The atmosphere was sombre. The air smelled of ripped fresh flesh and sweat. The floor
carpeted with dead and dying bodies. To Donald, however, it was nothing new. Looking at the
bodies lying at his feet, images of 1910 flashed in his mind as if it were yesterday. He had
come to know each and every one of the villagers and they him. He had lived in their homes,
eaten their food and slept in their beds and yet killed almost every last one of them. He did not
experience guilt or torment for what he had done only desire to be free and would do anything
to enable that goal to be achieved.
He cursed the human spirit and their insatiable capacity to stay alive at all costs. It had been
one such human who had taken the step to flee the village that had brought him where he was
today. He will pay. “No longer will I be condemned to hell. No longer will I be a puppet to your
will and desires. No longer will you control these people and they bow down to you They will all
bow down to me!” His anger exploded and echoed throughout the entire school. Books on
shelves and chairs on tables fell to the floor, windows smashed and walls cracked. His voice
extended beyond the village and reverberated through very mountains themselves.
Donald listened to the echoes, cherishing their massacring memory; then flicking his cloak
arrogantly returned to Mary. She lay motionless on the stone altar in her white dress. Her arms
strapped to the stone with leather straps that sprouted from the marble itself and wrapped
around her wrists like chocking weeds. Blood stained the ends of her sleeves where she had
struggled to loosen the grip and dirt smeared the lower part of the dress and her feet from when
she was pulled along the dusty stone floor.
Donald smiled, at last his moment was about to happen. He did not care that midnight had
come and gone, that was just a ploy to intensify the moment for his followers. He knew
humanity"s relentless desire for entertainment and thrill was what really drove mankind and that
it was the strongest weapon to use against them; to get them to do what he wanted with little
effort. The truth was, he did not even need those villagers he had resurrected to authenticate
this village. The school was just a means to an end; a calculated manoeuvre to encourage the
descendant of Rose McFadgen to return to Kirkfale. He could have gone anywhere in the
world, to any shoe-maker but he wanted revenge. He wanted Rose and her descendants to
pay for her foolishness. That is why he had waited one hundred years and that is why he had
restored Kirkfale. It was all perfectly planned to every minute detail. Everything was supposed
to happen according to his will. Michael should have joined him, Mary should have been
sacrificed for her soul and he should be free to roam the Earth and rule that which was rightfully
his. If only Michael had made the right choice and joined him.
Donald looked back at the body of Michael; still lying sprawled over other bodies with the
sword protruding from his chest. The red ruby at the base of the hilt reflected what little light hit
it from the burning torches, giving it a reddish glow, whilst the blade had a whitish haze about it.
Donald did not really care, even when a flash of light rippled the length of the blade. He
assumed it was just a reflective trick. The room was dim where Michael lay and every flicker of
a shadow against the cold metal was magnified a thousand times. He cursed their free-will and
remembered when they were given it; even then he thought it was a bad idea.
As one of God"s generals, he believed giving humans free-will would make them powerful,
too powerful. Being able to think made them a liability ensuring they never did what they were
expected to do. None of them were controllable; a fact he proved in the garden. Still, he
reminded himself, I have used their ability to choose their own way many times throughout
history, and if they are doing what they want, they are not doing what He wants. The hatred for
the one he once loved manifested as a growl, “You will pay for my incarceration.” He bellowed
waving a clenched fist to the ceiling.
As he turned back to the body that lay on the altar, he wondered if God had heard him and if
he was at all worried. God was all-seeing and all-knowing after all, but he still wondered if he
was bothered that the one he exiled from Heaven was about to be set free. Donald smiled. His
plan was flawless. His plan, even after the numerous complications that had postponed the
inevitable, would succeed. He would roam the world fully disguised, totally undetectable
building his army against God to overthrow him and send him to the abyss. He would be free to
infiltrate the humans and live among them. He would be able to disguise himself as anyone to
influence another. He would be able to turn everyone from God, permanently.
It was true that he had some influence already on Earth. He had a hand in most things that
caused people to question their beliefs, to do things that, according to God, were wrong. He
particularly enjoyed watching as he „gently" encouraged humans to abuse gifts given by God
and how he intensified their aggressive tendencies and inherent willingness to cause harm to
themselves and others. He liked how easy it was to inflate man"s greed, even in religious
cultures, turning one against another and both away from God. He watched as men left their
wives to chase after other women and men and how women used their beauty to control men
for money. Human"s desire for wealth tore families and nations apart and millions killed millions
more because he had influenced just one or two.
His presence on Earth was rampant, but, to him, it was not enough. His power over most
humans was only short-lived. He could not stay on Earth for too long in one go, he kept getting
recognised because of his damned feet. His inability to make shoes meant he could not
disguise his cloven feet and that meant he had a weakness. A weakness he will correct now.
He took the dagger resting on the stone altar to the side of Mary"s hand and grasping it
firmly, raised it above his head. His excitement was electrifying, his plans were about to be
completed, he was about to be set free. He was so engrossed now that everything, other than
the key to freedom before him on the altar, was shut out. They meant absolutely nothing to him
now. Nothing could stop him, not even his Father.
He did not see the blood smeared on the blade of his sword gather together as though
drawn by a magnet and trickle down into the body of Michael, or the light emanating from the
blood as it entered the wound and began a healing process. He completely missed the white
light engulfing the entire lifeless body and encouraging the body to start moving. He did not,
however, miss the familiar feeling of a presence he had not felt in such a long time. A presence
that filled a gaping hole he had been forced to suffer since his exile.
He already knew who stood behind him, but a sense of belonging, that even angels feel,
urged him to turn.
