by Drew Foote
He lived for the battle, he lived for the kill.
The only truth in life was the wheezing gasp as the soul left the body. That was beauty, perfection. That was God’s work.
~
Archangel Uriel
The Archangel of Judgment watched the Empty One disappear into the mists of Limbo, the small, human form fading into the gray murk. The burning Angel closed his radiant eyes and bowed his head.
So much betrayal, so much death, and for what? For a desperate bid for release, for an agonizing dream of peace? The promise of oblivion whispered to him like the sweetest song, a siren’s call of dissolution. He had not been able to resist it, and he had delivered the world to oblivion’s doorstep.
He did not regret his actions; he regretted the existence of a world that forced them upon him. He burned with rage at the entropic imperfection of the cosmos, the knowledge that every light must die, only to be coaxed once more into reluctant life. The weight of time was unbearable. The celestial furnace of his heart may have burned black, but it was no less fierce.
He stood like a weary lighthouse in the fog, and waited for what must come.
~
Leviathan
The body of the Worm slumbered beneath an ancient city, but his mind was painfully aware. It had been ages since he had last felt the caress of the Earth’s soil against his blackened skin, and its touch was warm and welcoming. He felt the tiny lives in the city above him extinguish like candles in the wind, snuffed out by the terrible hymn that washed over them.
Samael sang, and now Jerusalem was a city of the dead.
The Worm’s insatiable hunger burned in the depths of his cavernous soul. The hunger never ceased, never dissipated. It was always there; churning with waves of need. No matter how much the Worm devoured, it was never enough; it would never be enough, and that was why existence must end.
If God would not grant mercy to the Worm, the Worm would take it from His corpse.
~
Samael
The Angel of Death’s crystalline voice soared in a hymn such as the world had never heard. The deadly melody washed over humanity, spreading ever further, harvesting souls by the millions. Extinction came for the children of Adam riding atop Angelic notes. He sang his song for them, so that they might be die and be free from death, forever.
The Angel saw the armies of Heaven and Hell mustering in the plains surrounding Tel Megiddo, but that did not deter him. He could but sing, and pray that the Heavenly Host held firm and kept his brother at bay. The Destroyer would seek to silence his song; he would broach no interference in God’s eternal cycle.
The Angel of Death did not think Gabriele would be able to protect him. Apollyon would come, and he was unstoppable. Like all the feeble efforts of Angels, Demons and Humanity, this was bound for failure.
He continued to sing, and the world continued to die. He could but try.
~
Beelzebub
The Prince of Flies materialized on Earth with a sickening noise, a tearing of reality. His monstrous, bloated form reflected the light of the morning sun in a blasphemous spectacle of damnation. He was the essence of wicked corruption.
He lurked in the midst of the standing stones of Stonehenge, watching over the portal to Limbo. A small army of Angels and Demons joined him, the pitiable spirits that had been devoured by the Void. They stood watch with empty eyes, motionless and slack-jawed, so that none might enter Limbo to disturb their master. Their silent presence was disconcerting, even to the Prince of Flies.
He was so close now, so tantalizingly near the realization of his release. The tyranny of time would soon be at an end, and so, too, would his torment. The Prince had had no chance of redemption and this mad bargain was his only venue to escape the march of an immortality of anguish.
He had accomplished his goals, the pieces were in place, and he merely needed to wait for humanity’s extinction. That would be the straw that broke God’s back. It would not take much longer.
His skin writhed, dreaming of blessed release.
~
Babylonia
The Mother of Harlots drifted in the depths of the Lake of Fire, listening to the groans of the world above, and she was not alone. Another shape, impossibly monstrous, lurked in the magma’s embrace: the twin half of her essence, a blasphemous creature that yearned for release upon the world.
As she was a Demon of humanity so, too, was the monster from the depths. The Mother of Harlots was the sly, sophisticated evil of massed humanity, an elegant monster. Her dreadful companion was the opposing side of the human coin: the savage heart of humanity.
Animal fury given flesh.
The Queen mounted a heaving back that was strong enough to crack the mantle of the world. Together, they rose from a sea of fire to be born upon the world. Titanic, serpentine heads with crowns of mountainous horn breached the surface of Gehenna. The world shrieked.
The hour of the Beast came round.
~
The Empty One
Step after implacable step, the Empty One moved deeper into the mists of Limbo. It felt the confused souls swarm around it, but it ignored their pleas. The atmosphere was nearly ripe. Their pain would be over soon enough.
It would take but one, simple tug to erase the cosmos.
The Empty One’s eyes wept at the horrors it had experienced, far more than any creature before it. It had been innocent and pure, but no longer. Material machinations debased it, the contagion of the cosmos infesting its perfect heart. The alien mind knew but one desire.
Let it all unravel.
~
The Throne
God watched the unfolding events with sublime silence. Michael and Lucifer begged for intervention, but their pleas went unanswered. He watched as the storm tore apart His world.
God would let existence decide its own fate.
Chapter 34
Firefly
“So, what now?” Arcturus asked in a small, worried voice.
The travelers looked at one another, at a loss for words. Walter shrugged his feminine shoulders.
“Now, we have to find the Empty One, I suppose,” he said in a newly dulcet voice.
Barnabas snickered. It had been eons since he had seen anything as amusing as a cross-dressing soul. Walter looked as though he should be playing bingo rather than trying to save the world, and it was delightful to see the self-righteous human taken down a peg.
Walter glared, but the look did not have quite the same impact when delivered by an old woman.
“So, Gram-Gram,” Barnabas smiled sweetly. “Where do we find this thing, exactly?”
“Limbo, perhaps?” Kalyndriel interjected. “Orobas said that was where it entered creation, and that is where the souls are going. All roads seem to lead to Limbo. That cannot be coincidence.”
Barnabas considered that, and nodded slowly. “I don’t have a better idea,” he acknowledged. He looked at Walter. “So, let’s just say we do find it … what then, Walter? Do you challenge it to fisticuffs while the rest of us cheer you on?”
Walter sighed. “I don’t know, Barnabas. I truly don’t. I guess we’ll just have to figure it out when we get there.”
Walt looked down at his new hands. They were weathered things, crossed by varicose veins and faded scars. They were now strong and firm, true, but what power could they hold against a nightmare from between the stars? Walter struggled to force himself to stay positive, but it was nearly impossible now that the moment was upon him.
Barnabas shook his head. “That’s what I was afraid you’d say.” He ran a hand through his midnight hair, massaging around his horns.
“Well … fuck it. Might as well. Earth’s gate to Limbo is in Stonehenge. Let’s go,” he finally said, resigned to his depressing fate. He moved to grasp Walter and Kaly to teleport away.
Barnabas froze in alarm when felt the arrival of a terrible force, a horrendous Demonic pressure. A wave of infernal energy swept over them, suffocating
them in a surge of aggression. Kalyndriel felt is as well, and she tensed and spread her ashen wings. Arcturus leapt from her shoulder in alarm.
Barnabas recognized the aura, the musky scent of a predator. “Makariel?” he called uncertainly.
Dread filled him. Makariel and Kalyndriel in the same place, at the same time, was a recipe for a disaster of biblical proportions. Such a meeting was not chance, and Makariel’s intentions were undoubtedly lethal. Kalyndriel’s prowess was sublime, but Barnabas doubted that even she could stand against the Bloody Wind.
The shadows parted beneath the trees, and Makariel emerged from the darkness like a stillborn dream. He stalked toward them, an ancient prophecy of death. He stood proudly, four hands gripping wicked blades, four wings spread in challenge. His eyes were fixed on Kalyndriel alone.
The gaze was unmistakably hostile. The hunger of blood thirst burned within its depths.
“Ah!” Barnabas chuckled nervously. “A pleasure to see you again, great Makariel! I was just saying that —”
“Silence,” Makariel growled from twin throats, holding a clawed finger over one of his jaws. Barnabas shut his mouth swiftly. “I am not for you, little one. I am for her.”
He gestured to Kalyndriel with deadly intent.
Kalyndriel met his stare evenly. She did not fear, but she felt regret. She was saddened by the fact that this was the way she would meet her end; that she would be unable to help Walter and the others in their insurmountable task. She doubted she could defeat Makariel; he was a force of nature that had slain far mightier Angels.
“And what would you have, Demon?” she asked softly.
“I would see if you’re a warrior or a slave, tiny Angel.” Two jaws grinned ravenously.
Walter opened his mouth to protest, but Kalyndriel silenced him with a swift gesture. He looked at her uncertainly. Kaly straightened from her battle stance, and returned Makariel’s stare with regal dignity.
“I am no slave, Demon,” she declared. “Not to you, or your threats. I have not the time to waste on these games.”
“This is no game, firefly. This is both business, and pleasure,” the Bloody Wind snarled. He grinned even larger, the rows of his teeth shining in the feeble morning light.
“I really don’t think that we should be —” Barnabas began urgently.
Makariel turned to him with venomous attention. “I will not tell you again, peasant. You will be silent in the presence of your betters, or I will end you.”
Barnabas winced and nodded in frenzied agreement. He mimed a zipping motion over his mouth. The Bloody Wind turned back to Kalyndriel.
“I will not fight you, Makariel. Our business is urgent,” Kaly insisted, but she knew the futility of her words. She could not be reason with such a monster; he was a natural disaster that she must survive.
Makariel smirked. His tongues lolled happily from canine jaws. “I’m afraid that won’t do at all,” he growled. He turned to Arcturus, crouching fearfully beneath the branches of a nearby tree.
He winked.
The Bloody Wind moved, then, tearing through the empty space toward Arcturus with bone-crushing velocity. Makariel shifted as though the world around him was nothing more than a still-life painting, a whisper of motion that was impossible to follow. The air screeched with his passage, a movement swifter than the laws of physics could countenance.
He roared with delight as his blades descended toward the cowering Imp, who had no time to move at all. Arcturus’ bulbous eyes looked up toward his falling death in disbelief. Walter and Barnabas barely drew a breath before they realized Arcturus was going to die.
Makariel’s swords rang off Kalyndriel’s ebony lance, outthrust to shield Arcturus, with a thunderous concussion. The jackal-headed beast took a step backward and eyed the Angel with satisfaction.
Her wings arched wide with bleeding darkness and her eyes were pits of fury. Her shadowy form hummed with terrible potential like a chiseled statue of death. A black Valkyrie, the spear maiden of Wrath, awoke once more.
“Much better,” Makariel acknowledged, pleased.
The Bloody Wind circled the Angel slowly, smiling. Barnabas rushed to Arcturus and scooped him up, retreating with Walter away from the terrible conflict. Barnabas’ heart raged at his own feeble powerlessness, but he knew he had no place within the titanic battle. He merely hoped Kaly could stand against the might of Makariel.
He knew it was impossible.
Kalyndriel’s lips curled back in savage fury, her breathing as heavy as a blacksmith’s bellows. Wrath burned within her, filling her with unspeakable strength, and her soul howled to answer to Makariel’s challenge. Her lance hungered for the Demon’s blood.
“You might not like what you ask for, Demon,” she growled. Darkness consumed her vision.
Makariel cackled mightily. “Oh, I’m sure I will, Angel.”
The Bloody Wind raised his four hands, and the trees burst into towering flame in unison. The once-peaceful park turned into a burning inferno in the light of morning, pillars of flame lighting the battlefield upon which a terrible war was to be waged. Wreaths of smoke rose into a sky as pale as a corpse’s flesh.
“Now, little firefly, let’s see how brightly you burn! Show me your light!” He beckoned to Kalyndriel.
With a scream of primal rage, the Avenging Angel fell upon the hunter with the force of a celestial avalanche. She bellowed with terrible release, an incarnation of wrath, and her lance descended with ungodly weight. Its venomous edge, now howling as she was, battered at the Bloody Wind with relentless momentum.
It was a blistering onslaught. Kalyndriel was a midnight blur of quicksilver, a magnificent predator at the top of her game. Her skill was a thing of legends, her force of will indomitable, and nothing could stand against her. The Angel’s movements were faster than time could register.
So were Makariel’s. Faster, even. His four arms batted away her raging strikes with a staccato rhythm, a clangor of metallic madness. She pressed the Demon’s defense with every ounce of wrath that burned within her fierce heart, but he effortlessly parried her onslaught.
Her wrath was not enough.
Makariel was untouchable, a mirage of superiority. His twin heads laughed uproariously in the midst of her feeble attack. Black spittle flew as his teeth gnashed and his throats roared. The Standard-Bearer danced through the still air as his arms wove a pattern of impenetrable steel. Kalyndriel could not pierce his blinding ripostes.
In the depths of her overwhelming fury, she felt uncertainty grow within her. The legends of Makariel were true: no one could defeat this thing.
She was going to die.
“Is that all, firefly?” Makariel crowed. “Such a feeble candle, how weak its glow! How could it shine against the abyss? Best that I extinguish it, now!”
The Bloody Wind began to strike back. He surged against her, a whirling dervish of scything steel, a tornado spinning in a burning forest. Kaly gasped as she struggled to defend herself, desperately deflecting vicious strikes that rained down from all angles. She spun her lance in a blinding blur to fend off his relentless assault.
“Slave!” the Bloody Wind bellowed. “How impotent! How pathetic!”
He berated Kalyndriel as he struck her tattered guard repeatedly. She grimaced with fear as she weathered the downpour of Makariel’s violence. Her heart flared in fury, and she redoubled her assault upon the laughing Demon. Her lance flashed out, moving with the terrible speed of her concentrated rage.
It was not enough. It could never be enough. He ducked her lightning strikes as though they were the feeble blows of a half-wit, and his laughter continued. It was the sound of rattling death.
“How very sad,” he cackled, his eyes burning like pyres of insanity. “You worship at my altar, and yet you pray to overcome me? Fool!”
The Bloody Wind lunged, dashed her lance aside, and planted a vicious kick to her midsection. Kalyndriel felt as though a battering ram struck her, and she soared throug
h the air.
Kaly sailed across the park until she struck the trunk of a burning tree that exploded in a cloud of cinders. She gasped as she struggled to regain her breath and rise from the ground. Makariel slowly paced toward her, the ravenous hunter. He tasted the stench of her fear in the air.
“Poor little firefly,” he sneered at her battered form. “You drink from a cup that is not meant for you. I am carnage. I am bloodshed. I am the avatar of boundless Wrath. You are but a child playing at an adult’s game.”
He stepped forward, smiling wickedly. “Your wrath is driven by anguish, which makes you weak. A true predator’s heart, my heart, is filled with joy! Joy in the havoc that is my birthright!”
Kalyndriel leapt to her feet, her lance lashing out, but the Demon slid effortlessly to the side. He chuckled with amusement, continuing to circle her.
“And that, little firefly, is why you die now. That is why you fail your friends. That is how you greet the extinction of the world; a slave to your own self-pity.”
His smiles were impossibly large, filled with an impossible number of teeth. Darkness welled from the pits of his throats and the corners of his eyes. Makariel was everything Kalyndriel could never be: merciless rage unbridled by doubt.
His perfection was untainted by remorse.
Makariel slipped forward. He batted her lance aside, a sneer painted on his cruel visages, and he drove four blades into her. They pierced her chest, punching through her thick armor like cheesecloth. They exited her back in an explosion of black gore. Her companions cried out in horror.
With a roar of effort, Kalyndriel thrust her mighty wings, propelling herself backward in desperation. She heaved through the air, and the blades slipped from her shoulders with excruciating agony.
She stifled a cry as blood poured from her chest.
She raised a hand to her wound, and pulled it away; it was slick with obsidian ichor. Kalyndriel stared at the midnight liquid in horror, her mind recoiling at the sight. Had it truly come to this, her essence as black as an underground sea?
