A/N: Wow! I can't believe this month has passed by so fast! Slowly, slowly getting there! Is everyone excited for whatever religious celebrations/holidays you're celebrating?
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Advent - December 23rd
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Zachariah was not having a good day.
Firstly, Uriel was dead. Not that that wasn't a big shock. But it was annoyingly detrimental to his plans. Uriel was…had been… a competent second. If a bit brash.
Secretly, Zachariah had wondered if his vessel had started to affect him without him knowing. Uriel had always been quick to anger when he thought he had been wronged. Zachariah should have foreseen his going after Michael's vessel.
And now look where that put him.
Uriel dead, slain by Castiel's hand of all angels.
Castiel. Uriel's little pawn that he'd been toying with for decades.
Zachariah would never have guessed it, but then he's never really been partial to dealing directly with the troops. He much prefers passing his orders on to the competent angels he's handpicked over the centuries.
Maybe that was an oversight on his part, but really, he can't be expected to do all the work. He had thought Uriel to be trustworthy enough to pick up competent followers and mould them to their plans.
Obviously he's been proven wrong on that part because not only has Castiel stood steadfast to the duty given to him by their Father, he has also killed Uriel. And Zachariah suspects that he now knows there is something wrong.
Or, at least, Zachariah thinks that Castiel might know something is wrong.
It is so very hard to tell sometimes. And it would be too much to just pop down and ask him face to face whether Castiel suspects something or not as he's never spoken much to Castiel at all. It's one of the few downsides to delegating.
Nevertheless, Zachariah will just have to deal with this small setback.
And if he's a little annoyed by the fact that his specially chosen second in command is now dead and gone, leaving him all alone to finish this, then nobody will know. Because he has a stronger control over his vessel.
At times, Zachariah would like to sigh. But it is such a human thing to do that he abstains it. Truly, the only way he would ever sink so low is if he were mocking someone. Or if he needed to convince a human to do anything, he supposes.
But when would he need to do that? He can just order his angels to do the work needed. They're much more efficient than humans and really, when would he need to ask a human's permission anyway?
The closest would be his vessel, who had freely given up his body and decided to pass on.
Or perhaps, Zachariah muses, the vessels of Michael and Lucifer. But seeing as that plan is out of the question right now, he doesn't see how it affects him.
Besides, Dean Winchester isn't the only candidate for Michael. If it ever comes down to it then they have a half-brother whose blood is strong enough to carry Michael's grace.
Not that Zachariah thinks that it will come down to it now, of course. Not with the way the opening of the seals has been botched up by his angels.
At least Uriel did not go off spouting all their plans as he taunted Castiel. That is one thing that Zachariah is certainly grateful for. He is not quite sure what he would have done if Uriel had committed such a breach of trust.
Probably found some way to revive him and kill him again.
But Uriel hadn't because he didn't know. Nobody knows what Zachariah's backup plan is. And after this mess Zachariah is glad of that fact.
Nothing like a complete and utter failure of all proportions to show that if you want a job done right, or even done at all, you could only rely on yourself.
Zachariah turns from where he's standing in the middle of the open space of a field. It is dark, but that doesn't matter. He is an angel; he is not bound by the limitations of the human flesh, even when he is wearing it.
His followers are gathered behind him, standing patiently and waiting for his orders. Zachariah couldn't wish for any more devout. They are willing to stand and fight for the paradise promised to them by their Father.
They are willing to sacrifice everything to gain this once again.
This…is a good thing. Seeing as they will need to for Zachariah's plan to work.
It is not so bad, he thinks. The angel's would and are willing to lay down their lives to fight the forces of hell. They knew that some of them would not survive when fighting for the seals. They were prepared to be struck down by demons and misguided angels alike.
What is so different that they would not lay down their life for him?
Nothing.
All the same, there is that same niggling of doubt.
If Uriel can disobey, then what is to say that these cannot? They were not handpicked by himself. He does not know their true loyalties. He could be under suspicion. There could be a traitor in the ranks.
Is this what he has degraded himself to? Zachariah wonders. Worrying about something that he has no control over and, in all likelihood, will not matter after the next half hour?
It seems he has. Let it not be said that he cannot learn from his past mistakes.
Surreptitiously, Zachariah raises a barrier around the space where they stand. No one will be able to leave or enter without killing him first. And he is safe in the knowledge that that will never happen.
His followers don't even notice. Or, if they do, they neither flinch nor speak out about being encased with him.
Zachariah finds himself looking over the angels before him. They are good. Strong. They have been bred for war and bloodshed. They were made for inconsequential purposes and he has given them a higher goal to strive for.
It is he who has made them more than they are and should ever have been.
They own him everything.
Unfortunately, he had planned for half of his followers to be destroyed by the seals. Their deaths lending more power to the cause.
Not that they know that, of course. It is a highly kept secret that only the archangels know. Except for Zachariah who had overheard it spoken by Gabriel as he was setting up a warning system so they would know if a righteous man ever found himself in hell. Before Gabriel disappeared, of course.
But that recourse is all but null and void now. The seals will not be open by these particular brothers. And until he can find a way of bringing back Lilith, they will never be open.
Hence Plan B.
It had the double pros of both setting off the apocalypse and giving him the opportunity to resurrect the first demon.
He stifles a small smile, much too human, and turns to his brethren.
"My brothers and sisters," he says, holding out his arms wide to encompass them all. It is unneeded, but every now and then he likes a bit of drama. Especially when his audience is made up fully of angels. It sets them off-guard.
Out of the corner of his eye he sees something move just beyond the barrier.
He ignores it.
"The time is now," Zachariah continues, "for millennia we have waited on the right moment for our Father's plans to be fulfilled. Alone we have stood whilst our brethren have carried on. Unknowing in their ignorance.
"But it is not their fault. They have not been chosen for this task. This is our task. Our Father's will commands us.
"We will follow in his footsteps and bring paradise to his creation."
The shadows beyond the barrier are growing. Condensing into forms that circle their gathering, just out of reach.
The angel's don't seem to have noticed. Most of them are too young to have been in this situation before. Cloistered away before they were assigned to their garrisons.
There are only a few here that are old enough and dedicated enough to have been allowed on earth at the time of the last rising.
"We are the few. We are the chosen."
The forms beyond his barrier are clear now. They are reapers. Hundreds of reapers, all standing and waiting for their master.
For him.
Zachariah feels a flush of anticipation sweep through him and is perturbed to find his hands trembling. He takes a breath to steady himself and straightens his spine. His voice, when he next speaks, is unwavering. And for that he is grateful.
"We have been entrusted with the knowledge and the power. Our Father is relying on our steadfast determination.
"We will not fail."
His troops do not speak, or anything uncouth along those lines. But there is a ripple of power that spreads out from him to the furthest reaches.
Zachariah watches as his speech has the right effect.
These angels will die for him.
Which is good, really, seeing as how they will have to die.
Death calls to Death, after all.
Normally he should not be able to do this. He is not an archangel. He does not have the power needed to pull Death's resting place out of the earth. But with the deaths of angels, the power he will be able to wield and shape to his command will be immense.
Certainly enough for the job at hand.
Zachariah almost feels glee at the thought of it. But right now he is too caught up with preparations. He needs…he needs…
There's a flash of light as an angel collapses and dies, its wings burning their final shapes into the ground.
His brothers and sisters do not even turn to watch.
Zachariah has never been so proud. They are good soldiers, willing to die for him. It is too bad that they will actually have to die for him. He has trained them well.
The power from the dead angel gathers around him and Zachariah turns his attention to the next part of the ritual.
The angel's drop faster, one by one speeding up until it's two, and then three at a time. Zachariah throws his head back as the power swirls faster around him, pulsing through him.
This. This.
There aren't many left, but there doesn't need to be. He can feel the ground crack beneath him. Can feel Death's prison start to rise. Can feel the binding chains stretch and break.
If this was the power that an archangel wields at all times, Zachariah feels jealous. Because this is glorious. This is something that he should be able to take charge of at all times. It should not take the death of his troops for him to call something so simple.
His thoughts are getting away from him and it is with some surprise that he is called back to the present by the deaths of the last five of his troops.
There's a giant pulse of power as the empty vessels fall to the floor and the earth in front of him explodes upwards.
Zachariah fights a flinch as…something…steps out of the crack in the earth.
It looks like a man. If it can be called a man. But the power it holds is so much more than he has ever laid hands on. It is not like his Father's power either, for whereas in that there is life. In this there is only death.
Zachariah smiles as the figure stands before him and glances at his children kept away by the barrier.
"Death," Zachariah says, feeling a smile stretch his lips, "I have brought you forth. You will obey me."
Death turns to face him once more and, for a moment, Zachariah feels his will falter. But it is folly; he holds the power of one hundred angel's deaths in his hands. Death will bend to his will. He needs Lilith raised again and for Death to command his reapers.
The plague of humans will be wiped out, one way or another.
But Death doesn't look all that impressed.
"Angel." He says.
And, to Zachariah's horror, the barrier flickers and falters until it falls. The reapers he has been keeping out swarm around their creator.
For the first time, Zachariah feels the beginning of panic stir within him.
This did not happen the last time the angels raised Death. Though, during the flood, Death was raised by an archangel.
"You will obey me. I command you." Zachariah tries again.
Death takes a step forward, then another one, until he's standing almost toe to toe with the angel.
"No." Death says, and for a moment Zachariah thinks he's misheard.
"No?"
Death tilts his head into a half-nod. "No." He confirms, "You cannot command me."
"But I raised you!" Zachariah blusters, "I hold the power! You will do as I say!"
Death blinks and, without hesitation, lays his palm on Zachariah's chest. "I am not one to be commanded." He says quietly.
"But-!" Zachariah is definitely panicking now, but he is unable to draw away. The reapers have closed in, hemming him in on all sides, and the power that he had collected seemed to be draining out of him at a rapid pace. Straight through the spot that Death was touching him.
"You can't do this…" Zachariah tries again, only his voice comes out weak. "There are plans…"
It is all he manages to say before he is engulfed by darkness.
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Death watches silently as the angel who called him blinks slowly. His grace dimming at an alarming rate. This is the natural order of things. This is what he is.
What is living must all die.
And nothing is exempt from that.
The angel finally drops to the floor. Dead. There isn't even enough grace left for its wings to burn away. Instead they lie broken and twisted.
It is a sad sight, but Death has seen so much sadness that he is immune to it.
He turns to his children. His reapers. His beautiful creations that have been wandering the earth whilst he was trapped beneath it.
They are pressing close, trying to be near him, trying to touch him.
Death feels content at their proximity and at how they have flourished.
Death is everywhere after all. That not one of his creations has died is a source of great joy to him. It is much more than can be said for others.
He lets the chatter roll over him, allowing them to catch him up with events. It is surprising, there has been so much more bloodshed over the past few centuries than ever before. It is almost ingenious in the way these humans have managed to kill each other.
But there is something else that is bothering his reapers. An event that is coming, and coming soon. Lead by a race of people that should be his, but have been taught to avoid his touch and fought against another whose souls have been hidden from him.
The Apollites and the Dark Hunters.
This will not do. The natural order has been subverted. This is what happens when he is trapped away.
Death turns to his audience and, as one, they disappear. They will reappear across the globe, ready to reap the souls of the fallen. This conflict will not last, and he will have the deaths due to him.
He waits until the last of the reapers disappears before he sets off to the centre of the conflict.
Reappearing in the middle of New Orleans.
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Meg looks out at the rolling mass of demons. Whoever and whatever she has been able to find has been brought here, ready to hear her speak.
She has been unable to free the more powerful demons still trapped in hell, but the newly turned are much easier to slip between the cracks in the realms.
Beside her stands Alistair, his arms folded behind his back.
"Do you think they're ready?" He asks.
She turns to raise a sardonic eyebrow at her. He's been subtly challenging her ever since someone knocked her unconscious and stole Dean Winchester's soul from underneath her nose. Quite literally.
Meg will have to put a stop to that soon.
"They will be ready." She says, "Or they'll be back here or dead before they know it."
Alistair hums as he surveys the demons braying for blood. "And Crowley?"
Meg scoffs, "That snake may sit on the throne of Hell, but he will never rule. We will have no trouble or interference from him."
Alistair smiles. It is not comforting.
"And what will you do with your new little toy?"
Meg turns her head slightly and holds out her hand, beckoning to the shadows behind them. There is a small pause and then something shifts in the darkness and a hand reaches out to her. Meg doesn't try to hide her smile as Ruby steps forward and presses herself against her.
Meg looks at Alistair once again as she pets Ruby's hair.
"She has a special chore, don't you?" She tugs lightly on the locks beneath her fingers, "She's going to lure Sam and Dean out and then kill them for me."
Ruby presses against her side harder and Meg smiles.
"I see." Alistair says.
"Alistair?" Meg says, not moving her attention away from Ruby, "Release my demons."
Alistair's smile turns bloodthirsty. "As you wish, my master."
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Stryker stood before his troops. Tens upon hundreds lined up in neat, precise rows. Their armour and weapons gleaming in the torchlight.
They would have been glorious to see, marching out into the light of day. But that's impossible, so he's forced to admire their sleek lines by naked flame.
"Strykerius?"
Stryker turns to his second. The daimon is standing at full attention next to him.
"They have their orders. They know where they are to go."
It's not a question, but it's confirmed anyway. Stryker feels the first pang of anticipation.
"Send out the first group."
The order is roared out over the hall and the first bolthole – one of many more that will be seen today – opens up somewhere in Australia. Over the next twelve hours battalions of his troops will arrive in specific places all over the globe as soon as the sun sets there.
He will have to wait until the light dies over New Orleans, but it is a sweet anticipation.
The Dark Hunters will be overwhelmed.
The Night of Blood has begun.