Archive of Our Own ^beta

The creation of an angel is a complicated thing. 

No matter how much it seems to be easy – as if God has extracted stardust are fire out of thin air and bound it into a form of being, giving it life – it is not. It is a complicated thing – not in the actual making, no, but in the planning.

Would the angel be a healer? Would they be a warrior? An artist perhaps? What about a leader? Would they be stern or would they be sweet? Compassionate or unforgiving? A pacifist or eager for action? 

The creation of Raphael, Azrael, Michael, Gabriel, Uriel, Ramiel and Samael had been… simpler, to say. God had wanted Healing, Death, Judgement, Heraldry, Wisdom, Hope and Passion, so They made them. They are first to fill the void, and so they determined the design.

The next had been just perhaps a bit more difficult, where God had to plan things out even further. But They had a design, a plan of Destiny, an idea in Their head.

So They create another angel – a beautiful Seraph, born of white fire and many eyes and six wings made of light given form. God gives them the attributes of a leader, wise and stern but a desire to do what’s right, but also a sense of duty that would never be eclipsed. They give the angel the power of Silence, to Silence an angel’s Song, to Silence the Song of the universe, but also to make it louder.

And God names them Seraphiel.

Seraphiel comes into her own as Heaven had been finished, the Architects Raphael and Uriel moving onto other projects.

Meanwhile, she is the eldest of the Seraphim, the one who sees the rest of the angels being born, the one who helps raise them. Raguel as Justice, Jerahmeel as Mercy, Jehoel as Fire, Matriel as Water and Rain of all sorts, Sariel as Protection, Beelzebub as Pleasure, Tanninael as Destruction, Helel as Creativity, and so many others.

Seraphiel watches over them, protecting them from the shadows of Void and Evil, the things that lay on the outskirts of the protective gates of Heaven, governing over the expanding kingdom of Heaven and its angels as they birth new types of angels in the form of Cherubim and Ophanim and Virtues and Principalities. 

Then, they decide to create Earth. They decide to create humanity. Seraphiel is proud that she had helped to forge the first humans Adam and Lilith, and helped create the paradise that is Eden. 

(God leaves the picture, once humanity had been blueprinted, leaving the rest of the work to Raphael. No one is quite sure about what to say to that.)

Something fractures in Heaven, when Helel tries to introduce change, when he’s told his ideas are dangerous and doesn’t listen, when humans are created and Raphael – oldest of them, the one who steps up as their leader since God had left the picture – falls in love with them. She isn’t sure anyone can fix it.

(“Raphael,” Seraphiel had once addressed. It had been one of the very early days, the days before Raphael had become too busy for his fellow angels. “What would you do if you had to kill another being in order to save another.”

“Why are you asking me this, Sera?” Raphael asks, frowning. He had gotten into the habit of addressing her by that nickname. 

“I just… you’re the eldest of angels, the one Father trusted with expanding the Kingdom, the closest to him. But you’re also the Healer, and also a pacifist,” Seraphiel had said. “I wanted to know what you would do if you had to choose between two bad decisions which would go against your moral values.”

“Is this about me or about you?” Raphael had asked. 

“Just— humour me, please.”

“I guess I would prioritise my primary duty, to act as a Healer and Guardian of my wards,” Raphael had said, finally, after a moment of silence where she had been flayed under his gaze and analysed. “My duty is to ensure goodness, and if I had to make the hard decision to kill to save, then so be it. But I have the luxury of being able to alter the fabric of reality according to my design, to revive, and none of my siblings stray far enough from me to give me an opportunity to even contemplate the decision. You, as the Chief of Seraphim, don’t.”

Because that’s the crux of the issue, isn’t it? Seraphiel is the Leader of the Seraphim. If anything happens to them, it will be because of her. She has one duty, and one duty only – to protect her people.

“You are a leader, Sera.” Raphael is so gentle, his voice soft with the Song of Healing and Creation and Love, his hands gentle as the wipe away locks made of white fire from her face of countless eyes. “Sometimes you have to make tough decisions. We don’t like it, and it’s good we never do, but we have to because we have to care more about ours than we do others. Ruthlessness is a mercy in many ways, but always make sure it comes with a heavy heart.”)

Lilith decides no, I won’t be with Adam, and Raphael goes, alright.

So he creates Eve, born from Adam, splitting him into two before healing both sides into something that resembles whole humans. But they aren’t quite whole, merely two halves. Meant to be like binary stars, brilliant on their own but greater together. 

And then Helel, the Morning Star, who shines so brightly, finds Free Will – Free Will from the Garden, where it sprouted from the cracks to the Outer Void – and decides to give it to Eve, who gives it to Adam.

And Chaos is sown.

(It’s been sown into more than just humanity. It’s been sown into Heaven too.)

They have to exile Helel, have to cast him down, have to do the same to Lilith. They forge a realm of darkness for Helel and Lilith to spend the rest of their time in, and Seraphiel hopes they can come back up again.

(This is perhaps the greatest mistake they make in all of history.)

Every Archangel has a favourite. They aren’t supposed to, but they do.

Raphael’s is Seraphiel, Michael’s is Raguel, Gabriel’s is Sariel.

Samael adored Helel. Even if Uriel had been Helel’s mentor, Samael loved Helel. Loved him like an elder brother, loved his passion and ingenuity.

Samael is the Song of Passion, the Blazing Fire of Heaven, one of the Seven Archangels, one of the Seven Pillars of Heaven. His charisma had been known to ignite the passion of angels.

Passion becomes Hatred. Hatred becomes Poison. Poison for Heaven and the angels and their belief.

Beelzebub and Tanninael are at his side when Heaven falls into War.

Seraphiel has always thought ichor is a beautiful, beautiful substance. A gleaming gold that shines brightly, sunlight made into something fluid, a status of the divinity that angels have.

She doesn’t think it’s beautiful now, when Heaven’s covered with it, the golden liquid staining the pure white. Gold on white is meant to be a beautiful colour combination, it’s on the outfits of all the higher angels, it’s supposed to inspire awe.

It just inspires horror now.

Samael had demanded justice – justice? This is not justice! What kind of justice involves the death of his brethren? – for Helel. And when Raphael had tried to reason with him, Samael had slain Jerahmeel. He had slain Mercy.  

So there is no mercy, on any side. Not for this war. 

(Not when Samael had taken advantage of the naturally peaceful angels, giving him a chance for him and his army to slaughter so many before the fires of War truly burn through all the Choirs.)

Heaven fights, split down into two factions. Samael’s side is invigorated by his Passion, by his Fire, by his Fury. For all that he is the youngest of the Archangel’s, he has never been the weakest, not when every Angel he slays he takes the Grace of. Not when his fire can incinerate angels, not when his blade can slice through them like butter, not when he can wield the stars as his weaponry, not with his hands digging and tearing into the fabric of reality in order to draw Chaos into existence.

Tanninael is a monstrous beast, wielding his True Form – a winged serpent made with countless eyes that could consume stars with his jaw filled with many serrated teeth, spitting acid and venom blessed with the power of his Grace that extinguished the fires of other angels – with a result that led to sheer horror, consuming many angels and warriors whole. 

Beelzebub is a hoard, buzzing and consuming the flesh of every angel with alarming efficiency, leaving behind nothing but the halos of angels which soon fade into stardust. She makes herself an utter nuisance, her capabilities of healing too powerful for anything but complete and utter lethal wounds to work. Not even pain will stop those beside her, for they won’t feel pain.

Ashmedai burns with anger and hatred, a consuming storm of fire that threatens the very foundations of existence, and the screams of those that die to him merely fuel the fire. Mammonael weaves a net to catch and trap, feasting upon the angels that he catches like a spider, using the others as puppets. Belphegor brings them to sleep and nightmares, tormenting them forevermore while consuming their essence and Grace, looking like a lamb with fleece of the cosmos all the way, resting all the way.

War is a terrible thing, and Seraphiel had to fight, to wield her sword made of stardust steel and Holy Fire, had to protect those under her care. Had to lead armies into battle in order to protect her people. 

But sometimes she fails, and sometimes her people die, the Seraphim die, one by one. Their pain echoes in her chest, their screams ringing through her brain, their final gasps her uneven breaths, their fire being snuffed out leaving her empty and cold.

She fights. And she hates every second of it.

(In the middle of the war, she meets a girl.

She has never seen this girl before.

The girl is humanoid in figure, the form having hair like a black fire burning, tipped with crimson red of human blood. She is pale, black veins running beneath chalk white skin, chains wrapping around her, the ground where she stands cracked and dark as if corruption had taken root there. She wears a black and red dress and a black and white veil that she pulls aside to reveal her face. 

Eyes of red sclera and white irises stare at Seraphiel directly, half lidded as if enjoying the carnage around her. But her smile, her smile is the part that makes Seraphiel stop and stare. 

The smile bears teeth, gleaming ivory coated in crimson blood that drips down her teeth. The teeth are sharp, and far too many, like needles and spearheads, and Seraphiel knows that those teeth can rip into anything better than even Tanninael’s true form. 

Her gaze is Chaos, annihilation made into being, pinning Seraphiel down with terror until her fire is still and frozen and it feels like she cannot breathe. The smile is absolutely wicked and crooked, promising more of this terror, more of this pain. Beneath the veneer of porcelain skin lies a creature that would destroy everything without mercy, of black lightning and void fire and shadows that have form and things from a place beyond Creation, drawing life and goodness into ever hungry of jaws that consume until there is nothing but desolation.

The battlefield fades away, and Seraphiel feels so very mortal at this moment. She would look away, but her form – her countless eyes – refuses to.

She can hear a song. A dissonance cacophony that is the screeching of metal on metal and the banging of drums off beat and the pipes playing too loudly and the sound of sobbing and cackling and locusts flying about and Choirs dying out and the scratchy tune of instruments off key and fires ravaging and storms thundering and mad men screaming. Formless. Indecipherable. Madness. One that grows louder and louder and l o u d e r—

But when Seraphiel’s vision of the girl is obscured by another angel dashing across her vision just for a moment, the girl is gone.)

Eventually, Michael manages to defeat Samael and his closest and drag them to a tattered court in chains.

Samael is still connected to his army through his Song, as are the other five who are there with him.

All the Archangels are unable to make the final sentencing, it’s up to the next best option – Seraphiel.

“Samael, Archangel of Passion,” Seraphiel addresses, her words booming through all of the court. “You and your associates have been found guilty of Murder, High Treason, Absorption of Power, Cannibalism and High Heresy. How do you plead?”

“Guilty.” There is no other way this could go.

“Very well,” Seraphiel states. “I therefore strip you of your power. All the Grace that has been taken will be stripped from you and your associates. Your Title as Archangel will be stripped from you, as well as the Titles of your associates. You will be no stronger than the lowest of Seraphim, and your associates no higher than those of Heaven with their former rank. And you all will Fall, to where the Morning Star lurks and be subjected to his rule.”

“You can’t do that—”

S I L E N C E

And all of Heaven had been Silenced. There is no Song. None but the Song of Silence.

“Samael, I sentence you to Fall for your Wrath.”

Samael breaks the Silence as he screams, black fire burning him – his wings to ash, his clothes to dust, his form made scorched and ugly like the beast he is, and his halo shattering into pieces, and then more pieces, and then more pieces, until there existed a halo no longer.

Then the ground below him cracked, and opened, like a gaping maw that consumed Samael as he Fell and fell and fellfell f e l l

“Beezlebub, you shall Fall for your Gluttony. Tanninael, you shall Fall for your Envy. Ashmedai, you shall Fall for Lust. Mammonael, you shall Fall for your Greed. Belphegor, you shall Fall for your Sloth.”

And so they Fell.

“All those who had followed Samael’s song,” Seraphiel declares, the orders ringing across all of Heaven to hear. “Shall Fall with him.”

Six hundred and fifty-nine more Fall. Making a total of Six hundred and sixty-six angels who had Fallen altogether.

And Heaven is Silent.

They rebuild.

Heaven is reforged with the will of architects and creatives. Debris is cleansed away, buildings are reborn, and Heaven is made anew, but different – for a new era.

(Most angels choose not to wear gold now, except sparingly. No one, but the warriors.)

They have to crown new Archangels for there always must be Seven, Seven Pillars upon whom Heaven is anchored to. Azrael steps down to become truly neutral as her original design had been. And so Raguel and Sariel – Justice and Protection, setting the tone of Heaven for the next many millennia –  Ascend to Archangels.

And then the Archangels choose to leave the picture, just like God had. 

(“We are so tired, Sera,” Raphael merely says. “Samael has proven that the amount of power we hold is far too much. So we will depart from ruling over Heaven and leave it to you, you who have been divinely designed to lead and guide your fellow angels, while we deal with humanity and such affairs that concern the Chaos brewing.”

“Weren’t you designed to do the same?” Seraphiel asks, perhaps desperately. She doesn’t want any of them to leave her, least of all Raphael. “You’re Archangels! The Lord’s most divine and powerful, Their firstborn! Samael wasn’t your fault and you have done so well, can’t you lead?”

Raphael merely smiles, mirthless and sad.

“No.”

Doubt is the killer of leaders.)

And Seraphiel is crowned, given rulership over all of Heaven, given the secrets that no one else has – secrets over the universe, secrets over how to Create more angels – and left alone as the Archangels sequester themselves away into the Hall of Divine Judgement.

Seraphiel chooses a new name to go by. Sera – the same nickname Raphael called her by.

(It reminds her of how young she truly feels.)

Eventually, they repopulate.

During the war, the number of Seraphim had gone down too much, many slaughtered out of nowhere. From a Choir of a hundred strong – not counting Archangels – to twenty-seven, counting the traitors. Fewer if they don’t. Cherubim – the warriors – had been practically decimated, leaving only a scattering of them still around. Ophanim had been slightly better, but then from the Middle Order onwards the further down the worse it had been.

So Sera creates new angels born from the firmament of Heaven and holy Grace – but they aren’t as powerful as they should be, unlike those who survived the war. They can’t create like the old angels do, can’t wield starlight and stardust, don’t exist upon many frames of reality, are far more… simple.

They will never be as powerful as the angels born from God or the Archangels’ careful making directly, will never be able to draw cosmic blood from the flesh of Creation itself.

(Perhaps that’s a good thing.)

Then one day, one day, Adam dies, and Adam Ascends.

(Raphael never told her that could happen.)

Adam is a broken thing, marred by grief and betrayal and in pain always. Eve and Lilith had been his wives but Helel had been his friend and the cuts always hurt deeper when set in the dagger of betrayal.

Sera knows that Helel had the best of intentions. It doesn’t change what happened.

(Sometimes, Sera wonders what’s happening in Hell, with Lilith and Eve and the Fallen. With Helel.)

Heaven becomes something resembling a functioning society again. There is a somewhat divide between the older generation – those that have been here from before the War – and those that had been recently created. Those that had been recently created are far kinder than their war-scarred counterparts – although that is perhaps to be expected.

They had once anticipated that there would be more humans coming up here. There hadn’t been many. There had been Abel and Seth and the line of Seth with Enosh and Kenan and Mahalalel and Jared and others. But most of them failed the divine judgement, passing into Helel’s domain instead.

And then Enoch.

Sera meets the man once before he had been taken away to Heaven by God. Free of Sin and Chaos, even if the man had the potential, and had been marked with a special sort of divinity that sparks from Adam, watered down it may have been after many generations.

God comes out of retirement for the man, and Raguel and Sariel – Justice and Protection – guide him to Heaven, and God renders Enoch a Seraph – a being of fire and starlight and lightning – and makes him the Scribe of Heaven, names him Metatron.

Sera is put in charge of his protection, Jehoel alongside her. Kind and quiet and dutiful, Metatron is easy to love, especially for her assistant Jehoel.

Sera governs, and she likes to think that she governs well.

(Sometimes tragedy on Earth isn’t her fault. She had no idea that there had been a biblical flood until it happened, when the angels she had stationed on Earth reported back to her in a frenzy. She barges into the Hall of Divine Judgement, where she demands answers. Raphael had been kind enough to prevent Michael from wiping her from existence.)

Centuries pass near uneventfully. With the Ascension of more humans, they put programmes in place for the human-born angels to be well integrated into Heaven. 

They have a name for the Heaven-born angels born after the War now – New Testaments, they call them. 

Heaven becomes something different, compared to before. Sera isn’t quite sure whether or not that’s a good thing.

Centuries pass, with tragedy and joy, and Sera slowly realises what it means to be timeless.

Sera checks in with Helel’s domain, a place he calls Hell.

It is filled to the brim with residents.

The Fallen have become powers of their own, and they have spawn – weaker their children may be, but not by much. There are Hellborn, created from the firmament and base matter of Hell, and given the Spark of life, and then their spawn populate the layers of the Underworld.

The human souls that didn’t make it to Heaven, that hadn’t passed Michael’s judgement – their souls weighed heavily against his feather on the Scales – they are here.

They’ve learnt to thrive. They’ve learnt to grow. They’ve learnt to harness the power of souls to become terrors in their own right. They’ve betrayed kindness for power, decency to satiate their ambitions, empathy for status and control.

The Fallen and their kin, they don’t want Heaven, bound evermore to the Orders seared deep into their bloodlines and their souls. But the Sinners? Sera sees that in time and unchecked, they could tear into Heaven. 

(There is Chaos in their veins. Innovation and boundless potential, unwilling to remain static, unwilling to remain in the mould, unwilling to be constrained, for better or for worse.)

This cannot continue.

(Sera cannot begin to fathom how she would survive – how she would be able to cope with – another War.)

She goes to her Council for answers, for inspiration, for help.

A great deal of her Council is very young, only some of them are of similar ages to her. The younger ones do not know the true depth of what they are facing and the older ones are either too harsh or too soft or too fearful. (Fearful just like her.)

It is a good Council, with a wide range of viewpoints that represent the population of Heaven, and it is an excellent Council for the passing of laws and regulations and judgement. But it is not a good Council when the job is for creating those laws.

Some propose a power cap, but then others argue on how they would maintain that. Some propose trusting Helel to bring his subjects to heel, but then others argue that they can’t trust him to do so.

And then Adam. Adam, the First Man, First Ascended, Father of Humanity, Apple Eater, Name Giver, Free Will Given, Khalifa, a being who has been shattered and reforged into something hateful and bleeding and vengeful, pushes forth a radical notion. 

The annual extermination of his children. 

Helel would never allow the Hellborn to be targeted for death, but he would concede on the Sinners.

Sera and many others shoot down the proposal vehemently. It may be possible, but it doesn’t make it right.

Sera tries to be kind. She is a Seraph and a ruler and a nurturer, of course she does. And mass murder on this kind of scale is not a line she is willing to cross. 

(It will cost them so much.)

The Choirs scream, raw agony shooting through the usually peaceful clouds.

Dragons made of shadows – countless until they are amalgamations, distinguishable only by their bright red eyes and maws breathing fire – are stained with gold. Nightmares of tentacles and bone wings, of dark fur and scales, gather in masses as they prey upon the angels. Eating and consuming their fill, becoming stronger with every bite as their souls are taken to be used as fuel.

The Sinners tear through the Choirs rank by rank, Sphere by Sphere, starting from the bottom until now, where they reach the ability to battle the Cherubim.

Gold rains from the skies above, tainted with blood red, and Sera does not want to do this again.

But she must. She is Governor of Heaven, Chief of the Seraphim, Song of Silence, Protector of the Metatron.

And so falls into the dance of war one more time.

Sera goes to the funeral of the first casualty of this war. She, in fact, leads the procession.

The angel who perished was an Earth-born named Heba. She liked gardening, had a cat named Bast, and was about to take an apprenticeship with the Flora Guild. First sphere and had no desire to rise, content with the joy she found in Heaven.

The pyre goes up in silver and gold flames, burning with moonflowers – the girl’s favourite – and Sera swears something vengeful.

Maws of darkness snap and tentacles writhe, cutting through limbs and golden swathes.

Seraphiel approaches, a tall figure the height of the seven heavens, a being of stardust and lightning and holy fire, all three pairs of solid-light wings flapping in synchronicity as she breaks the sound barrier many times over, bearing her Staff – which had once been a sword, turned into a Staff for the sake of peace. 

She stops, sending a shockwave, announcing her arrival. She can see many angels are filled with relief, and she is subtly flattered by their belief in her.

She raises her Staff, and calls for Silence.

The battlefield goes quiet, the angels stop in their Singing, their Song going quiet as they stop everything they are doing.

The Sinners stop and stare, and 

then they 

laugh.  

There is no sound, but the laughter is obvious, and Seraphiel can feel a creeping sense of panic.

YOUR ANGELS ARE MADE OF SONG, CHIEF SERAPH. THEIR SONG IS WHAT POWERS THEM AND MAKES THEM TRULY UNIQUE AND MAGNIFICENT, the Sinners broadcast in meaning. BUT WE HAD BEEN HUMAN, WE ARE NOT BUILT UPON THE FOUNDATIONS OF SONG. YOUR TRICKS ARE USELESS AGAINST US, ANGEL OF SILENCE.

Seraphiel makes a quick decision, and charges her Staff with her boundless ocean of Holy Grace.

She slashes with her Staff in a wide arc, sending a shockwave of pure Holy Grace across the field, and the Sinners there burn and are sliced through when it reaches them, cutting swathes of them down in a mere moment.

Some of the Sinners are still there.

Seraphiel raises her Staff again, draws into a smaller but more compact form, and dives into the fray.

Adam is missing his left forearm, the stump covered in golden gore.

Sera is upset that she can’t do more to help. Her Song is useless against the Sinners, and her power will only bring more destruction in the long run as her Grace cuts across the field. 

Besides, she has to protect Metatron, has to be the Governor and Head Commander of all of Heaven. She runs the numbers, evacuates and settles the civilians, deals with the casualties, orders the fighters, and plans for the future. 

(She does not entertain the chance of there being no future.)

Sera pushes through some of her Grace into Adam’s stump and watches as the arm grows back – a little trick from her days with Raphael.

(The Archangels have been quiet on the matter, guarding the Empyrean, forging weapons, maintaining Heaven in ways no one but the eldest of them sees.)

“We should have killed them while we had the chance,” Adam mutters, flexing his newly regrown arm. He puts on his repaired helmet – a golden thing – as gold and purple crystal and white light armour falls into place on him.

A few weeks ago, Sera would have chastised him for such thoughts. Now, she sees where he’s coming from.

Mercy is dead, has been since the War, has been again when the new Song of Mercy had been taken for the Sinner’s own consumption and power.

So, Sera merely says:

“I know.”

They have a plan.

She is bloodied and bruised, ichor flowing freely from her wounds, gold fluid glowing as it stains her torn clothes and shattered armour. But it is covered by liquid abyss and dark crimson.

I̷̜̲̎ ̵̧̜̊T̵̜̹̫̲̀H̵̭̮͈͆͆̋͠Ö̴̝̤̥̩́̀̅U̶̗̟͍̓̀͌̚G̴̢̹͙̎͂̈H̶̛̦̺̔͌͋T̵͙́̓ ̴͚̭̥̪̚T̸͉̜͕̏̓H̶̺͇́̀́̚Ē̵̬̪̅ ̶̠̮̺͒͑͋L̶̠̠̟̰̎̓͋E̸̬͌͒̅͠Â̷͙D̸̨͙̙͉͠Ȩ̷̠̒̎̀̐R̴͇̯̳̔̌̃̄ͅ ̸̱̪͒Ȍ̶̡͍̯̋̃Ḟ̸̟͙͖ ̴͈̮̀Ṫ̵̲̠̝̼͗H̴̯̭̖̙̓̈́Ë̴̗̬͚̹́͆̓ ̷͇̫̘̉̀͐̑S̷͔͇͚̀E̸̟̟̔̍R̵̺̭̽͌̆͛Ą̶̛̯͚̰̔͌P̵͈̲͎͒̅͊̈H̴̦́̈͒I̷̱̲̿̍͜͝M̷̝̈͝ ̷̦̝͍̠̋W̶̨͚͉̣̓Ǒ̷̝̣͝Ụ̵̬́̌L̶̹̋̀́̓D̷̖͓̖̑ ̸̙͖̣̿B̵̫̪͔̱͌̈Ē̵͙̩͚ ̶͔̼̘̍S̸̳͖̆̅̍͊T̷̢̩̮̱̄͝Ŕ̷̼̱̪̊O̵̢̗̖͋̂N̶̝̮̤̑̏͋G̸̞̜̟̲̀È̷͔̘Ř̵̙͖͎̼̒̃̒,̵̣̟̍͐̓ ̴̮̌P̸̩͖̗̲͗̒̀̾Ḯ̸̡̫̬̳T̴̨̝͙̈̾͝Y̶̥̪͐̾͘͝ ̴͕͉̥̉̅̈́͝T̴̢̂̈́H̶̭̥̤̑̅̎̂ͅẢ̵͓͇T̶̻̘͆̆͜,̷̛̞̞͔̄͘͝ ̵̛̖͂̅͝Ġ̶͈͔̦̿ͅǑ̴̟͉̼̖̓̇Ṿ̸̱̏̓E̸̦̝̲͌͑̏̉R̵̬̼̜̳͛͠N̶̢̓O̷͖̿̂̄ͅŘ̷͕͊̎̄, the demon says, snarling the last word mockingly, holding her down with corrupted energy that forms in bright red light and whispers of shadow. Teeth drip with disgusting saliva, ready to chomp and tear through divine flesh. Ḁ̷͎̲̍͒͘N̵̪̘̩̈́̂̈́͊̍̉Y̶̧̞̲̲̫̺̐ ̸̙͚̮̹͉͚̰̄̀̇̈́̌̿͘Ḽ̸͖̰̲̩̩͉͒̍A̴͇̜̠͎͚̼̓́̍͠ͅS̸̱̤̹̹͉̏͆̈͛̈́T̴̥̬̗̄̏̿̀͝ ̷̭̗̭̬͍̔͊̓W̵͓͚̓O̵̮̖̒̓͐̀͂̒͝R̵̛͔͉̬̹̐͐̓̀͗̈́D̴̛̘̩͉̳̱͒S̶̨̜̥̘͌?̸̺̗̹̪͖͊̉͜

yes, the broadcasts in a whisper, not bothering with speech. it’s over.

Perhaps it is a testament to the humanity that had once been there, because the demon’s gigantic maws frown in confusion. 

A glimmer of golden light is the only warning they get before Adam crashes into the demon, knocking the Sinner off Sera, and thrusting angelic steel claws into the chest.

Tendrils of gore sprout as Adam removes a gigantic heart of blood and darkness from the beast with a roar, sending viscera flying through the air to splatter upon Adam’s already dirtied armour, and the demon screams out in agony.

They don’t have much time. Removing their core heart will stun them until they properly regenerate, but only for a while.

Cherubim and Seraphim pop out in distortions of space, and bind the demon down, chains of Grace wrapping around the fiend as each of them holds one to secure. Seraphiel gets up, summons her Staff, and draws the lines.

You see, Sera – despite being a creation of pure divine energy, one of the eldest in Heaven, Governor of Heaven – is tired.

They conceived of this plan a few days ago, putting it into motion precisely seven days ago. Sera had been out on the field when she could, but while she had been trying to evacuate civilians and slaying the demons, she had also been setting things up for now.

During this battle, most of her Grace had been expanded, but not because of the fight itself, but for now.

Sera had been subtly infusing the reality around them with Holy Grace, increasing saturation until it’s practically threaded through everything. 

The demons barely notice, the increase having been so widespread and gradual as they adapted to the subtly increasing irritation, their power growing at exponential rate to compete against the usual debuffing, but that isn’t the purpose of what she has done.

Seraphiel stands before the demon – the Fiend that is the core of all of this, holding the chains to each and every demon that had invaded their home – and raises her Staff.

As the leader of the demons that have invaded Heaven, for the crime of genocide against Heaven and countless other unspeakable acts, Seraphiel begins. She does not say their name. You have been sentenced to Non-Existence. Do you have any final words?

Y̸̨̛̲̦͔͍̗̦̩̓͑̈́̆̆Ë̵̻̬̹̺͍̱́́͆̂̑S̶̨̗̼̖̮͊͗͛͂͋̋̑͂, the Fiend says, sluggish under the weight of seventy-seven celestial chains binding then. They smile, grinning as they unhinge their jaw and bare their teeth, showing bloody serrated blades. T̶͖̠̑̓͗̍Ḩ̶̼͎̩͎̹͓͆̽̔͂̿͗Ę̷̫̩͚̩̌̔ ̵͉̰͉̬͖͋̎Ṛ̴̯͋Ó̷̫̬̺͎̍̽̎̾̚͠Ó̴̧̼̙̰̜̈́̌Ţ̵̮̥̮̝̲̇̔̐̄̌ ̷̛̹̹̍̄͛̉͐̾O̷̟̜̥̓̀̐̽̈͗̓̀F̶̭͒͋̓̈́̆̉ ̷̧̘͉̪͎͋̕É̷̤̱̃̋̀̄V̶̛͈̬̞̻̭̂̒I̷̧̢̮̓̋L̴͖̗͌͆̓̆͘ ̴̩̝̈̌̇̚͝Ṣ̷̢͍̲̊̕͜Ę̵͔̥͉͔͙̱̃́̎̆͝͝N̶͚͎̔̒̂̂D̷̢̝͚̯̥̩̊͑̄͠Š̶̢̨͔͓̘̭̜̣̽̅͑̕ ̵̪̲̟̮̺̉͐̑́ ̶̢̧̛̝̜͗̐̓͛͑Ḩ̴͈͉̫̱̮̙̿Ė̴̡̻̪̩̬̳̣̍́͆̄͝R̶̡͓͓͋̒̍̊̓̅͜͝ ̶̼̖̀̀͛R̸̭͎̄͝E̶̞̖̞̞̗͑̐̈́G̷̡͚̯̩̤̤̫̐̌Å̷̲̞̞͓̟̽͒͋R̵̬͈̃͒̂̊̉̔͗͝D̴̻͔̝̄S̵̩͚͉͓͎͙̟̓͜.̴͓͍̜͇̑̀̉͛͌̄́͜͝

(At the edge of her vision, Sera sees the girl once again, dressed in abyss and blood, watching intently, smile burning with malevolent glee.)

Seraphiel doesn’t give them another word. The Grace in the air reaches a feverish pitch as all the angels channel their power. The Fiend screams, an echoing roar that would have shattered infrastructure – infrastructure already reduced to rubble by this beast and others already slain.

Adam raises his spear, and Seraphiel crosses it with her Staff, silver and gold energy intertwining and burning bright like a star close up.

The Archfiend glows from the inside, divine light escaping from cracks underneath their scales. And the demon screams as it 

b u r n s

There is nothing left of the demon. Not even ash. The ground where they are is pristine, glimmering marble. Or would have been, had it not been cracked and shattered.

Sera is coated in gore and ichor, dirtied and bruised, and tired to the core.

“Adam,” Sera addresses the Ascended, who is also coated in blood and ichor and viscera, looking only a little better than Sera but not by much. “Meet me in my office in an hour, I’m going to take a bath. Tell Jehoel to take over.”

“Can’t you just…” Adam does a gesture at her, just as the grime washes away from him, leaving a clean set of armour and robes behind. “Miracle it away?” 

Sera merely stares flatly at him, but also with sympathy. He must be truly tired.

“Sometimes, we must take refuge in the process and tradition,” Sera deadpans. 

What Sera doesn’t say is that she feels she needs to scribe the viscera off her skin else she will feel unclean. What Sera doesn’t say is that if she jumps straight into governance and cleanup, she will scream so loudly the angels expanding the boundaries of the universe will hear it.

She disappears in a burst of light and wings, landing back in her personal abode, one of the few places untouched by the War. Although, not for a lack of trying – the wards maintaining this place are joint wards, the base wards created in tandem with Michael and Raphael. Only Archangels would be able to brute force their way into the place, and even then only those stronger than Michael, Song of Judgement and Warrior of Heaven, and Raphael, Song of Healing and Creation.

The hot spring water infused with Grace, steaming and glimmering, is already in the marble tub when she enters the bathroom to clean. She gets rid of the worst of the filth with her ripped clothes and barely-hanging-on armour, and dips into the hot water.

She summons a sponge, adds a tiny bit of soap that smells like vanilla and stardust, and scrubs her three-dimensional skin raw until it’s a raw golden colour.

(And even then, the feeling of blood on her skin will not fade for another decade.)

Adam comes to her office, as Sera is busy adding cosmic sand to her ambrosia. 

“Spiked ambrosia, Adam?” Sera asks the First Man. 

Adam raises an eyebrow, but when Sera doesn’t answer the question, he accepts the cup offered.

They sit in silence – not Silence, they both desire this time of mourning rest – as they drank in companionship.

“Your proposal for hell’s annual extermination,” Sera begins, after they finish their cups and the cosmic sand loosens her metaphysical tongue. Adam looks up, interested. “I think we should bring it back to the table in Council.”

“First of all, we don’t have enough Council,” Adam says, and Sera’s face sours. “Secondly, I think that we’re all a little too bloodied and vengeful to make a good call right now.”

“Oh, so now you’re asking us to reconsider?” Sera asks sarcastically – as sarcastically as she could.

“No, not at all,” Adam says.

Everyone in Heaven’s upper echelons are warriors now, have sliced and blasted and known what it meets to lose, to hear the screams of your neighbours ring in your head.

Heaven is vengeful now. 

(Let it be known that the Old Testament is true.)

“I need you to help me draft a bill for it,” Sera requests.

Adam does not grin, not when long ago he would have.

Three days later, a motion would be put forward on the floor of the Council, one penned by Adam Kadmon, to address the threat of Archfiends after it had been found that Hell cannot be trusted to keep its subjects under proper rule.

All in the Council wear their battle robes. It sets the mood immediately.

Metatron is not here.

The motion passes unanimously.

(This is the only Council session in immortal memory that will not be transcribed, lost to the sands of time, Councils being voted in and out, and the Oaths of Silence that weigh heavily upon the angels of this session.)

When Sera and Adam see Helel next, her heart has calmed to a degree.

Helel – no, Lucifer, that’s the name he has chosen – is a broken thing, worn down by time and bitterness and despair, as if he isn’t really an immortal being of light (Morning Star, Bearer of Venus, Shining Light of Creativity) but an old man despite his youthful appearance and rosy cheeks. Most in Heaven haven’t really changed – that’s their nature, as static, timeless creatures who have been created perfect – but Lucifer has grown old. His eyes of rose red are so old.

(When has the youngest of them become so old? It’s been Sera’s job to take care of the Seraphim since she had been created, and here is the proof she has failed.)

Lucifer had not ruled properly since the establishment of the Rings. He had ruled over the Hellborn but left the Sinners alone. That is the only reason why Sera had not smote him. A fool he may have been, but he is still her family. 

Despite everything he has done, he is still her family.

Adam looks at the Morningstar with nothing but contempt. 

(Here lies the reason why Eden is gone. Here lies the reason why Chaos has been sown. Here lies the reason why his wife is gone.

Here lies the reason why.)

They lay down the rules. The core of it is non-negotiable: Lucifer is to constrain the Sinners to a single Ring, to allow for the annual extermination of the Sinner population. They will concede on there being no purposeful hellborn killing, but there is a reason why they ask him to keep Sinners to the upper most level for hell.

And he accepts, begrudgingly that is, but still.

The next year, Adam – along with others – comes down, wearing a mask of gold and black and teeth.

And the streets are drowned in red.

She teaches Adam how to create angels out of the firmament of heaven, out of the Empyrean. 

Adam’s creations are utilitarian, lacking any of the beauty or other-worldliness or holy light angels of Sera’s creation – let alone the Archangels’ or God’s – have. They are warriors, they are killers, but they are human most of all, shaped by Adam’s humanity and bloodlust and imperfections. They are shaped like humans, built like humans, think like humans, for even with the golden ichor in their veins they are not made of starfire. 

They are beautiful in their humanity – not quite Nephilim, too human to be the angels they know, but something far more divine than Nephilim, with purpose.

Adam models them after his dearest companion and Houri, Lute, Sera knows. The ashen and black skin, the silver hair, the patterns in the feathers of their wings. 

Every one of the angels that Adam creates and Names is unique and brilliant. Not all stay among the Exorcists, but most do, it is their purpose after all.

Sera leaves him to it, to creation. And perhaps the closest experience Adam has gotten to Eden since he left the Garden.

And there was Christ.

(God broke off a piece of Himself and gave his one and only son to the world, holy divinity in the package of humanity.)

Not much needs to be said about that.

(A new era is forged.)

Sera will never admit this, but her existence can be separated into two: Before Her, and With Her.

Before Her – the War, the Age of the Archfiends, the Fall, Eden and Paradise, before and after Sera has blood on her hands.

With Her – it starts like this:

For the first time in centuries, Sera is called to the Office of the Archangels.

They smile softly at her, something so utterly joyful as they welcome her into this sacred place.

Father sits at the head of the table. 

He still looks as resplendent and magnificent as ever.

(Sera is a Seraph. She is the Governor of Heaven. She is divine and dreadfully made. And most of all, she does not resent her Father, nor her siblings, for that would be unbecoming and unjust of her.

She tells herself that, always. And it’s true.)

(Some truths are less true than others.)

Sera shields her face with her upper most set of wings. She has seen her Father’s face enough, and to do so more would be blasphemous.

Sera, my child, Bringer of Silence, her Father addresses her. Come closer.

She does, approaching her Father.  

Lower your wings, I wish for you to see me, Father beckons, and so she did.

Father’s eyes look kindly at her, and then look down.

There is a bundle of cloth in His arms.

Seraphiel, I would like you to meet Emily – the Joy Bringer, Father says, pushing the bundle into her arms. She is yours to care for as your younger sister, and I know she will be loved and cherished.

Emily, Emily Joybringer. Sera loves them already.

Emily is a creature of stardust and holy fire, but she is still oh so fragile in Sera’s eyes.

Her corporal form is insubstantial, a single movement able to shake her out of it. Her core and Grace like a growing fire, a star in a nursery. Emily – even with her singular year and infant form – is more powerful than all of the First Sphere combined, capable of decimating scores of buildings with a cry. 

But she is still clay that has only just been baked,  glass not yet reinforced, the fragile flesh of recently born children. In comparison to Sera’s eternity and wisdom and suffering, Emily is so young.

The goal of each and every parent is to make things easier for their child, to ensure that they do not suffer as they did.

Emily Joybringer – Sera hopes – will grow up in an era where her purpose is a nice perk but not critical, in an era where she will not have to witness the spilling of ichor nor the sorrow of heaven.

Sera hopes and dreams that it will be reality.

It crashes down with the child of the Morningstar.

The child has a dream, a foolish dream, but Sera can respect dreams born out of love and hope.

Emily hates, hates the Exterminations, hates her.

Dreams are dreams that should remain dreams.

Sera is the fool.

Adam is dead, Sera could feel the moment the First Ascended died, disconnecting from the Heavenly Host.

And in his place, another rises.

Seraphiel – a being of perfection and the unchanging, with a memory of eternity, of pain and loss – fears the next step.