“Can’t get any clearer than that, boy,” Lehash answered with the slightest hint of a smile. “Your daddy’s the Devil.”
Verchiel strode through the abandoned Saint Athanasius School, his heavy footfalls echoing ominously. The five remaining Archons followed close behind. The Powers had been diminished greatly in the devastating battle at Aerie and a part of him wished he had died that day as well. Opening the Nephilim’s throat with his burning blade before his own life was taken by the elemental forces unleashed there would have been a satisfying end. But it was not to be. The Archons had been watching, and they conjured a doorway to retrieve him. At the time he had been enraged by their audacity and had lashed out at his loyal magick wielders, killing two of them before finally succumbing to his injuries.
Verchiel reached the classroom at the end of the hallway and entered.
The blind healer, Kraus, was changing a bandage on the prisoner’s arm. It had been this same human servant who had also helped Verchiel to heal after the battle at Aerie, and during his recovery he realized that the Archons had been correct. It was not yet time for him to die. There were things that he still had to do.
The leader of the Powers seethed at the sight of the imprisoned angel. Here was the source of all his misery, the reason for the fall. He thought of the Nephilim and the prophecy he personified; it too was because of him—the first of the fallen. The depravities this creature was responsible for appeared limitless, and Verchiel would rather bring about an end to all things than see this one forgiven by God.
“Hey, there,” his captive said in a voice that oozed with disrespect. “I was having a bit of a problem with the burns on my arms, and Kraus here said he could help me out.”
Verchiel stifled the urge to smother the human servant in fire. He had to remind himself that humans were merely animals. Most of the time they meant no offense, but to see his servant caring for the needs of his prisoner was almost more than he could tolerate.
“Away from the cage,” he ordered the sightless creature, and watched as Kraus obediently gathered up his supplies, and using the wall to guide him, scurried from the room.
“Nice guy, that Kraus,” the angel in the cage said, admiring the bandage that covered his arm. “He thinks the world of you.”
Mere days ago the prisoner’s flesh had been charred to black, but now, other than a few stubborn patches, he had completely healed. Verchiel recalled the burns that he had suffered as a result of his first battle with the Nephilim, and how they still had not completely healed.
A tiny pair of eyes stared at him hostilely from the bare shoulder of his adversary. Verchiel would have found it strangely compelling that the mouse had chosen to remain with the prisoner, but there were things of a far more important nature for him to ponder than the actions of vermin. The first of the fallen was the Creator’s greatest failure, and to have him absolved of his sins would mean that all Verchiel had dedicated himself to had been a lie, that what he had achieved in the name of the Father was all for nothing. It was enough to drive him mad.
Verchiel stared at the angel imprisoned behind bars of magickally imbued metal, and felt his hatred bubble forth. “Open the cage,” he ordered the Archons behind him.
Archon Jaldabaoth raised a long, spidery hand, and uttered a spell of release. The door of the prisoner’s confines slowly swung open with a high-pitched whine. But the prisoner did not move.
The absolution of the Morningstar would be a devastating blow to his cause. Verchiel could not allow that to happen. He would complete his sacred mission, whether it be the will of God or not. He would see it through, for it was what he believed to be right.
“Step out of your cage … Lucifer,” Verchiel said the name as though there were pieces of glass lodged in his throat.
“That’s the first time you’ve called me by name since we’ve been together,” the prisoner said, still peering through the bars. “To what do I owe that?”
“Get out of the cage!” Verchiel shouted, the rage inside him becoming more difficult to contain.
All the pain, sorrow, and misery that Lucifer had caused was collected by the power of the Almighty and placed inside the vessel that was the Morningstar’s corporeal form. For as long as he existed, he would suffer the magnitude of what he had done. This was the first of the fallen’s punishment—his penance.
Lucifer carefully eased his naked frame from the prison. “What’s this, Verchiel?” he asked. “Don’t tell me you’ve seen the error of your ways and are letting me go.”
Verchiel’s wings snapped opened. “Silence!” he bellowed, raising a sword of fire above his head.
His sudden movement startled the mouse upon his captive’s shoulder, and it leaped to the ground to scamper off to a hiding place.
The prisoner fixed him in an icy stare. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Bad couple of days?”
The Archons moved forward, ancient arcanum spilling from their mouths. They extended their arms toward Lucifer and he was enveloped in an aura of crackling energy. The prisoner screamed, a long, mournful wail that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside, and his body went rigidly stiff as he was lifted up by the power of the angel magicians.
“Is it there?” Verchiel asked as they swayed to some silent song of another’s misery.
“The accumulated sorrow of the universe,” Archon Oraios hissed, his body trembling.
“Locked away,” added Archon Jao.
“Sealed away behind barricades fortified by His word,” Archon Jaldabaoth explained.
Archon Domiel started to twitch, his body suddenly racked by convulsions. “Powerful magicks were used here,” he said, his voice rising in pitch. “Powerful magicks that keep us at bay.”
Verchiel did not want to hear this. The maelstrom of desolation locked away inside the first of the fallen was to be his weapon. Unleashed it would bring a veritable Hell to the world of God’s favored creations.
“Tear them down!” Verchiel screamed. “Remove the obstructions and allow Heaven’s suffering to flow free.”
Archon Katspiel was the first to suffer for his arrogance. The angelic magick user cried out as his eyes exploded from his head in a geyser of steaming gore, and he crumpled to a moaning, quivering mass upon the floor. The other Archons broke contact with the first of the fallen, setting his body free from their hold.
“What has happened?” Verchiel bellowed, stalking toward them, murder in his gaze. “Why have you stopped?”
The Archons knelt before their injured brother, attempting to heal his wounds with incantations of healing.
“The barriers are too strong,” Archon Domiel said with a shake of his head. “Katspiel attempted to peel away the layers and it gave him but a taste of what was locked behind them.”
“You will remove these obstructions and set this force free,” Verchiel demanded.
“But the word of God…,” Archon Oraios tried to explain.
“The word of God shall be broken,” Verchiel spat. He would have victory at any cost.
“I’d do anything to be free of it,” said the weakened voice of the angel that had started it all. Lucifer was picking his naked form up off the ground, his body shivering as if in the grip of unimaginable cold. “But even I know what it would do if it were ever set free—I could never be that selfish, to let it loose upon the world.”
“It’s what they deserve, really,” Verchiel said with venom, leaving the huddled Archons and walking to him. “What He deserves for having abandoned me.”
Lucifer laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. “You … you can’t be serious.”
“Can’t I?” he asked, a cruel smile spreading across his face, and for a brief moment, Verchiel felt a special camaraderie with his prisoner.
With the first of the fallen.