by Drew Foote
Raphael’s jaw clenched angrily. “You speak of treachery, brother.”
“Treachery,” Uriel laughed softly, and his laughter was the coughing growl of the furnace. It was a sound with no mirth, no amusement. It was the sibilant hiss of hungry flame. It was the bleakest sound Raphael had ever heard.
“I am no traitor, you fool. As always, I burn true … truer than you shall ever know.”
Uriel’s soul erupted higher, caressing the surfaces of the stone monoliths and leaving them blackened. “I speak of justice, and of mercy. For us, and for the worms that you so adore. Is that not just?”
“Uriel,” Raphael whispered with disbelief. “What have you done?”
Raphael felt his heart shatter. He knew, without a doubt, that Uriel had betrayed them. The Fire of God was black, and Raphael had been unable to see it. He had failed them all.
Uriel turned from him, his corona bowed in regret. “I have done what is right, brother. I have done what you were not strong enough to do, though I forgive you your weakness. Goodbye, old friend.”
With that, the Fire of God walked into the portal to Limbo and disappeared from Earth.
Raphael stared in disbelief. He was about to follow in pursuit when he heard a sound behind him. He turned swiftly, his sword drawn and his shield raised. His wings erupted in a sunrise of radiance.
A human stood behind Raphael, gazing at him with bottomless hatred. Madness and tears filled the man’s eyes. Raphael realized, with surprise, the human could see him, and Raphael could not sense his presence.
Awful realization swept over the noble Archangel, and he charged toward the monster with shining sword upraised.
For an instant, Raphael locked eyes with the creature. Its terrible gaze was a glimpse into unbearable pain, a window into the blackest despair. Never before had Raphael glimpsed such unending misery, such a profound victim.
It was the most terrible sight Raphael ever witnessed.
The Archangel’s pure heart went out to the poor wretch. He felt as though his soul could not contain such misery, that it would burst from his bounteous empathy. The Archangel stopped in his tracks, staring at the creature with pity. How could such a tragedy exist?
It could not be!
The Empty One saw Raphael’s love … and it stared back at him with disgust. It did not need, nor want, his pity. Pity was a worthless thing, nothing more than a table scrap thrown to starving dogs. It did not make the world right. Raphael could keep his damned pity, and he could take it with him into the eternal night.
The Empty One opened its heart and called to Raphael. The nightmarish visage blossomed with tendrils of negative energy, a weeping flower of the Void. It reached out to the glowing Archangel, seizing his beautiful soul, and dragged Raphael toward the maw of oblivion.
Raphael roared a battle cry as he felt himself ripped apart. He thrust his sword into the ground and strained, fighting against the irresistible pull of the abyss. Shining fragments of his soul ripped loose in the black wind of the Empty One’s gaze. He tried desperately to hold on.
The Archangel thought of all the love that was in the world, the joy and bliss that came from the bonds formed between flickering, transient beings. He fought to protect them against the darkness, to allow them the chance to shine with their own inner strength. They did not always shine, but when they did, it was a thing of such infinite beauty it humbled Heaven. He tried to hold on for humanity, that most divisive of creations, so that they might know themselves, in time.
It was not enough. Nothing was ever enough. The Void was undeniable. Raphael’s radiant soul ripped from his Angelic body, spiraling down into an impossibly cold embrace. He sought to continue shining, but the darkness snuffed his light.
There was no light in the abyss.
Raphael’s empty body stood swaying, now filled with the alien will of the Void. Other joined it. Demons and Angels began to materialize, each as hollow as Raphael. They stood silently in the midst of Stonehenge’s forgotten ruins. They would seal the way. The time was at hand.
Without a backward glance, the Empty One turned and entered Limbo.
So it was that Love died.
~
In the burning darkness of the Pit, two Demons stood before Apollyon. One was nominally his servant, and the other shared his goals. The Destroyer gazed down at them from his towering vantage, his cyclopean face calm and unreadable. The Edge that Ends was clutched in his monstrous grip. Shadows cavorted along its perfect edge.
The first Demon was Makariel, the Bloody Wind: the Standard-Bearer of War and the vicious avatar of carnage. His bestial heads were upright and proud, fangs glistening in the murk of the Pit. Joyful anticipation filled his heart.
This was the hour of the predator, the moment for which the hunter lived. Makariel heard the blood of his prey hammering in his ears, the beat of a heart marked for death. He would open their veins and spill his gory tribute onto the ground … onto the dirt of the battlefield, the most sacred of altars.
The second Demon was Paimon the Cruel, known once, long ago, as Archangel Raziel. Though Leviathan had destroyed the Tower of Knowledge, the blessed sanctuary of learning, he was unable to destroy Paimon. Paimon swore Leviathan would suffer for that mistake.
Apollyon looked down upon Paimon, and leaned slightly forward. He regarded the gentle master of knowledge with an inscrutable gaze. The chains covering the Destroyer clattered against each other, ringing softly in the cavernous depths of the Pit.
“And your … friends,” the Destroyer rumbled. “You believe them up to their task?”
Paimon nodded. “I do.”
“So be it, then. We will deal with Samael and his allies.”
Apollyon looked down at the eyes hanging from his neck. Colors swirled within their radiant depths. Paimon thought he could see hints of shapes dancing within them, visions of tragic color.
Paimon turned to the Bloody Wind, troubled.
“You know what you must do, Makariel?” he asked.
Paimon was deeply concerned with entrusting such a delicate duty to a beast as unpredictable as Makariel, but he had no choice. In fact, it was unlikely there was another being in existence that could succeed at such a hopeless task. It would have been suicide for any other. They trod upon the thin edge of the garrote.
Makariel’s heads smiled in unison, slaver dripping from his mouths. “I know my business, grandfather,” the heads spoke as one in a throaty growl. He smiled even wider, his fangs fully revealed. “I’m looking forward to it. You can trust me.”
The Bloody Wind winked slyly at Paimon, and the elderly Demon’s heart sank even further.
“Very well. It is decided,” Apollyon said. “Now go, Makariel. Bleed her.”
The jackal cackled uproariously, howling sounds of savage laughter. His infernal blood coursed with warmth and excitement, his limbs filled with vigor that no one could match. His four hands closed around the hilts of his viciously scythed swords, ripping them from their scabbards with the ring of a guillotine. He bowed and disappeared, bound for Earth.
Apollyon looked down at Paimon. “And you, old one. Do you march with War?”
“I do. I have unfinished business.”
“As do we all. Your strength is welcome. Let it be done!” the Destroyer roared.
Apollyon raised Terminus into the air of the Pit. It hung straight, the edge upon which existence split. The blade had claimed the life of the world an infinite number of times, and it always hungered for more. With a monstrous bellow, the Destroyer slammed it into the crust of Hell. The impact echoed thunderously throughout the entirety of creation.
All heard the call to arms. It was the sound of a nightmare being born, the sound of extermination.
The Directorate of War marched.
~
Samael, the Angel of Death, descended gently from Heaven like a windblown mote of dandelion. His radiant wings fanned from his back as he drifted through the clouds above an ancient city that had seen
countless battles through the ages. It would soon see another.
His bare feet touched softly down upon the dirt and coarse rubble at the summit of Tel Megiddo. Tel Megiddo was not a true hill; rather, it was the built-up accumulation of countless ancient cities constructed on the ruins of the previous city. It was a burial cairn of civilization itself, a trove of lives accreted in layers of sand. Flat, open plains surrounded it, and a small city was nearby.
They would be the first to die, but not the last.
Prophecy identified Tel Megiddo as the site of Armageddon, but there was no particular importance to that place. Samael could have chosen any site for his awful business, but there was no reason not to choose Megiddo. Perhaps the fulfillment of that particular bit of prophecy could be an interesting footnote at the end of the tragic affair. It had an appealing sense of appropriateness.
It did not matter. In the end, nothing did.
Samael gazed from the hill with his empty eyes. He supposed he was the only Angel on Earth now, the others having returned to Heaven’s embrace. He knew, however, that soon the nearby plains would be flooded with the blood of Angels and Demons. Hell would come for him soon, and the game would play out as fate dictated.
Samael, the Severity of God, thought wistfully of the bones that lined the path he chose to walk. Mighty Kalyndriel, noble Raphael, and soon, the entire world. His heart ached at the thought of his treachery and the depths of his betrayal. He had turned his back on everyone, and everything, that he had loved.
Did that not, however, demonstrate the depths of his love?
Samael did what he must. Creation was tainted and diseased. Should not any tapestry that contained such flaws be consigned to the flames? Was not the pit in his heart evidence enough that the Void’s cause was just?
Such grasping justification did not ease the pain in his soul, though. The only thing that could erase such wickedness was the perfect embrace of oblivion, the death of the self, for all eternity. Samael was bound to the cemetery path on which he walked, and he could but hope his destination would be one of relief. The consequences of failure were unthinkable.
It ended now.
The shining Angel of Death stretched out his arms as though they held the entirety of the world. Six magnificent wings rose high behind him, the burning glow of the rising sun casting them in colors of red and orange. He leaned his head back, tears running from the ruins of his eyes, and he took a deep breath. The breath was filled with the pure, perfect essence of Death.
Samael began to sing.
He sang of loss and futility, the pain of immortality infusing every note with dread resonance. He sang of a creator that cared nothing for His children, allowing them to wallow in damnation. He sang of brothers who must forever slay each other over nothing more than imaginary ideals, an endless dance of bloodshed. He sang of devouring entropy that swept away all beauty before its relentless advance. He sang of the suffocating weight of eternity.
Samael poured every ounce of venom in his broken heart into the tragic song. It rose, lilting and dancing, into the air. The wind heard the words, and carried them to the nearby town of Megiddo.
It descended on the innocent people of the town like a poisonous fog. Upon hearing its melody they lay down, as one, where they stood. They curled up, closed their eyes, and slept. They dreamt of darkness and ravenous emptiness. Their hearts felt the pain of the Angel of Death, and such delicate instruments could not contain such a monstrous burden.
Their breathing became ragged and uneven, gasping for air amidst nightmares of suffocation. The humans choked on the bitter taste of divine sorrow, the rancid flavor of Samael’s heart. Their breathing soon stopped, their mortal struggle surrendered.
Soon, all was ashes and fading memory. The town of Megiddo died.
Distance did not dull the power of Samael’s song. It grew and spread, cascading across the neighboring lands at the speed of sound. It delivered death to the children of man, swift and irrefutable. Entire cities died in restless slumber, dreaming of the Void. The killing net of his awful hymn widened.
It was only a matter of time before it enveloped the entirety of the globe. More and more souls poured into Limbo. The pressure built.
So it was the world began to die.
Chapter 33 - Interlude
Unraveling
Barnabas, Kalyndriel, Walter, and Arcturus
In the heart of a shadowy park in the dying city of New Orleans, four weary travelers stood in silence. They were the champions of their realms, the last line of defense against the coming cataclysm. A doomed universe held its breath in anticipation of their actions. They were lost and afraid.
The Angel feared her own nature, the terrible wrath that slept fitfully within her soul. The Demon feared the monstrous movements of beings greater than he, the ease with which they dominated. The Human feared failure, the whispering laugh of inadequacy. The Imp had accepted his fate, and he merely wanted to be done with it.
They sought to gird themselves against the building storm, the coming onslaught of thunder and darkness. They donned armor of hope to shield delicate skin from acidic rain, but their armor fit loosely, the joints open and exposed to unkind elements. The rain would burn them, the lightning would pierce them, and the darkness would swallow them whole.
They had no idea what to do.
~
Archangel Gabriele
The Archangel of Mercy’s face was cool and collected as she inspected the ranks of Heaven’s army. The warrior Angels of the 5th Choir stood arrayed in shining regiments as far as the eye could see, and they were now under her command. They would serve her will, and die by her order. That was as it should be.
The greatest of Heavenly Hosts prepared to ride atop the thunderheads of the coming storm. Angelic Judges blessed their gigantic gavels: massive hammers that crushed sinners. Heavenly Champions, divine dreadnoughts, carved lines of glowing scripture into their armor. Row upon row of colossal Word-Bearers lined up in monolithic formation. By her command, they would protect Samael from the forces of Hell. They would protect him while he exterminated humanity.
She spread wings that sang with cold, blue flame. Unlike her brother’s, her fire was a thing of frostbite. It, like her mercy, was crystalline and perfectly logical. There was but one solution. Hers was the only way.
She raised a gauntleted hand. A massive, gilded war-hammer appeared within her grip, a weapon nearly as large as herself: Malleus Dei, the Hammer of God. Today, she would punish the wicked. Today, she would deliver the greatest mercy of all.
The skies broke apart, and the Heavenly Host fell upon the plains of Megiddo in an Angelic downpour of fury.
~
Apollyon and Paimon
The Destroyer gazed down upon the mustered forces of Hell, an army mighty enough to swallow the world. They stood in regimented ranks, an overwhelming tide of armored devils. They howled for mayhem, the furious nature of their spirits clamoring in the gestating thunderstorm. Doombringers stomped the ground and stretched mammoth muscles. Ravagers branded their black skin with symbols of damnation. Demons of all shapes and sizes screamed in a cacophony of blood thirst. The collective might of Hell prepared to devour Earth.
The Destroyer would not permit anyone else to harvest the world; that honor was his. He annihilated so that the world might be reborn, and that was his solemn trust. He was the incinerating wildfire that claimed the forest so that new growth might rise amid the ashes. He was the cleansing dissolution of the old to make room for the new.
He was Necessary Evil.
The gentle Serpent’s heart ached. He was not a creature of war and destruction; he was a lover of peace. His words longed to be ones of enlightenment but he knew that, today, the words he would speak would maim. They would shred reality.
The scholarly Serpent would fight, because he must. There was no other recourse available to him, no other way that he could avert the Void’s machinations. His heart went out to his ragged and weary friend
s, those outcasts who bore the weight of creation on their shoulders.
He prayed to a God that had forgotten him.
The Destroyer raised Terminus into the air and roared, a sound to strike fear into the heavens. The ground of the plains of Megiddo heaved and cracked, birthing an infernal horde. Hell’s majestic army, the Fist of the Inferno, erupted from the darkness like a swarm of locusts.
~
Orobas
In a glowing cathedral of web, deep within the swirling depths of Limbo, the Spider huddled in fear. He held massive forelegs over his head, trying to muffle the screaming of the souls that filled Limbo. The weight of the lost spirits pressed down upon his delicate psyche, much as they pressed upon the very fabric of existence. The edges of God’s creation warped.
The Spider thought of his one friend, and his heart lifted. The Spider hoped the tiny human would meet a peaceful end, and he was terribly sad his friend would not be able to keep his promise to visit once more. At least now, though, the Spider could greet oblivion with the knowledge that he had met at least one person who had cared. A feeble branch, a tenuous connection between two dancing motes in the abyss.
Was that not enough, when time died?
~
Makariel
The Champion of War slid through the fabric of reality, bound for a meeting with terrible destiny. His heart sang with the promise of battle, an epic struggle with a worthy foe. Blood would spill in the hunter’s sacrament.
The foolish Serpent did not truly grasp what he had asked of the Champion. One did not merely ask for favors, or restraint, from a cyclone. You received what the storm delivered, and even the hunter did not know what terrible gifts he would bestow upon the waiting Angel.
He emerged into the trembling darkness of Earth like a nightmare given shape, a fearsome thing of humanity’s nightmares. It would be a day of disastrous significance. He did not care who won in the coming struggle; such feeble thoughts had no place in the mind of a predator.
