Bittersweet -- Michael & Baal
Okay, so maybe I'm hooked on doing ficstuff now, but I'm so happy to write and get inspiration for ideas, so who am I to complain? :D;
This is yet another in the Bittersweet series of fics. This one is pretty short, but it had to be to get the point across well. Enjoy! C&C welcome, as always. :)
Baal stood at attention, just as he always did when Lucifer was around. The Serpent watched his elder brother stalk about the yard, leaving trails of dark blood on the floor as he paced and ranted to the darkness, and to his chosen General.
"The fool thought... thought he could come here and challenge me again? On my grounds, my sacred grounds? Thought, he thought I would lose to him? I am Light. I am the Shining One. I am the Prince of Darkness and the Lord of Hell and..."
Lucifer trailed off into a fit of coughing, his eyes staring about wildly. Baal allowed himself to look at the ground; before him, celestially, was the corpse of his eldest brother Michael. Where at the start of the fight he had towered over the trees and seemed to touch the sky, he was now broken and bloodied, fading, little bigger than a human child, his once-white scales stained red and gray.
Baal held his breath and closed his eyes, trying to make desperate sense of what was happening. It seemed that Michael had discovered a Tether to the Lower Hells, and the Archangel of War had chosen this day to take the Tether and challenge Lucifer to a fight. Baal knew Michael was ready to begin the Final Battle; he never thought he'd choose to do so by attempting to slay the Lord of Hell.
To Michael's credit, he had nearly won. He had fought like the perfect warrior, the perfect Archangel, and he had damn nearly torn Lucifer asunder with his shining axe, which lay broken at Baal's feet. If Michael had perhaps one more second...
Baal mentally shook his head. No. He hadn't been there, only called into the aftermath, a raving Lucifer bent over the dead corpse of Michael and some old woman that Baal did not recognize. Lucifer had begun to rave at Baal, telling him that the time was here to begin the Final Battle, that the trumpets need not blow, that they could begin their slaughter NOW with Michael out of the way, that Heaven would stand no chance with the Firstborn dead.
Maybe Lucifer was right. Baal could see that Lucifer was delirious, maybe even dying. Taking Heaven by surprise might win them an instant victory. But at that moment, in the dark garden, that all seemed pointless. Baal's eyes kept flicking to Michael's dissolving form, as if his very gaze would somehow bring back the glorious Archangel of War, and restore him to full strength.
But Michael was dead. Baal had been robbed, by his own master and brother, of his rival. Lucifer had not called in his Dark Champion to battle back the Archangel, and Baal knew that Michael would not have tried to kill him, that a deal could have perhaps been made, that this death could have been averted...
But Michael was dead. There would be no Holy Champion on the Plain of Megiddo, staring Baal down across the distance, an ancient being he had to test himself against to prove his worth to God. Baal's heart ached at the loss, and he could feel his anger grow. His view of the Lightbringer was shadowed with hate; though Lucifer had Baal firmly under his control, his lies poisoning the reason and judgment of the Prince, this was perhaps the one thing that could change it all in Baal's eyes, and shrug the honeyed words off.
Lucifer had never considered the depth of Baal's obsession with proving his worth to God and to Michael... or how much honor Baal still clung to, even as a Prince and a Balseraph. With Michael dead at his hands, Baal's purpose was broken, and the Prince of the War could no longer trust Lucifer. He had stolen his chance to prove his worth, for which he follow Lucifer into Hell for; if he did not have that, what did he have?
"Baal. Assemble your troops. Assemble them! Let ring the black bells of war, and let every Prince know that we march upon Heaven TONIGHT! Go! Do as I say!"
Lucifer, wearing his human flesh, coughed up more blood and hunched over a rotted bench, pointing at the attentive Balseraph. Baal merely stared, and Lucifer snarled at him.
"Are you deaf, you idiot snake? GO! The time is night!"
Baal waited only a moment more before he left. As he did, he bent over and picked up the shattered axe of the Firstborn, and vanished into the darkness, leaving a raving Lucifer alone in the silent garden.
************
Laurence stared out across the distance, his perfect wings held still on his back, his holy sword clasped in his left hand. In the distance were the Hordes of Hell, seething and screaming and waiting impatiently for the order to be given to advance.
There, on the Holy Plain of Megiddo, an ethereal realm where the Final Battle was to take place, all of Heaven and Hell was ready to fight. A mysterious word had come to Heaven in the night, that Michael was dead at Lucifer's hands, and that the Lightbringer had given order for the Final Battle to commence without delay. Heaven had to scramble to prepare itself, but so did Hell, and neither side held an obvious advantage.
Laurence had been chosen to act as the Holy Champion, to oppose the Dark Champion of Hell, Baal. Though he felt no confidence in being able to replace the Archangel of War, the Malakite had sworn he would fight to the last to defend Heaven and defeat Hell, and he had no intention of backing down.
On the opposing side, Baal sat at the head, his army behind him. The Prince of the War's face was oddly blank, and the Balseraph gave no sign of excess confidence. Were Laurence a true Elohite, he would have sworn that Baal looked distractedly resigned to something other than the fight.
A clarion call brought silence to the battlefield; Gabriel had sounded the Silver Trumpet, which would signal the time that each Champion must walk across the field, their army behind them, to confront each other before the Last War began in earnest. Laurence marched ahead, his sword carefully at his side, fear rising in his throat. He had to be confident. He had to show valor in the face of darkness, and do his father proud. Baal too marched forward, the loyal Servitors of the War in perfect rank and file behind him, his face still strangely calm.
The two met at the exact center of the field. Malakite and Balseraph advanced forward to meet each other personally, far ahead of their gathered armies. Laurence stopped, clutching his sword tightly (too tightly), and nodded his head once to the Prince of the War.
"Baal. I am ready to face your forces in battle."
Baal sighed, and picked at a bit of metal on his dark armor, his own wickedly sharp blade kept in his belt. He shook his head, and looked at Laurence.
"Heaven's Sword. I knew your father well. I respected him for every moment of his life, even when God called him back."
"I... I do not understand, Warbringer."
"I respected him, and I can even respect you. But neither of you are the Champion. You're not him. You're not Michael, and you never can be. Do you understand?"
Laurence stared at the Balseraph, and shook his head slowly.
"Baal, explain yourself. What do you get at?"
"What I'm saying, little Archangel, is that I can't fight you."
"What?! I am the chosen Champion, as are you! We must fight!"
"No. You are not the Champion. He was. Only him. Only he could have stood here and challenged me to a true fight. He was to be the line I had to cross! The standard against which I had to measure my worth! And he is DEAD!"
Baal's fist tightened, and he drew his blade with the speed of lightning. Before Laurence could react, Baal snapped his sword over his knee, and threw the pieces to the ground. Laurence nearly dropped his own weapon in surprise, and he looked with disbelief at the Prince.
"Baal?! What are you doing?"
Baal stared at the broken sword, and raised his empty hands. A white fold of cloth appeared in them, and something metal clinked inside. Slowly, carefully, with great reverence, he unwrapped the cloth, and revealed a weapon.
Laurence recognized it as the shattered axe of Michael, the defeated Archangel of War.
"Baal..."
Anger clouded Baal's face, and he clutched the shards of the axe, so hard that his hands began to bleed. Tears streamed down his dark face, and his vision blurred. He closed his eyes, and brought forth his unimaginable will.
Laurence watched in silent wonder as the axe rebuilt itself, until it was whole again in Baal's bloodied hands, the white cloth wrapped around the center of the haft. The Prince of the War opened his eyes, and looked down at Laurence. He then turned, and looked back at his army, and across the infinite distance, to the very back of the Horde, where Lucifer sat on a black throne, his eyes dark and feverish with his desire to see the end. Baal turned his gaze away, looked upon Laurence again, and then he looked at last at axe he held.
"Warbringer, what do you-"
"Silence, Commander. The new Holy Champion demands that you show him deference."
Laurence blinked, and shook his head.
"Holy Champion? What?"
"I must prove to God I am worthy. I must prove to him, to my brother, that HE was worthy. That he was always, and was the only, to be worthy. Come. We ride to war. Let ours be a glory like no other."
Baal turned, sweeping his cloak, and walked towards his army. Laurence sheathed his sword and ran back, sending parts of himself to every Archangel in a panicked hurry to explain what was going on. But he had no need to do so. What they heard next told them all they had to know.
Baal stood in front of his army, a strange calm coming over him. He spread his leathery wings, and no demon under his command made comment when they saw that the leather had sprouted dark gray feathers. Iblis, his greatest demon, came forward and raised the banner of the War up high. The golden sun broke through the clouds, and for one moment, Baal was illuminated as brightly as Michael was when the first of the angels stood victorious in Heaven, casting Lucifer down.
Baal raised the axe of War high into the air, where it shined in the light, where he wanted God to see it, and his cry was heard in every part of the Symphony.
"FOR THE FIRSTBORN!"
This is yet another in the Bittersweet series of fics. This one is pretty short, but it had to be to get the point across well. Enjoy! C&C welcome, as always. :)
Baal stood at attention, just as he always did when Lucifer was around. The Serpent watched his elder brother stalk about the yard, leaving trails of dark blood on the floor as he paced and ranted to the darkness, and to his chosen General.
"The fool thought... thought he could come here and challenge me again? On my grounds, my sacred grounds? Thought, he thought I would lose to him? I am Light. I am the Shining One. I am the Prince of Darkness and the Lord of Hell and..."
Lucifer trailed off into a fit of coughing, his eyes staring about wildly. Baal allowed himself to look at the ground; before him, celestially, was the corpse of his eldest brother Michael. Where at the start of the fight he had towered over the trees and seemed to touch the sky, he was now broken and bloodied, fading, little bigger than a human child, his once-white scales stained red and gray.
Baal held his breath and closed his eyes, trying to make desperate sense of what was happening. It seemed that Michael had discovered a Tether to the Lower Hells, and the Archangel of War had chosen this day to take the Tether and challenge Lucifer to a fight. Baal knew Michael was ready to begin the Final Battle; he never thought he'd choose to do so by attempting to slay the Lord of Hell.
To Michael's credit, he had nearly won. He had fought like the perfect warrior, the perfect Archangel, and he had damn nearly torn Lucifer asunder with his shining axe, which lay broken at Baal's feet. If Michael had perhaps one more second...
Baal mentally shook his head. No. He hadn't been there, only called into the aftermath, a raving Lucifer bent over the dead corpse of Michael and some old woman that Baal did not recognize. Lucifer had begun to rave at Baal, telling him that the time was here to begin the Final Battle, that the trumpets need not blow, that they could begin their slaughter NOW with Michael out of the way, that Heaven would stand no chance with the Firstborn dead.
Maybe Lucifer was right. Baal could see that Lucifer was delirious, maybe even dying. Taking Heaven by surprise might win them an instant victory. But at that moment, in the dark garden, that all seemed pointless. Baal's eyes kept flicking to Michael's dissolving form, as if his very gaze would somehow bring back the glorious Archangel of War, and restore him to full strength.
But Michael was dead. Baal had been robbed, by his own master and brother, of his rival. Lucifer had not called in his Dark Champion to battle back the Archangel, and Baal knew that Michael would not have tried to kill him, that a deal could have perhaps been made, that this death could have been averted...
But Michael was dead. There would be no Holy Champion on the Plain of Megiddo, staring Baal down across the distance, an ancient being he had to test himself against to prove his worth to God. Baal's heart ached at the loss, and he could feel his anger grow. His view of the Lightbringer was shadowed with hate; though Lucifer had Baal firmly under his control, his lies poisoning the reason and judgment of the Prince, this was perhaps the one thing that could change it all in Baal's eyes, and shrug the honeyed words off.
Lucifer had never considered the depth of Baal's obsession with proving his worth to God and to Michael... or how much honor Baal still clung to, even as a Prince and a Balseraph. With Michael dead at his hands, Baal's purpose was broken, and the Prince of the War could no longer trust Lucifer. He had stolen his chance to prove his worth, for which he follow Lucifer into Hell for; if he did not have that, what did he have?
"Baal. Assemble your troops. Assemble them! Let ring the black bells of war, and let every Prince know that we march upon Heaven TONIGHT! Go! Do as I say!"
Lucifer, wearing his human flesh, coughed up more blood and hunched over a rotted bench, pointing at the attentive Balseraph. Baal merely stared, and Lucifer snarled at him.
"Are you deaf, you idiot snake? GO! The time is night!"
Baal waited only a moment more before he left. As he did, he bent over and picked up the shattered axe of the Firstborn, and vanished into the darkness, leaving a raving Lucifer alone in the silent garden.
************
Laurence stared out across the distance, his perfect wings held still on his back, his holy sword clasped in his left hand. In the distance were the Hordes of Hell, seething and screaming and waiting impatiently for the order to be given to advance.
There, on the Holy Plain of Megiddo, an ethereal realm where the Final Battle was to take place, all of Heaven and Hell was ready to fight. A mysterious word had come to Heaven in the night, that Michael was dead at Lucifer's hands, and that the Lightbringer had given order for the Final Battle to commence without delay. Heaven had to scramble to prepare itself, but so did Hell, and neither side held an obvious advantage.
Laurence had been chosen to act as the Holy Champion, to oppose the Dark Champion of Hell, Baal. Though he felt no confidence in being able to replace the Archangel of War, the Malakite had sworn he would fight to the last to defend Heaven and defeat Hell, and he had no intention of backing down.
On the opposing side, Baal sat at the head, his army behind him. The Prince of the War's face was oddly blank, and the Balseraph gave no sign of excess confidence. Were Laurence a true Elohite, he would have sworn that Baal looked distractedly resigned to something other than the fight.
A clarion call brought silence to the battlefield; Gabriel had sounded the Silver Trumpet, which would signal the time that each Champion must walk across the field, their army behind them, to confront each other before the Last War began in earnest. Laurence marched ahead, his sword carefully at his side, fear rising in his throat. He had to be confident. He had to show valor in the face of darkness, and do his father proud. Baal too marched forward, the loyal Servitors of the War in perfect rank and file behind him, his face still strangely calm.
The two met at the exact center of the field. Malakite and Balseraph advanced forward to meet each other personally, far ahead of their gathered armies. Laurence stopped, clutching his sword tightly (too tightly), and nodded his head once to the Prince of the War.
"Baal. I am ready to face your forces in battle."
Baal sighed, and picked at a bit of metal on his dark armor, his own wickedly sharp blade kept in his belt. He shook his head, and looked at Laurence.
"Heaven's Sword. I knew your father well. I respected him for every moment of his life, even when God called him back."
"I... I do not understand, Warbringer."
"I respected him, and I can even respect you. But neither of you are the Champion. You're not him. You're not Michael, and you never can be. Do you understand?"
Laurence stared at the Balseraph, and shook his head slowly.
"Baal, explain yourself. What do you get at?"
"What I'm saying, little Archangel, is that I can't fight you."
"What?! I am the chosen Champion, as are you! We must fight!"
"No. You are not the Champion. He was. Only him. Only he could have stood here and challenged me to a true fight. He was to be the line I had to cross! The standard against which I had to measure my worth! And he is DEAD!"
Baal's fist tightened, and he drew his blade with the speed of lightning. Before Laurence could react, Baal snapped his sword over his knee, and threw the pieces to the ground. Laurence nearly dropped his own weapon in surprise, and he looked with disbelief at the Prince.
"Baal?! What are you doing?"
Baal stared at the broken sword, and raised his empty hands. A white fold of cloth appeared in them, and something metal clinked inside. Slowly, carefully, with great reverence, he unwrapped the cloth, and revealed a weapon.
Laurence recognized it as the shattered axe of Michael, the defeated Archangel of War.
"Baal..."
Anger clouded Baal's face, and he clutched the shards of the axe, so hard that his hands began to bleed. Tears streamed down his dark face, and his vision blurred. He closed his eyes, and brought forth his unimaginable will.
Laurence watched in silent wonder as the axe rebuilt itself, until it was whole again in Baal's bloodied hands, the white cloth wrapped around the center of the haft. The Prince of the War opened his eyes, and looked down at Laurence. He then turned, and looked back at his army, and across the infinite distance, to the very back of the Horde, where Lucifer sat on a black throne, his eyes dark and feverish with his desire to see the end. Baal turned his gaze away, looked upon Laurence again, and then he looked at last at axe he held.
"Warbringer, what do you-"
"Silence, Commander. The new Holy Champion demands that you show him deference."
Laurence blinked, and shook his head.
"Holy Champion? What?"
"I must prove to God I am worthy. I must prove to him, to my brother, that HE was worthy. That he was always, and was the only, to be worthy. Come. We ride to war. Let ours be a glory like no other."
Baal turned, sweeping his cloak, and walked towards his army. Laurence sheathed his sword and ran back, sending parts of himself to every Archangel in a panicked hurry to explain what was going on. But he had no need to do so. What they heard next told them all they had to know.
Baal stood in front of his army, a strange calm coming over him. He spread his leathery wings, and no demon under his command made comment when they saw that the leather had sprouted dark gray feathers. Iblis, his greatest demon, came forward and raised the banner of the War up high. The golden sun broke through the clouds, and for one moment, Baal was illuminated as brightly as Michael was when the first of the angels stood victorious in Heaven, casting Lucifer down.
Baal raised the axe of War high into the air, where it shined in the light, where he wanted God to see it, and his cry was heard in every part of the Symphony.
"FOR THE FIRSTBORN!"