Conversations with the Light Bearer (Religious Satire)

CHAPTER XXIV - Holy Be Thy Name

CHAPTER XXIV

Holy Be Thy Name

Michael looked dumbstruck, as if he'd made the greatest mistake of his life. Nothing could top it off. The impostor might have fooled me earlier with his amplified voice and all, but his arrogance and unmanageable temper got the better of him. "Damn you, Lucifer!" Michael roared in his rage. "Now that you know, I'm going to have to kill you!" Thunder growled from above, a deep rumble broken by a sharp and piercing crackle.

I approached him, slowly, challenging him face to face. "Rematch?"

Michael breathed to my face. The Archangel of God was a man made of scars and muscle, armored in plate and cloaked in gold. A winged helm covered his golden hair down to his thick jaw, and on his belt was the Sword of God, the damn blade he stabbed me with so long ago. "You know I can finish you with one blow, dear brother."

"And you know I can burn you to ashes before you even touch me," I said in return.

The tension rose as two of the most powerful entities prepared to clash: two auras, two forces—fire and thunder once again. Michael may have had his strength and power, but I myself still had a few tricks up my sleeve.

"Are you ready?" said Michael.

"Bring it."

As both of us aimed for the initial strike, and before it could even connect with the other, a sudden flash of light burst between us, creating a force so strong as to hurl and thrust us at opposite ends. We tumbled and rolled, like a pair of garbage bags thrown out of the back door.

"You shall cease this insolence," said Metatron, standing boldly between us, "for such petty quarrel does not belong in the House of the Lord."

I pushed myself to my feet, wiping the blood from my lips. "House of the Lord, eh?" I snickered. "So where is the damn fellow?!"

Michael stood as well, grunting. "Stand aside, woman! This is not your fight!"

"Silence, foolish one." Metatron raised her hand against him. "You have already proven yourself unworthy of the title. Now you should stand aside."

"No!" the brute roared, ripping out the Sword of God. "The throne is mine! Mine!" Losing his patience, his temper, and possibly, his mind, Michael bolted forward like a bull, charging rampantly, blinded by rage and consumed by pride. "The throne is mine! Mine! Mine! Mine—"

With those last words, Michael exploded, his blood raining all over the floor, like red paint splattered on a hollow canvas. There was nothing left of him, not even skin nor gut nor bone, nothing but the Sword of God as it flew and spun and pierced the ground beside me. Thrumming from the impact, the majestic steel brandished an immaculate golden haze, a blinding light of hallowed perfection. The Great Archangel of God was dead, and it was only in that instant that I realized I was not standing beside another mere angel, but a god herself.

I fell to my knees, shocked and shuddering. "Michael. . ."

The Voice of God sighed. "Finally. Silence."

"W-Who are you?" I muttered, a little tinge of fear in my tone.

Metatron turned to me with her rigid, blank expression. "Oh, I almost forgot about you, Light Bearer. Where were we?"

"Tell me," I said, staring at the pool of blood that was once my brother. "Are you God? Are you the Almighty One?"

She gazed at me, sternly, perhaps pondering on the proper words to say. "No, Light Bearer. I am not God."