• Chapter 3



    Elion, as all who knew him well enough could discern, was a very secluded, very bitter, very brilliant mind, accented with a maniacal acumen and gradually-reducing sanity. He always bore one of two faces underneath the signature black cloak he adorned himself with at all times: displeased…or plotting, both being to varying degrees at any given time; never was his expression anything else, contrary to what one may see or believe. The eerie smile that indicated a scheming, sinister being was practically his invention, as he took to using it more often than naught, and it was the one thing about his countenance that all could remember for the rest of their lives merely upon a glance of him. Rarely, however, did anyone see any other part of his body besides his mouth, nose, and the lower half of his brown eyes, for he took the most inexplicable and inconceivable of precautions in hiding the rest of his face. And the thing more frightening than his smile…was the voice behind it – deep with absolute authority, light with chilling cheerfulness, and barbed enough to slice the air when he spoke, he could be regarded as both an orator and a mastermind by even the faintest sound from his vocal cords.

    Knowing this, the atmosphere in his throne room was ominous and foreboding to staggering proportions, the fallen archangel sitting on his black seat against the wall high above the stairs lined with red carpet; elbows on his knees; fingers coming together; chin on the backs of his hands; and that wicked grin known to cause inexplicable dread and terror etched into his face, unmoving and chiseled into his head as one would expect of a statue. Looking more like a miniature coliseum – one of many tiers, each level made up of black pillars of marble spaced equal distances apart from each other, twenty or so floors leading up to the glass-domed ceiling – his favorite place of seclusion would soon become just what it mimicked, and the angel eagerly anticipated and awaited this. More than anything, he kept his eyes focused and concentrated on the giant, stone doorway directly across from him.

    Perhaps because he was expecting what was to happen next, his head rose from the arch of his connected hands, lamps and candles that were stationed around the room illuminating the color and flare of his eyes, to gaze upon the door. To anyone but him, it may have looked normal and calm, but something was indeed on the other side, and he knew it wasn’t simply his paranoia at work playing tricks on his mind. He seemed fixated on the entryway to his inner sanctum, patiently awaiting whatever it was that created this feeling inside him, yet it was obvious how anxious he was – there was always a specific form of his sadistic grim which he utilized to indicate this.

    A low tremor rocked the room out of nowhere…

    Like an explosive shockwave had happened in another part of his domain, everything seemed to jump suddenly and unexpectedly, a muffled booming sound following with the flickering of his lights inside the Gothic apex of his palace. Another followed, producing the same effects, and the angelic man’s intrigue was roused even more. Consecutively, small detonations in comparison to those before erupted from what sounded like behind the doorway only a few moments after the initial two quakes.
    And in no time whatsoever…the door was immediately ripped clean off of its hinges, blown back with amazing force, and it stopped dead in its tracks at the bottom of the throne’s staircase after having slid the entire way, all whilst ripping tiles from the floor below and tossing them into the air in every possible direction among the clatter.

    …Not even fazed by this, the man smiled almost approvingly, chuckling insidiously to himself, though the only movement he made was a resuming of his original position. The sounds of slow footsteps clanging like armor against the floor resounded and reverberated, and it took only this sound, all too familiar to the angel’s past, to know that it was who he expected who caused the ruckus and disturbed the tranquility of his mansion. The figure he had been expecting this entire time, who was normally known throughout Heaven as the epitome of impulsiveness, quietly and patiently strode into the court before him through the absolute and pervading darkness of the entry hall, his countenance reflecting that of anger, to suggest that it was worth keeping a level head to confront the angel he hated so much without distraction.

    A valiant and stalwart man, his head bore locks of brown hair in a bowl-cut style – something thought unusual and peculiar by the people of his land – with highlights of pure red dye, gleaming on several individual hairs grouped together in sections, that circled the shortened bowl trim, and the strength of the glare that was cast from his dark green eyes beneath the cut was enough to neutralize even the Seraph’s piercing, maddening gaze – as hard as it was to believe, the man’s eyes inspired and bestowed a fierce confidence and bravery unto those who looked to him, such things that would be lost when staring down a daunting foe such as the one before him. Gold embroidering was carefully knitted into the silky, white fabric of the man’s long and regal robe in ancient patterns of lines and boxes, the base of the garment coming down to half of the length between his shins and ankles; more surprisingly, this fine article was something he preferred be used for combat, though the material used to craft it was more durable than at first glance. A white cape formed a collar at the neck of the clothing and flowed down to the backs of his knees, its borders hemmed with gold, but the robe’s vibrant and colorful designs were missing from this part of the arrangement, replaced instead by the large, circular insignia of his family’s crest: three concentric circles trisected equally by three lines – each coming halfway through the outermost circle and ending at the base of the innermost, the remainder jutting outside of the collection of tangible aureoles – arranged so that the first line pointed upward while the second and third pointed outward to the left and right diagonally. The final noticeable element of his appearance were the boots he wore, heavy and plated with a strange, black metal that created the clanging sound as he walked, though thick armor beneath the white-gold habit accounted for a greater source of the echo.

    The atmosphere of the entire hall seemed to stand still in time, heavy with a strange, sudden, and inexplicable pressure that pushed the air down onto both of them – a phenomenon known to be caused when two mages of powerful rank came together, ready and determined to clash. Breaking the awkward silence between the two men – one smiling, the other glaring – the angel raised his head from the cradle of his hands, slowly used the armrests of his seat to help himself up, and stood erect on the edge of the stairs, staring judgmentally upon his opponent from the dark veil of his hood.

    And then…he spoke.

    “Welcome!” Elion cheerfully and menacingly announced, bowing almost formally to him. His voice disrupted the chill of his palace’s halls, ringing and echoing throughout to reinstate his commanding ascendancy, booming in volume. “So good of you to join us, dono! Please, do come in! It would be…” In such a simple gesture, one of complex meaning shrouded by purest deceit, his lips coursed through the fabric of time itself, every moment an epic in the making, every second a dramatic foreshadowing, until they stretched wide to show the most evil of his grins, wicked and haunting forever in the minds of the weak. “…An honor…to have you.”