Chapter Text
The Heart of the Universe, just after the First War
The rebel stood at the edge of nothingness and stared into the abyss, doing his best not to put too much weight on his injured leg. The bandage had done its part to stop the bleeding, but what occupied his thoughts more thoroughly was the kindness of being offered any kind of help in the first place.
He couldn’t quite understand it.
Heaven had been, in the beginning, the only thing to exist, so it had incorporated every part of existence. They had then created the universe, a new thing, full of material objects, with mass, and gravity, and physics.
When the rebels rose, led by the Morningstar, Heaven’s definition fractured. There wasn’t one whole thing now, but halves. Each side had taken their share of existence: Heaven claimed kindness, love, beauty. The Morningstar chose pride, wrath, and destruction. And yet, in the war, Heaven had fought just as viciously. When they hacked a rebel’s wings off, they weren’t kind. When they threw a rebel down into the new domain, this… Hell, they didn’t love. When they raised bloody weapons and claimed victory, there wasn’t any beauty.
So the rebel didn’t understand why this angel had helped him. He remembered meeting the general before, right at the beginning, when he had still been building stars and there was no need for generals, or armies. But surely one meeting couldn’t be reason enough not to kill him on sight? And especially after the rebel’s attempt to threaten him?
There were so many questions crowding in on his mind. They were trying to drive him mad, and yet they were the only thing to keep the pain at bay.
“You should be more careful, rebel,” a measured voice said from behind.
The rebel turned slowly, finding himself opposite Heaven’s commander, known only as the Metatron. The Eternal Flame flickered between them, so bright it almost made their surroundings look entirely black and white.
“We already lost. Nothing to be afraid of now,” the rebel returned.
“Then what are you waiting for? Jump. This place is not for your kind anymore.”
“And what is ‘my kind’, exactly? Aren’t we still angels?”
The Metatron laughed. It sounded almost friendly. “How could you be, wicked things that you are?”
“Who decided we’re the wicked ones?” the rebel asked. This question had been burning in his mind for far too long. “Did God actually say so? Did She cast us down Herself?”
“I am the Voice of God. What I say is what She means.”
“But how do you know?” the rebel demanded. “How does anyone ever know what She wants, if She will not bloody talk to us?”
“That is not for you to know, wicked one,” the Metatron replied evenly.
The rebel growled in frustration. “Then tell me, if you’re so close to Her: Does She actually want to destroy all of this,” he waved one hand at the innumerable stars, and nebulae, and planets all around them, “in just six thousand years? Did She say so?”
“It is the Great Plan.”
“And who’s writing that? Did the Almighty pick up a pen and write you a checklist?” the rebel asked, anger rising in his voice. He had been angry for so long. Lucifer had seen it. It was the whole reason he was standing here now. He just wanted some bloody answers, but all he ever got were empty words.
The Metatron laughed. “The Great Plan is Her plan, sure enough. And with this book, I will be able to assure its execution.” He pulled a thin book from his robes, bound in dark leather and with golden letters printed on its front: The Book of Life.
“What is that?” the rebel asked. He would have almost taken a step back, and remembered just in time that he was standing right at the edge.
The Metatron smiled.
The rebel, mustering what strength he had left, stepped towards him. “Why are you so sure? How could you possibly know Her will? Why do you want all of this beauty destroyed so soon? Why?”
“Enough of these damn fool questions,” the Metatron said coldly. “I think it is time that you go where you belong now, wicked one.”
An impossible wind picked up. The rebel was forced to adjust his stance, but his injured leg gave out. Maybe he could have caught himself, if one of his wings hadn’t been broken. Maybe.
It didn’t matter. He doubted anything could have saved him from the Fall.
He tipped over the edge of the Heart of the Universe in silence, and the last thing he saw was the Metatron’s smile. The last thought on his mind was a question: How could that be Heaven, but also the angel with the kind eyes and gentle fingers?
The Fall seemed to last an eternity. At first, it was his wings that burned. The dirty white feathers smoked and turned coal black. Soon after, pain enveloped him, attempting to burn away everything that now belonged to Heaven. The rebel closed his eyes and clutched his chest, trying to remember. Trying to keep what was left of his heart and thinking only of a dirty bandage.
*
Eventually, there was an end. Earth beneath him. The rebel opened his eyes to dim, dreary light. Everything he had worn had taken on a burnt colour. The bandage looked close to ripping, so the rebel tore it off. With how much pain he felt everywhere, his leg didn’t even seem too injured.
But he didn’t throw the blackened strip of cloth away. He let one finger run over its rough surface, then closed his eyes. When he opened them, it had disappeared from his hand, instead curling at the side of his face in a small tattoo, faintly reminiscent of a snake.