Author's Note; I've been planning this one for a while, now. Always been interested in Demons and Angels, and so this began to formulate. It will be largely speech driven, but hopefully it will be alright! Updates ain't going to be often, due to me jotting this down on my phone and then adding it to my laptop.
Heaven & Hell Trilogy: Book One - Alliance
Heaven & Hell Trilogy
Book One: Alliance.
‘You,’ Hissed the Beast, flexing his muscles in one languid movement. ‘Are my heir, Beliel.’
The throne room was icy, despite the abundance of braziers which were dotted around the room. The Fallen Angel stared into the calculated eyes of his master, a sharp-toothed grin set upon his regal features. The Beast, wearing a set of burnished armour that eat greedily at all light, stepped closer to Beliel.
‘You, Beliel, are predestined for great achievements - Glories which the feeble minds of men can barely comprehend, hatred which no other has ever felt - Beautiful, isn’t it?’
Beliel merely nodded, wary of the Beast’s motives. Was this another of his cruel, sadistic jokes? No, Beliel did not believe so. He felt sincerity in his master’s wet-growl voice, honesty perhaps.
Great crimson-feathered wings unfurled, and the screams of the damned screeched deafeningly. It was a sickening choir, each feather containing a great soul.
‘However, there is a problem.’ He admitted, looking down at the kneeling form of his subordinate.
‘I will do thy bidding, Horned-One. Simply name it,’ Beliel said, still staring on intently, one knee pressed into his chest, the other behind him. ‘I have always been the most loyal of your followers.’
The Beast’s lips curled. He shot forth, a blur of dark armour and crimson feathers. He was upon Beliel before the latter could move, talons grasping at a muscular throat, digging inwards. The stench of death emanated from his fanged maw, drawing tears of blood on Beliel’s emerald eyes.
‘Do not be sore prude, whelp.’ The Beast sneered, voice filled with contempt. He hefted Beliel’s limp form into the air, so that his heir-apparent stared downwards upon his Lord. ‘Beelzebub is far more worthy, but recent complications have rendered his candidacy…’
‘Null.’ Came a sudden voice, deep but soothing, from the throne room entrance. A figure, wearing a cloak of shadows tight to his overworked body, his hair tied behind his head in long, thick braids, marched inwards.
‘Null, yes.’ Smiled the Beast, a menacing gesture. He dropped Beliel uncaringly, and wheeled around to face the newcomer. ‘How fares the West, oldest, wisest friend?’
Beelzebub, newly instated ruler of Hell’s Westernmost boundaries, chuckled inanely. He was taller and broader shouldered than Beliel, and the latter knew that Beelzebub was second only in influence to the Beast himself. It had been Beelzebub who had toppled Heaven’s Walls during the Great War, leading forth the Fallen Host. It had been Beelzebub who had carried the sacred Banner of Lucifer at the side of his Lord. It had been Beelzebub who had carved the Archangel Uriel open at the Golden Citadel, not the Beast, despite popular belief.
So, so many triumphs of Hell had been won by the hand of Beelzebub; though none without the consent of the Beast. When Beelzebub walked, Beliel felt a venomous sensation ripple along his back, dashing out at his curled wings. It was both an honour and a curse to be in the presence of the Greatest General.
‘Bad, as per usual.’ Nodded Beelzebub, a knife-thin smile spreading across his face, armoured feet clattering upon the marbled ground. ‘Just the way I like it, Lucifer.’
The Beast stopped for an instant. The use of his given name was a rarity, he had been gifted far too many monikers to keep track of, ones that he would rather use. Beelzebub continued to encroach on his brother, who was also moving.
Beliel watched the pair warily, snorting in derision when they embraced in a warrior’s handshake, trading whispers.
‘It has been too long, Beelzebub.’ Lucifer said pointlessly, turning away from his Warmonger, staring back at the stoic form of Beliel. ‘You have met Beliel before, no?’
‘Once. During our interment in Purgatory.’ Beelzebub confirmed, referencing the Heavenly prison. ‘I did not know that he still lived.’
, thought Beliel. He had committed many great deeds in Lucifer’s name, earning fame throughout Hell.
‘As I was saying,’ The Beast grumbled, directing his full attentions at Beliel now. ‘There is a complication in our matters. One of our own, one of my trusted advisors and Kings, has declared his intentions to rebel.’
‘Who? What lesser is foolish enough to attempt such a thing? Who would deny your greatness?’ Blurted Beliel, enraged by his master’s words.
The Beast turned towards the Eastern reaches, staring out of a mountain-sized, stained glass window. It was a cruel twist on Christianities’ versions, depicting various obscenities; none of which vexed the inhabitants of the throne room. A single, gauntleted finger was pointed.
Beliel knew of Abaddon only by reputation - He knew of Abaddon’s dark ways, of manipulation and backstabbing. Despite this, the Eastern King was largely considered as a momentous warrior, extremely talented with the sword, but a greater commander. It did not bode well that such an influential King was considering treachery. What had driven Abaddon to such extremities?
All knew that the Beast was all powerful, immortal amongst his worshippers, the greatest of the great. It was sheer madness to even suggest such a thing as rebellion - Lucifer reigned supreme in Hell and its surrounding vassal nations, and previous, larger attempts for the Throne had been ground into dust.
For several hours, the Beast and his heir traded war plans, systematically eliminating each foolish proposal, slowly narrowing the pool until barely a handful of potential routes remained.
All the while, Beelzebub stood unmoving over the shoulder of Lucifer, his face an emotionless mask. Beliel deliberately avoided eye contact with Beelzebub, instead looking downwards; patiently awaiting a flicker of life - Of anything, on the Demon’s face.
There was none.
Frost coated every surface now, and each breath which was took was accompanied by a puff of crystallized breath, sparkling, radiating light.
‘Implausible, Abaddon has fortified the Eastern Reaches. A direct attack will meet only failure, Abaddon holds considerable sway over the Princes, Barons and Dukes.’ Noted Lucifer sullenly, cutting down Beliel’s latest suggestion.
‘If we-’ Beliel began.
‘You question Lucifer’s judgment, child?’ Asked Beelzebub, rhetorically. No answer was wanted, Beelzebub knew that Beliel did not.
‘I do not, Lord. However, I believe it possible that Abaddon is not as popular as our Father thinks..’ Answered Beliel, despite his best wishes not to. He swore colourfully in his head.
‘Pah, what do you know of Abaddon? You are not unlike he - Confident, overly.’ Beelzebub mocked, drifting left silently, feet raised upon ashen clouds.
‘You underestimate my knowledge, Beelzebub. That is not a wise notion.’ Warned Beliel, feeling the tension rising.
‘If I so wished, I could end you here, now. You mean nothing to me, Beliel. Nothing.’ The Western King said, running a taloned hand through his hair.
Beliel saw Lucifer smirk, fangs glinting beneath purple lips.
‘Threats, Beelzebub? How low, I thought the most venerated warlord was above such things. Obviously, I am mistaken..’
Beelzebub snarled angrily, stepping forwards once, twice, three times.
Lucifer lifted one gauntleted hand, and reality dimmed. Movements became sluggish, words slurred annoyingly. The beating of blackened hearts thrummed in each Fallen’s ears, reverberating outwards.
‘Enough of these petulant arguments,’ Began the Beast, reiterating his point, remaining perfectly calm. He remained solely unaffected by his own trickeries. ‘Do you not understand how dire these events are?’
Both nodded in confirmation, faces blurring. Lucifer allowed time to return to its normal self, eyes aglow with infernal majesty. With another flicker of his hand, he conjured up a marvelous image. It was a fortress - So detailed, tat every window was alight, every battlement manned.
Great towers punched into the sky, riveted with arrow slits, attached with wide, jagged bastions. The surrounding countryside was an expanse of interlocking fortresses, pits and slave camps.
‘Tartarus..’ Breathed Beliel, astonished.
‘Abaddon’s domain,’ Lucifer said, nodding. ‘And now, you must understand as to why a frontal assault will only end in failure.’
Beelzebub’s face twisted into a lupine smile, teeth gritted.
Beliel locked eyes with Beelzebub, but only silence followed.
‘With Tartarus - Abaddon is untouchable. His Legions patrol the surrounding lands, raiding those of others, assimilating any who are willing. His numbers grow with such progress, that within several months, he will be capable of overrunning my Seals.’
‘This cannot be allowed! You have said it yourself; if we do not strike now and rid ourselves of Abaddon, he will be victorious.’ Sneered Beliel, hands clenching into fists.
- Yes, we must. - Lucifer transmitted into Beliel’s mind, shattering the latter’s protective wards. - But there is another, more pressing matter upon us. -
‘What? What is worse than open war between the fiefdoms?’
‘It is my Father, Beliel.’ Lucifer said, face growing sullen. ‘He seeks a truce.’
To his subordinates, Abaddon appeared as a frail, old man. A scraggly beard cascaded from his chin, defining his weathered, creased features. His eyes were multihued orbs, lidless, forever vigilant. He wore a set of obsidian armour, jagged and form-fitting, allowing for great speed. When his fists clenched, a mechanism in the palm of the hand twisted at will, shooting forth a pair of wicked blades.
It was utterly reflective, something which Abaddon had requested personally. He wanted his victims to see their faces before he spilled their insides.
Now, he stood atop a pillar of bone, overseeing the construction of one of Tartarus’s many sub-fortresses. Skeletal cherubs fluttered around him, screaming in sensational agony as hooks pulled and rent at their nerve clusters. These few depraved creatures were amongst the last, Abaddon and various other of his brethren having worked them to near-extinction.
Far below him, slaves were driven forwards; razor-edged whips biting into their backs. His enforcers, skinless beasts with animalistic countenances, were brutal, uncaring beings. Thousands of these had been bread from the blood of Abaddon’s most trusted Fallen Angels. Abaddon’s flesh-smiths had excelled, making an army of mindless warriors, obedient to the Eastern Lord alone. Other demonic creatures flocked to him even now - Multi-legged leviathans, serpentine chimerae and ravenous wraiths.
So to, did many of the original traitors. Great Kings, Dukes and Princes had already sown allegiance to Abaddon - Tired of Lucifer’s absent ruling. They were confident that the Beast would be toppled, but still his hordes were far greater than those of Abaddon. If he wished, he could have destroyed Abaddon with a simple word.
And that scared the Eastern Lord.
The Archangel Michael reacted swiftly to the swings of his compatriot, Raphael. His own shimmering blade parried each one, deflecting them away expertly. The pair were in one of Heaven’s various mausoleums, commemorating Christianity, duelling across the marbled floor, twisting and turning eloquently.
Raphael’s blade licked across the shoulder of Michael, drawing a seep of golden blood that ebbed and flowed down Michael’s robes.
‘You are getting better, Healer!’ He taunted, locking blades with his brother.
‘We are not all as glorious as you, Michael.’ Grinned Raphael, leaning in closer to the other Archangel, pressing his weight onto his blade.
Michael smiled and Raphael realized his mistake. He stepped away, too late. A fist sprung up between the crossed blades, connecting with his jaw, and sending the Healer sprawling to the ground. His wings cushioned the impact, but still Raphael grunted audibly.
The tip of Michael’s blade was pressed into Raphael’s chin, a bead of viscous blood welling around the point.
‘Yield.’ Michael said simply, the smile departing his features.
‘Again?’ Complained Raphael playfully, and Michael pulled away his blade, sliding it into his scabbard. He reached out with one hand, and Raphael took it, lifting himself gracefully.
‘You are too aggressive, Raphael,’ Michael began, walking side-by-side with his the Almighty’s most successful apothecary. ‘There is no grace in your movements, simply brutality.’
‘There is little grace in war, Michael.’ Stated Raphael flatly, and Michael found himself nodding in agreement. The stench of flowers was strong here, hundreds of colourful bushes located around a central statue, which was bordered by a fence of unbendable metal.
The mausoleum’s magnificently jeweled doors were thrown open, and a single figure stood silhouetted against the brightness. His face was hidden beneath the shadows of his hood, a single reddish scar forking upwards from his chin. Garbed in a set of segmented armour, the Angel entered. Upon his chest, wrote in extravagant scripture was the word ‘Uriel’.
‘What brings God’s Fire here, brethren?’ Asked Michael, coming to an halt. Raphael followed sheepishly.
‘It is Father,’ Uriel began, his voice a brittle rasping. ‘He requests your presence.’