#AboveBelowBeyond

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Above, Below, Beyond | Chapter III: By the River

The river reeked of sulfur and it was void of life. Its flow was sluggish, so it did not bend. No smaller streams merged to form it, instead tears from souls of the damned fell, seeped in the soil, and fed the river. Hundreds of thousands… millions of these souls were scattered by the riverbank, aimlessly digging the ground with pickaxes and shovels. They cried for they were tired and for their mouths have been sewn shut. Some of them watched as the ship floated by.

This ship was not made of wood but of rotten muscle and sinew, and bones stained by soot. A black, slender being, with bony protrusions all over, fixed the rigging that was made of rope, chains and dried-out intestines. The flies rushed away where ever its three-toed feet landed and the long tail swayed. Taking heavy breaths, a horned, skeletal head looked down from the deck to examine the frontcastle, the face of the ship, and saw that the souls right where they had to be – stitched together and nailed to the bow. The ship’s figurehead was a collection of human skulls, which even after death had retained their sentience and were screaming against the wind as the ship navigated the river called Acheron.

On the deck, thousands of human souls wailed along.

The plight of the damned was music to Charon’s demonic ears. He could almost dance to it, he swore, for the screams and the begging of humans were reassurance that down here, he was superior to them.

Occasionally, amidst the shouting, one would call out and mention the word he hated the most: God.

“Oh, my God!” the human cried. “Jesus, holy shit…”

With anger blazing in his red eyes, Charon turned and walked toward his cargo. “He’s not here, boy.” His voice was gravel grinding against gravel. “Who said that? WHO FUCKING SAID THAT!?!”

Near the end of the ship was a large, black, bubbling mass of ooze and grime. Every now and then, screaming human faces appeared out of this amorphous, gelatinous stock, only to sink back down again and disappear from sight. Human souls kept their faces when their bodies died, while the rest of their remaining essence would take ink-like forms – a testament of the sinful lives they had lived on Eden. The darker the appearance of the soul, the more sinful it had been. The ferryman transported these souls by the thousands; he picked them up from the shores of Anteferno and dragged them back to his ship. Though seemingly trivial, Charon enjoyed every bit of his work and truly took pleasure in watching the damned try to struggle out of ooze.

But something was not quite right. Though tiny, a white spot in the middle of the black mass was easily visible to Charon’s eyes. A human face floated on top of it.

“What… in nine Hells…” he said, leaning closer to look.

“Oh, God,” the human looked back at him. “Please, don’t hurt me,” it begged.

“Stop. Saying. THAT!” Charon punched the face. A wave rippled away from where his fist had landed.

When he pulled up his arm, he saw the white spot but the face was gone. Seconds later, it resurfaced again.

He lodged all ten of his fingers around the face. With his unholy might, Charon tried to pluck out the human soul out of the black mass. “Grrraagggh!” the demon shouted. “Come here! I’ll fucking eat you!”

Just then, a loud thud on the ship’s deck signaled that the arrival of something, or someone. With hands still plunged in the black slime, he glanced at the intruder.

“You are way behind schedule, Charon.” the other demon wrapped in moving shadow said. “I have had enough with your follies.”

“Bah,” Charon smirked and paid no heed to the visitor. He punched the white-colored surface again and again, hoping it would sink to the center of the mass and be gone forever.

“Many had warned the Inner Circles of your… instability. You would slow all of us down.”

The shipper of souls continued his compulsive, raging punching.

“Charon…” the demon said. “I would like to take control of your ship.”

Finally, he stopped and turned. “Fuck off.”

“You are not fit for this task anymore.”

“Leave, Styx,” Charon replied. “Or I’ll add your horns to my mast.”

Jonathan watched as the two demons, one slender and bony, the other cloaked by twisting shadow, glared at each other.

After the one named “Charon” unleashed a barrage of punches, he found that he had gathered an eerie kind of strength as he sank into the darkness and resurfaced. How or why this was possible, he did not know, but he felt that his willpower had been restored and if he focused enough, he could materialize a solid body out of the amorphous mass that he was in.

Though terrified out of his mind, he knew that doing nothing was the greater risk. With his captor’s back at him, he realized this was the only chance.

He tried to raise his face above the slime. Soon enough, a head formed and poked out of the mass. He strained so hard that his neck began to hurt. Neck, he thought. I have neck now.

The demons talked even more, but he did not listen. Keep going. Fuck, just keep going!

To his left and to his right, fingers began to materialize from the gelatinous mass. The other human faces saw Jonathan slowly will a form into existence.

Styx saw the struggling soul as well, with its hands now visible. Sensing Styx’s surprise, Charon snapped his head around and saw one of his prisoners attempt an escape.

“You fucking piece of –”

Faster than an eye, human or demon, could blink, a long scythe emerged from the darkness that wrapped Styx’s body. He swung it towards Charon.

The demon shrieked in pain.

“I knew it.” Charon’s bones shifted, forming a skeletal paddle in his hands. “You’re one of them.”

Gripping the scythe with both hands, Styx stepped aside… measured this foe.

Without reason nor tactic, Charon slammed the paddle forward. Once. Twice. Thrice. His blows made holes on the ship’s deck. Bits of muscle and bone flew in the air.

Yet none of the attacks touched the swirling shadow that was Styx.

Outraged, the ferryman ran toward the shadow. The two’s attacks parried, again and again. Styx spun, his blade gashed Charon’s stomach.

Black blood flowed and spilled onto the deck. Charon was not amused.

His hand – now a mutated growth of bloodied carpals – slashed forward. Styx twisted away. The paddle struck horizontally, embedding itself onto the ship’s mast.

Charon tried to free it.

Styx lept. Higher than the mast. The scythe glowed with violet magic; he slashed at the air, forming a purple crescent. It descended to the ship. To the deck. To Charon.

The curved blast of energy hit its target - an explosion of blood and sinew, muscle and bone. A huge chunk of the ship fell and crashed into the River Acheron. The water gave way.

Then Death was falling, and with a squat, landed on the deck. Or what remained of it.

As the ship wobbled, Styx raised his head. His gaze met Jonathan’s.

 Madness, Jonathan thought. Fucking madness.

While the demons fought, Jonathan pushed himself away from the amorphous sludge. He managed to do so all the way down to his torso. His body was all black and only his face was spared from this black ooze. Still, his lower half was nowhere to be seen.

The one named Styx had prevailed. Now, their gazes met.

The shadow being walked toward him.

At that moment, Jonathan understood terror. Hands on the ooze, he was pushing downward. Please. God, help.

Styx edged closer.

A leg plopped up, followed by another, and he was running.

To where? He did not know, nor could he care.

He jumped into the river.

The acidic, dirty water entered his ears, stung his eyes and nose. He swam away from the boat as fast as he possibly could in his slimy form. With his head above the water, he glanced back. Styx was standing on the sinking ship, watching him.

Fuck you, he thought. Fuck all of you.

Just then a hand grabbed his ankle, pulling him.

It was Charon. One-handed, and his face badly injured. Jonathan struggled, but the demon was too strong. Bubbles rose out of Charon’s mouth as he shouted unheard obscenities at the human from under the water.

From above, the blade of the scythe lodged itself deeply into Charon’s head, between the two horns, and disappeared back to the surface. Jonathan felt the demon’s grip loosen and watched the corpse sank down… and disappeared… into the dark depths of the Acheron.

Styx pulled him out of the water.

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Above, Below, Beyond | Prologue III: Creatio

Though she was the one who visited Heaven most often, Metatron was not the only Creator’s Hand. She was later joined by Sandalphon who descended from the hole that was the Oculus as well. Like the Hand before her, Sandalphon took Luciel’s form but had red hair instead of blonde.

Together, two of the Creator’s Hands floated in the air and, without even touching it, began to lift the Scion of Creation with them. Though it did not seem much of a struggle for them, it took a while before the swirling orb was completely dislodged from the ground. The water from the Sea of Aether gushed down to fill the crater that the Scion left behind; and the Sea looked peaceful once more.

With the Scion now in their possession, Metatron and Sandalphon flew to the Gates of Heaven and all four thousand angels followed trailed behind them.

Dodging the tall and sharp spires, they flew above the Sanctus Domae and through the grass field, passing by the spherical structures that the angels called home. Were it not for the massive company flying with him, Luciel felt that this scene was all too familiar. It did not take long for the entire host to arrive at the Gates of Heaven.

Heaven was a circular, walled city that floated in the vast expanse of endless space, and the Gates were the only opening that the Hands had created for the City. Luciel never understood why the Gates were necessary in the first place, but now perhaps he did. If the Gates were never created, they would have been blocked by a hundred-league high wall composed of white, hallowed ivory.

The Hands once claimed that these walls were indestructible.

The Guardians of the Gates sensed the presence of angelic beings and their plan to leave the confines of the City. From afar, Luciel saw that the Gates began to swing open.

Old enough to have seen the creation of the wall and the Guardians themselves, Luciel thought that it was the most interesting out of all the phenomenal creations that he had witnessed. Quite some time ago, Metatron and Sandalphon, accompanied by five other Hands, created the wall and the Gates. All these Hands took Luciel’s form as well; the only way to tell them apart was by the color of their hair. Only two of the other Creator’s Hands stuck with him: the white-haired Boanon and the black-haired Jachinon.

It seemed as if it were yesterday when the Gates were built, and Luciel remembered every single vivid detail in his head. The seven Hands extracted wisps from the Scion and made the blue strands of energy surround the entirety of the then-empty Heaven. In a matter of mere minutes, the Creator’s Hands had manipulated, materialized, and shaped the raw energy of the orb into the leagues-thick walls of holy ivory that completely encompassed Heaven. What followed was the creation of the guardians of the Gates.

Two Hands stepped forth from the circle: Boanon and Jachinon. Then Luciel watched as his features in the two began to disappear; their hair shrunk and became colorless, their eyes, noses and mouths began to disappear, their skin gradually tore apart which revealed a bluish surface of energy. Metatron turned to face Luciel, reminding him. They are shedding their forms, Luciel had thought as he covered his eyes with a hand.

Metatron informed him when it was safe to look, and he did. Before him were two statues made of shiny bronze, wrapped by the turquoise magic of the Scion. Both the statues had heads, torsos, arms and legs, but other than that there were no features to differentiate one from the other. The peculiar thing was that the statues seemed to be increasing in size, slowly rising above the five Hands that remained. Their growth did not stop until they were as huge and as high as the walls of Heaven itself.

Now Boanon and Jachinon, or what remained of them, towered high and mighty by the Gates of Heaven. The gigantic statues had their hands clasped together on top of their chests. With intertwined fingers, they looked as if they were stuck in an eternal prayer.

Luciel smiled as he recalled the memory of the Guardians’ creation. Surely enough, it was the souls of the two, selfless Hands that sensed their coming, and bid the Gates open.

He was always under the impression that, unlike the other structures in Heaven, the Gates did not seem to be too special (even when compared to the Forge). As high and as thick as the walls of Heaven, they were made of the same bronze as the colossal transformations of Boanon and Jachinon, and carved onto the Gates were symbols of the ayesi. Besides that, not much can be said about them.

The story of the guardians of the Gates, thought Luciel, is in fact a lot more interesting than the Gates themselves.

The angels heard a loud, creaking sound caused by the movement of the Gates. From the air, they felt the vibrations of the bronze as it grinded against whatever metal held it in place. A blast of cold wind from the infinite expanse outside the Walls greeted them as they flew their way through.

Beyond the Gates, there was enough of the grass-filled ground for four-thousand angels to stand on. Beyond that was the rest of the universe. Dark. Endless. Uninviting.

Metatron and Sandalphon flew toward this empty space as the Scion floated closely behind them. Wanting see to the process of creation once more, perhaps even study it, Luciel stood right at the edge of Heaven. Here, the ground ended and dropped off into empty space that stretched farther than his eyes could see. Some of the other angels stood at the edge as well while others were content to stay behind. He realized that this would be the first time for the rest of angelkind to see the Creator’s Hands at work.

Then… the beginning.

Metatron touched the blue Scion, taking a small piece of glowing energy out of it. She flattened it and spread its thin area as far as she could. By now,

Sandalphon took a piece of the Scion as well. With its power, she gathered the darkness that remained from the far reaches of the universe. She placed it next to, and in contrast with, the light that Metatron had created.

“Behold,” Metatron cried aloud. “This light shall be known as day, and the darkness shall be known as night. Henceforth, a day will also be a measure of time. It will be a single cycle of the light turning into darkness.”

“That is quite confusing,” said an approaching Asmodiel, accompanied by a two-winged Orobel.

Luciel turned his head at the two. “We will get used to it,” he said with a chuckle.

Looking back at creation before him, he saw that together, Metatron and Sandalphon were turning the halves of light and darkness with their might. Everything slowly dimmed and darkened as the night occupied the entirety of the horizon and the rest of the universe. A few moments later and the light was back, making the angels squint once more even for a short while.

“Thus, a day has passed,” Sandalphon said.

The two Hands took a piece of the Scion once more. With it, they created an impossibly, large amount of water that floated throughout the universe. Luciel saw that, unlike the Aether, this water did not sparkle. It was simply dull but reflective. Then the floating ocean was separated in half; one of which floated upward, formed itself into a sphere and evaporated away into moisture. “This will be the sky of Eden,” Metatron said of it. The other half condensed and sank to the center of the sphere where its waves moved placidly.

Metatron and Sandalphon rotated the light and the darkness again.

With another fragment of the Scion, Metatron created dry ground she called “land” out of the sea.  While Sandalphon created plants, grass and trees out of the land that was formed.

For the third time, the Creator’s Hands turned the cycle of day and night.

Then Metatron and Sandalphon dipped their own hands into the Scion and flung out spherical lights across the universe. “Stars, they shall be called. With them, humankind shall mark their sacred times, days and years,” Metatron said. Then they flung out two great balls of light, though one was bigger and brighter than the other. “This greater light,” Sandalphon decreed, “will govern the day and shall be known as the Sun. While this lesser light will govern the night and shall be known as the moon.”

This time, Metatron nor Sandalphon exerted no effort to bring forth a new day. The Sun and the moon were now in control of the passing of days and nights.

Asmodiel’s and Orobel’s jaws dropped in astonishment.

Sandalphon threw a speck of the Scion into the ocean and out of it came forth creatures. Luciel only saw the creatures’ shadows and movements, not just because of the distance, but also because the creatures swam from underneath the water. From a tiny spark of energy in the palm of her hand,

Metatron created a pair of white wings.

With narrowed eyes, Luciel watched intensely.

What followed was the creation of a feathery body, a head with a triangular mouth, a pair of scaly feet that ended with sharp nails, and finally a trapezoidal tail. Metatron gently threw it to the sky of Eden. After flapping its wings aimlessly for a few seconds, it began to fly. Then a light enveloped the tiny creature. All of sudden, the light dispersed and copies of the creature flew into the sky. Some were larger; others were smaller than the first. They sported variations of the original’s beak and colors, but Luciel saw that each of the creatures still had a resemblance from the first.

The first, it turned out, was a mold. And from it came all other beings of its kind – the castings from the mold.

Like me, Luciel thought.

Metatron turned to look at him, as if she had the same thoughts, and they both smiled.

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Above, Below, Beyond | Chapter III: mortem

For a moment, there was nothing but darkness and silence. This was not merely the lack of light, sound and any stimuli, but an encompassing absence of any actual thing that could have created any kind of stimuli.

The nothingness descended upon him.

He felt as if he was simply asleep. He was conscious, yes, and his slumber was pleasant and deep, albeit dreamless. The kind which lasted for mere seconds… or had it been hours? Days? It was impossible to tell because time, and even space, did not exist in the emptiness that he was in.

Where? Those were his first thoughts. Where am I?

As sudden as an unseen prick from a needle came… sense… in the form of a loud, screeching sound.

With only his sense of hearing to guide him, he tried to ‘turn’ to where the noise seemingly came from, then tried to move his arms and feel his fingers but without the sense of touch, he had no sense of location – no sense if he even had a body at all.

In the absolute darkness, he could think and hear, but without a body, he could not move.

The noise became louder and he thought that it approached him. The screeching was happening right next to his ears or where they would have been. It continued to intensify and kept on creeping closer, until it seemed that his ears, if they were there at all, were causing the sound.

The sound pushed closer against his mind, until it seemed that he was the screeching sound itself.

He screamed.

His was a bloodcurdling cry of anguish in the placid darkness. The scream was a sound he never heard before. He had never experienced such a desperate plea for help. He shouted again and again until he overpowered the screeching in his mind. Until the screeching was no more.

Help… Wha – what is happening?

A crushing feeling sank into him. He was powerlessness and he felt the despair of being stuck in the timeless expanse of black nothing.

“Help me!” was all he could manage to say.

His screaming intertwined with his crying. He wanted to learn about the current nature of his predicament, yet his wailing could not be stopped. Not until he was plucked away from this abyss.

Not until he was awakened from this dream.

Amidst his screaming, he heard it. Somewhere behind him was another voice echoing the same sentiments.

“Please, Timothy…” the voice of the woman pleaded. “I don’t wanna die.”

“Daddy…” There was another, and it sounded much closer than the first. “Daddy, where are you?”

“No!!!” another shouted. “Nooo… Aaaaah!”

He heard an infant crying and a man shouting violent threats. More and more voices joined the chaos. All around him where nothing but disembodied screams; male and female, young and old. They lamented. Begged. Some were even praying. Many seemed to be far away, while others were definitely nearby.

Without even realizing that he had them, he opened his eyes.

His vision was murky, like there were cobwebs in his eyes. Soon enough, his vision adjusted and the first thing he saw was the cloudless, predominantly black sky. Something which looked like a pattern of roots, lightning or veins, orange in color, permeated its entirety. No thunder accompanied this orange lightning; it pulsated but never disappeared from the sky altogether. Some spots of it grew brighter, only to dim, then grew brighter again.

Nearby was a post with a stick resting on top of it. It took some time before he noticed the finer details, but he was immediately filled with dread when he did.

Stretching up high into the black and veined sky were human heads stacked on top of each other. The sick, demented totem sported mouths that were opened wide and twisted into expressions of agony. A few had their tongues hanging out of them. Other mouths were biting compulsively at the air, while some did not move at all; they were locked in contorted grins and smiles. The noses all looked like to be in an advanced state of decay. There were only holes where cartilage once had been.

The worst were the eyes.

Many of the faces had their eyes plucked out. Dried, dark crimson blood streamed down from the empty sockets. Others were lucky enough to still have their eyes with them. The pupils frantically moved, left to right, top to bottom, as if looking for something. Some had no blacks in them; the eyes were rolled up so high inside their sockets that he could see the veins underneath the eye.

One face stared back at him.

Before he could react to the horror before him, the stick atop the post suddenly fell with a swoosh and revealed a pink garment. Concealing half of the terrifying post from his sight, it caught the wind and stubbornly swayed with it.

But the garment was not garment; it was skin. Blood dripped everywhere and a horrible, putrid smell filled the air. What seemed like human skins of different colors were stitched together.

With a sudden realization, he cried out in terror.

“Oh, my God! Jesus, holy shit!”

The post made of human faces was a mast, and its sail was the badly patched pieces of human skin.

He was on a ship.

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Above, Below, Beyond | PROLOGUE II: In Our Image

Behind the majesty of the Sanctus Domae rested an ancient relic left behind by the Creator’s Hands after they had laid the final stone in Heaven and the City was completed.

The relic, known as the Scion of Creation, was a large, spherical mass of radiant, blue energy. While the lower half of the sphere lay unseen and embedded beneath the ground, its upper half revealed a swirling spectrum of white, blue and, occasionally, yellow light around the center. Flying high in the air, Luciel watched from afar as the magical streams emanated outward and materialized into blue, sparkling liquid. The water settled on the ground, surrounding and enveloping the Scion.

Over time, this body of water grew into a lake and, later on, into a sea. Luciel was the only angel old enough to see it happen. The magical sea that emanated from the Scion became known as the Aether, and it provided nourishment to angelkind. After the other angels had been created by the Hands, he found out that the Aether was also capable of healing wounds that they sustained during training. To the residents of Heaven, the Scion was clearly a gift from the Creator himself, and it became a continuous reminder of the Creator’s eternal mercy, love and grace.

“Beautiful,” Luciel spoke of the Scion.

“I will never tire of that sight,” Michael replied. “Though it would have been better if it were not for this commotion.”

Standing on the coasts of the Sea of Aether were thousands of winged beings who conversed and drink the splendid water. The nearly complete gathering of Heaven’s host created so much noise that Luciel could hear even from above. The angels had convened here as they await the coming of Metatron.

Looking around, Luciel saw that Metatron was nowhere to be seen. Good, he thought. We are not late.

Back at the Forge, after Luciel informed the warriors of Metatron’s arrival, Michael had issued a challenge. “Fight me, brother,” he told Luciel. “Surely, Heaven’s Sword can learn a thing or two from the Firstborn Son,” Michael added.

To which Luciel replied that there was no time. “The rest are on their way,” he had said, and later added that he would fight Michael ‘another time’.

He looked forward to it, and he knew that Michael looked forward to it as well.

Their flight lowered as they approached the Scion. Uriel and the others were kind enough to immediately heed the call. It was only Michael who wanted to stay at the Forge and continue training.

But even he was bound by the summons of Gabriel, the Chief Scribe. Whenever parchments and scrolls were sent with Gabriel’s inscription, it was foolish, perhaps even mindless, to refuse and to not follow.

Besides, an overwhelming sense of duty, honor and obedience was part of angelkind’s nature.

“Brothers,” Gabriel greeted them before their feet even landed on the ground. “I feared Metatron would arrive first before any of you did.”

The Chief Scribe was dressed in a white fabric decorated with golden inscriptions of the ayesi, which were the symbols of the divine. When Michael and Uriel approached to shake Gabriel’s hand, Luciel could not help but notice the difference of their responsibilities based only on what they wore. Before leaving the Forge, the warriors had donned their silver, sword-scratched armor and metallic wing-guards – clear pronouncements of their positions within Heaven’s army. Luciel had been preoccupied by the contrast of the gray, heavenforged metals to the Chief Scribe’s scholarly tunic that he did not notice the angels kneeling all around him upon seeing him.

To Luciel, Gabriel said, “And I haven’t seen you at the Athenaeum these past few days, Firstborn.”

“The great hall of books. I’ve grown tired of reading the same tomes, over and over again, Lord Scribe,” he replied. “My mind has come to memorize spells written in ayesi. So much so that I see them in my sleep.”

The Scribe laughed at the jest, took a knee and stood back up. “I heard that you helped my poor Asmodiel to spread the word.”

Luciel shrugged. “I had nothing to do anyway.” The two walked toward the Sea while Michael and

Uriel followed closely behind. “But I fear that the boy…”

“Yes? What about him?”

“I fear that the boy Asmos has yet to learn the proper… formalities,” Luciel said after hesitating.

Gabriel apologized on behalf of the two-winged clod. “He will be reminded,” Gabriel pleaded. “We would not want it to happen should he ever come face-to-face with Metatron.”

Agreed. Luciel thought.

Suddenly, far above the Scion of Creation, a portal appeared.

It was small at first; nothing but a small dot in the blue sky. But the point slowly grew and it became a hole in the reality of Heaven, an opening to another realm, another plain of existence. A loud, thundering sound accompanied the growth of the orifice which was followed by turquoise lightning, and white and black rays of luminosity. The space around the hole shifted and twisted, rejoined and twisted some more before the growing portal stopped and stabilized into a black, two-dimensional void in the middle of the sky

The Oculus was completed.

Luciel spread his wings and graciously flew upward, towards the portal.

To the eyes of Heaven’s host, it seemed that Luciel floated to the portal. All 4,125 angels of Heaven knelt as they watched him. The beating of his wings produced no sound, and his golden feathers reflected the dazzling glow of light from the Oculus.

When he reached the portal, Luciel spoke. “Glory be to the Creator! All Power and Wisdom and Goodness are His! Now and forever!”

The angels repeated his words.

Beyond the portal was a figure partially covered in the blackness. He did not see the entirety of the being, but he realized that it was composed of blue, swirling light. He was able to make out the impression of the faceless head, the featureless body and indistinct arms. Aside from the entity’s obvious form, its appearance – though still veiled in darkness – did not differ much from that of the Scion.

“Glory be to the Creator!” Heaven said in unison.

Then qualities and features began to appear. Luciel saw a radiant halo, a pair of piercing blue eyes, long blonde hair, and a white but not pale body. The narrow shoulders, ample sized breasts and wide hips materialized from the portal. What followed, finally, were the three pairs of wings.

“All Power and Wisdom and Goodness are His!” four thousand voices echoed.

As it emerged from the portal, the being, which was Metatron, mimicked Luciel’s shape. Being one of the innumerable numbers of the Creator’s Hands, Metatron belonged to a race far older than angelkind. As living extensions of the Creator Himself, Metatron’s true form was far too divine even for the eyes of angels. Seeing their true form meant death, and Luciel caught a glimpse of this true form only because it was partially concealed by the blackness in the portal.

Surely the Creator would not want His four thousand children to die so whenever Metatron descended unto Heaven from the realm Beyond, it was customary to reflect the image of Luciel the Firstborn Angel.

“Now and forever!”

He looked at the near identical copy of the image he saw reflected by walls of the Sanctus Domae.

Beautiful, he thought of Metatron.

Holding hands as they descended, Metatron flicked the long, golden strands of her hair back.

Very beautiful.

The two most majestic beings in all of existence exchanged pleasantries as they stopped and hovered just above the Scion of Creation, in the middle of the sea that was the Aether. All of Heaven surrounded them; they watched in silence and they watched in awe.

“Angelkind!” Metatron cried to the crowd. Her voice was that of trumpets which pierced the entirety of the then-silent Heaven. “I bring forth good news. Message and orders from the Creator Himself!”

Heaven fell silent once more.

“As a testament of his Infinite Goodness, the Almighty wishes to create a new race. A race of mortals. A race with two natures: physical body and ethereal soul. Their kind will be weaker than yours but, in this weakness, they will have the capacity to elevate themselves closer to divinity. They will be called humans. Angelkind will become the guides to humankind’s eventual ascent. You will teach them the virtues of love and duty, honor and truth. You will teach humans to be good and to exalt the name of the Most High. A new world will be created for them as well, which will be called Eden.

And humankind... they will be created in our image.”

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Above, Below, Beyond | Chapter I: Earth

The setting sun casted an orange glow throughout the sky as a cool wind swept through and rustled the trees of Melberg University. Hints of shadows appeared where the spreading sunlight hit the cirrus clouds above. The air eventually became colder, but that was still a welcome change after an hour-and-a-half lecture in the freezing lecture room of the Anthropology Department.

When Jonathan Crower exited the room, he immediately felt warmer beneath the autumn overcast. He pulled up both straps of his backpack while other students hurried to their next periods or left for home. Then he took a moment to breathe in the Friday air as he flexed his fingers and rubbed his hands together to encourage circulation.

“Fucking freezing in there eh, Mr. Crower?” asked a familiar voice behind him.

He turned to answer the black-haired and jacketed Clara who had two huge books in her arms.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Need help with that?”

“I’m good,” Clara answered. But he took the load from her nonetheless. Dull, brown leaves slowly fell from the trees as they walked away from the Anthropology Building. “Thanks,” she said, pointing to the books that Jonathan was now carrying. “Got a report due next week.”

The Familiarity of Fiction, Jonathan read from one of the books. “You must be busy then.”

“Not really? I’m actually going to a party tonight. Stacy’s 20th. Do you know her?”

Jonathan squinted. Then he looked at Clara who, with her big, gorgeous eyes, waited for a reply.

“McGraff? From Math?”

“Yeah! Yeah that’s the one,” she answered, combing her fingers through her hair. “Math, a year ago. She sat two rows from us, right? Well we became friends last semester…”

Clara continued on with her story as Jonathan looked at her again. Taking heavy breaths, he figured it was an opportunity to bond with Clara Park even more. Their friendship began when they were newcomers to the university, and as blockmates, they had their first two semesters together. As he focused on the mere thought of going to a party with Clara, her story about meeting Stacy McGraff eventually became white noise amidst the deep, heavy breaths and the sudden pounding in his veins. It was a chance that he may never have again.

“Jonathan? John?” black-haired Clara Park snapped at him from his thoughts. Smiling, she asked him if he was okay.

He was not okay.

“I’d love to come,” Jonathan quickly thought of a response. “I hope she still knows me so I wouldn’t be like a gate crasher or something.” They passed by several buildings along the Academic Oval, and it was just now that he started to feel the weight of The Familiarity of Fiction and the other book with the title that he failed to even catch a glimpse of.

Just then, the phone in his pocket suddenly vibrated. The 5:10 PM alarm was a constant reminder of his responsibilities back at the hospital.

“Ah, goddammit,” he remembered. With one arm holding on to the books, he struggled with his free hand to turn off the alarm from his phone. “Sorry, Clara. I really want to go. But there’s just, you know, things to do.”

“Oh, yeah,” Clara remembered as well. “Your mom. How is she by the way?”

“Same old.” He returned the phone inside his pocket. “I’d like to hope but there’s really no way to tell.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said as they reached the parking lot of the Social Sciences Complex.

“Well, for what it’s worth all things eventually come to pass, right?” She held out her hands, implying that this was her stop.

Giving her back the books, Jonathan said, “Thanks”. Then she thanked him too.

As he watched her leave, he felt a sudden weight in his chest, as if The Familiarity and the other book were still with him, but bared down against his shoulders instead of his arms.

Should have. Would have. Could have. He often found himself in situations where he had to make a difficult choice. The road, his road, often diverged into two, separate paths – the easy one and the right one. Truly, it could have been easy enough to say an enthusiastic “Yes!” to Clara’s offer. A party. It would have been fun and a welcome break from his everyday routine. But Jonathan Crower knew that the right choice was never the easy one.

After one last look at her as she entered her car, he sighed and hailed a cab to the Metro General Medical Center.

The 5-minute ride to the hospital felt longer inside his head, as several, conflicting thoughts devoured him from within. The city was planned decades ago to have the most important facilities be close to each other. Melberg University did not have an infirmary simply because the Medical Center was built within walking distance for the convenience of students, professors and university staff, alike.

But he did not feel like walking, not tonight.

Before he even knew it, the cab had stopped in front of the 40-year old hospital. He made his payment, got off and greeted the old man who sold peaches and oranges near the Emergency Room’s entrance.

“Heh heh,” the old man laughed. Some of his teeth were missing. People passing by looked at him as he sat at the pavement. “If it isn’t Mr. Chowder.”

“Crower,” Jonathan respectfully replied with a smile. He took a bill from his wallet, and gave it to the man. “The usual, please.”

He knew not what the old man’s name was. He even doubted that the old man knew his own name. The harmless, friendly geezer wore his everyday outfit; a stained, white shirt paired with a tattered blue jacket and aged denim pants. He wore no shoes; only socks which had holes in them which allowed both of his big toes to wiggle free.

“You wash this well, boyyo,” the old man said with a smile as he gave Jonathan a plastic bag with three oranges in it. He never bought peaches from the man because the first and last time that he did, they tasted off.

“Thank you,” he said. He started to walk away, only to come back a few seconds later to give the man his spare change before entering the hospital.

Metro General, it seemed, was always crowded on Friday nights. He thought of it as a curse of some sort that the city’s hospital often had plenty of visitors. Medical staff wearing their white uniforms rushed from room to room while armed security guards were deployed on every level of the five-story building. All around him were people who needed medical attention; young and old, male and female. Some of them looked in pain; they were in stretchers and wheelchairs, while there were others, mostly the children, who seemed to be here only for a medical checkup. Only the doctors’ and nurses’ faces were familiar, since Jonathan spent every night of the last three years of his life in this hospital. But seeing that they were busy, he bothered not to greet anyone.

He saw that the elevator was stacked full of people so he climbed the stairs to get to the fourth floor. With significantly less people on the hallways, this floor was reserved for patients that were confined in Metro General for quite some time. On his way to Room 412, he passed by a couple in a tight hug; the man was trying his best to console the weeping woman. A light flickered in the hallway as he made a quick turn to the hospital’s left wing.

A few seconds later, he was finally home.

His mother once told him that home’s where the family is. That happened years ago, back when his father was still alive, back when he always came home after school to that small, red house back at the suburbs, and back when life seemed to be less about surviving and more about living. Now, his only reason to go back to the suburbs was when he ran out of money and had to collect payment from the family that rented their house. His evenings were always spent with mother.

Now, mother lay on the hospital bed. She had white hair and wore a hospital gown that he would change every three days. Her bones could be seen from her cheeks, and suspended next to the bed was an IV. The nutrient-filled liquid supplied her daily needs, but it was barely enough. Above her head on the wall was a bronze crucifix – her guardian when her son wasn’t around. The hospital was kind enough to lend a couple of chairs, just enough for Jonathan to have a makeshift bed.

Her eyes were closed, as they had been for the past three years.

“Hi, Mom,” he said, putting the plastic bag with oranges next to her. He dropped his backpack on the floor and drank a glass of water from the nearby dispenser. Certain that she could hear him, he knew that there was no way for her to respond.

Wiping his mouth, he sat on the chair next to the bed. Every night he told her about how his day went and what the everyday walk from the hospital to the university was like. He peeled and ate one of the oranges, then asked her where the old man near the Emergency Room entrance got the fine oranges and the nasty peaches from. Not that he expected a reply, but the story-telling came out naturally. Then he told her how Mr. Spencer, his professor in Economics class, caught him sleeping for the third time this semester.

Then he told her about Clara. Often he told her stories about black-haired Clara Park, hoping that the excitement of her boy having a love life, as expected of his age, would stir her up and perhaps wake her from the seemingly eternal slumber that she suffered from.

“Of course, I said I couldn’t come,” Jonathan told her. “But I really wanted to.”

He looked at his mother whose head rested on a white pillow as it had ever since she was committed to the hospital. Taking her hand, he said, “Sorry, Mom. I almost… almost forgot. Almost said yes, Mom.”

Despite his age, Jonathan Crower understood the difference between hoping and expecting. He had hoped that every night of his stay at the Metro General would be his last, and yet he expected that the reality was that it would not be, because the doctors gave no assurance and could not answer the question of when his mother would wake.

“I almost went.”

He placed his elbows on the bed, and wept.

He wept himself to sleep.

When he woke, his stomach growled and complained, as if it said to him that an orange wasn’t enough. Seeing that it was still night time, he quickly got up, and went down the hospital stairs. It was important to take care of himself – getting sick was never an option.

Across the street from Metro General was a fast food chain that Jonathan had come to love. As he crossed the street, he remembered way back when father was still alive. Jonathan was warned over and over again that the greasy fries and oily burgers of food chains such as this one were not healthy and should be eaten sparingly. He had listened to father, but when it wasn’t a cup (or two) of instant noodles, or the occasional, prepared meal that can be bought from the hospital’s cafeteria, it was the greasy fries and oily burgers.

He paid for dinner from the take-out counter, and made his way back to the hospital.

The street was still busy even at this hour of the night.  A man in a stretcher was carried off from the ambulance and into the Emergency Room. Security shooed away the old man who he bought oranges from. And there were others, relatives and friends of patients maybe, who were also buying the unhealthy food that his father had warned him about. “Shit,” Jonathan said as his stomach growled again.

The traffic light signal had not yet turned green so to pass the time, and the hunger, he pulled out the hamburger from the paper bag. He looked around the street while he munched away. The onions, pickles and meat mixed inside his mouth.

Then he heard her. Far to his right was a small girl. The child was screaming, alone and seemingly lost. He thought he saw mucus dripping from her nose. It was potentially dangerous during this time of the night, he figured that if the girl was really lost, he’d take her to the security guards and they would know what to do next.

The child started to cross the street.

“Hey!” he called to her. Partially chewed food lodged in his throat for a second, then he called out to her again. “Hey, sweetie!”

She paid no attention to him and seemed adamant to cross the street. “Mommy!” she cried.

Far to his left, at the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of an oncoming truck.

Jesus, he thought.

“Get out of there kid!” he yelled. “Does anyone know that child?” he called out to no one in particular. “Hello?”

Everyone on the street still seemed busy. People just passed by and while others saw the toddler, they only stared, as if their feet were stuck to the ground.

Across the street, the guards were still shooing away the old man.

She kept on walking.

Then Jonathan Crower heard the loudest honk he had ever heard in his life.

He ran.

It was a fleeting moment, but he thought he felt the girl’s back pressing against the palms of his hands.

[zsor1722-blog]

Above, Below, Beyond| Prologue: Home

Eons ago…

Heaven. The Shining City. A floating world of purity and of light amidst infinite space. Bastion of the true, the good and the beautiful. Home of angelkind.

He watched from a distance as hundreds of wings fluttered, hovered, sped and went about their respective duties in the City. Every angel was given a task to fulfill, and as of the moment everyone seemed to be busy. Everyone but him.

He had nothing to do, for his task had been accomplished years ago. Sitting on a ledge protruding from a wall of the Sanctus Domae, he cracked his fingers then rested his head on a knuckle.

Boresome, he thought.

The Sanctus was, by far, the largest structure in the Heaven. Two leagues across, as wide as it is long, Sanctus Domae seemingly glowed as the most majestic gem at the very center of Heaven. Tall, towering spires made of the purest, white marble adorned the top of its blue jasper walls which reflected the eternal radiance of the City itself. Made of sardine stone, the stairs at the façade led to the two-door entrance which, like the walls, also reflected images of those who ascended. Whether from the steps or the walls, the reflections from the gemstones proved to be too dazzling for some angels. Often their attention was robbed by the grandiose of the Sanctus’ design perfectly laid by the Creator’s Hands. In order to avoid being distracted, some chose to fly above the steps instead of using them.

Glancing back at the wall behind him, he saw himself on the reflection as well, as he had for a thousand other times. With a white but not a pale complexion, his body was handsomely built and he had luminous, short, blonde hair. He wore a shining, white robe matched with heavenforged gloves and boots, and his head was topped with a halo of yellow light. 0Two blue, piercing eyes stared back at him – blue not only because of the rare jasper, but because he was gifted with eyes that were as blue as the backdrop of Heaven itself. Protruding from his back were three pairs of golden, feathery wings which glowed much like his hair. He stretched those wings, and then jumped off the ledge.

Mere moments before he hit the rich, delicate grass field of Paradise, he spread his marvelous wings, which caught air, allowing him to fly.

He flew past his brethren. There were messengers who hurried with scrolls, some were scribes who sat on the grass as they wrote, others were wardens who plucked fruits from trees and cut the grass where it grew too tall. Some of them waved at him as he passed by. Off in the distance was a battalion of seraphs; their weapons tipped and thus blessed with heavenly fire. The plains was also littered with numerous tiny, spherical structures – personal quarters of angels – which floated a few feet from the ground. His flight went undisturbed until he heard a friendly voice call out to him.

“Another glorious day in Paradise.” The loyal Asmodiel, also known as Asmos, extended a hand to greet him. They looked quite alike, although in truth every other angel had a subtle resemblance to him. The main difference was that Asmodiel had two wings, whereas he had six. A handshake? He thought. Though his rank is considerably lower than mine, he feels comfortable enough in my presence.

He folded his wings and graciously landed on the ground with a thud. The soles of his boots crushed the grass beneath him. Despite the objections in his thoughts, he shook Asmos’ hand. “Truly,” he replied. “Though something tells me there is more to this day than the usual.”

“Aye.” Asmodiel said as he pulled up a scroll. “Was sent by Chief Scribe to spread the word.”

“Gabriel?” he wondered. “Then it must be urgent.”

Asmodiel nodded. “Metatron is to come with news from the Beyond. An assembly has been called.”

“Where?” He asked after reading the parchment.

“By the Scion, behind the Sanctus. Hurry, the others are on their way,” Asmos answered as his two-wings flew him up.

And I just left the Sanctus, he thought. “Michael? Has he heard about this?”

Though already flying some distance away, the two-winged messenger replied that he had not seen Michael yet. “Must be at the Forge!” Asmos added.

Oh, Michael. He thought with a sigh. Whatever should I do with you. He took off but this time, he headed west.

He flew towards the Forge – the designated area where Heaven’s finest warriors trained. Though far less refined and far less majestic than the Sanctus Domae, the Forge was a place that embodied strength; a place of rock and fire, smoke and stone. Its interior was hollow space, carved off from a crude, spiky limestone formation. From afar, he realized that it simply looked like a huge, fire-lit hole in a huge, smoking rock. He always thought that the gray Forge did not look as pleasing as the other wonders in Heaven because the Creator’s Hands despised stubborn rock. It was a pain to work with.

Coughing as he inhaled smoke, he dropped to the ground and heard the clang of heavenmetal hitting heavenmetal. Here, hundreds of warriors sparred with swords and shields and spears. Scattered around the Forge were smiths who refined body armors, restored wing-guards and hammered weapons. Though these smiths were allowed to create weapons, their blades failed in comparison to weapons created by the Creator’s Hands themselves. For the Hands alone were capable of crafting weapons with souls embedded within their essences.

There were other angels who sharpened their weapons or took breaks from training when they saw him. One by one, they knelt in his presence. The sounds of metal hitting metal stopped. All around him, the angels knelt. Eligel. Ramiel. Usiel. Walking past them, he greeted each and every one or at least all those who were near enough the path that he walked through. Since he was in a hurry, there was simply no time to greet them all.

Smiling, he motioned for all the kneeling angels to stand up, and they did. He asked them where Michael was, and they replied all at once.

“One at a time, brothers,” he said with a chuckle. “One at a time.”

“Lord Michael is inside, Lord Firstborn,” a four-winged Lahabiel eagerly replied.

“Training his wings off,” said a two-winged Furniel. Realizing his mistake, he added, “Lord First.”

He thanked the two and entered the mouth of the Forge. Some of the angels trailed him. Others also followed but kept their distance.

The sight inside the gray rock that was the Forge did not differ greatly from what was happening outside. Only here, there were more smiths, more noise, and yet only two angels – Michael and Uriel – were fighting. All the other angels who were not forging weapons or armor sat in a huge circle as they watched the two battle it out in the center. He stood near the circle of watchers. Some of those who followed him from outside stood behind him. Others hovered nearby.

Fixated at the fight before them, the crowd did not bother to even glance at the newcomers. Surely, he thought, they would greet me if they saw me arrive. Not that he cared one bit for this lack of attention, for he did not want to disturb this sparring session between two of Heaven’s finest warriors.

Michael was assigned by the Creator’s Hands to train and to lead the four-thousand-strong army of Heaven. Since the day their duties were given to them, Michael became known as “Heaven’s Sword”. Why Heaven needed an army was beyond anyone’s knowledge at this point in time.

In order to fit the role, Michael was given a white, hallowed broadsword created by the Hands themselves. Only falling short to be as wide as his halo, the sword was as wide as Michael’s head, and it was almost as long as Michael is tall. The heavy blade could only be lifted with the strength bestowed upon six-winged angels, who were the upper echelons – the strongest – of angelkind society.

Michael’s adversary at the moment was Uriel the Swift, and he too was six-winged. To him was given a longblade which ran the length of his wingspan though its width was less than half of its broadsword counterpart. The longblade sparked and crackled with lightning as it received, countered and returned every blow from Michael’s own.

Both weapons – Michael’s broadsword and Uriel’s longblade – possessed a soul. Soulcrafts, the

weapons were called. The souls within the Hands-made and Hands-given weapons acted as the guardians of true power that lay dormant within the weapons. By training and becoming one with their weapons and by treating them as extensions of themselves and not merely as tools to their own ends, the angels became one with the souls within their soulcrafts. After becoming one with the given soulcraft, it was possible for an angel to unleash his untamed power.

He looked around and realized that the circle of angels watching the fight did not yet achieve this feat of becoming one with their soulcraft. Thus, they have a lot to learn.

Michael slammed his sword forward – an effort which Uriel easily dodged – and the broadsword hit only the rock of the Forge, which created a small shockwave. Uriel then quickly countered with three swings of his own. Michael blocked the first with a shield in his other arm, spun and stopped the second with a parry, and dodged the third by back-flipping through the air. Guided by six wings, Michael gently landed on his feet.

The crowd cheered.

Once again smiling, Heaven’s Firstborn was unable to contain his excitement as well and he clapped his hands.

Those who sat in the circle and were near enough turned and recognized him. He shook his head and gave a prompt, “Sssh!”, which the others clearly understood. After some courteous nods, they turned once more to the fight before them.

“Truly quick,” Michael said in that booming voice of his. “But you have yet to become one with your soulcraft”.

“Aye,” the smirking Uriel said as he raised his sword. “That is why I wish to learn from you.”

Dropping the shield to the ground, Michael closed his eyes and held his sword with both hands. When he opened his eyes, white light shone from them, then his broadsword glowed with the same radiance.

Brace yourselves, the Firstborn thought, raising his hands to protect himself. Fight’s over.

The broadsword once more struck the ground and created a magical wave which radiated outward to all directions. In a flash Uriel was down, and all the spectators sitting in the circle were thrown back and they landed on the ground. Last to be hit by the wave, the smiths were slammed against the walls of the cave-like space as everyone in the Forge experienced power that could only be described as lethal.

Very lethal. If Michael wanted it to be.

Only the Firstborn saw this attack coming, and only he was able to withstand the powerful magic that was just used. Michael smirked and looked around. When their eyes met, Michael knelt.

“Luciel!” Michael said as he fell on his knees. “Firstborn, I failed to noticed your arrival.”

Uriel, the spectators, and the smiths realized this as well and, in an instant, were all on their knees.

“Ha-ha. I had no intention to disturb your sparring, brothers,” Luciel said. “Rise, all of you. Lord Gabriel has called for an assembly.”