CHAPTER 2: Four brothers

Michael was standing in front of Lucifer.

Both of them had their swords out, both of them quietly waiting for the other to make the first move. Around them, angels squared off against demons, some of which were weak – mere meat shields – while other, more powerful hell-borne beings held their own in one-on-one melee combat. None of them came close to the two beings, facing each other in the dead centre of the rooftop. No words were needed. No explanation was forthcoming. All that could possibly have been said had been done even before mankind realized it had an entire world to populate, to nurture. This was simple: kill or be killed. Familial ties had been severed so long ago that no one would ever mistake these two archangels for brothers. Divine fire from above flared against the tumult of demonic flames, ripped straight from unnoticed rents in the earth below, roaring from the nearly abandoned torments of Hell.

Without warning, both archangels launched themselves at each other. The initial clash of blade on blade sent a shockwave of catastrophic proportions resounding across the overcast sky, and nearly all the lesser demons, even the lower hierarchies of angels surrounding the epicentre of the struggle, were flung from the rooftop. Only the others, the more powerful ones, remained, not oblivious, but resolute in killing off each other before another wave could strip them of their tenuous hold, to where they were fighting, or to their vessels.

Between Michael and Lucifer, a titanic struggle was winnowed down to a fluid, almost loving dance of absolute, unstoppable force. Both opponents were immaculately skilled, practically impossible to defeat, and had never gotten rusty, despite not having done this for thousands of years. Michael fought for the sanctity of this world, to ease the bone-tiredness of running the planet in the absence of his Father. To bring on the promised paradise that would see unprecedented peace descend on a world nearly destroyed after millennia of suffering. Lucifer fought to remain here, anchored in this world, to reshape it according to his own whims. To make law what he felt, regarding the hairless little apes, and God's edict that first saw him expelled from Heaven.

"Just like old times," Michael said, as the two parted for a moment. Lucifer smirked, just that tiny little upwards curve of one side of the mouth.

"The last time this happened," Lucifer stated in his slow, empathetic drawl, "you caught me off guard." Lucifer's shoulders shifted at an angle, his sword hand ready in front of his body. "How certain are you that you can actually beat me, this time?"

In answer, Michael renewed the dance, blade weaving, the actual edges so infinitesimally sharp despite the blade's rounded appearance that the air whined as it was sliced apart on a molecular level. Lucifer's sword danced as swiftly, bent irrevocably to its master's will, wielded with every intention of staying the hand of the Judge of the Field, and the return to the Cage. For what seemed like a separate eternity, the battle continued, with neither one of the two archangels gaining a clear upper hand. With inhuman grace riding human form, their bodies danced through separate innuendos of power play, one side aimed at justification and the renewal of the world, the other at the total annihilation of the grand design emplaced at the very first moment of creation. Around them, there were no more demons, no more angels. They were blasted to oblivion, or swept away by the maelstrom of madness that surrounded every single blow levelled between Michael and Lucifer. Each swipe, each slice and parry sent reverberations through the ground, causing far-off earthquakes ranging between limited shudders to full-blown, earth-shattering eruptions. Nothing was spared, despite the already devastated cityscape that paid silent homage to the place where it could all end.

And then the unthinkable happened.

The sky tore open as Michael and Lucifer locked blade and arms, faces showing no strain, eyes burning with righteousness and wrath. Michael broke the deadlock, summoning the strength which had always set him above and beyond the trappings of power his brethren shared, elevated him to be the fearful destroyer of all that dared contest the Will of Heaven. One left-handed punch that could have thrown a cruise liner into the next oceanic body rocketed into Lucifer's jaw. To him, the Adversary, the Serpent, it was practically meaningless. It was a very, very slight distraction. But it was enough.

Michael's sword found its opening, slicing past near-impregnable defences and finding its mark in Lucifer's right side. Hissing suddenly, an all too human show of emotion from something that had never truly tasted physical pain, the Devil retaliated, if only to get his irredeemably estranged brother away from him. Michael flew through the air, his body already assuming a stance, in midair, to land softly on his feet, with just the barest flexing at the knees. He faced Lucifer, who was clutching his injured side. Brilliant red blood flowed through long fingers clutched over the wound, the spotless white suit now marred. Lucifer looked at Michael, and for the first time, something other than indifference and contempt flitted across his face. It was an eloquent, unremitting, undeniable vision of something that spelled disaster for the Adversary. It was fear.

But most of all, it was shock. The kind born of betrayal, in every sense of the word, multiplied millions of times over. The emotional overload, of delving so easily into his vessel's mannerisms, radiated as a feeling which Lucifer thought he was beyond feeling. This was his vessel's greatest fear, attuned and parallel to Lucifer's own unacknowledged, unanswered question. In that moment, Lucifer's eyes screamed only one thing:

WHY?

Michael did not deign to answer. Instead, two more presences flitted into being behind him. Lightning flared as two more archangels manifested, appearing from whatever far-flung edges of the battlefield they had been at. Raphael, his vessel's face radiating an almost smug satisfaction. Gabriel, whose golden-haired host seemed simultaneously aloof and reproving. Their swords were out, and judging by the way the blades shimmered and flickered around the edges, they were fresh from killing, the demonically-tainted blood of slain vessels and destroyed demons relegating one last spurt of enraged defiance as it burned into nothingness.

"You knew it would come to this. You should have known there would be no hope," Michael announced. "Not for you." Lucifer sneered.

"So certain that this," Lucifer nodded down at his wounded side, "is enough to stop me from my victory?"

"You cannot fight all of us," Gabriel returned, his voice melodious, unearthly.

"Give up," Raphael intoned, more stoic, if in no way less elegant in pronunciation.

"And you would take credit for what I set in motion?" Lucifer snarled. Despite the apparent grievousness of his injury, he refused to release any hold on pride, to let his vessel's body slump in any way.

"You simply played your part, like we knew you would," Gabriel said. "We allowed you to be freed, so we could drive your filth into the dust and lock you away before paradise comes."

"Why would you not see sense? Had Hell done nothing but fuel this ill-fated crusade against our Father's will?" Raphael queried, voice heating up now with conviction. A blatant, soft-spoken thrill of contempt that would have rent reason from even the most resistant of human minds. Lucifer simply stared as if he were having to deal with a troublesome child about to throw a tantrum.

"Our Father? How can He be my father when despite the greatest of loves I held for Him, He cast me aside at a moment's notice?" Rage answered Raphael's contempt, and even that mighty archangel had to take a slight step backwards against Lucifer's fury. "Because I would not bow, would not relinquish my love for Him in favour of these disgusting apes!" No one answered his query. "And where is He now? How can you three possibly hope to bring about paradise without His hands at the wheel?" Lucifer accentuated his challenge with a bark of laughter. "Your interference, and lack thereof, led to this world being like this in the first place!"

"And you think you can do better?" There was no mistaking the imminent threat of damning danger flaring from Michael's question. "You profess love, yet you throw our mistakes at our feet? Pride..."

"Enough of this!" Lucifer snapped, face transformed into a horrid mask of wrath. "Where is He?" He was met with silence, and his laughter suddenly boomed across the rooftop. He actually leaned forward, maintaining eye contact as hilarity flowed through him. "Oh, that's right, I forgot, He's no longer around. Didn't you say that, brother?" Lucifer spat at Raphael. "He's dead! He left! Come now, even you three can see what leaving these mud-monkeys in charge has done to the last perfect handiwork of your Father!"

"You blaspheme," Gabriel said softly.

"And you lie!" Lucifer retorted gleefully. "It's a sin, you know."

"We are done here," Michael said, and took a step towards Lucifer, sword in hand rising. Lucifer stood his ground.

"No, we are not. Not by a long shot. You cannot send me back."

"We can, and we will," Raphael intoned, stance strong and resolute once again.

"You don't have His power flowing through you. Your collective angelic host's power feeds you, makes you strong, but you cannot banish me. Not if your entire host was assembled here, now!" Lucifer qualified. "Not without Him."

The three loyal archangels remained where they stood, with Michael still ready to strike. No one made a move, and Lucifer, actually breathing heavily, grinned as he saw victory approaching.

"Come, bring Him to me. I demand to speak to Him, to be judged! Not by you, pretender," the last word directed at Michael, "but by the Father who cast me aside for nothing!" Silence. No one broke eye contact, and no stray strands of thought were decipherable between the four unparalleled minds, as Lucifer waited. "I thought so. Well, if He's dead, or doesn't care, why do you? Why would you make a paradise for beings that all of you think are beneath you? Why not help me instead?" It was a long shot, but even if none recanted, Lucifer knew the fight was not over yet.

"BRING HIM TO ME, I DEMAND TO SPEAK TO HIM!" Lucifer yelled suddenly, horribly, a clear breach of the otherwise relatively unbroken facade of inhuman indifference.

"Then by all means, turn around and face me, rebellious one." It was softly spoken, but it carried the weight of uncounted sorrows and untold power across the happenings between the four archangels. Michael's face was set in stone, but Gabriel closed his eyes, a smile threatening to split his face asunder, while Raphael simply swallowed a suddenly dry throat and raised his head, ready for punishment. Lucifer's shoulders slumped, his face reaching another milestone of despairing human emotion, as his hopes fled. Slowly he turned around.

And faced God.