The Angelic Conflict (Extended Published Version)

Untitled Part 7

THE ANGEL responds to the prayer, despite its indefinite and vagueness. It abandons its harp and steals away from Maon, the heaven where ministering angels lived, to Planet 7512 of Galaxy 765-El-Y. Within seconds it lands in the little café in the western midst of a little archipelago.

"Admiral 'Il'azar!" the angel calls as it barges inside the officer's tent. The angel wonders what could be happening. The boy's team of angels appears to be doing well. As an SOS spirit from Malachai haSharet, the angel is usually summoned at times of illegal possession, like when a league of twelve thousand demons possesses a child and attempts to kill it before its age of accountability.

The admiral hooks an arm around the angel's neck and kisses its cheek before ruffling its whorls and swirls of reddened brown hair. "It's good to see you, cadet!" Their last encounter was in the West during the last year of the human's Second World War.

The angel laughs. "It's good to see you, too, sire. Now what seems to be the problem with the boy?"

Sobriety saturates the admiral's countenance. "It's not about our human. He has been doing an excellent job with his spiritual walk."

No doubt about this. The angel itself has heard of the Filipino boy under the protection of seven hundred fifty-three angels. No one acquires this number of guardians if the young man holds no profuse amount of Positive Volition.

The admiral withdraws its arm, and raises the other towards their human— four rounds of jacinth flecked with Carnelian thread along the shoulder of its tunic uniform. "It is the girl our boy is talking with."

The angel stares at the girl. Around her swirl vapors of carmine, sailing slow yet swelling. The angel recognizes the girl's angels, its brethren: Leb, the wiry guy with golden hand wraps; Mikiy'h, the monocled one with a bow and arrows; I'amzer and Yazhêl, with their identical spears gemmed with turquoise and amethyst, respectively. All of them are crouched on the ground, weapons sheathed and scorned. Even Yazhêl, the most cheerful among them has a face stale as a stone. The angel's heart drops.

"Corporal El-Shädda called for you," the admiral says.

"Where is he? Is he on this planet?"

"Yes. He's in the northeastern part of Sector 971 for a mission. He wants you to aid in watching over the young woman while he has not returned. We trust you— He trusts you."

The angel feels the warmth in its cheeks. It nods once. One hand on its belt, thumbing the scabbard of its sword, it says, "I shall do my best, sire."