A Kiss Before the Apocalypse

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  The storm raged around them, the intensity of their conflict seemingly reflected in the intensity of the weather. And as they fought, their Heavenly blades casting flecks of godly light, a jagged hole was torn in the thick curtain of fog to reveal the Horsemen, moving closer still. The four giants sat upon their colored horses, as if drawn toward the struggle playing out beneath them, as if looking for a little entertainment before beginning the work of ending the world.

  Time was fleeting, and Remiel knew that what little sanity Israfil maintained was a fragile thing indeed.

  “Look at them, Remiel,” Nathanuel shrieked above the relentless clanging of their striking sword blades. “Have you ever seen a more awesome sight?”

  “It's not their time, Nathanuel,” he responded, driven back across the beach by the Seraphim chief's relentless onslaught. “That will be a time of His choosing, not yours.”

  Remiel lowered his sword, inciting his brother to come closer.

  Nathanuel lunged, as Remiel allowed the fiery blade to pass dangerously close, skimming along the side of his breastplate, before lowering his arm and trapping the blade against his side.

  The expression upon Nathanuel's face was priceless.

  “You let me get too close,” Remiel said, driving his forehead into the Seraphim leader's face. “A big mistake.”

  Remiel swiped the balled pommel of his own sword across the Seraphim's face, knocking him backward to the ground.

  Nathanuel's grip torn from his sword, Remiel now stood above the chieftain of the host Seraphim, a blade forged in Heaven in each of his hands.

  “If you're smart, you'll stay where you are,” Remiel raged, doing everything in his power to keep the angelic fury that raged within him at bay. It would be so easy, Remiel thought. To let it out, to satisfy its voracious hunger.

  So easy.

  Remiel pulled back upon the rage, painfully repressing what had once been second nature to him. But not anymore.

  “Listen to me,” he warned, turning away from the Seraphim chief, hoping – praying – that he was wise enough to stay down. That this could all be brought to a close with a minimal amount of violence.

  And someday pigs would fly.

  The hideously disfigured creatures that had once been Seraphim surged from the shifting fog. Haniel and Zophiel's burnt and blackened bodies, scarred by his fiery descent, rasped and rustled as they grappled to restrain him.

  Remiel roared, one of his swords arcing down, taking away one of Haniel's arms. He brought his other sword up and across, slicing through Zophiel's mid-section, causing steaming entrails to spill out onto the ground. But still they came at him, taking hold of his arms, preventing him from using his blades further.

  The Seraphim tried to speak, to whisper ominous threats in his ear, but all he could hear were choking rasps.

  Prying the weapons from his hands, they turned him roughly around to face the approaching Natha-nuel. Twin lines of blood trailed from each nostril of the Seraphim leader's nose. He held a dagger in one hand while dabbing at the blood that streamed from his nose.

  His fingers stained crimson, Nathanuel's eyes grew wide and his entire body began to tremble.

  “What will it take for you to understand?” the Seraphim leader asked, bringing the tips of his fingers to his mouth, tasting his blood. “The travesty of this world has gone on long enough. It ends here and now....

  Despite your actions.”

  “It ends when I deem it over,” said a voice that froze the Seraphim where he stood.

  Taken aback, Nathanuel turned to see the form of Israfil emerging from the fog. In one hand he held the still-unopened final scroll, in the other a vintage Colt pistol. “What is this?” Israfil asked, his expression of surprise turning to one of absolute revulsion as he caught sight of Francis looming behind the linchpin of his plans.

  “With them all dead and gone... He'll love us best,” Nathanuel said, attempting one last time to convince the Angel of Death that his plans were just.

  Israfil aimed the pistol, firing off a shot before the Seraphim could speak again. The Hell-made bullet hit him in the center of his forehead, his eyes turning upward as if attempting to see the extent of the damage that had been done to him.

  Nathanuel fell backward to the ground.

  Remiel flexed his wings, shrugging off the injured Seraphim soldiers, and was about to put them down when further shots rang out. Jumping aside, he saw that Francis had snatched the pistol away from Israfil and was firing with coldhearted efficiency, taking out those Seraphim loyal to Nathanuel.

  “Not dead yet, but they will be,” Francis said as his legs grew unsteady and he dropped down to the ground. “Think I'll take a seat.”

  He had torn off his suit coat sleeve and tied it tightly around the stump of his hand to stop the bleeding.

  “Soon as Israfil gets his shit together, we'll be all set.”

  Remiel approached the Angel of Death, who stood staring off into the mist-enshrouded distance. He was pale and trembling, skin burnt a bright pink in many places. His eyes had started to leak a dark-colored ooze.

  The body he inhabited was breaking down.

  “I just wanted the pain to go away. As much for myself as for the world.” Israfil turned his dripping eyes to Remiel. “But I kept hearing your voice, telling me that it wasn't the time.”

  An ominous rumble shook the air, and they both looked out through the fog to see the Horsemen growing restless. Death, in his armor of bone, upon his horse of the purest white, had left the line of his brethren, as if urging his master, the Angel of Death, to get on with it.

  “They're waiting for you to decide,” Remiel said.

  “There's still a part of me fighting to end it... to drop the curtain on it all, to take away its pain, and I'm not sure I have the strength to fight it much longer.”

  Remiel moved closer to the angel. Israfil stared at him – as if seeing him for the first time. “Look at you,” he said, voice no stronger than a whisper. “I never believed I would see you this way again.”

  “He looks good,” Francis said. He was lying on his back now, his speech starting to slur. He'd lost quite a bit of blood. “Don't you think he looks good? I remember when I looked as good... better.”

  “We're done here,” Israfil said. “But I'm not sure that I'm strong enough to do what still needs to be done.”

  The angel swayed, buffeted by the storm, his human shell looking worse with the passing seconds.

  “Will you help me, Remiel?” he asked. “Will you help me return it to the way it's supposed to be?”

  For a brief moment of selfishness, Remy hesitated. How much more can I give?

  Israfil waited for his answer, and it was as if the angel suddenly knew the cause of his reticence.

  “I'm sorry,” the Angel of Death said, tears of black flowing more freely down his gaunt face.

  Remiel shook his head, steeling himself for what had been asked of him. “There's no reason to be sorry,” he said firmly. “This is how it's supposed to be... how it has to be.”

  And with those words, Israfil gathered what remained of his strength and turned. He walked toward the horizon, across the sand, which was until recently beneath the ocean, heading toward the riders of the Apocalypse.

  And Remiel followed.

  They stood side by side, gazing up at the awesome sight, at the personification of the world's last days. The harbingers of the end.

  “Are we ready?” Israfil said wearily.

  “As ready as I'll ever be,” Remiel answered, laying a hand upon Israfil's shoulder, lending him his strength.

  Israfil seemed to take a moment, as if wanting to hold onto this moment – this fragility – for as long as he was able.

  Remiel squeezed his shoulder tighter, signaling that it was time.

  Israfil gasped, an awful gurgling sound filling his throat as he turned his face up to the crying Heavens, and left the body of Jon Stall. The human shell that the Angel of Death had i
nhabited these past months dropped to the ground, a marionette whose strings had been cut.

  Israfil floated in the air like smoke, his ethereal form weak and undefined, as if part of what he was had atrophied.

  They both stared at the abandoned body lying upon the ground.

  “His soul is still trapped inside,” Israfil said sadly, his voice like a cool fall breeze rustling through the leaves.

  “Like so many others.”

  “Yes,” Israfil agreed. “But first things first.”

  In his angelic form again, the Angel of Death spread immaterial wings the color of smoke and flowed toward Remiel.

  “Your strength to mine,” the angel whispered as Israfil's essence merged with his own.

  Remiel tensed as the angel flowed into him, instinctively reacting to the invasion. His wings flapped wildly, fighting the attempt of another being to take up residence within him. He imagined that this was what the human Jon Stall must have experienced as he surrendered the last of his life, giving over his body to the curious Angel of Death.

  And Remiel was suddenly filled with an awesome and fearful power. His body began to glow; crackling energy hummed and throbbed through him, leaping from the ends of his fingers, from the tips of his wings. He had always known the Death Angel was powerful, but never could he have imagined the magnitude.

  All at once he saw the world – saw it as Israfil did – and he was in awe of it. Every living thing, down to the smallest microbe, anything that undulated, squirmed, swam, flew, or walked upon it; he saw it all as he was reconnected to the life pulse of the planet.

  The power at his disposal was immeasurable, a wild and terrible force, but he handled it with ease and grace, taming it with a gentle yet firm thought, pulling it to his side, demanding its obedience.

  And the power of death obliged.

  He took to the air, powerful wings tossing off arcs of crackling energy as he soared upward toward the fearsome representatives of the Apocalypse.

  Hovering in the air before them, the force of one of Heaven's most powerful radiating from his body, Re-miel was able to capture the attention of the unearthly beings. They turned their awesome gazes upon him, waiting.

  “Not today,” he told them. He was suddenly aware of the sacred scrolls lying upon the beach below, seals regrowing upon the open parchment like fresh skin over an open wound, in preparation for a time when they truly would be needed.

  At first he wasn't sure if they had heard him, the fearsome aspects of the end, continuing to study him as he floated in the air, little more than an annoying insect to them, he was sure.

  The way they stared, it was as if they were giving him a chance to reconsider – to change his mind. But the being that was both Remiel of the Seraphim and Israfil the Angel of Death held strong to their decision.

  The world would not end this day.

  And after a time, the Horsemen of the Apocalypse came to realize that their presence was no longer required, and one at a time, they turned away from the world, returning to that otherworldly realm, where fearful beings such as this awaited the time when they would be called again.

  And their duty to the one that created them, done.

  Remiel watched as they receded into the horizon, the storm that had blanketed the region since their summoning drawn along behind them, clearing the sky so that the sun was allowed to shine again.

  Riding the winds above the Cape, Remy heard the roar of the ocean as it rushed in to reclaim the land that belonged beneath it. He thought briefly about Francis, whom he had left lying on the beach, but pushed the concern from his mind. The former Guardian could take care of himself, and there were other, far more pressing matters still to be concerned with.

  The balance needed to be restored, the inevitability of death returned to the world.

  The being that was both Remiel and the Death Angel floated in the darkness of space, just above the vaporous atmosphere, attuned to the heartbeat of a world.

  Remiel knew he should be in awe of what he witnessed below him, a beautiful blue marble nestled in a black velvet blanket of stars, vibrant with life, but there was something about sharing his body with the Angel of Death that dampened his enthusiasm.

  There was a job to be done; one that Israfil had been derelict to perform for at least a week's time. Remiel dreaded what was to follow, but there was no other way if the balance was to be restored.

  He fixed his gaze upon the earth, his every preternatural sense awakening at once, making the planet aware of the Angel of Death's return. Desperate for release, everything that had been destined to meet its end but couldn't cried out in one powerful voice, calling for his attention.

  The power inside him was nearly overwhelming, and for one brief moment, Remiel suspected that he knew what it must feel like to be God, or as close to one as his kind was ever likely to be. The power inside him began to grow, intensifying toward release. Knowing what he was now capable of, and what he was about to do, Remiel experienced painful pangs of fear.

  As well as guilt.

  Floating above the earth, he extended his arms and let the Angel of Death's purpose flow through his body. He felt it move inside him, building at his core, spreading up from his torso and down his arms into his hands. A sort of ethereal webbing flowed out from his fingertips and drifted down to cover the world.

  Still connected to his hands, he felt it all – vibrating up through the membranous net, the thrumming heartbeat of the planet.

  He saw them all, each and every thing: the large and small, the human as well as the inhuman, the sick and the suffering.

  “Come to me,” Remiel said, his voice an odd mixture of his own and the angel Israfil's. Given permission to go on, the life forces were released from their places of confinement, flowing up from the planet to collect within the vast netting he had cast about the world.

  As the souls were collected, he saw the existences that had once belonged to them, entire life experiences flashing before him in the blink of an eye.

  Life, in all its myriad shapes and sizes.

  The souls of humanity, what stories they had to tell.

  From birth to death, and everything in between, he saw it all.

  Tales of lifetimes, better than anything that could be crafted by the world's most skilled authors. The sadness and the joys, the hatreds and the loves: it was all there, everything that defined them as a species, that set them apart from all other of God's creations.

  Their humanness was intoxicating.

  And among the seemingly countless existences, he found a life of joy that spoke to him in a voice so famil- iar. It sang of life filled with accomplishment and the sweetest of loves between man and woman.

  Remiel knew this life, for he had been honored to be part of it, overjoyed to be accepted into the loving embrace of one of the Almighty's most blessed creations.

  To love and to be loved was the greatest of His gifts, and Remiel reveled in the honor that he had been allowed to experience.

  He did not want to let this life go. He wanted to hold on to it – keep it, like a precious stone, admiring its beauty and complexity for all eternity.

  But the Angel of Death had other plans.