The only thing an Angel fears is Death…
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Steve A Johnson (Pexels.com).
This is the first of my short stories intended to expand on the world established in another story, Corruption Of Mortality. My writer-friend and I are planning a short story anthology, and this will be one of my contributions to the anthology. Enjoy a cosmic and philosophical story – all taking place in one room…
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“Balu Jhaxis’evere.” “The Coming of the Interminable.” Iberios’ twin stomachs knotted themselves around each other as he considered the message. He remembered, just a few rotations prior to the sunbloom, when the Herald had delivered the message to his Hall. He had been furious upon first hearing the news; even now, almost a full star spiral since the Herald had first delivered the message, simply thinking of it made his body tense.
He had refused, initially, to believe that the Crooked Gods would dare send the Angels such a message. But after hearing that the High Bearers of the other Angelic Enclaves had received the same message, he had been forced to accept its trueness.
They will never receive our Biddance, Iberios thought, feeling the fabrics of his gown constrict on his chest, as if they too felt his stress. The Biddance must be unanimous, and I, at least, will oppose it. If they break that, then they shall face the wrath of He Who Lurks Above. Eternal damnation be to all them and their crooked, iron hearts!
He shifted uncomfortably on his throne, both hands gripping the cool metal of the arm rests. The metal was smooth, and as he gripped it, it moulded to his hands like liquid clay. He tried to ignore the steady hoofbeat of his heart as it clobbered his chest. His twin pairs of writhing tentacles – gleaming with the same pale blue as the rest of his body – wrapped themselves around his chest, stroking the shoulders of his gown reassuringly.
He was distracted by the flicker of movement overhead, as a silver blur span and pirouetted through the gloom-shrouded arches and canyons of the Hall’s ceiling. To the pair of silver Angel wings, the runes engraved in the ceiling had little meaning: they were more concerned with their fluttering and spiralling, as they hurtled through the room like a fledgling Angel who had had just learned how to fly. The tall, cylindrical throne room was the perfect place for them to play.
Iberios’ five second-mouths – arranged in a concentric ring around his larger, primary mouth – softened slightly into lipless smiles. His first-mouth was firmly clamped in a cold grimace. His mouths were the only part of his face not hidden behind his half-mask: the only access to his emotions he granted the outside world.
As much as he tried to distract himself with watching the wings play, he was constantly faced with the reminder of the Crooked Gods’ threat. He could not help ease the mounting heaviness laying on his chest at the thought that he might lose his Angel wings.
Balu Jhaxis’evere.
The last time those words had been issued, war had ensued between the Angels and the Crooked Gods. He Who Lurks Above had proven to the Gods that they were not as interminable as they had thought, but so many Angels had lost their spark of Creation in the process. A wingless Angel was a terrible thing to see.
He remembered creating his wings, so long ago, in the Star Forge. After reciting the ancient hymns and chants, he had severed his left arm with his dragu’un blade. That arm had since been forged into wings.
His eyes now fixed on that arm, as it gripped the flexible metal of his chair’s armrest. In place of his arm, he had been gifted a Fist of Creation by one of the Elder Seers. The Fist was shaped like any other Angel arm: it was gaunt, with four creaking elbow joints and a hand of ten fingers. But where his other arm was painted with pale-blue skin, his fist was instead covered in a smattering of bright stars and nebulae, gleaming from the bluish black of space. It was a portal to the Heart of Creation, to the nebulae where the Cataclysm had originated: the stars of the Great Nebula swirled and coiling, broiling with energy, heat, and the fury of Creation.
It was with a full smile – of both his second- and first-mouths – that Iberios remembered his latest Creation. John Wesley-Turrot, the to-be son of William and Agnes Wesley-Turrot. A Human.
He gently stroked the edge of his Fist of Creation, being careful not to pierce the boundary of the portal. It emanated a soft warmness, like stroking a hot cloud. ‘
Iberios did much enjoy crafting Humans. Not that the other Angelic Enclaves understood. Only the Heart Enclave realised Humanity’s true potential.
His eyes traced down the platinum steps leading to his throne. Ten paces away from the bottom of the steps, the air twisted. Distorted into the Veil. The hum of static blasted sharply through the throne room, and it was as if the entire room was being sucked into the Veil. The Veil disappeared quickly, its distortion fading to reveal a tall, dark figure. Another Angel.
Unlike the flowing gown of his master, High Bearer Iberios, Kansall wore a suit of gleaming armour, fashioned so keenly to his body shape it fitted him like an insect’s chitin shell. In one pale-blue hand, he carried a spear with an ice-crystal blade; his four tentacles rested on the hilts of his dragu’un knives, nestled in a horizontal line of sheaths across his chest.
Kansall wore his face openly, where Iberios wore a sinewed half-mask. The faces of Angels were the model upon which Human skulls had been Created: hairless, lipless, and with a sunken compression at their centre that was their nasal cavity. Kansall’s empty eye sockets were lit by blue flame.
Not one of Iberios’ mouths smiled for Kansall. The singular gold eye that adorned his mask narrowed. ‘They are here already?’
Kansall nodded. ‘Yes, Bearer.’
‘And from the other Enclaves, anything?’ Iberios’ eyes scoured the bodyguard’s face. ‘Have all the Crooked Gods arrived to the Dome?’
‘Only one.’ The blue lights of Kansall’s eyes dimmed slightly as he sighed. ‘Each of the Enclaves have received one of the Gods of Destruction.’
‘ “Crooked Gods,” ’ Iberios corrected sharply, mouths tight. A slight smile played on one of his second-mouths. He felt a lung tighten at the mere mention of the Crooked Gods’ other name.
The blue light of Kansall’s eyes flared brightly for a second, then dimmed quite suddenly. He bowed his head, tapping his one free arm against his head. ‘Apologies, Bearer. I do not mean the insult.’
‘Do not forget who you are.’ Iberios nodded slowly, gold eye blinking quick. His grip on the smooth, malleable surface of his arm rests tightened. ‘The Crooked Gods did not accept you at your Birth. You are a Creator and bound to me.’ Beneath his half-mask, a sharp inhalation of breath rattled through his nasal cavity. ‘The Doctrine still holds, even if the Crooked Gods would like to deny it.’
‘I apologise, Bearer.’ Kansall’s voice was stiff, and as he returned to full height, the brightness of his light-eyes was much diminished.
‘So, we have a Crooked God waiting in the atrium?’ Iberios chattered his teeth, thinking to himself. He found the dink-dink-dink of his chattering teeth reassuring. ‘Donathaer, I assume?’
Kansall hesitated, then shook his head. ‘Donathaer has graced the Blackthorns. We have received Barrass.’
‘Gabriel of the Heart Enclave was Donathaer’s brother. He is bound to us by blood.’ Iberios’ golden eye went wide, and another sharp breath echoed down his nasal cavity. ‘Now he chooses to ignore his blood bonds?’
Kansall tapped his spear gently against the tiled floor. ‘The Doctrine is ruled by blood bonds.’
‘I see.’ Iberios sighed. He felt the space in his chest where he should have a heart begin to twist and writhe. His two stomachs joined the medley, jolting him to nausea.
‘Barrass the Fire-Sent is the Second of the Gods of Destruction.’ Kansall tapped his spear quickly on the tiles. ‘Crooked Gods, I meant, Bearer,’ he acknowledged. ‘While he is no Donathaer, it is still a great honour to receive him, Bearer. That is what the Doctrine says.’
Iberios sniffed away that last challenging remark. ‘There is no honour in receiving the Second when the Blackthorns receive the First,’ he spat.
He raised his Fist of Creation and whistled shrilly twice. In a smooth arc, his Angel wings descended, landing on his Fist like a hawk landing on a falconer’s arm. The feathers of the wings were soft, though from other angles were as hard and as sharp as the metals at a star’s heart. He smiled at Kansall with all six mouths, admiring the bodyguard’s wingless form.
‘Shall we receive him?’ The plainness of Kansall’s tone only irritated Iberios further, as did the sly smirk that had infected two of the bodyguard’s five second-mouths. ‘He is in our atrium, Bearer,’ the bodyguard reminded him, most helpfully.
As if I’ve forgotten, Iberios sneered to himself.
His tentacles fidgeted absentmindedly with his gown, while his hands kneaded the arm rests of his throne. Perched on his hand, he felt his wings’ feathers sharpening, as if preparing for a duel.
Receiving a Crooked God was as dangerous as turning one away. I have not endured such years as High Bearer of the Heart Enclave to be tossed by the Crooked Gods as they please.
His first instinct was to forbid entry to Barrass. The animalistic half of his brain – which he had tried so hard to eradicate over his many years of existence – went further, whispering words of retaliation. But retaliation was folly – especially against the Crooked Gods. An insult to Barrass the Fire-Sent would be a death sentence for any Angel Enclave. To retaliate, however threatened, would be to cede the protections of His Doctrine. Without need to adhere to the Doctrine, the Crooked Gods could slaughter them all.
But they need us for Biddance, Iberios thought. It is only on my word that they may ignore His Doctrine. The fear of He Who Lurks Above still keeps them still. The threat of their lives keeps them on His leash.
He swallowed, feeling his globule of spittle bob and weave amongst the varied pharynxes and organs of his digestive system. What if they no longer fear Him? He winced at the thought – not least as the sharpened feathers of his wings stabbed his arm. What if they know the forbidden knowledge?
But what if they no longer fear Him? That thought chilled him to his very bones. What if they know the forbidden knowledge?
‘Bearer Iberios, I need an answer,’ Kansall enunciated. His second-mouths opened and shut irritable with a plink-plink that made Iberios want to punch him. ‘Barrass is in the Dome. A thousand flaming changelings await outside the Dome’s walls.’
That line made Iberios wince. Barrass had brought his changeling legions with him, to the Dome? There was no precedent in the Doctrine for that. The Doctrine forbade war on celestial lands, and the Dome of Infants’ Love was as celestial as them all. The Angel Gabriel, a hero and a fallen of the First War, had been born and had died in these walls; it was in the Dome that the Messiahs were conjugated. Barrass would never dare to attack such a place.
Iberios’ insides prickled, twisted, and coiled on themselves. Something felt wrong. Something felt…new.
He nodded sharply at Kansall. ‘Admit Barrass. Let us hope he does not bring his Fire with him.’
Kansall bowed, then with a quick tap of his spear on the tiles, disappeared into a Veil of distorted air. The sharp static buzzed in Iberios’ ears, and he flinched. He stroked his wings with his ordinary hand, feeling the feathers soften to blunt knives. He doubted he or the wings would be able to fully relax until this whole ordeal was long over.
A buzz of static. The air twisted as it pulled the room into the Veil. Then the Veil disappeared. Kansall stood, holding his spear high.
He did not come alone. Looming at his side was the hulking figure of Barrass the Fire-Sent, Second of the Crooked Gods.
Rocky ridges lined his craggy skin like jagged outcrops. He looked as if he had been chiselled out of a rock face. His shoulders were massive boulders supporting a blocky head of stone. His four arms were like thick trunks of iron. As he strode across the Hall, his legs crashed against the ground like toppled mountains.
On sight of Iberios, Kansall bowed his head. Barrass remained tall. He stared at the High Bearer, his crimson eyes gleaming like embers of a dying star.
His scorching gaze burned through Iberios’ rationality – and for a moment, he was transfixed in a swirling vortex of crimson and scarlet. Heat burned his face, and a weight seemed to punch into his chest, winding him of breath, sending gushes of exasperation leaking from his nasal cavity. He could feel it, all around: storms of anger, tides of hate, an ocean of suffering. The vortex knew such terrible things. So much death, and even things that made death seem a mercy.
He shook himself, gripping the arm rest tightly, feeling the coolness of the metal. The vortex disappeared. Swallowing, blinking the great gold eye that adorned his mask, he rose himself tall on his throne, matching the Crooked God’s lecherous glare. ‘You who has entered my Hall, declare yourself.’ He spoke quietly, with a whispering thunder in his words.
‘You know who I am,’ Barrass growled, like the rumble of an earthquake; the Dome’s foundations seemed to shudder at the echo of his words. ‘You shall address me as you know you should.’
‘You stand in the Dome of Infants’ Love, dear Crooked God.’ Iberios relished the slight twitch in Barrass’ face at the name. ‘This is my Hall, and I am its master.’
‘ “Crooked God”?’ Barrass’ broad smile cut through his boulderous head. ‘Would you speak thus to Donathaer?’
Iberios’ gold eye narrowed, mouths tightening. ‘It is not Donathaer who stands before me. You may be Gabriel’s twin, but that does not exalt you amongst our number. You are a God of great power, but we are myths incarnate.’
Barrass’ thick lips, like the lips of a sentient gargoyle, twisted. ‘And still you are chained to the myth of His Doctrine.’ He grunted. ‘I, Barrass the Fire-Sent, am thankful for the kindness with which your Heart Enclave has shown me.’
The only acknowledgement Iberios gave of Barrass’ sarcasm was a sharp sniff. He drew himself as upright as he would allow, filling his throne. But there was something about the Crooked God’s look that unnerved him, as if Barrass already thought he had won. But won what? Stroking the feathers of his Angel wings, he repressed a wince at the sharpness of the wings’ feathery plumage.
‘Bow your head, Barrass de’Laernium’ – Iberios’ first-mouth smiled – ‘and I might allow your changeling legions to remain where they are, outside the sacred lands of the Dome.’ He kept his voice measured and calm. A quick glance and nod at Kansall told the bodyguard not to panic.
At being called by his Ancient Name, Barrass bristled. His face tightened, and his eyes seemed to burn with enough heat they could melt the heart of He Who Lurks Above.
‘Why are you here?’ Iberios asked. He injected a mite of sharpness to his words.
The anger melted slightly from Barrass’ face. ‘I am here to claim Biddance,’ he boomed. His voice did not tremor with quite the same strength as before, but enough that Iberios still gripped his throne tight – and that the feathers of his Angel wings remained sharp and deadly.
Iberios twitched. Barrass’ answer was not unexpected, but hearing it spoken made it more real. ‘You come to claim Biddance such that you may touch the Children of the Angels? There is only one thing Crooked Gods would want with our Children: to destroy them.’
Barrass nodded slowly, neck grating like gravel as it angled his head up and down. ‘The time for mankind is over.’
Iberios shook his head. ‘We will not let you touch our Children.’
Barrass laughed. ‘They are not your Children.’
‘We Created them.’ Iberios flexed the fingers of his Fist of Creation. ‘We breathed lifeblood into them.’
Barrass’ eyes narrowed to flaming slits – like trickles of lava running through a sinew of rock. ‘Mankind are the Watcher’s Children.’
Iberios froze. His breath caught in his throat. He did not say…that name…did he? The Doctrine of He Who Lurks Above. It is as if Barrass is asking to be smited… Kansall looked equally as shocked as he was.
Barrass’ face twisted into a grin. ‘Mankind are the Watcher’s Children, fashioned by you on his behalf.’
Iberios inhaled sharply. ‘Inside this Dome, you will abide by the Doctrine–’
Barrass laughed a creaking, wheezy laugh. ‘Are you Angels so afeared of the Watcher?’
‘Have you sense?!’ Iberios spat, rising to his feet. His wings looped over his shoulder, attaching themselves to his back, and before he knew it, he had a sword-sized feather in each hand; Kansall had already unsheathed his dragu’un blades with his tentacles. ‘You must not speak His true name. That is the Doctrine.’
‘I do not fear the Watcher.’ Barrass opened his arms wide. ‘We will destroy Humankind – with or without your Biddance.’
Iberios’ six mouths twisted into disfigured snarls, and his gold eye blinked frantically. ‘I deny your Biddance, and per the Doctrine, no Biddance can be accepted. You Crooked Gods will face his wrath!’
‘One day, someone needs to trim your wings – yours and all the other Angels’.’ Barrass shook his head. ‘ “Crooked Gods.” That blasted name you call us, as you pretend to be something more than us, something higher than us–’
Iberios clenched his jaw. ‘The power to Create far exceeds the powers of Destruction.’ His raised his Fist of Creation: its starry surface gleamed.
‘You create only what the Watcher orders–’
‘You will not call him by that name – not in this Dome!’ Iberios roared.
‘You are His slaves!’ Barrass growled. ‘Your power extends only so far as He allows it. That is no real power at all. But the Watcher has no power over the Gods of Destruction. No power over us!’
‘He could kill you in an instant, render you to dust and ashes–’
‘Not even the Watcher can kill the unkillable.’ An amber gleam danced in Barrass’ scarlet eyes.
Air rushed through Iberios’ nasal cavity in a sudden gale. He shook his head. That was impossible. That knowledge had been hidden away by He Who Lurks Above in the dark kalpas of the past. No Angel or God could possibly have that knowledge.
‘We have come for Biddance,’ Barrass continued, ‘only out of respect for the Creators. But the Watcher’s Doctrine has no more power over us.’
It was then the true weight of the situation dawned on Iberios. Those flaming changelings outside, awaiting Barrass’ orders, were a real threat. If the Doctrine had no power over the Crooked Gods, then they did not even need the Angels’ Biddance to touch the mortal world.
‘The strength combined of the Gods of Destruction and the Angels of Creation…’ Barrass’ voice trailed off into a sigh. ‘That would be power enough to control the Universe – and beyond. The Multiverse…imagine the Creations your kind could invent with a whole Multiversal playground.’
The air seemed to lodge itself in Iberios’ throat, and for a second, he could not speak. Barrass’ confidence and blatant disregard for the Doctrine was evidence enough to suggest this wasn’t a bluff. His offer was real.
Death, that cold and lonely terror. But I can escape it. We all can.
But at the cost of my Children’s lives. At the cost of balance.
In a world without He Who Lurks Above, who can keep the powers of Creation and Destruction in check? In a world where we live forever, what is to stop us stagnating?
He stared deep into those eyes – those burning halos of fury and hate – of Barrass the Fire-Sent. A new strength resonated in him. ‘I reject your knowledge. I reject the Truth. You must leave immediately, with your changelings. No Biddance shall be granted to power-hungry Gods.’
‘You are weak,’ Barras snarled. ‘You are whipped! And now, my changelings shall know war!’ He pressed his middle finger into his forearm. Runes of lava ignited all over his arm – Runes of Heraldic Flame – and Kansall stepped back from him, brandishing his spear.
Iberios heard the first rumble of the changelings’ attack. A moment later, he was in the air, his Angel wings gleaming magnificently as they lifted him up.
Barrass bellowed loudly. In each of his four arms appeared an axe, blades as dark as midnight, as if cut from the void itself.
Iberios let loose a hissing shriek, brandishing the sharpened feathers in his hands. He did not hesitate, swooping low to meet Barras. His blow was swift and precise. Barrass’ axes hacked at empty space; Iberios drove a feathered point deep into Barrass’ chest. The firelight in Barrass’ eyes seemed to falter, fading to an ember.
‘Even us with the power of Creation know how to Destroy,’ Iberios growled, looming over the fallen God. ‘You cannot destroy Humanity. Their hearts are too strong, seeded with hope. You cannot–’
He felt the blade enter his back. Saw it emerge through the other side, poking out of his stomach and through the delicate fabric of his gown. His blood rained gently on the ground. He stared at the wound, dropping his sharpened feather-swords.
‘You always were the selfish one, Bearer.’
He recognised the voice at once. As he keeled over, onto the floor, flat on his back, he stared up at that dark face. Kansall.
‘Farewell, Bearer.’ Kansall turned away to tend to the fallen Crooked God.
Desperately, Iberios reached for him, mouthing hateful litanies. Kansall did not turn back to face him.
The rumblings of the changelings’ attack sent judders down Iberios’ spine. He stared up at the great curved ceiling of the Dome, engraved with runes. Through the translucent stone, he spied the shadows of the changelings as they tried to break through. The smell of sulphur and ozone was strong and bitter.
Cracks appeared in the Dome’s ceiling, quickly spreading across the entire ceiling. A giant, flaming hawk crashed through, and behind it spilled a retinue of other flaming creatures: changelings.
His face twisted. Changelings – inside the Dome!
All the breath left his body when he saw who followed the changelings. Angels. Their blue-skinned faces were full of hate. They soared inside, hissing and howling, prayers of death and destruction abounding their lips.
So, this explains it, he thought. They will do anything to save themselves.
He wheezed loudly, cradling his wound, trying to squeeze out an extra few seconds of life. His vision was darkening and a dreadful shiver had overtaken him. Cold, dark, lonely…
Death was the only power that could keep them in check. The only force that could terrify the immortal.
In those final seconds, as the cold, dark loneliness of the afterlife approached, Iberios did find himself reconsidering Barrass’ offer. He trembled at the thought that his life must leave him now. Dying for his Children. He only hoped their hearts could bear his sacrifice.
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