Call me Zenaniel. Michael gave me that name, and this life.

I stay. I guard. I listen. From my spot, I patrol their hearts. I watch in the darkness here, in this concrete valley.

If only I could show the folk here, they would understand. There wouldn't be the waste, the chaos, the angst. If they believed, they would have the fire in their hearts, their eyes would behold the evil that surrounds them and the darkness that is tearing at this world, spoiling it, and marring its beauty. They would change this veil.

For I am here to help them change it.

I stand on the sidewalk at night, watching the slow beautiful wheel of stars above this firmament. I see the cars pass, and look on the people who walk these streets. Each muffled against the cold, fearing strangers, fearing pain, eyes averted, hedged against their fear. Some are bold, brazen, hard eyed--but I know they fear too, inside. They all pass me by, quickly. I watch them go.

For I feel their fates, and I know their destinies.

I believe, and it isn't pale candles or incense or flimsy crystal pyramids that fill my heart with hope against the dark. It is the sure, the certain, the Absolute Belief, that I am created to do right for them, each and every one that I see into, those small harmonies inside them that sing to me, keening their histories, problems writ large and small.

For I have the answers to their problems.

I have a love for this cause, a pure and actinic fire that pounds into my soul with every beat of my heart, every blink of my eyes, and each twitch of my wings. Purple is the color of virtue, and it keens to me of wrongs that need righting, souls that need guiding, and of the darkness that I bring the Light into. Darkness is evil.

For I will fear no evil.

The Lord of War has put me here, on this street, as an outpost, a sentry, a warrior, that I may see this world, and by seeing, change it. One person at a time. Or several at once, it doesn't matter. I watch for the darkness that frightens them, drives them, cripples them.

For I will not fear the darkness.

One strides by, breath hazing the gloom. I reach out and feel his soul, ah, there. This last week, he set fire to a church. People burned, some died. Darkness is his fate, hatred and destruction are his road. Someday he wants to kill a famous peacemaker. His mind roils and twists. There is no order there, only chaos, and darkness.

Thy rod and thy staff shall comfort me.

I slowly straighten up from my carefully imitated slouch, and catfoot after him. The light bright within me. A purpled shadow haunts my feet as I walk under a flickering streetlight.

Humans are so surprised that we walk this quietly, quickly. We touch this earth so very gently. One liquid fast motion and he is quite surprised to find how easily I pick him up by his nice, leather overcoat. I suspend him against a graffiti scummed wall. He smells of cigarettes, and aftershave, but inside him, I can feel the scorched pews, smell the burned flesh. Messy wall, messy person. Messy soul. Nice coat though.

Dave Choat, after Frank Miller

The fear is sudden, thick. His voice, quick, hoarse, "Take my wallet, it's in my front pocket."

There is a pause. I take the wallet and flick it off into the darkness. His widening eyes follow it, then wrench back to mine. He licks his lips, "Who are you? Wh-what do you want from me?"

I look into him, quivering and goggle eyed. I think of the people burning in that church, and I smile, a little, "I know about the church, it is time for your judgment."

He pales even more, and I see where he has knicked himself shaving. Very messy. He rasps, "Aren't you going to read me my rights? I have a very good attorney you know. Talk to him, he's very good. I can call my attorney, can't I?"

A portable phone sails off, clattering against a pile of trash. Something tinkles. I feel his pulse flickering rapidly, a flutter behind my handful of overcoat.

A cat screams a challenge off in the alley behind us.

"Perhaps he will meet you, afterwards." His eyes are riveted on my free hand, the oily gleam of the beautiful, ancient blade as it smokes from the scabbard. He tries to scream then, but there is only the darkness to hear him. And I. I try not to spoil the coat.

There is a business card in the pocket. A Law firm and a name. Perhaps I need to go there and watch. I may find something to do. I look around. The alley is still, quiet as a tomb. The stars look down on me as I walk the feculent, trash littered concrete canyon. It is very dark in the city.

Yea, though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.

For this is my valley.