Shades of Grey

To many the old theater house would seem a ramshackle affair, broken down and boarded over.

He has ever been one to find the light among shadows, one to see the places that are blessed and protected by powers beyond mortal comprehension. Even he, long lived as he may be, with such an intimate understanding of the world and its more ethereal planes, places and portals, has little understanding of the forces behind them.

Such a place he watches from the darkness, silent as the shadows in which he stands. Here is food for hungry eyes, the soul's salvation, a place of rest, yes, but a place of strength as well. Here can be found the surprising power of the meek and mild. Such a place brings them together, unties them in common purpose, even if that prupose is little more than to hold on to what one has.

He has had nothing for far too long. No home, no place of rest. His place is in the shadows of the world, eve watchful in the night for those that might bring harm to the ones seeking the light.

He is the last of the Guardians.

He had felt the power of this place, calling him from far, a place of safety and light, of warmth and hope.

Standing here now, he feels the power of it. It has that simple, whole feeling of the blessed, but there is more here, so much more. This place has its protectors, its guardians, and they will fight fiercely to keep it safe, down to the last breath, should such a thing be necessary.

Lighting up the darkness, the Sacred Flame of old, since before his time.

And all the while he stands there he is undisturbed, until this moment. He can feel the power before him, a beacon, but no the sole Power present.

He doesn't turn to face the dark figure melting from the shadows behind him, has no need. He knows this presence, has played this game many times before.

"Are you here to try again, Gabriel?"

~some time ago~

"Are you here to try again, Gabriel?"

The demon before him speaks the words as he faces out over another city, another place, another time. Robes of crimson and black flutter around his form subtly, disguising the shape under it, a perversion of humanity wrapped around an infernal persence.

He is robed in his rightenousnees, shielded by his devotion and armed with his faith. Things of such strength they should be unshakeable, impenetrable.

And yet, time and again, this quarry has escaped him. A last bastion of abomination walking the skin of the earth, a demon playing at being an angel, for whatever twisted reasons it may have.

But evil is evil, and begets its own. He must be vanquished.

"You are unnatural, demon. A curse upon the flesh of the world, staining all you touch. You must be destroyed."

The last word sees the sword in his hands, long and sleek and burning with white fire, holy flames of wrath and destruction.

The demon looks up to the skies above, sighing wearily, it seems. "Must we truly play this foolish game? You know he'll not learn this time, any more than the others."

This puzzles him for a moment. It's almost as if the demon is addressing the Father.

But that concern is but fleeting, a momentary curiosity. For now, the demon has his throat exposed, a fatal flaw, and the Father does not listen to demons.

With a lunge, he brings the sword up towards his opponent's neck.

~now~

Such memories those words bring back to him. Days when purpose seemed a thing that would consume him forever, bringing the wicked low, slaying the abominations of old.

Those days have passed. Shades of grey have consumed where all things seemed black and white, set and definite. Many might have been confused by such a turn, and yet he finds himself only continually more and more fascinated.

No more does he wear the robes and armor of the righteous slayer - now his garb seems more appropriate to a wandering veteran of war, displaced from the world he knew to wander, bereft of hearth and home and fallen into vagrancy.

Humbler attire, for one from whom the scales upon his eyes have fallen.

The figure before him keeps staring at the Shelter across the way, and he turns his gaze from the hooded demon to the building itself. Such places are his province, the protection of those places of healing, where some may come to find themselves made whole. It may be the dwelling of the Keeper and his Willow, beings older even than himself, and in their way more powerful than he. But the protection of its purpose is his.

Finally, he turns his attention back to the hooded figure. "I understand you have been using my name, demon."

He shrugs at that, a smile forming on his features as he stands facing the shelter rather than the figure behind him. He does not need to look to see who stands there, nor in what robes he is clad. He does not even need to look to know that the being behind him holds neither sword nor shield, is simply watching him.

"It is a good name. Many use it that are less deserving than I."

He looks over his shoulder slightly, the hood obscuring his view but knowing the movement will be seen and correctly interpreted by the being behind him. "Besides, there is little enough inspiration in this world. Why would I not choose the name of a good man, even were he to be my nemesis?"

Turning his attention back to the building he watches from the shadows, he smiles, leaving the being behind him to contemplate that as he moves forward.

There will be shadows enough to live in for the future. For now, he thinks, it is time to step from them, perchance to find another future.

The being behind him simply watches with his dark eyes, then turns his own attention to the building. There is power here, of a kind and strength to draw the strangest, the myriad morlocks and mad prophets, the dregs and the mightiest, the poor and the hungry and those that only wish to help in some small way.

"You speak the truth, demon. Many are those that use my name, and other names inspired by the Holy...and yet few enough are those that truly deserve them."

He watches, still, his eyes upon the old theater and its strange, alluring power that calls to him.

There is one in there, locked away in silence save for the music in her eyes, her heart, her ears and mind, an attempt to drown out the sorrows and vision she cannot be rid of, even by distraction. No matter how she tries, she cannot escape what is hers to see. There are others afflicted similarly here, but this one experiences an agony of the soul he wishes fervently to change, to heal.

Soon, perhaps, he will go to her as she sleeps. A soft touch, a murmured word, will find for her a moment of peace, all he may grant at any one time for one so touched...blessed...cursed.

His dark eyes move to focus on the demon again as he crosses from the shadows they both have so often clung to. Of all the times they have collided and crossed paths, it is the first time he has willingly allowed the demon to walk away.

He hopes it will not be the last.

"Why does no one ever say his name, m'Lady?"

He's standing with her, she of the lake blue eyes and flaxen hair, at the pinnacle of the Isle, saying his final goodbyes to the Isle, the Lake and its Lady, departing for Camelot at the request of the King. His escort stands nearby, the mists making his cloaked form hazy and indistinct, waiting in silent vigil.

He's seen the Guardian many times, always a silent and shadowy form, his eyes a shade of blue so like the Lady's, the Amulet at his neck dark, save for the occasional glimmer of amethystine light. But never once has he heard any say his name.

The tall, regal form of the Lady looks to whom he's indicating, a slight smile on her lips, one of fondness that he only sees rarely, save for in the presence of himself or the King, who has never been to the Isle save for one time, to request his presence, the greatest knight in the land, at the King's Table.

"We do not say his name, Lancelot. His name holds power over him, and it is for that reason that we do not call him save for the moments of greatest need."

His confusion must have shown in that moment as he looked to the silent figure, and the laughter so like the chiming of silver bells rolls out of the woman he has called Aunt for most of his life as she looks at him with her deep blue gaze. "He has been here since before my time, dear nephew. I suspect he will be here long after, as well. Once he was an enemy to the Sisterhood here on the Isle, an assassin most deadly. It was Hazel who brought him to us, turning our enemy to our cause."

He nods, clad in his traveling clothes. Still, he is confused. "I do not understand, Aunt. How is it that a name can hold such power over a man that it must not be spoken?"

She looks from him to the silent, cloaked form, who stands as still as ever, not even looking their direction, though he must know it is him they are speaking of. The smile appears on her lips once more, and he knows that she must secretly have some feeling for this Guardian, though such things are forbidden here between the Sisters of the Isle and their Guardians.

"Because he is not a man, dear Lancelot."

Now he watches from the pinnacle of the Shelter as the cloaked figure approaches. Unlike so many of the immortals he has known and seen throughout the ages, the Lady included, this one is unchanged, immune to the currents and flow of time.

He remembers much more than that long ago mythic knight did, has far greater knowledge, far greater power and strength. He knows this one's beginnings, the thrall of an evil, egotistical madman in his beginning, until the equation was changed by one who understood the power inherent in giving such a one his freedom.

No one likes to be bound, and demons even less so, no matter whether they have knowledge of the fact or not.

As it was written in the beginning, it shall not be the same in the end. Not for this one - the demon is a rock, an unchanging edifice of silent purpose and strength.

Looking beyond to the shadows the demon had emerged from, he can sense the dark eyes of the Angel, the healing presence that guards the light of this place like the flaming sword of Eden.

As he returns his gaze to the demon, the cloaked figure halts, near to the entrance, and looks up. Finn has no trouble seeing the flickering of amethystine light at his neck, the Amulet given to him so long ago, its shine reflecting in his eyes beneath the cowl.

For a long moment they watch one another, the last of Avalon's Guardians and the essence that had, so long ago, been the catalyst to bring a utopian realm to utter ruin. And yet he can feel no malice in that stare, no anger of the like that had flared from the Lady when she had brought the shell of the Trickster to his doorstep. There is recognition there, yes, but past that there is simple patience, a feeling that the demon is waiting for something.

Finally he nods, murmuring softly, knowing both will hear. "You are welcome to my home, Guardian."

There is no returned word of thanks, not even so much as a simple nod, just a slight movement of the head as the demon's gaze returns to the building and he continues inside. There is no sound to mark his passing, only the same purposeful silence.

As Finn hears the door close behind the demon below, he sighs softly, nodding to himself. "May you find the light in the darkness that you make your home, Guardian."