Rise of the Archangel
Chapter I
His head pounding, Ignatius breathed in the crisp air outside. Theos help me, he thought; I need a break. At his advanced age, with Ignatius’ white hair and wrinkled skin serving as evidence of the many years he had spent in this world, stress was to be avoided at all costs; this time, however, it seemed inescapable.
As he did his best to relieve some of the tension that plagued his troubled mind, Ignatius walked down the pillared breezeway that ran parallel to a pristine walled garden. The Paeneticum had many such gardens situated amidst its multitude of buildings, for it was a minor city in its own right: located within the great metropolis of Reinburg in the Palatinate province, this was the seat of power for the Theist Church as a whole. Here were places of worship, both big and small, coexisting alongside numerous administrative locations in stony silence – all serving to tend to the needs of Theos and his vast flock.
Ignatius was never attracted to such grandeur and complexity, but he understood it to be necessary, nonetheless. He often felt overwhelmed when traversing the oppressive bulk of the Paeneticum, and calmer, tucked-away places like this garden served to calm both his body and spirit.
Drawn inwards by the gravity of his own thoughts, Ignatius was called back to the present moment when he heard the unmistakable laughter of children – orphans, most likely, taken in by the Church and raised under its divine creed. Suddenly, a ball emerged from the greenery and careened towards the old man, stopping as it rolled against Ignatius’ leg. It was a misshapen thing, made of a pig’s bladder and stuffed with cloth scraps and the like. The giggling continued as two young boys, wearing coarse brown robes, emerged to retrieve their prized plaything, only to stop in their tracks upon realizing who stood before them.
Ignatius bent down with a mighty groan, picking up the ball and ignoring the shocked demeanor of the youngsters. He offered the plaything to the two boys, smiling warmly as he spoke. “Many years ago, when I was young – and I used to be young, believe it or not – we stuffed our balls with dried peas. Yours is too soft and makes for horrible kickin’…” The two children looked at each other as if they had an epiphany and bowed their heads sincerely. “Go on now, you rascals!” exclaimed Ignatius with mock gravity, shooing both of them away. “And stay away from the rosebushes – they have thorns!”
Not much time passed, and a fresh-faced man approached Ignatius from behind. Before the aid got a chance to speak, the elder perked up, turning around with a sigh. “They are awaiting my return, I suppose?”
The young man smiled as he bowed his head. “That they are, your holiness.”
The walk back to the Sinodus – a gathering of the highest-ranking Church officials – was a short one, yet Ignatius felt every second of it stretch into an hour within his mind. The weight of his thoughts seemed to slow down time itself, giving more room for his worries to flourish. Ignatius pushed back such negative notions; his position required that he maintain a cool head and a serene spirit – especially lately.
Finally, Ignatius entered a large chamber dissected by an elongated table, with two dozen or so men and women sitting on either side of it. All the attendees were discussing passionately amongst themselves, the intensity of their discourse apparent from the loudness of all their voices. Upon the realization that Ignatius had returned, all those present were quick to rise on their feet, bowing their heads with deference as the old man assumed his position at the head of the table. “Holy Father,” they all murmured in turn, sitting down again only when the old man – Ingnatius, Holy Father and spiritual leader of the Theist Church – raised his hand in acknowledgment.
The discussion continued, and a gaunt man snorted as he spoke, addressing a woman swathed in black garments at the opposite side of the table. “I am telling you, sister, the murderous Fredrik cannot be ignored. He took the life of one cardinal already. Who is to say he will stop there? A murderous sinner such as him has no right to be called a king!”
The hook-nosed nun narrowed her eyes and leaned in closer to the table’s edge, clasping it with both hands. “The killers of Theos’ greatest champion tread upon Alektria once more, and you’re worrying about some kinglet? Forgive me, brother, but I feel you are misguided.”
“If you let the nobles do as they please, the faith is sure to crumble!” retorted a corpulent man robed in crimson. “Look at Erich Schur and the whole debacle at Pravia. His assault of the venerable Baron Mikael von Kürschbourgh endangers us all by validating such deplorable behavior. Just the other day, some lordling made a jest that I should avoid going out in public, lest I be punched in the face!” The man was quick to swivel his round face at the brooding individual at his side. “I am sure the esteemed cardinal would agree, yes?”
Thobias, Cardinal of Pravia, was a squat man with broad shoulders and thinning raven hair. Upon being addressed, he responded hoarsely, as if being jostled into abrupt activity. “As much as I condemn Erich Schur and his actions, he is not the main threat the Church is facing. The Deists are expanding their influence with each passing day. In Pravia alone, dozens have taken to following their misguided ways…” The Cardinal grumbled, continuing. “To suggest that a man can follow the aspect of Theos that suits him best… That simply invites the sin most suited to one’s vices!”
“Brothers and sisters,” interjected Ingnatius. “We all know of the threats the Church faces. Whether one is more pressing than the other matters not – they are all threats to our faith, regardless.” Unanimous exclamations of agreement emerged, and the Holy Father continued. “What matters most is that we find a solution to reinvigorate the faith of the people in us – to reignite their belief in the Church.”
As the expected slew of possible solutions were repeated once more by the bulk of the participants – to build new cathedrals, to bolster the common folk with charitable work, to parade religious relics across the Hundred Kingdoms, and other such paths that had been tried before – Ignatius’ attention moved elsewhere. The Holy Father’s eyes darted to the opposite end of the lengthy table, gazing at a woman that had scarcely spoken during the lengthy discussions that had taken place thus far. Agathia, Matron of the Sacred Discipuli Society and the Holy Father’s own goddaughter, appeared serene despite the dire gravity of the subject of today’s Sinodus.
Ignatius could not help remembering her as she once was – a young and radiant girl when he was naught but a burgeoning man preaching of Theos’ word. Time, much time, had gone by, however, and now Agathia had graying hair and wrinkles had formed upon her statuesque features. Meanwhile, I look like I belong in an ossuary, thought the old man, allowing himself a brief smile before he returned to the matter at hand.
“And what of your… efforts, Agathia. How fare your labors?” The Holy Father’s voice galloped like a wild steed across the room, commanding complete silence and instilling shock within many of those present.
“Your Holiness, I must protest!” The gruff voice of Cardinal Thobias pierced the air like a dagger, and others murmured similar sentiments as well. “Though I value Matron Agathia’s studies of the divine, our present predicaments require more…” The man paused, weighing his next words carefully. “They require more definite countermeasures. The faith of the honored Matron of the Discipuli is ever to be commended, but our threats are tangible. Earthly. Our answers should match them.”
Agathia raised a single eyebrow and dug into Thobias with the icy stillness of her eyes but said nothing to him. Instead, she turned to the Holy Father. “As ready as we’ll ever be, your holiness. The rest will be done by His grace alone. We could begin within the week, if it would so please you.”
“Your holiness, I beg of you…” implored Cardinal Thobias. “We are in need of certainty, not… mysticism!”
“And what could command more certainty than the word of the Divine, Cardinal?” snapped the Matron.
As the Cardinal made to respond, Ignatius’ voice stopped what was becoming an argument. “Peace, everyone. I beg of you.” The old man twisted his neck and turned to face Thobias directly, taking a sip from the silver chalice in his hand. The sweet port wine soothed his parched throat and took the bitterness away from his tongue. “Thobias, I’ve always valued your level-headed nature, for it makes you aware of the harsh realities we more aloof individuals are rarely privy to. As such, I wish for you to join Matron Agathia during the final preparations of her efforts. I want all perspectives to have equal representation during this critical joint push to reinvigorate our beloved Church.”
Agathia and Thobias shared a look of tame disbelief between the two of them, rushing to protest but never getting the chance to do so. The Holy Father got up and began walking towards the exit of the room, speaking as a yawn overcame him. “You will have to excuse me, everyone. The day has been long, and we all have much to think about. I wish to conduct my evening prayers in solitude, and I suggest you all do the same. We have much to accomplish in the weeks to come.”
Chapter II
Thobias stood in the middle of the Paeneticum’s spacious main courtyard, absorbed by the dirge of ringing bells that signaled the emergence of a new morning. The sun had barely risen when Matron Agathia emerged in the distance, generating a flurry of swarming pigeons as she confidently strode towards the Cardinal. Hers was an air of unwavering confidence, that much Thobias had to admit, for she moved and acted as one that fully believed in her cause – though the Cardinal considered such single-minded devotion to be misguided, naïve even. Regardless, the Holy Father had ordered the Cardinal of Pravia to supervise the preparations of the ancient ritual of Communion, and, as such, Thobias had no choice in the matter. Regardless, Thobias was set to treat this occasion with the utmost gravity and seriousness that was expected of him – whether he had faith in its results, this ritual was the will of the Holy Father, and he had to place his trust in Ignatius’ wisdom as such.
“Good day to you, esteemed Cardinal,” spoke Agathia warmly, offering a wide smile as she dipped her chin.
“Good day to you as well, Matron,” Thobias paused, sizing up Agathia with his hawkish gaze. She was plainly dressed but exuded an air of authority nonetheless, her petite stature beaming with an aura that reached far beyond the limitations of Agathia’s frame. “Might I suggest we skip the formalities and move to a first-name basis?” the Cardinal of Pravia continued. “If we are to collaborate in accordance with the Holy Father’s wishes, building a rudimentary sense of familiarity will surely aid us both, yes?”
“I am inclined to agree, Card—” Agathia paused, correcting herself. “Excuse me. I am inclined to agree with you, Thobias. I was never one for formalities either way. I have found they tend to hinder the work I do in the name of Theos.”
“On such a point we can find common footing, Agathia, yet such things are often a necessary evil – especially when dealing with nobility.” The Cardinal smiled bitterly, continuing. “With recent events in mind, I’ll even admit I miss the days where most of us were bound by overbearing codes of conduct.”
“Ah, yes,” Agathia let loose an elegant giggle. “The whole debacle with Erich Schur was quite the departure from courtly conduct, was it not?”
Thobias’ eyes darkened as he remembered that time. “It was a disaster; that’s what it was.” After a stretched-out pause, the Cardinal forced a convincing smile and spoke. “Anyhow, no sense in lingering in the past. I’ll assume you’ll lead the way to the ritual site, yes?”
“So be it. Follow me if you will, Thobias.” The Matron’s walking pace was surprisingly brisk for someone of her size and age, forcing Thobias to hurry and making his face turn a ruddy pink. Between panting breaths, the Cardinal let out a few words, reaching for a silk handkerchief that was tucked away underneath his sash. “Remind me, where are we going exactly? It’s been a while since I last visited the Paeneticum from Pravia…”
“The Inruptia Chapel. I assume you are familiar with it, yes?”
“I know it to be quite old – but not much beyond that. It lacks the—” the man paused, “shall we say luster of the rest of the hallowed places that make up the Paeneticum; therefore, I always thought it to be of limited importance.”
“On the contrary,” interjected Agathia, not slowing her striding pace as she talked. “It is the oldest place of faith here. Even older than the central Basilica of the Paeneticum. Some say it’s older than Reinburg, being the original structure that was built here when the first faithful arrived from the lands of the Dominion.”
Thobias nodded with a low, almost guttural grumble, raising an eyebrow as the pair continued towards their destination. After a stretch of awkward silence, the Cardinal of Pravia spoke once more, alleviating the hint of tension and foregoing the sternness that lingered in his demeanor still. “Forgive me for being so bold, Agathia, but how did you come to know the Holy Father and become his goddaughter? Since we have decided to forego formalities for the sake of honesty, I would like to know…”
The Matron laughed openly, halting as she did so and grabbing her waste. “Ah yes, plenty of rumors have spawned because of our connection. You think I’m favored and thus given influence beyond my capabilities, yes?”
“I would never stoop so low as to believe the less than palatable drivel that has been circulated by some Church members – out of respect to the Holy Father – but I would like to hear the truth from your lips. If what you are attempting comes to pass, we will face the power of the divine alongside each other; I wish to do so knowing that I’m standing alongside an individual of worth.”
“You are a direct man, Thobias. I admire that about you. Very well, I will share my story with you; though, I will be brief, for we will have more important matters to attend to shortly.”
The man dipped his chin in understanding, and the pair began walking again. “You see, I was the daughter of a peasant – a poor farmer in a village near the border between the Palatinate and the Allerian Plains. The name of the village does not matter, for there are many such settlements in that region: places lacking in wealth and mirth, relying solely on passing trade to stave off starvation and complete poverty. My parents had too many children, too many mouths to feed, so my father sold me to the local lord when I was very young – a child still – for he could not take care of me.”
“That is a cruel fate,” noted Thobias with a sigh.
“It was a necessity,” shrugged Agathia. “Hard choices have to be made when you do not have enough food to go around.” The woman turned her head forward, her voice sorrowless. “Anyhow, my life was to be that of an indentured servant – until a traveling preacher came to the lord’s manor one fateful day.”
“The Holy Father Ignatius?”
“Indeed! He was a young man then, traveling the land to spread the word of Theos, and I was but a scared child with no place in this world. During his stay at the lord’s court, we grew closer together; he saw me as his disciple and I as a… guardian. Through persuasion – and, I suspect, some promised favor with the Theist Church – he convinced the lord to let me go, and thus I came under Ignatius’ care.” Agathia smiled, the warmth of fond memories engulfing her sharp features. “When I grew of age, he persuaded me to join the Society of the Discipuli, for he knew that I wished to see the world and do as he once did. The Discipuli are an order of missionaries at their core, so such a decision made sense for one of my aspirations…”
“The Society has grown to be much more than a simple collection of missionaries, I’ve noticed, especially under your leadership as Matron,” noted Thobias, raising a bushy eyebrow.
“We have gathered influence and power due to our reach,” admitted the woman without hesitation. “But I assure you, it is all to further the cause of the Church and His faith. Coin and the ears of pious nobles are but means to a lofty goal.” As Thobias and Agathia reached the entrance to the Inruptia, the matron brought the conversation about her past to a halt. “Such is my story, Thobias. However, in recent years, I have turned my attention to a different matter. What you referred to as… mysticism.”
“Peace”, the Cardinal lifted his hands and eased out a practiced smile. “Those words were spoken in haste.”
Agathia did not slow her damnably fast pace as she continued walking and talking, having not even noticed his polished overtures. “The Church predates all of the Kingdoms. It is the single oldest entity humankind has created, and we but skim the surface of its ancient glory.” Her eyes had lit from within as the passion for her work captured her. “We know we were capable of so much more. We know the Theos’ own hand graced the church and provided us with the ability to perform miracles.” Her voice turned wistful at the end. “It is not a grand miracle we seek today, Cardinal. Just the most profound: Guidance.”
With these words, Agathia ushered him past a hanging tarp and revealed the space beyond. The Chapel was a structure that showed the graceful touch of time in all its glory, having a weathered patina that could only come with eons’ worth of exposure to the elements and the world. Its architecture was notably different from the rest of the places of worship that made up the Paeneticum: its lines were smoother, and its outer walls carried more detail in the form of morose statues and stone-hewn facades – carrying with them an echo of the architectural lineage of Hazlia’s fallen Dominion.
As Agathia, accompanied by the Cardinal Thobias, entered through the main gates – greeted by an entourage of blade-wielding Sicarii that acted as guards – she quickly crossed the small courtyard and was swallowed by the structurally complex inner sanctum. Twisting pillars lined the central hall of the grand Chapel, reaching upwards and connecting with the great dome that crowned the Inruptia. The hemispherical roof had a three-dimensional texture on the inside, decorated with a vortex-like winding pattern that seemed to extend to the rest of the impressive structure. Most surfaces were adorned with a collection of hagiographies, mosaics, and wall-bound paintings depicting saints and other hallowed depictions of Theist history. Most of the art within was also affected by time’s tender touch: there was chipped paint, pitted stone, and most of the metallic architectural elements showed corrosion – all adding to the aged grandeur of the premises.
Thobias sucked in air through clenched teeth as he beheld his surroundings, doing little to hide his amazement. “This is – This is beautiful!” he said out loud. “I’ve never been inside this place during my visits.” Moving further in, the Cardinal noticed a strange scene sprawled out on the floor at the very center of the Chapel. Geometric patterns of perplexing detail – too many of them to count – had been meticulously drawn on a large, circular stretch of flooring, creating an amalgam of shapes that sucked in the man’s gaze. At the center of it all was an ornate stand displaying a painting: drawn on an ancient-looking slab of wood, the hagiography depicted two angelic forms, wreathed in blinding light and soaring over what appeared to be a city in flames.
“Luciel and Uriel,” confirmed Agathia, moving next to Thobias. “They were angelic paragons of the divine during the time of the Dominion. Uriel was Theos’ retribution manifest, while Luciel was His benevolence. Are you familiar with the history of this depiction?”
“The destruction of Ditia,” answered Thobias under his breath. “An ancient city during the early days of the Dominion that left Theos’ light – succumbing to heinous sins and debauchery. Luciel and Uriel were sent to cleanse it, and thus Ditia was lost from the world forever.”
“It was no mere city,” disagreed Agathia subtly. “It was the manifestation of humanity’s inclination towards sin. Some interpret its destruction as an ill omen of the cataclysm to come – the Fall – and of our everlasting need for repentance before the eyes of Theos.”
“Interpretations of the sacred texts regarding Ditia do vary, I suppose,” conceded the Cardinal. “Though one would have to assume that there is quite a bit of symbolism involved in such tales.”
The Matron’s eyes grazed over the haunting depictions of Uriel and Luciel, seeing their angelic forms soar over a backdrop of utter destruction and feeling herself become slightly lightheaded. “I am of the belief that there is not much symbolism when it comes to this tale. For years, I have studied texts and historical accounts closely connected to the times Ditia existed, and its… sudden absence seemed to have made quite the impact upon the fledgling Dominion.”
Before Thobias could form an answer, Agathia continued with her enthralled musings aloud, giving the man no room to speak as she raised three fingers before them both. “For three months did Ditia suffer for its transgressions, for its denizens chose to worship a false god – a demon – and move away from His grace. Some say they erected the statue of a great black goat in the middle of the city, while other accounts claim it was that of a multi-headed golden bull. I think that matters not, for it was a demon they worshiped, nonetheless.” Thobias, equally engulfed by the hagiography, did not answer, urging the Matron to continue. “For the first month, the skies wept, and rain – so much rain – fell down from the heavens. The deluge caused a flood that tore down the crops outside the city’s walls and drowned its cattle – causing starvation.”
Thobias hummed with deep thought, crossing his arms over his belly. “I remember mentions of three days, not three months. But I assume you have access to more, shall we say, enlightened information…”
“Indeed, I do,” responded Agathia with a nod. “Through my research, I’ve concluded that Ditia’s destruction took longer than what is more commonly believed, making its erasure that much more significant.” The woman paused, collecting her thoughts. “Anyhow, on the eve of the second month, pestilence came. The sewers erupted with rats and the skies turned black with swarming flies. From the ravaged fields came hordes of ticks, and the people of Ditia were riddled with disease and sickness aplenty.”
The Cardinal pressed his lips together, forming a thin line. “And on the third day came Uriel and Luciel—Apologies, on the third month.”
“Exactly. Uriel was Theos’ fiery retribution; the angel found the denizens of Ditia wanting and brought His scorching punishment upon them. Before the city was besieged by the fires of perdition, Luciel acted as His divine mercy; he offered the sinners one last chance to save themselves and urged them to repent; those few that did were offered protection, shielded from Uriel’s lethal castigation.”
“Tell me, Agathia. How come you are privy to such details that even I, a Cardinal, have never heard of? Your recounting of Ditia and its downfall is quite illuminating.”
“We were able to decipher the writings of the martyr Elota, which are closely guarded within the Paeneticum’s vaults, where only a chosen few have access to. Elota claims to have been the only denizen of Ditia that never faltered in his belief in Theos. As such, before the city’s final destruction, he and his family were allowed to leave, leading those that had returned to Theos before Luciel. Maddened by the ruin he witnessed, Elota tore out his own eyes; yet his children were able to record their father’s experiences in a collection of ancient scrolls.”
Thobias exhaled. “That is quite the tale, I must admit.” Swiveling his head to face Agathia directly, the Cardinal spoke, his gaze questioning. “Why this place then? What is so special about this Chapel?” he asked, raising both hands towards the ceiling and gesturing all around him.
“This site was built by the Tektons: a secretive organization of divine architects and masons that had close ties to the Church in the past. Their designs were meant to funnel the greatest resource of them all – faith – allowing it to pool up and manifest in a more tangible way. It was they that built the greatest of the Dominion’s temples, and that knowledge was absorbed by the Theist Church after the Fall. Though the Tektons are… no more,” here Agathia’s voice hitched before she smoothly recovered, “this Chapel is undoubtedly one of their greatest works. It has absorbed the faith of countless believers over the centuries, making it ideal for the task at hand. We had to do some renovations when the time came, but its core materials were reused.”
“Renovations? Like the lines on the floor?” pushed Thobias. “They look like the drawings of a madman…”
“A genius,” Agathia corrected the man. “And yes. Along with some structural, geometrical modifications, these patterns are derived from one of Platon’s greatest works – the book known as the Theologion. While his studies were, of course, clouded by the heresies of his time, few understood the connection between divinity and our world better than him.”
“Where would one even find such a book?” asked the Cardinal bluntly, his disbelief beginning to flare.
“We had agents sent to the lands of the City States years ago. They assumed fake identities and slid into local affairs without being noticed – for the most part. We were able to secure a copy of the Theologion from the City State of Eubron. A massive riot had broken out at the time, largely due to the political machinations of the city’s conflicting political powers, and we were able to secure a copy of the Theologion amidst the chaos that took place.” A hint of deep-rooted sadness overtook the woman’s features briefly, forcing her to look down. “Many of our agents perished to get this book to our hands. They were good people. They were devoted to Theos above all else and their sacrifices shall not be in vain.”
Thobias nodded in silence, allowing the Matron a moment to regain her composure before speaking again. “And how does this all tie together? How are these elements, shall we say, capable of communing with Uriel and Luciel?”
The Matron raised a finger and pointed at the angelic depiction at the center of it all, her voice now brimming with fervor derived from the truest of faiths. “By using this sacred relic as a locus – the origin of which dates before the Dominion’s Fall – the latent faith gathered and primed by the works of the Theologion and the ritual of communion will be used to reach out to Theos’ own angels. We will use the faith stored up in this place, the Chapel of the Inruptia, to fuel our efforts to reach across the heavens, turning their eyes towards us and our current plight.”
“And what do we do after that?” asked Thobias absentmindedly, still trying to process the deluge of mind-bending information.
Agathia placed a hand on the man’s shoulder and smiled. “For the rest, we must place our trust in Theos.”
Chapter III
This was like every other sermon that had taken place within the hallowed halls of the Paeneticum – yet at its core was the potential to alter the very course of history and the world as a whole. Agathia had made sure that all of the preparations had been perfect beforehand, with the scrutinizing gaze of the supervising Cardinal Thobias placing further pressure upon her shoulders, though she dared not show the true breadth of the emotional strain she was experiencing. This was the culmination of years’ worth of labor and research – of delving into the secrets of the Tektons and Platon’s own theological designs. She was confident that everything had been perfect on her part; no, she was sure of it. For the rest, it was up to Theos himself to bless the ritual that was about to unfold and bring forth his angels once more into this world. Agathia had never lacked faith during most of her life, being a staunch supporter of her godfather, Ignatius, and the Theist Church at large. Today, however, the Matron of the Discipuli felt her heart flutter in her chest and beads of cold sweat forming on her forehead. She was nervous; there was no denying it.
Agathia herself, along with Cardinal Thobias, was seated within one of the galleries that overlooked the main hall of the Chapel, providing a clear view of what was to come next. The Matron observed as the Holy Father entered the premises draped in ceremonial garbs, striding towards the ritual site while being trailed by an entourage of priests and other aids, all of which had a role to play in the liturgy that was to come. Fresh-faced boys carried ornate banners, depicting the saintly forms of martyrs and other individuals of worth, while more experienced priests swung gold-plated censers that hung from chains like morning-stars, filling the expansive room with fragrant incense. Ignatius exuded palpable serenity as he circled the theological inscriptions on the floor, bowing, at a distance, before the hagiography of the angels Uriel and Luciel and making his way at the raised altar near the other end of the circular hall.
As the Holy Father took his designated position, the ritual truly started. The old man raised both arms, and, without a wasted second, began the sermon. The Holy Father’s retinue, along with other priests that were positioned across the Chapel in strategically placed pews, acted as a choir, echoing each word uttered by Ignatius with litanies and praises of their own. Together, they formed an evangelical chorus that praised the undying glory of Theos by reciting the sacred canonical texts of His Church.
“Praise be to Theos!” was uttered in spaced-out intervals. “May we repent by His grace. May His angels absolve us. Hear our plea – oh Uriel and Luciel – and come to us!” All served to give a repetitive structure to the lengthy utterances that were incited by the Holy Father, each word of prayer bolstered by the melodious appeals of his faithful flock.
Up in the gallery, Agathia had also taken part in the ritual, rising in her seat and clasping her hands together as she invoked the divine with each fiber of her being. So engulfed in the present task was she, that time itself seemed to slip away from her turbulent mind. Had it been minutes? Or had it been hours? The Matron could not tell the difference. Her sensitive spirit was in tune with the strident power being called forth, her senses stretching across the chapel… no across the Paeneticum itself and reaching still further. Within each Cathedral, every Tekton built a structure serving as a web of power that carried divine energies inward. Not merely the power of a single, ancient chapel, but the living breathing belief of hundreds of thousands across the Hundred Kingdoms. A far greater outpouring of power than what she had ever envisioned. Her mind reeled from the implications of her oversight, her own lack of understanding of the powerful web of stone and faith woven by the Tektons at the behest of the Church. Alarm spiked through her, but before she could act, she heard it – an otherworldly noise that pierced her entire being.
At first, there was a sharp sound – the noise of banners going taut in the wind. Then, it resembled the snap of a harp’s broken string, buckling under the pressure exerted by a musician’s overeager fingers. Lastly, it crescendoed into a piercing ding, cutting through the Chapel like a fine blade and causing Agathia’s head to ring with the auditory aftermath.
Then, there was silence. Stillness so profound that it seemed to rob the very world of all sound.
Panting, Agathia raised her head and looked at the ritual site below. At the very center of it all, where the depiction of the two angels was displayed firmly mere moments ago, a line of ethereal light had manifested. At a glance, it was mystifying: a beam the length of a hair rising up from the hagiography and reaching up towards the ceiling – no, it was reaching up towards the heavens beyond. With each passing heartbeat, the light emitted from the otherworldly shaft grew in intensity; harsh and ivory in hue, it flooded the hall like a luminescent wave. Then, with the sands of time having seemingly come to a grinding halt, Agathia saw the rift widen, stretching open into a dimension-defying tear. The Matron saw – she felt – something reaching out from beyond and instinctively ducked, pressing her body against the stone banister before her and covering her face with her arm.
When the sound returned to the Chapel it was in the form of a thunderous shriek, followed by a light-bound explosion that caused the very earth to shake. Agathia, huddled against the floor, felt the crunch of stone reverberate from within the bowels of the Chapel as part of it collapsed, dislodging chunks of debris and flinging it across the air in a chaotic fashion. Facing away from the source of the preternatural eruption, Agathia tried to flee towards the staircase that led to the ground floor, only for the gallery to slump downward, causing the woman to slide back and towards the edge. The Matron’s descent was halted by the jagged remains of the upper railing, slamming against her form like marble-hewn fingers. Groaning with pain as she felt one of her ribs give away, only then did Agathia dare look towards the source of this cataclysmic commotion.
Two forms of blinding celestial light hovered above the shattered crater that was once the altar of the Inruptia chapel. Agathia dared not look at them directly, for in her very soul she felt that doing so would risk madness. Even when her gaze averted, the woman could feel the harshness of their divine essence, radiating with both coldness and warmth at the same time. As the angels swirled to behold those that had summoned them into this world, she felt a deluge of divine power pierce her brain like countless slivers of broken glass, overwhelming her very being with the unknown.
As the first angel began hovering towards the collapsed ceiling of the Chapel, its radiance having a golden hue that made it somewhat distinct from its sibling, Agathia mustered the courage and reached out – straining both her body and mind as she tried to commune with the celestial beings on a spiritual level.
Into the searing light of the divine she cast herself, surrendering to the cacophony of power and Divinity that threatened to overwhelm her. With a final terrible effort, she managed to establish the lightest of contacts, but, instead of the glory of the divine, she was greeted with an ethereal cacophony that coalesced into… judgement. Uriel, right hand of Theos Himself, beheld her and through her all of mankind and once more found it wanting. She quailed in terror at the awesome presence before her, every fiber of her being beseeching this incarnation of divine justice to grant her time to prove her Faith, to correct her mistakes – anything. It was as if her appeals were simply unheard, like trying to converse with a force of nature, such as the heart of a roaring volcano or the eye of a cataclysmic storm. It was as if the Matron’s appeals had been rejected, pushed aside by other-worldly consciousnesses too alien to comprehend. Feeling judged and dismissed – rejected – the Matron’s mind swelled with dismay, trying to make sense of it all.
With tears rolling down her cheeks, Agathia noticed the recumbent form of the Holy Father near the edge of the newly formed crater. Unlike his goddaughter, Ignatius was staring directly at the divine arrivals, his face contorted into an expression that was beyond the spectrum of normal human emotions.
As the Holy Father beheld the angels – visitors from beyond that had arrived before them by the grace of Theos – she saw his eyes film over, their milky opalescence failing to protect his soul from the ineffable sight before him. Ignatius did not seem to mind the torn flesh and bloodied clothes he wore or the pain that wracked his broken body, his mind solely focused on the radiant beings before him as his sight began to give out. The second angel, Luciel, glowing in a soft silvery light, slowly made its way towards the old man and reached out to him. Strands of ivory celestial light weaved themselves into a rudimentary arm that extended outwards towards Ignatius’ own raised appendage. As two fingers touched, connecting the mortal with the divine, Agathia saw the Holy Father’s gushing wounds reknit themselves and his shattered bones become whole once more. But the eyes remained empty still, two milky orbs staring at the impossible, drawn to the angelic presence like all life turns towards the sun. He was talking, Agathia could see, but what words came out of his mouth she could not hear. She called after the Holy Father, but he could not hear her. She did hear the angel respond, though.
“I am sorry, child,” it said, words that came in a voice that harnessed all sound into a single harmonious note, which somehow blended with the light that streamed from its form. “I truly am, but it is not about you or yours, mortal. It has never been about you. With those cryptic words, its awesome presence hurled itself aloft, the faintest suggestion of mighty pinions stretching from its impossible form.
As Ignatius’ mind and sight fell into a terrible and unyielding darkness, both angels careened skywards with blinding speed, rotating their forms around an invisible axis and piercing the cloud-strewn heavens – overcoming the very sun with their combined radiance. Then, they were gone, with only the destruction within the Paeneticum left in the wake of their arrival.
Agathia managed to rise to her feet, retching violently as the overflow of adrenaline that coursed through her body kicked at her stomach. Shakily, she made her way up the collapsed gallery and towards the staircase, grabbing onto the hand that reached for her. As Thobias pulled the Matron up, his brow marred by a deep, crimson gash, he spoke – his voice hoarse and dry. “What—What was that? What have you done?”
Chapter IV
Agathia barely heard Thobias’ words; instead, she turned her head and looked at the ruins that were once the Inruptia Chapel, now a partially collapsed husk of ravaged masonry. Despite the sorry state of her surroundings, the Matron could feel the surge of power that had permeated the sight of the angelic explosion – the detritus left behind by Uriel’s and Luciel’s arrival was gleaming, a fountain of raw faith gushing in the heart of the Paeneticum.
Her blank mind stared at that power and grasped its significance in a way her previous self could not have. A path beckoned her, and she raced down it, her brilliant mind, shocked into a higher cognitive state, saw options and potential it had never thought of before.
“Fortify your faith, Thobias,” responded the woman, wiping the blood from her lips without taking her fervid eyes from the ruins below. “There is still much that needs to be done…”
“Are you mad?!” the Cardinal’s strangled shriek barely registered in the aftermath of the cacophony they had just experienced. “Your heretical ambitions have destroyed us!” His voice continued to rise. “I will see you and your entire order of heretics excommunicated for consorting with—” A stifled cry abruptly ended his tirade as he lost his balance and pitched off the raised balcony, the shattered railing no longer there to prevent him from falling headfirst into the steaming crater below, where his body landed with a hollow thud.
Agathia turned and looked into the eyes of the Holy Father, whose arrival at the gallery she had only now noticed, his blank expression and milky eyes unreadable. He simply stood there, smiling as his blank gaze fell upon her and the devastation of the Chapel.
Facing the Holy Father directly, the Matron gestured at the ruined Chapel around her with flailing arms. “Do you feel it?” she asked reverently. “The power in these ruins! The raw faith…”
Ignatius nodded, his smile warming a tad, but then his face quickly shifted into a mask of confusion. Agathia had turned her gaze from the angels, but the Holy Father had stared directly at them… Theos alone knew how much of the man she cherished still remained within the husk before her.
“I can reform these materials – the remains of the Inruptia. Through them we can create our own Angels, born from our own will and prayers!” Agathia’s words radiated with unshakable confidence, her voice a zealous blaze.
The Matron wasted no time. Firmly grasping the Holy Fathers shoulder, she led him along the balustrade and down the winding stairs to where the remnants of the Sinodus were slowly picking themselves up as Sicarii rushed among their downed forms and helped those who could be helped.
“Place guards in all of the entrances; no one is to enter or leave the Paeneticum.” The Holy Father’s nod underscored her order and tacit control of the situation. Agathia addressed the highest-ranking Sicarii in her entourage further, now walking briskly. “Take all the Sinodus members that were present to safety and tend to their wounds; inform the rest that I am to continue with the ritual, and that the Holy Father is safe under my care. Be sure to placate them as best you can. I can’t afford to deal with their pushback. We are to begin with the preparations for the new ceremony this very instant! Do you understand?”
The warrior nodded without another utterance and hurried away, running.
From high-ranking priests to the peasant aids under the Church’s authority, everyone was urged to add their strength to the backbreaking labor that ensued. Beasts of burden, carts, wooden beams, and pulleys were positioned throughout the Chapel’s ruins, meticulously dislodging and repositioning the hallowed debris under the Matron’s exact supervision. In essence, the Matron acted as the conductor and the laborers willingly adhered to her symphony, creating lines and mounds of carefully placed rubble that formed a gigantic humanoid shape. Starting from the deepest part of the crater at the center of the Chapel and extending outwards, this construct could pass as rough and misplaced to the uninitiated. Agathia knew of the true value of her creation, however, for this was a body waiting to be inhabited by His power. With the addition of new geometric inscriptions, always in accordance with the Theologion, a new ritual site was marked.
As the final touches were being implemented, with the entire operation haphazardly completed overnight, the Sicarii messenger returned and approached the Matron, with deep-set exhaustion crowning his voice. “All is as you ordered. The council is pacified for the time being, though I believe they are merely gathering their strength. Many are against your plan, Matron, and they will try to stop you. That, I am certain of,” he grumbled.
“And what of you? What of the men under your command?” the Matron asked grimly, her irises unnaturally dilated.
“I cannot speak for all of the Sicarii, but those under my direct command are at your disposal,” said the man sternly, the undertone of respect plain for the woman to grasp. Before Agathia could thank him, the Man cut in, his question one that had also lingered in the Matron’s mind despite the urgency of her current predicament. “Those things – the angels – were they Uriel and Luciel after all? It’s hard to believe they would act in such a way…. Especially before the Church. Before His faithful flock.”
Agathia did not know what to make of the angels herself. Uriel and Luciel – for she believed it was indeed them – had left as quickly as they had arrived, leaving chaos in their wake. Through rushed reasoning alone, for there was little time for concise thinking, Agathia came to the conclusion that the entity that had connected with the Holy Father was Luciel – for it showed a semblance of mercy – which meant its more aloof companion was Uriel. “It does not matter,” uttered the Matron staunchly, and she believed as much wholeheartedly. The Church was still in need of a divine paragon, and she knew in her heart what needed to be done.
The head Sicarii shrugged his massive shoulders and hurried away without a word, casting his blade aside and adding his strength to the assembly efforts without hesitation. With blistered hands and sweat drenched brows, the preparations were eventually completed, with the rise of a new day not too far away.
With the new ritual ready to begin, the Matron now stood at the head of the unfolding procession – the Holy Father lingering close by, still in a state of discombobulation – though the backdrop of this new sermon was notably different from before. Through ruin comes hope, thought Agathia, preparing herself for what was to follow. Climbing onto the podium positioned before the debris-formed effigy, with an ornate volume of Theist litanies splayed atop it, the Matron finally gave the signal to begin the ritual – acting as its leader.
There were chanting and perfumed censers, and the proceedings were largely the same as last time. What had been changed, however, were a few words from the lengthy ceremonial texts that were read out loud. No longer were the angels Uriel and Luciel venerated; their time had passed. This time, the faithful beseeched Theos for a sign of his grace anew – one with a form and name that had never been witnessed in the mortal plain before.
“Praise be to Theos!” was uttered in spaced-out intervals by the priestly chorus, and Agathia’s heart swelled. “May we see the light by His blessing. May He send a guardian to protect His flock. May we stand before His divine grace so that we may bow before His majesty!” Same as before, the Matron found the passage of time to be of lax consistency during the length of the sermon. Such was her focus on the task at hand that she felt her spirit detach itself from her flesh, reaching for the heavens and observing the ritual from the clouds above.
For a while, nothing seemed to happen, yet the Matron’s faith remained resolute. Then, she saw a piece of broken masonry rumble and shake at the heart of the prone titan, with other such pieces following suit soon after. In time, the entire effigy was vibrating with self-generated force, stone grinding against stone and metal screeching against metal in discordant harmony. Fragments of marble statues, chunks of heavy-set stone slabs, and warped metallic fixtures made their grating song heard as they began their divine communion amongst themselves.
And then, once more, nothing.
She did not understand. She could feel the remnants of the angelic power within her creation, yet she felt no… urgency behind it. Her eyes darted left and right as her mind raced; little by little Agathia felt her heart sink. She looked at her hands – dirt and blood mingling from the unending physical effort she had put all night – then at the rosy east, where the sun was promising to rise soon. All she could hear was a muted buzzing in her ears; at first, she thought that the angels were returning but no – it was just her. And then her enemies finally drew closer, and their voices rose above the buzzing.
“Heretic! Traitor! Witch! Demon!” cried out the unharmonious voices of the newly arrived Sinodus members categorically. Their guards were clashing with her Sicarii, shoves and fists, mostly, but no blades or clubs, making way for the opposing clergymen to approach her. She did not turn to gaze at the spectacle, but, from the noise alone, she could tell that those that stood against her plans from the beginning were now overflowing with fury – and perhaps a measure of satisfaction. Their accusations were becoming a tangible, imminent threat, yet she felt no fear. All she felt was their faith, misguided or weak as it was, joining hers. So, she turned to the only shelter she had ever truly known: her faith. Bringing her hands before her, she knelt at the feet of her construct, guiding all her faith and the faith of all those near her into her words.
“Glory to you, Theos! Glory! My Lord, never have I asked for proof of my faith being rightly offered. Never have I doubted You or Thy Design. I shall not do so now. I see Thy plan. I see Thy design. And I thank Thee, Lord, for the opportunity to guide Thy flock, to show to them Thy will and Thy power. I thank Thee, Lord, for the tools you have offered so I can lead them to a new day. I thank Thee, Lord, for the chance to see this new day, to watch this new dawn for Thy Church, to watch Thy sun rise.”
She opened her eyes, smiling, as she looked at the first rays of sun escape the darkness beyond the horizon and fall on the ruins around her. Somewhere behind her, a blade had been drawn, catching the light for a moment, before it drew blood. More blades were drawn, ready to respond – but then…
Slowly but surely, the vacant form at the center of the ravaged Chapel began to take a life of its own, as the light of dawn painted the entire scene in golden light. The pieces of detached masonry were now elements of a body made whole; miracle-driven joints flexed and roared with grinding effort and, where there was once a splayed effigy, a titan began to rise upon tower-like legs. Its ascent was slow and methodical, with wandering hands of stone reaching for the pitted ground akin to the first movements of a newborn.
As if urged by a higher power, all those that had participated in the ritual dropped to their knees next to Agathia and joined her in prayer, urging the angelic entity to rise fully before them. Even Agathia, in her ecstatic state, as she poured all her will into the entity, she felt miniscule, an ant gazing into His eternal visage. The sound of battle ready to erupt had died out as suddenly as it had started. Only gasps and prayers pierced the Matron’s religious elation, and the woman was quick to rise to her feet and turn to face her doubters. As some guards and Sicarii still eyed her, Agathia reached for Ignatius, pulling him to her side. Despite his blindness, The Holy Father had not strayed too far from his goddaughter’s side throughout the entire process.
Then, the construct finally reached its full heights and stood erect. A walking reliquary and divine paragon of His eternal kingdom, the rough-hewn entity pierced what little remained of the ruined Chapel ceiling, its form crowned by the flickering warmth of the rising sun. All those before it stood paralyzed with awe, some still on their knees and others frozen in place with slack-jawed expressions.
Not even turning to face the giant, a few final words escaped the Matron’s lips.
“Behold, His Archangel!”
Epilogue
Agathia’s gaze wandered towards the window and to the Paeneticum’s main courtyard outside. News of the Archangel had spread like wildfire – just as the Church had intended – and droves of pilgrims had arrived from all over the Hundred Kingdoms to witness it. Alms and donations poured from across the realm as the faith and influence of the church burgeoned. Through all of this, the titan stood there unmoving, its head slightly craned as to behold the faithful that were kneeling before it. Their combined prayers formed a droning that could be heard for quite the distance – much like the buzzing of an immense beehive. Among the arrivals were pious nobles, marching into the Paeneticum with armored entourages and kneeling like the rest of the pilgrims before the might of Theos. For men under arms who were not Sicarii to enter the heart of all Theism was a great boon in its own right; such a thing had not happened in centuries, signaling the monumental change that was surely to come.
Agathia grinned and returned her attention to the matter at hand, addressing all those that stood before her. In the couple of days that had followed the Archangel’s awakening, Agathia had some residual resistance from a portion of the fractured Sinodus. Such opposition was quickly pushed aside, however. Blindsided by monumental events that took place, bereft of leadership, and unable to compete with the Archangel and the Holy Father at her side, the Sinodus came to follow her. If not out of faith, then out of weakness, tiredness, and, for even her staunchest opponents, out of a simple inability to contest her.
“The Holy Father’s recuperation is estimated to take some time: months, maybe more. His physicians have assured me he is of sound body, but the loss of his sight has taken a heavy toll on his mind. We all pray for his swift recovery; I ask that you too will do the same…” confirmed Agathia with a solemn dip of her chin. “Until then, this council acts with Holy Father Ignatius’ authority. Our call for a Crusade follows the sacred laws of the Church and His creed.”
“A crusade against whom?” asked Baron Mikael von Kürschbourgh, his tone overflowing with peacock-like floweriness. With him was a collection of nobles of great importance, with loyalty to the Church being the main element they had in common.
“Against all the enemies of His religion,” answered the Matron earnestly. “Both those within the Hundred Kingdoms and without. Make no mistake, the Archangel’s birth is a sign of His blessing. To deny such a call would be to reject the will of Theos! More of these Archangels will be joining us in this holy endeavor. Their might will aid you during your sacred conquest!”
The gathered nobility shared wide-eyed looks between themselves, raising their fists right after and crying out in unison. “For Theos. Blessed be His Crusade!”