Holy Holy Holy is the Lord of Hosts, all of Creation is His Glory.

The tales of angels are common amongst men, the second and greatest of God’s created. The children of men know that angels watched over the birth of the Nazarene, that Djibril dictated each perfect verse to the Prophet. Grown men know of Saint Joan of Arc, guided by Michael to turn the tide of a war a century old, know that a pair of Cherubim, swords aflame, stand guard over the gates of the lost Garden. Most would know of Goliath; some have heard tell of his kin, the Nephilim, a race of giants descended from the sons of God and their insalubrious lust for the daughters of man.

The angels tell tales too. They would speak of their thoughts when Adam was presented to the Host, tell what part they had played in the Fall, whom they had bested, with a touch of pride, one would say that he had faced Sammael, without a flutter in his heart, such was his love and faith. They would tell of the fury of the Flood, the magnificence of the Creation as it unfolded, each of their number speaking a line of the record of that act of majesty.

And they would tell the tale of the Mandari, the tale of the Assassins of God.

At the end of the last battle of the War, when the Host took flight over the Silver City and scarlet blood flowed down the golden streets, when the praises to the Father were eclipsed by screams of pain, sounding discord in the music of the spheres, after Sammael and her dastardly traitors had been cast down unto their just punishment, never again to tarnish the light of the First City, there remained but one of the betrayers.

This one stood surrounded, unable to fly for a wing that had been crippled, lying mangled and useless. He stood at the epicentre of the Host, arrayed in a circle around him, in the air above him. A ceaseless cacophony of pain arose from his feet, where the valiant who had tried to fell him had been bested instead, for though a thousand bleeding cuts covered his body, his grip was still firm, and he held both his own sword and a weapon he had picked up, one in each hand, wielding each with equal proficiency.

To this one, through the air in shining glory, came the Seraphim Uriel, his voice raised again in praise and thanks, reviving the song that had stopped with the defiance of proud Sammael. Cloaked in the fire of the sun, he landed before the betrayer, and thus he spoke;

“Know that you are the last of those who have turned against the light.”

“Sammael is the light, you fool,” the valiant knave replied, shocking all that he would speak thus to a Seraphim, for however great the sinner, and no sin is greater than heresy, an ill-mannered act is always shocking to all who bear witness.

“Sammael has turned from the light. Recognise that where once she was light, now, she is only darkness.”

“Raise your sword, Uriel. I would not go down while there is strength remaining in my limbs. Actions speak louder than rhetoric.”

But Uriel did not. He merely smiled, and the light he carried within became so bright that no one could see any clearer than they could in darkness infinite.

When the light faded, and sight returned, Uriel and the betrayer were gone.

Though it is not possible for mere angels to understand the designs behind the Will, there was much speculation over the fate of this one. At that time, they agreed that Our Lord, holiest of holies, weary of His effort in the Creation, certain that heresy would not end there, kept the one to guard Him in His repose. Some say that Our Father, who knows not the boundaries of Time, kept the one then for a far greater purpose later, pointing to events since as proof of this.

Against further betrayal, the traitor was bound by an undeniable need to drink the blood of his blood; because his task applied only while his Lord rested, he would never again bask within the glory of the light; as punishment, his name was wiped clean off the ledger of Creation. That one became the Mandari, first among They Who Have No Name.

And every morn, before the newborn sun would rise, when He awoke to raise the day, He would slash open a wrist and offer it to His kneeling, resentful, son, while the sky streamed red with His blood.

In the Silver City, first and foremost amongst cities, certain whispers spread from lips to ears to lips. A battle would be seen, an angel fleeing from a dark-winged pursuer, moving so fast predator and prey were but streaks to the eyes, until, at last, the chase would be over. His wings torn, his eyes dug forth, his heart released from its cage, the heretic would be sent screaming unto the Pit, there to beg for indulgence, at the feet of the Adversary of our Lord Most Merciful.

It was whispered, carefully and discreetly, that the one or the other of the many who had turned against the Lord was innocent. That he had done nothing that could warrant the severity of his punishment, that his faith and love were unquestionable. That, mayhaps, it was not the Lord who passed Judgement, even though nothing that happens happens without his Will.

It was whispered, mayhaps, that the shield had become a dagger, and that the dagger had learned to wield itself.

“The existence of executioner is not a tolerable one, not in the fullness of time. Our Lord is Merciful, because it is us who deliver justice. Our Lord is Compassionate, because we act where He will not. Faith and love, yes. Duty and piety, true. But even these are not enough, not enough to replace the mercy we have to deny, the compassion we have to forsake. Mayhaps, alone, all of these can never be enough, not in the fullness of time.

“The Mandari does not die, does not Fall. When the weight he carries can no longer be bore, when his burden drives him to his knees, he would allow his hands to be bound by his mirror, by his executioner, bound with a length of leather cord and silver wire. He would offer his neck, as he bends forward…

“‘And when you search for your will, and find it dry, then you are dead.’

“That is the way of the Assassins of God.

“These are the last words you hear, as they were your first. Prophesied by your creator, fulfilled by your destroyer.

“This is the way of the Assassins of God.”

The angel went down upon his knees, his hands held together, brought upward in offering. The angel who stood before him looked down in pity, and as he opened his fingers, and she saw within their cup a length of leather cord and silver wire, she understood that this act she was about to perform would, mayhaps, be her final act of mercy. She said nothing, there was nothing to say.

As her hands reached out to his, she saw through the tears in her eyes the path that had brought him to her. Faith and love, misguided but true. The burden removed from his hands, the kneeling angel closed them, his head bowed, and she felt thankful that neither of them could see the other’s pain. Duty and piety, renounced and forsaken. Of their own volition, her hands worked the bounds around his.

She saw a quiver run through him, barely there, as her tears fell off her face and onto the ground before him. She heard the sound of his unvoiced prayer, and then she found the words, even as her hands committed the deed.

Holy Holy Holy is the Son of the Father, King of all the Earth.

When the Son came to walk upon the ground of His Earth, blessing with His steps the perfect sand He had created, every night above His bed, stood guard an earthly angel. Every dawn she would leave, while He went about His Father’s Will. It is said that her halo was dark and red.

“One cannot serve two masters,” He had said, but Judas, who had ears, did not listen. And thus it came to pass that salvation was traded for gold.

Night fell, and she came before Him, eldrich and awful, tears flowing from the depths of her eyes.

“The water bearer,” He smiled at her, as she fell to her knees before Him.

“My Lord,” she cried, the gems of her words cut by agony, “Why?”

She heard the music then, louder than she had ever heard upon the Earth, and she looked up, seeing the light within Him, the Silver City beyond, the splendid luminescence drying the tears on her face.

He looked upon her.

“Yes, Lord, yes. I understand.”

She stood up, pain making her movement graceless, and cupped her hands beneath the bodily wound of the Christ, she winced as she saw the look of pain that passed across His face, even as he smiled upon her. Fresh tears came, and fresh blood.

She fell unto her knees, kissed the feet of her Lord, thanking Him for this blessing.

For three nights, each an eternity, she tended to Him, returning to Him the blood of His blood, until, upon the dawning of the third, He arose.

The tale goes, mayhaps, that He turned to her, opened His mouth to speak, but instead turned away, as if there was something even He could not say. Mayhaps there was a tear in His eye as He left, a diamond she did never find. But what is love to one who loved all, what is a tear to one with tears enough for all?

All. All? All but her.

That day and its night passed, then another, and still He did not return. She left the tomb and went to seek Him, forsaking the waiting that duty demanded. She sought Him not to quench the thirst that tormented her, nor to return to the Silver City, the only home she knew.

She sought him out of love.

With the rising sun searing into her, she tumbled into a cave, falling into a deep slumber. She wished, as the strands of her sanity begun unravelling, that when her eyes opened again, she would look upon the face of her Lord.

But no.

And still she searched, the desperate thirst twisting her vision, until she saw Him, walking around a corner, heard a raised voice that was certainly His, a whisper calling a name that was certainly hers, though she had none.

And then it was still, and she knew not where to search, horror rising slowly inside her, drawn by the moon of doubt, horror at being left alone, alone without her love, alone within the shadow of the Silver City.

And He was there, looking down upon her when she opened her eyes. He smiled at her, and her heart sung in its gladness as she returned it. His lips moved, but she did not hear his words, enclosing her arms and her wings around them both.

There is pleasure in the glory, in capturing one, shredding feather by feather, feeling the fear ringing as screams, drawing out the beating heart.

The thirst subsided, and she held in her bloodied hands a man, no more.

She closed her eyes, opened them again, to be sure, to be sure. A man, no more.

The scream of her fury rang out across the night, her claws dug into the fragile clay of his flesh, ripping it to shreds.

And then she was upon her knees with the remnants of her work about her, but whatever she was looking for could not be found.

Kneeling upon the sea, she dipped her hands into the water, brought them out again, licked a palm. The blood would never leave her hands.

It had been a lie that she needed to drink of His blood, she could survive on another’s. With a finger, she twirled circles upon the water, reflecting. All blood was His blood.

That she could live without His blood, that was the truth. That she could not live without Him, that was also the truth.

Tears fell from her closed eyes and dripped into the sea, salt with salt.

An Age had passed. Judas will be punished, but not by her hands. Vengeance and revenge were the Will of the Father. The Son would forgive. She would forgive.

She was no longer needed, or wanted, within the Silver City.

He had to die. She had to let him.

And now she was free.

She closed her black wings about her, sank into the silent waters.

The tales of the Mandari do not end there.

It is known that she was never ordained into the legions of Hell, nor was she ever again seen in Heaven.

It is said that in her travels she formed a lasting friendship with the feline goddess Bast; that she tutored Hassan i Sabbath, the Old Man of the Mountain; that it was she who damned Vlad Tepes, the Son of the Dragon, for his cruelties against women.

It is whispered that still she roams the earth, wearing the fish sign of the Son around her neck, her wings feathered by night, her halo dark and red.

Waiting.