Authors: Alexandra Rowland
In the End
IN THE END
By
Alexandra Rowland
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Amazon Edition
Copyright 2012 by Alexandra Rowland
http://alexandrarowland.wordpress.com
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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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Thank you to all the beta-readers who helped make this novel what it is. I couldn't have done this without you and your support.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
If any story is to be told about the End of All Things, it is only polite to give a nod to their Origins as well. Therefore, once upon a time, let's assume that a Deity created the earth. Whether this was done in seven days or by means of mixing a selection of bodily fluids into the celestial waters is beside the point. Creation of a world by either method is scientifically and logically questionable for a number of reasons, but that is likewise beside the point.
What was really going on was this:
Pretend that you're God for a minute. Some of you may find this particularly easy. There you are, just you and the Void, for time inconceivable, and there's not even a pack of cards between the two of you. Not that it matters, because the Void can't play cards, not even War, and if it could, it would be the type to cheat the pants off you, even if you
are
a supposedly all-powerful Being.
So one day – “day” being a purely relative term, mind you, of course, since as of yet, there is no such thing – you decide you need something to occupy yourself with. You toy with the idea of knitting for a while and discard it, since the Void wouldn't appreciate even a scarf, let alone something
hard
like a sweater or, heavens forfend, a pair of socks. Instead, you sit the Void down (“sit” being another one of those relative terms) and you begin to tell it a story. Now, the Void doesn't think this is too bad of an idea, nor does it think it's too good of one either. It mostly just hangs around you, slurping.
It slurps up everything you tell it, all the ideas and the words and emotions and intricate plot points, until it is a big, fat, bloated Void, and it's still slurping away, tugging at your non-hair and your non-toes. It takes a few “moments” to think about it, and then it decides that, artistically speaking, you have zero talent of any kind to speak of. To further emphasize this merciless criticism of your creative efforts, it does something with the things it slurped up that's somewhere between spitting, sighing, vomiting, and releasing a truly celestial-scale fart.
What happens is that everything just goes
flying
in a really huge explosion, and suddenly now
there's three things—you, the Void, and a whole lot of everything just sitting about all manifested with nothing to do. Well, you're still pretty indignant that the Void had the nerve to criticize your Art, so you go off in a huff and have a good sulk, and the wake of your huff happens to draw some of the Everything together, and it starts doing stuff all on its own!
Well, this is pretty cool,
you think. To distract yourself from the grumpy Void trying to provoke you into a fight, you putter around inside the Everything while the Void lurks around the edges and grumbles, or does the Void-equivalent of grumbling. It's in a bad mood because of your Art, you see. It's not happy, and you're not happy, and in general there's just a lot of unresolved tension and anger and not-speaking-to-each-other going on. One day you might get around to talking out your problems.
Meanwhile, though, you're having great fun! You have things to play with now that actually interact, rather than trying to chew your eyebrows off! So you're vastly, vastly excited, and you think:
To Hell with the Void!
and continue puttering around, seeing what other sort of Stuff you can make. You build a omniverse around yourself like a house, so the Void can't get in and insult your Art again, and you put a few different multiverses in, like rooms of the house, and couple universes in each room, and then you stick a couple different dimensions on to the sides of it for your two-car garage and garden shed and attic and basement, and fill all of it with more Everything! And then you go around creating universes and just having a blast. You're everywhere in the house at once, since – like the Void—you take up all the space there is and none at all, so you're off making some experimental abstract Art in the garage, and watering the tulip bulbs in the garden shed, and there are cookie-dough planets on the kitchen table... And the whole time you're playing this Game, you're making up Rules that you have to abide by, just to make things more fun. These are things like gravity. Sometimes, you break the rules, and then you feel all thrilled and rebellious.
Eventually you have intelligent life forms that you've created, and you have various types of fun with them, and since their minds are so small – infinitesimally small, to be precise – they all interpret you and your wonderful Game in different ways, and then some of them start stabbing each other because one of them had the totally wrong idea about you, or they thought you were actually
more than
one person,
and maybe you are, and maybe you're not – you're not exactly sure. Have you ever thought about how difficult it must be to be the embodiment of everything? But it doesn't matter. Y
ou mostly just leave them to their own devices because you've decided that maybe the attic needs tidying, so you go and do that for a bit, and then decide that you'll do it later, because you don't want to miss the discovery of fire over in this brand new universe you made in the foyer just a minute ago. Then you put off going to clean the attic again because you've thought of this lovely idea called books and you'd like to try it out. So you go do that, and you check on your precious little creations now and then when you finish a chapter, and you have another brilliant idea called “television”, and things get along pretty well, generally, except for those damn commercials, because
no-one's
hair goes in slow motion like that, even if they use Brand Name Shampoo.
And that is how Existence was created: The Void didn't like your first attempts at Art. Maybe one day you'll get better and it will come groveling and trying to tell you how sorry it is. Maybe not.
Earth – the one that we're familiar with – was created during seven commercial breaks. Now you know.
***
On the glass-topped coffee-table of the Deity's Living Room (not that anyone was actually aware of this), Ríel (which roughly translates to “the Land”, otherwise known as Heaven, Paradise, the Kingdom of Joy and Delight, the Pure Land, Elysium, Valhalla, Jannah, etc.) rattled with the sounds of war preparations: the clink and clang of armor, the gabbling cacophony of many voices, and the sharp ringing of weapons being sharpened.
Standing on the Officer's Rise, a roughly circular bluff overlooking a surrounding plain, Michael, Commander of the Celestial Army, looked over his troops, admiring both the scene itself and the particular excellence that he added to it: His blood-red cloak fluttered in the rising breeze as his hair
blew over his perfectly chiseled cheekbones, and he was pleased. The scene was picturesque, noble,
befitting the attention of the best artists Ríel had to offer.
He took the chance to enjoy the moment – his ever-present migraine had faded to merely an occasional throb when he thought of Certain People (Certain People who, he believed, would be better off somewhere distinctly not in the vicinity of This Archangel's Army); his troops were reasonably efficient at their work; he didn't have anyone to be furious at right now. The late morning sunshine complemented his hair exceptionally well, and the Heavenly Choir, somewhere off to his right, among the troops and out of sight behind a small copse, had even paused their perpetual screeching.
Then his smile faltered and died as he became aware of the presence of... Yes, off to one side, some redheaded angel –
danama
, not him again – getting underfoot around a superior, who shouldered him aside. This, of course (because that's just how things go), caused him to crash into one of the support poles of Michael's silken open-wall tent, which fluttered--serene, graceful, and altogether humiliatingly--down upon Michael's head.
Michael stilled, clenched his jaw, and damned his migraine too, which, having noticed his proximity to a moment's peace, had returned with doubled force.
Sko Meala
forgive him, but if he ever found out who had foisted Lalael off on him, Michael would
smite them
in such a way that would cause them excruciating pain for several weeks. O
r months.
Or the rest of eternity, really. Any kind of vengeance and he'd be content. He actually preferred for the Power to stay aloof on this particular issue. Then he'd get to deal with his enemies himself.
The red-headed angel was babbling apologies as he fumbled with the tent.
“
Shut up,” Michael snapped. His vision might have been scarlet even if his face hadn't been covered by red cloth. “Just leave. Immediately.”
***
Beneath the floorboards under the Deity's glass coffee-table, Rielat (“not the Land”, better known on Earth as Hell, Hades, Sheol, Jannanam, and Niflhel, etc) was also jarred by an uncommon amount of extra noise – more than usual, that is, since Rielat doesn't tend to have the strict rules against
chaos. The streets of the capital rattled with their own battle preparations, although they were doing so
with much less taste and style and somewhat more efficiency: Everyone in Rielat carried weapons with them at all times anyway.
Eternal, moonless night pervaded Rielat; the low-hanging, roiling clouds of ash were flicked with red light from the massive infernos that lit the city of Dis, spiked by hundreds of soot-blackened turrets and spires. The air was heavy, weighing down with a ponderous and noisome thickness, a dry heat that smelt of smoke and sulfur. Dust storms were not uncommon in most of Rielat, yet some levels knew an equally stifling humidity that infiltrated one's clothes, mouth, one's very brain, and, with a horrible stench of damp rot, drove any who resided there slowly towards madness. Rielat was a rocky, barren wasteland, punctuated by dead trees like claws grasping at the sky.
In the highest tower of the palace of Dis, Lucifer, like Michael, was looking out over an army: Belial's troops (a mishmash of demons, Fallen, and other residents of Rielat) were celebrating the imminent battle in the ashy streets, and the discordant songs of their impending triumph over the Enemy drifted up to the high tower in the center of the city's six circles. The Morningstar stood at the narrow window of the tower, hands clasped behind his back.
Belial, Prince of the Northern Reaches of Rielat, said, “They wish only for revenge. They've forgotten.”
Lucifer said nothing, did not turn around to acknowledge Belial's words. A loud cheer rose from the crowded streets below.
“
My Lord?”
Lucifer again did not reply.
“
The Princes of the East and Western regions arrived today,” Belial added, a little desperately. “Shall I send for them?”
“
Those two made it clear long ago that they have no interest in sending their forces to battle, Belial,” Lucifer said. Something steely in his voice made Belial freeze.
“
My Lord, the reports from the reconnaissance scout we sent to Earth seven years ago...”
“
What about them?” said Lucifer, his back still to Belial and the room. The Prince of the Northern Reaches bit his lip and shivered.
A long moment later, he collected himself and cleared his throat. “He has sent back his reports. He calculated more than a thousand battle sites that the Enemy has targeted.”
“
So few?” murmured Lucifer. Belial braced himself against one of the chairs by the table that dominated the center of the room. “So be it. Have your officers been alerted?”
Belial's voice cracked as he said, “Yes, my Lord.”
Lucifer turned to the Prince then, and Belial was overwhelmed – Lucifer's face was still that of an angel, calm and smooth and serene; with silver eyes that burned, with delicate, pale features; with thin lips and long, light hair the color of silver and platinum in bright light. “Good.”
Belial swallowed, knuckles white where he was gripping the back of the chair, and shivered again. Lucifer flowed across the room and swept the maps of Earth away and onto the floor. He leaned on the table and smiled across at Belial, and his smile was as charming, as tempting as it had always been, even back before they had Fallen from Paradise. Lucifer's eyes smoldered.
