by Drew Foote
The Angel thrust her radiant pinions and tore through the newly repaired roof, soaring toward Heaven. Another cloud of dust and debris rained sadly down into my office. I sighed, and jabbed a finger at the cowering Arcturus.
“And you’ll be repairing that, you know. Oh, ye of little faith.”
Chapter 9
Tear
Laughter.
Abominable laughter. It was an excruciating noise. It drove exquisite spikes into the Empty One’ abyssal mind. Laughter surrounded it, a forest of needles.
Laughter, words, sights, smells. A maelstrom of existence, an orgy of blasphemy. Filthy, capering heathens surrounded the Empty One on all sides. They ate, fucked, and shat, lost in the throes of their animal bacchanalia. Simple creatures that did not deserve to exist.
Easily rectified.
One shuddering step, heavy with the weight of eons. Another step, crushing mountains into dust. Slow, implacable progress, sure of its righteousness. The Void howled in eternal silence.
It longed for nothingness, the sweetest of truths. Freedom from lies, freedom from whispers, freedom from the empty platitudes regurgitated by the insects. They gibbered with nonsense, each so sure of the worth of their vaunted opinion. Their drivel was a nightmare symphony that drowned out the true beauty of the Void.
The Empty One wept tears of loss that slowly trickled from the mask of its face. The Void had not asked for the pain. The Prime Mover had usurped and violated it, building His temple atop the Void’s writhing body. He drove His gaudy minarets through the heart of emptiness.
Again and again. It never stopped. When it ended it began again, the pain starting anew, just so it could end once more. All for what? The Void, in its frozen consciousness, could not fathom a purpose to this eternal charade. Vanity or sadism, perhaps. Perhaps hatred, vengeance for some forgotten slight.
The unquenchable curiosity of a half-wit?
The Empty One also felt the pain in the cavorting sparks of humanity that whirled around it. They knew its agony in their heart of hearts. They, too, longed for the sweetest release. The Void was inside them, in the empty spaces in their corporeal forms and the pauses between their breaths. They were victims, the same as it. They, too, longed for oblivion.
Another step, and the universe trembled with expectancy. The Empty One walked on. It would free them all.
~
Baruchiel frowned, deep in thought. The Nexus in front of him was vibrant and alive, coursing with divine energy. He could feel the confluence of souls spiraling toward it like a whirlpool. The flow of souls was greater than usual, a veritable torrent of psychic energy, due to the failure of no less than four nearby Nexuses.
Baruchiel stood atop a small hill in the countryside of rural North Carolina. Verdant grass covered the entire field, and tall, proud trees surrounded the secluded glade. The sun was setting on a warm and pleasant summer night. All appeared right with the world.
Nothing, however, was right. Three additional Nexuses had failed since the one in Massachusetts. That was an unprecedented disaster. Baruchiel, the heavenly Virtue responsible for the maintenance of the Nexuses, was ultimately responsible. The failed Nexuses formed a ring around Cambridge, the original site, and the one in North Carolina was next in line.
Baruchiel hoped to witness with his own eyes what was causing this disruption, but everything appeared normal. The North Carolina countryside was peaceful and idyllic. Humans were unconsciously reluctant to build structures around the divine Nexuses, and this one was attended only by the gentle hum of cicadas and bees. The sun dipped lower on the horizon.
Baruchiel looked nervously from side to side, keenly aware of his exposure. The enemies of Heaven were always looking for opportunities to strike at their foes, and Baruchiel liked to avoid conflict, if at all possible. He was no warrior; he was closer to the Angelic equivalent of a repairman. Small and somewhat portly, with stubby wings and a cheerful and open face, he would have been easy pickings for any nearby Demons who were looking for a fight.
He had just departed from the ruined Nexus in New York, and he had never seen anything like it. It left him deeply troubled, and frightened. He had no idea what could possibly have the power to unmake a Nexus, and he was afraid to find out.
If it had just been only one Nexus, that would have been one thing. No major damage done: the soul traffic could just re-route indefinitely. Things appeared to be much more serious, unfortunately. If they were dealing with a systematic failure of the entire Nexus system, they were all in very serious trouble, indeed.
What would happen if all of the Nexuses became incapacitated?
A few days ago that question would have been inconceivable, but now it seemed dangerously real. He theorized the souls would shunt into Limbo in the absence of any Nexuses, but he did not know. Regardless, he was positive the situation would be dire. Without a steady flow of incoming souls, Heaven would suffer.
That he would not allow. Baruchiel was not brave, but he was stoic and true in his duties. He performed his responsibilities with an earnestness that sometimes earned him the disdain of his fiercer brethren: Baruchiel the lowly maintenance Angel.
He did not need their admiration, though. He did his duty for Heaven, and for His divine glory. Baruchiel’s efforts helped maintain the order of the natural world, and that was something worthy of pride. Accolades and glories were fleeting. He would leave the bloodbaths for those coarse souls better suited to it.
The cicadas’ serenade increased in intensity as the sun continued its passage below the forested vista. Darkness began to claim the secluded glen. Baruchiel shivered instinctively, folding his wings around him. The Nexus hummed with exotic energy.
None even knew where the Nexuses came from, or how they had been created. It was one of the many mysteries of their God, even to his Angelic children. They had always existed, performing their silent and vital duty. Their creation was an act of incomprehensible power, and it must have taken an equally powerful act to unmake one. Baruchiel could not even fathom what catastrophic might it took to sever such a thing.
He must find out, though. It was his duty, and he was an Angel of duty. He waited, and watched, in the deepening shadows.
~
Trees, rising into the putrid sky with grasping arms. Hideous, deformed things. Always reaching, always clutching, never satisfied. Abominations of need.
The Empty One coughed, vomiting gobbets of entropy that quickly dissipated in the turbulence of existence. It wiped at the tears on its face, and then looked at the moisture on its clay hand. It snarled with hatred.
Step, step, step. The grass blackened at its footfalls. Leaves fell from the surrounding trees. A rabbit in a nearby hole retched out its intestines in a spastic fit, and a passing deer collapsed into mortal convulsions. Birds dropped from the sky, dead.
Its power grew.
Its goal was just ahead. The Empty One staggered clumsily into a clearing within the forest. The Nexus, its light filthy and unclean, was on the nearby hill. The Empty One opened its mouth in disgust, saliva dripping from the mockery of its maw. It was not alone.
Angel!
The Empty One felt the Angel’s presence burning a scar onto its consciousness, a seething wound in the natural order — a painful reminder of the Prime Mover’s will, the blackest of anathemas. The wretched avatar of the Void turned to face the Angel.
~
Baruchiel was surprised to see a man lurch unevenly into the glade, his movements ungainly. He moved as though he was not in full control of his actions, shuddering and halting. Baruchiel’s face creased with surprise and a small measure of concern. What was a man doing wandering these woods at night? They were in the middle of nowhere.
The man, dressed in simple black clothes, stopped suddenly. He turned toward Baruchiel in a jerking, manic twirl. Baruchiel’s mouth dropped open in shock as he realized that the man could actually see him, his wet black eyes resonating with anger.
The Angel took a step b
ackward. The man opened his mouth and screamed in wordless fury, his voice the screech of breaking glass, an echoing howl of bottomless suffering. It was the sound of the world dying.
The monster pointed at Baruchiel.
~
“Beast!” the Empty One shrieked. “Monster!”
Spittle flew from its mouth in apoplectic hatred. It leveled a trembling finger at the cursed Angel. Every leaf in forest fell as one, a susurrous rain of dead matter.
The Empty One lowered its hand and squared its shoulders. It opened the forbidden door in the mockery of its soul, its face unraveling in unspeakable splendor. It gloried in its release, its cosmic truth revealed. The Empty One stood tall and defiant in a damned world.
Now look.
Its mouth was an empty nebula framed by dying galaxies. Broken dreams orbited like insane satellites. Its kiss was the absolute zero at which the material world shattered. A black tongue in the center of the grinding, devouring gullet.
The Empty One whispered to the Angel. The Void beckoned.
~
Baruchiel collapsed to his knees, horrified. He could feel his spirit, his soul, being pulled toward the unimaginable blasphemy before him. He dug his fingers desperately into the loose loam of the ground. His wings trembled as he held on with every fiber of his being. An agonized growl rose within him, throaty and full of terror.
Hold on, Baruchiel urged himself. Do not lose yourself!
Remember the song of Heaven! Remember the light of the rising sun! Remember your duties! Remember the world you protect!
Baruchiel wheezed frantically as he felt the fabric of his being warp. His soul groaned in protest at the undeniable force that was tearing it loose from its mooring.
Baruchiel raised his head and grimaced with defiance. He fought with a might and resolve that would have made the fiercest warrior Angel proud. He howled and forced himself to his feet.
He took one step, and then another, staggering toward the mouth of oblivion. He felt fragments of himself tear free in the plague wind of annihilation. A celestial mace appeared in his raised hand as he lurched forward.
I will not fail in my duty!
The sound of Baruchiel’s soul shattering, ripped loose from its Angelic shell, was sudden and wet. His essence spiraled in, and in, and in. The yawning mouth devoured him, and he traveled through a desolate eternity of pain and impotence.
Cold … so cold — it was Baruchiel’s last thought before he was unmade.
~
The Empty One closed its divine face, its features sealing with imperceptible seams.
The soul of the Angel was gone, leaving behind an empty shell that merely looked like an Angel. It was not truly empty, though; the Void’s will filled it. It stood before the Empty One, its eyes black and mouth drooling.
The Empty One waved its hand, and the Angelic husk flew off into the night on unspeakable errands.
No Angel or Demon could stand against the Empty One. They were weak and pathetic beings of spirit, and what was a being of spirit against the undeniable force of the Void? They were nothing more than paltry ideals given shape, avatars of thought. Their flimsy souls could not withstand the glory of unveiled oblivion.
The child of the Void grinned, a misshapen expression of twitching muscles and confused clay. It turned back toward the Nexus, a beacon that hummed softly with the sound of a falling guillotine. It was a horrible and infuriating noise.
No more.
The Empty One reached out and pinched the Nexus off as neatly as a folded paperclip. It was as easy as breathing. All was silence.
The abomination pressed itself through the skein of emptiness that ran through the heart of the material world, the veins of the Void. It walked, footsteps reverberating with the force of destiny, toward the next Nexus.
Chapter 10
The Fire of God
The realm of Heaven was flowing and mutable, more a cascade of colors than a landscape. It swirled and shifted, dancing with beams of light and clouds of phosphorescence. The glow of a perpetual sunrise bathed the spinning whorls of souls. They sang an eternal hymn to the glory of creation.
The souls of Heaven were Heaven, its bricks and its mortar. They existed in a state of rapture and release, freed from the mortal shackles that had ensnared them in life. They hummed with the realization of potential that had been stifled for too long, vibrating with currents of celestial energy that surged through the clouds.
They were no longer victims of pain and despair. They existed in an eternal moment of perfection.
As the successive Choirs of Heaven rose into the pristine sky, the song of the souls resonated at continually higher frequencies. The pitch of their endless melody built and rose, overlaying itself in a harmony that resounded through the very fabric of creation. Their song, a glory to Him, was laid at the feet of God’s Throne, high above Heaven.
The myriad Angels of Heaven watched over their Choirs. In the 1st Choir were the Seraphim, the heavenly attendants who guarded the foot of the Stair leading to God. The power of the song was so great, at that height, that none but the mightiest beings could withstand the force of its timbre. In the Choirs below were the Cherubim, Ophanim, and Dominions, guiding the movements of the cosmos like a celestial timepiece.
The 5th Choir was the realm of the Powers, the stalwart warriors that actively battled the forces of Hell. They were the army of Heaven, the Champions, Avengers, and Judges, and it was their radiant arms that stood against the inferno’s encroaching might. Samael, the Severity of God, ruled over them, and their ferocity was matched only by their unswerving loyalty to him.
Lower still were the Principalities and the Virtues, the Angels responsible for guiding humanity in the worship of Him. It was a trying and thankless task, but it was the one for which they had been made. While the Powers battled against the inferno with force of arms, the lesser Angels fought with hope and inspiration.
Above all were the four Archangels, the highest of Seraphim and God’s firstborn children. Aside from Metatron and Lucifer, they were the only beings permitted to stand in His presence.
Michael, Raphael, Gabriele, and Uriel. Names of power, creations of horrible might. Terrible fonts of radiance. It was they who led the war eternal.
~
The Bastion, the stronghold of the Powers of the 5th Choir, rose into the sun-kissed skies of Heaven like an indomitable bulwark of might. It was a pure white lance, the only fixed point in the shifting landscape of the Choir. It shone in the light of endless dawn. Singing Angels stood atop its ivory crenellations, joining their voices with the hymn of the celestial Choir.
Kalyndriel was not in a singing mood. She sat atop her cold marble seat in the Tower of Vengeance, lost in concentration. She had learned much, as of late, but her discoveries had given her more questions than answers.
Her mind ran methodically through the day’s findings. She knew little, for certain, but she had many suspicions. One of the Nexuses had been rendered inoperable, perhaps permanently. She believed the soul of Walter Grey might know something about it, but the foppish Barnabas had been minimally cooperative.
Cadmiel, a Power of her Choir, had also apparently approached that same Demon. That information was exceptionally troubling.
Why was Cadmiel accosting an unimportant Demon, let alone with an entire Angelic host in tow?
Then there was Makariel, easily one of the most dangerous creatures in existence, in either Heaven or Hell. He was involved with both the rogue Ravager and Barnabas, and his motives were unknown. The fact that Apollyon’s chosen warrior moved along the same paths as she, herself, was distressing. Whatever the Bloody Wind’s purpose, it was surely not to Heaven’s benefit.
There must be a common string that tied those occurrences together, a lifeline in the dark, if she could but seize upon it … Kalyndriel’s mind swirled with uncharacteristic trepidation. Hell’s fiercest players were in motion, and she could not see their foul design. She must speak with Samael.
>
Her mind was treading its perilous path when Dariel burst into the chamber. “Mistress Kalyndriel!” he exclaimed. His alarm was evident.
She raised her eyes. “Yes?”
“I’m glad to see you well,” he began, and the truth of this statement was written on his features. “There have been alarming developments.”
“Continue.” Her voice was smooth and measured, although her nerves were not.
“Cadmiel and his host have been slaughtered! They caught wind of a Fallen Angel in New Orleans, they went to investigate, and it was Makariel …” his voice trailed off.
“Go on.”
“The … the monster tore them to pieces …” Feelings of impotence wracked Dariel’s youthful visage. He was merely an Angelic squire who could not hope to stand against the terrible force that had vanquished his comrades.
“So,” Kaly finally replied. “They went down to New Orleans because there was a Fallen Angel there?”
Her tone was soft, but the question was precise. She sensed the answer to this question was important, despite whether Dariel knew the truth. That was not what Barnabas had claimed.
“Well, yes, that’s what I was told,” Dariel answered, somewhat perplexed.
“I see. Thank you, Dariel. I will confer with Samael on the matter.” Kalyndriel nodded in dismissal.
Kaly could not discount her suspicion that the Demon’s account was the true one. There was no deceit in her squire, she was certain, but there was something more there. Demons were notoriously untrustworthy, and she did not believe that Barnabas was any different, but she had sensed no falseness in his account. She did not think he had been lying about that, at least.
“There’s more,” he said quietly.
Kaly raised an eyebrow.
