Interlude

I have been asked by a few of my associates as to why I use the term 'Archangel' in this blog. I answered that it is simply a term of convenience, as it is the name that my readers would be familiar with. Personally, I use the term 'Father' when conversing with other Timberwolves and 'Azrael' or 'Archangel' when speaking with all others. Azrael is a better fit, I think. The Archangel of Death...

Before the holocaust, there was the occurrence that lead to the codification of the word 'genocide'. The rise of the Young Turks in the Ottoman Empire lead to a nationalistic fervor - the land that is now Turkey would regain its former glory, a land of one people and one religion. However, in the way of their projected eastward expansion were the Christian Armenians (totaling some two million) and that simply would not do.

The perfect solution to the Armenian question came in the form of the First World War, and with the world distracted the genocidaires went to work. First all of the Armenians' weapons were taken away (the Armenian soldiers fighting in the war reassigned to slave labor). Professionals in Constantinople were taken away in the night and swiftly disposed of. Groups of Armenians were marched out of their homes and bayoneted by death squads. Even more were marched hundred miles to the harsh deserts of Syria, every step of the way calculated to lead to their death.

One night in the Syrian Desert; an elderly man stood with a young boy, the only other Armenian survivor of their march. They were quite lucky that they had survived that long, but the soldiers had decided that there were too few left to continue the march, and as such the duo were lined up to be shot. The elderly man was skin and bone, but the boy was in even worse a state - he looked as if he was simply rotting away, bits of flesh hanging off him as if he were already in the grave.

As the soldiers prepared to shoot, the elderly man reached down and touched the child's shoulder.

"It's alright, (o). We'll be seeing each other again very soon."

The boy gave a knowing smile, and then the shots rang out into the night. The elderly man did not fear, for he had seen the angel of death and knew that he would be avenged. The boy, on the other hand, did not fall.

The Turkish soldiers swore loudly, thinking that they had missed, and gave another volley. The boy smiled a wide, crooked smile, and refused to die as they unloaded bullet after bullet into him.

"Don't you see?" He asked, voice wheezing - his lungs had been pierced at least eight times. "I can see. I can see everything that you've done. I've been shown what you've done."

Then the soldiers recoiled, threatening to break ranks, as the boy reached into his skull and tore out his right eye. Blood poured down his face as he tore the optical nerve, which shimmered with white light. The eye floated into the air and expanded, the wind picking up as it grew to the size of an elephant, hovering in the air. The optical nerve had become hundreds of long, downy wings, interlocking together and lighting up the sand below.

"I CAN SEE," it boomed, "I CAN SEE."

The soldiers didn't notice the bloodied, rotting boy and the rusty bayonet until it was too late. The lone survivor, the one who had broken ranks the second the Eye had manifested in its true magnificence, was intercepted by the Russian army. On his body, they found a beaten and bloodied journal containing this tale. At the very end was a sketch of the British Tomb of the Unknown Warrior (which the soldiers, obviously, did not recognize). Underneath was a dotted circle, and in perfect Russian, "I'll be seeing you very soon."

Be you on the 'right' side or the 'wrong' side, blood is still being shed. While (arguably, and I shall not be getting into such debates here) justifiable, you must take care that you do not delve to the depths of your foes.