Curate, connect, and discover
He sat upon a hilltop, watching out over the plane of existence he lived in. He was a demon, minor lord of a plane of Hell. Unfortunately, he was melancholic about his life and the position he was in.
His father was Lucifer, the king of fallen angels, and lord of all of Hell. His mother was Lilith, the first human. In this sense, he was closer to humanity than any of his siblings; the only child of the cursed, immortal woman who had never truly fallen – at least not in the sense that man had.
He had dark, curly hair, short horns growing from his forehead, and black, leathery wings. He wore only a simple tunic, with a belt tied at the waist. He needed no shoes, and he was discontent with his lot in life.
For he was a simple creature, in his own way – all he desired in life was to drink and be merry, to spend his existence harming none in his debauchery. But that was not his job – he was the child of Lucifer, the child of blue flame – he was to be a fearsome creature, a servant of darkness – but try as he might, he could never bring himself to harm a soul – even the blackest among the damned were spared his whip, for he was a gentle soul – despite his appearance and heritage.
He sighed deeply, as his brother came up from the other side of the hill. “Iscarbiel,” hailed the demon, “What are you doing?”
The demon, dressed similarly but with a blue skin and red eyes, pointed teeth and large, curling ram’s horns, a longsword strapped to his side, walked up and sat beside him. “Nothing, Jimarciel,” said Iscarbiel.
“Nothing,” said Jimarciel, gnashing his teeth, “Nothing seems to be all you do nowadays!”
Iscarbiel leaned back, onto the scorched black grass of Asphodel. “Leave me be, Jimarciel. You do enough evil for the both of us, is that not true?”
Jimarciel laughed, a haughty, unearthly rattle. “Indeed I do,” he ceded, “But it is not me that father cares about. You are his favorite, and he demands your presence. Good luck, little brother.”
Iscarbiel got up, stretched, and began walking down the hill, towards the blackened hellscape through the fields of the damned, towards the black castle atop a mountain. His ears numb to the screams of the tortured, he flapped his wings once, twice, and was lifted, flying upwards towards the castle in which he lived, and hated with almost every fiber of his being.
Landing on a parapet encasing a balcony, avoiding the wickedly-pointed spears every couple of feet, and climbing down, he walked into his room, down the stairs and into the throne-room of his father.
His father looked much the same as him, with pale skin and a goatee, but with straight hair kept short, and nearly three times the height of a normal man. Sitting on a throne of dragon-bone and cushioned with blackened fabric, he walked forward, between tables where demons and fallen angels sat feasting on roasted animal carcasses, drinking wine of finest vintage.
Lucifer was angry. Iscarbiel walked slowly forward, to stand in front of his father.
His father glared at him, and began to speak in a voice, deep as the fathoms of the ocean and booming like thunder. “My son… you are weak.”
The assembled court laughed at this, as they continued their feast. Slamming the butt of his pitchfork, the symbol of his rule, into the ground, Lucifer bellowed, “Silence!”
“You have not tasted blood. You are not a torturer, like Jimarciel, or a general of great renown like Falzlynnel. You are not a magus, like Arunic, or a soldier, like Varysin. You are… weak.”
Loathing dripped from every word he spoke.
“But there is hope for you yet, my whelp, for our guards have caught something that you can… play with.”
Iscarbiel would sweat, if his body could, and fear crept into him like a poisoned dagger. What would his father have him do?
“An angel, sent by my father, to spy on me. Caught by Jimarciel, and brought alive to our dungeons. You will torture it until it swears allegiance to me, and then slaughter it. This is my command; carry it out and your rewards will be great. But be warned,” he almost whispered, in a sibilant hiss, ‘If you fail me, your screams will be far louder and greater than any that now resound across my plane.”
Iscarbiel kneeled, silently, trying to think of a way out of this. None was forthcoming, unfortunately.
“Lonchoriel! Show him to his prey.”
A fallen angel, dressed in fine, purple robes, stood, bowed before Lucifer, and spoke, “Thank you, my lord.”
Lonchoriel lead Iscarbiel down a spiral staircase to the left of the throne room, not speaking as he walked down, down into the depths, beyond the castle and into the bowels of the mountain. Finally, they entered the dungeons, darkened cells where his father’s prisoners were kept. Down the hallway to the very end, where a large door was chained shut. Whispering the password to the door, a word in a language only pronounceable by demons and the damned, he turned and walked back down the hallway, speaking a simple warning. “Do not fail your father.”
With Lonchoriel gone, Iscarbiel gulped, and walked into the room, not knowing what to expect. He had never left his father’s realm – he had never waged war on the heavens, and he had never seen an angel. From the words of Jimarciel he expected an alien, monstrous entity – something of fire and death, whose hatred of the hells knew no bounds. Something awful, no doubt.
But walking into the torture chamber, he saw something he had never expected to see.
She seemed so… normal. Inhumanly beautiful, with amber hair – but still, alike to his mother and to him. Human in appearance, but with the feathered wings of a pure-white dove, folded behind her. Chained to the ceiling, kneeling on the ground but with her hands suspended above her head, she appeared barely conscious, with superficial bruises and cuts probably incurred in her capture. Upon his entrance, she looked up, and he saw her eyes – humanlike, but with orange irises that matched the shade of her hair. She spat on the ground – blood, red like a human’s, mixed in with the saliva. “Do your worst, demon,” she hissed.
Iscarbiel was dumbstruck. Moving to stand before her, he began to try and sound intimidating, “Fear me, angel, for I am the son of Lucifer – the Morningstar, the Blue Flame, the Lord of Hell – fear me because I am here to –,” he stopped, slapping his forehead. “Oh, enough talk.”
He pulled a tray of torture implements towards him. He was pretty sure how most of them worked – or, at least some of them. Picking up a scalpel, he moved towards her, and she glared at him, looking him in the eyes, unflinching as he moved the scalpel towards the flesh below her right eye. Just as it was about to touch skin, he stopped, stood up, put it down, hyperventilating. “Nine hells damn it all,” he exclaimed.
“You aren’t very good at this,” she observed, watching him closely.
“No, no I am not,” he concurred, staring down at the tray and shaking his head. “I’m Iscarbiel.”
“Anabiel.”
“Charmed, I’m sure.”
They stood there in silence for a couple moments, neither speaking, wondering what they should do. He couldn’t bring himself to torture her, and she knew it. His father was right. He was… weak.
“So, Iscarbiel, what do we do now?”
“I don’t know, Anabiel, what do we do?”
“You could let me go,” she said, cheekily.
“You have absolutely no idea how impossible that would be,” he sighed. “My father doesn’t trust me to do this, and I’m damned sure he’ll check in before the night is done.”
“Have you ever tortured someone before?” she inquired.
“Nope. Never before in my life have I done something like this. I mostly hung around his courts, listening to my older brothers’ tales of glory, how they torture the damned and kill angels – no offense.”
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t offended just a little bit.”
“Well, in either case – I never had the stomach for this sort of thing. I’m a fan of decadence, I take to the wine a little more than most, but I’m not a torturer. Any recommendations?”
“Well, torture doesn’t normally come with this much banter.”
“I figured as much,” he said, sitting down in front of her, pushing the wheeled cart aside.
“What will I do,” he pondered, half to himself. “I can’t torture anything, never have, probably never will. But if I don’t my father will torture me.”
“He’d torture his own flesh and blood?”
Iscarbiel laughed, and pulled down the front of his tunic a little to reveal a score of scars, aged and healed whip-scars. “it wouldn’t be the first time.”
Anabiel went quiet. “I’m sorry about your father,” she paused, as if shocked that she had said something like that. “I didn’t think I’d ever say that to a demon,” she explained.
“Well, I’ve never met an angel in my existence, so I think we’re both in rather uncharted territory.”
“Shouldn’t we loathe each other with every fiber of our existences?”
“Probably,” he said, “But I’ve never been particularly demonic or malicious, even for a demon. Especially for a demon,” he paused, then the questions came pouring out, “Why did you come to Hell? If I left, I’d never come back. Ever. Why risk it?”
She bristled, and then began to speak, “I can’t tell you that. Is this your endgame? Pretend to be incompetent and then hope that gets me to spill all the answers? I have to admit, that’s clever.”
“No, nothing like that! Honest!”
She spat on the ground again. “A likely story. Get out of here!”
He got up, a little in shock, and walked out of the room. Outside, he found someone waiting for him. Jimarciel was standing there, a disgusted look on his face. “I knew you couldn’t do it. Father’s right, you’re weak.”
He pushed Iscarbiel aside, and with a wave of his hand, disguised himself perfectly as Iscarbiel. “Leave,” he said. “I’m going to make her talk, and you’ll get the credit for it. I hate your weakness,” he growled, “But you are my blood, for better or for worse.”
As Jimarciel turned to the door, Iscarbiel grabbed his shoulder. “Don’t do it, Jii.”
Jimarciel turned back, and pushed Iscarbiel across the hall, to the base of the stairs. “And what will you do to stop me, whelp? You are a weakling. You can’t even torture a human soul – how could father have trusted you to torture an angel?”
Iscarbiel got up, shakily. And walked forward. “Back away, Jimarciel. I’m warning you.”
Jimarciel laughed and drew his longsword, blackened, infernal steel hissing with the evil with which it had been tempered. “Warning me, now, are you? Run away, you little fool, before I destroy you.”
Iscarbiel took a stumbling step forward, unarmed. Jimarciel laughed and took a stance, with his blade in position so it would be ready to strike. The air smelled of ozone as the blade crackled. “Don’t hurt her,” said Iscarbiel, shakily but resolute.
“Don’t hurt her,” mocked Jimarciel. “She’s an angel. She’s our enemy. Given the power, she would destroy us all. Don’t you care for your flesh and blood? Turn and flee, cur. It’s what you’re good at.”
A million memories flooded Iscarbiel’s mind. Of being bullied by his brothers, of Jimarciel and Falzlynnel laughing at him, beating him into a pulp and him being afraid to speak back. “Not anymore.”
Iscarbiel charged. He did not know what he had planned, but Jimarciel was ready. Driving the blade towards Iscarbiel, he expected an easy kill. But Iscarbiel was not so obliging. Diving into a roll, he went beside the blade, punching Jimarciel in the throat with all of his meager might.
Jimarciel gagged, a hiss, as his blade cleaved into the floor. Running into the cell, Iscarbiel grabbed a blade from the rolling cart of torture equipment. He looked at it, a simple enough dagger, and he readied himself to fight. Jimarciel growled, ripping his blade from the ground and turning to Iscarbiel.
“What will you do now, little one,” he hissed, “What will you do now that you’ve cornered yourself? I will take no mercy on you now.”
“I expected as much,” muttered Iscarbiel, readying himself to die.
Jimarciel laughed and charged forward, bloodlust making him foolish. This time he made sure to be ready for a quick dodge, but this time Iscarbiel was not going to dodge. Throwing himself onto the blade, he drove his dagger into Jimarciel’s heart. “What...?”
Jimarciel let go of his sword, looking down at the blade that had pierced his chest. The blade was of hell-forged steel, like his own. Pulling it out, he watched blackened ichor pour from the wound. Kneeling, then falling over, he moved no more.
Walking over to his brother’s corpse, with the longsword stuck through the right side of his stomach, ichor leaking from his pierced side. Groaning, he groped around on his brother’s corpse, finally finding it. His master key. Walking over to the angel, he unlocked her shackles. “Go,” he said, falling over and leaning on the ground, pain overwhelming, “Run. You can escape.”
Anabiel knelt next to him, lifting his head. “Go!” he hissed, barely able to breathe.
She put her hand to the base of the wound, then, reaching up, pulled it free from his stomach. He screamed, but she covered his mouth. Putting an ichor-soaked finger to her mouth, indicating silence, she put a hand on the wound, whispered a word in Enochian, and it stitched itself shut. “Come with me,” she whispered.
Catching his breath, he nodded.
They made their way up the stairs as quietly as possible, and he whispered to her, “At the top of this staircase is my father’s throne room. If I distract them, you can escape out the balcony at the back of the room. You can still fly, can’t you?”
She nodded. “What about you?”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll guard your escape and follow if I can.”
She looked worried.
“Don’t concern yourself with me,” he whispered. “I’m demonspawn, remember? I’m not capable of redemption.”
They reached the top of the stairs, and Iscarbiel ran into the center of the room, quite a sight, covered in black ichor as he was, both his own and his brother’s.
“Father!” he screamed. Lucifer rose from his throne, holding his pitchfork resolutely. “I’m tired, father. I’m tired of my brothers. I’m tired of this court. I’m tired of you.”
“Watch your tongue, boy! I have fought gods! Destroyed nations! What have you done, apart from embarrass my bloodline?”
Iscarbiel saw Anabiel sneak out the back, and he laughed back at his father. “Embarrass your bloodline? Don’t make me laugh! You were defeated, what have your fights wrought you but this wretched place?”
Lucifer howled, his appearance shifting as he took a more suitable size, similar to his son’s. His skin was black as coal and his face a triple, with one on each side save the back. The eyes of each face glowed crimson, and his wings burnt black and skeletal. “Know your place, boy!”
Iscarbiel drew his blade into a ready stance, ready to fight. Lucifer charged, his attack pattern more sophisticated than Jimarciel’s. Within seconds, he had gripped Iscarbiel by the throat, lifting him into the air. “What has the angel brought out of you, boy? What hidden nature is this?”
Iscarbiel saw Anabiel, wings spread, flying off of the balcony and away, further and further, into the distance.
“Love, father.” Iscarbiel choked out.
“Love,” sneered Lucifer.
Dropping the boy, he struck forward with the pitchfork, driving it through Iscarbiel’s chest.
“Love will not save you, boy.”
Iscarbiel lay back onto the floor as ichor drained from his body, and he blacked out, and saw no more.
---Epilogue---
Iscarbiel awoke in a white, formless landscape. Standing across from him was a muscled angel, who seemed normal enough, save for the third eye in the center of his forehead. Getting quickly to his feet, he stood in a defensive stance.
“Fear not, worm. I am not here to harm you. I’m here to save you, per my sister’s request.”
“Who?” Iscarbiel began.
“Don’t be rude, Metatron,” spoke a familiar voice behind him. Turning, he saw Anabiel.
“Anabiel! How-,” Iscarbiel stopped himself before he said it. How was he not dead?
“I petitioned my father for your return. He sent Metatron to draw you out of the void. I accompanied.”
“Why?”
“I saw something in you, Iscarbiel. Something no demon has shown before.”
Metatron began to speak. “I see all, boy. I was there when your father betrayed his, and his brethren like me. I see in you what was in him before he turned from the light. Bravery. Honor,” here he paused, “Love.”
“Your bravery in offering your life to save an angel was enough to make you an anomaly; expecting nothing in return made you a hero. And heroes deserve heaven’s blessings, regardless of their father’s sins.”
Anabiel gripped Iscarbiel’s hand. “Follow me,” she said, and lead him into paradise.
You’re a demon. A pretty awful one, might I add. You should have been an angel instead. The other demons constantly harass you for not fitting in or being like them. You end up falling in love with an angel and you have to convince her that you’re not like the others.