Real Gods Require Blood

Still Alive, After Paradise (Preview): “THe TWO ANGELS MEET”

The Story So Far:

_{Elohim (Yahweh) and his only son, Helel (Lucifer), have cannibalized his Father and usurped the throne of the Levantine, establishing a new rule of monotheism. Now with the court of Paradise in their hands, Elohim takes back a very old gift He Gave his Father: The Primordial Flame, an ancient source of creating power. There was just one trick to this Fire – it had an ancient daemon trapped within that very much needed to be Elohim’s Heavenly Host. And now that Elohim has freed him from the flame, the new Seraphim named Mikha’el (Michael) finds his commander for the first time.}

---

The breath was the body. The body, the breath.

In. Out. Helel closes his eyes. Besides the splendor of this sacred place, Father had told Helel he was to practice being the first sun’s call, for all the angels in the future would need to know when to arise and begin their day. And, regardless of how often Father irks him, Helel did not protest. No, Helel will take his post with joy for he wants what Father wants: victory.

Paradise was to be theirs forever and it could only be secured by blood.

In.

From the center of his halo, the light. A twinkle of illumination blooming into full splendor. The first sun would come up otherwise, but it seemed to respond better with Helel’s prompting.

Out.

It appeared like a glare on a mirror. Micheal was already heading this way, just wanting to see the first sun rise for the first time in his new life, but,

In. . .

“Oh, my God.”

And what was this if not God, or the closest thing to Him? The first sun bursting onto the scene now, spilling all that color like blood into the sky. And the light, a second light. Whatever cracked over the cosmos’ first breath of the day, it was most divine, for it illuminated all of Paradise in raw light like a flash-bang.

Out . . .

Funny. Really, it’s funny. The light reminds Micheal of when Helel first smiled. Yet, the first sun was rising high into the sky, soaring above like the early birds of this world.

Which one was the real sun? There is one above, in the clouds. And one below, on the mountain peak.

Micheal chooses below, diving leg first, talons out. Whatever was making so much fuss down there, well, why else fly over Paradise if not to know all its mysteries?

The light dims as Helel takes his last exhale, coming back to center. More settled now, he smiles, keeps his eyes closed for a moment, and basks in the sweetness of freshwater and fire in the air.

Fire. . .

Fire?

Helel opens his eyes. In the future, once the Earth is reset and humans walk again, they will describe the visiting of an angel like this: time, captured in a bubble. If a feather flies off the wing it appears frozen. And your breath, so painfully aware of being that it almost hurts to be alive.

Except it’s not pain that Helel feels, just burning. Burning, and burning, like the heat in his body when he awoke this morning, and the heat spewing from the chalice just before he said goodbye. And he is so painfully unaware of his breath, of his anything, unable to speak or breathe or move. Just look. Only look.

Wings on fire, like a phoenix. Hair that flowed like magma, long and wild and free. A tower of an angel, every line, curve, and dip proudly sculpted to his muscle. He was not sure if Father had to adorn him or if he just came out like that, his dark gold hip-belt with the same court of jewels seemed fixed to his hips from the start, as did his glittering, blood-red robe.

A daemon, disguised as a Heavenly Host, the First Prince of the Court not born of man. Helel keeps gawking uselessly, so transfixed he does not register the angel is almost here.

And Micheal gawks, just as useless, unable to close his mouth or think. An angel, disguised as a Sun God after having consumed his own Uncle and Grandfather. Helel Ben Sahar. Elohim’s only child, designated next in line for God.

No wonder he chose to come to the light below; even raw, without the splendor of his white, crystal-lined robe or his court of jewels or kept hair, his beauty had the Prince in a trance, so much of one not register that he’s getting closer even though it was of his own will. Nor does not register the water hiss and dance away from him for the tufts of flame around his ankles made the water flee.

Holy Mother of whoever he came from. It rolled the Prince’s mind that Helel was made not by a hand or thought but born! Just born! How could it be that a being like this exists without preempting and could be more divine, for one blasphemous second, than God Himself?  The hair of a king-to-be, spilling from root to feet like the waterfall they stood on. The body of an Olympic runner yet not lacking in muscle, each line, dip and curve creating a statue out of him.

Micheal realizes Helel is uncovered and did not think about he would do next: his eyes wandering down, fixing themselves to his new commander’s jutting hipbones, the deep lines that cut down toward his groin, the curl of trimmed hair framing his –

Helel sees the wandering eyes but makes no move to stop him with a shout or cover up with his twelve wings. All it makes him is hotter, burning, as if he was back with the Fire and it wanted to wrap its tendrils around him and eat him whole.

Then Helel remembers the dream again and against his will. The hands, the hair. A pair of hungry, devouring eyes.

Breath. In, out. Wouldn’t that be funny? Yes, hilarious, if the dream he had was about him and Micheal.

But he doubts that.  Helel is not psychic like his mother. And he can admit, the lack of company, being in a body that wants things he can’t seem to give it – wouldn’t he see things he wants in a dream and project it out?

In.

And then a thought: It doesn’t look so bad to be eaten by him. 

Out.

And then another: I hope he does.

“Mikha’el.” That’s all he can manage after all this useless gawking and burning. The Ancient Language rumbles off Helel’s tongue. He does not understand until the shaking turns to a letter, and another.

Funny. He did know, after all.  

Micheal smiles, eyes snapping back up to Helel’s.  Even out of the fire, they still look like bleeding sunsets, the deep red giving his gaze an intensity that promised something wicked, dark, and most divine.

“Helel.”  The smile widens. The eyes say:  I promise toeat you. “I am joyed to see you with my own eyes, commander! I had waited for this moment since you helped me reach sentience again.”

Oh, was he just going to pretend he wasn’t eyeing Helel like that? If this was supposed to be a game, he feared poor Micheal was out of his element!

“The pleasure is all mine, Mikha’el.” He smiles, very casual, extending his right hand. Behind his eyes: Like you can stomach me. “I admit that I had much difficulty sleeping last night so, I’m afraid I haven’t made any food yet.”

Micheal does not respond right away. He takes a step forward, then takes Helel’s hand into his with all the strength of a commander but the grace and thoughtfulness of a Prince.

“I brought two apples.” He makes a face. “But I think I’d rather have something of yours if you were going to cook already.” Then, plucking them from his belt, dangling them, “I’ve had a whole treeful already. I’m starving.”

Helel laughs, keeps his arm extended. Micheal didn’t let go yet so he wasn’t going to, either. He’d win. That’s all.

He’d win.

“Hardly. Those are just like candy, we can have them later. Come, I will show you where I live. We can get a fresh kill – I will make something incredible since we must celebrate your arrival!”

Then amber meets blue, blue eyes. He could see it, the bite behind them, the dark wickedness that would match his own. He had just wanted that damn God to get him out of the pot, but now he realizes:  if God had just said this little dove was a part of the deal from the start, it wouldn’t have taken him so long to come out!

Tricky bastard, that Creator.

“I would love that, commander.”

Micheal smiles but there is nothing casual about it. The eyes say one more thing:

You’ll be the best meal yet.