Outside the Gates of Pandemonium, October 31, 4004 BC
In the caverns of Hell, it is impossible to judge the passage of time.
The angelic Host had set up camp some time prior, at the gates of Pandemonium. That name had formed in the angels' minds as soon as they saw the gates. God also granted them the knowledge that this place was the capital of a new realm for the Fallen called, "Hell".
Since those gates had shut, the Fallen stayed well away. Licking their wounds and plotting unseen, probably. The angels set up watches. They waited outside the gates, for God only knows what.
There had been questions, of course. Such as how the retreating army even HAD gates to hide behind. But Gabriel already knew the answer to that.
God did this. God had a plan. God knew that these angels, these bad angels, would rebel. God had already built a pen for Her unruly children. They knew to go there.
By God's grace.
The angels who would become the Fallen had attacked the Garden. The walls kept them out, and the army of God rushed to meet their rebellious siblings. The War began in that confusion outside the gates of Eden.
Gabriel was built to be a soldier before there was even a word for war. He had been back-to-back with Michael, spears thrusting into the bodies of his Fallen siblings. He'd watched their blood, burnt black and ichorous, slide down the golden shaft of his spear. His fingers were slicked with it, but he'd kept going.
Until one of their number had breathed Hellfire for the first time. Then, he'd lost Michael in the panic, and the battle had begun in earnest.
The Fallen were disorganized in their rage. So, in spite of their fires, they'd been beaten back. Their numbers were smaller (two angels for every Fallen), and that surely helped the Heavenly cause.
The process of becoming Fallen (which the rebels were going through as they fought) looked to be incredibly painful. Spines bursting from skin, teeth shed and fangs growing in their place, tusks ripping faces open as they grew, claws bending hands into unnatural shapes, spines elongating and curving. The crunch of battle was punctuated with the crunch of bodies changing, becoming weapons of death and destruction.
Yet, in spite of their pain, they fought. Bravely, foolishly, stubbornly. They came and came and came. And they bled.
For all of the fighting and fires, very few perished. On either side.
And then, without warning, the Fallen retreated. That act would give them their name. They fell back, becoming the Fallen.
Down and down, into the black abyss, pursued every step by the Host of Heaven. Run aground in a city that probably did not exist until it was needed. And now, the angels waited at a gate that they could not pass through.
Gabriel did not want to think on what it would be like to fight the Fallen once they'd had time to heal from the battle. Once they'd had time to properly organize.
The Fallen had time on their side, certainly. For the angels could not enter Pandemonium. They could only wait and watch.
The angels spent their time mending themselves, and preparing for the next wave of fighting. In the dim light, he could see Sandalphon polishing his armor for what must've been the fiftieth time. Uriel wiped her spear. Again. And again.
Demon's blood was thick and hard to remove, but Uriel's spear was clean. Still, she cleaned it. And cleaned it. And cleaned it.
Minus a skeleton force left to guard the Garden, the rest of the Heavenly Host watched the black iron gates. No sign of Lucifer, leader of the rebellion, but that was expected. Gabriel knew that Michael had gotten a good hit in, a sucking chest wound, and Lucifer would still be nursing it. No sign of any of his generals, if he even had generals. They were not organized in their attack. Perhaps he had not named any.
Gabriel was standing silent sentry with Michael. They'd run out of things to say to each other, and remained alone with what were undoubtedly similar thoughts.
Gabriel saw some movement beyond the gate and alerted Michael. Michael shouted an order, and then the cry went up. Armor and spear points gleamed in the low, gloamy light of the cavern. The angels assembled quickly, metal clanking as they fell into formation.
Michael didn't speak beyond making his order. His eyes were wide in the dark. Fear emanated off of his corporation, and that told Gabriel everything that he needed to know. Michael had already done the same mental calculus that Gabriel had. He was not looking forward to the resumed battle.
But Michael carried a greater burden than Gabriel. If his spear had been just a bit truer, they would be done with all of this.
Someone approached the gates from the other side, a shadow, whip slim. Behind that shadow, a mass of darkness congealed. The Fallen Host.
Their leader turned out to be a file clerk that Gabriel vaguely remembered from Heaven. Androgynous in form, though preferring the feminine pronouns. He couldn't put a name to her.
The dim light played on her fiery hair and her very white, very pointed, and very numerous teeth. The Fall had made them all into monsters. Her robe was black, and she carried a scroll and feather pen in her hand.
"Parley?" she asked through the bars on the gate, eyes glittering in the torchlight of the enemy camp.
"Speak," Michael replied.
She let a long-fingered hand drift to her chest. "Dagon," she said, introducing herself. "Lord of the Files and Master of Torments. I doubt you'd remember me, so it's best to mind our manners, don't you think?"
Michael snarled, and Gabriel was unnerved by the casual politesse (and frank toothy malice) of Hell's emissary. "Speak or begone," Michael said.
"Very well. We want you to leave."
"We're here to fight until the last of you is destroyed."
"No argument there," said the clerk, nearly amiably. "We'd just prefer to do it on the middle realm."
"No. That is where OUR FATHER is keeping Her most prized, and you will not sully that place with your presence."
"We propose-"
"You have no right to propose."
"And yet, we do. You can just stay here, you know. Forever."
Michael went silent, hatred burning cold in his eyes.
Gabriel spoke, "What, exactly, are you proposing?"
Dagon handed the scroll over. "All fighting to take place in the middle realm. You take your army and go away. You're making the imps nervous."
"Imps?"
"Small things that live down here. They're quite lovely."
Gabriel looked at the scroll. The contract, in tiny and meticulous script, outlined plans for the angels' retreat to Heaven, for the Fallen (who had taken the title of Daemon) to remain in Hell, and for neither to encroach uninvited onto the territory of the other. That all future fighting would take place in the middle realm. Beyond that, the demons agreed to refrain from murdering the humans.
"No blackened CLAW, nor infernal TOOTH, nor daemonic STEEL, nor FYRES OF HELL shall EVER know the taste of human flesh and blood, even unto the End of Times," it read. A better deal than they could have expected, and yet-
"Why should we sign this, when you're the ones who are cornered?" Gabriel asked.
"Hell wishes to challenge Heaven to one-on-one combat. Our champion against yours. If we win, you sign the contract and leave. If you win, we open the gates and surrender, unconditionally." Dagon shrugged. "Those are our terms. I await your answer."
"We'll do it," Gabriel said, quickly. Michael took a sharp breath and swore, but Gabriel continued. "Name your champion."
"Prince Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies."
"Aren't...aren't you the Lord of the Flies?" Gabriel asked.
"No, you twit. I'm the Lord of the Files."
"Beelzebub..." Uriel said, sotto, having crept up behind Gabriel. "I don't recall an angel by that name."
"I don't recall a Dagon, but there she is," Michael replied, sourly. "Gabriel, are you certain?"
"Yes. We can end this."
"Fine," Michael said. "Who among us will fight?"
"I will," Sandalphon said.
"No, me," said Michael. "I'll finish what I started, I swear it."
"No," Gabriel said. "I will." He handed the scroll to Michael, who took it in hands shaking with fear for Gabriel or with rage at being denied a chance for redemption. "We shall send our best. And you shall send whoever you have, I suppose." His voice was bold and brassy in the near-dark. "Send out this champion of yours."
Dagon nodded. "All hail, Prince Beelzebub. Lord of the Flies."
The Daemonic Host screamed, and the sound was rusted and metallic. A great shadow, a cloud of darkness, rose up behind the shrieking demons. It took a shape, vaguely like that of a six-winged Seraphim. Black, but with eyes that burned Hellfire, they surveyed the cheering troops before floating over them.
The Prince of Hell, though seeming solid, floated THROUGH the bars of the gates. They were twenty feet tall if they were an inch, and Gabriel tried to swallow his doubt.
It stuck in his throat, cold and greasy.
"Er...You then?" he asked hoarsely.
The shadow dipped their head, in acknowledgment of Gabriel or in agreement. He was not certain. He clutched his spear more tightly.
"I will not hesitate to end you," he said, and the cheers of his fellows echoed against the cavern walls. They bolstered Gabriel's courage.
The Prince of Hell gave another nod, and spoke to him with a strange voice. It sounded like the buzz of a million insects, emanating from the chest of the demon. "You will not die today, Archangel," they said. "Death izz a releazze. It should be begged for."
The demons roared, and Gabriel felt cold inside.
"You shall live with thizz failure. For eonzz to come," said the Lord of the Flies. "Come, pezzt. Let'zz get on with it."
The angels gave the two opponents a wide berth. From behind Pandemonium's gate, Dagon spoke.
"Single combat until surrender. Any interference from either side results in an automatic forfeit on behalf of the interloping side. Archangel Michael is to be trusted with the contract until the combat is decided. Contract to be signed and sealed in the usual fashion. Questions?"
Michael shook his head, "No."
Gabriel likewise shook his head. The Prince of Hell remained still as a stone, and yet the blackness that made them up seemed to ripple in the weak light of the cavern.
"Come forth, Michael, to agree to the terms of combat on behalf of the angels," Dagon said. She spoke precisely, gravely.
Michael stepped to the gate, and lowered his magnificent head to brush the dangerous lips of the demon with his own. He stood straight and returned to his place, watching Gabriel shift his weight, and test his grip on the spear.
"The Archangel Michael shall be allowed to call the battle," Dagon said. "Lord Beelzebub, are you prepared?"
"Yezz, Dagon."
"Then at your signal, Michael."
Michael shot a look at Gabriel, who gave him an amiable, confident smile. "Whatever it is, I'll kill it," he said.
"We'll zzee."
Michael shuddered, but stood straighter. "Ready?" he asked.
Gabriel nodded, turning his attention to the roiling cloud before him. "Let's do this."
Michael inhaled, and screamed, "BEGIN!"
Gabriel sank into combat position, and struck out with his spear. The spear disappeared into the black of his opponent's body, and the demon shrieked.
The angels cheered and the demons hissed. Both pressed a bit closer to the battleground, trying to get a good look at the wounded demon prince.
Triumphantly, Gabriel shoved the spear further and twisted it, earning him another agonized cry from the demon. The spear sank deeper and deeper, as the creature fell to their knees, wailing. Their wings drooped, and their essence seemed to float away on the warm currents of the cavern air. It collected in blobs along the stony wall.
The spear kept sinking into the demon, now without any help from Gabriel. The shaft left his hands, pulled into the demon by forces unknown. Gabriel's spear was gone now, fully enveloped inside of the demon. The denizens of the cavern waited in a silence deeper than the shadows of Hell.
The demon's wailing changed into a beautiful and melodic sound. Laughter.
"My turn," the demon said, and exploded.
Small flying things, the essence that Gabriel had seen floating away from the "spear wound", clouded him. He could not see anything but tiny, dark, chitinous bodies and silver wings. Soon, he could not see even that. Nor could he hear anything past the buzzing.
They were crawling. Underneath his polished armor. All over his skin. He tried to crush them with his fists, but there were too many.
The first prick felt like fire, and then there were more. All over his body. Tiny pricks, burning him. Stealing his blood. His life.
He opened his mouth to scream, and then they were inside him. Biting and stinging. He clawed at his armor, trying to smash as many of them as possible. They were in his ears, his nostrils, any hole that they could find, they filled. He threw his helm away from himself, and struggled with the buckles of his breastplate. He freed himself from it. The breastplate fell to the stones with a clatter. Gabriel shredded his battle raiments, screaming and tossing the rest of his metal armor away.
He wriggled, naked. Clawing at his skin. Slapping at them. Trying desperately to destroy as many of these creatures as he could.
They were drinking him. He could feel it. Taking his angelic essence. Surely, it cost them their tiny lives. But there seemed to be no end to them, and Gabriel was growing weaker with every bite. He felt the world tilt and spin. He pitched forward onto the warm stones of the cavern. Tiny wounds swelled on his skin. His vision was clearing, as the creatures died. He could see the stones littered with the bodies of the daemonic flies. He could see the smears of his own blood where he'd crushed one or another.
His hearing returned as the creatures died. He could hear Michael and Uriel crying for him. The angelic Host were weeping and tearing their clothes. Distantly, the demons were cheering.
A tear slipped from his eye. His whole body was on fire, and he was too weak to move. Face-down on the stones, he waited for whatever came next. Hopefully, it would be quick and he would be back in the arms of his Father.
"Zzurender?" the demon asked from somewhere very far away.
"Never!" Michael cried. "Fight the demon! They are nothing without their...insects! Gabriel! Gabriel!"
A stillness settled over him. All of the shiny black carcasses disappeared. The living creatures alighted from his skin. Gabriel could not move. He was too weak. He waited. It would be soon, whatever the Prince of Hell planned to do to him.
Pale feet, small and bare, approached his face. A filthy hem, ragged and sprinkled liberally with the black blood of the demons and the golden blood of angels, whispered over the stones. The feet paused, then turned and left his vision.
Gentle hands rolled him over. Back flat on the stones, he could make out the ceiling of the cavern. It was bleary in the distance. Until he realized that it wasn't bleary, just covered in those shiny black creatures. The insects looked ready to feast on the blood of every angel in attendance.
A soft weight settled on his chest. Two gloriously blue eyes, the color of a clear sky, peered through a thicket of shiny black hair. Prince Beelzebub's pale face was dirty, smudged, but remarkably intact for a demon. Their body still smelled, faintly, of the green and growing things in the garden.
The demon's wings, flecked with blood of gold and black, remained tucked behind them as they grabbed Gabriel's neck, drawing his head up. Beautiful blue eyes, peering deep into his own. Lips, which turned down a bit naturally, now curled up in one corner.
Gabriel felt that this creature could see his soul and found it lacking.
"Fear not," they said. Their voice was so low that he knew the other angels would not hear. A gentle voice, achingly tender and free of all malice. "You shall not die thizz night, azz I promizzed."
And the touch of their cool hands across his puffed flesh (where he still leaked golden blood) felt like a benediction. He was delirious, surely. He closed his eyes as they thumbed over the bites on his eyelids. Gabriel was too weak to call out his surrender. He could not speak. He whimpered his pain at this soft, small, Fallen on his chest.
A chill touched the delicate flesh beneath his left eye. He opened the eye to look. There was a knife, small and sharp and unadorned, in the hands of the Fallen. The point dipped into the soft skin under his eye.
"Zzign the contract, Michael. Or I zztart removing chunkzz."
Gabriel didn't think that they wanted do it, but he knew that they would not hesitate if Michael refused their order. Michael scribbled something on the scroll. "It is done," Michael said.
"Not quite." The Fallen lowered Gabriel's head to the stones. They slipped their knife into their sleeve and slid down Gabriel's body. He felt them grab his wrists and yank him up to a sitting position.
They were not unkind in their movements, but it was not a gentle maneuver. Gabriel's head drooped, and his shoulders slumped, so the demon kept a hand on his chest, holding him up.
They straddled his lap, and their free hand went to his face. Cool, gentle fingers ran over his lips. Their own lips followed their fingers. Their breath tasted sweet, and their warm lips lingered a bit longer than was strictly necessary.
From the demon's touch or from the blood loss, Gabriel began to shiver. They lowered him back to the stones, gently. Tenderly, almost.
"We are zzatizzfied," they said, climbing off of Gabriel. He watched them through his dim vision, as they stepped over to collect the scroll from Michael. "You may leave. He will require azzizztanzze."
"My...spear..." Gabriel managed weakly. "Armor..."
"Oh, you mean my trophiezz?" The Fallen said, with a faint suggestion of cruelty. "Heal thyzzelf, Archangel. Come back when you have zzomething that we want. Perhapzz, I shall fight you again."
Gabriel groaned. He'd lost his weapon. That was inexcusable for any angel, but especially for an Archangel.
The Lord of the Flies turned their attention back towards Michael. "Now leave uzz, and hurry up about it," they said. "You might want to zzee what'zz going on in the Garden. You know, the one that you were zzuppozzed to be guarding?"
"But you're all here!" Michael exclaimed.
"Are we?" said Prince Beelzebub. And they laughed their joyful, melodious laughter again.
Their whole form dissolved into tiny black creatures and slipped back through the gates of Pandemonium. A cry went up amongst the demons as their lord joined the celebrations.
The angels prepared their retreat, and Michael glared down at Gabriel. "Pathetic," he muttered.
"Now what?" Uriel asked.
"We leave. I signed that damnable contract, and he sealed it. We have no choice."
"Do you think," Uriel asked, "that they lured us here to leave the Garden unguarded?"
"Possibly, but I don't see what harm they could have done that Our Father could not repair," Michael snapped. "Sandalphon, carry him. We're leaving."
Gabriel felt Sandalphon's strong, sure hands lifting him from the stones. As the gates of Pandemonium faded from his vision, he was left with the memory of gentle hands and warm lips that tasted, faintly, of honey.