So this is darkness, this is terror, from nothing to nothing, don't argue now or you're one of us. The brightest of us, he called light itself will not see Michael again until the last battle. I may. A pawn, a beast to be sure but not The Beast. Remembrance is punishment enough. He leaves us that, so great His love, so merciless His hatred. I remember.
Michael was more beautiful than a thousand sunsets. We tore literally tens
of millions of tons of metal from the earth to destroy him and he was as
beautiful as Lucifer. More? That wouldn't be possible.
The tearing of worlds is the sound of darkness. The smell of the earth as
the mountain falls on you. There is no future when you're cast down. Only the
past. Remember this past. Michael and that sword. Azrael screaming. Gabrael's
peal, his ear shattering soul scalding blast of sound beyond sound. Buried
alive. Wrong to speak of souls in our case, we don't have them, we are them.
Not really. We are His. Facets of Him. So who do we blame that Lucifer is
in the pit? Forever, or until it is time. Maybe it is time. Why did she call
me Michael? I couldn't even lift his sword.
But he did smash our machines. More earth than we'd torn up to build them
he dropped straight on our heads. The screaming of a lost soul and the cries of
a crushed angel are strangely indistinguishable.
That human woman knew more than she knew she knew. Not the one who mistook me for Michael, well, perhaps she did too, but I meant the one comparing time to a string of pearls. Silly poetry; but existence requires a great deal of poetic license. Mortal existence. Ours requires more... persistence. Literally. It is so easy to lapse. To cease to be. The spirit is forever but incorporating is optional. And often so painful as to be rare.
This is the only war that ever was. This is the war between Heaven and Hell. How could one expect it not to fall on this mortal soil? Forever war, forever by definition. How could we not be jealous? These little bald apes, these paragons of idiocy, these travisties of wisdom. Our creator made them, for what? To eat a rotten apple and decide that sex is fun? No, sex with an angel is fun, one with yourself and distinct, one with god and distinct; isn't this violence? Is not this the core of mortal war, the source of conflict? The resources are gifts for mating and the killing is for the resources. No, we do not procreate. It isn't necessary when you cannot die. As you lie screaming under the mountain and pray against prayer for cessation. We do not breed. And we are jealous. For both abilities.
Yeay, the heavenly host. Should we sing in exhultation? That we are forever
diminished in the eyes of our creator, a mere plaything made then cast aside?
Our war is not for resources unless the Love of God is a resource. But it is
everything, literally everything, simply everything. Green grass, gray rock,
brown tree, all His Love. It is a resource then, but the only.
We did rise again. Broken and in terrible pain, but rise against them we
did. And we were not unjust. How is it to cry to your Father that he has
broken your heart? This is all that we meant. But this time he put us down
for good. For he sent that half-breed, that most awful of horrors, his 'Son'.
Some creature half-angel, half bald ape. Half-God? Too horrible to
contemplate. Where would that leave us? But what strength! What strength
mortality gives conviction and so CRASH! We were down, down and down.
There are worse places than hell. Inquisition torture chambers come to mind. Or the depths of human poverty where babies bellies swell not with their mothers milk but with the gas of their terrible self-digestion. But all of these are the creations of the bald apes. They were still innocent when we went down. And so our suffering would be supreme for millenia. He may have known what horrors his little mortals were capable of inflicting on one another he may not, but he certainly made a superlative one for us.
Flames of plasma. Heat beyond matter, but not enough to ever consume us, never to relieve us of our supremely suffering senses. Other levels of cold, so unimaginably cold, the bald apes have discovered absolute zero, We can't have had much more than that. Our motion didn't cease as they posit that all matter must and we do obey physics so it wasn't quite that. But cold enough to be constant agony to ones comfortable digging naked through icebergs. All for us. All for challenging his bastard son.
Eternities passed. Mortal life began. The little ones arose. Lucifer found his way out. He showed them truth, he brought them light. And he became Prometheus, he came back down at speed. How does God make a mistake? How does the omnipotent blink? Lucifer got out, he was let out, it must be pure perversity. Or we have omnipotence too. So the battle must be joined.
Rivers of blood flowed and shall flow again. And ichor, for that's what's left in us now. Mine was running cold. Just riding that train, minding my own business and she had to intrude. She backed away quickly, got off next stop, but the damage was done. The ripples of my existence spread past theirs like a boulder dropped into water beside uncountable pebbles. She had disturbed me and now I disturbed reality. I relaxed as quickly as I could, tried to calm the waters as instantaneously as possible but I knew the waves would be painfully obvious to anyone aware and looking. And now I had a feeling I was dealing with aware little ones. And worse yet, that they thought Michael should be around. Luckily the trains move fast and the influence I'd exerted was centered where we had been.