Warning: Blasphemy ahead. And I mean it. Violence, dark themes, and gore,
but nothing too horrible. Religious themes. MAJOR SPOILERS! (Especially for
Volume 14 and 17) Mentioning of m/f pairings, not too graphic m/m pairings
and whatever you'd call pairings the Mad Hatter is involved in ;)
Summary: The fall of Belial, Astaroth and Asmodeus. Why did they change sides? How did they fall? And what did the War do to Archangels Michael and Raphael?
1 A sky the colour of bones
A sky with the colour of bones.
A sickly grey sky , filling the vastness above.
Above the blue sky is heaven. And above heaven the sky is the colour of bones. The air is blazing with a white heat. A chalky sun at its zenith, immovable. The feathered corpses of angels are rotting in the sunshine. Fallen and not fallen alike - when dead, they're rotting. Death. The supreme force. The only force superior to the devil. The Devil. That's what they call him now. The great enemy. The one defying God, the glorious Morning Star. Oh, to trade his subtle light with this cruel, all consuming sun.
Three men, or rather, three Angels, for one of them is still hesitating to become one or the other gender, are looking over the vast expanse of the plateau. The armies have fought, the armies are gone. Only death still lingers, death and those three.
The first one is strong and imposing, a man of heavy, powerful built, but he is bearing his power with such nonchalance, such slackness, that it is corrupted. He sits on the naked stones of a crumbled wall as if it was no less than the lush cushions of the noblest place in Heaven, lounging he is, languidly smoking a very aristocratic pipe - even though neither pipes nor aristocracies have yet been invented by humans. His hair and eyes are inky, his looks are heavy lidded. He is showing the first lines of untimely age.
His name is Asmodeus. You can see that he has not dirtied his manicured hands with idle warfare. There are better things in life than slay and slaughter, aren't there?
The second one would not agree. He is standing in the shadows, leaning against a crooked beam, shielding his icy beauty from the harsh rays of light. His left arm his hanging down, his gloved fingers clutching a bloody axe by far too heavy for his lithe frame. A mane of hair, the colour of murder, of passion, is falling around him, his young face twisted into a sneer. He seems no older than sixteen, but to only thing that still reminds of childhood is that cruel carelessness towards all living beings that children sometimes show. His eyes are the reflections from icicles.
His name is Astaroth and he is feared everywhere in heaven. His hands are redder than even his hair from the blood that they spilt in random carnage.
The third one, the one without gender, is sitting in the sun, painted lips smiling a shrewd smile, wicked blue eyes searching the sky. Call me worthless, they dare him. But I am here. But you created me. Look. Look at me! Outrageous red curls are flying openly in the dusty breeze. Oh, this one does not fear the light of day. A tan is never bad, isn't it? Marble legs are bare, shameless. Asmodeus' appreciating looks are noticed and the legs are spread a little more openly. But the smoking man is not a real challenge. His corruptness is legendary.
He is at the moment rather a she, she decides merrily. Perhaps, of those three, she is the least tainted. Yes, she is committing sins in abundance, but still... her defiance is the boldness of a child. She is wild, she has not yet found her master. She feels resentment towards her God, but she still craves his attention.
Her name is Belial, and of course she'd never ever use brutal force. Why, when there's tricks and treachery?
The three are looking over the plateau. The war is not over. It is just pausing, preparing for another battle. They are faintly interested, those three, but not in its outcome. For that, they couldn't care less. No, the darkness, the sin that war represents fascinates them. But neither party has their sympathies. Not just yet.
God has never been their master, that is what they clearly feel. Maybe he had created them, had their fates already decided for them. But they are free. Freedom is their fairest illusion. Their loveliest dream.
"What a giant waste of time," Asmodeus drawls beneath his pipe. Belial laughs airily. Astaroth is silent. He is mostly silent when there is nothing cruel to say. Right now, slaughtered corpses speak for themselves.
"And what for? What for, I ask you!" Asmodeus shakes his head. "All those stupid angels could be enjoying their lives right now. Amusement is the only thing that is real." He smiles. Well, he is certainly enjoying himself.
"Well, some people seem to have other ideas about what kind of 'amusement' suits them, don't they, Astaroth?" Belial asks playfully. The boy's axe scratches the concrete, mixing blood with dust. The scraping and the silent melody of a lonely breeze are blending perfectly with the silence.
"Pain. Pain is real."
"There you have it, Asmodeus," she grins. "Pain is amusement and amusement is real. What is there to add? Let's have fun!"
She looks around, and after some minutes in silence she pouts a little, then bounces to her feet and danced along the little wall Asmodeus is sprawled on. He watches her with appreciation. She isn't even a woman. Not even a man! What is there to be appreciated? There is a butterfly, dancing before his eyes.
She comes closer, she bewitches him with her perfect, genderless thighs, her porcelain skin, her fluttering fingers, her lashes... "Amusement," she whispers huskily. The magic word. His heavy, lazy fingers wander over her back, trying to draw her closer. She evades him, volatile as ever. She laughs.
"Come on, Astaroth. Move your gorgeous little butt. I want to go. This is more than boring!" she commands. And they slowly, unhurriedly make their way to their vehicle. Belial throws a last look around. Glittering, her eyes meet Asmodeus.
"Did you ever wonder... what it's like? To be on his side...?"
He shakes his head. "A gentleman never wonders, dear Belial," he says with a smile. "But I do," she whispers and a sly grin dances across her lips.
Summary: The fall of Belial, Astaroth and Asmodeus. Why did they change sides? How did they fall? And what did the War do to Archangels Michael and Raphael?
1 A sky the colour of bones
A sky with the colour of bones.
A sickly grey sky , filling the vastness above.
Above the blue sky is heaven. And above heaven the sky is the colour of bones. The air is blazing with a white heat. A chalky sun at its zenith, immovable. The feathered corpses of angels are rotting in the sunshine. Fallen and not fallen alike - when dead, they're rotting. Death. The supreme force. The only force superior to the devil. The Devil. That's what they call him now. The great enemy. The one defying God, the glorious Morning Star. Oh, to trade his subtle light with this cruel, all consuming sun.
Three men, or rather, three Angels, for one of them is still hesitating to become one or the other gender, are looking over the vast expanse of the plateau. The armies have fought, the armies are gone. Only death still lingers, death and those three.
The first one is strong and imposing, a man of heavy, powerful built, but he is bearing his power with such nonchalance, such slackness, that it is corrupted. He sits on the naked stones of a crumbled wall as if it was no less than the lush cushions of the noblest place in Heaven, lounging he is, languidly smoking a very aristocratic pipe - even though neither pipes nor aristocracies have yet been invented by humans. His hair and eyes are inky, his looks are heavy lidded. He is showing the first lines of untimely age.
His name is Asmodeus. You can see that he has not dirtied his manicured hands with idle warfare. There are better things in life than slay and slaughter, aren't there?
The second one would not agree. He is standing in the shadows, leaning against a crooked beam, shielding his icy beauty from the harsh rays of light. His left arm his hanging down, his gloved fingers clutching a bloody axe by far too heavy for his lithe frame. A mane of hair, the colour of murder, of passion, is falling around him, his young face twisted into a sneer. He seems no older than sixteen, but to only thing that still reminds of childhood is that cruel carelessness towards all living beings that children sometimes show. His eyes are the reflections from icicles.
His name is Astaroth and he is feared everywhere in heaven. His hands are redder than even his hair from the blood that they spilt in random carnage.
The third one, the one without gender, is sitting in the sun, painted lips smiling a shrewd smile, wicked blue eyes searching the sky. Call me worthless, they dare him. But I am here. But you created me. Look. Look at me! Outrageous red curls are flying openly in the dusty breeze. Oh, this one does not fear the light of day. A tan is never bad, isn't it? Marble legs are bare, shameless. Asmodeus' appreciating looks are noticed and the legs are spread a little more openly. But the smoking man is not a real challenge. His corruptness is legendary.
He is at the moment rather a she, she decides merrily. Perhaps, of those three, she is the least tainted. Yes, she is committing sins in abundance, but still... her defiance is the boldness of a child. She is wild, she has not yet found her master. She feels resentment towards her God, but she still craves his attention.
Her name is Belial, and of course she'd never ever use brutal force. Why, when there's tricks and treachery?
The three are looking over the plateau. The war is not over. It is just pausing, preparing for another battle. They are faintly interested, those three, but not in its outcome. For that, they couldn't care less. No, the darkness, the sin that war represents fascinates them. But neither party has their sympathies. Not just yet.
God has never been their master, that is what they clearly feel. Maybe he had created them, had their fates already decided for them. But they are free. Freedom is their fairest illusion. Their loveliest dream.
"What a giant waste of time," Asmodeus drawls beneath his pipe. Belial laughs airily. Astaroth is silent. He is mostly silent when there is nothing cruel to say. Right now, slaughtered corpses speak for themselves.
"And what for? What for, I ask you!" Asmodeus shakes his head. "All those stupid angels could be enjoying their lives right now. Amusement is the only thing that is real." He smiles. Well, he is certainly enjoying himself.
"Well, some people seem to have other ideas about what kind of 'amusement' suits them, don't they, Astaroth?" Belial asks playfully. The boy's axe scratches the concrete, mixing blood with dust. The scraping and the silent melody of a lonely breeze are blending perfectly with the silence.
"Pain. Pain is real."
"There you have it, Asmodeus," she grins. "Pain is amusement and amusement is real. What is there to add? Let's have fun!"
She looks around, and after some minutes in silence she pouts a little, then bounces to her feet and danced along the little wall Asmodeus is sprawled on. He watches her with appreciation. She isn't even a woman. Not even a man! What is there to be appreciated? There is a butterfly, dancing before his eyes.
She comes closer, she bewitches him with her perfect, genderless thighs, her porcelain skin, her fluttering fingers, her lashes... "Amusement," she whispers huskily. The magic word. His heavy, lazy fingers wander over her back, trying to draw her closer. She evades him, volatile as ever. She laughs.
"Come on, Astaroth. Move your gorgeous little butt. I want to go. This is more than boring!" she commands. And they slowly, unhurriedly make their way to their vehicle. Belial throws a last look around. Glittering, her eyes meet Asmodeus.
"Did you ever wonder... what it's like? To be on his side...?"
He shakes his head. "A gentleman never wonders, dear Belial," he says with a smile. "But I do," she whispers and a sly grin dances across her lips.