In the End Read online

  IN THE END

  By

  Alexandra Rowland

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  Amazon Edition

  Copyright 2012 by Alexandra Rowland

  http://alexandrarowland.wordpress.com

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  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Thank you to all the beta-readers who helped make this novel what it is. I couldn't have done this without you and your support.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  PROLOGUE

  If any story is to be told about the End of All Things, it is only polite to give a nod to their Origins as well. Therefore, once upon a time, let's assume that a Deity created the earth. Whether this was done in seven days or by means of mixing a selection of bodily fluids into the celestial waters is beside the point. Creation of a world by either method is scientifically and logically questionable for a number of reasons, but that is likewise beside the point.

  What was really going on was this:

  Pretend that you're God for a minute. Some of you may find this particularly easy. There you are, just you and the Void, for time inconceivable, and there's not even a pack of cards between the two of you. Not that it matters, because the Void can't play cards, not even War, and if it could, it would be the type to cheat the pants off you, even if you are a supposedly all-powerful Being.

  So one day – “day” being a purely relative term, mind you, of course, since as of yet, there is no such thing – you decide you need something to occupy yourself with. You toy with the idea of knitting for a while and discard it, since the Void wouldn't appreciate even a scarf, let alone something hard like a sweater or, heavens forfend, a pair of socks. Instead, you sit the Void down (“sit” being another one of those relative terms) and you begin to tell it a story. Now, the Void doesn't think this is too bad of an idea, nor does it think it's too good of one either. It mostly just hangs around you, slurping.

  It slurps up everything you tell it, all the ideas and the words and emotions and intricate plot points, until it is a big, fat, bloated Void, and it's still slurping away, tugging at your non-hair and your non-toes. It takes a few “moments” to think about it, and then it decides that, artistically speaking, you have zero talent of any kind to speak of. To further emphasize this merciless criticism of your creative efforts, it does something with the things it slurped up that's somewhere between spitting, sighing, vomiting, and releasing a truly celestial-scale fart.

  What happens is that everything just goes flying in a really huge explosion, and suddenly now there's three things—you, the Void, and a whole lot of everything just sitting about all manifested with nothing to do. Well, you're still pretty indignant that the Void had the nerve to criticize your Art, so you go off in a huff and have a good sulk, and the wake of your huff happens to draw some of the Everything together, and it starts doing stuff all on its own!

  Well, this is pretty cool, you think. To distract yourself from the grumpy Void trying to provoke you into a fight, you putter around inside the Everything while the Void lurks around the edges and grumbles, or does the Void-equivalent of grumbling. It's in a bad mood because of your Art, you see. It's not happy, and you're not happy, and in general there's just a lot of unresolved tension and anger and not-speaking-to-each-other going on. One day you might get around to talking out your problems.

  Meanwhile, though, you're having great fun! You have things to play with now that actually interact, rather than trying to chew your eyebrows off! So you're vastly, vastly excited, and you think: To Hell with the Void! and continue puttering around, seeing what other sort of Stuff you can make. You build a omniverse around yourself like a house, so the Void can't get in and insult your Art again, and you put a few different multiverses in, like rooms of the house, and couple universes in each room, and then you stick a couple different dimensions on to the sides of it for your two-car garage and garden shed and attic and basement, and fill all of it with more Everything! And then you go around creating universes and just having a blast. You're everywhere in the house at once, since – like the Void—you take up all the space there is and none at all, so you're off making some experimental abstract Art in the garage, and watering the tulip bulbs in the garden shed, and there are cookie-dough planets on the kitchen table... And the whole time you're playing this Game, you're making up Rules that you have to abide by, just to make things more fun. These are things like gravity. Sometimes, you break the rules, and then you feel all thrilled and rebellious.

  Eventually you have intelligent life forms that you've created, and you have various types of fun with them, and since their minds are so small – infinitesimally small, to be precise – they all interpret you and your wonderful Game in different ways, and then some of them start stabbing each other because one of them had the totally wrong idea about you, or they thought you were actually more than one person, and maybe you are, and maybe you're not – you're not exactly sure. Have you ever thought about how difficult it must be to be the embodiment of everything? But it doesn't matter. You mostly just leave them to their own devices because you've decided that maybe the attic needs tidying, so you go and do that for a bit, and then decide that you'll do it later, because you don't want to miss the discovery of fire over in this brand new universe you made in the foyer just a minute ago. Then you put off going to clean the attic again because you've thought of this lovely idea called books and you'd like to try it out. So you go do that, and you check on your precious little creations now and then when you finish a chapter, and you have another brilliant idea called “television”, and things get along pretty well, generally, except for those damn commercials, because no-one's hair goes in slow motion like that, even if they use Brand Name Shampoo.

  And that is how Existence was created: The Void didn't like your first attempts at Art. Maybe one day you'll get better and it will come groveling and trying to tell you how sorry it is. Maybe not.

  Earth – the one that we're familiar with – was created during seven commercial breaks. Now you know.

  ***

  On the glass-topped coffee-table of the Deity's Living Room (not that anyone was actually aware of this), Ríel (which roughly translates to “the Land”, otherwise known as Heaven, Paradise, the Kingdom of Joy and Delight, the Pure Land, Elysium, Valhalla, Jannah, etc.) rattled with the sounds of war preparations: the clink and clang of armor, the gabbling cacophony of many voices, and the sharp ringing of weapons being sharpened.

  Standing on the Officer's Rise, a roughly circular bluff overlooking a surrounding plain, Michael, Commander of the Celestial Army, looked over his troops, admiring both the scene itself and the particular excellence that he added to it: His blood-red cloak fluttered in the rising breeze as his hair blew over his perfectly chiseled cheekbones, and he was pleased. The scene was picturesque, noble, befitting the attention of the be
st artists Ríel had to offer.

  He took the chance to enjoy the moment – his ever-present migraine had faded to merely an occasional throb when he thought of Certain People (Certain People who, he believed, would be better off somewhere distinctly not in the vicinity of This Archangel's Army); his troops were reasonably efficient at their work; he didn't have anyone to be furious at right now. The late morning sunshine complemented his hair exceptionally well, and the Heavenly Choir, somewhere off to his right, among the troops and out of sight behind a small copse, had even paused their perpetual screeching.

  Then his smile faltered and died as he became aware of the presence of... Yes, off to one side, some redheaded angel – danama, not him again – getting underfoot around a superior, who shouldered him aside. This, of course (because that's just how things go), caused him to crash into one of the support poles of Michael's silken open-wall tent, which fluttered--serene, graceful, and altogether humiliatingly--down upon Michael's head.

  Michael stilled, clenched his jaw, and damned his migraine too, which, having noticed his proximity to a moment's peace, had returned with doubled force. Sko Meala forgive him, but if he ever found out who had foisted Lalael off on him, Michael would smite them in such a way that would cause them excruciating pain for several weeks. Or months.

  Or the rest of eternity, really. Any kind of vengeance and he'd be content. He actually preferred for the Power to stay aloof on this particular issue. Then he'd get to deal with his enemies himself.

  The red-headed angel was babbling apologies as he fumbled with the tent.

  “Shut up,” Michael snapped. His vision might have been scarlet even if his face hadn't been covered by red cloth. “Just leave. Immediately.”

  ***

  Beneath the floorboards under the Deity's glass coffee-table, Rielat (“not the Land”, better known on Earth as Hell, Hades, Sheol, Jannanam, and Niflhel, etc) was also jarred by an uncommon amount of extra noise – more than usual, that is, since Rielat doesn't tend to have the strict rules against chaos. The streets of the capital rattled with their own battle preparations, although they were doing so with much less taste and style and somewhat more efficiency: Everyone in Rielat carried weapons with them at all times anyway.

  Eternal, moonless night pervaded Rielat; the low-hanging, roiling clouds of ash were flicked with red light from the massive infernos that lit the city of Dis, spiked by hundreds of soot-blackened turrets and spires. The air was heavy, weighing down with a ponderous and noisome thickness, a dry heat that smelt of smoke and sulfur. Dust storms were not uncommon in most of Rielat, yet some levels knew an equally stifling humidity that infiltrated one's clothes, mouth, one's very brain, and, with a horrible stench of damp rot, drove any who resided there slowly towards madness. Rielat was a rocky, barren wasteland, punctuated by dead trees like claws grasping at the sky.

  In the highest tower of the palace of Dis, Lucifer, like Michael, was looking out over an army: Belial's troops (a mishmash of demons, Fallen, and other residents of Rielat) were celebrating the imminent battle in the ashy streets, and the discordant songs of their impending triumph over the Enemy drifted up to the high tower in the center of the city's six circles. The Morningstar stood at the narrow window of the tower, hands clasped behind his back.

  Belial, Prince of the Northern Reaches of Rielat, said, “They wish only for revenge. They've forgotten.”

  Lucifer said nothing, did not turn around to acknowledge Belial's words. A loud cheer rose from the crowded streets below.

  “My Lord?”

  Lucifer again did not reply.

  “The Princes of the East and Western regions arrived today,” Belial added, a little desperately. “Shall I send for them?”

  “Those two made it clear long ago that they have no interest in sending their forces to battle, Belial,” Lucifer said. Something steely in his voice made Belial freeze.

  “My Lord, the reports from the reconnaissance scout we sent to Earth seven years ago...”

  “What about them?” said Lucifer, his back still to Belial and the room. The Prince of the Northern Reaches bit his lip and shivered.

  A long moment later, he collected himself and cleared his throat. “He has sent back his reports. He calculated more than a thousand battle sites that the Enemy has targeted.”

  “So few?” murmured Lucifer. Belial braced himself against one of the chairs by the table that dominated the center of the room. “So be it. Have your officers been alerted?”

  Belial's voice cracked as he said, “Yes, my Lord.”

  Lucifer turned to the Prince then, and Belial was overwhelmed – Lucifer's face was still that of an angel, calm and smooth and serene; with silver eyes that burned, with delicate, pale features; with thin lips and long, light hair the color of silver and platinum in bright light. “Good.”

  Belial swallowed, knuckles white where he was gripping the back of the chair, and shivered again. Lucifer flowed across the room and swept the maps of Earth away and onto the floor. He leaned on the table and smiled across at Belial, and his smile was as charming, as tempting as it had always been, even back before they had Fallen from Paradise. Lucifer's eyes smoldered.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The world was not about to End, contrary to popular opinion. As far as the Two Realms were concerned, it certainly was. But Earth wasn't about to vanish into thin air, after all.

  However, Lucien was currently suffering from a lack of information. He did not know about the oncoming battle; neither did he know that the of the world's Imminent End was being talked about in all social circles of both Realms. No, he was the only immortal being in the entirety of Creation who thought that life on Earth was going to go on as it had for thousands of years. No one had remembered to tell him otherwise.

  Had he known, he might have spent the last days differently – visiting his favorite café one last time, backing out of his stock market investments... No one he came into regular contact with these days had any idea of anything that was happening on the Celestial Glass Coffee-table or Beneath the Floorboards, so no one asked his opinion on the upcoming events, but if he had gotten the chance to have a sensible discussion about it, he would have said with a shrug that it would be a shame, that these things had to happen or he'd be out of a job, and he would have begun to slowly develop a horrible tension in his shoulders.

  Lucien was a Fallen. He did not have horns or a pointed tail, and his wings, which he generally kept tucked out of existence, were the unobtrusive color of a pile of ashes flecked with charcoal. He was not a demon, and the only possible link that could be made between the two would be their loyalties and their natural habitat. However, even the questions of loyalty and habitat can be debated: Lucien and his peers were, after all, firstly angels and originally of the High Realm, no matter how much Rielat had warped some of them after a few centuries.

  In spite of all this, as his sort go, he was quite average, even unremarkable. Even his looks, which were enough to get him double- and sometimes triple-takes from humans when in public, were nothing special when compared to others of his background.

  Lucien had been stationed on Earth for the past seven years, the last of which he had spent living in a fairly nice second-floor apartment. He had spent this time writing a report of all the places on Earth he had visited, especially the ones that, for one reason or another, had higher focuses of celestial vibrations. His superiors had been so pleased with his work and efficiency that they were granting him a sabbatical, as it were, in honor of a job well done.

  He'd been happy, delighted in fact, to stay on Earth a little longer, and to dreamily contemplate the possibility of getting a job transfer to stay semi-permanently: nothing is forever, after all, and he realized that although Earth had many merits, at times it was much, much worse than the Lower Realm.

  ***

  He had been watching the weather channel when the phone rang. This irritation was unwelcome, for Lucien had a long-standing fascination with the weather
in all its forms. It was, then, completely a given that he should become a solemn devotee of they who attempted to forecast it.

  His crush on the weatherperson didn't hurt, either.

  “No, thank you, that's very kind of you to offer,” Lucien said into the phone with his most calming voice after he and the telemarketer had spoken for a few moments, “But I really don't have a use for a nine-by-eleven inch engraving of YourLordJesusChrist, even if it IS in blue ink.” He listened intently to the telemarketer's nasal, guilty voice. “Yes, I'm well aware of all that. Everyone in Rielat keeps complaining about the souls That Man stole from us when he went and did his thing. The lava pits just haven't been the same since the Spanish Inquisition, either, or so say the demons of the lower circles. Not like those sorts of places are to my taste. Sorry, didn't catch that?” He paused. “Only in the best bar in Dis; where else would I hear gossip like that? Can't mix a drink to save their souls, but they do up a pretty good blooming onion. Also deep-fried whatever-you-give-them on Fridays. Get it? Fry-days?” He paused again. “No, I'm sorry, but they don't like me to have role models from That Side, you know what I mean? ...Hello?” He gave the phone an odd look and, returned his attention to the television and hung up without giving the phone another glance: The cute weatherperson was cheerily reporting that there was an 86% chance of rain. His besotted smile grew brighter has he heard a crash of thunder and the beginnings of wet, tapping fingertips upon the windows.

  ***

  The rain had pattered invitingly for over an hour before he decided to go out for a walk in it. It had hissed in gentle gusts on the tiny balcony just outside his bedroom, and it had burbled to him from the empty window box that he had bought filled with colorful blooms, then promptly had forgotten about. Lucien, helpless when it came to such persuasive weather, hadn't spared a thought for the early-fall temperatures, or the possibility that he could drown in such a downpour-- instead, once the rain convinced him to come play, he strode out into the gray afternoon with nothing but the clothes on his back and a vague sense of glee for such good weather.