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Angel Hunt Throughout the Years...

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P A R T 03
Form


The energy inside of the temple is static, the air charged and thick and nearly impossible to breathe. Seven of his Chosen toys stand upon the Templeís center platform, their adorned white locks whipping in every direction and their clothing shifting about their perfectly built frames as if carried by an invisible wind. Each of his seven hold their arms outstretched to one another, their glass tipped fingers near but not quite touching, their clear crimson eyes focused and yet unfocused and the collective murmur of their chanting spilling from pale lips in unison to create an overall buzzing hum.

A column of blue light stretches from within the circular stone portal they stand around and up through the opened domed ceiling, the very top of it growing thinner the farther it reaches until its tip disappears into the overhead skies. Its energy and magic is being pulled from this planetís very core, a gateway that had once been ripped open between this plane of existence and the other a very long time ago. Within that column of light a lone figure floats, unclothed and immobile, his lifeless red eyes staring blankly into nothing while no breath heaves his chest. Thereís not a single indication of movement, the figure little more than an empty shell for the time being, a perfect container meant to hold a single One.

Positioned at his Chosenís backs against the inlaid stone wall connected to the platform, Hesue stands upon the alter theyíd built for him, simply watching, simply waiting. The guise he wears is very different from the one he prefers, his body tall and his features older and sculpted. His pitch hair is very long, braided in a single cascading plait that nearly touches the floor and adorned just as his Chosenís hair is adorned, with fancy bits of scrolled silver and scatterings of blood red jewels laced within his locks here or there. Contrasted to his Chosenís red, dark pitch robes drape his lanky frame, layers upon layers of silken fabric that spill around his bare feet like a pool of ink. This form is so different from his other and quite honestly, he loathes to take it, but for the sake of his game pieces, he tolerates it just as he has from the very start. For their benefit, he shows them a form they will trust. To keep them in his game, he shows them what they want him to be, what they need him to be Ė a tall godly figure who is preternatural and refined.

Iridescence snakes over solid cobalt eyes every so often as the surrounding electric waves flash and flicker around them, the forces that shift and twist within the Temple never reaching him. Itís as if heís in a protective bubble, a lone figure still in a turbulent, shifting sea.

The slightest of smiles curls the corners of his lips upwards as he watches his Chosen in silence, waiting for his turn to take part in the current game being played. In the past he hasnít needed to see this task done in person but this particular toy of his has remained resistive and so heís here, standing in this form, lending them assistance to ensure its success.

And this time, it will be a success.

His Chosen have tried many times to follow his orders, to pull this One out and designate him into form as they are designated but his stubbornness has kept them from fulfilling his wants, his refusal and will somehow stronger than the entire collective will of his kind.

It may have been problematic and frustrating for them, that will, but his stubbornness is exactly why he likes him. Itís why he wants him in his game. Heís not like his people. Heís not boring.

The others on the other hand have become tiresome. Form has apparently weakened them in a way he didnít expect, their once raw power muted enough to make them less than what they truly are. They have begun to forget their origins, following him as if he truly is the Creator of them and not simply their bodies, as if they are little more than the empty shells his Other had made when this game began, never questioning him anymore, never questioning his gifts. Itís brought the game to a stalemate and heís disappointed in them for it, disappointed in the weakness they have begun to show. Heís grown so tired of them and if it werenít for his determination to win this game, heíd have abandoned them long ago.

But this OneÖ this One alone has remained obstinate to him, never accepting and always questioning, always rejecting what his people have become and what they now are. His snide remarks and contempt of their growing blindness and stupidity never fails to entertain him, it hasnít failed to amuse him from day one. He know this One will be the one to win him this game, that he wonít forget who he is even when he has form and that he wonít fail like the rest of his kind have. He may protest the idea of it right now, but heís confident that once heís in his body heíll accept it just as the others have and when he does, heíll finally have the playing piece he needs. For that reason and that alone heís standing here in this distasteful guise, lending his aide to his Chosen to ensure that his newest piece will finally go where he wants him to go.

It happens in a split second, the force he lends the others just at the right moment successfully ripping his prize from the abyss and ensuring he cannot pull back. From one breath to another, those lifeless red eyes slam shut and the suspended body begins writhing in mid air, his head thrown back and a guttural, agony laced cry rising up from within. Hesueís grin widens as he watches the Demonís struggle within the new confines of his skin and with a single word spoken not out loud, the spells his Chosen chant snake out to wrap his newly bonded vessel with a magic heís strengthened to keep him from tearing free of his flesh. The fight continues for many long minutes but it becomes clear the One is losing the battle when the portal beneath his body begins closing, the blackened abyss quickly solidifying into stone and soon never again to open, the connection to his origin gone forever.

He is fused. He is flesh. He has become exactly what Hesue has wanted him to be -the final piece to be put into play.

The energy in the Temple suddenly snaps off and with it no longer circulating, adorned hair and clothing alike still, his Chosenís chanting falling silent. The column of light dissipates a moment later, dropping his prized toy onto the etched ground below and pulling a pained grunt from his pale lips. Snow white plaits cascade over perfect features and even as he begins taking his first true, labored breaths, the dark haired figure steps from the Alter and onto the platform, the heads of his Chosen bowing as they part to allow him through. Bare feet come to a halt before the prone Demon, watching with amused interest as long glass like nails claw at the stone beneath his built frame while the felled man struggles to push himself upright, his clear crimson eyes opening to his surroundings for the very first time.

ďJenovaĒ Hesue states calmly, the name heís given his newest repeated by the seven with reverence and echoing within the Templeís stone walls.

Sliding his hand out, the dark haired figure turns his palm upwards towards the opened sky above, iridescence snaking across the surface of his solid vision as small beads of a mercury like substance begin rising from a facsimile of pores. The metallic looking liquid twists and turns in mid air while the one beneath him continues to labor, a shape swiftly taking form. Each sword heís gifted has been different, every new Guardianís weapon tailored to their needs and for this One in particular, heís created something special, for this One heís created a weapon that is above every other -the shining crown for his intended King.

For only a second after it takes its shape does the sword remain suspended before it begins to tear apart again, his Chosen seven watching with awe as the long slightly curved blade that spans nearly the entire length of the newest Demonís own body with delicate scrollwork wrapped around a pitch lacquer hilt thatís separated from the gleaming metal by a diamond shaped guard becomes a formless liquid mercury like substance once more. Twisting in mid air, it suddenly streams downward, seeking Jenovaís body with a hungry intent, as if it has a will and that will is to consume. The Demon cries out in pain when it makes contact with his flesh, his glass tipped fingers clawing blindly to remove it, desperate to rip it from him yet unable to do so. Writhing and twisting as it covers him, his cries soon become torturous screams as it begins to sink inward, beads of metal absorbing into his very pores.

Hesue simply smiles his pleased little smile while he watches the sword find its place within the Demonís body and when all traces of it are gone save the stain of blood its blending has caused across pale skin, he speaks one final word that places a lock around his new Guardianís mind, finally showing his prize a mercy by pulling him consciousness and placing him beneath a seal that will hold him until his time to play comes.

There will be ceremonies and celebrations to introduce Jenova to his people and Hesue has no plans to stick around for it while they play out their nonsense, finding this aspect of his playing piecesí structured lives rather dull, so he issues his final commands to them -giving them the means to keep his prize in his place and to tame him now that he wears form before taking his leave. And as his tall frame dissipates from the Temple, he canít help but find himself overly pleased and brimming with confidence that the Demon Jenova -his beautiful new King, will finally win him the victory he so rightly deservesÖ

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The Angel Hunt story has been written by Nezumi LacSeul and is (C) 2004 - Present. Please don't use, steal or borrow any part of it or take in whole.