Angels to Ashes

by Drew Foote

  Humanity did not always succeed, and the Void felt their hatred, with which it was well acquainted … but it also felt their love.

  It felt their need for one another, the desperation with which they rebuked their mortality. They defied the will of their God with their stubborn denial of despair, and they did it with love rather than hatred. They clung tightly to the only beauty that was available to them.

  That radiant rebellion made them majestic.

  The Void also witnessed the trials of the Creator’s first children, the Angels and Demons. They howled with fury, perfectly at odds with one another. They fought and they died, each individual struggle a brutal affair, but when taken as a whole it formed a swirling, dancing mosaic. Their motions through the ages mimicked the wheeling movement of a flock of birds, half with white feathers and half with black. They circled each other in a dance formed of poignant patterns.

  It was magnificent.

  The abyss was silent in the face of revelation. It struggled to comprehend the images that Walter unveiled, to grasp the enormity of the drama that unfolded within its bowels. It had been blinded by its pain, so unequipped to deal with sensation, and it had never truly seen creation for what it was; it was blinding moments of bliss and beauty, woven together with threads of horror and agony.

  One could not exist without the other.

  Walter felt something change in the immutable darkness, a breath of wind that whispered without motion. He sensed something stirring, as though a monstrous weight started to slide. Encouraged, he poured every remaining ounce of himself into the Void. The contents of the Tower of Knowledge, stored within his memories, coursed into the darkness in a flood of radiant images. Every struggle, every sunrise, every embrace … they erupted from Walter’s mind in a geyser.

  Walter gasped from the magnitude of it all.

  Walter’s soul unraveled in the depths of the darkness. His material form disintegrated like ashes upon the wind, his body dispersed in an abyssal sea. Slivers of his will, still burning with purpose, drifted with the currents of wind that now stirred within the emptiness. He filled the Void, permeating it with his strength and his hope.

  Walter was everywhere.

  He was the immeasurable instant between moments in time, the empty weft that bound together the universe. He existed alongside the sentience of the Void like a shining slick of oil atop water, enveloping it in comfort.

  He offered mercy.

  The Void accepted.

  It surrendered, gladly, to the will that now inhabited it. It was not able to deal with the pain of existence but, perhaps, this Walter could. Anything would be better than the torment it had borne since time immemorial.

  The Void let go. Their essences merged in the birth of a new eternity, a canvass unlike any other, and the emptiness’ raging screams went silent.

  It was silent, but it was not empty.

  It ached, but it knew love.

  Thus, the Void gained a soul.

  Chapter 41 - Postlude

  All Is Ashes

  Humanity

  The world ended, of course, as it always did. It did not end on that particular day, however.

  Complete extinction was averted by Walter’s selfless sacrifice, the fate of the universe preserved. With a deafening thunderclap, the way to the Throne of God unsealed. God opened Himself once more to His children, but He had no words for them. They were free to draw their own conclusions, for He cared little for their doubts.

  God owed them no explanation. He owed them nothing.

  The Creator effortlessly mended the frayed edges of His tapestry, restoring the Nexuses and sealing Limbo to the abyss. All was right with the world, once more.

  Humanity, with its penchant for resilience, survived the dark days. The few remaining children of Adam wandered through the wastelands just as their ancestors had after Eden burned. They traveled through the cities of the dead, now little more than mausoleums of colossal scale, and they fought to reclaim their dominion.

  With grim perseverance, they clung to hope.

  With the Nexuses restored, the terrible pressure of lost souls finally abated. The natural order of life and death reasserted itself. Once more, the souls of humanity found their way to Heaven or Hell, where they received their just rewards. All was as God originally intended.

  Something had changed, however. Billions of souls had been lost in the darkness of Limbo, close to the Void and the madness it contained. The taint of oblivion left an indelible stain on the fabric of their psyches, a disease that was uncleansed by death.

  Those worn souls, the vast majority of humanity’s essence, performed their duties in the afterlife. They sang in Heaven, and they screamed in Hell. They would not remain there for all time, though.

  That world was doomed to die, just as it was doomed to be born, again. As the sun rose once more for the first time, those souls would populate the clay urns of bodies. They would carry the stain of eternity with them.

  Humanity had changed, forever.

  ~

  Michael and Lucifer

  Archangel Michael and Lucifer stared at one another in silence. The divide that separated the brothers was as old as time itself, but they both knew it was a new day: a day of uncertainty.

  The ordeal that transpired was unfathomable … and God had done nothing. The Creator had withheld his counsel, leaving his eldest sons to watch in horror as the universe nearly died. Still, He said nothing.

  Lucifer inclined his head slightly to Michael. Despite their differences, they were brothers, and they had witnessed the tragedy together. They had shared in their impotence, each unable to act to preserve their domain. Their salvation had come from the insects.

  The Morning Star closed his shining eyes as he fell toward Hell. His searing form burned with terrible radiance as he descended into the Inferno like a forgotten sunrise. He had been absent from his kingdom for far too long, and it was now time to assume the mantle of rule. He did not know what the coming eons would bring, but he knew that he must stand at the forefront.

  Hell needed him.

  What could be made of the Creator’s inaction? Did He still care for the fate of his children, or did He tire of His own petty games? Was the time finally right for the Morning Star to seize the Throne of Heaven? Not just in that life, but in all the lives to come?

  As always, there were no answers from God.

  ~

  Kalyndriel and Arcturus

  Atop a lonely pinnacle in Heaven, the Archangel Kalyndriel observed her realm and the Earth below. The treachery of Uriel and Gabriele had left Heaven in tatters, and she was one of only two remaining Archangels, along with Michael. She suspected that others would rise to the station of Archangel to replenish their ranks. They would have much work ahead of them.

  Hers was now the dominion of holy fire, as was justice. Archangel Michael had acknowledged her virtue and welcomed her to assume Uriel’s position. Together, they struggled to rebuild the glory of Heaven, but much had changed. Confronted by the treason of their greatest champions, the song of Heaven had become discordant with doubt and distrust.

  If an Archangel could turn its back on creation, itself, what was the purpose of anything?

  That realization, coupled with an unprecedented warming in relations with Hell, led to a new time of uncertainty. The forces of Heaven and Hell were still at odds with one another, and they both went about the motions of striving for dominance, but it was half-hearted.

  They had shared in the betrayal of those they most revered.

  In the ensuing aftermath, Heaven and Hell agreed to an unspoken, uneasy détente. They marshalled their forces and rebuilt their might as a bulwark against a terrifying future. Each camp could not shake the feeling that the course of the river of eternity had shifted irrevocably.

  As befitting the uneasy peace between the dominions, the diplomatic attaché of Hell was often found perched on the shoulders of Archangel Kalyndriel. He was a small, surly Imp named Arctur
us, and he was now a legendary hero of Hell. Director Babylonia had needed a representative to maintain relations with Heaven, and now, with Barnabas gone, Arcturus had readily agreed.

  His pugnacious nature, surprisingly, did much to alleviate tensions between the Angels and Demons.

  Kaly was grateful for the Imp’s company, and she found his presence comforting. The memories of those lost in the struggle often haunted her, a painful reminder of the price of continued existence. She now knew she would bear the weight of those wounds for eternity, carrying them with her through the continual death of the world, and it was a frightening prospect. She swore to herself that she would remain strong but, at times, she was afraid.

  With his dying words, Uriel had promised that the burning weight of his crown would grow unbearable … and she feared he was right.

  ~

  Babylonia and the Beast

  In the smoldering depths of the Lake of Fire, two horrible forms floated in silence. They rose and fell gently, caressed by the warm embrace of damnation: the Mother of Harlots and the Beast. The molten flames had healed their wounds and knitted their flesh, although one head of the Beast would never recover. Six heads were more than enough, however.

  Their black minds were lost in reverie as they rode the ebb and flow of infernal currents. The Beast’s thoughts were little more than images of fury and bloodshed, pleasant dreams of harrowing wrath. It longed to stand atop the conquered corpse of the world, the howling victor. The Beast had denied the age of despair, and those days would never return.

  Babylonia’s thoughts were, as always, much more elegant. She had learned much of late, and the implications were staggering. She discovered the stage upon which her drama played out was far larger than she had ever grasped, a match of chess that stretched across infinity. That world would die, and soon, but there would be others. She realized she needed to take a grander view … if she wished to crush Heaven and Hell beneath her dainty feet.

  She needed to play the long game.

  Lucifer had finally returned to Hell. He was welcomed as the prodigal son, the messiah of the inferno, which sickened her. Babylonia, the new Director of the Interior, sneered with disgust. The Morning Star had never done anything for their cause. His presence jeopardized her own power, keeping her plans in check with his radiant might, but he was not beyond her terrible reach.

  She would bide her time.

  Eternity was longer than she had originally suspected, but she now knew better. Babylonia had learned the value of patience.

  ~

  Makariel

  Makariel despised the new cowardice that blossomed after the Battle of Megiddo. His was a savage soul with the heart of the hunter. Even as Lucifer reined in the unbridled aggression of the Directorate of War, his mind dreamt of running swift through fields of butchery. He longed to grip the spirit of weakness between his brutal jaws. All it would take was a firm shake to break its neck.

  Crack.

  The time of the predator would come around once again, he knew. There were few things as certain as carnage. All things ended, as would the foolish armistice, and when that day came Makariel would be there. He would be the wolf in the henhouse.

  Peace was an illusion. Enlightenment was a lie. Blood was the only truth.

  ~

  Paimon

  Paimon knelt, his weathered hands gently cupping a fistful of ash. The ruins of the Tower of Knowledge surrounded him like monoliths of a forgotten age. So much had perished, so much had been lost … but life went on. For now, at least, and he had Walter to thank for that.

  A profound sense of pride burned in his breast. Paimon had done all he could to help Walter succeed, he had shown him both the depths and the heights of knowledge, and his prize pupil had done the impossible. Walter had somehow succeeded; he had silenced the Void and preserved creation.

  Paimon mourned the loss of his friend but, inexplicably, he did not feel as though Walter was truly gone.

  Knowledge would live on, as it must. Paimon grasped the end of his charred stave, wrenched mightily, and broke off a small, black piece. He placed it into a small divot in the ground, and softly covered it with soil. He leaned forward, placing his forehead upon the gray dirt, and whispered softly to the buried fragment. He begged it to grow, to stretch high into the sky as a tribute to his lost student.

  A new Tower of Knowledge would rise. It would take time, and this world would be dead long before it spread its branches, but that day would come. Knowledge could not be denied.

  ~

  Orobas

  In a cathedral of shining web, nestled in the heart of the shifting landscape of Limbo, the Spider Oracle watched eternity unfold. His multitude of eyes saw every instant unravel, every moment stretch across the horizon. Orobas was the repository of time, and he could do naught but watch.

  He was not alone, however.

  In the depths of his cathedral, beneath the radiant gossamer of his web, there came a voice. The voice of the Void was heard, there in the place were creation was bound to the endless night. The voice had always been there, screaming and howling, but its tone had changed of late.

  The Void now sounded like his friend, Walter, and Orobas was overjoyed to hear him. Now, instead of screams of anguish, its words were ones of warmth. They were sounds of caring and camaraderie. Walter knew the pain of existence and, now, so did the Void. Though it still felt the agony of time, it knew love for the creations woven within it.

  Together, Orobas and the Void watched the eons pass by. Sometimes they conversed, sharing their thoughts on the grand drama unfolding. At other times, they sat in companionable silence as they drifted down the river of time, no longer alone. They took joy in the triumphs, they wept in sorrow with the tragedies, and they laughed at the absurdities.

  When the world ended, they would do it again, once more. They were content.

  ~

  Apollyon

  In time, Apollyon destroyed that world, as he often did. His heart knew peace as the black edge of Terminus ripped the world asunder, scattering the ashes of Earth into the ethereal sea of the infinite. The Destroyer had always known the necessity of fire — an interlude between acts in the play of existence. Now, however, all were aware of the truth.

  The nature of eternity weighed heavily upon all God’s children.

  As the fragments of the world spooled together in darkness, as the Creator unfurled a new tapestry, the burden of history remained. For once, the Demons and Angels did not forget their lives and deaths. Their amnesia was broken. They greeted the end of days with a weariness and uncertainty that they had never before known, a tension that would remain with them when they were born again.

  Apollyon’s resolve never wavered, however. He was the guardian of rebirth, the perfect font of annihilating truth, and there was no uncertainty within him. He knew his sacred duty.

  He served his God in ways that others could never comprehend.

  ~

  Barnabas the Beautiful

  And now, my friend, we come to the end of our journey. This is undoubtedly the point in my biography in which you ask yourself, “But what became of this tale’s hero? What of Barnabas the Beautiful?”

  Well … I died, of course. My wounds were far too great to survive, even for one as mighty as I. But I died as I lived: with dignity and grace. And panache.

  Do not weep for me, dear friend! Everyone else died, as well, although not quite as soon as I. Death is the nature of life, its immutable law, and none are exempt from its frozen touch. It is our birthright, the one true gift from our God. It comes for us all, Angel and Demon and human alike, but it is but a momentary respite from the passage of the ages.

  Through the actions of yours truly, among others, a bright future awaits us.

  Perhaps it is my imagination, but I seem to remember a voice speaking to me when I died. It spoke in a tongue of radiant fire, its words unbearably bright. It posed a question to me: it asked if I had learned the error of my wicked
ways. It asked if I repented my evil nature, if I wanted to become a servant of Heaven.

  The voice offered me a halo and shining wings.

  “But wait!” you now cry. “Could the magnificent Barnabas, after having learned the power of friendship and sacrifice, be an Angel? Could he serve as a glorious beacon of hope and salvation in these darkened times? Might I pray to Saint Barnabas to guide me through life’s trials?”

  Oh, fuck off. I’m disappointed you would even consider that.

  I told that voice exactly where it could shove its halo. I am a Demon, and a predator, and I make no apologies for my nature. There is no shame in my Demonic heritage: for good or for ill, I am part of the tapestry of the world. There would be no light without shadow, no good without evil. Clichéd, but true.

  Your precious world would be as entertaining as an infomercial without the darkness we delivered.

  Fight as you must for your chosen cause, but do not fail to recognize that you are nothing without your antithesis. We are all devourers, we are all monsters, and it is only through the shadows we cast that we distinguish ourselves from the uniformity of the Void.

  Own your spark, your gift. It is all that gives you shape in a sea of ashes.

  Eternity beckons, and the possibilities are endless. Will I rise, once more, as Barnabas, the Dark Prince of Terror? Will I seize the world in the merciless grip of well-manicured hands? Perhaps I shall lead both Heaven and Hell to a new golden age of peace as Barnabas the Magnificent, uniting Angels and Demons alike beneath my radiant banner as I challenge God Himself.

  Or maybe I’ll just continue as I did in my last iteration, merely struggling to be the best Demon I can be.

  Either way … it sounds interesting.

  Appendix

  Dramatis Personae

  HELL

  Board of Directors

  Apollyon the Destroyer – Director of War