First of the Fallen (Neophyte Series 1)

31. Of Light and Shadow

             MICHAEL WAS DEAD, HE WAS NEVER MORE SURE. Just as he remembered that day with Raphael on the riverbank, time had seized to a grinding halt, like the gears of life itself had rusted and jammed still in an instant.

    'No.' he whispered with a haunting echo, staring with disbelief at the horrible sight with paralyzing defeat, his phantom eyes trapped in mourning. Michael would not make it out alive; he knew this now. The only hope remained was that his death would not be in vain—that by some miracle, the others would find a way to make it out in once piece.

    Upon the stairs of the topmost platform, Urielle was frozen in time mid-scream, locked in the throes of struggle while many disfigured abominations held her back, gnawing on her flesh, grotesque and difficult to behold. There was nothing human left of them; mindless cannibals, hungry for human flesh—anything to sustain eons of starvation, no doubt. Samael was locked mid-stumble behind her, unable to find his footing amongst the chaos, ash and embers.

    'Don't stall.' His words echoed with a pungent mourning, hoping either could hear his words. 'Save yourselves, for the love of God.' The mention of his Maker seemed to curl his stomach, as though a silent bitterness plagued his very soul. 'Will you not help us?' he whispered with trembling lips in a would-be prayer, but his ghostly eyes remained indifferent and empty. Then, a voice replied from somewhere unseen, one he could not identify indefinitely, and would trigger no visual shock or response, almost as though he had somehow expected an answer.

    'No one may intervene, for this is a lesson you must learn on your own.' the male voice carried a similar tone to that of a departed friend, someone he had not known had already passed away not thirty feet from him. However, this being—whoever it was—their voice seemed to shift mid-sentence, fluctuating between Judas Iscariot and an elderly man, it seemed.

    'What fucking lesson!?' emotions hit him unexpectedly, snapping out of his ethereal trance with frustration and anguish. 'Can you not see all hope is lost?'

    'There was never much hope.' replied the calm voice. 'Humble yourself that you have managed to make it this far, against all odds—'

    'But it wasn't supposed to be this way!' his voice trembled, defeated in every sense of the word. 'We destroyed an entire ring of Hell—unleashed the damned upon countless innocent souls, for what?'

    'Indeed so, Archangel . . . indeed so.' the stranger's voice finally settled upon the elderly tone, almost as if it had willfully decided to identify not as Judas—or Ariel, but another. 'All that comes to fruition is part of a grand plan, child; I trust you know this. Do not trifle yourself with burdens not meant for your shoulders.'

    'How do I fight this . . . such insatiable evil?' Michael asked as he looked upon his fleshly vessel, consumed by Black Matter, and clearly dead.

    'Learn, M'boy.' replied the unseen stranger, and it was then that he began to worry that he who spoke was something dark in nature. 'Not all is lost . . . not yet.'

    'It's you isn't it?' he sighed, feeling the last of his will slipping away with every word. 'Lucifer?'

    'Wise is he who can truly differentiate between what is good and what is evil. This world is beset amongst the grey and indifferent, and man is all too quick to judge between what is right and just, and what is vile and scheming. So easily lead astray and misled, the hearts of men. In your anguish and fatigue, you shout that it wasn't supposed to be this way, but I must counter that this is exactly how it was meant to be. Had you trust in your Maker, you would know this; had you the will to listen, your faith—'

    'Faith?' Michael yelled out of sheer grief as the atmosphere darkened significantly. 'I've stood in His presence; I've knelt before Him personally. What more could He possibly want from me?' tears glazed his ghostly eyes. 'My heart has stopped, and your God waits until the last possible moment to have me what . . . soul search? The fuck are playing at—'