard’s icy underworld.

“Azrael, please,” Raphael said quietly, as though fearful of the answer, “Your aunt Helena…was she your mother or father’s sister?”

Azrael scowled as he wondered where Raphael was going with this. “My father’s…she was demonic–” Suddenly, Azrael froze. “Raphael, why are you asking me all this?”

Raphael slowly turned, hesitantly, to answer. Before he could, the hawk above them screeched, this one wrenching and painful. It suddenly dropped the ground between them and landed audibly. Dead.

In the distance, a massive explosion was heard. Raphael raced to the window, followed by Azrael. Leaning out, they could see black smoke billowing in the distance, thousands of miles of away. Somewhere, something was under heavy attack. The only thing that far in the distance was…

“My lord!” A young Angel suddenly appeared in the doorway, exhausted and panting. “My lord, you must hurry! Yevon is under attack!”

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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