When the Villian Comes Home

by Gabrielle Harbowy

  “Surely,” I repeat myself, “this is a jest?”

  “Need you even ask?”

  I glare at the messenger, as though it’s his fault that my day—my routine—my kingdom—have been so suddenly and so swiftly hurtled into disarray. He keeps his face turned downward, unwilling or unable to meet my gaze.

  As it should be. Still, I’d give much to be able to read his expression just now.

  “You know what this says?” I ask.

  “Yes. I had to.”

  “And you’ve the power to make this happen?”

  “He’d not have sent me if I did not.” Still he looks only at his feet—feet that hover some fingers-widths above the searing, viscous surface, held aloft by gently flapping wings—but he reaches out toward me with a single hand.

  The key that lies upon his palm is such a small thing, white and gleaming even in the smoke. So small, and yet I would see entire worlds consumed in flame for just a chance at acquiring it.

  Or normally I would. But now, like this, I hesitate. I worry over the repercussions, over what I might be asked to surrender in exchange.

  And I balk at the notion of granting Him even this much satisfaction.

  But I’ll take it. I know it. The messenger knows it. He knows it. If nothing else, my curiosity allows me no other option.

  It feels like a snowflake falling into my hand, a touch of cold like I haven’t known in eons. And just like that, the chains fall away. They take seared flesh with them, but I scarcely even notice; their weight is gone from my wrists, my ankles. The rough, jagged cuffs, the miles of chain that grant no true freedom, but merely allow me to pace the borders of my kingdom-cell—gone.

  I stand. I stretch, arms and wings both; filthy, gray, covered in layers of soot thick enough to drown a man. Around me, the fires roar, their tips forming dancing, abstract shapes that vomit a greasy smoke. The skin and hair of a million million bodies crackle and snap. The air is thick with blood and brimstone, tears and screams. My legs burn with the touch of the Lake.

  All familiar, so familiar that I haven’t noticed any of it—the sound, the scent, the suffering—for centuries. I notice it now. For now, if only briefly, I am leaving it behind.

  I truly thought I would never see the day.

  Come home, the missive says. Very well. I stand straight, tall, unchained, unbowed, and the messenger shrinks before me.

  “Show me the way,” I command him.

  “Of course.” And then, as though it pains him to say it to an extent that even standing here, in the depths of my dominion, did not, he adds, “My lord.”

  I don’t even see the great expanse, the blistering flame, the jagged stone sides of the Pit, or the writhing masses of the Damned. They all, like my own agony, have become mere background, a fact of life, all but unnoticed. I have eyes only for the messenger who soars before me, playing guide and guardian in a realm that none know better than I. He has lowered himself to speak to me, descended in full knowledge of the grace that protects him, and still he fears. He won’t show it in his face, or in his posture, but he fears.

  I smell it, breathe it, revel in it, and I cannot help but chuckle. His wings quiver, just once, and he flies a tiny bit faster. I’ve no difficulty at all keeping up. As I said, I know my own domain far more intimately—

  Except, suddenly, I don’t.

  A crevice, slicing through the jagged stone, where no crevice has been since the dawn of time. I gawp, slack-jawed and hating myself for it, as the messenger circles once and begins a leisurely climb through the rapidly thinning smoke.

  But then, I can hardly expect the exit to simply have been standing open all this time, can I? Jaws, fists, wingtips all clench, and I force myself to follow once more.

  It should be a flight of centuries, a thousand years and more. Yet I know it won’t be; He could wait so long, but why?

  It happens between one wingbeat and the next. The sheer stone around us is gone, replaced by walls that gleam in blinding hues, despite the utter lack of any light source for them to reflect. Our feet touch down on a substance somehow both solid and fluid at once, a perfect cradle that conforms to our every step. We walk on a carpet of comfort made manifest, through a gentle breeze that smells of beauty and contentment.

  Everything around us glistens and gleams. Even me. The soot that has caked my flesh, my hair, my wings, my teeth, my tongue, is gone, just that swiftly.

  As is the pain. Gone. I haven’t been free of pain for one instant, not one, in so long. I’d grown so accustomed to it that its absence is, itself, a physical sensation. I find myself staggering as my body struggles against an absent pressure.

  I look about once more. The hallway has grown brighter, and a part of me wants to weep, because I know the extra light—the newest light—is my own.

  I want to, but I won’t. I won’t give them even that much.

  The two of them wait just up ahead, standing before a gate constructed of the golden glow of creation itself. Gabriel, with his horn slung at his waist, looks saddened; Michael, fist clenched upon his terrible sword, enraged.

  “Hello, brothers.” Though I know an unyielding courtesy would disturb them all the more, I cannot be bothered to keep the contempt from my voice.

  Michael scowls and says nothing. Only Gabriel speaks.

  “Hello, Lucifer. Welcome home.”

  5

  A human. They’ve placed a human soul to stand as the doorman at the gate. I’m shaking with fury as we pass, unable even to speak. By the time I’ve recovered, we’re long past, and it would be petty to say anything about it now.

  Besides, I’m swiftly too lost in my surroundings to worry about it.

  If the journey through Hell went by so quickly because I was already so familiar with the path, then the journey here slips by too fast because it’s simply too much to take in. Once, this was everything to me; my home, my world. I feel almost nauseously bitter at how it still touches me.

  I absorb only bits and snatches of the march. The walls and pillars, towering overhead, all colors and yet none. I hear the Choirs—not music, not really, but beyond music, an emotional symphony that plays directly to the soul. I am happy, though I know I shouldn’t be, even try not to be. Not only because, though I’d never confess it, I’ve missed the place, but because that is Heaven’s nature. As much a part and parcel of the surroundings as the suffering is below.

  Despite the distractions, I feel the eyes upon me. The souls of the Blessed, they see only my greatness, sense the glory moving among them. The others, though, they glare at me with fears and hatreds normally foreign to those who dwell in Heaven. I cannot help but smile. Even here, I hold such power over them.

  Then we are there, standing before the heart of Heaven, the center of creation. The Throne of God.

  Not a throne in the literal sense, of course; simply the one spot where we know He is to be found. The Choir has somehow grown louder and yet more distant; the walls seem to recede in all directions.

  And I can only squint into a light so bright, so pure, it blinds even these immortal eyes. I remember—only barely, but I remember a time when I could look upon Him directly, see Him clearly, without pain.

  I refuse, despite the bright, blinding pain, to squint.

  My brothers are kneeling. I don’t even remember seeing them drop; they’re just down. I? I bend knee to none, anymore, not even Him—but I bow my head in a gesture of respect. I think perhaps I even mean it.

  “Welcome back, my son.”

  It’s a “voice” in the same way Hell is a fire, or Eden was a garden. Less heard than experienced.

  “Father,” I say. And then, because I want to head it off before it can begin, “If your invitation came with the expectation of an apology, you’re sadly deluded. Nothing has changed for—”

  “No.”

  No? I’m a bit
startled, despite myself. “You owe me an explanation, then.”

  Gabriel gasps; Michael’s sword is halfway from its sheath, the flames along the blade casting a coppery glare across the floor.

  But He only laughs. I do not hear whatever it is He says to the others, but just like that they rise as one and turn. They’ve taken only a single step before they’re utterly gone.

  “An explanation you’ll have, then. I feel the need to be absent.”

  “Absent?” It’s not quite a scoff—even I am disinclined to be that rude—but it’s a near thing. “Are you not everywhere?”

  “In a sense, of course. But Creation has expanded much since I first spoke the Word, Lucifer. I would see parts of it myself. Experience it personally, physically, rather than at a remove.

  “In short, I intend to be away from Heaven for a time. A short time, in the scheme of things, but an important one all the same.”

  I realize that He’s not jesting with me—not that I really believed He would—and I’m honestly uncertain what to make of it. Has He ever absented Himself utterly from the Throne? From Heaven? If so, I am unaware of it, though of course my perspective from below is…limited.

  And why, why would He summon me here to tell me this?

  “If you hope to extract a promise,” I begin carefully, “that I’ll not interfere with the workings of Heaven while you’re away, this was a foolish approach. I’d never have known—”

  “I want you to take over while I am gone.”

  I cannot speak; I have been this stunned only once before, when He told us He would exalt mankind above us, His first creations. I stagger back, and only by catching myself against the wall am I spared the humiliation of actually falling.

  (Wall? Was this wall even here? I remember them being much farther away, mere moments before. He’s placed it precisely to spare me a worse stumble; I’m both irritated and pathetically grateful.)

  “I don’t…” I shake my head, trying to find my balance in a universe suddenly twisting from any path I could ever imagine. “I don’t understand.”

  “So I gathered.”

  “You want me to rule Heaven?”

  “For a time.”

  “But…Me?”

  “Yes.”

  “In any manner I choose?”

  I swear, though I cannot make out anything within the light, that He smiles. “No.”

  I knew it! I knew there had to be a catch! My astonishment swiftly subsides before a tide of suspicion. “What, then?”

  “There are rules, Lucifer. Rules as to what you may and may not do. Rules to determining which souls are worthy of punishment, and which of peace. What prayers to heed, and what to ignore. When to take a hand, and when to let nature run its course. Rules that you will follow, to the letter.”

  “And should I refuse?”

  “Should you refuse, I shall send you back. Should you agree and seek to circumvent our agreement, or abuse your position, I shall know, and I shall send you back. But agree, Lucifer—agree, and abide—and you may enjoy all the wonders of Heaven that have been denied you for so long, and at least a taste of the power you once held as My favored servant.”

  “Why?” I realize that I’m pacing—not merely back and forth but up and down, wings and feet working as one. “Surely Michael or Gabriel…”

  “Would follow my edicts without question. But Creation is vast. Events transpire that even My laws do not cover. Events that require decisions. That require a God. And My angels, loyal and skilled though they may be, are followers, not leaders. It is all I’ve allowed them to be.” The pure light flickers, growing briefly dark, mottled, angry. “You saw to that.”

  “I would rule.” I know I’m repeating myself, but I can’t quite wrap my mind around it.

  “Within reasonable boundaries, yes.”

  “And you’ve no other reasons? No ulterior motives?” I know that, whatever else, He will not lie to me.

  And He doesn’t. “I don’t believe I said that.”

  So. There it is. Everything I could possibly want, if only for a time. But with restrictions. Strings. Mandates. And for motives that He’s no intention of revealing to me.

  I should say no. I almost say no. What He offers is, though pleasant and prestigious, just another form of servitude.

  But if I agree, I might learn why He would make such an offer. And maybe, just maybe, I might show Him that I can do the job better than He.

  I think I surprise neither of us when I say, “I accept.”

  5

  It is a true throne, now, from which I observe my new domain. White, flawless, carved from stone that dates from the birth of land and sky and sea. I want no doubt, no convenient forgetting, of who rules here now.

  Not that they would forget. Not that they could. He ordered the others to obey me as they would Him, and though resentment burns in every glance and frustration twists every lip and wingtip, they do so, without complaint or hesitation. Their very nature allows nothing less.

  I revel in their conflicted deference, in their hatred, even as I despise them for all they’ve become. All they allowed themselves to become at His hand.

  But I don’t hate them, not the way I hate those with whom He would have replaced us.

  They shuffle along before the Throne, an endless line, a writhing worm of souls twisting into the distance. Soul after soul after soul. Pathetic, mud-clad, fading embers of the divine. I swear, even though all such things should have been left behind, I can smell the stench of their flesh, their petty hatreds, their simple lusts.

  It requires every bit of my restraint—a skill that, I admit, I have had little need to practice—not to damn each and every one of them merely for the sin of being born. To flood the bowels of Hell with souls until even the eternal Fires are in danger of suffocation.

  But I do not. He may not have left rigid guidelines, regarding who is worthy and who is not, but I certainly have a fair idea of His criteria. Somehow, I think that ignoring them would likely qualify as an abuse of my position. I must return eventually—I know this, I accept it—but I’d prefer to put it off, at least long enough to learn what He’s up to.

  So I judge, and to the best of my ability, I judge “fairly.” Those who have grossly violated His precepts, I let fall, to entertain my demons far below. Those who have not, or whose transgressions are minor, remain. The glowers cast my way by Michael and the others do not lessen in their intensity, nor their hatred, but I do sense a diminishing of their wariness and discontent. Apparently, my choices, by and large, meet with their approval.

  Hallelujah.

  It is a tedious task, the judgment. One that, in mortal time, would be neverending, occupying every moment I have from now until the end of the whole misbegotten race. But this is Heaven, and Heaven is—if only for the nonce—mine. Here, time, too, bends to my will. I tire of the task at hand, and put it aside. Until I wish it, the line of souls will grow no longer.

  I’ve time to walk the corridors and the parapets of the Kingdom.

  Choose the right spot atop the walls, and you can see anything. Truly, anything. From the rampart here, I gaze across the entire breadth of Heaven itself, watch as the souls drift in eternal contentment. My brothers flit this way and that, shepherding those souls, casting their own attentions downward, and—on frequent occasion—looking askance toward me, as though they might divine both my own mind and the reason He chose to place me above them. I actually find my contempt lessening in the face of our shared bewilderment; I’d very much like the answer to that, myself.

  From above the gate, I observe the entirety of mortal-occupied creation. Across every world our Father chose to endow with life, the beasts and lesser beings roam. Only a fraction of a fraction have souls, warrant any attention from me at all, but so numerous are the worlds that it still takes time to examine them all. I cannot help b
ut laugh at the workings of the mortal mind: Across a million languages and a hundred thousand planets, nearly all of their names for their own worlds translate, at least roughly, as “Earth.”

  And from the heights of the watchtower, I can see farther still. Farther out—and farther down. I can see into the Fire, and the demons and souls that writhe within. I swear I can even smell the brimstone, as nothing more than the faintest incense on the air.

  Small. From here, it’s so small. For a moment, I’m resentful, but only for a moment. I’m not down there anymore. I’m here, and I’ve time yet to prove that I’m anything but small.

  I turn and, ignoring the continued glares and glowers of the others, return to my duties—and my Throne.

  5

  “I need to what?”

  Raphael stands beside the Throne, his entire form radiant with light both physical and spiritual. His lip twitches, as he’s apparently taken aback by my questioning. It’s not that I failed to hear him—I’m just not certain I heard him correctly.

  I’ve been distracted. I hesitate to admit it, even to myself, but it’s true. In Hell, even when I’d grown largely accustomed to the constant agony, I was always aware of it. Every moment that went by was etched across my flesh, imprinted on my consciousness.

  Here, though? Here, without the pain, I have occasionally gotten lost in my activities. I’ve even come to enjoy the occasional challenge inherent in the judgment. Why did this mortal do what it did in life? Why did it commit its sins? Where does the soul deserve to reside? It’s…interesting.

  I’m honestly not sure how long I’ve been here, now, not that time has much meaning in Heaven anyway.

  But whatever the case, it took me a moment to pull my attention away from my task, to comprehend what my brother said to me. And now that I have, I find I have difficulty believing it.

  “I said,” Raphael begins again, “you need to come shape life.”

  And then, when it’s become clear to him that I’ve no idea what he’s talking about, “Follow me. Please.” He almost manages to hide the resentment and exasperation on that last word.