Leviathan

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  The excretions of Leviathan’s digestive system were beginning to have their effects upon him also. His skin burned, and he felt a wave of undeniable fatigue attempting to purge the fight from his spirit. Even the angelic presence became increasingly docile, and Aaron knew that it would soon be time to put his plan into effect.

  The interior of the beast gurgled and spat as it moved his mass through a series of powerful, muscular spasms—down what Aaron believed to be its esophagus—on his way to one of the still remaining digestive sacks hanging from Leviathan’s body. It was getting difficult to breath, and he felt his eyes grow heavy. Aaron wrestled with the idea of taking a bit of a nap before continuing with his course of action, but thought better of it, remembering the fate of the angelic beings that had been food for the great evil.

  Perversely enough, the trip down the monster’s gullet reminded him of one of those amusement park water slides as he attempted to bend his body in such a way that he could see where he was going. It was black as pitch within the monster’s stomach, and Aaron managed to summon a ball of fire and maintain it as he continued his twisting journey to the belly of the beast. Half of him wished he didn’t need the source of light, for the insides of a creature of chaos was not the most pleasant of places to see.

  There was an abrupt turn in the food tube, and Aaron suddenly found himself about to be deposited within one of the remaining digestive organs. This was not part of his plan, and he summoned a knife of fire, stabbing it into the fleshy wall of the digestive passage, halting his progress. He felt his surroundings roil, and knew he had caused the great beast discomfort. The son of a bitch doesn’t yet know the meaning of the word, he thought, releasing his hold upon the power within him—and even though more manageable than it had been before he was eaten, it took full advantage of a chance for freedom. If his plan was successful, Leviathan would have much more to worry about than simple discomfort.

  An incredible surge of energy coursed through his fluid covered body, and he felt his lethargy immediately burned away. He positioned himself within the stomach passageway and unfurled his wings as far as he possibly could; still holding on to the knife blade that acted as an anchor, preventing him from being pulled further into Leviathan’s stomach. Now wielding the full extent of his latent power, Aaron conjured an awesome sword of heavenly fire, illuminating his nauseating environment—and immediately began to put his plan in motion.

  He was about to show Leviathan the disastrous effects of eating something that did not agree with it.

  ••••

  If it were capable, the beast Leviathan would have smiled.

  As it swallowed down its latest morsel, a wave of contentment passed through the monster the likes of which it had never experienced. Leviathan could feel the pulse of the Nephilim’s power within it, and knew that this source of strength would be what would finally allow it to emerge from its prison of rock, and claim the world above as its own.

  It watched the others that had once been part of its nourishment, the angelic creatures, useless husks, drained and sprawled about on the floor of its prison, and realized that none had made it feel as glorious as it did now. The spawn moved excitedly beneath their parent’s protective scales, sensing that it would soon be time to leave the cave and emerge out into the world, where its reign would commence.

  It imagined that the Creator, in all His infinite wisdom, would send others to smite him—soldiers of the heavenly realm—that would all meet a similar fate as those who had come before. With the Nephilim’s strength, there was nothing that could stop Leviathan from recreating the world in his own likeness.

  Sated by the mere promise of new angelic energies, Leviathan prepared itself for the transforming influx of power that would soon awash it. It leaned its colossal, wormlike bulk against the cave wall and imagined what was next in its future. After countless millennia, it had the means to be free. The denizen of the depths would send its spawn out of the cave, to the settlements beyond, bringing the inhabitants, now under its control, to Blithe. Now it would have the substantial numbers and tools needed to be liberated from its rocky prison.

  And then its work would begin.

  The monster fantasized of a world transformed—sculpted as a representation of its own chaotic nature. It saw a place covered with churning seas, most of the landmasses swallowed up by volcanic upheaval, the skies gone black from volumes of ash expelled into the atmosphere to blot out the hated sun. And all the life upon the new world, that teemed upon what was left of the blighted land, and swam beneath the dark, ocean depths, would praise its name in worship.

  “Leviathan,” it imagined they would proclaim. “How blessed we are that you have touched us with your resplendent glory. Praise be the Lord of the deep, hallowed be thy—”

  It felt a sharp twinge of pain in the lower internal regions of its mass, a burning sensation that seemed to be growing. The monster removed itself from the wall where it had reclined, its head scraping the roof of the undersea cavern as it rose.

  “What is this?” it asked in a sibilant whisper full of shock and surprise as the discomfort intensified. “What is happening?”

  Never had it experienced such agony; it was as if there was a fire raging within its body—but how is that possible? it wondered. The heat of its pain was intensifying, the blistering warmth expanding up from the nether regions of its serpentine trunk to spread throughout.

  “This cannot be happening,” Leviathan exclaimed as the first of the remaining digestive sacks exploded, the fluids contained within brought to a boil from the raging internal temperatures of its body. Leviathan moaned in agony, powerless to act. Another of the sacks ruptured, spraying the walls in a bubbling stream—followed by another, and then another.

  The monster swooned, its pain-racked form crashing into the rocky surface of the cave walls. The spawn, normally protected beneath its armor of scales, rained down to the cavern floor, scampering about in frenzied panic—driven to madness by the pain of their progenitor.

  Leviathan wanted nothing more than to flee its prison, to have an opportunity to show the Creator that it, too, had a reason to exist. In its fevered thoughts it saw the glimpses of a paradise of its own design fading quickly away. It saw the black, roiling oceans full of life that it had helped reconfigure—a world of chaos that looked upon it as God and Master.

  “It would have been magnificent,” Leviathan moaned as the sword of fire erupted from the center of its body—and something that burned like a star emerged from the smoldering wound.

  Chapter Twelve

  CAMAEL SLOWLY removed himself from the ruptured digestive organ and gazed about his foreign surroundings with a cautious eye.

  While trapped within the prison he was made to believe that he had found the angelic paradise that was Aerie—and all the centuries of isolation and conflict he experienced had come to an end. The prophecy had occurred: The fallen angels of Earth forgiven by Heaven. It was bliss.

  As he looked around the subterranean cave, the reality of the situation was driven painfully home. He had not found Aerie, and where he now stood was the farthest from Paradise any angel could possibly be.

  A mournful wail rose in intensity, reverberating around the cavern, awakening the angel further to his environment. Camael turned to see the monster Leviathan in what appeared to be the grip of torture. The sea behemoth thrashed, its body viciously pounding off of the cave walls as it shrieked in pain.

  A sword of fire grew in his hand, a caution in case he should need to defend himself.

  “He is accomplishing what we could not,” said a voice nearby, and Camael turned to the Archangel Gabriel, withered and wane, leaning back against the stone wall.

  Camael bowed his head, recognizing the angel for what and who he was. “Of whom do you speak, great one?” Camael asked, returning his attentions to the flailing beast.

  “The Nephilim,” the desiccated emissary of Heaven whispered. “The latest messenger of God.”


  “Aaron,” Camael gasped as Leviathan continued its dance of agony. He watched awestruck as the skin of the beast smoldered, the protrusions that dangled obscenely from the monster’s front, and of which he had been captive within, exploding, their contents spraying the air with a steaming mist.

  “It would have been magnificent,” he heard the creature of nightmare rattle as a weapon of fire suddenly tore through its midsection, and a warrior angel—, one he first bore witness to only a few weeks ago—, stepped from the gash in what seemed a mockery of birth.

  He was about to call out to the Nephilim, but something stayed his tongue. Camael observed the half-breed, the offspring of angel and human, and was startled, and perhaps even a little concerned by what he saw.

  The Nephilim jumped from the wound in the sea beast’s stomach, his black-feathered wings flapping furiously, attempting to dry away the internal fluids that stained their sleek ebony beauty. In his hand he held a sword of fire—a weapon so fierce that it could rival those carried by the elite soldiers of Heaven. This was not the newly born being of angelic power that erupted to life mere weeks ago to avenge loved ones viciously slain, Camael observed. This was something all together different.

  Camael watched as the transformed youth rose into the air before the agonizing beast, his mighty wings beating the air, lifting him to hover before the face of his enemy.

  Leviathan lashed out at the Nephilim, its whiplike tentacles attempting capture, but falling upon empty air, the angel’s movements were so swift.

  “Damn you,” Leviathan roared, its thick, green life stuff draining out from the gaping stomach wound to pool upon the cave floor. “Damn you—and the master you serve.”

  Aaron hovered before the snarling face of the beast, sword poised to strike, and Camael marveled at the sight of it.

  “Got a message from the big honcho upstairs,” Camael heard the Nephilim cry as he brought the flaming blade down in a powerful arc aimed at Leviathan’s head. “You’re dead.”

  The fire blade cleaved through the incredible thickness of the sea beast’s skull with a resounding crack—the majority of the fearsome weapon buried deep within its monstrous cranium. It thrashed wildly in a futile attempt to dislodge the flaming weapon, but then grew impossibly still.

  Aaron withdrew the sword and held it proudly above his head, powerful wings beating, holding him aloft. A fearsome cry of victory filled the air, and Camael stared in awe as the gigantic body of the ancient sea deity began to burn. The first flames shot up from Leviathan’s head wound in a geyser of orange fire, the ravenous heat spreading down the length of the monster’s enormity—its scaled flesh, muscle, and bone food for the heavenly flames.

  Aaron flew down to the cave floor just as the monster’s body collapsed in a gigantic pyre of smoldering ash, and strode menacingly toward Camael. The spawns of Leviathan scrambled about the cave floor, their shells aflame—the final remnants of the ancient sea monster left alive—but not for long.

  Camael clutched his own weapon, unsure of the Nephilim’s true intentions. It would not be the first time that he had bore witness to a half-breed’s descent into madness after manifesting the full extent of its heavenly might.

  Aaron stood before him, heavenly armament in hand, and he studied the fearsome countenance of the Nephilim. In his weakened state, Camael wasn’t sure if he could survive a battle with such an adversary, but prepared himself nonetheless. Neither spoke, but the angel warrior watched for the slightest hint of attack. If there was to be battle, his first strikes would need to be lethal.

  “That thing really pissed me off,” Aaron said as a small smile played across his warrior’s features. “Glad to see you’re all right.”

  And Camael lowered his sword, confident that the Nephilim’s mental state was still intact—at least for the moment.

  Aaron placed his hand on Gabriel’s side, watching the rise and fall of the dog’s breathing. The Labrador’s yellow coat was saturated with slime. “Hey,” he said softly, giving his best friend a gentle shake. “It’s time to get up.”

  At first, the animal did not respond, his mind still in the embrace of doggy paradise. Aaron shook him again a bit harder. “Gabriel, wake up.”

  “I am awake,” replied the archangel wearily, still resting his emaciated frame against the cave wall.

  Aaron looked up. “I was talking to the dog,” he told the messenger of God. “His name is Gabriel, too.” He smiled briefly and looked back at his friend, who was finally beginning to stir. “Hey, pally, you awake yet?”

  The dog stretched his four limbs and neck, emitting a low, throaty groan that began somewhere in lower regions of his broad chest. Then he sighed, his dark brown eyes coming open. “I was having a dream, Aaron,” he said sleepily. “I was chasing rabbits and having lots of good things to eat.”

  Aaron stroked the dog’s head lovingly. “You can do all that stuff out here—without being eaten by a sea monster.”

  The dog lifted his head and gazed about. “Where are we?” he asked, sitting up. “The last thing I remember … the old woman,” he said, a wide-eyed expression of shock on his canine face. “She spit something at me, and it made me numb.”

  “Yep, I know,” Aaron nodded. “But I think we’ve taken care of that,” he said, and looked in the direction of the still smoldering remains of the mythological sea monster.

  “The spawn cannot continue to exist without the beast’s mind,” Camael said, standing over the fleshy sacks that Aaron had liberated from the monster’s body. He was checking to see which of the captives of Leviathan were still living. “They were all part of one great beast—and the parts cannot survive without the whole.”

  Gabriel stiffly climbed to his feet and shook, spattering the surrounding area with the digestive juices that still clung to his fur.

  “Watch that,” Aaron said, covering his face, his wings reflexively coming around to block the spray. “I’ve got enough of that crap covering me.”

  “Then you won’t notice a little more,” the dog said, and smiled that special smile unique to the Labrador.

  “Maybe there’s still a chance I can shove you back into one of those stomachs,” Aaron grumbled with mock seriousness, giving the dog a squinty eyed stare. Gabriel barked and wagged his tail, none the worse for his experience being captive in the gut of a sea beast.

  “Who’s he?” the dog suddenly asked, coming forward, his nose twitching.

  Aaron noticed the angel Gabriel now stood by him, and seemed to be studying his dog of the same name.

  “Gabriel,” Aaron said to the animal, “this is Gabriel.” He motioned toward the archangel.

  Gabriel padded closer, nose still sniffing, tail wagging cautiously. “That’s a very handsome name,” the dog told the angelic being.

  The archangel looked from the dog to Aaron, a quizzical expression on his gaunt features. “You named this animal—after me?”

  Aaron shrugged his shoulders. “Not specifically. It’s just a very regal sounding name. When he was a pup he looked like a Gabriel to me, that’s all.”

  “I was quite adorable when I was a puppy,” the dog said with a tilt of his blocky head.

  The still weakened angel carefully walked toward the dog, reaching out a trembling hand to touch the animal’s head. The Lab seemed to have no problem with that, licking the angel’s hand affectionately.

  “This animal has been changed,” the archangel said, stroking the fur on the side of Gabriel’s handsome face. “It is not as it should be.” The angel looked back, as if seeking an explanation.

  “Gabriel is very important to me,” Aaron began. “He was hurt—near death. I saved him.”

  “You saved him,” the angel repeated, holding the dog’s face beneath the chin and gazing into his dark chocolate eyes. “And so much more.”

  “He did,” Gabriel said looking back.

  “What other wonders can you perform, Aaron Corbet of the Nephilim?” the angel Gabriel asked, fascination in his tone.r />
  Aaron didn’t know what to say, feeling self-conscious beneath the scrutinizing eyes of the messenger of God. “I really don’t know, but…”

  “He is the chosen of the prophecy,” Camael spoke up. The former leader of the Powers was kneeling beside the now deflated digestive sacks, and the remains of the angelic beings they contained. He gazed at the bodies of the heavenly creatures, many just barely alive—on the verge of death. “What other wonders is he capable of?” Camael asked sadly among the desiccated and the dying. “He can send our fallen brethren home.”

  Aaron remembered what he had done for the dying Ezekiel—how his newly awakened power had forgiven the fallen angel of his sins and allowed his return to Heaven. This ability, this power of redemption, was what the ancient prophecy that had taken over his life was supposedly all about, and whether he liked it or not, it was his job to reunite the fallen angels of Earth with their creator.

  He found himself drawn to the dying angels, his entire body beginning to tingle as if some great electrical charge were building in strength inside him. Aaron was becoming familiar with these feelings. He moved amongst the withered bodies, their life forces taken by the voracious appetites of a creature of chaos, and felt an incredible sadness overtake him. How long—how many centuries has the monster been drawing them here? he wondered gazing down at what were once things of awesome beauty—now nothing more than empty shells of their former glory. Those that had fallen from grace, soldiers in service to the Creator, twisted mockeries of angelic life created for servitude: They were all here, lying amongst one another, all desperately in need of one thing that he was capable of bestowing upon them.

  Release.

  Aaron felt their great sadness—their disgrace, as the churning supernatural power inside him settled in a seething ball at the center of his chest. He knew precisely what to do; it now felt like second nature to him—like breathing, or blinking his eyes.