Page 2 of The River of Hatred

I wonder how many times my dad’s gonna call when he doesn’t get his commissary money. And when he’ll give up.

Chapter 1 – Ithuriel

Heaven, Present Day

“Are you certain you wish to pledge yourself to this task, Ithuriel? You’ve never traversed Sheol by yourself.”

The archangel Saraqael stands at the center of my humble quarters, observing me as I gather those belongings that may prove useful on my quest. We are both in our mortal forms, though our wings are hidden. Saraqael's twenty-foot wingspan alone would be too large for my utilitarian quarters. Even folded, the highest points of the archangel’s majestic gold-dusted wings reach ten feet.

It’s uncertain why our mortal forms appear the way they do – we don’t exactly have an explanation within genetics. The color of our skin, hair, eyes, and even subtle nuances of our feathers make themselves known the first time we will ourselves into a humanoid shape. While demons also morph into various beastly shapes, we angels remain the same for eternity. We can only influence whether to manifest our wings physically or keep them out of sight.

Many of the older angels and archangels prefer to remain in an ethereal form – the one we were created into. Our human appearances were born out of necessity. Mortal minds cannot comprehend our forms of ether, and gazing upon them even caused physical harm to some fragile humans who have had an opportunity to do so.

Other angels – myself included – find physical exertions, such as battle training, to induce a state akin to meditation. Mortal forms also offer opportunities for more studious endeavors. On occasion, when allowed to do so, angelkind assisted with the advancement of humanity. These last decades, however, have proven that their advancement has been detrimental to themselves and their planet in many ways. As everything that unfolds is the will of the Most High, we do not question the harmful events occurring on Earth – we merely observe and document them.

“I have not wavered in my decision,” I assure my superior. Saraqael surpasses me in age and power, as well as in his position by the Most High’s throne. He has been a wise guide to younger angels for millennia.

I scrutinize my preferred sword for any imperfections in its cleanliness, just as I am accustomed to doing every day. My armor was similarly vetted before I donned it. Both weapon and armor glow like illuminated platinum, crafted by our best artisans from the purest Celestial steel.

The archangel crosses his arms and widens his stance. He has been observing me as closely as I have been observing my equipment. “It has been centuries since the majority of angels have conversed with humans. Add to that the fact none of us are ever adequately prepared for the horrors of Hell.”

I sheathe my sword in an ornate scabbard between my shoulder blades, then turn toward the backpack I began preparing yesterday. Shouldering the weight, I face my mentor and give him my undivided attention.

“That is precisely why I am the optimal choice for this mission.” I count off the reasons with my hands. “I am among the youngest of angels and no personal grudges are held against me in Hell.” I tap the second finger. “My skills with a sword are second only to those of archangels.” I’m not boasting, it’s a matter of fact. I indicate my last point by tapping on the third finger. “I am also among the minority that spend the most amount of their time in a mortal form. I am far less likely to act in ways a human would find unnatural.”

Saraqael is as familiar with the reasoning behind my choice as I am. It is a peculiarity of his, rehashing ad nauseam. Just as my peculiarity is ensuring my equipment is always in optimal shape. While angelkind share araison d'être, no two angels are ever the same – in appearance and also in personality.

After a moment of silence, he concedes. “Very well, young one.”

We talk about a few of the finer points of my tasks as we exit the dormitory and make our way to the closest gate. Elysium is as glowing as ever; both sunlit and lit from within. I take a furtive look and drink in the sight of my home. I may be absent for weeks, perhaps even months. It has been a few centuries since I last battled in Hell, longer still since there was a need for me to go to Abaddon – the fortress where those fallen angels that remain loyal to Heaven reside. Commonly known as Purgatory, it is also where the current generation of Elioud live.

With the rapid population growth of humans come more souls in need of a final resting place. While Elysium expands to the needs of its occupants, Hell remains the size at which it was made many millennia ago, after the first angels fell.

Very few vile mortals become demons – the majority are corrupted angels and their offspring or creations. Most human souls in Hell are disembodied and mindless things. An exception is made for the souls of the blackest humans – those are aware of their suffering in the Burning Pits. When an area of Hell becomes too densely packed with such souls, they gain a shape of sorts; like a cloud of the worst acid rain. Such amorphous manifestations have become more numerous these last decades – though we now know that the archdemon Belial augmented the numbers.

The Celestial Council, a lawmaking body comprised of both angels and demons, decided that the Fallen living in Purgatory were no longer enough to police the human world from such manifestations and also any escaped demonic minions. With another nudge from Belial, the Elioud were enlisted.

As the offspring of Celestials, whether the relative is a grandparent or someone hundreds of years down the family tree, these Nephilim (with angelic blood) and Cambion (with demonic blood) are capable of using the ether to manipulate their surroundings. At least once they are brought to the Underworld. They are also stronger and heal faster than humans with no Celestial ancestry.

Some months ago, the Council was made aware of a rift in Hell – an opening through which weaker demons may enter the human realm and wreak havoc. Protecting humanity is the sacred duty of angels. If the humans of this modern era discovered otherworldly creatures, an apocalypse would surely follow. Their first choice would be to throw life-destroying weapons wherever there is a threat, essentially causing their own genocide. And even demons, at least the more rational among them, know that with a massive extermination of humans, their greatest supply of nourishment would dwindle.

The Elioud were sent to the domain of the missing Asmodai – or Asmodeus as he is perhaps better known to humans today. The rift, however, was not there. This information was confirmed by another archdemon on the Council, Ashtaroth.

And so, here I walk today, approaching one of Heaven’s gates, on my way to join forces with Purgatory in discovering where this rift lies, with a secondary mission in the human realm – discovering which other humans with Celestial blood Belial may have conspired with before his imprisonment in the Burning Pits.

Saraqael and the other angels on the Council insisted the soldier from Purgatory be a Nephilim, and, apparently, the fallen angel Maalik, with whom I had some encounters in the Underworld before, has the perfect candidate within the team he has been mentoring.

We stop in front of the gate. It’s a circular waypoint decorated with the glowing symbols of our language; an alphabet that those unable to speak it refer to as Malachim. If I could travel using the ether, I wouldn’t need to rely on fixed locations like this.

“Take care, Ithuriel. Do not hesitate to reach out to us when you require assistance.” Saraqael means well and I find no offense with his words. Refusing to ask for aid from your superiors makes you a slave to pride, a sin governed by that ancient archdemon, Ashtaroth. I bow at the waist, my fisted hand placed over my heart. It is a necessary affectation of this form; nonverbal communication is much simpler in our ethereal forms, and emotions, such as respect towards an elder, can be conveyed with clearer nuances while in it.

Saraqael tilts his head in reciprocity, though I would never presume to expect it. I turn on my heel and step onto the waypoint. With a few spoken words and clear intent, I will it to transport me to Abaddon.

∞∞∞

Upon arriving in Purgatory, I’m greeted by a hurried murmured conversation. I lift my gaze from the gray stone floor, unchanged since I walked here last, and step toward the four figures who immediately stop talking. Maalik is flanked by two Elioud women, one with long reddish-blonde hair tied in a tight high ponytail, the other, taller one, with loose auburn hair.

Behind them, arms crossed and leaning against the wall with one foot braced on it, leg cocked, is somebody I used to know well before his fall. My eyes widen and my jaw goes slack. I’ve successfully avoided Sariel for all these many centuries, yet here he is, with a smirk on his face which tells me just how much he enjoys the shock I must display at seeing him. His eyes are… completely black. No white or color in them at all. They were once a clear, bright sky blue.

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