(no subject)

He was running like a madman, robes flaring out behind him; rosary beads pulling at his neck and swinging off. Suddenly he broke into the pavillion, angels, demons, and... Pilate. Good. He got the message. He raised his spear in a salute to the man, and then ran off to the dome of lightning. Uriel. He slammed to a second stop, his chest heaving both with air and outrage.

"You go too far, angel." His voice rumbled like thunder over his tongue, and he raised his spear to slam it against the barrier. Testing it. Lightning screamed and crackled around the spear-point, and he pulled back, roaring. He wouldn't be able to get at him that way.

He turned around, whirling. If Uriel was trapped there, let him be trapped. There were plenty enough demons here to keep him occupied. He offered another vicious roar, raising his spear in invitation and warning, cold hard eyes looking up at the demons.

"I am the cursed son of Adam!" His voice echoed. "Come, Demons, and let me know thee!"

~Last but not Least~

Pilate had gotten the call to report to the Pantheon. By mere coincidence he was not far and already he had seen miniscule shapes speeding across the sky. Angels.

Or demons. Demons had wings too.

He was only a man, but a man who had once been a Roman soldier. Who was still a soldier. As he ran up the hill to the height where the Pantheon stood he brought out the ancient coin warm from his touch and spoke in his ancient mother tongue. The spatha that appeared gleamed with ancient symbols of the Holy Father and the Trinity. He raced and ignored the sudden pang that erupted in his right knee. There was no gain unless there was pain. He had learned this lesson the hard way. He feared he was too late to do any good. Always too late. Too late when it mattered.

He knew Cain was coming. He had to be here now. But he saw no sign of the man. What he did see was angels and demons and it seemed there was only conflict. But not among who he had expected—there was conflict among God's own ranks.

(no subject)

Thick black lashes fluttered like the wings of a million butterflies, rich green hues glazed over with the liquid glow of lush dreams filled with the images of beautiful winged creatures. Eyes peered through the murky haze of blackness and back into the reality of the cruel world about the tiny creature. That was when it hit her, the stark and bitter truth that she was faced within, of the heavenly creature that cradled her within his strong arms as if she was nothing more then a flower, such a gentle and fragile thing. Something that could be torn from piece to piece if he so wished to do so. Not that he would, of course, but here she laid. Her body limped as it twitched slightly against his soft skin as eyes opened and she gazed witness upon it. Those large six white appendages that were illuminated by a glow all their own as she gasped, her hands coming up to hide eyes as they stood within the ruins of the large coliseum that laid within shattered pieces and broken bits. What had happened? Was this some sick fantasy? She had no idea why she had seen such things, after all she was nothing but a lowly creature, a poor whore, what plans had God made with her? Thick glistening drops threaten to spring forwards and roll down the lovely round cheeks of rouge as she sniffled slightly, knowing it was him who had caught her and brought her from the madness.


She whispered his name softly as she let eyes open fully to gaze upon his angelic face, knowing she had to stay calm and regain some form of her fleeting wits. A rich blush came to her cheeks as she felt them, those large raindrops pelting her cheeks and gently wetting her eyes as she drew close to him and the magical touch he had. A rich sob broke through her chest as she pulled back, fingers coming up to try and stop the flood of black liquid streaming down her face as she sniffed like a child. She was like a child, broken, and unsure of the world around her. That if the reality she had assumed to be true really was the reality she was moving in. It was hard to understand as she placed one hand upon his shoulders, a soft and light touch to see if he was real, or maybe she was really checking to make sure she was real.

“What happened? Were…..were there other angels here?”

It was frightening, the words calm and spoken one at a time. If she said it, then it would mean they were true. Or that she thought they were truly there. After all, if she pretended to see nothing then they couldn’t possible have been there, right? Fingers shook slightly as they rose to run through the rich ripples of blood red as she caught sight of her own locks, thrown apart by her sudden physical illness. That’s right. It flashed through her mind again, the pulp of a once former female body, the blood that soiled the ground underneath the lifeless sack. What had happened to her? Again she felt her stomach toss and turn like waves as one hand rose to cover mouth, praying she wouldn’t be ill again as she closed eyes, breathing in deeply.

“That girl. Who was she?”

Eyes turned to him as she let one hand fall to stomach, trying to suppress the raging emotions that boiled within her. It was hard to even think of the girl, or who she was. Better yet, who had been the man that had clawed the tiny figure to pieces under his sharpened claws? There were so many things she did not truly understand, yet Lucifer held the keys to everything that she did not understand herself. He knew everything, the question was, would he give her the information she looked for? Not that he wouldn’t. After all, he had told her so many different things before. Eyes fell onto his as she cantered head slightly like a child awaiting comfort.

(no subject)

He had known who had done it the moment that it began. He knew the damage that the sun could wreak on the land, but this was no normal ravaging fire. It was not even demonic fire. This was angelic fire.

He was running - down the long, wide street from St Peters to the river - the traffic stopped and staring as their precious city had it's heart burned and ripped out. The word had gone up for all the XI to report to the Pantheon at once, but who knew when the others would arrive, and Cain had to make good time. Down, down the street and across the bridge - each pillar presenting a cold, marble angel. Cain did not miss the irony. Down the streets, past the shops, he ran like a madman - too fast for his apparent 50 years (and too fast for his true thousands).

He ripped the silver cross from his neck as he ran, brought it to his lips and kissed it, the latin words spilling like thunder over his tongue as the cross flashed white and extended. The spear glimmered in his hand, topped with His Most Holy crucifix, one of the only human-held weapons that could kill an immortal soul.

He would protect God's Holy Children. He would protect those made in His Holy Image.

No matter who it was that was the threat.

Introduction II; Fine

And from thence I went towards the west to the ends of the earth, and saw there three portals of the heaven open such as I had seen in the east, the same number of portals, and the same number of outlets.


Germany lay beneath his feet, divided as ever. It reminded him of Egypt, upper and lower, though the reason behind that thought eluded him completely. The dark gray film that had been casting everything he saw into shadow melted away slowly. But it did so only to give way to a dull orange, like a sullen, dying ember; an eclipse.

The only constant thing was the torrent of whispers in his ears, clear enough to catch his attention, but never comprehensible.

The sun hung in the dark sky for a few heartbeats, then it sank into the horizon. It rose, it sank; seven did it do so. When it rose once again for the eighth time, he was no longer in Germany. Dust swirled up lazily from the roads of Italy, and the air in Rome seemed choked with the stuff.

The streets were empty, there was no sign of life in the city of Rome, yet he could hear people talking, glasses chinking, the bleating of an ambulance, and birds chirping. It was as though things were as they were before.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder, but when he turned, there was no one. His other senses insisted that there was someone else there with him, nevertheless. So he walked on, his bare feet leaving no traces behind him.

As he came closer to what was almost the centre of Rome, the sounds became less and less distinct. Just when he was about to set foot in the Pantheon, a powerful shock rolled through the ground. He watched the ground churn impassively, even when the buildings began to crumble. Rocks and rubble shifted and rolled towards the centre of the Pantheon, where a dark figure stood unmoving. The ground gave way under the figure, and a yawning portal between Hell––or was it Heaven?––and Earth opened wide.


In the way many dreamers do, he missed how illogical everything was.

The sky above opened in response, and Earth was briefly as bright as Heaven. Winged beings started to appear everywhere, some shining and bright, others veiled and dull. Little else appeared different. They looked the same in every other aspect.


Where the hole in the ground opened, an enormous cross started to burn. Soon, the bright seal looked as if it were spitting intense tongues of white fire. It was then that sound returned in an overwhelming rush: screaming voices, all raised in a cacophony of pain, anguish, anger, incredulity and a myriad of other emotions.

He found himself bringing his hands up to clap them around his ears.


The Voice of God blasted through him with such ferocity that he lost all his senses to it.


Reality finally reasserted itself in the form of a deep ache that seemed to be wrapped all around him like a suffocating blanket.

Choking on urgency and the need to obey His command, Metatron spent only a fraction of a second to figure out where he was, before he flew into motion. Out came the IVs, and then there were the little sensors that set the machines around him a-beeping as soon as he ripped them off his person. Once or twice, he narrowly missed knocking something over.

Metatron only noticed the other person in the room when he started to change. His hands paused on the ties at the back of the hospital gown he had been dressed in and feel to his sides as he turned to see who it was.

Limpid eyes stared back at him, peering from the edge of his hospital bed. The skeletal little girl gave him a bright, sunny smile, "Matthias isn't broken anymore?" A trace of confusion made her frown comically, summoning a pout, "They lied. They said Matthias might not wake up."

Metatron relaxed visibly, though he still looked a little harried. With an armful of his ruined clothes, he padded over to the little girl and patted her lightly on the head, "God is calling me." He regarded her for a moment, his eyes opaque, "He'll call you soon."

The little girl looked up at him solemnly, as she waved a farewell to him, "I know." That was probably what Metatron loved most about human children––they needed no lengthy explanation, no empirical proof. They simply believed.


Three weeks. Three weeks?!

Metatron looked at his watch for the umpteenth time as he waited in the airport.

An uncomprehending doctor, a few surprised nurses, and a handful of semi-joyful children later, Metatron was on his own again. The first had told him that it was a miracle that he had sustained nothing more than a concussion, numerous lacerations, cuts and a lot of bruising. Oh, and he had been comatose for three weeks, so he should be careful.

A quick visit to his empty and sterile little apartment had been made so that he could take a quick shower and pack a few necessary things. A chance glimpse at the fogged up mirror had shown a spectacular riot of colour on the right side of his face, accented here and there with healed over scabs. The same applied to his right arm and shoulder. Looking at them had made the ache worse, somehow.

After that, he had bought a ticket for the earliest flight out of Frankfurt to Rome. It was a stroke of pure luck that that flight was in a few hours. Luck does not exist. He's calling.

A half an hour more of Metatron pacing restlessly, drawing distantly curious looks from an elderly couple, and he boarded the plane. The screams still ringing like weak wraiths in his ears kept him up throughout the flight. Awake, he could not suppress the wave of horror at the thought so many of His beloved humans dying.

Upon reaching Rome, the first place he visited was what remained of the Pantheon. Metatron's face was drained of all colour as he surveyed the massive destruction there.

The first part right up there is from the Book of Enoch.

About what Metatron heard...Collapse )
  • Current Mood

(no subject)

A curl of smoke drifted out towards the city on an errant breeze, vanishing into the haze of the city. Power too great to be ignored had called him out, and he sat, watching from afar, a small frown on his face. The sky was lovely, and spoke of too much destruction for his tastes. War was ever so unsubtle and uncivilized these days.

The breeze curled back around him after a moment where he sat on Lucifer's veranda, watching the city, and his lip curled in distaste. Death on the wind.

"You play too rough," he murmured, to whatever being had caused the deaths, and sighed, saluting the city, still great, though less than she once was, with his tumbler of scotch.

Introduction I; Pulling a Jonah

Approximately three weeks before...

He should have known better.

Of all the sentient beings that walked this Earth, be they human, angel or demon, he, of all people should have known better. He knew. He had no excuses. And yet, he still insisted on it.

The road stretched ahead of him; straight and broad. Most importantly, empty. Needless to say, Matthias, Metatron, was paying more attention to his own thoughts than he did the road. Being so uncertain of so many things, it was hard not to; each doubt was as a separate voice, distinct and possessing of its own... mind, for lack of a better word. Pretty soon, he was almost sure that he had a whole committee dissecting every little detail he took any notice of. The only voice that was missing––that he really cared to hear,––was His Voice.

The sky started to darken, and absently, Metatron simply turned on the headlights, too distracted to look at the digital display of the small clock in his car. The sun rose, the sun set; nothing too spectacular, not when you were thrown out of Paradise.

Thrown out. Is that the right word? Metatron pressed his foot harder on the accelerator, and what few trees that were on the far side of the road became green streaks at the edge of his vision. Sent isn't the right word, either. You're useless down here. You don't even bring hope.

Something soft and senseless played on the radio, and his thoughts only ploughed right on from accusing to... well.

Where are You? Why am I here? What is Your will?

The blast in Rome had been all over the newspapers. There had been talk about all manner of nonsensical things: terrorists, a government conspiracy, something, anything but what it really was. Sammael's call to arms had been easy to spot for Metatron; in truth, he did not need to read about it at all. He simply knew. It made his subsequent refusal to respond all that more incriminating, he was sure.

But his presence would make little difference, no? No, no difference at all. But if that was true, then––

"Do You really want me there? With the other angels? Tell me, and I shall go!" Metatron whispered furiously, seemingly to himself. What went unvoiced was a single, vehement show me a sign! If You want me to go, give me a sign!

In his crippling doubt, Metatron was testing Him. There had been one and only one thing that He had asked to be tested on, and this was not one of them, as Metatron well knew.

Foolish, so foolish.

Mankind had been doing so for millenia, and He had responded to that indignity with indulgent love, and at most, what amounted to a gentle slap on the hand. Angels, created for only one purpose, were another matter entirely.

A muffled cry snagged Metatron's attention, jarring him from his obsessive thoughts. Though it was unnecessary, he turned his face slightly to his left to see what noise was about. A little girl with wide eyes was staring at him, her mouth opened in an 'O', an arm extended to point at something in front of her. She was soon nothing more than a gray flash as his car streaked past her.

His smooth brow marred with a slight frown, Metatron shifted his attention back on the road––

––and was immediately blinded by an impenetrable darkness.

Something in front of her.

Something in front of him.

Used to being entirely too aware of his immediate surroundings, his senses seemed to have turned on themselves, inside out, to give him the dubious honour of hearing light, seeing sound and smelling circumstance.

At least, that was what it felt like when Metatron swerved to avoid something that was not there. Impact occurred when the front of his car met the guard-rail that marked off where the road ended and a steep slope started. Bizarre or simply unfortunate physics tipped his car partially over, and slammed it back down again. The car went spinning wildly until it met the guard-rail on the other side of the road, its momentum spent.

Dazed and feeling utterly bodiless, Metatron could only mutter an incoherent sentence before the darkness filled his vision again. He could swear that he could see a sullen, orange ring hanging in that blackness, though.

A surge of urgency.

A ring.

That stench of desperation.

...an umbrella?


OOCCollapse )
  • Current Mood
Tomorrow Belongs to ME

The small players roar the loudest...keep that in mind.

Lucifer looked on with an expressionless mask. The only hint of his feeling contained in his golden eyes that calculated with wry amusement the characters in this very strange assembly. He glanced at the figures of Mephistopheles and Belial and memorized their faces. Interesting. It was his first glimpse of both in their present forms, but the sudden sound of a woman's anguished voice made him turn from his sight-seeing.

It was Lucifer's desire to remain where he was on the outskirts of the conflict, but the arrival of his newest houseguest made him decide differently. He saw her eyes widen, saw her face contort before she became sick on the street. He sensed Uriel's power. A sensation that made his six wings twitch before he took to the air and swooped down to the figure of Lilith. She was needed and her human flesh would not survive such an onslaught.

A barrier of protection flickered into being as fast as a thought. The force of Uriel beat around him. As if Uriel's force could destroy him, the former seraph who had once been made of brighter stuff than any angel, perhaps save one, and he was the Morningstar.

He fought through the harsh gales of fire and light until he was free of the maelstrom.

"It appears he has no care for history." He spoke to no one save himself as he landed on the apex of the ruins of the Coliseum with Lilith, unharmed, in his arms. He was amused at Uriel's audacity to think that destroying such a swath of land would make a difference in the war between Heaven and Sammael.

Lucifer remembered when the Pantheon had been built though it was never a scene of enjoyment for him. Nothing was as amusing as the entertainment of the Circus Maximus or as lavish as the spectacles of the Coliseum. A sudden flash of scent and sound came to him from the depths of his memories. Compared to the exhibition and bloodshed that took place in the very building under his feet; Uriel's showing was nothing compared to the disgusting acts of which humans were capable. If the Lord's angels wished to protect a species with no free will on an uncontrolled terrarium then let them waste their energy on empty displays of angelic might. Uriel would be weak for days. It would be a very opportune time to attack.

Lucifer watched the electric display of Barakiel retaliate in response. Conflict had been sown between the angels and it was all Uriel's doing. He wondered if Uriel knew this.

"You are not Michael, Uriel. I do not know why you try to be something other then what He created you to be."

He was done. He had seen what he wished to see: the death of Eve and the sealing of the Pillar. Now was not the time for him to speak with Mephistopheles and he could only guess what Belial thought of him. That made him chuckle. Perhaps he would find out...in time.

"Lilith?" He looked down at her and brushed her cheek to turn her eyes to him. What effect had this had on her as she still awakened to her true self?