Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The light was blinding, for it was not only the light of the numerous stars in the universe but also Heaven’s grace itself. Lucifer had quite forgotten how he used to bear it. It burned its path through everything its pearly light touched, the fumes of purification permeating the air. The smell of Divinity. Lucifer, a smile on his face, examined the crystal goblet in his hand. It caught the light and reflected it into a constellation of underwater diamonds.

The first time Chloe had arrived in Silver City, at Amenediel’s invitation, she had been struck mute by its sheer grandiosity. The refreshing gardens, the towering fountains, the bustling streets, resplendent with music and laughter. The grand halls, the imposing columns, the solemn libraries. Each old sight seemed refreshed to Lucifer as he looked at them through his beloved’s eyes. Even he had to admit that Silver City was, after all, paradise. How could he not, in the face of Chloe’s perfect awe? He had asked her, later on, in the ashy darkness of their home, lounging in bed, “What did you like the most?”. A nostalgic smile crept onto her face as she recalled the perfectly blue skies. It had reminded her of her childhood summers, chins sticky with spun sugar and faces baked warm in the bright sunlight. She had turned to him with a curious expression on her face, “But it does not smell like summer. Everything smells almost like…like a gas top”.

Thousands of years, and what a small detail to remember. Lucifer had been hopelessly charmed. His dearest queen, more radiant than the sun itself, had kept her roots firm in humanity and still remembers those little joys and quirks of human life. She was right in a way. That orange flame that catapulted humans into civilisation is as close to the lava flow of divine grace as it can get, honey-sweet and star-bright. It was, after all, not a coincidence that the oldest civilisations chose to burn their dead. It was not a coincidence that he burned before returning divine. It was not a coincidence that Heaven’s most dangerous weapon was the Flaming Sword. He remembered the feel of it in his hand. Lucifer and the blade were made for each other. That day in the Colloseum, under the noonday sun, the blade had zinged with unimaginable thrill when she had felt the touch of The Lightbringer. That spark had shot up his own spine as he swung her down, a butcher and an executioner, severing tendons and muscles. The luminous arc of the blade, burnt into his retinas, and the smell of clean flame and ozone was all he could smell for quite some time as he stood there, delivering his judgement against…..

Lucifer raised the glass to his lips. A fine, smooth vintage warmed his throat. Installing his own bar was one of Lucifer’s first demands when Amenediel had asked him to be The Judge. If he was going to be stuck warming a chair with his exquisite arse, playing will they won't they with souls, he was not going to do it sober—no way in…well…hell. Amenediel had looked at him with a fond smile and promptly ordered their little siblings/cronies to have a bar installed, a perfect replica of his collection in Lux. Of course, the bar was installed with angelic efficiency, and if some bottles went mysteriously missing in shipment, well, Lucifer could turn a blind eye. Not like him to be against some fun, no, sir. Amenediel knows they need it.

A lot had changed in his childhood home, Lucifer mused as he looked around from his vantage point on the balcony. The palace was as grand as ever, white and silver and surgical-tidy. The throne room was just as cavernous, and the balcony he occupied above the room, just as tall and imposing. But there was no mistaking the infant warmth that suffused the place now. Dad expected the place to be run like the military. He had ruled absolutely and parented with little mercy. The first monarch. The Patriarch to end all Patriarchs. Amenediel, however, was none of those things. He had a kind smile, a gentle touch, and a sympathetic ear to everyone. The compassionate leader. The Big Brother who is your shield. Lucifer’s favourite. Oh, what a long way they had travelled. The devil had become the Judge and Hell’s Therapist. The bully had become the God and All-father.

Things were changing rapidly in Silver City, yes. But the shadows ran deep, much too deep. It was, of course, not possible to expect things to be the same, not after what had transpired that fateful day, The Incident. Mi …he had left the place in utter shambles. [Well, not exactly. The place was as orderly as ever.] What he had done was much, much worse than any hell-loop in Lucifer’s opinion. He had turned their childhood home, where angels should have been singing and sparring, gossiping like little Regina Georges, into a regimental camp. There was no happiness when their Big Brother had returned, there was no relief that a messy succession had been resolved. Hell, there was not even grief over losing their parents. No. They had lined up like toy monkeys, keyed up by the master manipulator and sang their jingle on their knees.

“Praise be, Almighty Brother”

Lines, knees, vacant, thousand-yard stares. Their baby siblings, now soldiers. They used to drill like the city was at war. They stood as though awaiting punishment. They slept with their eyes open. They stared at Amenadiel with wariness, and at him with distrust. But some, oh those impudent brats, their anger and disgust a palpable forcefield. A silent accusation always at the tip of their tongue, a mulish belief still burned in their eyes. “It should have been him”.

Lucifer’s eyes burned red at the memory, the glass in his hand splintering into stalactites. They did not want him here, they did not want Amenadiel here. They would rather have him, that back-stabbing, lying excuse of an angel. They would rather live in fear of his wrath than accept the ones who loved them. Those utter imbeciles, they…they… Lucifer heaved a sigh. They… just wanted Dad back. They wanted Mom back. They wanted their endless piety and blind obedience to have meant something, anything. But there was no meaning, no answers, no absolutions, no pats on the back. Dad had left them all alone, and Mom had left without so much as a goodbye. They were gone. For better or worse, there was nothing to be had in yearning for parents who would not, could not, love them as they had craved. Now, their big brother had picked up the slack, and it was to him they all owed their loyalty.

Lucifer looked down at his ruined glass. The wine ran like honey, splattering the floor as the room still echoed with the shatter, a gunshot in the tranquil silence, staining the marble floor blood-red.

Lucifer sighed, such as waste. He turned away from the bright scenery of the Silver City stretched out like a carpet beneath him and walked into the Sky Room. The room was a cave of darkness amidst the unblinking lustre of the Silver City. Lucifer’s wall of liquor took up most of the far wall, its amber contents glinting in the dim light of the ceiling, studded with countless stars. Lucifer walked to the centre of the spacious room, gazing upwards. The ceiling was a bottomless depth of inky blacks and velvety blues, studded with diamond-stars. They winked and burned, their fires turning swatches of the dark into light. Lucifer smiled at them, eyes glittering with a bottomless emotion he had no name for. He had made them, teased gases into form like a sculptor, ignited their cores with passion and watched the first of his creations roar into life. He had arranged them into patterns of whimsy, watched the universe bend towards them, space-time warping into crests and waves. He had laughed in delight as the first clods of dust coagulated around his beings of light, had been shepherded and squeezed into unbreakable iron cores by an equally unbreakable angel.

Lucifer smiled wistfully. He tended to forget how chummy they were in those days. It seemed a lifetime ago. Those bright days. When Samael and Mi… he had ignited the universe at their Father’s orders, as two halves of the Demiurge. They had been so close, so inseparable, and Lucifer had felt he could conquer the world. When had things gone so wrong?

Lucifer walked over to his bar, lost in thought. He poured himself another glass and downed it in one go, its contents burning a path to his gut. The knots eased a little. It does not matter, he thought, setting his empty glass down on the countertop. Whatever was between them, he had strangled it to death. The only way now was forward. Samael and his twin were dead and gone. Now, Lucifer had a meeting to attend.

He spread his snowy wings and took off with a mighty flap. Flight in heaven was simply orgasmic. Smooth as butter owing to the almost absent air resistance, no clouds and no startled pigeons experiencing emotions their brains were not equipped to handle. That was one memorable day. Lucifer had merely wanted to enjoy the sunset and feel the gentle heat of the setting sun on his wings when he snapped them open on his balcony. What he hadn't noticed was a poor, tired pigeon lounging on the railings. He definitely did notice its squeal as it jumped out of the way, into the air, and as pigeons often do, forgot to fly. It did gather its wits and survive, and word must have gotten around. Lucifer could have sworn on Dad that for almost a month, he had become a tourist attraction for the pigeons of the city. He could almost guarantee that he could find one at any given time, sitting on his car, on his balcony, flying above his head, and generally not being as discreet as they thought they were being.

Chloe had laughed at him, utterly indifferent to his concerns about bird poop.

He reached the throne room in no time. The throne room was a cavernous affair, with ceilings that were so high that they disappeared into the mist. The centre of the room was occupied by a round table and a dozen plush chairs. His siblings, the eldest of Mom and Dad’s vast brood, occupied the chair, all dressed in their heavenly finest. The wall itself cast a pearly light on them, their robes and armour gleaming with a satin sheen and their myriad weapons, a vicious slash of light. The Elder Siblings and the Council of Archangels looked towards him as he snapped his wings closed, annoyed.

Well, not on time then. Lucifer plastered the most winsome smile he could muster and sauntered towards the round table. He took the time to take in all of their faces. Dour-looking faces, bored faces, wary faces and amused faces [well, face singular]. Ah, his lovely siblings, all work and no play.

“Hello, siblings! Quite the Camelot you guys have built here, eh?”

An aborted snort and then, silence.

There were days when Lucifer wanted to take his own sweet time plucking his siblings’ wings like so many poultry chickens. As they stared at him with varying degrees of annoyance and blank-faced stupidity, Lucifer himself, temptation-incarnate, was sorely tempted. But he could admit that this was not his best attempt. Thus, he chose to focus on the small victories. Lucifer zeroed in on the one brother with any sense of humour and plopped down next to him. Jophiel looked at Lucifer with a strange look in his eye, half surprised and half disbelieving.

“Come now, Joph, you know I am funny,” Lucifer said, unbuttoning his pristine coat, “Let’s get this party started, shall we?”.

Amenadiel rose from His chair, smiling to Himself and at them all. Dressed in jeans and His signature jumper, He was the very picture of warmth. He had chosen to sit with them at the table instead of looming over them. He discarded the throne [and that sturdy oaken chair beside it], effectively levelling the playfield. That was His first act as God. To open His arms wide and welcome all to his embrace. Lucifer sometimes wondered if this was the same angel feared far and wide as the Fist of God and the Giver of Celestial Spankings. The God in front of him was a far cry from the bully He had been. But the fundamental warmth of spirit that filled Amenediel's eyes could not be faked. Such goodness had to be from the soul.

“Welcome, brothers, it is good to see you, sisters,” Amenediel cast his gaze upon them all. “I hope all is well with you. Ariel? How are those little sylphs you found in the sapphire cloud? Did they survive the fortnight?”

Ariel jumped a foot into the air and looked at Amenediel’s concerned face. “Um…Ye…Yeah”, her voice fizzled out like flat soda. Lucifer had seen less surprise in a deer finding itself in the path of a barreling car. Dear Brother, this was painful to watch. He knew it would take some time for his siblings to get used to the regime change, but really? He was still their big brother, just… juiced up a little. Ok, a lot. But still, their very own brother.

“I am glad to hear it, sister. We all know how much the little beings in your care mean to you,” he looked at her with a kind smile, “ and I am always ready to be of help”. Ariel floundered, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. Before she could get a word out, Amenediel, with a last smile, turned his attention to the rest of them, “But now, we do need to discuss something important. So let’s get right into it”. He gestured to the angel sitting at his left, “Sara? You wanna brief us all?”

A tall angel, blonde hair cascading down her shoulders, stood up, brushing off the imaginary dust from her gown. Dear Saraqael, so extra. Sometimes Lucifer found it hard to reconcile his prim little sister with the fearsome warrior she was. There was a time the deadly silver of her sword was second only to Amenadiel, and Lucifer bit the inside of his cheek, well…him. To watch her fight was to watch a panther stalk. Lucifer would always be awestruck by the fluid grace with which she moved, half dancing, half flitting. There wasn't a single enemy that had managed to cross her line of protection. When going got tough, Silver City stood safe under her Shield. When things calmed, it thrived under her stewardship as she opened markets and organised festivities. She so loved colour and life.

Lucifer did not understand why she chose to back that Type A buzzkill of all angels. They were too different, too distant. But it did not matter, for she had gambled on him and lost. She had bent the knee to him. There was an exhaustion in her now. Ever since The Incident, beautiful Sara’s proud eyes had taken on a mistrustful wariness.

“Yes, Brother,” she bowed. She turned her attention to the rest of them and clasped her hands in front of her robes, sleeves catching on the pommel of her sword, “I will not waste your time, siblings. The recently stationed sentries report some minor disturbances along the Edge, and I elect that we send out a trusted patrol. See what is really going on”.

Ugh, boring.

The Edge was more dead than a nightclub at noon. Who even bothers about it anymore? Well, yes, there was a time they had all fought back against its creatures with everything they had. But those disgusting globs of Amenadiel-knows-what had been defeated for good.

And oh, what a glorious victory it had been. They had marched, fresh and hot-blooded, into the dark night at the very edge of all that existed with one goal and one goal only: to subdue The Dark. It was a hard battle. Lines and lines of their siblings had fallen against foes that sprang out of that hostile backyard of the universe, fearsome dragons, tentacled monsters, cloying fogs. It seemed like a lost cause for a terrifying moment. But provoked into brutal efficiency by a certain dark-winged angel, they had persisted. Rallying behind him, they had been strangely…fearless. In the end, they had marched back home, the thrill of violence singing in their blood, the Dark tamed. They had discovered newfound powers, feeling like the heirs of a whole new world, undefeated and unbroken. Injuries were reversed like they never existed under their Father’s touch, and victory had been theirs. …He made sure of it.

From then on, all they had seen and heard was radio silence. Sure, he had heard some minor stirrings all the while, the edge did share a border with hell after all, but that is all they were, minor stirrings. The morning wood of the greatest pile of nada in the cosmos.

Jophiel shifted forward, his surfer blue eyes almost translucent in the heavenly light, a stark contrast against his tan skin. His little brother was always a handsome one, Lucifer thought with a smidge of pride [huh, that was a surprise]. Jophiel was the Angel of Beauty for a reason. His hair shone a honey gold, lit from within, a pleasant contrast to his summery skin, always warm to the touch, like he had spent a day on the beach. Beings from all around the universe coveted him, hopelessly reminded of gentle comforts and sensual warmth. Jophiel indulged, but never stayed too long, too fickle. Beauty, after all, is permanent only in Paradise.

“Are you sure, sister? The edge has been dormant for centuries. The threat passed a long time ago.”

“The sentries have no reason to lie, Jophiel.”

“They might. You know who they belonged to.”

There he was again, like a diseased rat. Before Amenadiel rose to Godhood, when He still believed Lucifer would be God, He had stalked up to the Silver City in a blaze of righteous fury. The palaces had been routed, and the angels stood in front of the Fist of God and awaited their judgement. They were given the grace and mercy that Lucifer’s sibling-factions were never given. No hellfire, no imprisonment, no banishments. Amenediel still had some sense, though, along with all that mercy. There were consequences. It took some time, but most of his loyalists were singled out and put on one heavenly time-out: sit at the edge of all creation, stare at the nothingness and think about what they had done. The others, the most dangerous of them all, were cleverly split up. One half patrolled the edge, and the other squatted at the city gates right under Amenediel’s nose. No messages or communication between them. It was a wise choice, but Lucifer guessed that thinking gets boring after a hundred years. He does not blame them for trying to stir things up. Hell, he would do the same.

“Jophiel, brother dear,” a curly head speaks, a carefully blank smile on her face, “now what purpose would that serve?”

Gabriel.

She had been a pain to track down. That little shit had disappeared soon after The Incident. Perhaps she thought she would be punished as he had been. At the first meeting He had held as God, He asked them all to call back Gabriel. They had all missed her, in a way. Her endless chatter, while inane, was certainly entertaining and oddly endearing. The gossip had been a soothing white noise. In her absence, Gabriel had left behind a ringing silence. Eyes brimming with tears, Amenediel had begged to find the only one who could fill it. They needed her pleasant distractions in the early days after The Incident. Azrael, who travelled to all corners of creation to collect deceased souls, had been deputised for the job as the best-suited. She had searched far and wide with no luck. Surprisingly, it was Zadkiel who found Gabriel with nothing but a simple prayer. No one knew how he convinced her to return as their Hornblower, but she did, even if it seemed she had left half her soul behind. The void left behind in her had been filled with a quiet, seething rage.

Jophiel turned towards her, “I do not know Gaby. But their loyalties were elsewhere. Are elsewhere. I am merely pointing that out”.

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed for just a second before the mask slid back on, “That may be so, I agree. But to doubt the integrity of the most capable of angels, I just do not think that is wise. You know they are trained better than that”.

“This is not about capabilities, Gabriel. It is just about perception and…”

“Forgive me, brother, but they would never let personal feelings get in the way of duty. To think that you would even suspect,” her voice slithered over them, smooth as silk.

Jophiel’s voice, coloured with disdain, “Your faith is really cute Sis but I think we all have a damn good reason to not trust a word that comes out of…”

“Brother,” Gabriel’s voice took on the sharp edge of warning.

“Enough,” Amenediel’s voice rang out, clear as a bell. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Jophiel’s retort died on his tongue, and Gabriel looked downright mutinous. But she held on to silence. Only that seemed to be her shield these days. Silence and a near suicidal anger.

Amenediel sighed and leaned forward, “Guys, come on. We don’t have to fight. Let us think about this logically, all right? We are all experienced warriors here. We are all good managers, too. I am sure that between us, we can come up with a proper course of action. See, what I think is….”

The conversations continued. Every angel had an opinion to give: to trust or not to trust? Does it matter? Sending out a patrol won’t be too hard, right? Why do we need to keep them all here? So on and so forth, the sun is hot, and mint ice cream is toothpaste. Lucifer was bored out of his mind. He already had a kingdom to run. It was unfair that he was being roped into running another. The detective would be all alone down there now, spending her time with Rory, getting decimated at Monopoly, and here he is listening to ... ah! Zadkiel kissing ass and volunteering his faction. Dull. Drivel.

A loud bang stunned the council into utter silence.

Luniel clutched the frames of the door, wheezing like she had flown light years, her strikingly green wings raised in full display. Lucifer didn't know the angel, she was but a little fledgling during the Rebellion, her wings still full of down. Then he fell and lost any opportunity to bond with the younger of his siblings. But from what he had observed of Luniel, she was a pillar of strength. One of the few that had chosen to back Lucifer’s claim, Luniel had stood firmly by Amendiel’s side during the tumultuous regime change. She had worked tirelessly to fulfil his commands, even when Lucifer could see her heart cracking in her soulful eyes at the mere thought of delivering her siblings to punishment. But she had done what needed to be done, and she had done so with an able hand, gentle yet not permissive, firm yet not harsh. Lucifer admired her tenacity. Lucifer respected her. And Luniel looked terrified.

“Brother,” she gasped out, “come at once”.

She did not wait to see if they followed her before taking off. The throne room was filled with the snap-whoosh of wings as they tore after her. She led them past the lush gardens, the training grounds, now sitting abandoned, to the city square with its fountain of starlight. As they landed on the cobblestones with a thud, Lucifer remembered having been forced to his knees right here many aeons ago. That day was hazy at best, but he could never forget the burn of his wounds and the distinct wellspring of coolness at his back, a sharp contrast to the pain. That beloved fountain of his had been his only solace in all that horror, as if the stars themselves yearned to comfort their creator.

Lucifer looked around at the sentries, standing with their backs towards the fountain, evenly spaced like the numbers on a clock. He could not see their faces, just the back of the gleaming celestial steel. So he looked at their palms instead, clutching their weapons, white-knuckled. Their wings stretched out and pinions sharpened at some unseen threat, trembling like newborn foals.

Fear. he did not have to be…him to taste its sour rot in the air. He turned towards the fountain and saw his siblings peeking inside. Saraqael had covered her mouth, a scream trapped behind her fingers. Zadkiel stared at the pool of starlight, face frozen in abject horror. Jophiel’s face was twisted into something ugly.

Something was deeply wrong.

Lucifer shouldered past them and looked inside, and what he saw froze his blood in his veins.

The pool of starlight cast no glow on their faces, its light leeched off like ink swirling down a drain. As it streaked away into nothingness, in its midst lay an angel. What was once a cherubic face adorned by beautiful almond eyes was staring at Amenadiel blankly, a mask of hardened wax. Noel, Lucifer recognised the angel; he was the one who loved to paint. Tears had carved an acid track down his lovely face, drying into sticky smudges. His spine rocked with tremors, but his rigid limbs did not give a quarter, frozen solid. But that was not the terrifying part.

Noel’s chest, once planes of hard-earned divine muscle, was now a sunken crater, sternum cracked like a quail’s egg. Jagged lines of gold littered the pristine skin, and a black rot spidered from the epicentre. His mind was filled with cotton wool, thoughts moving like molasses. The lines made sense, Lucifer realised after an agonising minute. The gouges formed letters in Elohim, his long forgotten mother tongue.

“The End is coming for you”

A scream ripped the air into shreds.

Chapter Text

The Halls of Healing were a tranquil place, a deliberate design from God so that his ailing children may rest and recover in peace. Perhaps, it was a testament to Father’s genius that the halls still maintained their serenity despite the bustle of the various healers under Raphael’s wing as they used to go about their days. In the dim, golden light of the ceiling, Raphael sat on a simple, wooden chair and held Noel’s hand. The angel lay in the plush bed, unmoving except for the occasional tremors that wracked through his frame, fingers convulsing involuntarily.

Raphael winced at his brother’s iron grip. He leaned over to push his ringlets out of his face. His skin was a silvery once, almost like moonlight. ‘My little moonbeam,’ Mother used to call him when she was especially impressed by something he did. Raphael smiled gently at the memory as he caressed Noel’s ashen cheek. That smooth skin had lost its lustre now. The ringlets stuck to his temples, like moss on damp concrete.

The last few weeks had been trying for Raphael, as a healer, as a brother and as an Angel of the Lord. After Noel had turned up in the City Square, all kinds of broken, the Family had erupted into chaos. They had scrambled to get Noel to the Healing Halls, and they had tried everything to revive him, to coax even a squeak out of him. But to no avail.

Raphael examined his arms. Angry, red blisters had bloomed alongside old scars that had gone silver with age. Healing was an ironically violent business. Raphael had tried every little trick known to him to channel his immense grace into Noel and make him better. Noel had just lain still, a smudge of darkness under a blinding blanket of light. He had tried potions and spells long forgotten, whose usage was frowned upon in the sacred halls Dad had entrusted to him. He did it for his baby brother. But Noel did not move, no matter how much the arcane magic rubbed Raphael’s skin raw, no matter how many grief-stricken tears Raphael had shed. He remained frozen in abject terror.

Amenediel had called an emergency meeting, this time not only the Elder Siblings, but all of them. Their entire family, sentries, patrols, cherubs, everyone filed into the great Hall, murmuring amongst themselves and throwing about darting glances. Under no circumstances had a meeting like this ever been called. Even while the great battle against the Dark raged on, only the Archangels met, and they only ever met with the General.

When Amendedial had explained what had happened, the hall had collapsed into horrified silence. Lucifer spoke, for the first time since letting loose that terrible scream, to ask his younger siblings for any clue: where exactly Noel had been. Had they noticed anything off, anything out of the ordinary, anything at all? All Lucifer had got in return was silence. Raphael could not blame them. His little siblings were not used to being asked, just told. They were told what to do and they did it, no doubts, no hesitation. And they did it with the intensity of hounds on a scent. Lucifer had stared them down, ire rising at their stunned silence, until an angel, armoured in plates of dark steel, broke. Then another, and another.

Noel had gone with the exiles to the Edge to serve out his sentence [they were not supposed to call it that]. The Archangels had exchanged uneasy looks. Noel was one of Michael’s supporters, dragged to the square to receive his punishment. Raphael distinctly remembered that he had not seemed upset at all. As they stood in the square, staring up at Amenediel as he delivered his sentence, Noel had a bitter smirk on his face. It had morphed into silent anger as Noel had left with his comrades, armour dull. His trusty bow, that mahogany beast, was noticeably absent. In a matter of hours, the Silver City was ringing with the echoes of flapping wings and clanging armour as their siblings, Heaven’s most well-trained warriors, had disappeared into the horizon. But Raphael had had no time to be sad about it, not when the ticking time bomb had been placed right under their noses. He could see the logic in the decision, of course, but it did not make it any less discomfitting. The most dangerous of the angels, ‘butchers’ forever loyal to Michael, capable of igniting a second rebellion the likes of which would tear apart their fragile peace, were kept under Amenediel’s ever-watchful eye.

Raphael sighed, dislodging the lump stuck in his throat. The General had trained every one of their little siblings to be perfect little soldiers. Raphael was sometimes in awe of them. They moved like shadows of each other. When they executed their manoeuvres or played their war games, they looked like a well-oiled machine, each limb moving with a single brain connected to the mastermind behind it all: Michael. Silver City’s defences stood like a fortress thanks to him. Even after his injuries, Michael’s mind had not dulled one bit. He was their master strategist, always vigilant, drilling for a threat that never came. He had grown less regimental as the days passed, more relaxed. It took its toll on them all. When order broke down that day, not a single angel there knew what to do. They just stood there fumbling, aeons of training forgotten.

It might have been pandemonium if not for the ‘Butchers’. It was these angels, their baby siblings, that had stepped up. They knew exactly what to do. They moved with the surety of years of practice, shepherded the growing crowds away before they could catch even the tiniest glimpse of what had happened and enacted protocols that Raphael did not even know existed. When all was said and done, they had lined up dutifully in the Great Hall, an artery of silence in a mire of anxiety. Zadkiel had stepped up. With a nod from Amenediel, he had assured that they would get to the bottom of this, and until then, Silver City would go on lockdown. No angel would leave the gates, and the ones outside of city bounds would be immediately summoned back to the safety of home. The city would be guarded day and night, its most vulnerable denizens under strict watch. No one, he had assured, would be put in harm’s way until the Council got to the bottom of this.

The artery had pulsed, stillness broken for a second as armour clanged delicately.

The orders had been obeyed, of course. Defences had been tightened. The angels stationed at various outposts throughout the universe streamed back in a steady file, and the gates were temporarily sealed to all except the heaven-bound souls of the freshly deceased. [That was a difficult decision, deliberated upon for hours. But in the end, Lucifer, in his capacity as the new Judge, declared living souls to be no threat. They were but wisps of consciousness, too effervescent to be under any influence and too unburdened to be corrupted. Yes, knowing nothing at all made everything a risk. But the souls had nowhere else to go].

A sniffle drew Raphael’s attention outward. An angel, with skin as dark as soil and hair golden enough to rival the sun, tied in an intricate braid. Jibiel stood at the edge of the bed, her delicate hands wrapped around Noel’s ankle. Her fingers stroked back and forth in a comforting gesture. Raphael appreciated it, for he knew the bone-crushing strength those deceptively willowy fingers held.

“All will be well, Jibiel. Have faith,” said Raphael, rising from his perch beside Noel on shaky knees. He walked over to Jibiel and placed a comforting hand on her armoured shoulder. The plates were almost hot beneath his fingers, baked from the harsh starlight and the heat of a living, celestial body. Jibiel did not answer. She kept her eyes trained on Noel’s face, still ashy with fear. A fresh tear tracked its way down her rosy cheeks. They were inseparable, Raphael remembered. Made right after the other, Noel and Jibiel had been partners in joy and sorrow, each other’s rock. But the Incident had driven a wedge between them. Jibiel had chosen to back Lucifer at the last minute, and Noel had deigned to stay loyal to Michael.

The fallout had been…well, bad. Noel had accused Jibiel of being disloyal to Heaven, that it was disgraceful for an angel to support the Devil instead of the true power behind the throne. Noel had screamed in desperation, begging Jibiel to see that Michael was more suited to rule, had done so all this while. Jibiel had spat at that, calling Michael a scheming snake and a tyrant, more fit to be the devil than Lucifer, whom she considered the better choice. Names were called, accusations were hurled, and in the end, the two had turned their back on each other. Not a word between them, even during Amenediel’s almost-inquisition. Now Noel was…Raphael did not even know what to call this state. And Jibiel, she was beside herself with regret.

Raphael sighed and looked away. Is there anything in the universe more complicated than siblings? Worlds were easier to make and break. When they were with you, you could not wait to be rid of them. Getting rid of them was like shredding your soul, and once they were gone? Who were you anyway? Were you still a sister when your other half was no more?

A weight settled on Raphael’s shoulder, and a smear of dampness grew. Raphael’s breath left him in a rush as he wound his pale arm and peacock-green wing around a silently weeping Jibiel. They stood like that for an indefinite amount of time. The only sounds interrupting their quiet vigil were Jibiel’s quiet sobs and Raphael’s soothing hums.

As Jibiel shook apart in his arms, he trembled with her. This was all he could offer these days. A shoulder to cry on, a few words of comfort and a hug. He was a healer, a renowned, talented healer. Angels, celestials and deities all over the universe had been in his care and had left rejuvenated and revitalised. No malady was above him, no cure out of his reach. He had healed thousands. But what was the point when his own brother lay there in front of him, insensate and tortured? In the face of his unseeing brother, he shed a lone tear and hoped the younger one would not notice his moment of weakness.

Jibiel lifted her flushed face from where she had hidden it in his neck. “Raphael, brother,” she said, her voice wound tight, “tell me the truth, what is happening?”. She stepped back and turned to face Raphael, her face blotchy and lips trembling. When she spoke again, her voice shook like a newborn foal.

“Something is not right here, brother, and I do not say this because my brother and best friend lies in a state of perpetual nightmare. We are angels, and we have been injured. We have seen battles, we know what it can do to us, our bodies, our spirits. But this,” Jibiel drew a shaky breath, “This is something none of us has ever seen before.” Jibiel ran a shaky hand over her face, “We talk amongst ourselves and try to remember, you know? What could do this?”

She looked towards Raphael, a wild hope in her eyes, waiting for her calm big brother to give her answers. Answers that Raphael did not have. “I don't know, sweet thing,” Raphael said, his face a mask of sorrow, “I am trying everything I know, but Noel won’t wake, he will not even respond to Divine Command”. His body had been exhausted from the constant channelling of healing grace. Raphael remembered the dread crawl of misery in his heart when method after method failed to rouse his brother, how desperately it had clawed at the top of his mouth when even Amenediel’s gentle coaxing fell on deaf ears. He had thought he would die from the sorrow. He had wanted to curl up and weep, beg for forgiveness. Forgiveness for failing Noel, for being useless in the face of his pain, for failing to see the cracks in their family, for letting it widen, for letting things spiral so out of control. But in the end, he had tamped it down. He had to stay strong for his brothers and sisters. Even if the empty Healing Halls and their sole occupant made it hard to stick to his resolution, he had to; he had no other choice.

Jibiel’s eyes widened as her wild-deer gaze darted to Noel. When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. “News reaches us sentries, from the deceased souls. They tell us…” She swallowed, throat clicking, “The horrors, brother, are not something they have understood yet. They think it's just another disaster, another reaction of a failing planet. But we know, we know…” A wild, desperate chuckle burst forth from her lips. “Millennia-old biomes are failing overnight. Stars with centuries ahead of them have collapsed into voids for no reason. Plagues strike down gentle creatures and wipe them out in seconds. It is just death and destruction everywhere. Even Hell grows more hostile, if that is even possible”.

Jibiel looked Raphael in the eye, “Brother, what if it is…”

The doors of the Healing Halls opened with a loud bang. Jibiel winced. Raphael startled at the sound and turned to look. An angel stood at the door in full battle armour. As he stalked towards both of them, the boom of his steps echoed throughout the hall like a war drum. His boots, the soles made of celestial metal, thudded on the marbled floors as he marched up to them as if on a death march. The angel stopped at the head of Noel’s bed and stared down with his electric blue eyes, his spine ramrod straight, even under the weight of his dark armour and midnight wings.

Castiel

“Cas!” Raphael exclaimed, “Where have you been?”

Castiel glanced up with his face of stone for a mere second before looking down again. Castiel had been a scarce figure in the Silver City after the Incident. He had been a recluse in the best of his days, preferring to keep his own company, lost in his own thoughts. It was more so after his brush with humanity, after which melancholy seemed to have suffused his spirit. Michael had sent him down to earth to investigate an apocalypse scare. What was supposed to be a routine mission had spiralled out of control, two headstrong humans nearly bringing the downfall of Angelkind itself. The Old Ones had to intervene, and Micahel was not happy. Castiel had returned brokenhearted. There was a sadness so deep in his eyes that even Michael, the sternest of them all, could not find it in him to reprimand the young angel, who spent his days drowning in sorrow. But now, Castiel’s fury hung around him like a dark cloud, threatening to strike anyone who drew too close. He eyed his family like a man wronged, seething and boiling. For Castiel had not only seen his General defeated but his big brother, the angel who raised him, cast down and humiliated.

“You know, just about,” Castiel answered with a voice like scraped gravel, carefully devoid of any emotion. He leaned forward as if to take a closer look, tilting his head downwards until his black fringe fell like a curtain, obscuring his face.

Jibiel’s face twisted in scorn. “Not good enough, buddy,” she said, her voice dripping with irritation, “you were missing from your post and I need a proper explanation”.

“None of your business, Jib.”

“Oh, it really is. Especially when sentries under my command think they can just take off when they wish without permission.”

Castiel reared back like a serpent ready to strike, and his midnight-blue wings snapped upright. A shadow of anger clouded his handsome face, and when he spoke, his voice was dripping with venom. “You forget who I am, Jibiel. Do not, under any circumstances, think yourself capable of ordering me about. I am and will always be Captain of The Wrath, regardless of what the new God says. You do not command me.”

Raphael sucked in a sharp breath as he moved to stand between Castiel and Jibiel, who was now glaring daggers at the dark-haired angel. “Brother, sister, please,” Raphael said, hands raised placatingly, “we must not fight at a time like this”. He could hear Jibiel’s disbelieving scoff from behind him as she tucked away her sandy wings.

Castiel deflated at once. “You are right,” he said and turned back towards Noel.

Raphael should have anticipated this the minute the raven-haired angel walked in. Castiel was one of Silver City’s finest warriors, their best soldiers and most accomplished fighters. A deceptively small band of highly capable angels that answered directly to the General, they had been a force of destruction so intense and so feared that they had been dubbed the Wrath of Heaven. And Castiel? He was the best of them all. He was handpicked and trained by Michael himself to be a part of the elite force. For aeons, he had enjoyed a position of respect and power, trained himself and his fellow soldiers relentlessly. His reputation was hard-earned and well-deserved.

But the respect and titles meant nothing to little Castiel, who yearned for one thing and one thing only: Michael’s approval. After the rebellion, when Dad withdrew into his creations and grew even more unreachable, Michael had stood as a placeholder for a father who had dealt them a killing blow and disappeared from their lives. Amenediel, the eldest, was too…well, elder, too awe-inspiring. Michael was a much more convenient target for all the hurt and anger. Some, like Gabriel and Castiel, even looked to him for comfort. The dark-winged angel trailed around his chosen big brother like a lost puppy, much to Michael’s constant bemusement and annoyance. A look in his direction would make the little angel’s entire day.

It was no surprise, of course, when Castiel had leapt at the opportunity to be one of Michael’s select few. What was surprising was Castiel’s talent. Castiel was a whimsical soul, content with gazing at the stars and nebulae as they took new shapes and cheering new creatures on as they took their first steps on dry land. No one had imagined the sweet boy to have it in him to do what Michael expected, what Michael himself had done on many occasions. Well, no one except Michael himself. Raphael always wondered what exactly Michael had seen in little Castiel that had escaped all their eyes? Whatever it was, Michael had been right in judging Castiel, recognising a fearsome warrior in him. He was The Judge after all. He was rarely ever wrong in such matters.

The Wrath had been Michael’s pet project. A force to replace what his lance had accomplished before, what he could not anymore with a broken wing and a busted shoulder. He trained them obsessively, he drilled them like he anticipated war to break out the very next second. He taught them everything his brilliant mind could concoct about strategy. He personally crafted for them brilliant weapons from rare metals and armour that suited their unique needs. He toiled with them under the unforgiving starlight. He bandaged their wounds after spars. He groomed their wings after flights. He graced them with his rare, proud smiles instead of that sleazy smirk that everyone hated so much. He pinched their cheeks. He stroked their hair.

He cared for them. He expected nothing but the best from them.

Michael could inspire great loyalty when needed, a necessary skill as the General of Silver City’s vast forces. Normally, michael would issue orders in full armour, painting an image of the feared Sword of Heaven. He was a surprisingly good orator, capable of motivating troops to great lengths, his clever words weaving stories where they were the heroes, destined to vanquish monsters. But the devotion he had cultivated in his deadly band of warriors ran deeper than the bowels of hell, beyond simple manipulation. Amenediel had feared their reaction the most when Michael had been banished. The Wrath could have caused significant damage to avenge Michael and Amenediel could not have stopped them, not alone. In the end, he had publicly stripped them of their ranks and ordered them to act as guards and sentries. Temporary measures, he assured them, just until the pain of loss dulls and their anger cools down. It had been like sending a bunch of unruly toddlers to the corner.

The humiliation had been intense.

For a second, it looked like things would go south very fast, but in the end, Michael’s angels had proven to be too well-trained to question direct orders from an Elder Sibling. They swallowed their shame and obeyed their Elder Sibling. But it was still there, simmering beneath the surface. It did not stop them from following their orders, though. It did not stop them from being the best. The Wrath had stood guard around the fountain, shielding Noel. They had been the ones to bring the chaos under control under Castiel’s leadership.

The angel was now peering down at Noel, a hand on his cheek. Raphael was mildly surprised. Castiel and Noel famously never got along. Noel found Castiel to be too reticent, and Castiel found Noel’s innocence to be plain naivete. They were always at each other’s throats, and now Castiel was here, stroking his brother’s cheek.

“Now this is a surprise,” Raphael said, a small, sad smile on his lips. Why could they not do this when Noel was alright? “Did you two become friends when I was not looking?”

Castiel smiled his gummy grin [what a rare sight that had become], his eyes crinkling. “Nope. he was as annoying as ever”. The smile disappeared from his face as his eyes got a faraway look. “But Noel fought by my side. He was one of the few here who knew loyalty.” his eyes slid to Jibiel. “I can appreciate that”.

Jibiel bristled. She opened her mouth to say something when she glanced down at Castiel’s hand and stopped. Raphael followed her gaze and was met with a grisly sight. Castiel’s knuckles were a mess of blood. A vicious gash cut its way across them like a lightning strike, caked with congealed blood and dirt. Castiel followed their gaze to his hand.

He snatched it back as if burned.

Raphael rushed towards Castiel and cradled his hand in his own. A simple gash could be debilitating when inflicted upon joints and tendons. It restricts movement. It leaves you vulnerable. It hurts. Raphael’s blisters stung in sympathy.

“Oh, sweet brother! How did this happen?” Raphael asked, concern colouring his voice.

“I, um, I fell,” Castiel replied. His eyes were on his boots.

Once Castiel managed to step on a fish. It would not have been a problem except that it had been the first fish to ever set foot [or fin] on land before Castiel stomped it to a pulp. Evolution had been set back a couple of hundred years, much to Father’s frustration. When questioned, he had blamed it on Gabriel, who had been light years away, all the while kicking pebbles. Castiel had never been a good liar as a child. That hadn't changed one bit.

Raphael’s heart hammered in his ears, a wild thumping as a sense of unease pooled in his belly, dripping like tar. “What have you done, Castiel?”

No answer.

Raphael cupped his little brother’s cheek. Stomach swooping to the ground, he begged, “Brother, please. Tell me. What has happened? I will not be angry, I swear it on Mother.”

Castiel could also never refuse his elder siblings.

“I snuck out of the city.”

A beat of silence. Then Jibiel exploded, “What?!” her face now a deadly mask as her voice boomed like a canyon. Castiel winced.

Raphael was a calm angel. He had to be in his line of work. But there were times when his siblings’ stupidity astounded him to the point of frustrated rage. But he had promised. So he drew a deep breath, with monumental effort.

“Castiel,” Raphael said, his voice a knife’s edge, fingers tightening around Castiel’s jaw, “have you lost your mind?”

“Brother, please,” Castiel said, wrenching his face away from Raphael’s clawing fingers, “I am not stupid. We take plenty of precautions. We know what to do. We trained for this, remember?”

“We?!”

Castiel sighed and plopped down on the bed next to Noel. The lie was caught. He said, “We have been investigating. The Edge grows restless.” Castiel paused before continuing. “Restless is not the right word. Hostile.” He cradled his injured hand to his chest. “The darkness attacks us. It…takes root. If we let it, that is. Something powerful is making its presence known”. He rested his hand on Noel’s forehead as he spoke in an anxious whisper, “Something sinister. Something that can corrupt a being of light.” A thumb stroked back and forth, “I was lucky”.

Jibiel, who had been silent until then, stumbled back. “You would dare ignore God’s orders?” she whispered, her voice furious.

Castiel looked at her, fire in his eyes. “Oh, now you care about following orders, huh?”

“I did what I thought was best”

“What is best right now is we find out what is causing this, this malady, before we all end up like Noel”.

Jibiel’s fury leaves her all at once. “Amenediel said we are safe,” her shoulders sagged as she whispered, “we have to trust him”. Desperation coloured her voice, almost like she was trying to convince herself. Castiel snarled, knuckles growing white as he clenched them into an unforgiving fist. Blood oozed from his cut, dripping on the stark white floor, as he turned fully towards Jibiel, fast as a whip

“What has he done to earn it?”

Deathly silence.

No one had ever questioned God, not in the Silver City. Not angels.

Castiel straightened to his full height and looked at them both, his chin jutted out. “I have told you what I know,” he turned to Raphael. “Brother, please do me this favour. Bring this up whenever God Almighty decides to call a meeting. Your brothers and sisters need to know. We need to do something.”

He smoothed his hands down Castiel’s armoured shoulders and said kindly, “Why don’t you do so yourself, little one? Our Brother will surely listen” Castiel shook his head vehemently. “It is not my place, brother. Only the Elder Siblings speak in the council”. Castiel got up and stared down at Raphael. “Besides, I told you,” a feeble smile flickered on his face, “that counts, right? ” The hope in his voice tapered down into something fragile.

Such a lack of faith, it hurt Raphael. God’s only siblings must not fear Him this way.

“Oh my love,” Raphael sighed, “you need not fear so. This is a new Godhood.”

Castiel barked out a mirthless laugh. “Oh, don't we know that?”.

With a last look at Noel and a withering glare at Jibiel, Castiel stalked towards the door. Raphael watched him leave, his heart a heavy weight in his ribs. Jibiel followed his departure with her eyes, her golden face a splotchy red twisted into something ugly. “Infidel,” she spat out just as Castiel kept one foot out of the door.

Castiel stopped, dead in his tracks. As he turned around, the light from the outside cast him into a silhouette.

“Michael would never be sitting duck like this.”

He stepped out, and the door closed with a bang.