Hope's Light

Chapter 21

by Erisian

Book 6

 

If you have yet to read the saga - the tale starts here:

Into The Light

Hope you enjoy!

 

Part Five

 

Chapter Twenty-One - Harvest

 

Pages flip past, a time-lapse of images documenting the expansion of a grand city rising in sacred service to the Throne. Structures of meaning and empowered will, each unfolding as perfect edifices of collaboration and interchange, each glittering under the eternal illumination shining from Above as channeled through the forged unity binding all to one, and one to all.

And below this glory of infinites, to a tower of dazzling brilliance a dark angel comes.

Upon the highest balcony he lands, wincing as does, for arm is slung and wing bandaged, both bound in the purest of white cloth soaked through with leaking scarlet.

Unfazed he strides purposefully through high doors of intricately assembled silver and glass, there to where the first of all angels, he who stands without shadow, awaits to greet him.

“Brother, you came!”

“As I said I would.”

“But you are wounded! Raphael should attend-”

“No. There are others in my cohort in more urgent need of his assistance, for I heal.”

“Leviathan sleeps, what could have done this?!”

From behind draped locks of brushed charcoal, Samael scoffs. “The Edge churns endlessly, spitting forth challenge after challenge to our boundaries. Some more potent than others. Peace is a luxury for those at this city only; I should linger not in this respite for long.”

“Then allow me to share that which prompted my call.”

Together they move into an expansive marbled chamber lit by a high-vaulted ceiling, its many frosted panes bringing the glory outside to shine within. Around its wide and open circle sit seven alcoves, wherein floating spheres - twenty times the size of the robed angels attending them - hover and fill the individual spaces. Some swirl and spin with bright rainbows and flashes of magnificent energies, others smolder only with the majesty of intricate patterns of meaning - yet each thrum across the domed hall with tremendous concentrated potentials.

Samael approaches the first sphere. “And what are these?”

“Blueprints,” replies Helel. “For what could be.”

Eyes of ash and soot regard the First. “You intend another layer of firmament?”

“We do.”

“Already are we stretched thin along the border! And yet you wish to expand?!”

“We must.”

A hand protectively touches its wrapped and pain-reminding opposite. “Too many have we lost already.”

“From Elohim do more of our number emerge. These new Malakim shall hold-”

“They are not as us!!” Samael’s shout cuts across the room like a freshly sharpened blade ripping through silk. “Tools for this Throne you have assembled are they, nothing more! And weak, always weak, lacking the nuance and flexibility required to stand firm in Purpose at the Edge. Tell me, brother - how strong are these blueprints of yours?”

“We refine them continuously, but I wished for you to see what they offer, what these may allow to be! For you to understand-”

Samael’s throat interrupts with a rough chuckle. “Oh I understand. Better than you may yourself.” Facing the sphere before him, the dark angel studies the crystalline pattern, its lattices interweaving with logic and order, watching as they fold into themselves to provide dimension upon dimension - each symmetric, each unique, each glorious in refinement. “Self-consistency, self-sustaining,” he muses.

“Yes! That is the goal. Perfection manifested in full!”

“Then you fail.”

From a belt is pulled a smallish knife forged not of iron but of void, simple in construction as undecorated handle and blade, and within a fighter’s grip its tip reaches the sphere.

As angelic attendants gasp, the sphere collapses, shimmering lines of infinite layers shattering in inevitable cascade as the orb convulses, its layers folding within as the working swallows itself whole.

Without so much as flash or sound, the alcove sits empty and hollow.

Light flares however from the First, blinding in shock and fury. “What have you done?!”

His dark brother spins, boot squeaking across perfect tile, and marches to the next sphere, holding still the dagger whose contained energy is sheer anathema. “Employed a tool provided by your neglected blood, brother. For she, unlike you, has studied what we fight. As she has studied you.”

Rumbles of outraged dismay fill the hall. “Primal Chaos! He brings Chaos to the Center of All!”

With but a touch of that knife to another sphere, harmonies disrupt to implode and vanish in muted spark and flame.

“Samael, halt!” Brilliant fingers grip a shoulder of armored scarlet and obsidian. “Why?!”

“We all have our Purpose. I fulfill mine.” Again soot-filled eyes regard a brother, one now blazing with a brilliance more glaring ice than warmth. “Will you stop me, Helel? For by my Word, that which weakens us shall never stand. A simple contact by even this smallest portion, and these prototypes of yours fail entire. I ask you: is that worthy?”

Pain flashes across a face of Light and the glowing hand…the hand lets go.

Attendants cry and wail, shuffling in horror within robes of ivory silk away from the shadow-armored angel as he calmly walks sphere to sphere. Each edifice a wonder of concept and energy, each a tapestry awash with interactions more marvelous than the last, and each dissolving with but a flick of black metal which is not metal.

Until a single sphere remains.

Seen through the transparent surface lies a garden, lush greenery of leaf and vine caressing soil and stone amid crystalline waters. Towering trees shade beast and fauna, exceptional colors exploding in multitudes across landscapes and below oceans filling with life’s motions, as wisps of cloud and storms of thunder caress sky of brilliant sun and diamond encrusted nights.

And as the dark angel approaches this last target, one attendant out of five steps not to the side but directly to block his path. With great trepidation, a sword of yellow sun-fire appears in this one’s hand, held with trembling yet gathered resolve.

Samael pauses.

“You would impede my Purpose?”

Pulling back the hood to reveal features to rival the grace of even Gabriel, hair the same shade as the rich earth and soil seen in the sphere hangs free as the angel prepares a fighting stance.

“I would, Lord Samael.”

“What is your name, little one?”

“Jophiel, Lord.”

“Do you truly believe you have the might and fortitude to stand in my way?”

“Might or no, I must.”

“Why?”

“Because, Lord, of its beauty. Greater than any I have ever beheld.”

“At the cost of your spirit?”

“Even so.”

Then did Samael laugh, booming like a drum to fill the chamber. “Finally!” Turning a shoulder, he again addresses the Light burning behind. “Only now do you show me something of true potential! Something deemed worthy of sacrifice! But,” he says with a wry smirk, “does it also contain its own strength? Can it directly withstand the challenges wrought by existence?”

Faster than Jophiel can react is the knife flung past flaming sword, burying the anomalous blade deep into the flowing surface of spherical imagery.

Many in the hall gasp, expecting this final work to also achieve only its end.

But instead of collapsing from the contact, the thickly detailed images pulse once, then twice, and a ripple swallows the knife entire. With not a single trace of the unnatural weapon remaining.

Everyone stares in astonishment. Everyone, that is, except Helel.

“That,” says Samael in intrigued puzzlement, “should not be.”

“Yet it is.” Helel moves forward to stand beside his brother.

Samael, impatiently pushing aside a flummoxed Jophiel, leans in to examine the sphere further - though careful not to touch. “You’ve woven Potential itself into the fabric.”

“For those within to use, should they develop the skill.”

Implications stun. “How is this possible?!”

“With the aid of those you evacuated along the border. Their contrary nature, caught as they are betwixt wildness and stricture, informed the construction.”

“The Fae aided this willingly?!”

“Their King seeks a more permanent home where their divided nature may find solace.”

“Interesting. The intrusion of Potential is tiny yet…pervasive. Still,” Samael muses, “the surrounding pattern has merit. Simple yet fixed laws contain this threat.” Dark focus narrows further, latching upon an image within the cascade that shimmers past.

A vision of a singular iridescent seed burrowing into fertile soil, holding the promise of a tree grander and more mighty than all others awaiting root and blossom.

Holding within the promise of glorious ascension.

Samael, expression aghast, spins to face the Light at his side. “You dare?!”

His brother flinches not. “It is necessary. It is the Plan. Is it not strong? Has it not conquered your testing?”

Behind the curtain of blackest coal, the Destroyer himself pales. “You risk the Source itself!! The Throne and those born of this center you have architected cannot withstand…” He falls silent, thoughts branching through far-distant possibilities.

Dark eyes then travel to each attendant in turn, and all cower from the gaze in fear of his terrible Purpose, his glorious Word. All except one, standing now with burning sword more steadfast than before.

Even unto Destruction.

“So few,” Samael whispers. “So very few.” Gathering himself, he glares into the brightness standing beside him. “The rest were amusing trifles, but this…this last is your prize.”

“It is.”

“Have you seen, within your infinite sight, where this inevitably takes us?”

“Of course.”

The dark angel shakes his head. “No, I do not believe you have. But worry not, brother, for my Purpose understands and embraces what must be done. I shall teach you of it. I shall teach you all.”

Striding back out onto the balcony, upon wounded wing did Samael take flight - away from his brilliant brother, away from the Throne, away from the center.

Away from peace.

And in the following pressing silence, once more do the pages turn.

 

 

“Sanctuary.”

I said it back to him, while levers of the mind shuffled rocky edifices of information into fresh formations. “You…you’re the Pilgrim. The real one.”

“I have been called such, yes.”

Instant concern must have been obvious, probably from my nervous glance back inside to where Twitch lay asleep.

“The young bright soul,” Raguel then said. “He should be treasured.”

“I do.”

Planting the staff more firmly for support, the angel stood. Willowy under thick robes, he towered at least a couple feet overhead. “I know.”

My lip worried against teeth. “Are you here for him? To take him to Sanctuary?”

His gaze peered past the wall, and he shook his head. “This one,” he said with great warmth, “he builds his own. Come.” He took a step away from the building upon boots that had seen more mending than even my own had as a reaper.

“Where are we going?”

“The graxh are in need of feeding.”

I blinked. “The graxh?”

“They are in my care.”

“Oh.”

Down between the buildings we walked, not quick nor slow but rather at a measured and deliberate pace. He exchanged greetings and smiles with others as we went, and with the reaper cloth covering my face and head I was not recognized - just as I’d hoped.

After another friendly and passing interaction, I offered comment. “They call you Herald.”

“Yes.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Since there was need.”

“For the graxh?”

He stopped walking, and looked thoughtfully ahead as many seconds ticked past. “Yes,” he said finally, while nodding to himself. “For them too. Come. You can assist.”

Moving on, we reached the stables - a long building with stall after stall holding the many scaly beasts of burden busily bleating with hunger’s demands.

Not to mention shedding their incredibly musty smell.

Barrels full of unearthly vegetables and bundles of almost-wheat had been stacked in the storage area at the end of the row, ready for deployment into the troughs outside each stall where only the long snouts of eager customers could reach.

After leaning his staff against a wall next to a line of other tools, Raguel pushed a one-wheeled barrow in front of the supplies before meaningfully nodding towards the implements available. Taking the hint - and having done the same chore many a time back at Epsilon - I grabbed a shovel to scoop first a layer of veggies into his barrow, then used a pitchfork to add the longer-stalked and orange-tinted wheat-like stuff atop the pile.

We then walked the line, filling trough after trough, returning back to the barrels and stacks whenever the wheelbarrow became empty.

It was at such a transition that I broke the silence. “You said you wanted to talk about Sanctuary.”

He paused his shoveling of plant matter, as this round was my turn with the barrow. “I do.”

“So it’s real.”

“It is.”

“A safe harbor for souls.”

Once more he considered deeply before reply, the shovel halting above a barrel-supplied pile. “Not for just any soul.” He wiped his forehead with a sleeve, as we both had become sweaty from the labor. I’d removed hood and cloth awhile ago, as while the caves weren’t hot, they weren’t anywhere near as cold as outside.

“Then for which ones?”

He planted the business end of the shovel into the dirt and leaned over it with both gnarled hands on the handle, staring at the ground - and for all I could tell - right through it. “Tell me,” he said quietly. “What do you see?”

“Where, here? You mean other than the graxh eagerly noshing all this mush?”

Again he smiled, gilded eyes twinkling with humor. “Other than them. Across Hell.”

“Without manifesting wings, I can only see so far.”

“Look with your heart. What do you see?”

I stayed quiet, contemplating how to answer. Just as he was slow yet deep with each response, so too was he patient in awaiting mine.

But I thought I caught a thread with which to begin.

“Around here, souls trying to do good,” I said with a gesture to the Spire’s settlements. “Trying to exist away from the tyranny of the demons…and the fallen angels.”

“And elsewhere?”

“Souls in bondage? And, though I dislike admitting it, devils and demons also similarly bound.” I held up my hand. “Marked and owned.”

“Hmm.” His grunt, quiet as it was, reminded a great deal of Rabbi Kirov when he’d been disappointed with a student’s essay. Not when the student had been wrong, exactly, but when they’d not reached the hoped for depths in their work.

“Alright,” I said. “Then tell me: what is it that you see?”

“Stories buried in darkness.”

“Stories?”

His head tilted inquiringly. “Have you comprehended what we are?”

“What, you mean angels?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been trying to, we created the-“

He interjected. “No. We are the means of creation. The Most High is the Creator, we are but channels for the Words from which All Is. You said you remembered me?”

“I…yes?” I said, rather flummoxed from the rapidly shifting questions. “Uh, from Gabriel’s past.”

“Ah.” He picked up the shovel, scooped it full, then halted again with its load hovering over the wheelbarrow. “And these memories, do you consider them to be real?”

“What? Are you saying they aren’t?”

“Are you saying that they are?”

Gaping, I grew annoyed. “I saw you! Through Gabriel’s eyes, I saw you! Fighting to prevent Samael from escaping that last connection between the fallen realms and all else, his swords beating spark after spark against your staff!”

A gentle and non-judgmental smile tempered my rising agitation. “Do you truly believe that conflicts between our people are won by metal and wood, bone and sinew?”

“But the blood, the bodies…” I trailed off, awash with remembered horror.

“Are translations of the deeper tragedy, as concepts struggle and collide.”

My fight with Turiel. His blade bit through skin to hit bone…but my God, that wasn’t the real fight. No, I’d felt it, beyond the physical pain ripping across the manifested body I wore. The abstract strength of the Earth’s geology and all the forces within its crust and core, that’s what had actually slammed against me.

Only to be repelled by the power of the eternal and timeless Light. In the weighing of concept versus concept, the Light was unmoved by rules of inner-planetary physics.

Because the Light underpinned all: physics and metaphysics alike.

Not-turnips and not-carrots scattered into the wheelbarrow, and I stood silent while a roar of questions churned inside. Raguel continued the work, and even while wrestling internally I grabbed the pitchfork to help.

A few stalls later, as more graxh consumed breakfast like happy teenagers greedily swallowing any and all available calories, he finally commented.

“You begin to understand.”

“I…maybe?”

“The essences from our manifested memory, this is what matters. This is what, for us, is real. The cores, the abstracts, the relationships. Our history and struggle is not the reason for Creation. We are but the refining of blank manuscript. We are the dictionary and rules of grammar. We are the archetypes and frameworks, solid yet ephemeral. But they,” he said as he started our return to refill the now-empty wheelbarrow, “they are the focus.”

“The souls.”

We walked down the row of quieted beasts - for all had been tended. Only once we got back to the front, and after handing me a second shovel, did he continue. “They write their stories upon the canvas, etching each precious moment into the greater history - and also uniquely unto themselves.”

“But the ones here, in Hell, are stuck. Aren’t they?”

“Those needing to struggle against the dark, yes. And worse still, those who have since been cleansed.”

“Elohim’s Gate, it binds everyone.”

He opened the first stall and stepped inside past a Graxh still distracted by food. I knew the next part of the job, and it wasn’t my favorite.

Though it was certainly necessary. Dirty, smelly, and unpleasant…but necessary.

Together we began mucking out the pen, the wheelbarrow now serving the needs of the opposite ends of the snuffling beasts.

We were halfway through the stalls when he paused the work, again wiping away sweat before speaking. “These realms, each pull to a different shadow: regret, fear, rage, hate, and more. All of that which drives a soul to hide and spurn the Light.”

“But they can be cleansed?”

“In many ways.”

An idea hit, one which left me stunned. “Wait.”

He smiled. “Go on.”

I stared anew at the star across my palm, shining past even the mess covering hands and arms. “The demons. They swallow souls.”

A nod was given. “And what is done with those so consumed?”

“They feed on…well…they feed on the power from that darkness.”

“Yes.”

I shook my head. “But the demons enhance it! They torture and manipulate the souls, driving them even further into that dark!”

“Hmm,” he said again, shoving the blade deep into muck before lifting it free and dumping it in the one-wheeled barrow.

And standing there, watching him bend over to scrape the floor clean, I got it.

I finally understood.

Stunned, I put a hand against the wall to remain steady. “Demons. They aren’t creators either.”

“Yes.”

“They can only feed on what already is there. They isolate it, encourage it, get it all to rise to the surface and then…” I stopped.

He grunted as he slopped more atop the barrow’s almost full steel container. “Harvest.”

A lump grew in my throat. “But it’s horribly painful for the souls! It’s awful!”

“And if interrupted, leaves a soul unbalanced.”

“I’ve wanted…I’ve wanted to free them all!”

The angel rose to his full height, and from above weighed me with his gaze. “Only those cleansed are ready for freedom. Only those who have achieved purification by their own wills or have been consumed absolutely by the spirits whose fires burn the fuel of evil.”

He inhaled, and I glimpsed the tremendous strain upon his shoulders carried across the eons since Hell was sealed.

“Only those,” he said eventually, “who dare reach towards the unreachable, crying out in the pain of being denied the realms to which their stories need them go.”

He motioned for me to move the wheelbarrow out to the corridor, there where we could dump it on the pile awaiting transport to fertilize the edible mushrooms found growing in deeper caverns below. As I lifted the handle to maneuver the heavily burdened barrow, he said what I knew he would.

“They are the ones kept safe from further corruptions. Before such pain consumes them. Before they are hunted for their purity and destroyed lest they threaten those who rule. Those are the ones brought to Sanctuary.”

 

 

Thanks for reading...and especially for commenting!

- Erisian