Limbo

by Thiago d'Evecque

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  1 ─ AWAKENING

  2 ─ SON OF FIRE

  3 ─ ARMY OF ONE

  4 ─ THE SONG OF JUSTICE

  5 ─ THE VELVET COMMANDER

  6 ─ WAVES OF COURAGE

  7 ─ ONE WAY, A THOUSAND DIRECTIONS

  8 ─ TURNING OFF THE LIGHTS

  9 ─ EVIL RESIDENT

  10 ─ HEAVY HEARTS

  11 ─ SIMPLENESS

  12 ─ LIGHT

  13 ─ THE MISTS OF FREEDOM

  14 ─ THE FIRST LAW

  15 ─ FAITH

  Notes

  Tales From Limbo

  Make a difference

  About the author

  LIMBO

  Thiago d'Evecque

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and places are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, incidents, and places is coincidental.

  LIMBO

  Copyright © 2015, 2019 by Thiago d’Evecque

  All rights reserved.

  www.devecque.com

  Cover by Marina Ávila

  marina.fantasya.com.br

  Edited by Maddy D.

  PROLOGUE

  Rise from your grave.

  When I woke up, I knew something was wrong. For I only opened my eyes when the world spiraled into chaos.

  1

  AWAKENING

  I took a while to get used to it. Fog obscured everything. Some habits returned simply because they were difficult to forget, such as breathing. My body took shape and I walked again. Thoughts formed. Nothing worse than being revived after centuries of inactivity. Well, there were several things worse, but I’m still warming up.

  I woke up. Why? Time to find out the reason for the interruption of my supposed eternal rest. You did your job right, cleaned up the mess, locked the office, and went home to rest, then after a few centuries of sleeping, they interrupted you demanding overtime. The cheek of these people.

  I started forward. Nowhere else to go but forward. The rest was an illusion or naïve idealism.

  The mist didn’t diminish, but I could see better over it. No shape or form was worth the effort of sight. There was only darkness, faint glitters, and shameless flashes, blinking around unbidden in disgusting glimpses. And there were the sounds, too. Oh, the sounds. A chorus of lamentations of tormented souls, asking for mercy, redemption, and deliverance. Howls, screams, cries, that was my soundtrack. But I’ve learned to forget it in the background, as humans do with the sounds of drills, hammers, and the whole orchestra of a protracted construction work at the neighbor’s house.

  The pitch-black intensified. I arrived in an important place. A light exploded and vanished, giving way to a deeper darkness. But this wasn’t the mere absence of light, the color of shadows or night, the underside of the palette. It was something almost palpable, full of personality, that made one doubt the eyes and the sanity. Vivid, immense, and cold, it brought along an absolute silence, where those with a heart can hear it beat, usually in need of help.

  It whispered.

  The time has come.

  The sound reminded creatures crawling on gravel. His voice didn’t bother going through the ears—it invaded and rested directly in the mind, uninvited. When I understood the meaning, a void opened in my stomach and my false breath quickened.

  “W-what—” I began, but my voice broke. I cleared my throat and tried again. “What is happening? Are they going to kill themselves?”

  You will not allow it.

  More silence.

  Your role has already been defined. We need twelve.

  “Twelve? Again?”

  You like them too much. You have the same inconvenient habit of stating the obvious. The observer is always affected by the observed.

  “I just find the humans quaint.”

  And yet you will never be one of them.

  He waited to make sure the insult made me uncomfortable.

  Twelve. We need a harmonic, capable, cohesive set.

  I filled my chest and decided to drink from the water of hope.

  “Can I leave the Limbo if I fulfill the job?”

  ‘If’? Do you think you can bargain? Cease your insolence and make use of your time. I remember the future. Matraton shall come for you too.

  And he disappeared. The surroundings settled as if he’d never been there. The darkness and mist dissipated as if they had never existed. The silence was swallowed by the screams, and I by the desolation.

  Nice motivational chat. Death would also come to get me. On the bright side, I would leave the Limbo, sooner or later, one way or another.

  The positive side didn’t cheer me up.

  Resigned, I thought of my mission. Things on Earth were so bad that they needed twelve souls. Twelve, it couldn’t be any different. The number once again appeared, as it did in history—twelve months, twelve apostles, twelve Olympian gods, twelve Hindu Jyotirlinga, twelve names of Surya, twelve Imams successors of Mohammed, bat mitzvah at twelve, twelve pairs of ribs—I could go on and on until the Limbo turned empty of souls. On December 12th, 2012, on Earth, a child turned twelve at 12:12. Most people ignored it, as enlightened societies usually do. But some regarded him as The Chosen, the return of the savior messiah, while others considered him a clear sign of the apocalypse. How could I not love humans?

  Twelve epic souls, heroic, mythological figures, people whose legends merged with their actions and their reality. The fate of souls is to wander eternally through Limbo and await their return to the realm of men, to once again serve their kindred. I was supposed to pick and persuade my Chosen to come back. And if I failed, to force them. Because these souls had no desire to return to Earth. They were fed up with blood, war, lies, hypocrisy, politics, misery, and social networks. They had already done their share and preferred to wander the Limbo over facing human falsehood once more. That’s why I woke up. I would find them, talk about the Great Plan, and send them back to the little blue world—willing or not.

  I looked at my hands and clenched my fists, determined. They gleamed in a dazzling, faded, almost ethereal white. My form remained incomplete because so did my mind. I didn’t remember my past, but I remembered my duty. Or rather the only duty left to me. I knew I was a renegade, an inconvenience, and the time to close my eyes one last time and keep them that way wasn’t far off.

  There were not many stories about me. I was only the facilitator, the ‘middle guy’, performing tasks that most are not capable of, but to protect egos—no smaller here than on Earth, quite the contrary—they said those were banal, prosaic, ordinary, and even vulgar tasks. So, whoever hears these deeds may be the judge. I will be a bard of myself and tell my story, a forgotten spirit trying to sew the threads of life and make sense again.

  And trying to get a second chance.

  No one becomes a hindrance doing nothing. Something big happened. The situation is in this deplorable state as a consequence of some act of mine. I needed to remember. I needed to redeem myself. Even unable to undo the past, I will change my future by fulfilling what may be my last obligation.

  I looked at Earth, as I had always been able to do.

  They said the great Mother Earth had a sapient spirit, full of vital energy, that helped her children in times of need; a loving female counterpart to a God-Father. All bullshit, of course. Humans harvested what they planted, and Earth reflected the life they led. And right now, it reflected disgrace and despair. It was the image of a condemned world, entering slowly but surely the road to oblivion. A cold shiver ran through my spectral body.

  I saw political wars using religion as a pretext.<
br />
  I saw religious wars using politics as a pretext.

  I saw ethnic cleansers disguised as democracy.

  I saw genocides disguised as military defense.

  I saw support for genocide aiming profit.

  I saw Hunger, Plague, War, and Death riding unhindered, castigated only by men’s whip. ‘My will be done at any cost’ seemed to be their motto. In a way, it had always been like that. But I saw extreme madness. There appeared to be no salvation.

  As much as I loved them, they were weak. A small change of direction was enough to make them lose control. They needed guidance. The twelve souls would be the rudder, the vessel, and the captain to bring them out of the perdition sea. I must choose these representatives carefully for the ultimate rescue. There was really no bargaining. If I failed, I failed the humans. I failed all Creation.

  Although deep down I knew everything was just a postponement, a small placebo before the final apocalypse, I should help them anyway. As long as there was hope, I would fight.

  One last job. One last time.

  I straightened my posture and strode toward my first destination. To subdue the rebellious souls, I could not remain empty-handed.

  I needed a weapon.

  To prevent mankind from ending up in war, I must fight against their spirits in Limbo. You thought life was a big joke just to die and realize the show continued.

  They said the pen was mightier than the sword. Maybe, but only if you had a shabby sword. Mine wouldn’t be. I was going to kill two birds at once. I would obtain my weapon with the first chosen soul. And who better to create a spiritual blade than the first forger known to humans? The one whose heart belonged to a mortal, the Divine Fist, the Anvil of Heavens, the legendary blacksmith angel: Azazel.

  2

  SON OF FIRE

  Walking with my destination in mind, the total darkness subsided. Different laws ruled the Limbo. Specific laws. There was no space or time. I strode without leaving the place, while, in fact, everything around me arranged itself to look like I was moving. The setting gradually changed. Small pieces climbed up to my feet and descended from where the sky should be. As in a puzzle, these pieces fit together and shaped the surroundings. The ground floated in blocks until they glued together in a perfect picture, an impeccable union. Other blocks descended as in a theatrical production where wires from up above lowered pieces of scenery, and they formed Azazel’s dwelling place.

  The hot ground warmed my feet, and I smelled scorched earth and burned charcoal. Dunes and sand filled all directions, except for a small building ahead, from which rose a thick black smoke. The inclement sun chastised everything below it and blurred the peanut-colored horizon. Green life never grew around this place. This desert knew—and had always known—only desolation. The rustling of a breeze was punctuated by the methodical and rhythmic hammering of a callous blacksmith, the sound of steel being treated the way it likes, with strength and precision, being forged and losing the innocence of bluntness to gain the wickedness of a sharp and deadly blade. That was the blacksmith’s song. Closer and closer, the music was enough to differentiate the master from the amateur. First you heard a beat on the metal and then a second, lighter stroke on the anvil, just to maintain cadence.

  The lonely and doomed presence of the fallen angel arose.

  I had a lot in common with Azazel, more than I would like. His solitude led me to think of my own journey. My burden was also unique and couldn’t be shared. I had to go it alone, knowing that no one longed for my return with a smile. And I couldn’t even procrastinate. How different it would be if I had someone to share the responsibility of the task, someone to complain to and blame when something went wrong, even if only to hear comforting words. I wished for companionship, and I was about to bitterly regret making this silent prayer.

  The whole setting was real, unlike me. It was no longer faded, endued with a pale, ghostly luminosity, as when one tried to remember a dream. The sun shone brighter and stronger, searing the spirit and drying the determination.

  And there he was. His back turned to me, his messy cinnamon hair swaying at each hammering. His dark, scorched little stubs, which once were imposing pearly wings, still sizzled and sparked.

  Another presence made me freeze, breathless. It was unlike anything in any world or plane of existence. The aura of an angel, even a fallen one, is still similar to a human. It contained a beating heart and a pulsating soul. It exhaled Creation. The other one was… a seed of madness and absurdity, a will that wrecked weaker beings and offered an irrefutable invitation to torment and insanity. An entity that ignored nature and had its own rules of existence. I searched around, trying to find the incomprehensible. I forced a calm I didn’t have while the horror observed me.

  Just like Azazel. He turned with a boyish grin, as if he knew something no one else knows, and stood there, appraising me, hammer still in hand.

  “May I offer you a humble cup of coffee?” He laughed, and evil laughed with him.

  His forge gleamed with tools. Horseshoes hung on a chimney. Anvils sat on tree stumps. Hammers lay around on the floor next to stacked shields. Wooden mannequins wore armor and helmets like statues of ancient heroes. Ore bars filled boxes, reflecting the sunlight. I could find all kinds of white weapons imaginable—swords, knives, axes, maces, war hammers, spears, pikes, halberds, scattered arrows, and even mounted ballistas, but no guns. Azazel followed a tacit code that considered medieval weapons romantic, an honorable equipment worthy for gentleman warriors and lady amazons. Gunpowder was a human invention. Never talk about gunpowder with Azazel.

  “It’s been ages. Did you come for some chit-chat?” he said with a smirk. Unlike mine, the angel’s appearance was solid, with no traces of ethereal waxiness.

  A beige shroud, ancient and sacred, wrapped his eyes. I still remembered them, though—bronze, amusing, and intelligent, but now forever banished from light.

  Souls in the Limbo preserved their true appearance, that revealed who they really were. Azazel’s revealed pride and rebellion, but also love and indignation.

  “What are you keeping here?” I asked, inquiring about the evil presence. He tilted his head, even more amused by my curiosity.

  “The Dudael is too big and I like to keep a light banter at times.” The Dudael was his Limbo. A bitter desert where Azazel was condemned to rot until Creation’s last day, then judged by his acts and burned to nonexistence.

  The terrifying presence was enjoying it. It seemed less ghastly, like a domesticated crocodile. Dangerous but contained.

  I changed the subject, because it was easier to pick up a greasy coin than insisting on something with Azazel.

  “I need your help.”

  His smile subsided. “Are you okay?” He knew me better than most. I have known Azazel since before his fall, from time immemorial, too ancient for the human mind to conceive. I didn’t remember when we last spoke, but he noticed something was wrong.

  “Yes. I just need a favor.”

  “Of course. Why else would you come here? What’s the matter with you?” He wasn’t smiling anymore.

  “I need to ask you something, man to angel. Or spirit to angel.”

  Azazel guffawed, clutching his stomach. “Forgive me, good sir.” He tried to control himself. “You have no idea, do you?”

  Later I would realize that Azazel had all the answers, but I had no questions.

  “Yes, they’ve changed you, I can see that.” He sighed. “Tell me, what happened?”

  “The Earth is in danger again. I need a weapon.”

  He lifted his chin and stretched, shifting his weight to another leg, making the chains binding his ankles clink and rustle. He must have thought I would go to Earth in person. I still didn’t have the heart to tell him he was the envoy.

  “What kind of weapon?”

  “A spiritual one.”

  Spiritual weapons were those used in battles among angels, demons, and all nonhuman species. Only immortal entities
could build them, using sparks of life and imbuing the blades with defeated, subjugated, or seduced spirits. In places like Limbo, they weren’t meant to kill. Death didn’t exist here, not by the hands of beings like Azazel and me. To die here meant to be eradicated in a definitive way. Ceasing to exist.

  He turned, walked as far as the heavy chains allowed, and returned. He rubbed his smooth chin and sat down on a tree stump.

  “I’ll do that for what we’ve been through. Then, we’re even. Just tell me one thing.” He leaned toward me. “Why do you still care about them?”

  What could I answer? I thought about why I loved humans, all the Creation that should be in the image and likeness of its Creator and couldn’t find in me the specific reason. Sometimes, I thought I loved them because I was told to. But they were interesting, different in behavior and in body. They lived little, and wanted to fill their short lives with pleasures and sensations, believing that a quick moment of happiness would last forever, but it only instigated them to seek even more escaping; others ignored the short duration of earthly life and postponed everything to the infinite tomorrow, which rarely arrived. Some understood the Great Secret and did their best with the time they had, short or long—they laughed, they loved, they accepted, they forgave, they did what fulfilled them, and at the next sunrise, they started all over. One day at a time. Time was always decisive for them, and that fascinated me.

  “Do you know what sets them apart from other species?” I asked triumphantly, making myself mysterious too.

  Azazel exhaled through his mouth, making his lips flap like a horse.

  “They can pretend sympathy for the enemy before killing them?”

  “Well—”

  “Were the only ones that lost their instincts for survival, feeding, and breeding?”

  “Okay, but—”