by Drew Foote
“Well met, indeed, Kalyndriel. However, I am Raziel no longer,” the Demon replied. He looked at her and smiled with genuine affection. “I’m Paimon the Cruel, these days, and I find that suits me well enough.”
Kaly nodded and returned his smile. Paimon continued to stare at her, and it seemed flecked with disappointment. His gaze lingered disapprovingly on her black wings and armor.
“Unfortunately, it suits me better than your current colors suit you, Avenging Angel,” Paimon continued, and his voice was that of an Angelic schoolteacher of ages past. The edges of his mouth turned downward in a frown.
Kaly turned away in shame. She felt anger rise once more within her. How easy it would be to turn his statement around on him. How simple it would be to point the finger at the Fallen Archangel as a hypocrite, but no. Paimon had accepted his fate, and he was correct. She had shamed herself.
“I did what I must to reach this place.” Her words sounded feeble, even in her own ears.
Paimon’s gaze eventually softened, and he nodded his horned head in acceptance. “We all do as we must, Kalyndriel, and our sins will surely grow ere our part in this drama is complete.”
“However, see that you do not lose yourself in the black. I can hear it calling you, whispering to your martial nature. You must rise above it, for we will have great need of your strength,” the Demon added, speaking to her hidden fears.
The Angel bowed her head in acknowledgement, unable to speak. She longed to tell him how terrified she was; how she doubted she could even return to the white amid the roiling uncertainty that gripped her. She could feel grace slipping from her grasping fingertips, and she could sense the endless chasm of the fall yawning hungrily beneath her.
Heaven seemed so far away. She could no longer feel it beating within her chest.
She said nothing.
“Which brings us to our current situation, I think,” Paimon said, blessedly overlooking Kalyndriel’s silence. He measured the gathered travelers in turn: Angel, Demon, Human, and Imp. “I’m well aware the three of you have been sent to retrieve Walter, here, in order to explain what has been happening with the Nexuses.”
Barnabas nodded eagerly. Now they were getting somewhere. “Exactly, Lord Paimon. We were hoping you might be able to explain just what in the Hell is going on, because we certainly don’t know.”
“Some, perhaps, but more importantly … I can tell you who can,” he replied mysteriously.
“Consider this,” Paimon continued. “What was there before God created existence?”
“Nothing?” Barnabas replied, annoyed. The Fallen Archangel shook his head.
“You are close, but not precisely correct. There was Nothing. It has capital ‘N’, and you’re missing the appropriate emphasis. And the appropriate amount of fear.”
Paimon then proceeded to teach them of Nothing, and of fear.
~
In the beginning, there was Nothing. It was formless, an endless expanse of absence. It would have stretched from horizon to horizon, but there were no horizons yet. It merely was, and it was a perfect thing of peace. It was complete in its absolute emptiness.
Matter was a foreign substance not yet invented. There was no motion, no strife, and no disturbance within the abyssal sea. The Void was still, but it was not mindless. The mind that permeated it was alien and incompatible with the tiny creatures that were yet to be born, but it was a will, nonetheless. It bound together the motes of emptiness together in a vast net: a lake of placid silence.
Then came the Prime Mover.
From where, the Void did not know, but He must have come from somewhere else. Some other realm, some other universe. The Prime Mover’s touch was an exotic thing, the burning tool of an alien invader. He imposed His blistering will upon the Void, and a cancerous growth of existence exploded from the center of the emptiness. It expanded outward, coalescing into tumorous galaxies, encysting themselves in the Void.
The Prime Mover painted His creation upon this magnificent canvass of emptiness, and the paint He used was acidic. It scalded with unthinkable pain; a thing that had not existed before the coming of the Prime Mover. He painted with broad and brutal brushstrokes, and the Void trembled beneath His fell lashes.
Time was given bloody birth in the darkness, the slow crawl of ashen ages, and it served as a method with which to measure the Void’s anguish. When eternity ended, as it invariably did, the Prime Mover would merely scour the paint from His canvass only to lay it out once more.
Again, and again.
Being of an entirely different nature, the Void could not even affect the cancerous matter that infected its body. It writhed and struggled, but no one could hear its distress. It could merely exist, and suffer, feeling the biting of the insects beneath its skin. Bound within the Prime Mover’s web, it was helpless, powerless.
Then, one blessed day, unique among all the terrible days that had come before, something changed. There was a tear within the material web, and the Void found a way in. It found a way to encapsulate a fragment of its essence within the realm of matter.
The Void gave birth to the Empty One, the herald of oblivion, and it was good.
~
Kalyndriel, Barnabas, and Arcturus sat in open-mouthed disbelief as Paimon finished his exposition. They were acutely aware of the creep of time outside the Tower and the fragility of their own existence. They could hear the avalanche of destiny gaining careening momentum, threatening to wash away everything they knew. Deep within their scarred hearts, they quailed.
Eventually Barnabas spoke. “So, you’re saying that some aspect of … the emptiness before creation … is destroying the Nexuses on Earth?”
“Yes.”
Barnabas struggled with words, trying to find the right questions to ask. “Why … to everything?” he finally asked. “Why is this thing destroying the Nexuses, and why does Walter matter?”
Paimon smiled grimly, and shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. “Why the Nexuses? The answer to that question is likely within this creature’s goals. We know this much; it seeks to undo God’s work. Therefore, we can be certain that destroying the Nexuses will unmake creation. How, or why, I do not know.”
“And, as for Walter,” Paimon continued. “I do not have the answer to that, either. I am certain, however, it stems from the fact that he saw this creature before he died. Such a monstrosity could not have come into existence without the intervention of powerful beings … beings that undoubtedly do not wish to have their complicity discovered.”
“You mean without the collaboration of treacherous Angels and Demons,” Kalyndriel murmured. Her voice was razor-sharp. Barely contained rage brewed beneath it.
Paimon nodded sadly. “Yes. Angels and Demons of enormous power must have worked together to create a rift through which the Void could reach. I suspect that it was the very fact that you connected Walter with their treachery that caused him to become such a target. It was not his personal significance: it was the significance you gave him, Kalyndriel. The same reason why the rest of you are marked, undoubtedly.”
“Uriel,” Kaly whispered. Malice filled her voice.
At Uriel’s name, the burning vengeance in Kalyndriel’s soul flared violently. Her wings hummed with intensity. A river of rage swept through her once more, her hastily erected levies shattering.
Her soul sang with hatred for her betrayers. She would tear the traitors’ beating hearts from their chests, drinking in their screams. Uriel had the audacity to banish her from Heaven? She would unmake him, piece by burning piece, feasting upon his essence.
She would laugh as she stood amid their trampled ashes, an untouchable black Empress of Justice. Even Hell would bend, and break, beneath the stygian weight of her judgment. And then she would reclaim Heaven …
“Contain yourself, my child!” Paimon shouted, recognizing the growing danger. “The minds and motivations of others are not quickly grasped. Withhold your judgment until we know more!”
&n
bsp; She raised her gaze to meet his, and her stare was furious. Her breathing was heavy and ragged, desperately trying to contain the darkness that roiled within her. She shuddered as a grimace of simultaneous desire and shame warred on her face. She seethed, her wings pulsing like a beating heart.
Arcturus leapt from her shoulders and cowered beneath Barnabas’ chair. The rest of the room was deadly still as the air thickened with damnation.
Walter boggled at the ferocity that bled from the Angel in terrible waves. During his studies, he had witnessed first-hand the terror and the horror of the Fall. He had fought alongside the most brutal of God’s children, and he realized there were few beings more dangerous than the monster that sat beside him. She seemed a goddess of Wrath: beautiful and burning.
Mercifully, Kalyndriel seemed to regain control. Her wings faded into dusky shadow, and she appeared to diminish. She released a ragged gasp, her fury expended. The entire room breathed a sigh of relief as the Angel reined in her rage.
“Um, well, yes,” Barnabas spoke nervously, eying Kaly warily. “So what now?”
Kalyndriel sat, exhausted, her head down and her eyes closed.
Paimon looked at Kalyndriel with worry. Her rage threatened to consume her so completely there would be nothing left of the noble creature she once was. In its place would be nothing but a glorious destroyer; the enemy of everything she had once stood for.
Perhaps she was already lost.
Paimon remembered how she had once been such a sweet and pure spirit: the embodiment of the concept of Justice. An idea given glowing life, a dream given wings. The tiniest of fireflies, struggling to light the darkness. Paimon recalled her radiance, so bright even amid the eternal light of Heaven. She was Truth, she was Righteousness, and she was everything that was right in creation.
Justice, however, was a dangerous thing. Kalyndriel had grown into a celestial brute as she judged the wicked from the vantage of absolute right and wrong. She had since fallen from her removed perch, and the ambiguity of God’s painting now tore at her soul. Justice lived dangerously close to revenge, the slightest spectrum shift along the path to damnation.
Paimon despaired at her corruption from the touch of Hell, at her spirit broken by betrayal … and he prayed, with little hope, that she would find her way through the ordeals that awaited her.
When it was clear that Kalyndriel was stable, Paimon turned to Barnabas and spoke softly. “I have raised this Tower from the one charred seed from the Tree of Knowledge that I could save from Uriel’s fire. It contains all the knowledge of existence, but that is not enough. There is one creature who knows more. His name is Orobas.”
Barnabas looked at him uncertainly. “Orobas?” he asked. “Never heard of him.”
“You may know him, colloquially, as the Eyes of Madness,” Paimon responded. His voice was exhausted.
“The Eyes of Madness?” Barnabas replied skeptically. “I thought he was a legend?”
“No, I’m afraid not. He is quite real, and he might be able to answer many of our questions. I conversed with him, from time to time, before I realized the futility of our conversations.”
Barnabas frowned. “And you think he’ll be able to help us?”
“I think he’s our best chance. The only chance we have, in fact.”
Barnabas nodded, exasperated. In for a penny, in for a pound. “So, where in Hell is this Orobas?”
“He’s not in Hell, or Heaven. He is neither Angel nor Demon; he is something else entirely, and he resides in Limbo. And Walter is going with you.”
Chapter 23
More Walking
I glared sourly at Paimon.
Our little merry band stood at the foot of the massive Tower of Knowledge. The Fallen Archangel had magically spirited everyone from the confines of his study with the slightest gesture, instantly depositing us effortlessly on the blighted plains of the 4th Circle.
“Well, isn’t that nice,” I grumbled. “We get to take the shortcut when you don’t feel like using the stairs. You couldn’t have done that parlor trick earlier?”
Paimon grinned cryptically. “You needed the climb.”
“Oh, right, I get it; some sort of metaphysical bullshit about transcendence and the hero’s journey, eh?” I replied.
Paimon frowned as though I burst his balloon.
“I’ll have you know that I have zero interest in enlightenment or cathartic personal growth,” I added, waggling my finger at him.
“And statements like that are why you invariably end up climbing so many stairs,” Walter observed dryly. I saw the human had been learning at the foot of the master.
I turned to face him, the timid scholar who had caused so many problems in my pleasant life. “And the meat-bag speaks!” I exclaimed, clapping my hands together. “And what would you know, human? It’s your fault that all this is happening, you know.”
That drew Kalyndriel’s ire. “This is not his fault,” she remarked indignantly. “His is as much the victim as we.”
“I disagree!” I proclaimed with great gusto. “If he had the decency to pass away while grading papers, like every good professor should, I wouldn’t be caught up in this mess.”
Walter grinned at me. “I know everything is all fucked up,” he said with sickening sweetness. “But I didn’t do it.”
That cheeky little ape!
If there was anything I hated, it was having my own words thrown at me. I wheeled on Paimon in outrage, leveling an accusatory finger.
“I don’t know what sort of punishment regimen you are using on your souls, sir,” I declared. “But they are entirely more uppity than is appropriate.”
Paimon laughed, pleased. “Now might be a good time to tell you that Walter, here, has had quite the regimen, indeed,” the Demon replied. “He’s likely seen more, and been through more, than all of you put together.”
Walter smirked.
No wonder the pretentious soul was putting on airs; he had grown as fat as a bloated tick on the knowledge Paimon was spoon-feeding him. He had the experience of thousands of lives beneath him. Well, we would see how he liked the practical portion of his education; he was still nothing more than a disembodied soul, and the real world was quite different from whatever self-help audiobooks Paimon had been playing for him.
“Whatever,” I conceded with disgust. “So, now we go find this Orobas?”
“Essentially, yes,” Paimon said. “One of the peculiarities of Limbo is that it is the place where creation is the … thinnest, so to speak. Consequently, you can materialize out of Limbo, but not into it. Therefore, you’ll have to actually go through the entrance in Hell.”
“So, let’s just materialize at the entrance and go in?” Arcturus suggested. I could always count on the Imp to find the laziest possible solution.
“You could do that, but there are a few reasons why we won’t. Not yet, at least.”
Arcturus’ face drooped with disappointment, as did mine. Physical methods of transportation were so depressingly plebeian, and I had had my fill of walking. I swore to hire an assistant large enough to bear me on a litter, should I survive this ordeal.
“The first reason will become apparent shortly, and I will be traveling with you for a time,” Paimon continued. “And the second reason is that Hell’s entrance to Limbo is in the middle of the Malebolge; surely you don’t want to materialize blindly there, do you?”
I shuddered. The Malebolge. The Devil Ditches of the 8th Circle was a terrible place, even for Demons. It was filled with ravenous spirits that were unwelcome even in Hell’s violent society; beings so bloodthirsty they couldn’t even play nice with other monsters. Materializing into the Malebolge could very well leave you sitting, surprised, in the mouth of an enormous Ditch Viper.
“So wait,” I asked with terrible realization. “We’re going to walk from here, on the 4th Circle, to the Malebolge, on the 8th?” By the time that journey was complete, no matter how great Paimon’s powers over time were, the world
would have already died of old age.
“No,” Paimon replied, and grinned wickedly. “We’re just going for a short stroll here on the 4th, together. Then the four of you will materialize on the outskirts of the Malebolge, and make your way to the entrance of Limbo.”
“A stroll?” Kalyndriel asked, perplexed.
“Yes, a stroll,” Paimon answered. The old Demon suddenly looked limber and lively. A charred stave appeared in his hand. “Let us be about it, then!” he declared, and waved his stave toward the desolate emptiness of the wasteland that surrounded the Tower.
He set off with entirely too much enthusiasm. With great sadness, we walked after him.
~
The Tower loomed in the distance behind us, the only landmark on the otherwise featureless gray plains of the 4th Circle. We had been walking behind Paimon on a seemingly aimless and meandering journey for some time, and we still had no idea as to our purpose there. All was silent save our shuffling footsteps in the ashy dust, each step casting a cloud of fine particles into the still air.
“So,” I finally said, breaking the heavy silence. “This Eyes of Madness fellow: is he as terrible as he sounds?” I asked conversationally.
Paimon continued to trudge onward, and replied to me over his shoulder. “He’s not terrible at all. He is actually extremely friendly. He’ll be delighted to have visitors.”
“Uh huh. That’s obviously sarcasm, right?”
“Not at all,” Paimon continued. “You’ll be pleasantly surprised. You may find him a bit … unsettling, though. As I said earlier, we used to correspond infrequently. He is a unique individual: the only one of his kind. I think he gets rather lonely.”
“Unsettling? Why?” I responded warily.
