A few large, cumulus white clouds drifted through the immense sea of pale blue; they rolled through the sky leisurely, taking their time to gather up the surrounding water vapor so that rain could be cast on the green hills of the more distant regions of northern Europe. Most of the gently sloping hills were covered with fields of wild flowers of various hues, from adamant crimson to obnoxious yellow, and long grasses. Trees were generally scarce, except in a particular grove that sheltered a pond with a golden sand bottom and crystal clear water. This grove was perhaps seventy feet in diameter and surrounded a gentle depression in the hilly region. At first sight, it appeared that the grove was practically impenetrable, but at second glance, the entrance was all but obvious. Though the trunks and limbs of the trees were interwoven with each other, there was a small gap in between two of the trees that allowed those who could not climb or fly to enter between them.

Past the interlocked trees, the ground was flat for a few feet before it started to slope downwards into a gentle depression. Settled in the middle of the depression was a beautiful pond, which had clear, shimmering water that reflected the warm rays of the sun on its surface. The deepest point in the pond was seven feet, but even then it was as clear as bath water with pearl white rocks that littered the sandy bottom. A blue dragonfly or two skimmed across the surface, their transparent wings beating furiously at the air to propel itself over the pond and towards a small patch of water lilies. A school of inch long fishes floated above the sandy floor, their dark eyes darting to and fro in search of any imminent danger, but none could be found at the moment.

Suddenly, a slender figure broke through the placid surface of the pond and tossed her mane of wild, blonde hair out of her face like a wild stallion challenging the wind to a race. Streams of water cascaded down her soft skin and rushed back into the pond. The few droplets that remained on her flesh reflected the rays of the sunlight and amplified her skin's pearl white tone. Each, glorious strand of her blonde hair caught the sun's light in their grasp and displayed their opulent prize proudly by shimmering brighter then the large star the light had come from. Pure white feathers shook violently to rid themselves of the extra water that weighed them down, yet with little avail as the droplets clung to the delicate surfaces of the large feathers adorning the outermost layer of her wings.

The three century old arch angel, Paris, lifted her brilliant green eyes from the clear water in which half of her body was still submersed and checked her surroundings warily. It was rare that a mere human stumbled upon the sacred grove of trees, for few travelers dared to travel near the holy area, but nonetheless, it had been known to happen. A mere mortal's eyes would probably bleed themselves out if they laid their gaze upon such a sight as Paris, bare and uncovered by her angelic robes, which laid in a heap, with her broadsword and shield, just beyond the water's fingers. Her weapons were dangerously far away from her; if an enemy of Heaven managed to sneak up on her, it would be difficult to defend herself without a proper sword.

A luxury such as bathing in the clear waters of the pond was a rare one indeed since it was often too dangerous during those days to let one's guard down long enough to lay down one's sword and shield—the only weapons useful against the demons of Hell. Though mere soldier demons themselves could do little harm to an angel, especially an older and more experienced angel such as Paris, it would be disastrous if they managed to capture an angel and drag them to hell, where Lucifer himself could easily dispose of God's sinless servants. Angels had been nothing but thorns in his side since they had been hunting down his demons and disposing of them with a quick swing to their heads. However, at that point and time, it didn't bother Lucifer much, for his men were many, and he had two excellent generals who were leading his legions against Heaven in the conquest for its throne.

A war for the souls of men had been going on for centuries, almost for as long as mankind had been around, and it didn't seem that either side would allow themselves to loose the battle for mankind's eternal souls. Despite the massive losses on both sides, the angels and the demons continued to wage war against each other on earth's battlefield where the casualties could rise to the hundreds in but a single day and night. Regardless of the losses, however, more warriors continued to be spawned from Hell and Heaven, and an endless stream of angels and demons flooded earth's blood soaked battle grounds; even though it is rumored that the divine creatures of Heaven and Hell have no true shape, that they are merely ethereal phantoms, angels and demons do have flesh and blood, though it is less vital to their existence then it is for humans if they are in tangible form.

Running her hands over her pearl colored flesh, Paris brushed the rest of the water off of her skin before raising half way out of the pond and wading towards the shore. Suddenly, the hairs on her neck prickled instinctively, and a shiver traveled down the length of her spine as she sensed another presence near her. The creature, however, was not mortal; nor was it angelic. The presence was dark and evil, but unlike the presence of a mere soldier demon, which only triggered a slight squirming in her stomach, this was by far more wicked and diabolical then anything else she had ever felt before. Her limbs were stiff and unable to move as she realized how vulnerable she was. Her sword and shield laid a good ten feet away from her, and judging by the strength of the intruder's aura, he'd have her pinned on the ground before she could move an inch. That, or he could easily kill her where she stood, and she wouldn't be able to do anything to stop it.

A scornful chuckle escaped his lips as he slid gracefully out of his hiding spot in the limbs of the trees, which had apparently hidden him from her gaze when she had scrutinized them, and landed on the slope above the pond. Crossing his arms over his chest, he sneered venomously, "What a pitiful sight . . . an angel without her weapon."

Stiffening at the sound of his voice, she glared over her shoulder and back at him. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of the demon, for he was stronger then any she had ever met. He struck her as magnificent, basking in the strength of his power as a cat would in the sun; the sight of him also frightened her. With leathery, bat-like wings spanning a daring eighteen feet, he cast cold shadow over the pond. All the little creatures in the water fled in its wake and concealed themselves within the golden sand. The faint breeze that dipped into the depression played with his hair meticulously, for even the wind feared his wrath. This demon, whom struck submission into the heart of even the very elements, was significantly stronger then any other she had encountered, and from the malicious glisten in his eyes she could tell that he was by far more cunning as well.

After a moment of silence, she managed to regain her wits. Rousing her voice from its slumber, she demanded, "Who are you?"

The seemingly young man, who strode down into the depression and crouched down at the very edge of pond's bank, was absolutely stunning in every aspect possible. With pitch black hair falling down to his shoulders, framing his perfectly white face that was slender and molded flawlessly from roman marble, and startling, almost piercing, black eyes staring down at her, he could have been the devil's son himself. He certainly appeared to be devilish, with his confident smirk firmly set on his pale lips and his black, leathery wings hanging over him with the very tips barely touching the water. A silver ankh, which seemed rather out of place on his person, hung on a silver chain around his neck, and its metallic surface glistened in the noon day sun. The man's lips lifted slightly to reveal an unnaturally long set of canines, which glistened viciously in the faint sunlight that hit them. A few of his infinitely black locks fell into his face, framing the evil glare that sent a few more shivers down Paris' spine.

"What an insult that God's right hand angel doesn't even know who the Devil's son is. I'm Armand," he sneered as he looked her over with his bone cutting gaze that tore through Paris' vulnerable soul. His eyes left her feeling ravaged of any and all emotion, as though he had come down and stole her very soul. The arch angel attempted in great vain to shake the feeling, and felt only mild relief when she broke his perforating stare.

A thin frown crossed Paris' perturbed visage as she contemplated darting towards her discarded sword; however, she suddenly thought better of any drastic actions. If she did attempt to get her weapon, he would probably pursue her and catch her before she could reach her only weapon against the creatures of Hell. Then again, if she just stood there, he would probably approach her anyways, and she would be almost defenseless against him. Against a normal high demon, or even a mere demon, she could have stood a better chance without a weapon, but against the son of Lucifer himself, Paris's chances were cut in half. She didn't have a chance in all of Hell against him without her sword, and not much of a better chance with it, at any rate.

With her gaze locked on her heap of weaponry and clothing, Paris managed to choke out, though with some difficulty, a sharp demand, "What do you want, hell spawn?"

His wings stretched out tensely and beat at the air a time or two before returning to their draped position over his back. The demon's eyes seemed to narrow intensely as they fixated their dark depths on the shimmering, angelical woman standing in the shallow water of the pond. Even with her back turned to him, and her wings stretched out to shield her body from his lustful view, she could feel his piercing eyes cut through her flesh and bone and dig deep into her body to search her soul for some weakness. Fear was welling up inside of her; slowly, it ate through her stomach and crawled through the pores of her pearl flesh to force the hairs on her body to stand upright. He wasn't even within fifteen feet of her and already she was beginning to falter in his wicked presence, which seemed to crash over her like a tidal wave on a bare beach. If he had been a mere demon, she would only have felt slight discomfort, but being in his presence was nearly unbearable. Paris couldn't imagine how she'd survive in a fight against him if his aura bothered her so.

It was like a bombshell hitting her; the fact that she was so close to Lucifer's very own progeny, the man who would rule Hell if anything should happen to his father during the war between Heaven and Hell. Armand's presence consumed her hungrily; his dark aura lapped against hers, poking and prodding to see if she would react to the pressure he was putting on her. Armand wanted to see how long the angel could endure being in his presence since it usually drove mere mortals, and even angels, to insanity if he didn't take care to dampen his aura. The high demon had even seen angels young in their immortal lives rip their eyes from their faces and tear at their skin as though acid was being poured over them and all the creepy crawlies of the night were tickling their soft flesh. Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly malicious, he enjoyed the sight of their discomfort; other times, he felt less inclined to wreak such havoc.

Without warning, Paris stretched out her white wings, and she exploded into the air in a flurry of water droplets and falling feathers. Her bright green eyes were fixated on the object she was so determined to reach, and her hand was outstretched to snatch it up by the hilt when she came close enough. The weapon itself was only some seven feet away from her, but those seven feet would prove to be too much distance between her and the one weapon she could use to defend herself. She hadn't even completely left the water when the demon thrust himself off of the sandy bank and started after her.

Noticing the slight movement of her wings before she took off, Armand opened his black, leathery wings and launched himself from his perch just beyond the water's edge. His celerity surpassed hers with unsurprising ease, and he pursued the lovely angel in flight until his body slammed into hers. A shrill cry escaped her lips, and she was thrown into the sandy bank of the pond with his heavy body towering over her limp form, which was molded into the loose sand. One of his hands was wrapped around her bruised wrists, and the demon had them pinned against the ground, while his other hand had its five, long digits wrapped around her delicate neck. As much as it seemed that he had her completely cornered, he couldn't deny that her angelic blade felt relatively painful pressed against the flesh beneath his jaw. Despite his speed, she had still managed to snatch up the hilt of her blade after he had tackled her into the sandy bank opposite of where he had been perched.

Armand lowered his gaze only slightly so that his eyes locked with the angel's beneath him, because if he moved his head at all, the blade would slice easily into his flesh. Paris' vibrant green hues narrowed as they met with his empty, but piercing, black eyes that tore through her soul, seeking a weakness that had yet to be uncovered. The angel struggled to hold his fierce, untamed stare, and with each second that passed, she found it all the more difficult to keep her eyes locked on him. Whether it was due to his close proximity or just the wicked gleam that the sun reflected in his eyes, Paris was uncertain as to what made it so hard to look into his empty, black orbs. She held his stare for a couple moments longer before finally averting her eyes from his. She caught the movement of his ankh swinging from left to right as she moved her eyes from his face. Paris watched the silver pendant swing from one side to the other, back and forth, until it eventually stilled.

A devious chuckle left his pale lips as he whispered, "You look simply marvelous, Paris, but despite what you might think, that's not why I'm here. Now, if you would kindly remove your blade from my throat, I need you to give God a message from Lucifer. Or is that against your code… disarming yourself for your enemy…?"

Tightening her grip on the hilt of the angelic blade, and applying more pressure to the taut flesh beneath his jaw line, Paris snapped impatiently, "I don't see why I should trust you, Hell spawn, especially since your hands are still around my throat and my wrists. Why should I trust you?"

Armand contemplated her statement before slowly releasing her wrists and recoiling quickly away from the armed angel. He half expected her to lash out at him anyways, angels being as distrusting as they are of the creatures of Hell, but after he released her and settled onto the sand a few feet away from the bare female, she pulled herself up against the bank with the sword pointed in his direction. Long, silky blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders in a mess of tangles and knots, and her wings hung over her body like a veil that was meant to keep his lusty eyes out of something they shouldn't be in. With her head partially bowed, her green eyes glared up at him from beneath her smooth brow.

Regardless of her firm stance and fierce expression, there was a faint quiver in her arm that betrayed her weakened state. The primal instinct to take advantage of the frail angel swelled within Armand as he watched Paris recover from the tussle. She was, indeed, weak, for her entire body was trembling uncontrollably; perhaps it was because his touch, much like his father's, meant death to angels, or because he had injured her when they had both hit the sandy embankment. Whatever the reason was, Armand moved closer to her, his wings spread slightly so that he could take flight if she made any sudden, or aggressive, movements towards him.

Dark bruises tainted the flour white flesh on Paris' neck and wrists from having been touched by the Prince of Hell. Streaks of pain crawled beneath her skin; the poison in Armand's touch burned through her veins as it crept slowly, but surely, through her body in search of her heart, which it had every intention of destroying. The outer flesh darkened as this poison traveled, eating away at the tender, angelic flesh that it craved to destroy, but couldn't. No sooner would her skin darken with bruises then would they regenerate. However, no amount of regeneration would ease the pain that tore through her body like lightning traveling through a poor mortal out in the midst of a violent storm. It crawled and gnawed at her, chewing away at the flesh and spreading through her body, but to no avail as her skin regenerated and destroyed the virus that was trying to consume it whole.

For a moment, Armand watched her, with his brow furrowed. At the rate she healed, the demon had to wonder as to her lineage and background. Surely his touch would have inflicted more pain then it had, and surely should have lasted much longer. Angels had a difficult time healing on earth, which made Armand all the more suspicious as to her impurity. Paris recovered from his touch within minutes, whereas most Seraphs he had encountered before hadn't even healed days after they had fought. He pushed it out of his mind. Paris was the rumored favorite of God, and it wouldn't surprise him one bit if she was receiving help from her Lord.

Putting that thought out of his mind and getting down to business, Armand reached into the pocket of his leather pants and, pulling out a folded, crimson letter that had a wax seal of a serpent keeping its loose ends together, he set it down on the sandy ground in front of Paris before backing away neutrally. Had they been meeting on any other terms except for this one time he had to seek out an angel to deliver God a message, he would have killed Paris with the mere touch of his flesh against hers. He would have killed without mercy and second thought, no matter how beautiful she was. That in itself almost made the high demon sad. Though he was of "evil" origin and considered a monster to the angels, he still had emotions; though, those usually consisted of intense anger, impassivity, and bitterness. Such emotions such as kindness, love, or happiness didn't usually exist for demons, or anything the dwelled in Hell. However, demons that abandoned Hell or left its darkness for an extended amount of time were prone to developing the emotions they were unable to explore whilst within Hell's gates. For some, it was a revelation they had been waiting for all their lives, but for others, it was a good reason to return.

Few bibles have described Hell properly, for it is a dark, gloomy place that doesn't even have the luxury of light, from flames or otherwise. Those who sin do not burn in the midst of an inferno, nor are they tormented with devices such as whips and physical punishment. There are things much worse then pain, and even death in itself. Humans tend to cherish their memories the most, and relish in the company of others, but once they cross the outer river surrounding Hell, such memories, of loved ones and of their past life, are all slowly stripped from them. If the agony of not being able to remember such things doesn't drive the sinners insane, living in a single, dark room with no company, no light, and no memories, will. Though their memories have been stripped, they are not completely gone, but instead, fleeting images that tease the frustrated mind. Even sleep allows them to remember figments of what they had once been, but they can never completely remember. Forever they are doomed to have thoughts and ideas on the tip of their tongue, but can never remember or express them.

Hell is a dark, desolate place where its inhabitants, the victims of simple lust, paganism, homosexuals, and the like, are sent to forever dwell in forgetfulness, darkness, and loneliness. God does not discriminate when it comes to those who sin; they are many, men, women, and children. Any child raised in a pagan household, or not baptized in the name of the lord, will suffer the tortures of Hell and its emptiness. Any man who loves another man, or female who loves a female, shall suffer for their loyalty and fidelity merely because they are not Christian and are deliberately defying the curse God put on humanity. And those who do not believe in God, or any God or Goddess, shall suffer his unforgiving wrath by being buried in the cemetery of Hell, which was designed by his grace for atheists alone. Those buried in the cemetery lack the ability to speak, and are buried up to their necks in dirt rife with insects. Only demons, and any visiting or captive angels, retain their memory upon entering Hell, while it gradually slips away with mortals.

As Paris picked up the letter, her fingers struggling to keep a firm grip on it, Armand rose slowly, so as not to provoke Paris into attacking. Even though she was weaker then him, especially at that moment, he did not believe the angel to be completely harmless. She was an infamous warrior, among both Heaven's ranks and throughout the demon horde, which was rare. Most angels and demons did not live long enough to gain much of any recognition within their own ranks, let alone among the enemy's. It was an impressive status, and he wondered if perhaps there would ever come a time that they would be so honored as to have each other as adversaries. No, of course not, he thought to himself, You have other tasks to accomplish besides fighting a mere Arch Angel. Not to mention that you'd win by default. That thought pleased Armand, and suddenly, he noticed that Paris was about to open the letter.

"One thing, Paris," Armand hissed, startling her, "Do not open the seal. It is for God's eyes alone."

Opening his leathery wings, which had an impressive eighteen foot span, Armand gave her one last, disdainful glance before thrusting himself into the sky. For a few moments, his figure cast a dark shadow over her nude body, which sent a chill through her, and then, as quickly as he had graced her with his malevolent presence, he relieved her of it. However, no lacking of his presence would rid her body of his burning hot touch that had scorched her flesh that morning. She could still feel it crawling underneath her skin, squirming and writhing like worms in moist mud, and no matter how she tried she couldn't get the feeling to leave her. It would take days for the sensation of his touch to fade. Even when it did, Paris wondered if it would ever truly leave her.

Even after he had gone, Paris laid, unmoving, upon the sandy embankment, fearful that Armand would come back to finish her off once she had let her guard down. Even the smallest shadow cast from a small bird fluttering through the sun's rays of light startled the angel as she waited for the perfect time to rise and gather her things. Countless moments passed before Paris determined that he was truly gone from her presence and it was safe to drape her white robe over her slender body and sling her shield over her shoulder. Paris gave the hidden pond one last, thorough glance before she lifted herself into the air and flew from the Grove and into the sky.