Chapter 1 – Ithuriel
Heaven, Present Day
“A re you certain you wish to pledge yourself to this task, Ithuriel? You’ve never traversed Sheol by yourself.”
The archangel Saraqael stands at the center of my humble quarters, observing me as I gather those belongings that may prove useful on my quest. We are both in our mortal forms, though our wings are hidden. Saraqael's twenty-foot wingspan alone would be too large for my utilitarian quarters. Even folded, the highest points of the archangel’s majestic gold-dusted wings reach ten feet.
It’s uncertain why our mortal forms appear the way they do – we don’t exactly have an explanation within genetics. The color of our skin, hair, eyes, and even subtle nuances of our feathers make themselves known the first time we will ourselves into a humanoid shape. While demons also morph into various beastly shapes, we angels remain the same for eternity. We can only influence whether to manifest our wings physically or keep them out of sight.
Many of the older angels and archangels prefer to remain in an ethereal form – the one we were created into. Our human appearances were born out of necessity. Mortal minds cannot comprehend our forms of ether, and gazing upon them even caused physical harm to some fragile humans who have had an opportunity to do so.
Other angels – myself included – find physical exertions, such as battle training, to induce a state akin to meditation. Mortal forms also offer opportunities for more studious endeavors. On occasion, when allowed to do so, angelkind assisted with the advancement of humanity. These last decades, however, have proven that their advancement has been detrimental to themselves and their planet in many ways. As everything that unfolds is the will of the Most High, we do not question the harmful events occurring on Earth – we merely observe and document them.
“I have not wavered in my decision,” I assure my superior. Saraqael surpasses me in age and power, as well as in his position by the Most High’s throne. He has been a wise guide to younger angels for millennia.
I scrutinize my preferred sword for any imperfections in its cleanliness, just as I am accustomed to doing every day. My armor was similarly vetted before I donned it. Both weapon and armor glow like illuminated platinum, crafted by our best artisans from the purest Celestial steel.
The archangel crosses his arms and widens his stance. He has been observing me as closely as I have been observing my equipment. “It has been centuries since the majority of angels have conversed with humans. Add to that the fact none of us are ever adequately prepared for the horrors of Hell.”
I sheathe my sword in an ornate scabbard between my shoulder blades, then turn toward the backpack I began preparing yesterday. Shouldering the weight, I face my mentor and give him my undivided attention.
“That is precisely why I am the optimal choice for this mission.” I count off the reasons with my hands. “I am among the youngest of angels and no personal grudges are held against me in Hell.” I tap the second finger. “My skills with a sword are second only to those of archangels.” I’m not boasting, it’s a matter of fact. I indicate my last point by tapping on the third finger. “I am also among the minority that spend the most amount of their time in a mortal form. I am far less likely to act in ways a human would find unnatural.”
Saraqael is as familiar with the reasoning behind my choice as I am. It is a peculiarity of his, rehashing ad nauseam. Just as my peculiarity is ensuring my equipment is always in optimal shape. While angelkind share a raison d'être , no two angels are ever the same – in appearance and also in personality.
After a moment of silence, he concedes. “Very well, young one.”
We talk about a few of the finer points of my tasks as we exit the dormitory and make our way to the closest gate. Elysium is as glowing as ever; both sunlit and lit from within. I take a furtive look and drink in the sight of my home. I may be absent for weeks, perhaps even months. It has been a few centuries since I last battled in Hell, longer still since there was a need for me to go to Abaddon – the fortress where those fallen angels that remain loyal to Heaven reside. Commonly known as Purgatory, it is also where the current generation of Elioud live.
With the rapid population growth of humans come more souls in need of a final resting place. While Elysium expands to the needs of its occupants, Hell remains the size at which it was made many millennia ago, after the first angels fell.
Very few vile mortals become demons – the majority are corrupted angels and their offspring or creations. Most human souls in Hell are disembodied and mindless things. An exception is made for the souls of the blackest humans – those are aware of their suffering in the Burning Pits. When an area of Hell becomes too densely packed with such souls, they gain a shape of sorts; like a cloud of the worst acid rain. Such amorphous manifestations have become more numerous these last decades – though we now know that the archdemon Belial augmented the numbers.
The Celestial Council, a lawmaking body comprised of both angels and demons, decided that the Fallen living in Purgatory were no longer enough to police the human world from such manifestations and also any escaped demonic minions. With another nudge from Belial, the Elioud were enlisted.
As the offspring of Celestials, whether the relative is a grandparent or someone hundreds of years down the family tree, these Nephilim (with angelic blood) and Cambion (with demonic blood) are capable of using the ether to manipulate their surroundings. At least once they are brought to the Underworld. They are also stronger and heal faster than humans with no Celestial ancestry.
Some months ago, the Council was made aware of a rift in Hell – an opening through which weaker demons may enter the human realm and wreak havoc. Protecting humanity is the sacred duty of angels. If the humans of this modern era discovered otherworldly creatures, an apocalypse would surely follow. Their first choice would be to throw life-destroying weapons wherever there is a threat, essentially causing their own genocide. And even demons, at least the more rational among them, know that with a massive extermination of humans, their greatest supply of nourishment would dwindle.
The Elioud were sent to the domain of the missing Asmodai – or Asmodeus as he is perhaps better known to humans today. The rift, however, was not there. This information was confirmed by another archdemon on the Council, Ashtaroth.
And so, here I walk today, approaching one of Heaven’s gates, on my way to join forces with Purgatory in discovering where this rift lies, with a secondary mission in the human realm – discovering which other humans with Celestial blood Belial may have conspired with before his imprisonment in the Burning Pits.
Saraqael and the other angels on the Council insisted the soldier from Purgatory be a Nephilim, and, apparently, the fallen angel Maalik, with whom I had some encounters in the Underworld before, has the perfect candidate within the team he has been mentoring.
We stop in front of the gate. It’s a circular waypoint decorated with the glowing symbols of our language; an alphabet that those unable to speak it refer to as Malachim. If I could travel using the ether, I wouldn’t need to rely on fixed locations like this.
“Take care, Ithuriel. Do not hesitate to reach out to us when you require assistance.” Saraqael means well and I find no offense with his words. Refusing to ask for aid from your superiors makes you a slave to pride, a sin governed by that ancient archdemon, Ashtaroth. I bow at the waist, my fisted hand placed over my heart. It is a necessary affectation of this form; nonverbal communication is much simpler in our ethereal forms, and emotions, such as respect towards an elder, can be conveyed with clearer nuances while in it.
Saraqael tilts his head in reciprocity, though I would never presume to expect it. I turn on my heel and step onto the waypoint. With a few spoken words and clear intent, I will it to transport me to Abaddon.
∞∞∞
Upon arriving in Purgatory, I’m greeted by a hurried murmured conversation. I lift my gaze from the gray stone floor, unchanged since I walked here last, and step toward the four figures who immediately stop talking. Maalik is flanked by two Elioud women, one with long reddish-blonde hair tied in a tight high ponytail, the other, taller one, with loose auburn hair.
Behind them, arms crossed and leaning against the wall with one foot braced on it, leg cocked, is somebody I used to know well before his fall. My eyes widen and my jaw goes slack. I’ve successfully avoided Sariel for all these many centuries, yet here he is, with a smirk on his face which tells me just how much he enjoys the shock I must display at seeing him. His eyes are… completely black. No white or color in them at all. They were once a clear, bright sky blue.
Maalik, likely sensing the tension in the air, clears his throat loudly. “Welcome to Purgatory, Ithuriel. It’s been a long time.”
Sariel snorts and his voice fills the hallway that is the designated destination for waypoint or portal travel. “Longer since I’ve seen him, I’m sure. It’s almost like he’s been avoiding me.”
“I have been avoiding you,” I answer coolly, though his smile only widens. For several centuries, over a millennium ago, Sariel and I were inseparable, one never to be found without the other. When Sariel began voicing his desires to interact with mankind, I thought it was a phase, merely momentary curiosity.
The emotions his fall wrought within me were powerful and perilous to my standing in Heaven. It took centuries, but I made my peace with it eventually. Or so I thought. Seeing him here now… I’m once more suffused by a feeling of unexpected longing… mixed with betrayal. It hits me like a fist in the gut.
“Ahem.” The redhead clears her throat far more delicately than Maalik did. I glance at her, then back toward my once-friend, now casually rubbing his chin. My eyes, however, snap right back to the woman.
“You sold your soul,” I accuse. I see now that the woman is a descendant of a Nephalem, a rare child of angels and demons. I had vaguely known the angel Ariel who defected to be with a demon decades ago, but she was destroyed soon after. No child had been made known to us. At least those of us not in the highest tiers of Elysium. My eyes narrow at her. “And you… feel like an archdemon.”
She blushes then flutters the fingers of her left hand, palm facing inward, showing a ring made out of demonic steel, the corrupted brother of angelic steel, and fitted with a large amber stone. Upon closer examination, I can see hellfire burning within it. I recognize the power output in it. “That would be my husband you feel,” she says.
“Ashtaroth wed you?” My brows rise. This is unexpected.
Sariel snorts again and inserts himself into the conversation once more, making it impossible to ignore him. “Wedded and bedded, old friend .”
“You are not my friend,” I interject, but he ignores me and continues.
“Living with them is a nightmare, everything constantly reeks of sex – my dick is perpetually hard,” he finishes, winking at me.
I somehow manage to choke on my own inhaled breath. A coughing fit follows and my face turns crimson. This mortal form can be very inconvenient. I compose myself, studiously averting my gaze from that evil smirk. He always enjoyed shocking me, though I have never heard anything even remotely as crude as his words now were.
The Nephalem who sold her soul – a mostly pure and uncorrupted soul – to an archdemon she also wed is an oddity I will ponder on later. “Are you the Nephilim I’m to work with?” I ask the shorter of the women, the leather-clad blonde with what seems to be a curved scimitar sheathed at her hip.
She flushes at my attention, her lashes fluttering with anxious blinks. Perhaps I’m the first Heavenly angel she has ever seen? Yes, that is likely why I unsettle her.
“T-that’s me,” she stutters and somehow manages to flush a deeper shade of red. My gaze is drawn to the way her downcast eyes show off her long pale lashes. I expect Sariel to make an inappropriate remark about her bashful behavior. When he doesn’t, I allow myself to look at him again. A chill skitters down my spine at the intense calculating look he aims at the back of the girl’s head. I frown at him and he must sense my attention – his depthless black eyes snap to mine and his face rearranges itself into an unaffected, slightly mocking mien.
“We wanted to send Liam with you, Ithuriel, but he managed to shatter his tibia just yesterday. He’ll be out of commission for a few weeks. Jessica is just as skilled, however,” Maalik says, making the girl’s nervous smile twitch.
“I’ll be there to look after them anywho,” Sariel chirps enthusiastically.
“What?” I say at the same time as the tall woman with an archdemon’s signature does. Jessica’s eyes bounce between the four of us.
“Is this why you insisted on coming with me?” The demon’s bride says through gritted teeth.
“No,” Sariel replies pleasantly. “I was curious who they’d send. Besides, I wanted to fuck with Kevin a bit. Not literally, of course.” He grins at the angry woman, showing off plenty of even white teeth. I don’t know what relationship they have, or who this Kevin is, but they seem to be close. Perhaps, they are as close as we once were… I send the thought off with irritation, focusing on present matters.
“We do not require your assistance,” I snap at him, then instantly regret any show of emotion as his eyes widen in triumph.
“Consider me Hell’s contribution to the mission.” His smile slips into a look of fury I don’t understand. “Also, I was the one present when those filthy humans under Belial’s influence incinerated Armaros. I have the right to join.”
I freeze. “Armaros is gone?” The fallen angel was another member of the younger generation of angels. He fell with the Watchers, centuries after Sariel. I did not even know they found each other here in the Underworld, let alone that he was the Fallen burned by those humans under Belial’s orders. They never shared the angel’s name.
Sariel’s face twists with disgust. “You never even bothered to find out if it was a friend that died?”
I’m unsure if he meant the possibility of it being him or if we are still talking about Armaros. Regardless, I’m the one to flush this time. I don’t answer him, having no words that wouldn’t potentially inflame the situation further. Maalik, Jessica, and the now confused redhead just observe us quietly.
Sariel shakes his head at my silence. “I’ll be right back,” he tells Maalik. To his female friend, he says, “Don’t get into trouble, Lana, or Ash will eviscerate me for leaving you alone.”
She hisses at him. “I’m stronger than you are now, dickcheese!” But Sariel already disappeared before the crude words left her lips. It seems he is strong enough to use the ether for travel.