Chapter 47 #2
“No,” Metatron began, and he tried to grab at Raphael before another angel swept in, so quick he was a blur. “Agh!” The old man was seized from the back, a long sword pressed to the front of his throat, digging into the skin. “Phanuel—?” Metatron choked out.
“Michael,” Phanuel called; though he’d spoken to the prince for many, many years now, the break of his muteness to all those around was so sudden that every listener jolted. “Go. Everyone — go.”
Eyes wide, Michael wanted to tell Phanuel that he was right, and that he didn’t want to do this without him, and that he was sorry for what he’d said, and that he was grateful that Phanuel had spent so long beside him despite knowing the truth of God and of Michael.
“Thank you,” was all Michael could manage before he, shakily, pointed his sword upward and told everyone to follow.
The angels still hesitated, but once Raphael and Gabriel flew toward the army of an angel, demons, Watchers, the rest of Heaven followed with them.
On Earth, as soon as Tadeo reached the surface, he was able to transform back into his human likeness, and he spluttered fire out of his mouth, crawling desperately onto the drained sea, shaking, trembling, watching as Dina dragged his torso toward a minuscule puddle that he flopped weakly on top of.
However much the angel was responsible for the apocalypse thus far, Tadeo couldn’t help a pinch of pity seeing him like that, trying to heal himself with a puddle that wasn’t cooperating.
Grunting, then, Tadeo moved closer, then he put his hand on Dina’s back, and he said, “Let me heal you. Dina—”
Dina said, “Wait— Where is Satan—?”
His answer came instantly. Behind them, the rocks that formed the entrance into Hell rumbled, then began to crack, split, fall away.
The giant of fire and light that Satan had become forced his way onto the surface; his hair flowed like the rays of a sun again, and his entire body was only in the vague shape of an angel with horns on his head, four wings on his back, three other faces — one like an ox, one like an eagle, another like a lion.
But Tadeo hadn’t been there for Lucifer’s transfiguration, and so he looked up in horror, wonder, mouth reeling in air harshly.
“Lucifer,” he whispered. This was the angels as he’d always imagined them — cosmic, beautiful, powerful.
Lifting his body high, eyes widening, Satan whispered, “They want to kill God. All of them. Angels, demons, Watchers.”
Dina whispered, “But that can’t be done. That can’t be done.”
“I’ll kill Him,” said Satan, his voice booming and singing, elegant and terrifying. “I’ll be the one to do it.”
“Satan!” Dina called helplessly, but the four wings of light ripping out of Satan’s back beat once, twice, lifting himself slow like a god ascending.
“Don’t do it! Don’t try!” Tadeo pressed his hand harder on Dina’s back, trying to force him to stay still.
“Stop!” But Satan flapped his wings another few times, the wind of each strike cast a storm of sand onto Tadeo and Dina, who both ducked their heads, shut their eyes momentarily.
But Tadeo managed to look up in time to watch Lucifer, Satan, the great devil, disappearing into the sky.
Some stars trailed behind him — slow-moving, flesh-y, flaming spheres pushing beside the clouds, leaving the Earth naked to whatever war was going to cast a rain of blood down onto the Earth.
And as Michael led the way past the bright firmament, past the cosmos, past the ceiling of the universe, he felt himself morph into what he’d been when he cast Satan down — a creature of wings, flames, armor, chains, sword.
Strength itself, however weak of will he’d always been.
Yet, he was not afraid; for the first time in eternity, he was not going to be weak.
He was not going to obey his Father. The demons, as they rose, had to shut their eyes, as they were soulless husks of what’d they once been, but even blind, they pointed weapons.
Swords, firearms, spears. Every weapon across all of history — angel and human alike — raised to direct themselves at the Throne of God, enormous, impossible.
Golden and silver and sapphire and ruby and jade — the seat and the Father Himself.
Bright, darkness, every hue, every shape.
He was shaped like crops, like harvest, and like the wilt of starvation. As if He were drought.
“God,” said Michael. “Surrender your Throne. For all the wickedness that you are responsible for — surrender.”
“Michael,” the Lord answered in a hundred voices — low and high, airy and throaty.
The Creator of all things, calm and angry.
A hand lifted from the armrest, turned, offered a palm, holding a world, another world, a trillion stars, faces, eyes, wings.
The beginning and the end, in the fingertips of God.
“Do what you came here to do.” The Lord turned His hand back to the armrest of his Throne, and He sat still.
Baal blindly whispered, “What is He doing?”
Azazel answered: “He’s not doing anything.” He was wings, six pairs, but Michael didn’t look to him.
If Michael could breathe, he would. He would reel in all the air in the entire world in the hopes that it would settle his heart, but there was no air in the space above space.
There were only misshapen lights, the sensation of other beings around him, the feeling of being watched, of not being alone.
Even the chief prince couldn’t see accurately, he could only feel before God.
He lifted his sword, and he felt himself trembling.
He heard his Father’s firm voice in his heart, telling him that Lucifer had died because Michael had loved him, and his voice saying that Michael was dirtied, and all the angels were sinners because of him.
But he remembered everything Satan had suffered, what he’d witnessed and what he hadn’t.
He thought of a young girl, so far from God, fighting on the Earth the Lord had made with wars He was so removed from, so meaningless to him and devastating to her.
Michael’s own cowardice infuriated him now; how dare he have kneeled for cruelty?
When he flew to God — yelling in rage — all the others followed.
Tadeo, meanwhile, pulled on the clothes of a corpse a little after he arrived home from a beastly run, then he bundled the naked man in a blanket he’d found, kissed his forehead for dignity, then stumbled away.
Behind him, Dina walked, also in the clothing of the dead.
The anti-Christ had healed the angel with a touch of his hand, and Dina had remained silent since.
The town was destroyed, and though Tadeo would have liked to sit and mourn, he found himself saying, “Maybe I’m lucky, Dina, to have only ever known ruins most of my life, ruins of a place they tell me used to be beautiful, prosperous.
” He walked past the burnt cars, and he knew that it wasn’t the first time he’d seen that, nor the first time he’d seen abandoned buildings, nor the first time he’d seen bodies.
It never got easier to see it, but he could soothe himself a little easier, know how to handle the pain.
“Because I know that we can still be happy among ruins. There can still be a life worth living after apocalypse.”
Ahead, they finally saw humanity. Not many, but a few people huddled, and Tadeo jogged on ahead, leaving Dina behind to watch as the boy shouted happily for his remaining family, all having prayed for his safety.
Lupina was there, as well, brightening up weakly, and sitting with some of Joana’s youngest siblings, a few neighbors, an old man who clapped his hands and cheered.
Children threw fists into the air and hollered in victory.
‘Victory?’ Dina thought that this couldn’t be victory. Everything was gone — homes, history, lives. But they were cheering a small victory. Among ruins, still daring to be happy and to live.
A voice in his head: ‘Dina.’ Apsinthos. ‘Dina, listen to me.’ The angel shut his eyes, and he listened to the distant sound of barking, the sound of a world refusing to die.
‘Dina!’ Urgent, panicked. ‘I’m still alive.
So are you. It’s not over.’ But Dina didn’t answer, hearing survivors shout in joy at the sight of Tadeo, kissing his cheeks.
Apsinthos’ voice was fading. Dina didn’t call it back.
The Lord took every hit, every shot, unmoving when Michael flew the highest of them all, raised his sword, brought it down.
Slow — cutting through a dark void of a crown, an inverted halo, and slicing downward, splitting their God.
But as the prince did, his hundred eyes widened, and he saw.
He heard, behind him, angels and demons and Watchers.
Their voices, all trampled over one another, a stampede of their thoughts, their sensations — all rushing Michael at once.
‘Michael.’ ‘Michael.’ ‘Michael.’ Chants of death.
He saw: a thousands Michaels, a thousand Lucifers, a thousand Earths, Watchers, demons, in every direction.
Mirrors, everywhere that he looked. He saw: infinite wars, occurring alongside them now.
The war for Heaven, the war for Earth, and now the war for Heaven and Earth.
In every time, every second, it was all occurring.
Eternal; infinite; forever. The never-ending cycle of this story. It will all end, to begin again.