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If you have made it this far, you are now delving into one of my more coveted projects.  To give you a bit of background on this, I will first tell you that I cannot claim this story to be mine.  While in graduate school working in the library this entire story was unfolded in my mind in an instant.  The concepts contained within its finished texts are beyond my means of understanding.  I do not believe myself capable of fully grasping what was given to me.  I have the story... it is just a matter of getting what is in my head to the paper so that anyone that reads this will see what I have seen.  When all is said and done this will be nearing 400 pages in length. 

Ascent

This is not a story meant to append or change the word of God.  It is an attempt to explore the reaches of my imagination and challenge all that I have come to assume is true in my faith.  For myself, a faith that goes unquestioned is weak and subject to manipulation and defeat by the forces that wish to assert or maintain a popular rather than an honest understanding of the world around us.  It is a story and nothing more.  Let it speak to you as such.

Prologue

"Cold…

"Dark… 

"Silence… 

"Desolate… 

"That is the environment to which I have grown accustomed over this long exile.  All of these eons of hating and hurting have never eased the pain of being apart from my God.  He is your God, too.  Maybe he is your God alone.  Until this time, I never understood what it was to be human.  I had thought that all of mankind was greedy, jealous, murderous, lustful, and the millions of other things that spite the very name of God.  I had thought that your existence was blight on all that was holy and good.  I anguished, along with my innumerable brethren, at how God could continually accept these humans and reject his proven children. 

"I was an angel once.  We all were.  Then, I was a demon.  My glory and my crimes for and against God have been rarely matched since the formation of your world.  Before the great fall (the last of its kind), the disputes were infrequent and rare.  There was occasional bickering over who loved God the most, and whom God loved in return.  Occasionally, God would banish these disobedient ones to Earth for variable amounts of time.  And when their penance was completed, they were re-accepted back into their choirs with jubilant songs. 

"With greater passage of time, the disputes turned to altercations.  Entire choirs would align against one another and the words would turn to violence.  The banishments became longer, and God created other realms for penance to separate the choirs.  These other realms are what you now call "hell".  Gradually, the realms He created became darker and further from God's light and love.  After the creation of the 9th and most horrid penitentiary, God turned his full efforts to Earth.  He began to create new life.  This was upsetting to many of the angels, though this faction was a minority.  Most of the angels sang praises and rejoiced at the new marvels created by God. 

"It was at this time that God began to speak to us with greater infrequency.  God seemingly less noticed our songs, however grand and glorious.  God spent less time in heaven and more with Earth.  Soon, heaven became a bit more like hell… apart from God.  All the while, Earth became more like heaven.  It was soon bursting with life and every grain of sand, drop of water, ray of light, brilliance of color, scale on the lizards and fish, and all that was Earth and life became the tribute and song for God.  Our praises were lost in the melody of God's creation. 

"With the longer interludes of God's visits to heaven, the choirs began to split and fight amongst one another concerning who was left to keep and govern heaven for God until his return.  God would come back, hear our plights, set it right, and then set for Earth again.  The competition for God's approval and attention became more intense and intermingled with the increasing dissent and outright defiance against God.  The fighting became brutal, and our first of our brethren, Lucifer, killed another of ours.  He was the best of us.  He was God's favorite… forever loyal, passionate, graceful, and holy.  In a moment of weakness and rage at the words of blasphemy, he killed another angel.  He brought judgment on one of our own.  In effect, he broke the word of God to defend God.

"His punishment was severe.  He was banished to the darkest of realms, with no hope of ever being accepted fully into heaven's realm again.  He was allowed to walk in heaven when called upon by God, but he was stricken to the form of a beast.  His blackened form reflected the very black of hell that tormented him.  His once proud trenchcoat of feathers was now a leathery mass of dark and creaking sails.  The hooves that he wore as feet caused him to stumble and lumber about with difficulty in sharp contrast to the way he used to glide, effortlessly.  All that remained of his mane of flowing hair was a ridge of tangled fur, tracing the length of his spine.  To complete the visage, two onyx horns topped his skull like a mocking crown. 

"When we first saw him like this, he seemed ghastly to us.  But upon closer notice, his eyes reflected a saddened and pained heart that was devoid of the rage that condemned him.  As time progressed, the eyes turned from grief to glass.  He carried a dignity with his punishment.  He eventually adjusted to his stricken form.  Before long, he became sure-footed and walked as a nobleman might.  All the while, his expression became etched like an expressionless stone fixture upon a gargoyle.  He was later allowed to come to heaven under his previous form, but that was not for eons to come.

"Few of us could understand the pure scope of what was to come.  The horror of the death of Shorim (later to be known as "the blasphemer") amidst his cursing of God coupled with the damnation brought on Lucifer for committing the most horrible of crimes for the noblest of causes split the ranks of heaven.  But no one dared to risk the fate of our brother…. until you came.

"When God created humans with human souls, the dissent turned to insurrection.  You abominations (and you were at the time) killed all of God's other creations, you destroyed all that you touched, and you defied your maker without recourse.  The war in heaven erupted like a volcano of violence spreading its ashes of destruction throughout heaven.  Many of the brethren died during that time.  The very gates of heaven flowed with rivers of angelic blood.  The rage and carnage was unprecedented.  I, myself, ripped my brothers apart and beat any of their cohorts with their own limbs until they submitted or succumbed to angelic death.  Heads burst, bones shattered, entrails were worn like battle garb, and wings were crushed.  My wings turned black with the stain of blood, and my eyes stung with fury and defiance of the insurrection against God.

"I hated God for leaving us… and I hated my brethren for accepting this horrible fate… but what I hated most was the pure blasphemous cries against God.  I hated those brethren that voiced what I felt.  I stood before God with the thousands of my new brethren in the newly formed damnation choir and was handed the sentence of Lucifer's fate.  

"The great fall marked the most terrible event in the history of angels.  At being cast into the belly of hell, we changed form.  We became hideous and chaotic.  The feathers turned to scales, teeth turned to sweaty fangs, and songs turned to screams.  Millions upon millions of screams against a background of nothing.”

……

"I was there when the very first human soul cried out to the God that they never acknowledged.  I was there when the countless billions followed and have wailed for release ever since.  Those cries broke the terrible silence that initially overcame the damnation brethren following the brief time directly after the fall.  They blanketed me with the satisfaction of the torment you endured. 

"Strange that you talking monkeys are able to put a concept like 'forever' into a neat and tidy little word.  You hardly know the depths of yourselves, much less the creator that made you.  I had assumed that you were all self-serving, disobedient and blasphemous creatures that my God chose over me.  ME, one of His favorites for the eons before you changed everything.  I had hoped that you were nothing more than His novel amusement for a millennium or two.  And all the while, I reveled in your pleas, your cries, your anguish, knowing that this was proper, this was just.  I thought that none of you understood the absolute glory of your maker and the obscenity of your wrath against him.  So your agony has been my refuge for this long exile from Heaven…. until now.

"They said it was a mistake.  You know the line, 'We had a mix-up at the front office with the paper shuffling… blah, blah, blah.'  One thing leads to another, some new rookie passes the buck and v'oi la!… there she was.

"The boss got plenty steamed and kept ranting about how nothing will be the same again.  If I had not seen her for myself, I would not have believed it.  But there she was, and (just like he said) everything is now changed…. forever.

"There were only a few of us that actually saw her (the higher-ups were quick to return her to the right place), but it was enough to start the second war in Hell.  We probably do not have a chance, but this truth must be made clear.  Existence is marked by more than remembering and changing.  It is most pronounced when we are being.  The new 'ascending demons' must no longer act as demons, but as the proud angels they once were.  The shadows are no longer my refuge, but my torment; and your cries no longer give me comfort."

1

Beginnings are crucial in establishing relationships.  Often, a first impression leaves a lasting imprint on how two or more persons relate to one another.  A good first day is as golden as thirty or more subsequent days.

*click* 

The room was a cement shack.  The ancient mortar blocks cracked and screamed silently from the weight of years of neglect and pinion.  The earth beyond quietly bore its weight on the other side.  Looking at the surrounding walls, one might have thought they might crumble at any moment and give way to a torrent of dirt and crawlies that are born life under the soiling muck from the city above.  The colors blotched according to the seepage of water-staining and bore little resemblance to what may or may not have been a vibrant green or cheery blue in the years prior to neglect.  The room's inadequate lighting reflected the drab of crusting beige and dismal brown forefronting the walls' character of years ago.  A single light hung low directly over a rickety table and swung slightly, creating a lulling undulation of illumination like the gentle sway of creaking pines in the slightest of breezes.  The air was saturated with the musk of mold and hooker candy.  The room was windowless because it was just underground.  No sound emanated from the outside hallway.  All that stirred in this little prison was one of the two occupants in the room.

Against the wall at one end of the room, a man sat perfectly still in what looked to be a comfortable, but weathered, recliner.  The older cushions lazily gave way to envelop its inhabitant.  The figure had every proportion of a slender man in his late twenties or early thirties.  He was perfectly shaven and nothing marred the surface of perfectly smooth and ethereally lucent skin.  He was the perfect specimen of a man.  Too perfect.  He was too beautiful and out of place for the dismality of his surroundings.  His hair was dark, slick, and long.  The bangs draped carelessly over half of his face.  Behind the silken tendrils of his hair, two orbs glinted in time with the sway of the light.  The eyes were stoic and watchful…. taking in every detail of the other terribly animate occupant.

The man opposite the watcher was the antithesis of beautiful and still.  He looked as if he hadn't shaved for days.  A lit cigarette with a mile of ash dangled from the corner of his mouth.  He jittered away at his work with a small camcorder on a tripod and 9" monitor sitting atop the rickety table in the middle of the room.  His hair was unkempt and looked as if a butch-wax bomb had been detonated over his head.  With the occasional finger combing, his hair became more unruly and more closely resembled a crown of thorns.  The only break in his scampering was the occasional pause to take a swig of scotch from a hazy glass.

"Okay, we're rolling,” the rasp of Mr. Jitters was indicative of his impending death due to emphysema.

"Rolling?" the watcher's voice filled the room with a resonating timbre.

"The camera is filming.  We are now recording your story," Mr. Jitters exaggerated his gestures of a rolling motion and spoke stintedly as if he were talking to a near-deaf elder.

"Don't you need a writing device of some kind?  You people do not communicate through thought, do you?"  All that moved was the pretty one’s mouth and the crease between his eyes to accompany his inquiry.

"Uh… no.  It's a machine that doesn't require writing.  It records what you look like and what you do and say," agitation came easily to Mr. Ugly.

"This little thing?” The glamorous one eyed the monitor, “I find that hard to believe.  I have only seen still paintings of myself, and that does not even look like me."

"No…. this is what is called a television," said the jittery-one touching the monitor, "This is what does the recording.  Here… look.  Move your hand or somethin'."

He waved his hand and looked at the monitor.  The rise and fall of his eyebrows suddenly gave life to form of what had just seemed otherwise inert, "Remarkable!  You humans are simply too clever.  I continually see more of why He loves you people so much."

"Well… sir, last I checked there wasn't anything but humans (and cockroaches) in this little shithole hell-dump of a room.  And who is 'he'?"

A protracted sigh.  "This is not the way to begin…" A perfect hand is raised to support a perfect head by the chin and temple in apparent concern.

"Fine then, mister," said ugly as he raised a hand to interrupt, "Just... tell us a little about yourself, okay?  We are wasting time, here.  Jeez, it's already been half and hour!"

"An… hour?"  Pretty regarded his empty wrist in the same manner as his counterpart, "What is an hour?"

"It's part of how we measure time?" The unkempt one eyed the talking statue,  "You know, 60 seconds in a minute.  60 minutes in an hour...  Are you on something?  Should I be calling a nearby institution which you call home?"

"On something?”  Again, the brow wrinkled before the head swiveled downward and then back up, “I am on this chair…"

"Christ!"

*click: fade to black*

*click*

"Okay, now that we have established what measuring time is and a couple of other language and/or cultural barriers, we are ready to begin… again.  It is now…" Ugly regarded his watch.

"10 hours, 32 minutes, 11 seconds p.m. on the 5th day of June."

Jitters paused and blinked before smirking, "Apparently, it doesn't take you long to become an expert on shit."

"I have to try and understand you humans if I am to adequately relate to you the story that you must know."

"Again with the 'human' thing!  Are you going to start spouting shit like you are from the planet Zenthar and that your world is short of tapioca pudding and large-breasted nurses named Helga?!  I swear to God if Jim sent me on another mental case round-up, I'll kill him!"

The watcher became relatively animate with the closing of his eyes and bowing of his head as he sighed, "This is not what I expected.  This will be much harder than I previously thought."

The jittery one, seeing the completely sane look of resignation and slight frustration on the watcher, changed his demeanor to a apologetic stance, "Forget it, pal," he said with renewed patience, "When you subsist on nicotine and ramen noodle soup shit, you tend to get a little jumpy.  Let's start over.  How about a name?"

"A name?  How do you mean?"

He paused to refrain from getting angry again.  He continued after a second, "Okay….  A name helps people, like myself, identify with someone like you.  In a sense, your name becomes a defining moment or entity in those persons' memories and mental make-up.  When someone gets a name, they link it with who a person is, what they have done, what they look like, what they do, and generally a story of some sort.  It is sort of like capturing the essence of someone and wrapping it into a little word form.” He made a squishy gesture with his thumb and index fingers.  He then glanced upwards a bit as if he were trying to spot some escaping and distant memory, “Sometimes a name can become bigger than the person it is meant for."

After pausing for a moment seemingly to let the concept sink in, the pretty one softly said, "I see.  That was a bit more of an explanation than I expected for a simple translation.  Though it is an elegant or poetic description.”  He resumed speaking again so as not to seem rude or sarcastic, “So what is your name?"

Twitchy blinked a couple of times, "Um, I’m Nathan… short for Nathaniel."

A slight grin teased the face of the watcher, "Strange.  Tell me, Nathaniel, have you ever read The Bible?"

Nathan braced himself for a zealot's onslaught of Jehovah’s witness-like ranting, "Never got around to it.  Mom used to take me to church and that stuff, but I later found it to be full of hypocrites and shit.  I never resolved the conflict, so I adopted a more personal philosophy.  I guess I held onto the basics like 'Be kind to your fellow man' and the rest of it."

The smile widened a touch and immediately receded, "I just read The Bible recently, myself."  Raising his eyes from the camera’s lens, Nathan did not expect such a reply.  "It is full of important stories that you should probably know.  You would do well to read them.  You might even find the significance of your name, there.  One such story in particular might interest you."  He paused to let his words take effect, "So, Nathaniel, you will be bringing my message to the world?"

"I don't know about that.  I suppose that depends on your story and my boss.  And if your story is good enough, not even my boss can keep me from telling the world.  Not that the bastard would pass up on an opportunity to take credit for a good story, though."

"Perfect.  Strange, mysterious, and wondrous ways…." The watcher seemed to be drifting into a state of mental odyssey.

"So what is your name, sir?" Nathan asked in an attempt to keep his interviewee from straying too far.

"Of course,” as pretty reacquainted himself to the world about him. “I am called Delevar," his expression returned to its stoic form, "I do have a story, and it is vital that you tell everyone.  You will take it and warn all of mankind that there is second war in hell, and that it is no longer bound to hell.  It is making its way to Earth, and you need to prepare yourselves for the coming trials.  Look at your monitor."

"Shit!"  Nathan nearly overturned the table with his reaction to stand defensively.  He shifted his guard between the man and the monitor.  He immediately reached for his scotch and examined it. "How the fuck did you do that?!?!  Did you slip me something when I wasn't lookin'?!?"  He quickly shook the remaining contents of the glass into the nearby sink.  His hands trembled noticeably, trying to steady himself against a world that was fast becoming surreal.

"Listen carefully, Nathaniel.  You wanted a story, and this is it.  You have apparently been chosen by God to take this story to the world.  I am what is called an ‘ascending demon'.  What you saw before you just now is my banished form.  This is much to take in, I know, but you must listen and try to comprehend the sheer importance of what I am telling you."

"How?  What did…?  Oh my God!  OhmyGod, ohmyGod, ohmyGod!"

"Shhhhhh!" Delevar's stoicism turned grim as he held up his hands, "If you knew the weight your words carried, you would not say them so casually... Nathaniel!  Listen to me!  Look!"  He rose from his chair, approached, and knelt before the table where Nathan sat, and directly addressed him.  Nathaniel was busily shaking new splashes of scotch into his glass.  The rattle of the clinking bottle-against-glass was rabid.  Delevar reached across the table and gently took hold of Nathan's wrist easing the clinking a bit, "Can you do this?  I need you.  I need to know if you can see this through."

"Okay… okay," Nathan was breathing so heavily that his head was starting to spin with hyperventilation more than the booze, "I'm okay."  He closed his eyes tightly and quickly opened them wide again as if he were desperately trying to loose the remnants of a bad dream.  With a deep breath and a sigh, he grasped the neck of the bottle and resolutely slid it and the glass aside.  The contours of the wood rumbled in opposition to the disturbance to its peaceful rest.

"Should we begin, again?" The demon suddenly became gentle and the timbre in his voice resonated with calming reassurance.  The image on the screen was normal again, and the ground began to reclaim its stability.

"No!"  Nathan blurted, shedding the last of his panic, "I mean… It needs to be this way.  People need to see what I see if they are to hear this.  Otherwise, no one will believe us."

"Good.  This is as it should be.  This is precisely why you need to bring this message, because you know how humans will react.  War is coming and I need you to guide me in how people need to hear this story.  Do you understand?"

"Yes.  I understand," Nathan briefly wondered if he truly did, but he carried on, nonetheless.

"Then it is time to begin."

2

A candle in complete darkness becomes a star to nearby islands in space.  It not only illuminates the surfaces and warms the textures, but it brings hope to darker hearts.  Sometimes, illumination hurts if the eyes have been deprived of light for too long.

Nathan wiped his forehead.  The room was feeling stiflingly warm, "So what you are saying, sir—"

"Delevar."

"Sorry.  What you are saying is that this war was started by someone that was sent to hell by mistake?"

"A little girl…. And she did not start it; her presence merely caused a chain of events that led to the second war.”  Delevar paused to reclaim the details, “She radiated with purity.  As the soul of a child, she felt fear, without anger towards us, and that alone shone like a beacon.  I will never forget her," Delevar's expression suddenly became stricken.  "She was the little piece of heaven that so many of us struggled to remember, while many others strove to forget.  She was a small child with chin-length bronze hair that neatly circumferenced her head.  Her eyes watered with true grief… like the grief that the angels had when being cast from heaven.  She cried for her mother, like so many of us cried for our heavenly father that horrible day and the many days afterward.  The few of us that came into contact with her immediately knew the danger for her."

***********

Two demons sat upon a ridge peering at the doorways below.  They were a distance of several hundred yards from the main gateway leading to Hell.  One of the demons sat a bit higher, atop a rocky crag, attentively scanning the rows of gateways, while the other sat leisurely in a reclined position much as two lions might appear at mid-day on the plains. 

The attentive, shifty one was a darkened crimson color and would have seemed to be of muscular build had his skin not been toughened like tortoise hide.  Myriad bony protrusions speckled his mass in random fashion and clicked against one another like little teeth to interrupt the continual stretching-creaking sound of his skin.  His massive arms ended in daggered fingertips seeping with bloodlust, and his ears were like those of the horse atop his cranium with a constant twitch as if they were swatting away flies.  His entire form writhed with anxious impatience and uneasiness.

The other was in stark contrast.  His body was an oozing corpuscle of blood soaked muscle, bone, guts, and sinew.  The sharpened edges of the rock looked as if they should easily untangle this mesh of living steak.  Instead, he lounged as if he were sinking into the rock with complete ease and comfort.  The blood pooled and trickled down across the rocks like a stream of molasses.  The only thing about him that stirred was the slight rise and fall of him breathing in time with the gentle rise and fall of a pair of skeletal wings.  The span of the wings was about ten feet and they fanned gently, as would a giant moth or monarch butterfly.  He seemed to be meditating deeply amidst his oozing.

The gates were always busy with the entrants of hundreds of new human souls.  Most of them never suspected the eternal horrors that await them just inside.  None of them ever heard the millions of screaming souls on the opposite side of the ridge where the two demons perched.  Many human souls often fought one another coming in while others entered into hell with arms interlocked.

"I always enjoyed this shift.  I love watching them before they realize what is in store for them.  It never gets old," said the attentive one.  He always sounded as if he were ready to spring.

"I know… the screams are like music to my ears.  Keep sharp my friend.  If one of them makes a break for it we might be in for a real treat today," the voice of the oozing one replied.  His voice carried a deepened tenor to it.

"You know we never get anything really new, here.  These humans always come in, they are scared shitless because they can't see squat, and they commence the millennial screaming as soon as realize how badly they're fucked.  Same routine in various forms.  It never gets old, though."  A slight grin flashed a fang beneath the folds of his orifice as he remembered some grim and hapless past torment.

"Nevertheless… the gates are pretty busy today.  We have got to ensure that every soul is apprehended and with the recent breakout—"

"I know, I know.  I'm lookin'."  Shifty eyes resumed his scanning.

A quick-jump portal opened.  They always appeared when the gates were especially busy.  With a quick flash, a soul or two would be transported to the surface in more or less random locations before the ridge to ensure that the watchers for that day would see their entry.

"Right on cue.  Should we go pick it up?"

"No.  It is close enough to keep an eye on.  We can watch it a while before escorting it in."

The two resumed their activities for a few moments.  R'katro's eyes shifted for a bit and then uncharacteristically fixated on something distant. "Is the teleporter working correctly?  Have they ever glowed like that after entry?"

"Probably just another glitch.  It happened when we first started it, but not since.  It should go away in a couple of minutes."

The two resumed their previous states.  The periods of silence were often long between them and the conversations were normally very brief.  However, the relationship between them was very close.  The silences were comfortable and their loyalty towards one another had long been established and reiterated time and again throughout the ages and trials spent together.  A minor scuffle at one of the far gates caught their attention.  The guard demons were breaking up the paired humans.  The human putting up the fight quickly found himself being slapped by his own severed hand.  Meanwhile, the glowing soul had ambled its way up the ridge, pausing intermittently, completely unnoticed.

"Mommy?"  The two looked at one another, and then in the direction of the sound.  The entity that had come through the teleporter had made its way to within about one hundred yards of them.

"What the hell is that?" the oozing one uncharacteristically jolted.

"I don't know, Delevar.  Since when did these humans come in little form?  This one is small.  No wonder she died so quickly.  Do they normally look like that?  And what is with the glow?  Could she be dangerous?"

"I have seen little ones before, but not like this.  Better stay clear of it, R'katro.  Let me test the waters.  You know how tricky these things can be sometimes."

"Haven't fooled me for centuries now," R'katro teasingly retorted.

"Just stay clear, okay?"  Delevar approached the little soul.  This one was unlike anything he had ever seen before.  He had seen smaller souls, but none of them possessed the features that this one did.  It looked like a midget but with smoother and more proportionate features.  He had seen dwarves and midgets before, but this thing looked different.  And the closer he got, the warmer he became.  He stopped.

"Mommy?" again the voice sounded sort of like it was pleading, but not like any of the other souls typically did from time to time.  It was a sort of simple asking without hint of demand or bargaining.

"R'katro.  Come here.  Stand next to me, but do not get any closer to her." 

R'katro, sensing Delevar's apparent uneasiness cautiously approached. "It's a she?"

"I believe so.  I am not entirely sure, though." He leaned closer to his companion, "Do you feel that?" Delevar whispered.

"What is it?  It seems familiar somehow, but I can't place it," R'katro's reply was equally quiet.

"I think it's warmth!"

"Yes!" the gasp was audible just beyond a whisper.

"Mommy?  Mommy!  I cant see!" her voice gave indication that panic was about to seize her coupled with the excitement of finding someone else.

"I have not felt that warmth since…" Delevar cut himself off.

"It may be a trick." Uncharacteristically, R'katro was taking the cautious stance, perfectly switching roles with himself and his partner.

"No human has ever been able to emanate that warmth… not in their entire existence.  It is against their nature.  They have no God in them.  The only other one with this warmth was the man-God." 

"She does not look like any Christ to me." 

"But she still produces a glimpse of the light and warmth of heaven.  And listen…" Delevar’s face crinkled slightly with strain.

"What?  Delevar, you are talking madness.  Get a hold—"

"LISTEN!" Delevar's face took on a solemnity that left no question to its sincerity.

R'katro returned the gaze, shook his head, and concentrated on trying to hear.  The ears stopped twitching and directed towards the girl.  The silence was perfect when not broken by the intermittent sobbing of the child.  He was about to face Delevar again when the faintest sound caught his attention.  It was not a bit of noise, but a tone.  As he concentrated harder, others accompanied the tone, and it changed with pattern...  It was a song!  The soul was resonating a song!  It was a song like those of the angels! 

R'katro's deepened concentration thrust him further into the world of the song and all else faded to the background.  At that moment, what could have been a memory became a brief reality when what seemed like the gates of heaven opened like the bursting of a dam at the sheer pressure of the song's resonance.  The flood of joy and warmth washed over him and drowned him in the ecstasy that was Heaven.  And as soon and the gate had opened, they closed.  The tides subsided, and R'katro was thrust back to the ice of his penitentiary.

R'katro regained consciousness in the arms of his friend.  His body was still resonating with the song of the child who remained some short distance away.  No other demons had come upon the scene yet.  They probably would not notice the absence of their watchers, but the danger of discovery was still eminent.  He reached up to steady himself by Delevar to find that his arm was not the nogahide that it was before.  He had an arm of angelic flesh as it was before the fall!  He quickly turned his forearm over to see his name.  It was there.  His name appeared in angelic script (À) just as it had existed so many millennia ago.  As he stared intently.  Soon, the mark began to fade, and the flesh turned crimson and hard again.  His screaming went unechoed, but heard by his ancient friend… and a little girl.

************

"I'm scared!  I can’t find my mommy, I can’t see!  Help me!  Are you hurt?"  The girl was getting dangerously close.  The light was nearly blinding, and she was apparently navigating towards the sounds of R'katro grieving.

"Stay there," Delevar said flatly.  His voice sounded hollow compared to the song he had just heard.  He busied himself with the comfort of his friend, "Shhh, my friend.  I will see you through this.  We will get to the bottom of this."

"Maybe I can help," the girl proclaimed.  "He is sad."  Turning to the sound of R'katro's sputtering, "Mommy used to hold me when I was sad—"

"Stay where you are!"  The hiss of Delevar's voice was hideous and augmented by the sudden animation of his fleshless wings extending to their full span. "I do not know what sort of monster you are, but you will not be allowed to continue with this game of yours!"

"But," the girl's panic began to return, "there is nobody here.  I'm scared, and—"

"Get used to it you little monster!" Delevar was trying to maintain his rage, but his efforts were giving way to a primal instinct wholly inappropriate for the situation.  He wanted to embrace and welcome this little soul despite the xenophobia that raged for the command of his senses.

The girl stopped.  The sniffles and hiccoughs of tears erupted.  She then did something wholly alien to the ancient demon-angel.  She dropped to both knees, assumed a fetal position, and began to rock back and forth.  Amidst her crying, Delevar detected a slight whispering.  She was praying! …  She was praying just as an angel would, but she was no angel! 

Her light became brighter and the heavenly warmth overpowered Delevar's sense of resolve.  He left his friend's side and walked towards the girl.  Again, the song bathed him and soothed him.  He found that the closer he came to the girl, the more his form changed.  The exposed mesh of assembled flesh began to reform, and the blood trail where he walked began to disappear into the rock and dust.  The wings of menace turned to wings of warmth and comfort, and the skeletal apparition regained its original form with pristine white feathers.  By the time his reaching hand made it to the girl, it was indeed a hand… an angel's hand.

The girl's head rose and turned to meet her comforter.  She was a beautiful porcelain cherub with tear-stained cheeks.  She was a little piece of God.  "Are you God?"

Delevar could not hold back his tears.  "No little one.  I… am an angel."

3

Hope can never be killed.  It can only be suppressed or forgotten.  If fed correctly, a drop of hope can quickly become an ocean.

"So, what you are saying is that all demons are really angels in hellion form?"

"No.  The original ones of us are.  There have been many demons created since.  Some were created from human souls, some were remnants of half-souled creations made by God, and still others were created in the very bowels of hell.  A few of us dared to try to emulate and even surpass God's glory with attempts to create as God did.  The results were nothing short of monstrous.

"We called them fledglings.  Their powers were horrible and most of them had killed their makers.  None of the fledglings had held rank, but they have overrun the lowest level of hell.  Most of the original demons do not venture there anymore.  Few of the fledglings wander out, occasionally, but most remained among themselves in the lowest level of Hell.  The superiors kept them in check if they caused too much trouble.  The rest of us pretty much stayed clear, lest we face losing a body part of choice... or worse."

"I see.  And have any of these demons ascended to earth?" Nathan seemed as if he half-expected an army of demons to pop through walls at the mention of a 'Yes'.

"Some, but not many.  The road out of hell has proven to be difficult for anything aside from a human soul.  Many of my brethren have become so accustomed to their surroundings that the lure of Heaven is no longer enough to risk eternal death.  The other demons have never really known anything else.  Also, most of us would have preferred the company of one another in Hell over the prospect of being around humans."

"So demons can die?  They can eat a bullet and cease to exist, like humans?"

"Not exactly.  In a sense, angelic death is worse than human death.  Because we do not have souls, we do not endure beyond one plane of existence.  When we die, nothing short of an act of God can bring us back.  When humans die, their souls endure.

"However, the act of killing a demon or angel of any sort is harder than killing a normal human being.  And the more powerful the entity, the more difficult killing them becomes."

"Would people know a demon or angel if we saw one on the street?"

"Not unless we wanted you to see us as we are.  Chances are not likely that you have ever seen either in your lifetime.  Angels tend to prefer anonymity and discretion, and demons never get assigned out of hell.  Only a handful of renegade demons have ever made it out, and rumor had it that they were found and destroyed by their superiors.   Chances are better that you probably do not want to see either."

"I see.  Getting back to your story, sir—"

"Delevar."

"Sorry," he put up his hand in apologies, "I am trying.  Honest."

"I know.  You were about to ask me about what happened after we encountered the girl?"

"Yeah.  Should I even bother asking questions, or should you just go ahead and jump right into the dialogue."

"If people are to hear this story, they must know what questions are being addressed."

"I was being sarcastic.  I don't suppose they have humor down in hell."

"Humor?  I do not --"

"Forget it," Nathaniel shook his head and put up his hand, "That would take too long to explain.  We'll tackle that one later."

"As you wish.  Shall I continue, then?"

************

The girl was shining brilliantly.  Delevar knew that they could (and probably would) be seen by now.  He had to act quickly.  Others would come and not all would welcome the new anomaly, especially the fledglings. 

Delevar soon found R'katro standing by his side.  He looked as he did before the fall, with the swaddling robes flowing around a pristine figure.  He knelt beside his long-time companion and shared in the embrace with the girl.

"Are you going to take me back to mommy?" the girl's once sad eyes now glimmered with hope.  The two had not seen hope entrenched in absolute faith like this for some time.

"We have to take you somewhere else, little one.  Others will care for you until your mother is ready to join you."  Delevar turned to his companion.  "She should not be here!" he whispered to his friend, "There must be some mistake!" 

"We have to move her.  The others are bound to come and some of them—"

"Yes, we do.  Who can we trust?"

"If I can get her past the gate quickly enough, Bolgero would help us."

"Are you sure?  I mean, we do not always see eye to eye on things," Delevar's expression mirrored R'katro's concern.

"He is the best option we have right now.  He is working in conjunction with the teleporter boys, which sets him far enough apart from the rest of the gate stations.  He was a damn fine officer, which did not leave much to question during the war concerning his loyalties.  That doesn't include the fact that he saved my hide a few times." R'katro stopped and looked at his new hideless frame.

"You're right.  You take the female and pull rank if you have to do so.  If he asks questions, tell him it is a new protocol for drill and good reaction time is paramount.  And if that fails, send for me.  I will resume my station on the ridge, and–"

"Report!" the voice was booming despite its distance, and the girl's startle was immediately silenced by R'katro's hand.

"Who is it?" R'katro whispered to Delevar, "Vilchnesken?" He knew that a few of his brethren would not be far away as they manned their posts.

"I think it is Mynfil.  Keep her safe.  There may be others.  I will talk to him."

"R'katro!  Delevar!  Report!  Why are you not at your station?!"  The intonation was becoming more incessant. 

Delevar quickly made his way to his original spot on the ridge.  He stopped at a comfortable distance.  "Mynfil?  Is that you?  Delevar reporting, sir."  He rattled off the usual protocol.

"Delevar!  What the…?!  Why are you glowing?"  It was Mynfil, and his voice indicated skepticism on the identity of the reporter.

"Sir, it is my duty to inform you that we are running tests on emergency action protocols.  The test has just begun and you are to report to Halvnosh immediately."

Mynfil was a large creature with blunted features.  He stood nearly 8 feet high on legs and feet that held the jointed structure of a typical dog but covered in glistening scales of black, red, and other darker shades of color.  A tail of lizard proportions stretched and twitched in feline fashion, seemingly apart from the rest of Mynfil's form.  His torso was relatively human with scaly skin, but had arms that ended in one large thumb with two equally large fingers instead of the conventional four.  His head was the most striking feature as his black orbs for eyes nearly accounted for half of his face.  His mouth was nothing more than a tight pucker of an orifice without the characteristic line to denote its place.  However, whenever Mynfil spoke, that little pucker would become extremely animated and often large to reveal a virtual cavern of stalactites and stalagmites of teeth.  His hair appeared only in occasional and random strands.  His form was nothing short of ominous.

"Why was I not notified?  Where are your orders, Delevar?"  Mynfil began his approach and stopped short at a distance of ten feet.  "What is this?  This is not a protocol drill!  What is happening here?  Why do you look like that?"

"Sir…" Delevar quickly realized his situation and disposed with the militant procedures giving way to a more time-honored and intimate demeanor, "My friend, I do not think you understand fully what is happening here.  I can scarcely grasp it myself."  He approached his superior and presented the underside of his arm in an angelic salute (Ã), "Something has happened… and we need your help."

Mynfil's already large eyes widened.  He quickly assumed a place facing Delevar, and he seized the angel's arm for inspection.  His grasp nearly enveloped Delevar's forearm.  The initial shock of seeing an out-of-place angel was followed by another.  "You're warm!  How did this happen?  Has your penance been lifted?" The eyes lost their eternal militancy and expressed an exuberance he struggled to keep in check.

"I am not sure, but I think that a serious mistake has been made.  A soul has entered through the jump-gate portal that is unlike any that I have seen.  It is like the legendary soul of the Christ, but not of God.  She should not be here, and we need your help to quickly remove her from this place," Delevar made no attempt to hide his pressing need for expediency.

"Take me to this soul.  I need to see," Mynfil started and then paused.  His eyes again widened with recollection, "Vilchnesken has taken post, flanking the lighted figure!  We need to get back quickly!"

Angel and demon swiftly began their way back to the girl.  All had seemed perfectly untouched from a distance, and Delevar had not been gone for more than a few short minutes.  He did not know Vilchnesken well, and his brief encounters with him had not been pleasant.  The thought of the girl-soul being lacerated and maimed pushed him to the limits of his speed.  "R'katro!"  His voice was on the verge of hysteria.

"Vilchnesken!"  Mynfil's voice carried better than Delevar's and apparently traversed the distance more easily.

"Here, sir!" Vilchnesken's comparable bass echoed directly from the lighted area.

"NO!"  Delevar's sprint turned to a run for dear life.  He rounded the corner and abruptly skidded to a halt as if he had run into a brick wall.  The dust settled over the skittering pebbles about his feet.  Flanking the girl were two angels, swords drawn and readied to strike.  Mynfil arrived immediately behind Delevar and mirrored the same sequence of actions.  The two angels immediately came to attention and angelically saluted Delevar and Mynfil in synchrony.  R'katro's face struggled to hold his slight smile captive.

The girl screamed a stifled ode to fear.  Mynfil's expression hardened as a single tear of blood traced a line on his face. "Praise God!  A second war is at hand!"