DesdemonaDeBlake

To Dufaii the Godkiller, Your isolation, while admittedly necessary for a time, must soon come to an end. More than half my soldiers have defected to serve in Ammon’s army. On top of those numbers, my informants tell me that an even greater number of civilians follow him.  My fragile alliance with the Lightbringer is the only leverage I have left to deter revolt and our eternal imprisonment at the hands of Heaven. The current incarnation of the Lightbringer, plans to summon you to discuss what is to be done.  I will neither beg nor demand your return. But know that if nothing is done about your former partner, war will come. Such chaos will bring the survival of demonkind into doubt. P.S. I hope that you found the peace you were searching for, old friend. -General Hades By the dim blue light of a Bunsen-burner, Dufaii took a deep and long breath as he used a mortar and pestle to grind up dried plants. This released an herbal smell that briefly overpowered that of coffee brewing and bubbling in a nearby tin pot. He appreciated the mix of smells—and so chose to take frequent breaths of the humid air. Strictly speaking, of course, breathing was unnecessary for those of the demon race. Those of his kind only bothered to form lungs—alongside vocal cords—so that they could make audible noises as an alternative to telepathic communication. At a first glance, Dufaii may have briefly seemed to any onlooker like a human–working away silently at his metal desk in a small mud hut. His shape was like that of a mortal, built narrow and lean. His skin was dark and ashen, and his tight rows of black dreadlocks were tied above his head with a leather cord. However, he was significantly taller than most humans he’d seen. And his gray feathered wings—the first indicator that he perhaps wasn’t like any other person—added another foot to his height when they were folded narrowly behind him.  Only upon turning around and facing someone, was his inhumanity entirely evident. His eyes were completely black, with a thick oily texture, except for the thin white scar tissue that ran across them. Wrinkles were etched around his eyes, sharp nose, and severe mouth.  Dufaii wore gray robes tailored to his specific needs. They were cut vertically down the back to make room for his wings. Many pockets lined the insides of his robes, filled with various small pouches.  Were he to remove this outer clothing, the most noticeable thing one might have noticed was the black leather armor hidden underneath. This armor was fitted to cover the upper and lower portions of his torso separately, allowing for a maximum range of motion. Additional pieces were wrapped around the upper and lower parts of his arms and legs—fitted to his shape with an exactness that did not allow for sliding.  The ensemble would have been tedious and perhaps impossible to don regularly, had he any need to remove it. After so many millennia, however, the leather armor felt like it was part of him. It was how he guessed animals with armor like crabs, turtles, or armadillos must have felt. So instead of removing his armor, he merely covered it with his robes when no threat was at hand. This felt less … threatening. Dufaii took another breath of the foggy, coffee-and-herb air in his small hut. As a demon, he was unusual in that he habitually used his lungs even when not speaking. For smelling the air, yes, but also when there were no beautiful aromas. As regularly as a mortal or animal, he filled his lungs with air and then expelled it. His blood needed no oxygen, nor did his lungs extract any. The voluntary action only served to aid in keeping his mind focused on the present instead of … past pain. If asked, he would have considered it a continual form of meditation. Dufaii looked around the one-room human shack he had found abandoned about a century ago. It resided in a small bit of jungle not far from the Illimani Mountains, in a region that the humans currently called South America. The hut itself was built of saplings and insulated with mud—turned hard as stone over time. The exterior of the structure was covered in moss, vines, and a living coat of aggressively seeding plants that had rooted in the cracks of the walls and on the roof. The shack, though ancient and primitive on the outside, was filled with objects that would have been foreign to the native people who had originally built it. Thin aluminum shelves lined every wall, most filled with mason jars of various sizes and shapes. Upon the remaining shelves were a few dozen journals, books, and small metal canisters.  Dufaii had made a few modifications—putting in a window, a heavy curtain over that, and an iron door. In the center of the shack he had placed a large metal table, which carried an array of ancient and modern scientific devices. Under the table were mostly plastic storage containers and a wooden stool which saw infrequent use. The shack would have been inhospitable to any human who wanted to live there, lacking a bed or much else in terms of furniture. However, it was a perfect laboratory for a demon who required neither sleep nor sustenance. The outdoors were suited to his relaxation; the indoors were for his work. Only a few hours earlier, Dufaii had returned from trading with the nearby indigenous people, having brought some of his own herbs and medicine to barter with. That meant having temporarily changed his height to something smaller, his eyes to brown human ones, and his shape to one without wings.  Even so, some of the older tribal elders who dabbled in the remnants of human magic seemed to know that there was something otherworldly to him. He could detect their suspicion by their stares—without any need of his psychic abilities. Dufaii’s psychic abilities were primarily meant only for communication on a non-verbal level with his own kind. However, they had an inadvertent and invasive effect upon mortals. Had Dufaii wanted to, he could have read their exact thoughts by looking them in the eyes, and even planted thoughts of his own. He could have even sensed their life-force with his eyes closed. Their mood, disposition, and any potential supernatural power they might have possessed were knowledge that were immediately known to him as soon as he was in their presence. Unless, of course, someone had taught them to shield their auras, which was wholly unlikely.   In the company of the younger indigenous humans, he could sense their excitement like static electricity jumping from them, circulating, gaining momentum at seeing the strange trader that always brought unusual wares. In the elders, he could sense the cautious trepidation like a delicate bubble of frost around them. He could sense that the older ones knew something was off about him. Had Dufaii wanted, he could have toyed with their minds–using their own fear or inserting other emotions entirely that he could inflame and cool at his whim. But to what end? He had no interest in scaring them or doing anything as petty as controlling their minds to get goods for free. There was no reason to traumatize his mortal resources with cheap tricks. And their minor trepidation would not stop them from bartering for his homebrewed medicines. So he had bartered quickly and honestly, to promptly return to his hut with new ingredients in hand. Next month, the humans would return to trade, as they always did. And they would continue to carry religious trinkets to protect themselves from him, as they always did.  As Dufaii finished grinding the dried plants he had acquired from the humans into a powder, he used a metal spoon to divide them into equal portions. He placed the scooped bits onto small squares of cloth. When he had finished, he wrapped and then assorted these into a segmented box that he kept under the table for later. This batch was a base he used for healing balms, which he would later mix with various compounds to compare their efficiency.  If any of the new compounds showed promise in new functions or higher potency than his previous versions, they would be recorded in one of his journals. These journals were collected by a messenger at the end of each year. The volumes would be taken to Hell, transcribed, copied, and then stored in a small library that archived the thousands of journals he had written throughout the millennia. As Dufaii worked, he glanced briefly at the other jars of powders and liquids that lined his shelves. They ranged from other medicinal compounds for various problems in many species, to more weaponized compounds like blinding powders, acids, and minerals that created flames of different temperatures.  These weapons and tools weren’t for his own use; his days of killing were over. The application of what to do with his research was now left for others to determine. Like his breathing, his research was an act of meditation. Working on organic compounds kept him in a present state of mind. It was a kinesthetic catalyst that helped him to purge his memories, a method of catharsis against his uncontrollable rage.  In this endeavor, he’d made significant strides as his centuries of isolation went by. His memories of everything except his current life in the jungle were nothing but thin wisps of emotion he occasionally took note of and then released with each deliberate breath. Dufaii packed the last of his bags and assorted them into the box. Then, he lifted his head and paused. He sensed a nearby presence in the jungle, a powerful but subtle thrum of energy that neither seemed like it was trying to reveal its presence nor hide it.  He closed his eyes and saw a thin white outline of some blurred energy slowly draw closer to the shack. Its movement gradually slowed until it was fifteen feet from his door. It then came to a gentle stop. It did not move again, not even enough to prepare a weapon. It did not seem like a threat. What was more, it seemed familiar, like a presence he would have recognized were it not for his efforts to forget. As a recluse, however, he was cautious. Dufaii continued to clean up as if he did not sense the presence, returning all his tools to their allocated places. If the intruder had come with malintent, he planned to lull them into thinking they had taken him by surprise.  When the presence did nothing for a half-hour, Dufaii finally reached toward his hip and unsheathed his weapon. It looked rather like a katana, though with a much heavier blade and no sharp edge. He held it in a backward grip as he opened his door, and saw his intruder.  The person who stood before him was unarmed and kept his hands lifted in a non threatening gesture. It took Dufaii a moment to recognize that this was a messenger, named Kueng.  Kueng had black eyes and black wings. He was bald, thin, and had a face that was mirthlessly serene. His skin was of an olive complexion which was pleasant to the eye. It occurred to Dufaii that Kueng never really engaged the muscles in his face or even the emotions tied to his aura. This must have been an essential skill for a messenger to learn, as they dealt with immortal beings whose dispositions ranged from cantankerous and sensitive, to psychotic and murderous. He was dressed in red wraps, long pieces of cloth woven around him in dozens of ornate loops. In addition to these, he carried red satchels for larger parcels.  Kueng reached into one of the loops and pulled out a small roll of leather parchment. Human skin … which meant a message transcribed upon it in blood or ash. This sort of message came directly from Hell. With a calm tone, he said, “Pardon my silent intrusion. I did not want to disturb you unnecessarily.” Dufaii sheathed his sword and beckoned his guest to enter the shack. Once inside, he made a gesture towards the stool, the only place really meant for sitting. He looked around for another piece of furniture and managed to find a small filing cabinet. He slid this makeshift seat in front of the stool so that the two of them could talk comfortably. He then poured the coffee he'd been making into a small tin cup with a handle, extended it toward the messenger.  With the tin cup in hand, Kueng nodded in a small gesture of appreciation and then handed back the leather roll in exchange. He said, “It’s a summons from General Hades.”  Kueng was referring to the commander of Hell’s armies and now the leader of the realm. She was also … a dear friend from long ago. Any message from her would be a serious matter, and one that he felt honor-bound to at least consider. Kueng waited for him, seeming to sense his difficulty. He then continued, “The summons comes on behalf of the Lightbringer. She wishes you to meet with him.” The Lightbringer ... this name brought a heavy wave of feelings and confusing memories. Parts of him regarded this name with reverence and respect. Other parts of him shuddered with a mix of trepidation, loathing, and disgust. The Lightbringer had been the leader of Hell before General Hades. He was the reason for everything, for their freedom and their torment. Kueng again waited for him to process before continuing. “Also. General Hades wishes you to know that the enemy forces of Heaven have taken notice of Ammon.” “Ammon,” Dufaii whispered and clenched his fists. He closed his eyes and attempted to retain the calm he'd so slowly achieved over his time in meditation and self-exile. He found it difficult to concentrate.  Memories—cloudy and unclear—began to thunder violently in scattered and chaotic storms. Dufaii tried to hold on, to find the places of calm air between the torrent. To retain all he’d worked for in his years of purposeful confinement. He eventually managed to draw in a breath, and then another, and another. He was not in the storm, he was in the hut, he was safe, and all others were safe from him. Dufaii reminded himself of this and gradually released the tension that filled his body. Dufaii suddenly realized that he was not sure if he could honor the summons. If only the mention of a name had this effect on him, then how could he do anything to help his kind. On the other hand … he knew the threat that his former partner, Ammon, posed. Sooner or later it would catch up to Dufaii, even in this shack or wherever else he decided to hide. Only then, it would be too late for him to stop whatever destruction was to come. “My apologies,” Kueng said. “I know it is a straining topic of discussion. One that I would not bring up, except for the source of the message. Would you like me to leave you for a while?” Dufaii lifted his hand and shook his head. “At your leisure, please inform the Lightbringer that I will be arriving soon. I must go and … gather my thoughts before I meet with him.” Kueng took a slow sip of coffee and shut his eyes to show a state of exaggerated relaxation. “Not to worry. I will enjoy this wonderful drink while I await the arrival of a guard I recruited to watch over this place in your absence. Once she arrives, I will make a leisurely return with your message.” What Kueng really meant was that he understood the severity of the matter at hand. He would buy some time for Dufaii to get his affairs in order before returning to the Lightbringer.  Dufaii gave a respectful nod, which was returned by Kueng in kind. He then stepped out the door to the small shack and looked up to the sky. For the first time in a while, he slowly unfolded his wings, the dark gray feathers catching what little noonday sunlight made it through the canopy.  Then, with a heavy flap and a vertical leap, Dufaii propelled himself twenty feet into the air. It took little effort to ascend into the sky, making his way up to the clouds that enveloped him.  Once Dufaii had passed through the clouds, he slowed his flight and remained in place for a moment. He drew in a breath of the cold air that blew through his feathers. He fell into a slow glide over the clouds, which reflected the bright sun. He watched the shadows on the clouds below him, cast by his dark gray wings. It had been a long time since he’d flown this high … or had a reason to.  Finally, Dufaii unsheathed and extended his sword so that the curved blade dragged through the mist. As soon as the sword touched the cloud, something like a gentle spark ignited where his weapon touched water vapor. This light grew into a silver-blue opening, which released a pocket of air warmer than anything around it.  Dufaii dropped into this warm pocket. It enveloped him for just an instant, and then he saw a flash of silver light.  The skies of Earth were now gone.  Dufaii now found himself gliding a few feet above a literally infinite sea of dark blue that reflected fragments of yellow sunlight. Fluffy clouds drifted lazily overhead and were mirrored in the water beneath him. The light from the sun seemed somehow distant and neither harsh nor blinding. Below, small waves drifted across the water. His leather sandals touched the tops of particularly large waves as he flew along. It gave him an odd sense of being home … and vague memories began to take shape in his mind. Dufaii looked down into the sea. Beneath the surface of the water, stars glimmered in patterns and constellations. Even distant galaxies and planets were visible by the magnifying effect of the water. Had he wanted to see them clearly, he needed only to dive deep enough that his perception changed. Day would become night when he again rose from the water. In that way, day and night were chosen by the inhabitants of this realm and were little more than a change in perspective. In the distance, Dufaii saw the approaching island that was his destination. It had once been the only expanse of land in Heaven. Now, dozens of other islands had arisen around the original–perhaps designed as a solution for overpopulation. Though was still too far to really see them, the yellows, reds, and various shades of green told him that the terrain of each island was unique unto itself. The original island was now the center one. Last Dufaii had been here, it had been the dwelling place of the Creator.  As Dufaii flew closer to it, he saw the center island in greater detail. Massive gray-stone castle walls stood behind cream-colored shores. The tops of the walls were lined with stone spikes that stuck out at diagonal angles like spears meant to defend against a behemoth. The only entrance past the walls was a wooden gate with steel reinforcements, nearly as tall as the walls themselves.  Dufaii made his way toward it and soon landed on a part of the beach close to the gate. Instead of sand, this shore was comprised mostly of pebbles in an assortment of grays, white, and soft browns. These stones, polished by the tumbling of the tide, gave the land its creamy off-brown color.  Seeing the beach jostled something in Dufaii’s memory. It occurred to him that this had not always been a pebble beach. The beaches of heaven had once been sand, every few miles comprised of a different color and consistency. From shades of black, to brown, to yellow, to white, to red. Some grainy and others powdery. Now, the only places where sand or soil could be seen were the massive dunes covered in sea oats, succulents, and small plants adjacent to the wall itself. A mental picture suddenly flashed in Dufaii’s mind, a memory of the last time he’d seen the beach. It had been covered with stone rubble, sharp and ugly deposits of rock that had suffocated the plant-life and discolored the water. There had been pools of blood … so much black and gold blood soaked into the sand. Dismembered limbs and wings had littered the shore like branches after a hurricane.  Dufaii shook his head forcefully, fighting to push those memories out of his mind. He wasn’t ready for them, not yet.  Dufaii drew in deep and deliberate breaths, forcing himself to remember where he was. He was in the present, he was safe from that which haunted him–even if he didn’t feel like it. He focused on the sea breeze and the gardens filled with flowers from both Earth and Heaven. They were organized by the colors of their stems and their flowers, creating a sort of rainbow that blanketed the ground and climbed the walls. From the shoreline, Dufaii could also see a few of Heaven's most prominent buildings and markers. Just beyond the gate was a golden dome called the Holy of Holies. This building served as the dwelling of the Creator.  Mortal souls who entered Heaven awoke in the Holy of Holies to meet their Creator. As such, the structure was huge and filled with several hundred rooms, as well as an auditorium. It was said that the Creator split their grans consciousness into many segments to personally receive each mortal soul. The building also served as the command center from which the Archangel Gabriel directed messenger angels and guardian angels.  Behind the Holy of Holies, Dufaii saw the tops of various steel towers. He did not know these towers. Maybe they were new additions to the city. Maybe the tall buildings were yet another resolution to overcrowding. Humans had continued to multiply at an extraordinary rate. By now, the humans would have exponentially outnumbered the goblins, elves, faeries, and every species of sentience that had come before.  To the right of the steel towers, standing taller than anything else, was a spiraling white tower that looked like the shell of a mollus–both in its design as well as its pearl color. This was the Library, where the Archangel Raphael directed all of Heaven's scientific and artistic advancements. Angels and mortal souls who valued discovery and creation worked together in the Library. Of course, being a library, there were books as well. Every book of note was stored in an underground extension of this facility. These included works from the mortal realms, as well as those written by angels and the mortals now in their eternal resting place.  Behind the City and the Library, Dufaii saw a mountain range with five snow-capped peaks. These were the source of all the minerals, stones, and ores that had been used to create everything on the island. There had once been a sixth peak, but it had been stripped and destroyed for resources to make walls and weapons.  Thinking about the mountain and what had been done to it brought more mental images to the forefront of Dufaii’s mind. He remembered young angels covered in soot, scared for their lives as armed guards watched and waited with bullwhips and sticks in hand. This brought on a violent and bubbling rage deep in his gut. Dufaii squeezed his hand into a fist, drew in a deep breath, held it for several seconds, and then exhaled. He did this again and again until the rage subsided. While he had come to remember, that did not mean allowing random emotional memories to overtake him. Such would have been a dangerous and slow method of remembering.  Instead, he had to relive the memories in order, while remaining in control. Like a leak in a dam, Dufaii’s memories had incredible destructive power. He had to remember at a constant and fluid pace. This seemed intuitively impossible. However, something stirring inside told him that this was the only way. Dufaii walked along the shore, toward a section of wall that was to the right of the gate. He stopped when he was close enough to touch the enormous gray stones that had been polished smooth by the sand and the wind.  From there, he noticed movement from above. Several dozen armored warriors appeared above him. Wearing matching steel plate-armor, they nocked their arrows in great enough numbers that the sounds could be heard from the bottom of the wall.  They were angels, the loyalist soldiers of Heaven. They would not believe that Dufaii–the Godkiller and assassin of Hell–had only come to remember. That it was important that he be here. He had to be where it had all started, to physically touch something that was a part of his memories.  Yes … the wall before him was almost as old as he was, and it was connected to all he had purposefully forgotten.  Dufaii hesitated and then gingerly touched the cold smooth stone as if it were an open wound. At first, nothing happened except for feeling his heart race. He drew in several controlled breaths and kept his hand on the stone. When he felt sure that he was in control of himself, he shut his eyes and opened himself to what had happened.  Spasms of pain began to take shape, starting in his chest and spreading through him. At first, he thought he should pull his hand away … until he felt the memories begin grow upon the pain like muscles on a bone. This was part of the process, it seemed. So, he surrendered to it all. “The Creator explained to me that They made the gods out of portions of Their own soul, so that these minor deities could be Their agents of creation. If They had personally designed all living beings, crafted them with every feature and flaw as one might make a statue, then there would be no sort of freedom. The deities would be players acting out of the natures, situations, and personalities forced upon them. So, instead of making them directly, the Creator made the elder gods, the titans, the original deities of old out of massive portions of Their own soul.  These greater gods established the foundations of the mortal realm, the Earth, the Sea, the Sky, the Moon, Chaos, Madness, Darkness, Light, and the Core. Out of floating chunks of rock, they created fire and destruction. From what settled from that came inevitable order … and the formation of the mortal realm as we know it.  Upon establishing the foundations of the Earth, the old gods had expended much of their power. They settled down and sacrificed pieces of their soul to create children of their own, just as the Creator had done of them.  The new generation of gods used the canvas they had been gifted and created life. The world gradually filled with plants, animals, people, and everything in between. It was a place of harmonious chaos—a product of no single mind or design. This was the only way that there could be any sort of freedom or semblance of free will.” I reflect on that concept often, what it means for us to be free. I’ve determined that it isn’t that all individual beings are free. We do not control who we are born to be. Nor do we choose what cruel plans fate has in store for us. We are all like vines. We have no control over our genetic makeup, the fragments that comprise half our sous, or our predispositions. We cannot control the soil we find ourselves rooted in, our access to the sun, or the frequency that rain falls upon us. Many, if not most of us, die before we can ever truly be.  What little we do control is how we ascend to the heavens, if we bloom with glory, and whether we allow the sunlight to reach the plants below us.  The universe, however, was the dubious”who” that was given a gift of cosmic freedom. With each vine trying to manage its life, they become a jungle. The chaos and need of his jungle give it what can only be seen as a will of its own–and it is the universe.  This is our freedom. Instead of the damned existence of neatly arranged flowers in a garden, we are part of something which no gardener can control.  Though our actions mean little to the jungle, they still comprise it. Most meaningful then become our efforts to bloom, to give light to others, and to inspire other vines to grow. Our limited freedom may seem small compared to the freedom of the jungle, but our choices have true consequences for those around us–and thus to the all of us.  Our actions matter in the big picture and in the small picture. So though we do not have complete freedom, we have a freedom which matters in the big scale and the small scale. Most importantly, our limited freedom is genuine. The tragedy, of course, came in the cost of this freedom. As the old gods and the new gods split pieces of their souls to create life in its various forms, they became tired. Each eventually fell into a deep sleep. When they woke from that sleep, it was with a terrible fury, insane paranoia, and an insatiable hunger for power in order to keep themselves safe from their perceived enemies.  This was a plague to their kind, and even to some of the mortals they created … a corruption … a Madness. It was the only thing which could keep their souls from finding eternal peace when their time was done. Such souls escaped into the furthest reaches of existence once no longer tether by the coils of physical life. Until the Creator formed a pocket devoid of Their presence so that these damned souls would not be lost forever. It was too late when the Creator realized that They too were becoming tired. So, They set upon a resolution to stop Their future self from committing acts of unstoppable violence. They created the angels.” -from “Before They Slept” by the Lightbringer (Pre-demonic Era)