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It's the end of the line for you.

Her eyes flickered in the light, as the people returned to the cathedral and sang; they sang their hymns, they sang of love and loss, of freedom and all the wonders of life. She remembered her dedication to Michael, one that had been within her from the time she was born until the day West chose the darkness. It was confusing for her, later in her life when things weren't so simple, to keep understanding Michael and the way that he was. The way things were. She doubted the purpose of a great many things, and this doubt planted the seed of evil. She chose Kala. But not for long. Only a time.

When she was a young girl, her mother abandoned her in favor of a young man she'd took an obsessed interest in. Her father was ill and she was all alone with him, the two of them having to struggle to survive in a wild and wicked town. She remembered that only the Vangelists offered her kindness, giving her bread and a glass of grape juice every morning to help keep her alive. Eventually when she went to their church she started to learn about more than just food and sustenance for the body. She learned about energy for the soul. She made many friends her age, was looked after carefully and lovingly by many adults, and one day she found Him. It was Michael, not in the sky or before her eyes. But in her heart. It was a feeling of great warmth. It was love. She remembered it even now. She couldn't feel it anymore, but she remembered it.

She wondered if she could still be saved. If she could feel that spark once again; if she could once again be reborn not by her own power or own volition, but by Him. She had lost hope that even angels could restore what she had lost, at this point. But maybe He could.

There was a confessional, a booth occupied by an old man in robes. She stepped over, intent to spill some truth. To gain some answer. To know if she could retrieve what she had lost. It was just a thought, even a fleeting motion. But she had to try.

"Father," she started, stepping into the booth and taking a seat against the mahogany. His eyes averted to her, and he nodded to acknowledge her presence. He said nothing. "It's not that I've sinned, so much as I've been deteriorated by sin. The sins of others around me. The sins of those in the highest brass to the men and women scraping fleas off their skin. I've been deteriorated by the sins of humanity, and made into something else. Not human anymore. Supernatural." With her words, his interest grew. He opened his lips, and asked: "Vampire?" It seemed the logical conclusion, as humans weren't exactly easily turned into much else. It took debauchery in many forms to actually find your soul corrupted. It was a rare thing, and impossible without great malevolence of your own.

However, that was not what she was.

"No. It's not something you've heard of, I assure you. What it is doesn't matter so much as what it does to me. It makes me jealous. I don't want to be jealous so I take that away. When I take that away I am left with nothing. I am entirely unfeeling, amoral, apathetic, removed from myself. In response, I've lost my faith. I can't feel Michael following after me anymore. I was wondering..." She sighed. "If I could be saved, still. If someone could discover what's wrong with me, and heal me. A Nephilim, or a cleric... or anyone. I was wondering if you had services like that. Anywhere." She seemed a little timid, as this question had been one that was difficult to ask. She felt like somehow, she was betraying West by searching for a greater part of herself. Or perhaps she feared that once she began to feel she'd only feel that he was unjust; she'd rebel, betray him, try and destroy him. That was scary.

But she couldn't live like a hollow machine forever. One day she was going to have to wake up or she'd burn away.

"Let me see what you are," the priest said. "I know some vampires have been rehabilitated from their awful hunger. And some werewolves have learned to control their animalistic side. It really depends on what you have inside of you." A light began to emerge from his palms, and his eyes began to glow a bright white. He tapped the space that separated them, and looked at her intently. He looked at her face, then began to look lower, where her heart might be. The moment he looked down there, he stopped and reeled back. "My God! What are you?" Her energy was twisted, pitch black, soulless. It was like a demons', but worse. Her soul was gone, a grey void, completely dissolved. From what he could see in plain sight, she was a pure evil. It wasn't that she had nothing, but that she had nothing good. Nothing kind. She was a manifestation of greed, lust, envy, pride, wrath, sloth and glutton. All of them reveled inside of her and sought for her being.

The priest stood up, and stared at her from across the confessional. "It's too late to go back, miss. You've become a creature of darkness. No one can save you."

In response to that, her eyes flickered again, not to the light or for the glory of God. It was like the last flicker of a torch that festered in a sea of darkness, a final fragment of hope dissipating; it went from life to death in a moment, and the worst thing was that she was not afraid. She did not feel pain or sadness to hear that, by chance, she could not be saved. Like always, she only felt nothing at all.

It was the end of the line. It was the day where she realized that she existed only as an attachment to something else, someone who had lost all that made her a unique and individual being. She was not Isis. She was not she. She was just Raphael, his will, an extension of him. His blade.

It was the end of the line.