The Door

He spits out a mouthful of blood, only noticing the tooth that went with it due to the sound it makes hitting the floor. He turns his head to the left, then closes his left eye, finally able to get a clear view of it - or, them; multiple teeth lie on the floor.

‘So be it,’ Mikkel thinks.

He turns his face back to front, opening his eye, allowing the red haze to stain his vision again, making everything blurry. He attempts to get up off his hands and knees, but his right knee gives out when he tries to put weight on it, sending him sprawling back down. The impact drives the air from him, leaving him gasping for air - which in turn sends stabbing pains throughout his entire left side. He already suspected his ribs were broken; his right shoulder is messed up, so his arm isn’t doing what he tells it to, the fall making it worse as something tears inside.

‘Won’t be relying on that any time soon,’ he muses, glancing up.

He’s lying in front of an old door, battered with age, trying to catch his breath. A door not unlike the one that sent him down this dark path of redemption…

…He stood in front of a simple wooden door, old and battered from frequent use, but still sturdy.

‘Finally,’ he thought, satisfied. ‘It’s been a long path, but at long last, my final task is just on the other side of this door.’

He paused, breathing deeply, savoring the moment - then he kicked the door in, surprising the man sitting behind the desk. A book was open in front of him, and the man was wearing robes and spectacles; he was an older man, gray shot through the close cropped hair at his temple and well-groomed beard. But Mikkel wasn’t there to admire the man, he quickly searched for the sign he knew he would find.

“What is the meaning of this?” the man asked, rising. “I am High-Priest Augustus, and you need -”

Finding the mark, Mikkel cut him off, shouting, “Blasphemer! Heretic! Your crimes will no longer go unanswered.”

He drew his daggers in anticipation, waiting… but nothing happened!

Instead, clearly surprised and caught off guard, the priest started sputtering, “Nonsense. This is outrageous. You have no business here with that kind of talk. And put those away, before you hurt someone.” Mikkel hesitated, also confused, allowing the priest to gain some confidence as he continued speaking, “Who are you, son?”

The priest closed his book and Mikkel caught sight of the cover - The Holy Book!

Enraged, he stalked forward and roared, “How dare you defile The Book!”

Slashing out wildly with his daggers, Augustus barely managed to react - using The Holy Book as a shield! This disrespect sent him further into his fury, launching another attack the priest barely blocked with the thick tome.

“Please, this isn’t necessary. Whatever you are going through can be addressed,” he pleaded. “Let’s be reasonable and discuss this, instead of resorting to violence.”

Mikkel yanked a medallion out from under his shirt, holding it out at the priest as the words washed over him. The symbol matched the one on the book, but it glowed faintly, a sickly yellow light spilling out. Gritting his teeth, he advanced on the priest.

“None of your foul magicks or tricks will save you, pretender, I am protected!”

Mikkel jumped forward, surprising Augustus, so that he was unable to catch the blade with the book, its edge instead raking across his forearm. It drew blood and a shriek from the priest; the smell of burnt flesh filled the room, as the wound turned black and started leaking smoke as well as blood.

“You see!” Mikkel shrieked in triumph. “The blades do not lie. They can sense your true nature hiding within that costume.”

“This cannot be!” Augustus protested. “You wear the Holy One’s sigil, but you wield unholy blades. What manner of deception is this? Your medallion… it appears to be tainted.”

“I will not be drawn in by your deceptions! I am here to cleanse you, Father. Your crimes have not gone unnoticed. Funny you should mention taint, as you are covered in it and I will remove it. Cease your meaningless struggles and I will be merciful.”

“Crimes?” Augustus asked, confused. “I am guilty of nothing, my son. I live only to serve the Holy One. There is no taint in me, nothing to cleanse. You have been misled.”

“More lies? As you wish,” Mikkel replied.

He dropped the sigil, letting it rest on his chest, and prepared both of his daggers for the next assault. Feinting with his left dagger, he drove it deep into the book, yanking it aside as he plunged the right dagger into the priest's side. Mikkel tried to throw the book and dagger away, but even through the pain, Augustus refused to relinquish the tome; so he twisted the dagger, throwing his shoulder into the old man, who gasped in pain and was thrown backward. This yanked both of the daggers out of Mikkel’s grip, leaving him weaponless, looking down on the priest.

As he realized his task was almost complete, his rage burned out, replaced by pity. He knelt next to the priest, still gasping for air, and reached out for his daggers.

“Let me end this. Perhaps the Holy One will forgive you your transgressions.”

As he gripped the dagger embedded in the book, the priest grabbed his hand with the one not holding the book, an inhuman strength keeping Mikkel from pulling away.

“I know not why you do this, my son, but… I. Forgive. You.”

The moment the words left the High-Priest’s mouth, Mikkel felt an energy slam into him and his vision went black. He continued trying to get away blindly, but the dying priest held him solidly and another burst of energy struck him, rendering him stunned, as a series of images rushed through his mind…

The approach of Ashmael, entrusting him with a mission in the Holy One’s name; to find and root out heretics, identified by a secret symbol, usually worn as an earring, high up in the cartilage where the fold of the ear could obscure it. He was given five assignments: The Harlot - turning vulnerable young women to prostitution; The Drug Dealer - leading at risk people into addiction and death; The Abuser - preying on innocent women and children, for monetary gain or personal pleasure; The Thief - taking on elderly boarders and stealing their money and possessions, making them live in filth and poverty; and finally, the worst of them all, The True Heretic - the high priest leading more of the Holy One’s flock astray.

As he tried to process these visions and regain his composure, he was hit by an even bigger surge of power, showing a second series of images…

Not a Harlot, a women’s advocate, helping them escape from their abusers and find new lives away from the street. Doing the Holy One’s work. Not a Drug Dealer, but a street missionary, handing out clean needles while preaching against the evils of drugs and substance abuse, providing avenues to escape the addiction. Doing the Holy One’s work. Not an Abuser, but a doctor, part of a network that helps the vulnerable and abused find shelter, freedom from whatever they are running from. Doing the Holy One’s work. Not a Thief, but a caretaker, protecting her charges from swindlers and con artists, using their money to ensure they have what they need, while cleaning up the messes they can’t clean themselves. Doing the Holy One’s work. And finally, not The True Heretic… but the leader of a secret sect dedicated to reducing the Evil One’s influence and rooting out his hold. A true believer, among true believers, which was what the secret symbol, or earring, was for.

Mikkel gasped for air, trying to refute the visions, saying, “No! It can’t be, that’s not -”

But he was cut off as another burst hit him…

Ashmael was revealed to be a daemon, using his unholy magicks to disguise his nature and recruit for his cause. Under the guise of a ‘Holy Avenger,’ he sent Mikkel out on his mission - the true purpose of which was to weaken or remove obstacles for the daemon, so he could regain his power and open a portal for his brethren. Something the High-Priest and his ‘secret society’ were preventing. Something he would soon be free to do, if not stopped.

Mikkel sought to deny this once again, but this time, the power washed slowly over him - and he truly felt the Holy One’s presence in the room. A weight fell off him, two thick plates falling from his eyes. At his feet lay two smouldering scales, the demonic mark of Ashmael upon them.

He sank to his knees, overcome with guilt, but cried out, “How could I have known, though?”

In response, the power washing over him hit him again, the strongest burst yet, sending him flying across the room, into the desk. Quick flashes of images burned through his mind, showing exactly what he missed - or ignored - during his ‘mission.’ The power rolled through him, shoving out any remnants of Ashmael's hold, but sending him into blissful unconsciousness.

—

When he came to a short while later, he noticed blood running slowly from his mouth, nose, eyes and ears. Augustus appeared to be dead, lying still, eyes closed, so Mikkel walked over to him and yanked the dagger out of the book. Placing it on his chest, he closed his eyes and prepared to plunge it into his heart. But a hand gripped his own, stopping him.

“No, my son,” Augustus said, sitting up and breathing shallowly and quickly. “That is not the answer, only the easy way out.”

“Haven’t I done enough, Father? There is no redemption possible for what I’ve done.”

“You are wrong. More wrong than you know,” Augustus gasped out. “There is nothing left in the daemon’s way… but you.” He paused, breathing heavily, looking at Mikkel, and added, “There is only you.”

“But I am nothing,” Mikkel protested. “A lost soul too weak to recognize he was being led astray. How could I possibly face that power again?”

“Mistakes were made… as is expected of human souls. But you are not lost, or alone. You simply went astray, the path back is before you, all you have to do is walk it. Your knife,” Augustus commanded, gently pulling on it.

Mikkel allowed him to take it away, then watched with astonishment as the High-Priest reached down and yanked the other one from his side, a spurt of blood flying out. Augustus ignored it, placing both daggers onto the book and closing his eyes; a warm, bright light engulfed them. When it receded, the daggers were no longer covered in blood or rust, and he could tell they had been blessed.

“Take these. The weapons of the enemy will be his demise. Do this, not for yourself, but for the world that will be damned if you don’t. Not because you are responsible for the darkness closing in, but because you wish to bring the light back.”

Taking the daggers, Mikkel watched as the strength left the High-Priest’s body, and he fell over, the blood slowed and breath stopped. He sat there for a time, staring blankly at Augustus’ body. Finally, he snapped out of it, looking at the weapons in his hands and sighing.

“As you wish, Father. I will do this, for you. And the light you should have brought this world, if not for my mistakes.”

He stood and walked back out the battered wooden door…

…and he is snapped back to the present, as cruel, scornful laughter reverberates through the chamber. Mikkel manages to push himself into a position to view the entity mocking him - Ashmael comes into view, as he stops laughing, turning to face him as well.

“After all of this, you still believe you can oppose me? We are standing on the brink of victory - mostly because of your good work - and now you wish to switch sides again, feigning ignorance and righteousness?” More laughter is unleashed, as Ashmael lets his contempt be known, saying, “You. Are. A. Joke. So easily led astray by the dangling carrot, ignoring the darkness engulfing you until it is too late. You have been abandoned!” the daemon roars. “All alone. And so inconsequential. Where is your Holy One now?”

Mikkel rolls over to his back, no longer listening as Ashmael continues his monologue. He contemplates his options. He’s badly hurt, possibly even mortally wounded, he realizes, as he coughs up thick wads of blood.

‘It’s not looking good,’ he thinks.

While Ashmael has his back turned, he uses his left hand to reach over and grab the dagger that fell from his useless right hand, tucking it in his belt. Holding his other one, he says a quick prayer to the Holy One - then flings the dagger at the daemon. It strikes true, right between his shoulder blades. Ashmael staggers slightly, roaring in pain and anger, as he stumbles to his knees. He tries to reach the dagger to pull it out, but it’s just out of reach. Mikkel notices the wound begin to leak smoke, as black lines radiate out from the point.

Ashmael turns to face him, standing and gritting his teeth, fury filling his formidable frame, saying, “Still a little fight left in you, I see.”

Mikkel manages to make his way to his feet this time, favoring his right arm and left knee. He looks at the daemon in front of him, swaying from the pain and blood loss, and spits another wad of blood out.

“You ask where my god is?” Mikkel asks, chuckling.

He draws the medallion out from under his shirt, causing Ashmael to wince, but stand firm. Then he pulls the dagger from his belt, holding it solidly, twirling it as he readies his bruised and battered body.

“It appears he is closer than you thought. We shall see who has been abandoned. Let’s finish this!” Mikkel roars, charging the daemon with his last vestiges of energy.

“Yes, let’s!” Ashmael snarls in response, rushing to meet his charge.

The End.