They burn brightly, to those who have eyes to see. They cast the world around them into stark relief; Heaven and Hell become mere tones of Earth in their presence. The intermingling of their lights make the world more vivid and less solid, revealing and concealing, blurring the lines drawn by angel and demon, transforming simple morality into a multitude of ambiguous colors.

In that lies their true nature, one even they seem unaware of. Their very existence is a shield between human and the combined forces of angel, demon, and self-proclaimed god. If Armageddon is to come, it must go through them, and I would not lay odds on it succeeding.

Not all of them are human, though it could be truly said that they are all humanity’s representatives. They are, I think, pieces of the Earth’s soul, if it has one, or facets of mankind’s common spirit.

The shining ones, they’re called in whispers. The name is apt.

Watching them, I shiver; eventually, our paths will collide, and I am not looking forward to that day. One of us must fall.

“‘Who, then, is able to stand before me?’” Raziel walks over to me, and I avert my eyes from his glow. “You look thoughtful, Michael.”

I turn back to look at the Earth; far below us, the other shining ones glimmer. I say nothing.

Raziel clasps my shoulder briefly, and leaves.

Far below, another light touches the Earth.

Raziel quotes from Job 41:10.