I hear what the Faithless call me, of course. Their
whispers come to me, eventually.
They say that I am redundant. They say that I do
nothing that other Archangels cannot do, and better.
They say that I am eternally pushed to the sidelines,
perpetually forced to subside on what scraps more
powerful Archangels permit me. They say that I am
useless. I do not tolerate such whispers.
I encourage them. What one laughs at, one cannot take
seriously; and what one cannot take seriously, one
eventually forgets about. I am more than content to
be forgotten.
None of the Faithless has ever really understood me,
and I have no desire for this to change. They dimly
know that I am a Shield, but they do not contemplate
what happens when you look into a Shield: you see not
the Shield, but your own distorted reflection. They
look into me, and see instead themselves. When they
laugh at my supposed degradation, they are instead
laughing at their own.
If I was in Hell - a disgusting thought - I would,
indeed, be the most pitiful creature in existence.
Hell does not take well to the concept of the sharing
of power and responsibility: every demon is constantly
trying to rip strength out of everyone's hide and
prevent the same from happening to him. In such an
atmosphere, I would be a kicked and abused fragment of
my potential: I might even be dead by now. But I am
not in Hell. I am in Heaven, and among the
Faithful. And I know my purpose.
And what is that purpose? It is ... to bide.
Michael, Laurence, David, Janus, Gabriel - these
Archangels are the primary fighters of the War, and it
is meet that they shoulder the responsibilities
accordingly. I am not a primary weapon. I have never
seen myself as one.
But if Laurence is the Sword of Heaven - its katana,
if you will - then I am its wakizashi. I am the
holdout weapon in the ankle holster. I am the hidden
knife in the belt buckle. I am the backup generator.
I am the ceramic inserts in the bulletproof vest. In
short, I am the unlooked-for strike that comes when
the enemy is at the moment of anticipated triumph, and
thus at his most vulnerable. When the Last Battle
comes, the second to last thing that will go through
more than one Prince's head will be surprise that I am
there and somehow unaccountably past his defenses.
The last thing being, of course, my knife.
I spend my apparent free time caring for it, and it is
sharp.
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