Angel Warriors - HellBound: Section 3

Angel Warriors – Book 2: HellBound
By: Melinda Reynolds
SECTION 3:

Chapter Six

I

It took Mihdael a few moments to lose the sense of disorientation, to regain his balance. He got unsteadily to his feet, only to have the rough, uneven ceiling scrape against his shoulders and wings; the small chamber wasn’t meant for one of his height. The glow from his Angelic Light provided the only source of illumination. The door took up over half of the wall, heavily armored, barred, and locked; it was solid iron set within the stone. Aside from the natural formations of any underground cavern, there were no furnishings except for a long, narrow plinth of stone. He sat down on that, thinking that even with the darkness and the cramped space, it was still much more preferable than Satan’s company.

Until the voices found him. Low at first, as if seeking someone to listen, to respond. Distant voices that moaned and murmured, seeping through the cracks and crevices of Hell's foundations - only a few voices, seeking escape, seeking mercy. Weak, thin voices, echoing hollowly in his mind, but he heard them clearly, could locate them if he wanted to. He looked about, expecting to see the dark spirits, the souls damned to Hell. More and more voices joined the first few, as if the few having found him, all the condemned of Satan’s realm sought him out. The intense mental clamor of millions upon millions of damned souls reached out to him, pleaded with him, demanded and threatened him, to take them from their places of torment.

“Stop… I cannot answer you all at once,” he sent the mental message to all that would listen. The tide receded somewhat; he could pick them out, individually – and know all that they had done. The worst that Mankind had to offer, the vilest and most reprehensible of a race that had once been slated for the Throne of Heaven. The wraiths held no Light or warmth in them; they exhibited no compassion or regret - only a desperate need to free of their prison. “I cannot help you—”

They didn’t allow him to finish.. He had said what they hadn’t wanted to hear. They knew only that they wanted—needed—an unFallen Angel, a sanctified soul, to rescue them from their individual hells. The onslaught became greater, more insistent, more demanding.

The unrelenting mental barrage became unendurable; forced to his knees, Mihdael turned away from them, eyes shut tightly against the anguish, the hate, and the total, absolute despair that tore through him like jagged slivers of glass.

“Father,” he said quietly, his own voice drowned out by the shrieks and wails around him. “Even this, Thee would ask me to endure? I can do nothing for them, yet they hear me not. Their pain is my pain, their suffering is my suffering, and their despair is my despair.

“I feel all that they feel; but I cannot reach out to them, I cannot touch or comfort them…”

Mihdael received no answer, no brilliant rays of Light and warmth appeared to comfort him, to banish the damned souls. Nothing reached him but the billions of voices, building into shrieks and agonized cries from the heart of Hell itself.

***
Lucifer stood in the midst of the terrified and anguished souls, allowing them the futile hope of the Angel’s presence. This mental ‘attack’ would weaken the warrior’s defense, no matter his strength or power. For no Angel – Warrior or otherwise – could bear to hear Human voices crying out to them in agony, crying out to them for mercy, and be completely unable to do anything to help them. It was the deepest pain an Angel was capable of feeling.

And it was the only way he knew how to start. Satan wanted the Angel to be punished, to suffer; yet Angels were incapable of feeling physical pain. How was he to carry out those orders on such a being? Unless… Satan had been in her original, feminine form; therefore, the Angel was also in mortal form, and not retaining his true appearance of pure energy. Satan had offered this Angel his crown, his rule, and, presumably, his place next to her. So, as long as he retained the Human form, he could feel physical pain, as well as physical pleasure; he was mortal as well as Angel.

A combination of both – the best of both, or the worst of both?

It would be interesting, the MorningStar decided, to find out.

Chapter Seven

Mihdael shifted uncomfortably on the granite plinth, the heat from the stone radiating through the insulation of his wings, through the thin fabric of his tunic, and through his skin, burning into his soul. He lay back, arm across his eyes, grateful that the voices had finally faded away. But they were still there, for the vast suffering of the condemned souls was mental and emotional, a separation from God and Heaven, a separation from life.

He realized his situation was much the same, and only a little less bearable than Hell itself. The silence had lasted for a while, but he didn’t know how long. Time had little meaning in Hell, only that it was eternal, until Judgment Day, when Hell would overtake Earth itself. Most of Satan’s Dark Realm was a frigid, icy wasteland; but there were sections – like this one – where the atmosphere was a searing combination of heat and brimstone, of sulfuric fumes and nitric vapors. An entirely Human body would not have been able to withstand the heat, fumes, and pressure; but he wasn’t entirely Human. For even in human form, with human emotions and mortal blood and muscle, he was still an Angel. Even in Hell, that could not be taken from him, not as long as God’s Grace remained with him. Totally, completely alone, the solitary confinement wore on him, and he found no escape from the loneliness or the overwhelming sense of hopelessness.

He sat up, finally, unable to fully straighten because of the low ceiling. The air currents shifted subtlety, and Mihdael glanced toward the armored door. It hadn’t opened; but then, it didn’t need to open to admit his current visitor. Once an Archangel, and one of Mihdael’s most-loved fellow angels – but no longer; now, he was not at all sure of their status.

“Lucifer…” he said, acknowledging the identity of his visitor.

The Fallen Archangel halted suddenly, just outside the glow of his Light; he seemed shocked, or surprised.

“I see you have not forgotten me.” The well-remembered voice was similar, yet different. It was cold, all warmth and kindness gone.

“It is never wise to forget one’s enemies. You came very close to causing my downfall.”

“You did cause my downfall; and I offered you everything. Satan and I offered you Heaven’s Army, and you betrayed us.”

“It was not yours to give.” Mihdael watched as the Fallen One advanced toward him, until he stood fully revealed in the Warrior’s golden Light. Tall, strong, and powerful, Lucifer could never be less in stature than what he’d always been, even with, or in spite of, the slight limp as he favored his left leg. The aura of perfection was gone, but the beauty remained, for not even total Evil could mar an Archangel’s physical beauty; and therein lay the danger to the unwary. But he had not been untouched by the Casting Out: His once golden-brown eyes now glittered yellow, the pupils black slits; the silver-white hair reflected the eternal Darkness of his existence, blacker than the murkiness of the enclosing chamber.

The wings, however, presented the most obvious physical change. No longer did he have three pairs in descending size, with platinum-white feathers that glowed with the soft brilliance of his name. Now, he had one single pair of wings, the leathery bat-like wings of all demons, the supporting arches covered with black, iridescent scales.

The dimensions of Hell altered at Lucifer’s command, enabling him to stand upright, his mortal form taller than Mihdael’s. A form taken not to honor God and Man, but to mock them. “You have me to thank for the respite from Hell’s damned.”

Mihdael remained where he was, not rising. “And doubtless the cause of it as well.”

A smile hovered at the corners of Lucifer’s mouth. He reached out and long fingers trailed lightly down the side of the Warrior’s face, the black nails terminating in sharp, hooked claws. “You have changed little,” he said, voice and manner softening.

“You have changed…much.”

“Have I?” Lucifer’s hand lowered, and he stepped back. “Is appearance all that important? Are we not the same inside, regardless of how we appear? Is the proper appearance indeed so important, so…necessary?”

“You thought so, at one time.”

“I once thought many things,” his yellow-orange eyes narrowed. “I once thought I could trust you.”

Mihdael looked at him sharply, more surprised than angry. “’Trust’? I trusted you. As did Azael, who is now chained in the desert for all Eternity. As did Belial and Mephistopheles, both who now share Hell’s torments with you. As did Michael, for how else could you have captured him so easily?

“You talk to me of trust?!”

“It seems we have betrayed each other, whether knowingly or not. But you are now in Satan’s Realm, and subject to quite a different set of laws. None of which are open for discussion, or disobedience.” He swept back the black metallic cloak, and Mihdael saw the coiled whip at his side. He looked back at cold, merciless eyes that glared down at him. “Resistance to Satan’s commands, at any level, is not permitted. I am commanded to mete out your punishment, and know that I do so gladly.”

Mihdael leapt to his feet, hand going instinctively to his side, to his sword – a sword that was no longer there. Cornered in the small cell, Lucifer’s larger frame and unfurled wings blocked Mihdael’s path to the cell door. The only escape was through the Fallen Angel. He gave the thought only a moment’s consideration, then lunged forward, prepared to go over the fallen angel or through him. Neither event occurred; Lucifer stood his ground, his arm swung in a short, powerful arc. The solid stock of the whip struck with bone-crushing force against the warrior’s head, slowing his forward momentum enough for a second blow to send him to his knees.

Lucifer stood over him, voice mocking. “Always the warrior, the fighter; always acting first and thinking later – if at all. I am not the weak-limbed Archangel I once was; now, I have the power and strength to equal Michael himself, both given to me—”

“… In exchange… for… your soul,” Mihdael interrupted, getting unsteadily to his feet. “Hardly an… equitable… trade…”

“Easy for one who has such power and strength to say; but for one who was always subject to that power and strength, then the trade was more, much more, than equitable. When I have slashed you to ribbons with the whip of Hellfire, you will beg for that same, equitable, trade.” He snapped the whip to emphasize his last few words, and the three lashes crackled with the soul-searing essence of Evil, the substance and sustenance of Hellfire.

Mihdael backed away, staying beyond the reach of the glowing lashes; until the solid rock wall halted his retreat. His up-raised arms did little to ward off the lashes, and when he caught hold of them the slender coils blazed green and black, slipping through his grip, leaving deeply cut welts in their place. The whip struck again and again, cutting across his forearms and chest; he turned away from it, wings drawn close over his back. He flinched as the searing energy tore at the protective feathers, the darkly glowing ends striking his upper arms and shoulders. And at each strike, the dissipated Hellfire burned and jolted through him, draining him of strength and will.

The scourging intensified, as if Lucifer’s hate and anger fueled the raw energy flowing through the whip; determined to bring him down, one way or another. He fought the weakness, the agonizing pain that ate away at him from the inside out; he clamped down on the sharp gasps of pain and shock as the lashes threatened to rip him apart. But his strength failed him, not quite the equal of his pride and determination; his legs buckled, and he was beaten down, the whip striking too fast and too hard for him to withstand it any longer. He pressed tightly against the rock wall that had barred his retreat, and now offered a partial refuge. The strong, sturdy wings covered him completely, a temporary shield until they were burned and slashed away. But the lashes phased through them, leaving the wings untouched in favor of the living, feeling being beneath them.

And as the lashes once again ripped through skin and muscle, Lucifer’s fury, which had sustained him, begin to fade. He had never used the whip on a being like himself; he had often wondered if it would have any effect on a Divine being… and to have tested that power on one who—

He pushed those thoughts aside, and his arm hesitated as the whip struck again. The lashes phased through the warrior’s mortal body, to exit trailing a mist of blood from the arcs that reformed the lashes, leaving the skin torn and bleeding. The low, rasping sounds of torment from the angel cut him deeper than he would have thought possible. What was wrong with him that he would feel this way? Would feel… compassion… pity… even mercy?

No, not mercy; never would he be merciful to any under his power. Compassion, too, was no longer a part of his being. Pity, then? Or perhaps contempt? That felt better, more preferable to those other weak and useless emotions. Contempt for a Warrior of God who crumpled so easily, and quickly, under the whip of Hellfire.

He held tightly to those feelings of contempt, let it fill his voice and gaze, letting it mask the truth. “Each time you defy Satan, your punishment will be greater. I will see to it.” He watched as the angel leaned weakly against the rock wall, waiting for his strength to return. Lucifer knelt next to him, studying him closely. “As I thought, the pain has left you unchanged; I wondered if you would even feel the lashes at all. That damnable pride of yours; it alone would prevent you from yielding to us.”

His fingertips brushed over the welts on Mihdael’s shoulders, blood seeping through the red and blackened edges of the burns. He turned the angel to face him, his unmarked face pale beneath a sheen of perspiration, the eyes nearly drained of color. “Yet, I see the effects of the whip on your back, your chest… even your soul; the pain in your eyes… I have hurt you, haven’t I? You are mortal enough for the pain to be felt, and angel enough to be unaffected by it. I had you at my feet, and yet I could not—”

He stopped, shaking his head. He lowered his hand, then settled next to Mihdael, facing him. “I thought that I would enjoy it, to bring you down – a Warrior; HisWwarrior. I had never before hesitated to torment, to torture, any living being, any damned soul. Never before had I ever spared any from my whip.

“Why do I feel that hesitation with you? Why did I spare you that final defeat? Why… does your pain feel as if it is… my own?”

He didn’t expect an answer, or a response; but he got both. The angel’s head lifted slowly, and his hand reached toward him, the Light faint but strong. His instinctive reaction was to strike, but he held that compelling impulse in check as the warrior’s large hand rested gently on his forearm.

“Because the doubt is still there, Lucifer,” Mihdael said quietly. “Closer than brothers we were, before you listened to Satan’s lies and made them your truths.”

“’Doubt’? You see my reluctance to force you to Satan’s will as doubt?” The harsh tone eased as he considered the angel’s words. He looked down at the hand on his arm, the touch comforting, kind, forgiving–always forgiving. But was such kindness, such forgiveness, simply an expression of his Angelic nature, or was it something else, something…more? “But, you are right about the bond we once shared. Perhaps, even after all the time passed, all the events, deeds, words… that the bond is still there? That it remains, in spite of everything, in spite of Satan, and God? Do you think it possible that we could go back? That you could accept me as you once did?”

Mihdael’s hand tightened, his voice reassuring, “If you truly wished to go back, God is ever-willing to grant thou forgiveness—”

Lucifer pulled free of the gentle hold, his voice irreverent, “ ‘Forgive me’? For what?! For being myself, being what He made of me? And even if I were to ask, could He forgive all the centuries of pain, degradation, and death that I have inflicted upon Mankind? Can He forgive me of all the souls I have damned and delivered to Satan?”

“Yes, He will forgive all of it. You need only to take my hand, and allow me to deliver you unto Him.”

“You? Why would you do that for me? After all I’ve done–-to Mankind, to you…?”

“Because I have never stopped caring, Lucifer; never stopped hoping that you would recant Satan and return to His Realm.”

Lucifer reached over, his touch gentle as he brushed bloodstained hair from the warrior’s burned shoulder. “You say you still care about me. And, do you still… love me?”

Mihdael’s response was hesitant, but matter-of-fact. “Perhaps…in a way; not as before, but—”

He leaned close, voice and manner insistent, “You would still welcome me among the Angelic Hosts – as Archangel?”

“Accept God, and we accept. We will honor the placement He grants thee.”

There it was, stark and real, without fanciful trappings or glorified phrases. An offer of unconditional forgiveness; a chance to leave this Hell among Hells, and return to the glory and grandeur of Heaven. And he was tempted; he – the Fallen Angel who had tempted and trapped so many of the unwary, of the faithless – was tempted by an angel. He felt the old feelings of warmth and friendship tug at the recesses of his memory; he wanted to accept… Yet, to give up the power he now held, the status, to become – what? “And I would be what I once was; all would be as it once was?”

“You need only to accept Him, deny Satan and ask God for His forgiveness; and all will be as it was.”

The irony struck him then: Whether he shone brightly in Heaven, or engulfed Hell and Earth in the Darkness of Evil, he was still subject to another’s will. He may not be the master of his own destiny in Hell, but at least he was the master of the souls condemned to its dark depths. “And I’m supposed to satisfied with that?”

He lurched to his feet, the ebony cloak concealing his form in deeper Darkness. He turned a disdainful glare on the angel. “Satisfied with the meager scraps of dignity that He would allow me?” Lucifer swept his arm around the chamber, encompassing all of Hell in the gesture, “Look what He has allowed you, your faith and loyalty for naught…”

Mihdael glanced away from him, unwilling to listen, to answer.

Lucifer moved beyond the angel’s Light, the Darkness enfolding him once more. Neither pain, nor torture, would sway this warrior; he had been created to fight, it was second nature to him. To yield, to surrender, was unthinkable for him. But he was still an Angel, and Angels were bound by love and caring, always willing to give comfort and aid. Perhaps an appeal to his friendship and loyalty would succeed. He already knew the warrior had not rejected him completely, was still receptive toward him.

CONTINUED IN SECTION 4: "Angel Warriors - HellBound: Section 4" 
Lucifer tries to convince Mihdael to join him; together, they would be an unstoppable force against both God and Satan.