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It began as a harmless question.
“Do you have a sword? Like an actual sword?”
Ever since revealing himself to Ella, she had nothing but questions. The more comfortable she got the more personal they became. They were the usual things he expected; wings, abilities, his siblings, Heaven, and his least favourite, God. Michael already had answers for her. Trial and error over the centuries informed him of how much celestial knowledge a mortal can burden and what never to tell them. The last thing he wanted was the melt her brain. So as he had a mental script in mind, he answered her questions with no problem. Until she went off-script and started asking about him.
What do you do in the Silver City? Do you like it? Is it beautiful, to you I mean? Who’s your favourite brother or sister, you got to have one. Who was your favourite historical figure? Who was the worst? Do you have a favourite era? What do you do when you’re not working? Even angels need downtime.
Michael found these questions difficult to answer. All he did was work, it was his function to serve God and his Kingdom. His siblings had no such obligations. Amenadiel was given leave to exist on Earth. Remiel hunted stags. Raphael researched medicine and read philosophical texts, or wrote his own private musings. Gabriel socialized, collecting gossip among the angels when she didn’t pop off to other universes. Jophiel was... Himself. Saraquel read to the children in Heaven and watched cooking shows. Zadkiel was guardian to the last piece of the Tree of Life and the others lazed about, sparred for sport, or snuck down to Earth for amusement. Michael and Azrael worked constantly, so much so they never saw each other. This made his answers not very stimulating.
Life on Earth was light years slower than the Silver City. Above the universe, time went by quickly. Michael could work for years straight without sleep. In Los Angeles he had time for hobbies, movies, eating out, and Ella. Ella and her dangerous questions. Her interest in him confused him to the point of madness. And he had the time to reach such an aggravating state.
“I do,” he stated. “Why?”
The questions always came when they were alone, on dates, or at his villa. Moments he couldn’t run off to his office at the precinct. The pint-sized human had a method to drive him mad.
Ella smiled guiltily. “Wellllll, I maybe sorta am trying to find out which of these so-called religious artifacts are real. And your sword is a pretty big one.”
Scholarly, he thought. He can work with that. “Oh that, I gave it away because I hated it. Gaudy toothpick,” he scoffed distastefully.
“Your sword is bigger?” Her eyes widened in glee. “So you have a longsword or a broadsword? Or is it like curved since you know, you liked the Middle East a lot?”
Michael cocked an eyebrow at her. “Do you like swords? Is that like a hobby of yours, along with Star Trek ship models?”
If this was an interest of hers he could handle that. Michael would rattle off shallow facts about celestial weapons and leave it be. But of course, nothing with Ella is simple or goes according to plan.
“Uh duh, hello? I cosplay, remember? Of course, I like swords. But I wanna know about your sword Michael. Was it made special? Did you name it?”
“No, I didn’t name it. Do I look like some fairytale prince? And of course it – that one was made for me. My father is very particular as you know.” He tries not to snarl. If he snaps she will ask more questions. To think he thought Gabriel was a pestering gossip.
“Yeah, sure. But you’re not listening,” she giggled. To think he was letting anyone giggle at him. Him, Prince of the Host.
“I am,” he grumbled. “You asked about my sword. I’m telling you about it.”
“You haven’t said a thing about your sword.” She playfully poked his chest. “You think you can fool me, huh?”
“Just because I lie doesn’t mean I lie all the time,” he grumbled. Was she on to him? Dammit, she was.
With a knowing smirk, she declared, “You do this thing whenever I ask you something about the whole angel stuff. You make it like the most impersonal answer ever. And anything related to you, you make it sound like it belongs to someone else. I wanna know about you, pendejo,” she laughed. “Not the archangel San Miguel.”
That’s how it fucking started.
What was there to say about him? Since his creation, he’s never been his own person. First, he was Mikael, half of the Demiurge. Next, he was Michael, the Sword of God. After his soldiering was behind him, he was the Judge of Heaven. And now, with Amenadiel going through a mid-millennia crisis he became God’s Right Hand. Who he was outside of those titles wasn’t anything to boast about. His siblings found him moody and solitary constantly comparing him to the sibling they preferred, Lucifer. His twin made a name, an identity for himself, even if he hated it presently. It was his own. Michael was not so lucky, forever in the shadows cast upon him.
Until Ella. She wanted to know Michael Demiurgos, who happened to be an angel. It made Michael wonder who he was under that moniker. Did it extend beyond his favourite foods and hobbies? The question of his sword seemed the best place to start. God instructed the sword to be made for him when the Silver City was divided and went to war. It was different from their sparring swords, the ones he and Samael used. It was larger, heavier like his burdens. It made his blows fearsome and lethal.
Truthfully he seldom used the sword since the Rebellion, after Lucifer broke his shoulder and his wing. Having used it against his twin it became a tool for work more so than a beloved weapon. Something God had to command him to use. Yet Michael liked to fight. He loved the test of wills, strength, and cunning that a fight involved. To be challenged gives him such pleasure. It’s one of the ways Ella wore him down, her will and her strategy bested his defensive technique. And again she was challenging him but he won’t be defensive this time around.
*
Ella loves the privacy of Michael’s villa. Unlike the precinct where they have to dodge Chloe and Lucifer and satisfy themselves with rushed quickies, here they have all the time in the world. Whenever Ella spends the night or the weekend she feels right at home. Since her first night there she felt at ease to be barefoot, to nap on the couch, and even cook, with or without Michael. As long as she told him she was heading there, he gave her free reign of his place. Ella had never been this domestic with anyone before.
She hears a whoosh of wings landing on the balcony and smiles to herself when she hears his voice. “Oh you’re here, good,” said Michael. He comes inside with something under his arm wrapped in leather cloth.
“What’s that?” She asked.
Michael fidgets with his free hand and approaches her by the couch. “See for yourself.” He hands her the parcel.
To him, he might as well have been carrying a rose in a cardboard box. Ella sways as the weight nearly pulls her off the couch. “Holy shit,” she grunted. “What is this?”
He doesn’t answer her, letting her unwrap what he brought. Ella set them on the table and gasped when she revealed them. They were two swords. On was short and wide, barely a handguard at the base of the hilt. It was surprisingly light. With her cosplay and fantasy knowledge she immediately knew it was a gladius sword. The second was a bit heavier, broader with more of a handguard than the gladius. It had visible signs of wear and age on the hilt, the scabbard, and the mended leather strap. It was a shortsword.
“Woah,” she gasped.
“You asked about my swords, and these are them,” he said. “The gladius is from the Rebellion and the second one is… mine. I forged it myself.”
Ella’s mouth drops in wonder. “You forge swords? Like for real?” Images of a shirtless, sweaty Michael hammering away at steel goes straight into her spank bank. Hubba hubba.
“It’s a hobby,” he graciously explained. “I like to make my own weapons. I haven’t forged anything in several ages.”
“Can I look at them?” She pleaded.
Michael rolled his eyes. “What do you think I brought them here for?”
Ella squealed and unsheathed his shortsword. She handles it with more care than he expected, she doesn’t swing it about like a giddy fledgling or attempt any maneuvers she saw in a movie. She holds it at the hilt, never once touching the blade, and tests the weight in her hands, lifting it toward her face and admiring the steel. “It’s beautiful.”
No one has ever deemed any creation of his beautiful. Only ever Samael’s. He tries not to flounder at her praise. “I didn’t make it to be beautiful,” he scoffed, coming to stand behind her. “It’s functional. Here.”
He cups his hands over hers, softly correcting her grip. Ella lets him nudge and shift her about like an extension of his blade. Pity his troops were never so agreeable. “How’s that?” He asked in the shell of her ear.
“It’s still kinda heavy. Is angel steel heavy?”
In another scenario, this proximity would have had them thoroughly distracted. However, Ella is genuinely interested in this experience which Michael is grateful for.
“Not for us. I just made it this way to strengthen my left arm. I was right-handed before the Rebellion. And the way I fight.” He removes the blade from her hands, twirling it in his left hand with as much ease as a cheerleader would her baton. “It ensured my right hand would not lose muscle.” He flawlessly incorporates his injured arm into the routine. “It took me about a century to get the sword right.”
“I forget how strong you are,” she said remembering all those legends and scriptures she read about him. “Did you like to do tricks and stuff during battles?”
“Tricks?” He remarked distastefully. “This is an actual exercise, Sparky. Just because I haven’t been in any wars doesn’t mean I’ve gotten lazy.”
Images of Michael doing workouts in the Silver City flash across her mind like a pop-up ad. Did the angels have a gym or did they just do workouts in fields, to the cosmic equivalent of that? Ella’s brain stalls for a good few seconds. Focus, Lopez.
“Is that what you do on days I’m not here? Workout?”
“I don’t need to do it as often as mortals do,” he commented.
“So is this your workout day?”
“Nope. But we are going to spar.”
Ella splutters thinking Michael is joking but he still doing those elaborate wrists and shoulder drills. He’s genuinely warming up. “Wait that’s why you brought two swords?”
“Yes and no. I figured you’d want to see it since you humans love putting it in every painting concerning me.” Michael grins at her nervous bounce “What? You can show off with your plastic or cardboard swords at your next cosplay convention.”
Ella’s guffaws at his playful dig. “Plastic? Cardboard? Excuse you, Mr. Big Bad Angel, I get my swords 3D printed and custom ordered. I like a good DIY but, I am a seasoned veteran of the con scene. Thank you very much.”
Michael grins. “Okay, then, let’s see what you got.”
She’s never seen this playful side of Michael before and dares not shut it down. With a flip-flopping stomach she goes for the other sword, from the Rebellion, unsheathing it and taking the stance Michael showed her but, this time facing him.
“Now what?”
“Swing, Sparky. You think being a self-proclaimed nerd you would know how this goes.”
“Really?”
“Really. Go for it.”
Ella nods, giving the thirteen billion-year-old soldier a head’s up before she takes several wobbly steps forward and swings. Michael naturally lifts his sword to his face at an angle, catching the edge of her blade. The metal scraped and clank, the vibration of the impact sending tremors down her arms. Holy shit, she’s using an actual sword.
“Okay?”
“Yeah,” she said a little breathlessly.
“Good.”
That’s all the warning she gets before Michael pushes back. With not even a grain of his strength, he pushes her several steps back. Ella damn near trips over her feet, and his sword rotates in his hands, now angling toward her. The sword in her hand has been forced back into a practically useless position. He chuckles at her wide-eyed stare. She hasn’t seen anything yet.
“You’re supposed to plant your feet, Sparky.”
“As if that would make a difference,” she snorted. “Even if you were just a guy you could toss me around like a sack of potatoes.”
“Aw c’mon, I’m giving you a sporting chance. And besides, you like being scared,” he teased.
“So you are just going to stand there and let me work up a sweat?”
Michael hadn’t considered it that way. Honestly, this was a spontaneous decision, something he seldom does. Perhaps she felt a bit insulted he was toying with her, maybe he could make it a bit more exciting. After all, battering a dummy was only so stimulating.
“I see your point. I’ll teach you a move.”
“Oh cool -?” Too fast for her eyes to see, Michael goes from before her to behind her. His sword is horizontal to hers which stands vertical. Ella doesn’t move an inch. There seems to be less air around her as if Michael’s movement sucked it away from her.
“Put your weight on your sword and push. Plant your feet.”
“Do I go any particular direction?”
Michael chuckles. “So scared yet you wanna do it right. I like that. Trying spinning on your heel so we are facing each other again. Use your natural momentum. You’re slender, you can be quicker than me. Theoretically.”
Ella does as instructed, she pushes his sword away. He offers a little resistance so she won’t get lazy or clumsy with the very real weapon in her hands. And shakily turns on her heel to face him again. She takes a stance that makes him snort.
“It’s not a samurai sword.”
“Oh,” she giggled with embarrassment while correcting herself. “Right.”
“Okay, now you’re going to swing at me. At my head. I will block and push back. You swing from the other side and we do it again. Then you defend. Easy?”
“As pie,” she said.
It began slowly. Ella warily tested how much of the sword she could swing and bracing for Michael's kid gloves retorts. Him not wanting to rush her into their training wheels sparring session. With a smile she stepped boldly forward on one swing, making Michael step back although he could have easily disarmed her. He chuckled at the little gleam in her eye and playfully pushed back. Soon they were rocking on their heels, dancing without touching. Their thoughts wandered. Ella imagined how cool Michael must have looked in battle. Michael admired how fetching Ella looked with his most hated sword, perhaps she might like to do this again sometime. It's been too long since he taught someone and enjoyed it. Since he felt useful not for God's sake but for something less weighty than duty. No less precious though, perhaps more so.
Michael goes off script, rotates his hand, and prompts Ella to drop her sword. She let go more out of natural reflex than any pain or overpowering on his end. She got lazy in their exchange and he delighted in her surprised gasp. Michael was the competitive sort. But he didn't stop there. With supernatural speed, he appears behind her, holds her dominant hand behind her back pulling her against his chest, and holds his sword several inches from her neck. Ella swallows hard but she isn't afraid. Not by a long shot.
"I can teach you how to block that and get out of this," he said in her ear. "If you're up for it."
His hold is lax and the sword must be like a wooden toy in his hand. Ella decides if Michael can have fun then so can she. And she had big brothers, as he so often forgets. Her fingers of her free hand wiggle under his thumb prying it up. She knows a thing or two about reflexive actions too. The grip on his sword slackens enough for Ella to grab it while slipping out of his loosening hold. If she had to grab the sword off the ground she would have grunted and struggled but, with this height, she can manage to hold it upright. Not for long. Her body is sufficiently warmed up to not feel the strain of its weight like before.
"Ah ha!" She points the sword right at his face. "Score one, team human."
Michael holds up his hand in mock surrender. "Easy there Eowyn."
"Do you yield?" Ella asked. It takes so much not to giggle, she always wanted to say that.
"I yield." He then wondered, "Whatever will you do with me?"
"Take your shirt off." The words are out of her mouth before she can think.
Michael grins hands still up very much the predator and not the prey. He does as she ordered and takes off his t-shirt. His bare chest was better than any fantasy, sexier than a 90s underwear ad.
"Now what?"
"I'm accessing my prisoner," she said.
"Your prisoner?" Michael's eyebrows rise and he smirks. "Am I to work for my freedom? Or am I appeasing my captor's mercy?"
Her mouth is drier than a desert in a drought. "Both."
"I may need fewer clothes." His eyes are dark and wicked with intention. He starts to undo his belt. “Less obstruction.”
The action is so hypnotic as he holds her gaze with a lethal leer, Ella almost forgets to say, "I didn't give you permission."
"I was never kept prisoner for long." In a blink, he's chest to chest with her quaking with devious laughter as he slides the sword out of her hands and pulls her close. Ella doesn't resist much beyond playful smacking. Her arms were on fire. "C'mon Sparky, you need a rub down."
"Oh, I'm Sparky again?" She teased.
Michael rolled his eyes. "You'll be my shield maiden another day." He picks her up and hoists her over his shoulder. "If we can do anything about your utter lack of upper body strength."
"Oh yeah?" She wiggled along his back and grabs his ass with both her hands causing him to yelp. “How’s that for upper body strength?”
"Hey!"
"Take that!"
Michael tickles her side. "Did you just grab the Defender of the Faith's ass? How dare you. After I went easy on you?"
He tickles and tickles until she nearly cries. "You were hardly complaining, Mr. Sexy P-O-W."
"I am going to have to severely judge these actions, Ella."
"Well," she hummed. "It's been a while since my last confession."
Michael chortled, "Naughty, naughty little Sparky."