--Upon Liberty--
"Stand firm, then, and do not be subject again to the yoke of slavery."
-Galatians 5:1
There was a great clash of flesh and blood.
Blades tangoed upon the air, singing lullabies to listening ears. There was shrieking, screaming, moaning, cursing and dying. A hand entered a woman's stomach, the fingers tightened, tore, and loosed her entrails upon the ground. A scimitar sliced through a man's neck, his head spun as it fell, his winged body plummeted like lead. The cursing was becoming filthy, the screaming more violent. An arm was torn from its socket. A leg was hacked off. Blood sprinkled down, innocent.
"What does she think she is doing?" His voice as a flowing, melodic thing, only hinting at malice. Contempt underscored each syllable, yet the sound was so magnificent that it masked the spite.
"Lucifer, let's go-"
"Go? After this?" A dexterous finger pointed to his left where a dozen bodies and limbs were strewn, some still warm and bubbling. Neither looked, only locked eyes in a match of wills. "I think not."
"There's a reason they came here, Lucifer. And it wasn't for you to fight."
Little drops of red plopped on his face, pitter-pattered against his shoulders. Blood danced on Lucifer's face too, he felt it slicking slow down his forehead and running red down the bridge of his nose. The battle had moved above them, up a hundred feet in the clear blue sky. Neither blinked.
"They came to be sycophants. I did not ask any to die for me, Azazel."
"But they did. They willingly did. You're going to disrespect them now?"
Their eyes fought, more fierce than the clanging steel and pummeling fists above, Lucifer's blues, like the purest pools of untouched water and Azazel's green, like the deepest of the forests. Azazel was tall, he had to look up to make eye contact. Lucifer sighed.
"Fine."
"That was easy," Azazel said with a smirk.
Lucifer shook his head, smiled small, and examined the friend he had missed for years. Azazel was handsome, even for an angel. His skin had a natural kind of tan, his body was lithe and strong, his stylish brown hair draped around his ears and lay intentionally messy across his brow. And he had that wide, childish smile that could disarm anyone.
Humor was what made him, a glimmer in those goddamned eyes that nothing, nothing short of everything could rival, and even then the green would triumph; it was pure and innocent and strong, little could deter it, and he would let nothing, nothing ever dare to try.
"What did you ex-"
He took a step back, eyes closed in frustration, as a body plummeted from the melee and landed with a sharp thud exactly where he had been standing. When he opened his eyes again Azazel's smile had fizzled. His modern and stylish clothes were blotching from the blood shed from above. Lucifer's pure whites were soaked.
The seraph brushed a strand of his long, golden-blonde hair from his face and glanced up. It was a mass of feathery gray and steel and pretty faces. They fought and bled and died so fast that to any other it would be only a blur. He gave the sight a final glare and crouched next to the body before him. She was weeping silently, just like the gash in her throat, knowing she was done.
"Shamsiel," he whispered, never having met this fallen angel. Her clear, youthful face turned to him. Spasms rocked her body, wracked every muscle, and she was choking as fluids filled up her esophagus. The pain was unbearable. "You came to kill me."
She managed a nod, a meager tilt of the head, and he stroked her cheek, brushed auburn hair that smelled of honey from her face. He leaned down, murmured love in her ear and stood. She stopped crying. Stopped breathing, too. Blood still bubbled from her throat, but only a little. Azazel saw his face.
"Don't."
Six enormous black wings burst from his back, long, sleek and elegant. They spread wide as he flicked out his hand, and the air itself solidified and fled from his touch. It was a shockwave of the sky, a hurricane breeze, and that mass of wings and blades broke into a hundred angels as they blew away on the wind. They yelped in surprise, tossed aside like leaves before his might.
Only one remained afloat. She had six wings too, though hers were gray.
He was in the air before those immortal hearts struck another beat.
"Orias," he stated, and the word sparked across the sky like an electric pulse.
In a panic she hurled her javelin at him. It was aimed for his heart, and came within a foot. Time seemed to step aside, with nonchalance he flicked the steel tip of the weapon down, watching it begin to spin. Then he snatched it from the air in his left hand, flying forward as if never interrupted.
He thrust at her, hoping to impale the seraph with her own weapon. She threw her arm wild, deflected the blow with a small round shield, and fled back. With poise and grace he hurled the javelin at her head. But a lesser angel flew before her, took the shaft through his sternum and out his back and fell with a liquid gasp. Then a dozen gray wings obscured his vision, the battle resuming between those two seraphim. It was monochromatic madness.
A small round shield rammed his face, the force of the blow throwing him down. Before he could react Orias threw her bloody javelin at him, hoping to spear him to the ground for his life to feed the grass. Wings folded, twisted, and with acrobatic agility Lucifer contorted to let the weapon slip past his armpit.
He landed on one knee, jumping away before Orias could strike again.
"Satan!" she screamed, and ripped her still-quivering javelin from the ground. "You never should have left Hell! Look at what you've caused!"
Despite his anger he had to stop and admire her beauty. Her skin was like the dew clinging to the petal of a lily: pale, lovely, delicate, and the red buds of her lips stood sharp from it. Immaculate black hair flowed past her shoulders, it glistened like his wings in the noontime sun. And her face, dear Lord, even spattered with gore it was exquisite, shining from just a glimpse of God.
And the six wings, of course, that framed her like a feathery cloak of divinity. The gift of God that separated her and him and all the seraphim from other angels.
"Oh, Orias. If you knew Hell you would have done the same." He smiled wry. "And I do believe you attacked me. With a small horde at your back, at that."
"You can't just leave Hell."
"Apparently I can."
"I do not want to kill you, Satan. Repent, return," she called, and pointed her javelin at him only a little dramatically. "Or die."
"Are those my only options?" He laughed dull. "I will have to refuse."
"Then you give me no choice."
She strode forward, hefting her javelin and readying her shield. He felt Azazel at his back, tense and worried. Above, the remaining fallen angels clashed again and again, ignoring the real confrontation below. Blood kept sprinkling down.
"We always have a choice," Lucifer sang to the advancing seraph. "Your options are to beg my forgiveness, leave immediately, or – as you so eloquently put it – die."
She hesitated. Seraph and swine alike recognized the glory of the greatest of the angels. He was beyond them all, she knew. But she had repented, she had to prevent him.
His face was like the heavens themselves, his skin the light of the sun made flesh. Nothing could flaw his physical perfection, not liters of blood or wings stained a sharp black. He was glory made real, his eyes could hypnotize even the divine with their grandeur. So she hesitated.
He shattered her sternum. As the greatest of the angels he moved beyond reality, with a grace and speed few could match. Hesitation only empowered him, so she fell with a gasp and in one fluid motion his white boot pressed into her broken chest. Her shield fell and her javelin rolled away, collecting dewdrops. She clutched at his leg, desperate, trying to lessen the pressure.
"No, please," she sputtered, straining for breath. "Don't…"
"Look at how the conviction flutters away," he mused. "Would you have given me such consideration-"
Suddenly a pair of strong and tan muscular arms wrapped around him, lifted him bodily from his prey. His shiny black wings flapped madly as a large hard body pressed against his. Flailing wildly caused his captor to lower him to the ground, though the hold only tightened.
"Leave, Orias," a strong voice next to his ear commanded. "Lucifer is my responsibility."