by Drew Foote
It was not optimism; it was faith. Faith in us — and in me.
“I know you will see this through to the end, Barnabas,” she whispered softly. “And I am thankful to call you friend and comrade.”
I looked away from her radiance. So torn by dread and roiling emotions, I could not look upon her. For once, I was truly silent; the time for games was over, and there were no quips left to me.
I would see this through. I would fight until the end … because I was Barnabas, God damn it. I was a king, a hero among Demons, and I was worth it. I was all in, fuck whatever may come. I turned back to Kaly and nodded silently, not trusting my voice to speak.
Kaly smiled at me, and she gently squeezed my arm. I could feel the pride in her touch, the compassion. I was not the only one who had changed.
Makariel’s mouth twisted strangely: an unusual thing, so different from his other smiles. “To Limbo, then,” he declared, his voice hoarse, and disappeared into the ether.
Kaly and Walter moved next to me, and Arcturus hugged up against my leg. He looked up at me and gave me an ugly grin. I tried to smile back … but I didn’t know if I succeeded. With a heavy heart, I placed my hands on the Human and the Angel. I sent the four of us careening through the turbulence of existence, bound for the ancient circle of Stonehenge.
We clung tightly to each other as the world dissolved. That was the last time we would travel together thus.
~
A murky light swam into focus before my eyes.
The world resolved itself with a sickening snap. The sky above Stonehenge was suitably British: overcast with low-hanging clouds. The grass beneath my feet was a deep, emerald green, but it looked muted and subdued in the day’s gloom. A cool wind whipped through the air, whistling through the field around us.
The monolithic standing stones of Stonehenge rose nearby, across the verdant heath, and a small chain-link fence surrounded it. The monuments reached into the sky like igneous fingers, beckoning us to come closer. They had waited patiently for thousands of years, sleeping through the ages until that moment. They waited for us.
I saw that we were expected. Dark shapes perched atop the weathered pillars like hungry vultures. As one, they raised their heads and glared at us silently. I could not see them clearly from such a distance, but I felt the hatred radiating from them with palpable force.
Those must be the possessed Angels and Demons. There were at least twenty of them, and they appeared decidedly unwelcoming.
Makariel stood to the side, and he turned to regard us. Excitement and bloodlust burned within his four eyes, barely restrained. I concluded that he was either insane, or the most perfectly sane creature I had ever met. There was no uncertainty in his savage nature, no inner conflict. Perhaps both were true.
“Now then,” he breathed in anticipation. “The three of you stay behind the Angel and me. Keep clear of my swords.”
Walter and I exchanged a glance, small smiles mirroring one another’s. Neither of us cared to argue that point. I would have loved to stay much further away.
“Got it,” I replied with hollow enthusiasm. I hefted my curved sword, trying to adjust myself to its weight.
Makariel nodded, and he turned to Stonehenge. “Off we go,” he rasped happily. He drew his four swords and set off across the field.
We followed. Kalyndriel walked beside the Bloody Wind, shoulder to shoulder, and her lance materialized in her hands. Her essence now burned white and true, and her eyes were pure. Walter, Arcturus, and I brought up the rear, looking undoubtedly much less fearsome than the vanguard.
We walked through the waving grass as the wind tore through the heath with mournful whispers. The wind seemed to speak to me, begging me to retreat: urging me to save myself before it was too late. Arcturus, fluttering at shoulder-level next to me, looked at me with bloodshot eyes.
“Try to not get yourself dead, eh, Boss?” he offered helpfully.
I chuckled weakly. “As always, you give the best advice, Art.”
I would certainly try to avoid disappointing him, but I felt a sinking fear build within my bones. An awful weight seemed to settle in the pit of my stomach, murmuring to me with a voice of despair.
The universe was a terrible place, and I had personally contributed to its squalor. I had ruined enough happy endings to know they were never guaranteed; they were the exception to the norm. I was not foolish enough to believe that I was above the tragedies in the wind’s cold whispers.
The hero usually died.
All bets were off.
We continued through the field, the ragged columns of Stonehenge looming steadily closer. We were silent and contemplative, lost in internal reveries. Our surroundings seemed impossibly sharp. The heath blossomed with tiny purple flowers, scattered like violet raindrops, oblivious to the monsters that walked atop them.
The sinister shapes continued their silent vigil, patiently awaiting our arrival. No breath moved within their chests, and the chill wind did not stir their wings. They had all the time in the world.
As we neared, I saw my earlier assumption was correct. The creatures were, indeed, the possessed spirits. They were ragged things, Angels and Demons of all types and sizes. There were Powers and Ravagers, Minotaurs and Devourers, and all manner of celestial beings in between. It was a veritable menagerie of the warrior castes of both Heaven and Hell.
The monsters glared at us with dead eyes. Their gaze was blacker than midnight and filled with seething disgust. No motion whispered through their threatening forms. They continued to wait like a murder of crows.
We stepped through the small surrounding fence. Kaly and Makariel approached the outer ring of monoliths and halted. In the center of the circle, I saw the glowing portal to Limbo. It danced like a memory of mist. That was our goal.
Two terrible figures stood before it. The mountainous bulk of the first was immediately recognizable: Beelzebub, the Prince of Flies. I was not surprised to see him.
An incredibly tall and broad-shouldered Angel stood next to him. He was garbed in magnificent armor, holding a radiant sword and shield, but something was terribly amiss. His mighty wings hung limply, their edges trailing in the dirt. His head lolled drunkenly and the same emptiness filled his soulless eyes.
Kaly looked at the Angel with recognition, and her face darkened with outrage. She spread her wings and gripped her lance tightly. Her breathing quickened, but she remained in control.
“No,” she whispered. “Raphael …”
The shell of the former Archangel of Love, Raphael, made no reply. He merely swayed atop unsteady feet, staring at us with bottomless loathing. There was nothing left of his once-radiant spirit. The Void knew nothing of Love.
Beelzebub laughed then, a nauseating sound. It whirred, a squirming terror, vibrating through the air like a grinding saw. He raised a multitude of spiny arms in welcome. His cruel eyes shone with malice, nearly as hateful as the surrounding husks.
“Welcome, friends! As you can see, and as Raphael can attest, none are immune to the power of the Void,” he declared. “Existence’s time is at an end. You will embrace it, one way or another.”
I stepped forward, fury rising within my breast. Enough of this madness. I was fed up with powers and principalities dictating my fate with lenses tinted by self-interest. I was tired of the tyranny they inflicted with every breath, their every word laced with slavery. No more.
“No,” I replied angrily. Everyone turned to look at me.
Beelzebub’s eyebrows arched curiously. “No?” he asked mockingly, and scowled. “No is not an option, you meddling ant! What has been set in motion is bigger than you, bigger than any of us!”
“No,” I replied once more. “Just because you are lost, just because you’ve given up, you don’t have the right to kill the entire universe.”
“Right? Right? Rights are an illusion, you naïve fool. Rights belong to those who take them, and today we take ours! We take them from the oldest of tyrants, God!
You merely fight to keep His yoke about your neck!”
“I’m not a big fan of His, either, honestly,” I growled. “But at least it’s something. I’ll take what I can get.”
At least God’s tyranny held the potential, if not promise, of something better. It was filled with misery and moments of incredible suffering, but there were things that made it all worthwhile. The joy of triumph: the feeling of power increasing and resistance being overcome.
Oblivion held naught but emptiness, and I rebuked it with the entirety of my being.
“Fuck … off,” I insisted.
Beelzebub seethed with outrage, his monstrous form vibrating from within. He quivered like a volcano on the edge of eruption. The corrupted Angels and Demons rose from atop their perches.
“I’ll tell you what you get, fool,” he hissed. “You get Nothing!”
The Fallen Angel screamed with impossible pain. His monstrous body trembled even more violently, his eyes rolling back in his handsome face. His corpse-white maggot skin bulged as though pushed outward from incredible pressure, invisible hands pressing against it. He swelled like a monstrous balloon, growing ever larger, and he continued to howl.
It was a cry filled with the unimaginable despair of an eternity of torment. It was thick with horror that had built through the ages, feeding off itself and growing ever blacker. It seemed as though the rocks of Stonehenge might tear themselves to pieces at his shriek. We readied our weapons.
Beelzebub’s cry built to a crescendo of infinite fury, rising eternally, and his corpulent form exploded outward suddenly in an expanding cloud of screaming insects. In the heart of the explosion, reality tore with a sickening wrench.
Beelzebub was a larva no longer.
The shape of Beelzebub’s inner torment towered over Stonehenge: a giant corpse fly, swollen to monstrous proportions. His faceted eyes, each larger than myself, were filled with madness. He stood atop six jagged legs the size of construction girders. A horrific maw, naught but gnashing mandible and howling agony, gibbered insanely. He was the form of absolute terror.
“Nobody wins, you fools!” he roared from the heart of despair.
He sped toward us atop stilt-like legs, mandibles open and hungry. His enormous wings beat a symphony of insanity. The possessed Demons and Angels dropped from their perches and fell upon us.
Time slowed to a standstill. My mind raced like a runaway horse, wild and fleet. Unlike Paimon or other ancient powers, I had no mastery over the waters of time; it was merely the crystal clarity of imminent demise gripping my mind in its cold embrace.
My every moment was my last, my every breath my final words. I would make them count. If this was the end, I would sell myself dearly.
In the corner of my vision I saw Kalyndriel dash to meet the advance of Beelzebub’s monstrous form. She sped atop the heath like a bolt of vengeful radiance. The fallen body of Raphael moved in tandem with the Prince of Flies in a deadly assault against Kaly. They struck at the shining Lance of Justice, seeking to destroy her with sword and tearing mandible, but they could not overcome her.
The air seemed to sing as she moved between their combined onslaughts.
Makariel danced as well, darting between the mindless Angels and Demons with blistering speed. He moved like a typhoon of steel, four swords ravaging the attackers with howls of mirth. He sought to keep the creatures away from Walter and me.
There were too many, though. Far too many.
I found myself confronted by a hulking Ravager, its mouth dripping slaver like a rabid beast. It hefted its deadly maul. Terrible eyes looked down at me with derision. Walter and Arcturus moved behind me, alarmed.
I supposed now was the time to protect them.
I raised my sword feebly, swallowing. A distant part of my mind informed me that I should probably try killing the thing, but that seemed a tall order. Instead, I just stood there dumbly. The Ravager swung downward with brutal force. I witnessed my death approach with depressing finality.
Such potential. Wasted.
I threw myself sideways with every ounce of speed I could muster. The Ravager’s maul whistled through the air and crashed with obliterating power. Earth exploded beneath the maul’s vicious head, but I was not underneath it.
The Ravager had a somewhat quizzical look on its slack face. I could understand its surprise; I had not expected to survive that, either.
Elation filled me as Demonic endorphins flooded my body. Fucking right! I wasn’t going out that easy! I might not be a fighter, but I was no slouch when it came to collecting souls. Their accumulated power, along with the righteousness of my cause, coursed through my veins.
I truly was a Dark Prince of Terror!
With a ferocious howl, I leapt at the Ravager, sword extended and ebony wings unfurled.
The creature’s hollow eyes were disbelieving as the sword slid underneath its jaw and into its rotted brain. It collapsed into a hulking heap, its maul falling to the ground from its lifeless grip.
Chalk one up for the good guys!
My chest heaving, I extricated my blade from its skull and gave Walter and Arcturus an encouraging grin. They stared at me, dumbfounded. I was rather pleased with myself, too.
My pleasure was short-lived, however, as I noticed three more attackers; two Demons and an Angel surrounded us. A Power fought side-by-side with dual Fiends. They closed in on us with deadly intent, and I realized I was in terrible trouble. My earlier luck aside, these things were definitely going to kill me.
How unfortunate.
I would receive no help. Kalyndriel was sore-pressed by Beelzebub and Raphael, struggling to keep them at bay, and Makariel had his four hands full with a relentless swarm of possessed attackers. I was on my own.
The Angel and the Demons surged forward, weapons howling toward me. I leapt backward in desperation and struggled to parry their attacks, which seemed to come at me blindingly fast. Every fiber of my being roared with determination as my blade flashed with uncanny speed, deflecting each blow a moment before it would have been my last.
My spirit sang, but my mind was silent. Each instant held the weight of creation, each moment unbearably heavy. The universe balanced on the edge of infinity, and I fought to pull it back toward the feeble light that burned in my heart.
What was that light? Did it shine for what existed, or what might be? Did it dream of the burgeoning potential that dwelt dormant within every soul, within every newborn day? Was it was a seed that slept beneath frozen ground, dreaming of spreading its branches? Perhaps it was nothing more than an idea, an imaginary right to live our lives as we desired: free from domination, free from tyranny.
Such a thing truly was imaginary.
I did not have the answers, but I fought. I fought for our right to suffer, because existence was suffering, and in the end … it was something. It felt right.
My thoughts were clear as I struggled to keep the howling swords away from Walter and Arcturus. We were in it together, now, and that was as much as could be said about anyone.
Makariel’s sword, previously so heavy, now felt light in my hands. I wove my own rhythm, my own dance of steel, and I saw it as a thing of beauty. Perhaps it was not truly beautiful, but it was beautiful to me, and that was all that truly mattered.
It belonged to me.
My attackers pressed forward mercilessly, driving me backward. They felt no fear, no fatigue. They would continue their assault until I was dead.
Deep within my heart, I knew I could not struggle forever. The thought greeted me with a strange detachment, an unusual poignancy. All I could do … was all I could do.
I leapt forward, slashed one of the Demons across the throat, and counted the moments serenely in my mind as its comrades’ answering blows sped toward me.
Like an Impish bullet, Arcturus flew forward in a chubby blur. He latched himself about the Angel’s face in a biting embrace. Walter ran forward as well, tackling the remaining Fiend about the legs and sending it sprawli
ng onto the ground. They collapsed in a heap of red muscle and flowered dress.
The staggered Angel reached up and gripped Arcturus about the neck as though a rambunctious kitten. It flung the Imp ferociously from its face. His tiny body rebounded off the ground like a spiked football and slid to a boneless stop.
No one abused Art, other than me!
I roared in anger and lunged at the Angel. I lopped its head from its shoulders in a fierce strike, one filled with every ounce of my overweening pride. It was a magnificent blow, if I do say so myself.
I saw Art struggling to rise, battered and wounded, but still alive. Breathing a sigh of relief, I turned swiftly to Walter and the fallen Demon.
The fearsome Fiend, now laying on its back, looked at the elderly woman latched around its knees. An unfamiliar approximation of surprise flashed in its features. The Demon growled and stabbed at Walter with an abyssal sword.
Walter’s eyes widened as it snaked toward him, threatening to extinguish the world’s last hope. I would not allow that. I could not. I had too much, yet, to do.
Even if I had to die, first.
Somehow, and I was not entirely sure how it happened, I found myself between the sword and Walter. I did know, however, that the burn in my gut when the sword entered was one of magnificent pain. The agony was too much for words or description, a perfectly pure sensation. It erupted in the synapses of my mind like ebony lightning.
“This is the end,” the pain whispered. Its voice was intimate, the sound of an old friend.
I gasped at its undeniable embrace. I stared down at the sword piercing me, and the snarling Demon that held it. The foul creature’s empty heart knew nothing but pain. It longed to look upon the death of the universe, the end of time.
Not on my watch.
I let myself slide downward on its blade, my own sword outstretched. My weapon’s black length pierced the Demon’s cavernous mouth, driving inward into its brain. The bellows of its breath ceased, and the Fiend stilled.
