by Drew Foote
Click.
Click.
Click.
He could not shake the sensation that he looked down upon an endless plunge into unknown darkness.
There was a man by the shore.
Walter’s heart began to hammer madly in his chest, struggling to free itself from its mortal coil. A panicked sweat broke from his forehead and he started to hyperventilate.
This was it. This was how he died.
The figure turned, slowly and ominously, the weight of the world turning with it. Darkness shrouded its features, but Walter could discern tears glistening on a smooth face. Its eyes were black. The park went silent.
The world of Walter’s dream began to tremble, threatening to break apart, and Walter’s awareness came flooding back to him in a rush of agony. His journey through Hell, the endless mysteries of the Tower of Knowledge, his relationship to the Demon beside him; it all came crashing into his chest in a terrible surge. He looked at Paimon, wide-eyed and frantic.
“No!” he cried. “I can’t do this, Paimon!”
“You can, and you must!” his old friend insisted. “This is your story. It cannot hurt you here.” He placed a hand on Walter’s shoulder, offering him his strength.
Paimon was wrong, though. Walter knew the threat was real, and present. There was nowhere this monster, this thing, could not hurt him. The Void was everywhere; it was the heart of everything, and no walls could deny it.
Not even in a dream.
A sound of slithering and unraveling. The Empty One’ face opened once more, revealing the unholy gate into darkness so absolute it was beyond God. The creature screamed at them, the sound of razorblades drawn across the world’s veins.
Paimon and Walter stared into the depths of what passed as the Empty One’s soul, a window into the eternal Void, the most ancient vacuum. The Void stared back at them, and it saw them as they truly were. It was not a dream, no mere vision within the Tower, and the monster laughed at them.
It stepped forward, and the world disintegrated around it.
Paimon could not believe his eyes. Such an abomination should not exist, could not exist. It was a horror so primeval that it was beyond concepts of good and evil, those feeble generalizations born along with the material world. It existed beyond the reach of time.
God had plowed the Void under like a fallow field when He created existence, and that bondage was eternal. The shackles had somehow been broken, though, and the Void’s spawn was now here, on Earth. Its mere presence on the material plane was a blight upon the natural order of the cosmos. Existence, itself, would collapse into its shrieking soul.
An end to all worlds, all futures. All hope.
Paimon felt the clutch of absolute fear in his ancient heart — a feeling so long absent he hardly recognized it. He had suspicions, but the truth was far worse than he ever could have imagined. He faced a foe that was beyond him, far beyond any of them. The Demon struggled to believe.
There was no denying, however, the blasphemous simulacrum of un-creation that unraveled before his eyes, its face peeling open like a fatal lotus. The Void’s overpowering embrace washed over him and he felt himself fade in its smothering embrace.
The Demon’s soul ripped from him, dragged toward the heart of frozen emptiness. Even Paimon could not resist.
In his dream, once more, Walter’s heart burst.
Time stopped.
~
As the vision faded, Walter collapsed into Paimon’s trembling embrace. They held onto each one another as the storm passed. They were once again within the Tower of Knowledge, their relief equaled only by their fear. It was but a temporary respite from the terrible fate that walked the Earth, but it was something.
“What … was that?” Walter sobbed brokenly.
Paimon was silent.
Was their fate sealed? Was there anything they could do, at this late stage?
“That …” the Demon eventually replied, his voice low and shaken, “… was Nothing.”
Chapter 20 - Interlude
Worn and Frayed
Barnabas, Kalyndriel, and Arcturus
Deep within the 1st Circle of Hell, on the outskirts of a sprawling city of wicked monsters and damned souls, a Demon and a black-winged Angel clasped hands. Opposing sides of a divine coin, fell siblings torn by fate, and they went in search of a soul that somehow bound their realms together. They felt the fabric of their worlds ripping, tearing, and unraveling beyond repair.
Both were predators, one light, and one dark. The Angel was powerful and ferocious, an incarnation of terrifying might. The Demon was elegant and sly, an expert swindler who had claimed souls by the thousands. They were masters of their craft, and by one means or another, their craft was destruction.
They laid waste to everything they touched in the name of their divine purpose.
Their hands joined, they materialized outside the Tower of Knowledge, accompanied by an Imp who was decidedly displeased by the turn of current events.
~
Makariel
Forge hammers pealed rhythmically in the armory of the Directorate of War. It was the sound of Hell arming for war, the metallic symphony of a gestating thunderstorm. It built and grew, birthing both infernal weapons and the Demons to wield them.
They had but one purpose: to destroy. Angelic blood would bathe the world.
The twin jackal heads of the Champion of War smiled viciously. Joy filled his hearts as they pumped in harmonious anticipation. To him, there was nothing more sacred than the hunt, the kill. He reveled in the blessed purity of purpose that came from culling the weak, the slaves that allowed themselves to be bound.
The screams of the dying were the sweetest music, and he would play a melody that would make Heaven weep. He was an artist. He honed the four blades of his curved swords to edges that were sharp enough to split atoms. He whispered to them softly as the storm built around him.
~
Samael
The Angel of Death wept shining tears from empty eyes, his beautiful face wracked by sorrow. Even the glorious song of Heaven’s Choirs was no longer pleasing to his ears. His ancient heart threatened to burst. He was torn by regret; not for what he had done, but for what he must do.
He gazed out at the dancing clouds of Heaven from the pinnacle of his celestial tower, and he could feel the feeble heartbeats of humanity struggling beneath him. They toiled and struggled, and then they died, bound to the never-ending ordeal of existence. How they raged against their fate, the impotent wails of infants.
Love filled his soul.
The Angel of Death did this for them.
~
Walter and Paimon
In an obsidian tower that stretched to infinity, a Demon and a human soul clutched each other for strength. They had seen the screaming face of what lies between the stars, and it walked among them. Though surrounded by the greatest repository of knowledge in existence, they knew not what to do.
They did not know anything could be done.
They were kindred spirits, separated by millennia and nature. Both were explorers, navigators of the unknown. They sought to travel the ways unseen by narrow souls, to plumb the very depths of existence itself. Unfortunately, knowledge is powerless against something that is not even of existence.
Everything collapses into the Void.
~
Leviathan
Deep beneath the fiery crust of Hell, the Worm slept. It was a monstrous thing, its colossal length stretching for miles. Its jagged maw had gorged itself on tribes, cities … even entire civilizations. The Worm knew unending, ravenous hunger; no matter how much matter it poured down its cavernous gullet, the fierce need was never satisfied. The hunger never stopped.
Though the Worm’s mammoth body slept, its mind soared as light as a sparrow. It alighted in its Demons, driving them in their brutal business. They shared their master’s gluttony, the eternal and insatiable need. Their purpose was as black as the Worm’s heart.
> The Worm slept, but only for a time.
~
Archangel Uriel
In the depths of the heavenly furnace, the burning Archangel sat in meditation. His essence roared with such impossible heat that nothing could stand before it. Unbelievers and Demons withered to ash with a mere glance, their existence reduced to cinders that disappeared in the wind.
None burned brighter than the Fire of God.
He was so very tired, though. His heart ached with weariness, the weight of infinity. The wheel on his back was winding itself down, slowing with the passing of the ages. His fiery spirit had burned for untold eons, and every flame was bound to devour itself, in time.
Eventually he would be nothing but ash himself. As it should be.
~
Beelzebub
In a citadel nestled within the swarming warrens of Pandemonium, the Prince of Flies stared into a tall mirror. It was the only mirror left in the citadel; hidden away within a back room, the only one he had not yet smashed to pieces. He stared at his bloated form. He could feel the vermin writhing within the depths of his heart.
The Prince had once been tall and fair, a Cherub of breathtaking beauty of form. He had shone with a radiant light and purpose. He had cast his lot with the Morning Star, though, and this was its price. He was a monstrosity, an abomination, and would be for all time.
He did not feel regret, though, and he would do it all again. What he felt, instead, was bottomless rage.
A cloud of flies burst from his skin and smashed into the mirror, shattering it into a thousand reflective pieces.
~
Apollyon and Babylonia
In the darkest depths of the Pit, the Destroyer and the Mother of Harlots met in secret. The towering brutality of the Destroyer dwarfed the Demoness’ tiny form, but she was an equally vicious creature. She carried herself as the Queen she was. They spoke of things to come, and things that must be done. They walked the razor’s edge.
They were of the same mind; both wicked devils that reveled in damnation. It was their time, the age of the massive nations and the age of global destruction. Their power had inflated to terrifying heights with the growth of humanity.
Their souls were forever beyond redemption, and they would not go quietly into the night.
~
Eligor
The skeletal Majordomo of Pandemonium rode from the gates of the city atop an equally-skeletal steed, its hollow eyes burning with witch fire. A marching legion of golden-armored Minotaurs followed behind. Theirs was a deadly affair. His orders were clear, and he would follow them to the letter. That was his nature.
The Majordomo was a creature of duty and service. He had followed his Prince this far, from Heaven, even, and he would trust in his judgment. The Demon had learned long ago that it did not pay to dwell upon matters that were out of your control; why rage against your fate when you cannot change it?
Power was a massive thing, and wielded by a select, terrible few. It was best just to follow orders and accept fate.
Anything else was futile.
~
The Empty One
The Empty One walked the material plane, scouring life wherever it went. Upon glimpsing its abyssal face, beings of spirit were drawn into the endless Void, and beings of matter died of shock and terror. None could stand before its splendor, and it traversed from Nexus to Nexus, sealing off the entrances to the afterlife as easily as snuffing a candle.
Creation shied from its alien touch.
Spirits of Light and Dark had conspired together to create the tiniest breach into the Void, and the Empty One had finally managed to worm its icy tendrils into the material world. So much pain, so much anger. It lashed out from a heart of oblivion, seeking to undo creation.
It had walked for four days.
It was close.
~
Humanity
The world of man creaked and strained, its atmosphere heavy with the hundreds of thousands of souls that died each day. The remaining Nexuses were inadequate to handle the monumental ebb of mortality. The flow of souls became sluggish.
The immense spiritual pressure of wailing souls was palpable even to the living humans. They could not hear it, but they could feel the souls’ agony pressing down upon their hearts. It drove them to anger and irrationality, and they struck out at one another.
Wars were declared, missiles were launched, and the deaths of millions added even more souls to the churning thunderstorm. The world went mad.
As the pressure built to overwhelming levels, a small trickle of souls found themselves diverted into a different realm, a sort of divine overflow. It was a formless realm of light and shadow, of mist and memory. It was where the spiritual and the material worlds connected, the crux of creation, in truth.
Limbo.
~
Archangel Michael and Lucifer
At the foot of the Throne of God, the Morning Star stood next to the mightiest of the Archangels. They were brothers of old, the most dangerous of foes, and they were diametrically opposed to one another. The Morning Star served free will and desire. The Archangel served duty and obedience. There could never be peace between them.
Now, however, for the first time in the unfolding infinity of creation, they were in absolute agreement. The threat facing their realms was unthinkable. They must join forces, for creation’s sake. They could see the pieces of the terrible game moving into place and jockeying for position in the greatest gambit existence had ever known.
It was nearly too late.
They presented their case before God’s Throne, terrible brothers joined in one purpose. They asked for His leave to act, to rage against the coming darkness. They begged Him to lend His strength to theirs.
God heard, but did not heed their words.
They received their answer, but it did not please them. The celestial Stair leading to the Throne of God closed with the sound of divine thunder, barring the way to Him. The barrier was impenetrable and inviolable, even to the brothers now trapped within.
The Morning Star and the highest of the Archangels could not intervene.
God watched, and did nothing.
Chapter 21
The Climb
“Wow,” Barnabas breathed, for once bereft of glibness or sarcasm.
He, Kalyndriel, and Arcturus stared up at the unbelievable obsidian heights of the Tower of Knowledge. It boggled the mind, rising perfectly straight while twisting in all directions. It was clearly impossible, but there it was: an affront to even Hell’s lenient laws of physics.
“Yup,” Arcturus agreed.
Even Kaly seemed taken aback by the cyclopean monument. She realized there was much more to Hell than she had ever assumed, but the true depth of her ignorance was now even more painfully clear. Uncertainty was beginning to find itself more and more at home within her breast. She was silent.
Barnabas considered the impregnable surface of the Tower. There was no door to be found, only a smooth expanse of black stone. Even the light seemed to slide from the oily surface.
“Well,” he muttered. “Now we just have to find a way in.”
At his words, a perfectly round entrance opened smoothly at the base of the Tower. Flickering light shone from within, beckoning them to explore its mysterious heights. It offered promises of enlightenment and wisdom, delicious Apples ripe for the picking. They just had to enter.
“Ah,” Barnabas sighed cheerfully. “There we go! Onward!”
“Yeah, like that’s not sinister," Arcturus grunted, but he followed Barnabas and Kalyndriel’s lead regardless.
The Imp had come to the grudging acceptance that he was unfortunately stuck. He might as well stick close to his useless employer and the pretty juggernaut. It was a shame they were certainly bound for a tragic end. At the very least, though, it was entertaining to watch Battle-Tits tear things to bits.
The trio entered the mouth of the Tower warily and discovered a massive, circular room. As their eyes ad
justed to the shifting light of thousands upon thousands of glowing candles, they stared about in awe. The scale of the room was enormous, far larger than the exterior of the Tower would have suggested. It was filled with countless rows of bookshelves, containing every sort of tome and manuscript, all lit by the eerie candelabra. The immensity was breathtaking.
Then, Barnabas made a terrible discovery. He pointed at the far wall of the circular room, seemingly miles away, where a stone staircase began to wind slowly about the circumference of the Tower.
“I think we have to take the stairs.”
Arcturus let out a groan. The three made their way despondently toward the stairs through the field of bookshelves, a maze of written word, and they realized with dismay that it was only the first floor. The amount of knowledge contained in that place was of a scope that beggared the imagination.
They finally reached the foot of the stairs, peering up into the soaring shadows. The steps rose into the impenetrable heights, dancing around the tower. They each took a deep breath, and began their ascent.
~
The steps went on and on, climbing into infinity, it seemed. If only they could fly and rise through the center of the Tower, but no; there were untold landings that were each filled with equally vast libraries of books. They were forced to wind their way slowly up the countless steps.
It was not long before Arcturus was painfully out of breath, his tiny wings exhausted. Strained beyond his endurance, he suddenly careened madly through the air in a desperate crash landing onto Kalyndriel. He clung atop her massive spaulders like an ugly parrot.
Kaly glared at him in outrage.
