by Drew Foote
She was not a Fallen Angel. Babylonia had never heard the chorus of the Choirs or seen the eternal light in which they danced. She was a thing of Hell, and of Earth; a Demon borne of humanity, perhaps the most ancient and vicious of all. Despite her humble origins, however, none in Hell could deny her power.
Babylonia the Great was the mother of nations, and of cities. Her wicked spark ignited millennia ago when humans slowly gave up their nomadic existence, congregating in rural settlements and villages. Humanity abandoned its freedom and equilibrium with the land for the sake of the comforts that came with settled life. Cities rose and multiplied, spreading like blisters across the Earth’s surface.
Babylonia was at the center of every weeping sore.
She was the black heart of the hungry city, feeding off the blood of its inhabitants, draining their life’s energy. She was the irresistible siren’s call that beckoned to humans, promising them success in exchange for their last breath. The cold, towering steel of her edifices drew them like moths to the flame.
Babylonia embraced them all. She was the evil that transpired when humanity gathered: the exponential multiplication of sin. She was the weight of humanity’s collective damnation.
Once, long ago, a city had even borne her name. The Akkadians had known her truly in those days, and they recognized her power. The stairs of their ziggurats ran red with the blood of those sacrificed in Babylonia’s name, and she grew brave and intoxicated with their sacrifices and her own swelling power.
The Mother of Harlots had vowed to claim Heaven for her own, to savage its crenellations and devour its inhabitants. She urged the Akkadians to build a massive tower, rising high into the sky, so that she might storm Heaven’s ramparts. She was the true goddess of humanity, and she would lead them in reshaping the cosmos in her image.
Archangel Michael, however, had not approved of her ambition. The skies screamed and the ground trembled when Michael descended from Heaven to tear apart the foundation of the glorious Tower of Babel, ending her bid for godhood. He scattered its stones and cursed humanity with numerous tongues, forever hampering her might.
Babylonia’s memory was long, and her pride terrible. The sting of that humiliation remained with her, and her black heart dreamed of seeing such disrespect reciprocated. Someday, she would feast on Michael’s flesh.
Her might and majesty waxed incredibly strong with the explosion in humanity’s growth. Their cities grew larger and larger, bloated ticks gorging themselves on the blood of the Earth, and so grew the Mother of Harlots’ power. Every skyscraper was a temple to Babylonia, every festering catacomb a tribute to her glory. Even the Board of Directors feared her, the treacherous empress in their midst.
She would subjugate them, as well.
This was her age, her time. The moment was right. The Earth, so filled with parasitic cities, was her birthright. She would claim it, even if it drowned beneath the blood of her enemies.
Babylonia’s mood was dark as she walked the beach of Gehenna, her perfect mind sifting through countless unknowns. Powers beyond her ken played their own games. The razor’s edge beckoned. She burned with the fire of challenge, a bestial snarl rising in her throat.
This moment belonged to her, humanity belonged to her, and she’d be twice-damned if she was going to let anyone or anything get in her way.
They had no idea who they were fucking with.
She stopped, and turned to face the center of Gehenna. The surface bubbled and gasped with red-hot intensity. It burned hotter than the core of the Earth, the heart of the Sun, and even the Heavenly Forge. Nothing could survive the touch of the Lake of Fire.
Well, nearly nothing.
Babylonia walked deliberately into the lava. Its burning kiss felt pleasantly warm around her ankles, a lover’s embrace. Her unbound hair danced atop a face too perfect, and too wicked, for words. She sighed with pleasure and waded ever deeper into the lake’s grasp.
She whispered and cooed soft nothings to the lake’s turbulent surface. She spoke not to the lake, but to the thing sleeping deep within. She moved further from the shore, her head disappearing beneath the molten liquid. Her beautiful copper skin reveled at its touch.
Babylonia swam now, beneath the surface, her sleek shape powering swiftly into the depths of Gehenna. She sank down, and down, into its warmth. Such heat, such power, such evil. The cries of the trembling Earth sang her name. She felt as though she were coming home, reuniting with the rest of her soul.
The infernal triumvirate together, once more.
Gehenna was humanity.
Babylonia was humanity.
The Beast was humanity.
The black soul of mankind, a shape immeasurable and inconceivable, rose from the depths of the lake.
The Beast awakened.
~
Apollyon the Destroyer sat in brooding silence in the abyssal heart of the Pit. His eyes were closed, his breath was smooth and even, and the dark waters of his mind flowed tranquilly. He heard the bedrock of Hell scream as something forgotten stirred with ravenous life.
Time was dying, and Apollyon’s hand was forced.
He felt the heartbeat of the world quicken in his wings, their colossal spans claiming the starless sky of Hell. Apollyon was the foremost, the mightiest, the Reaper of the World. The chains circling him shrieked with metallic strain as they sought to contain his blasphemous might. Their time, too, was nearly at an end.
No one else had bound Apollyon; he had chained himself in the ancient days. He understood both the danger of wanton destruction and the importance of his purpose. The scythe was a discerning tool, one of surety and deliberation. There was a time to sow, and a time to reap. The harvest was a sacred duty.
In eons past, when he was a prince in Heaven, he and Samael ensured the natural world continued its cycle of ash and rebirth. The endless dance of creation, their birthright. Apollyon had not let his damnation affect the performance of his duties. He still fulfilled his holy oath.
The Destroyer believed in his work.
Apollyon had not followed Lucifer into rebellion for any of the petty reasons of other Demons. His reasoning was much simpler; he must serve his purpose. He was the incarnation of obliteration, the avatar of the harvest. Destruction could not be ruled nor restrained; it could not be bound by even the Creator’s rules. To truly do God’s work, Apollyon’s Angelic brethren could not be spared his touch.
God created the Destroyer in the shape that He desired, constructed a flawless engine of annihilation, and could He be surprised when the child snapped his leash? There was no hatred in Apollyon’s rebellion. Was not Apollyon, truly, His most perfect creation: utterly at peace with the nature with which God had blessed him?
The most loyal of sons.
The desolation the Destroyer wrought was not angry or joyous; it was a pure thing, devoid emotion. It was the absolute truth of extermination, the impersonal whisper of the falling guillotine, and he delivered it with magnanimity and grace. There was no bile in Apollyon’s heart, not even toward Samael.
Apollyon was not surprised when his twin did not follow him into rebellion, and even raised arms against his him; Samael had always been weak. Stained by longing and compassion. The Destroyer understood his brother, and if a force of nature could be said to feel pity, he would certainly have pitied Samael.
When Apollyon gouged out Samael’s eyes, he did not do it for spite; he did it to remain close to his brother and Heaven, in the only way he could. He took them with him to Hell as a cherished keepsake, their glow the only point of light on the Destroyer’s nightmarish form.
The eyes whispered to him, his only confidantes in the heart of darkness.
The Destroyer felt the world above groan and heave in its death throes. The current situation was an anomaly, but he would make do. His heart was calm and free of emotion, a thing of primeval clarity of purpose. The well of his soul was cloudless.
As always, the Director of War knew peace.
He reached down and clasped massive hands around the hilt of an enormous, two-handed blade. Its black length was a smooth line that could cleave the world in two, an unstoppable force of obliteration. The brink of its edge actively devoured the light. He ripped it from the foundation of the Pit, raising it into the waiting shadows.
The Angels knew of this sword, and spoke of it only in frightened whispers; Terminus, the Edge that Ends. The Sword of Revelation.
~
Leviathan, the Devouring Worm, was restless in his slumber. The situation was rapidly escalating beyond his control. He felt Earth, Heaven and Hell tremble in anticipation, the tremors vibrating against his gargantuan bulk deep within the core of Hell. Terrible forces were in motion throughout all the planes of existence.
Leviathan was alone, now, in his mind. Only a few short days ago his massive awareness had encompassed scores of Demons that served him within the Directorate of Greed, but no more. They were all gone, claimed by the being that was severing the Nexuses, the thing from beyond existence. Leviathan had positioned his servants at the remaining Nexuses, and the creature had taken their essence as easily as a child plucking daisies.
The Worm was no stranger to solitude, however, and he greeted it as a long-lost friend. He had existed long enough to know that endings were always a solitary affair; one could surround oneself with the mindless chatter of acquaintances and family but, in the end, the last road was traveled alone. Leviathan would walk it with dignity.
In Heaven he had been one of the Cherubim responsible for plenty and good fortune. He eventually realized, however, that it was never enough to sit back and wait for good fortune to come to you; you had to take it, and seize it for yourself in an iron grasp. You had to devour it and grow strong.
He would be that devourer.
His hunger unending, Leviathan joined the Morning Star’s rebellion. He hoped that, by engulfing Heaven itself, he would finally know satisfaction and respite. It was not to be, however, and the rebellion was brutally crushed, the traitors punished for all eternity.
Leviathan, swollen into a blasphemous, sinuous monstrosity, was cast down into Hell by the combined might of the entire 5th Choir. His titanic fall cracked apart the realms and left the burning lake of Gehenna as an eternal testament to the futility of opposing God. That futility had always been an undeniable fact, a law of the universe.
Until now.
Leviathan had repented of his transgression, but it mattered not. Of what use was the apology of an insignificant worm to God? God did not hear him, just as God did not hear anyone. Their words were meaningless dust in the breath of the Creator’s divine wind.
The Worm often wondered what humans would think if they realized their supposed demigods, Angels and Demons, knew just as little about the Creator as they did; He was an enigma that had no solution, as foreign to Heaven as to humanity. Would they laugh, or would they cry?
Leviathan’s hunger had not dulled over the ages; it had only grown sharper and more ravenous. He longed to consume everything external, making it a part of his unholy essence. He had grown ever more monstrous and terrible, an abomination of such colossal scope that it was incomprehensible. The hunger would never cease. His torment was eternal.
He knew despair, but he would never allow himself to know surrender.
There was much to be done before the moment of truth. His carefully laid plans, as they so often did, had gone terribly awry. Things could still be salvaged, however, and Leviathan would not go quietly into the night. He may walk his path alone, but he was no meek lamb.
He was the Devouring Worm, the Monster of the Deeps, and he would know one last meal.
The length of his bulk, miles and miles of segmented carapace, twisted in the strata of Hell’s crust. He swam, writhing like an enormous snake, through the black rock that was now his home. He effortlessly tore a breach in the fabric of Hell with the power of his furious will, and he forced his way through.
The Worm hunted.
~
Beelzebub, the Prince of Flies, turned to speak to Eligor … only to remember that he was no longer there. The treacherous Serpent had annihilated his loyal servant of thousands upon thousands of years. Who could have known that the reclusive old hermit, Paimon, had been hiding such vast power? The power of an Archangel.
Beelzebub seethed with a furious black rage. Noble Eligor. It was just one more injustice heaped upon the countless that had come before. The stalwart steward had followed Beelzebub from the gates of Heaven itself, unhesitatingly casting his lot with his rebellious master.
Even though they were tossed from Heaven with the ignominy of carpetbaggers, Eligor had never, not once, offered a recriminating glare to his liege.
The Prince of Flies’ face twisted in anger. It was but another tragedy that he would lay at the feet of God, one more body to add to that burial cairn. The list of His crimes was as unending as existence itself, and Beelzebub would see himself be the judge, jury, and executioner of this fated carnival. He would do his part to see it all destroyed.
He hated Him.
Beelzebub’s hatred was as old and twisted as a gnarled oak, arching its black branches menacingly over an abandoned graveyard. He despised God, lashing out from his damned heart at everything within reach. He hated His silent judgment, he hated His merciless destruction and, most of all, Beelzebub hated the carousel of damnation He inflicted upon his children. It was as sadistic a torment as any Demon could have devised.
Beelzebub would see it all end, and he would welcome the coming oblivion with open arms and a glad heart. Better the embrace of the Void than endless tragedy. The Prince just hoped that, whatever blasphemous emptiness was born, it would devour God as well. He prayed that the Void would end all their misery.
He was not alone in his desire. He had found accomplices among the Angels, surprising allies who understood the darkness in his heart. Together, they tore at creation with every ounce of their ancient despair. Their efforts paid off as they managed to tear a tiny breach in the skein of existence.
The emptiness spoke to them, then, and they knew what they must do. Drawing from their Angelic and Demonic essences, the Void created its own agent, and it was beautiful. Beelzebub could not look upon it, but he could hear its cold beauty screeching in his heart. He could feel its wondrous promise.
It would release them all.
Now, however, everything was in jeopardy. Agents from both Heaven and Hell somehow united, and they wormed their insidious way toward the black truth. They could do little, thankfully, as they were all beings of spirit that would wash away before the glory of the Empty One. Nothing could stand before its gaze, and the universe was doomed.
Even though he could find no logical way that the processes in motion could be halted, the Prince was still troubled. His grotesque skin itched and tormented him as the insects within him writhed. He had come too far, his cause was too just, to allow meddling peasants to upset his diabolical gambit.
There was little time left, but Beelzebub would personally ensure the interlopers perished for their shortsightedness. It was for their own good, really. It would save them the inescapable realization they would reach, in time.
The Prince of Flies’ body threatened to split, releasing the ceaseless hatred contained within.
It was enough hatred to drown the entirety of existence.
Chapter 28
The Oracle
Kalyndriel, Barnabas, Arcturus and Walter rushed through the double doors. Once through, they desperately pushed them closed, silencing the overwhelming din of the lost souls outside. They felt a sense of relief, which quickly turned into surprise as they examined their surroundings.
They stood inside a circular room as large as a coliseum. The distant walls curved and arched toward the center, forming an enormous dome that soared so high the ceiling was lost in shadow. The ground beneath their feet did not appear to be ground at all; it was a lattice of strands that pulsed with rainbow luminescence. The stra
nds twisted and converged, running parallel and meeting in the center of the room.
It was beautiful and eerie, a web of dancing color and light. The silence seemed oppressive after the cacophony of the lost souls. It was the atmosphere of the holiest of cathedrals, a realm blessed and sacrosanct. Even Kalyndriel felt a sense of awe.
What was this place?
They slowly walked toward the center of the room, each marveling at the magnitude of the chamber and the beauty of the web beneath. There were no ornamentation or furnishings, just distant, nondescript walls and radiant floor. They felt the power in the air, the touch of the divine. This was a pressure point of existence: the confluence of the material world.
Kaly halted, alarmed, and peered up into the impenetrable gloom of the ceiling.
Something hideous stirred.
A massive shape unfolded in the murky darkness high above. It seemed to twirl and open like an orchid, far larger than anything they had ever seen. It plummeted toward them without a sound, its gargantuan form falling swiftly. Twisted legs spread like a grasping hand.
The chitinous nightmare landed in the center of the room with perfect silence. The party took a step backward as they prepared to defend themselves. A multitude of immense, alien eyes regarded them curiously.
It was a spider, but one of such scale it defied belief. It was the size of a city block, a horrifying avatar of insectile form, and it moved rapidly toward them without a sound. Eyes of all shapes and sizes covered its enormous, gray body: tiny eyes, huge eyes, human eyes and animal eyes. They winked in a maddening susurrus of motion.
The spider’s massive mandibles, each larger than a metro bus, worked themselves hungrily. Its two foremost eyes, gigantic glowing orbs above its chittering maw, swirled with terrifying intelligence.
