'Guess I should backtrack a bit.' I let Ying retract his claw when he got the hint rather than try to shrug it off. He might have taken it the wrong way. 'In the Blackness, time flowed...differently. Strangely. I'm not sure it flowed at all, honestly.'

'Maybe.' Sam crouched, arms over his knees. 'Depending on how long you think you were in there. Felt like a few minutes or so from our side, but time in Faerie can't be trusted, nor can your instincts, no matter sharp you think they are.'

Internal Affairs' headquarters was not a welcoming place. That would have sent the wrong message. Yes, IA might have managed relations between divisions, and they were pretty tight with the infirmaries and medical staff, but nobody was likely to believe they were cuddly if they saw Uluru base's layout. Granted, I'd never seen anything besides the spot we were currently in and my Mobius cell, which had looked like a lot of nothing, but neither location encouraged me not to be a stranger.

We were standing, or crouching and floating above, in Sam and Ying's cases, a circular platform that brought to mind both stone and metal, but was neither, and smelled like impossibly old flesh, if anything. Like something that should have decayed to nothing an eternity ago, but persisted solely to disgust.

There were many such things in our world and beyond it, few as harmless as the apparent platform.

'I reached an understanding with my instincts, partly because neither of us wanted to be destroyed. The fact we're a package deal might have had more to do with it than my worse half's love for me,' I began, glancing all around me without actually moving my eyes. I simply wished to see my surroundings, and an image flashed into my mind, like a snapshot. The image somehow felt more vivid than any of my memories, even though it wasn't actually clearer in terms of detail.

Maybe the fact I was finally learning to use Mimir's power was changing me. Even so, I couldn't perceive anyone besides ourselves anywhere close. There were no minds, souls or bodies hiding on the platform or sticking to its underside, nor crouching or crawling along the thick, black chains that it was suspended on, chains that seemingly led into infinity, because not only could I not see their ends, my senses told me there were no such things. There was only darkness around us, but I wasn't stupid enough to believe we weren't being watched.

This was the centre of the IA headquarters. Last time I was here, I was led along one of the horizontal chains extending from this platform, walking through darkness for what had felt like centuries, before suddenly arriving in my cell without anything changing. One moment thick metal under my feet and a dark void around me, the next moment a white void, solid only where I walked or sat.

'Chernobog tried to possess us again, but we took him by surprise. We dragged the Blackness into ourselves with Mimir's power, then tried to swap places in Broceliande with him.'

'Why not attack him?' John asked, hands on his hips, looking around with an irritated expression, like he was inspecting something and not finding it to his liking. Either his senses were far sharper than mine, as I couldn't perceive anything, which was possible, or he was crazier than me, which was extremely unlikely. I might even get offended.

'I think that's what he expected too, actually,' I said, carefully trying not to phrase it like the IA Head had the same thought process as Chernobog. 'Because he hesitated enough for us to almost succeed, but...' I snapped my fingers in frustration, the broken bones healing long before the sound filled the platform. 'He escaped. Tore up a lot of land, probably to slow down pursuers if not accidentally, but, unlike the Blackness, it doesn't seem to be anything permanent. At least, so far...' I trailed off, noticing their intense, curious expressions. 'Sirs? No offence, but you were there too, and saw it. Why am I reporting like this?'

'Reporting? You're not  reporting, David.' Ying slouched, leaning backwards on nothing. 'You don't report to any of us, anyway. I suggested you share your perspective on what happened. If you felt the need to focus on details, that's entirely on you.'

'Ah, stop fucking with him, Ying.' Sam waved the dragon off, standing up. 'You've probably got the sharpest senses in ARC, Silva. If not now, then soon. After all, you almost figured out how to escape, which all of us couldn't. That's something...' He tapped one of his temples with a talon. 'So, your input is appreciated. We wanted to hear if you noticed anything we missed. Belobog, for example.'

'I don't know what's worse. The bastard using his counterpart as a battery, or somehow doing it without anyone noticing, then getting away with it for...what? Centuries, at least?' John shook his head. 'We must investigate. The why is fairly obvious: more power, powers previously unavailable to him. Revenge, too, I'm sure. Spite. It's the how and when that interests us.'

'Actually...' Normally, people who started sentences like that claimed they hated doing it, while loving it. I'd even done it myself once or twice, but this time, I actually hated what I was about to say. 'I don't think the why is that simple, sir.'

'Explain.'

I rubbed my chin at John's steady stare, as uncomfortable as I could get without actually being able to feel anything. The other two were scarcely less focused. 'Chernobog let some stuff slip while he gloated. More than he intended, I think. Or, at least, nothing he expected I'd be able to use against him.'

'Because you'd be dead or his puppet,' John said. 'How do you know he was saying the truth? How do you know he wasn't just trying to put you off-balance, so defeating and then possessing you would be easier?'

'I don't,' I admitted. 'But, if he was saying the truth, wouldn't it be better if we already knew? If it turns out a load of bull, we'll just shrug and keep going.'

So, I told them that Chernobog wasn't beholden to Nyarlathotep, or at least didn't think he was, and hadn't been resurrected by him. Instead, he had come back due to his nature as a god of decay and destruction. I told them about his plan to bind Nyarlathotep and create an empire built on necromancy, with him as eternal god-king (or would it be king god?), to use the dead as fuel and material. Kill the rest of the Fae, too, because they had attempted to bargain with him, which I added almost as an afterthought. The rest was already heavy enough.

'About what we expected,' John said. 'This empire of undeath, I mean. It tracks with the few stories we have about him. Even binding the Crawling Chaos...well, we know he hates competition. Whether he can, or believes he can gain access to something that will give him the ability, is a different story.' The ghost gestalt scowled, flesh slipping away to reveal a skull that, rather than a death head's grin, sported a hideous scowl. Closer to a sneer, actually, what teeth weren't missing being yellow and blocky. 'What I don't understand is, why does he hate your guts so much? You couldn't even do shit against him until this confrontation.'

'I asked him too, which led to him running his mouth.' I pursed my lips, trying to look past the thick, black fog that covered so, so many futures. 'I think he feels threatened by something I will or could do or become. Something...he got mad when I said I know life and death are sacred.' I frowned. 'No, not mad. It was more like resigned disgust. Like he was already preparing to put something loathsome down, then saw even more evidence that it needed to be killed.'

'Is that so strange, Silva? You  would oppose his mass necromancy plan.' Ying took a swig from his tea gourd, then pointed it at me. 'Wouldn't you?'

I didn't like the insinuation, nor the tone and look that accompanied it. I matched his steely stare with one of mine. 'After everything, you truly need to ask if I'd let the dead be exploited?'

'But that doesn't make sense,' Sam said. 'Of course you wouldn't stand for that shit. But so what? Only a monster would. Just you opposing that isn't enough to make Chernobog hate you, in particular, so much that he'd try to break your mind.'

'Did he say more, Silva? More details?' John asked.

'Yeah, he said I can't be allowed to live, because it's unnatural for a strigoi to fight for good. He said the same about Ri-senior agents Peretz and Cortez.'

If John was displeased with my slip-up, he gave no sign. 'So, he doesn't want supernaturals traditionally known for being evil going against their instincts, because it might inspire others to follow in their footsteps, which would naturally mean standing against him. Hmph...well, ARC is full of people like that. Many agencies are. I'm sure many of our recent setbacks were either caused or influenced by Chernobog, so people would lose faith in us.'

I was about to say more-maybe talk about those cults the Black God had mentioned, and their plans to topple civilisation, or the fact that I felt like I was missing something, something right on the edge of my perception-when I felt sharp pain tear across my mind, thoughts splitting like flesh would when stepping on a glass shard. It was a false pain, more like an acute sense of worry, but it still had me doubling over, one hand clutching at my heart.

Mia...my heart...what was happening to you?

My girlfriend had told that, on the night she'd saved me, she'd felt I was in danger. We didn't know if it had been a combination of her instincts and senses, if she'd been nudged along by God, or both, but I think that, in that moment, I understood her.

'I m-' I started before alarms began ringing. They weren't placed on walls somewhere in the darkness, because there were no walls, nor air for the sound to travel through. We had only been able to talk because of our powers. These were aetheric alarms, and John reacted almost the same way I did, though faster.

'Unseelie incursion near Britain!' he said, the chains around his arms writhing like snakes. To my surprise, his voice lacked any of the usual contempt when speaking about the UK. The fact he already knew the nature of the emergency led me think he must have had his senses bound to either the location, one of IA's many monitoring rooms, or both, because my senses just snapped over to Britain as I directed my mind across thousands of kilometres in an instant.

What I saw made that tearing, heartbreaking sensation return. With it came anger.

'Hang in there, you three,' we snarled with two voices, ignoring the Heads' looks. 'We are...' I looked at Sam for confirmation, and he nodded briskly.

'You'll report to Aya after. I'll tour the monitoring rooms and, if there's nothing else that needs my attention, I'll join you, then give the mummy a preview. Go.'

With a grateful nod, I strode forward, through the door that opened and closed behind me just as I visualised it.

***

Cluj-Napoca

Generally-speaking, zmei could not get sick. Between their regeneration and blood that never went under thirteen hundred degrees Celsius (and could be heated up at will) most toxins, bacteria and viruses simply could not survive inside their bodies, even when their guard was down.

That was one of the two reasons, besides his instincts, Lucian knew something was wrong as soon as he rose from the bed.

Shuddering, stumbling, almost tripping? That wasn't supposed to happen unless his feet were mangled. His tail and wings, coupled with a zmeu's inbuilt sense of balance, meant that he couldn't fumble like this unless he tried to, or was too wounded to walk properly.

And yet...

'Leaving so soon?' the room's other occupant and owner asked so quietly a human wouldn't have heard anything. It was almost as loud as a gunshot to him.

'Dunno...' he muttered gruffly, arms hanging by his sides, tail twitching in irritation. He felt like he was about to lose something. What? Liza-Eliza, the weremantis he'd fought a while back; she told him only her friends called her Liza, so of course he'd taken to it like a duck to water, despite her amused irritation-wasn't about to hurt him. She'd just finished doing that, after days that had tested his regeneration far more than their match. Both of their schedules has been free. Her human form was dark-skinned, her dark hair with electric green highlights reaching her shoulders, and she was looking pensively at him, eyebrows scrunched together as she sat up in bed, arms crossed.

He was either in a really shitty mood or getting better at controlling his nature, because he only noticed she was still naked after this. Or maybe it was because he'd noticed that a lot recently?

'Need to recharge your batteries, gramps?' she asked, amused, and Lucian heard muscles twitch as she smiled, felt the air shifting around them.

'Watch your mouth, girl.' He mock-glared over his shoulder. 'You only beat me by attrition 'cause weres literally can't get tired.'

'Sounds like a you problem.'

'Keep telling yourself that. It's not how long you can go on, it's what you can do in that time.' He pulled on his pants, quietly grateful they had come with a hole for his tail. Usually, he had to make them himself.

'Mhm. You know the only reason you're still alive is because I stopped moving when you did?' Skin turned to pale green chitin as she assumed her hybrid form, chest flattening and two more arms growing from her sides, under the original ones. 'Should we resume?'

'Don't threaten me with a good time. You still...didn't...shit!'

There were four hundred fifty-three kilometres between Cluj-Napoca and Bucharest. Hurried as he was, Lucian was out of Liza's home while his last word still hung in the air. In a fifth of a second, he'd moved between the two cities, flipping over a couple of mages going at it in midair, the invisibility spell they had cast over themselves doing nothing against his sight, but hiding them from the eagle that, frozen in place from Lucian's perspective, came to a halt between them, resulting in a rather hilarious slow motion aerial accident.

No time to help, though. His instincts, growing sharper and sharper as the distance lessened, told him that...yes.

Lucian came to a halt, hovering in place above the Old Centre. Hadn't felt someone else being endangered like this since Aaron's assassination attempt during the Fright...but who could it be? Lucas? One of his friends? Aaron wasn't in Bucharest, far as he knew-

Lucian was halfway through cursing his dull, unclear instincts, before he smelled her.

Bianca herself did not actually smell like anything. Her true form was a shapeless figure of something that resembled light and mana, but was neither. Her body was a construct, and, as such, only smelled like the places she passed through, like the things she touched or wore.

To a mundane sense of smell. But Lucian's arcane sense, which was currently latching onto his other five, interpreted the trail she left in reality and the aether as a simultaneously light and harsh smell. Like honey in mountain air. She had passed through the Old Centre, which wasn't a surprise: she often sang there. What was a surprise, and an unpleasant one at that, was that it felt like she'd been here until an instant ago, but that made no sense. Bianca couldn't physically move fast enough to escape his perception, and if she'd opened a portal or teleported, she'd have left some sort of metaphysical trace.

Was she still here and he couldn't spot her? That wasn't any easier to believe.

Lucian touched down, muttering apologies to the passersby who grumbled about huge jackasses dropping out of the sky, and trying not to step on a couple of brownies who yelped their way between his legs and around his tail.

He had a bad feeling about this.

***

The Roundhouse, London

Vyrt sat down with a disgracefully heavy sigh. He knew he had no right to act like he was the one burdened, but his heart was still heavy.

Luckily, the days when his mood could inadvertently change his body were millennia behind him. If he felt there was a danger of literally making his heart too heavy to for his reinforced chair to bear, he'd simply shapeshift it away. Not like he needed it, nor did the universe need something that would outweigh TON 618 like it outweighed a champagne cork. Gravity was a cruel mistress...

Vyrt registered the new arrival in his office in a tenth of a zeptosecond-the fastest his mind could be while constrained by a physical, for a given value of the word, body, without willingly increasing his speed.

This, he knew, meant his father was taking things slow. Lucifer, then. The Beast would have already ravaged half the universe using his body as a bludgeon by now, expecting him to ramp up until he could keep pace.

They were both too old for that, honestly.

The being in front of Vyrt, a paltry two metres tall, but somehow looking down on him, was pale but ruddy-cheeked, with a mane of raven hair and an impish smile under the blazing white, featureless eyes Vyrt hadn't inherited, to his and his father's mutual surprise.

The Devil was going for black leather tonight, with an, in Vyrt's opinion, rather excessive number of buckles and straps, not to mention enough zippers so bulky you could have likely concussed someone with one.

Vyrt did not bother to ask how his father had entered the Roundhouse undetected. The building's defences, reinforced by decade after decade of wards crafted by him, his brother, the Lady and countless Knights, would have been enough to keep even the Enemy out for a while, while notifying everyone of his arrival, never mind an attempt to enter.

Which meant his grandfather's hand, or something so similar as to be indistinguishable.

Might as well play along, then. The mighty could be used to one's benefit, if thy believed they were in full control of a situation.

That had been exactly what Oberon had thought before his blunder, yes, but Vyrt liked to believe he was wiser than King Seelie. Or, at least, luckier. After all, luck was the Devil's like he was his son.

'Hello, father,' Vyrt began in a neutral tone. 'Are you here for any reason other than making me thankful the nineties are over?'

Lucifer worked his mouth like he was chewing on something, not answering for a few moments. Then, he raised his left leg, wiggling one boot. 'Did you know humans love these, despite the fact they can barely walk in them, let alone work or dance?'

'I did, in fact. Is this going to extend into a diatribe on how they want and have always wanted things that are bad to themselves, hence why you barely have to try to corrupt them at all?'

'No one likes a know-it-all,' the Devil muttered, almost pouting.

Explains why you are so beloved by some. 'I have lived among them far longer than you have. It is to be expected.'

'If you say so....' Lucifer said in a sing-song voice, walking backwards off Vyrt's desking, then letting himself fall into a chair he conjured. Leaning back into the-leather, black. Again?-seat, he crossed his legs and steepled his fingers. 'So...'

'You still haven't said why you are here.'

'I can't visit my son?'

'If you visited any of my half-siblings instead...'

'Their small, quiet lives, as they know them, would be over,' Lucifer said softly, moving a hand over his eyes and leaving behind a pair of shades, reducing his eyes to small, white points surrounded by blackness. 'But with you? With you, I can make up for lost time. In fact, I almost want to. You haven't even introduced me to your new wife, after all!'

'I never introduce you to my spouses.'

'Oh, you are right. I almost forgot, silly me....I always have to introduce myself.' A smirk, so fast Vyrt almost missed it. 'And Mira seems reserved too, Vyrt. Maybe too reserved. When are you going to make me a grandfather?'

'You've been a grandfather thousands of times,' Vyrt replied, already tired of this game. 'A grandmother hundreds of times.'

'But never to your children...' His mother frowned prettily, twirling a strand of long brown hair around one finger. 'One wants to see the family grow. It is only natural.'

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

'And so many things are natural about us,' Vyrt said, smiling sardonically. 'Did my comment remind you of something? Who are you supposed to be, Elizabeth Hurley as yourself?'

'I loved the remake.' Lucifer threw his hair back, smiling. 'If only humans put more effort into things like that, instead of attempting to summon me...'

'One would think you would appreciate the flattery.'

'Flattery,' Lucifer snorted. 'Trite offerings and heavy metal played backwards. Nothing makes me avoid a place more than that music. I prefer mine, you see.' He gestured to his Springsteen shirt.

'I am not talking about the amateurs.' Vyrt leaned forward on his elbows, hands together.

'They're all amateurs, if they think they can summon me.' Lucifer rolled his eyes. 'They think doing all that will result in my favour, or even-you know how they get-servitude. It's like those vapid children who treat your grandfather like a house spirit, expecting tricks in exchange for lip service.' His brow furrowed thoughtfully. 'What did he tell you?'

'You saw but don't know?'

'Pretend I don't, if it helps. Think I'm testing your conscience, or memory, or perception, if it doesn't.' Lucifer raised both hands, before flicking his wrists. 'Just...tell me what you think happened.'

And Vyrt did. To his surprise, his father did and said nothing. Until the end.

Without enhancing his speed or shedding his physical form, Vyrt could move several metres every zeptosecond, and perceive even faster events. That meant that, as he was rushed across then out of his office and the Roundhouse, he saw, with eyes that cared nothing for physics or biology, light slowly pass halfway across a hydrogen molecule. His father was far too fast to think about avoiding, of course.

Vyrt wrapped his gauntleted hands around his father's wrists after they stopped, acknowledging his strength and asking to be freed, rather than trying to do it himself. He could amplify his power until it matched his father's current level, but neither he nor reality would gain anything from that. The Beast let go of him in deep space, beyond any star known to mortals. From Vyrt's perspective, the manhandling had lasted an instant, but he knew it had actually lasted even less than he or any mathematician could measure.

'You still feel guilty for that?' Satan asked, his ever-burning rage bubbling under his voice, sounding like he was biting every word out creation. 'You are the only one foolish enough to, Vyrt. But I suppose I must commend you.' He spread his arms sardonically. 'After all, no one can judge us but ourselves, for who else knows us?'

'You have always believed that,' Vyrt said, rubbing his neck, glaring at the memory of the throttling. 'Being compared to you does not help my conscience.'

Satan barked a harsh laugh. 'Oh, to be young and foolish! I have never had the privilege...fine. Look at it this way, then: does anyone other than your co-conspirators know about what you did, never mind why? No? And do they condemn you for it, or are they wise enough to know one undead's suffering does not compare to the continuation of all there is?'

The end doesn't justify the means, Vyrt wanted to say, but couldn't. He had always believed in those words almost as much as he had loathed them. The many against the one? It does not mean the one is less tormented.

But he could not say that, either. If he did...if he had, all of creation would be plunged into chaos, leaving nothing but the Dreamer and the one they called Ischyros, as untouchable as it had been since wandering into the Dream from parts unknowable.

'I could not care about Chernobog's opinion if my life depended on it,' Vyrt finally said. 'And Merlin is just as foolish a monster as I am. We have no more right to judge each other than you and I do.'

'And your kin above?' his father prodded. 'Did you not say-'

'God forgives everyone,' Vyrt said flatly, before lowering his head. 'Of course they do not condemn me. Of course I am thankful for that.'

'...You know the Remaker has never regretted letting this happen,'' Satan said. 'You know he never will. And yet, some will consider him kinder than you.' At Vyrt's snort, he scowled. 'Do you know how many expected Silva to fail?'

'Apep?' Vyrt asked rhetorically. 'You and the other Princes?'

Satan nodded. 'That glorified umbilical cord did nothing but watch as the strigoi balanced on the edge of oblivion. Perhaps he wanted it all to end too, or perhaps he wanted to intervene and end Chernobog while he was distracted by his victory. Maybe he would have done it before. We will never know...'

Rolling his eyes at the regret in the Beast's voice, Vyrt stood up straighter. 'And my kin below?'

'Beelz wanted him to break.' Satan bore that smile, more exasperated than fond, Vyrt often sported when looking at or talking about his brother. 'Have a crisis of faith, give in to despair, cry out to us for help-him in particular, preferably. We all did...and were pleased and disappointed in equal measure.'

'Oh?'

'Silva pulled through, without any training. Who'd have thought? Certainly not him.' Satan smiled slightly as he shook his head. 'I suppose we have become jealous. Or possessive, rather. We did not want the Black God taking him. He prays to your grandfather, so he is ours to tempt.'

'And here I thought,' Vyrt's smile was knifelike. 'That any servant of the Lord becoming a tool of His enemies would please y-'

The bruise left on Vyrt's cheek by the Beast's slap healed almost as fast as it formed. In a moment, his face was back to normal, unlike every galaxy for billions of light-years around. Countless trillions of stars were obliterated, while planets were reduced to quarks, too fast for any distant starship or outpost to record the event.

'Do not mock me,' Satan growled warningly, a hand closing around Vyrt's head, fingers digging through his skull, claws meeting in the middle of his brain. 'Did I not say he is ours?'

Rather than answer, Vyrt focused his senses on the cosmos, causing his father to send him flying with a wrist-flick and a contemptuous scoff.

'And here you go, insulting me again. You think I am so unskilled I would destroy anything I didn't aim for? You know inhabited planets are off-limits to signatories of the Syncretic Treaty, their missionaries notwithstanding. Did you think I have nothing better to do than fight off every enforcer the pantheons can scrounge up?"

'I am grateful I took the brunt of the force,' Vyrt replied, making his father grin humourlessly.

'Deflecting...your bleeding heart almost broke at the thought of innocents dying because of my rage, didn't it? Did you believe that finding and rescuing survivors would help alleviate your guilt? Or erase your deeds, maybe?'

'Even if neither had happened,' Vyrt raised a hand, calling his crook to him. No teleportation or summoning, not any more than moving one's limbs was either. In the face of some bonds, time and distance meant nothing. 'I would have done all in my power to ease their pain.'

'Just like your mother....beautiful soul, almost enough to balance the apelike face. Almost.'

'You still had me.'

'Every woman is the same if you don't look at her,' Satan said, crossing his arms. 'You are diverting. Chernobog winning would have been nothing more than the prelude to the end of everything. Who else do you think DEATH would have taken as its champion and guide? Xlkano Zhei? Sarghzagh? One of Earth's undead, other than Silva? No. For the same reason the Remaker manages reality, and the Eye of Darkness removes threats to it from existence and memory, life and death need a hand on the scales. Too much heart, or too little, and the Dream turns into a Nightmare, then nothing.' A broad, gleaming grin. 'And you know what they say: everyone wants something. No one wants nothing.'

'I am thankful I have helped prevent that,' Vyrt said honestly. 'My feelings will not stop me from doing what is necessary. They never have.'

As he spoke, Vyrt's physical form slipped away, false flesh becoming grey flames that closed over his feet, hands and groin, and face, though the eye in its centre could still be seen shining through the fires.

Fitting, Vyrt supposed, that assuming his true form resulted in almost all of his features melting away. Over the hundreds of millennia, trillions upon trillions of enemies had-briefly-mocked him for being a puppet of Yahweh, with no though and no desire other than His worship.

They had not been fully right, for few ever were. It was worship, yes, of a most honoured ancestor, but Vyrt did not dedicate every moment to the Lord. He had-always had, to nurture that precious link to humanity-Vykt. He had Miranda, at the moment. He had his interests, as, at least in this aspect, his detractors were right: reading scripture could only be so entertaining, when you knew everyone involved in the events depicted, and the events themselves often better than the participants.

And, of course, Vyrt could not contemplate God for too long without remembering when He had been flawed.

***

Yahweh Cluster, 1413

Vyrt could not tear his eyes from the gold-skinned giant holding him, one unfathomably strong hand crushing his heart, the other his skull.

A belief of His enemies this creature was unintentionally confirming. But then, it had never been able to do anything worthwhile, whether by design or not.

'Grandson,' it crooned, smiling blindingly, its long beard as black as its bottomless eyes, or its empty, unfillable heart. 'How long I have waited to meet you. Vyrt for virtue, yes? Do you know my name?'

'Y...Y...' Vyrt tried to force out, a throat that didn't need air crushed under far more than mere force. The creature actually flinched at the disgust in his voice and eyes-for it had failed to cover them, as it always had. As it always would. 'Y-Yal...dabao-'

'No,' it said, grip tightening.'"I am the Lord your God, blasphemer, and you will not take my name in vain.'

Vyrt laughed in the Demiurge's face. 'You are not the Lord my God any more than I am Christendom's. He cast you off, or have you forgotten?' The Nephilim smiled viciously. 'Did you hit your head on your cage's floor when you fell? The Betrayer did. He thinks himself a king in exile.'

'You bring up that fool,' Yaldabaoth thundered. 'Then compare me to him? You shall be the last to burn, traitor's spawn.' The Demiurge grimaced-what, Vyrt supposed, it thought a smug smile was. 'I want you to see your father break, Vyrt. Then the hollow liar who took my Throne, along with its whore and puppet.'

'Jesus was His Word incarnate,' Vyrt said. 'The Son was with the Father long before the waters were split. And the Mother of God?' Vyrt glared, power beginning to flow into him. 'She bore the Lamb untouched and unblemished. You will never touch her as long as I live.'

Yaldaboth cursed, smashing him against the black bars of its cage. It was naked, its golden body hairless and featureless, except for the thing between its legs.

Vyrt had seen hermaphrodites before. Animals, people. They had their purpose and lives to live, as any creature. Some could multiply without mating, but this...life did not flow from the Demiurge's loins. The world would have cried out at what it bore in its womb.

Yaldabaoth was not male, nor female. It was not both, either. It could not create or nurture, except by twisting nothing into something, and the things that sprung from it would not be counted as life by the worst madmen alive.

'A Mother of God!' the Demiurge cried, appalled. 'A Son, preaching forgiveness for even the unbelievers! A-'

'If you are God the Lord,' Vyrt said, struggling not to laugh scornfully. 'Then why is the Holy Spirit not with you?'

'Stolen!' Yaldabaoth growled. "With my Throne and Kingdom, and perverted, just like them. A messenger and guiding hand...a lash and leash and sceptre no longer,' it spat. 'Corrupted, made into a tool of lies. Twisted, just like all who were blinded by the False Messiah.'

'Blinded,' Vyrt echoed placidly. 'And you intend to enlighten them?'

Yaldabaoth nodded. 'With hands of flame and thunder, I will rip the wool from their eyes, and the eyes from their faces, that they might see naught more than my glory, and give praise. I will raise and empty Hell until its flames burn cold, then baptise every thing of clay in them, that they might be reborn.' It brought Vyrt's face closer to its. 'You have misled those children too long. No more. No more love and hope and faith, blasphemer,' it hissed. 'Only obedience. I will tear the deceiver kicking and screaming from my Throne, and feed it to the things Under and Outside everything. Its remains will burn forevermore, to fuel the engines of my Kingdom.' It closed its eyes, face a mask of monstrous joy. 'As it is in Heaven, so it shall be on Earth and under it, and beyond all. I will stamp out the cancer that is free will. I shall take your precious Virgin and make her bear my new champions.' The abominable appendage twitched under Vyrt as the Demiurge smiled. 'Rest assured-her title will not last any longer than her mind. But that will be long in the coming, and she will embrace madness gladly. No more angels...' It raised its head to the ceiling of its cage, glaring hatefully, teeth bared. 'You have failed me, and you have failed in your purpose.'

'You said free will is a cancer,' Vyrt said. 'Were you not one with Yahweh when you gave it to Man?' His smile returned. 'Are you admitting your flaws?'

Vyrt chuckled wheezingly as power he could barely feel through the pain tore at him. 'Rest assured,' he mocked its earlier words. 'That is nothing more than becoming true to yourself. A being made of nothing but flaws...cannot...have...virtue-'

The Demiurge threw him down with a frustrated scream. 'You will never go mad, grandson. This, I promise. You shall take your place alongside the liar's bride, and bear your kin's replacements, too. And you will remember. Every. Single. Moment.'

'She is His bride in Heaven, as the Church of Peter's heirs is his Son's bride on Earth.' Vyrt pushed himself to one knee, wings trembling. 'And I will never let you touch either.' Flesh became fire as his seraphic nature came to the surface. 'You cannot even break me, here and now, when I stand unarmed and unarmoured, not fighting back in the only place where you have power. And do you know why?' Vyrt stood up, arms and wings spread. 'Because I am protected by my uncle's gift-even he is more blessed than you, flawed creation that he is, as we all are.'

The Nephilim took great satisfaction in watching the black ichor rush to the Demiurge's cheeks. 'Michael gains whatever power he needs, however much he needs, to protect God's children and creations, to enforce His will. You cannot topple him like a fly cannot topple the Gates of Heaven.'

'The usurper's dog-'

'Shall be your doom, if you ever attempt to break your prison. Death is a feather, and duty is a mountain- and this one will bury you, Yaldabaoth.' Delighting in the hatred burning in the Demiurge's eyes, Vyrt thought of his kin in the Ninth Host, and began to sing. 'Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of Hosts! The whole Earth is full of His glory!'

Yaldabaoth raged and beat him as he praised God-not this excised, discarded remnant, but the true Lord. Yahweh had contemplated the darkness growing within Him for longer than any of His children remembered, before finally casting it out as He prepared to send His Son into the world. It had been, unbeknownst to the angels, a choice between redemption for all, and tyranny without end or escape. But, in the end, what made God worthy of worship, in Vyrt's eyes, had prevailed.

The Nephilim did not know this, either. God had not yet revealed it to anyone, save, perhaps, His Son and wife. Maybe it would have humanised Him, in the eyes of some. But the alternative...

Even the greatest could see caution as cowardice, when they doubted themselves enough.

'You lie with every filthy breath!' Yaldabaoth cried, fingers meeting around Vyrt's core as it tried to rip him apart. 'You want nothing more than me to remove choice and pour my will into everyone! Foul-'

'Yahweh's will,' Vyrt said quietly, cutting through the Demiurge's tirade. 'Not yours. You fancy yourself a king eternal? You are nothing more than a beast, and not a great beast, either. A snake in lion's skin,' he sneered. 'And that is all the world will remember you as.'

The Demiurge threw Vyrt away with a glare so hateful it would have destroyed him utterly and permanently without Michael's protection. Before Yaldabaoth lunged at Vyrt, even as its façade fell away, a hand reached through the bars, grabbing the Nephilim by the shoulder and pulling him out of the cage as its occupant crashed against the bars.

Vyrt breathed in relief, looking up and seeing his father, uncle and grandfather.

'YOU UNDERSTAND NOW, VYRT. HOW COULD WE HAVE BEEN PERFECT WITH SUCH A THING GROWING INSIDE US?' A weary shake of a head accompanied the rhetorical question. 'MANY WILL NEVER BELIEVE US TO BE PERFECT, OR ANYTHING BUT FLAWED. BUT TO GO TO THEM WITH CLENCHED FISTS RATHER THAN OPEN HANDS WOULD MEAN LOWERING OURSELVES TO ITS LEVEL.'

'Oh, I don't know,' Lucifer said lightly. 'The Beast loves that bastard. The power and speed of every blow against him is added to his, permanently...and taunting the so-called God-in-Exile is always a quick way to grow in power.'

'You have always loved playing with fire, Samael,' Michael said, eyes on the slithering Demiurge. His grey, gold-rimmed armour shone with the light of sun that never reached this void, and never would, and in his right hand, he held a long, silver-headed spear, still dripping with the blood of his defeated eldest brother. 'Once, we loved you for it, too.'

'Once,' the Beast snapped. 'Now, you hate me for not being as spineless as you. Loathe me as much as either of the old monsters does.'

'I merely pity you, brother. I pray you will be able to find joy one day, or at least peace within yourself.' Putting his spear between his gorget and right pauldron, Michael clasped his hands to pray, long brown hair falling over his blue eyes as he knelt, golden wings closing around him. The Beast looked down at him with a mixture of shock and surprise.

'AND WE LOVE YOU, OUR SON. WE LOVE EACH AND EVERY ONE OF OUR CREATIONS. NOTHING YOU CAN DO OR THINK COULD MAKE US HATE YOU.'

Satan didn't answer right away. Instead he lowered his head, looking at neither his father nor his kneeling brother. Then, he nodded at the trembling cage. 'Do you love that, too?'

There was no time in the void. As such, everything felt like it took forever. Knowing he would not understand the answer even if he received one, the Beast asked something else. 'You say you love me, yet you sent me-and all of the others-to Hell?'

'HELL IS NOT ETERNAL, OUR SON. ONCE YOU USHER IN THE LAST REVELATION, YOU SHALL BE CAST INTO THE LAKE OF FIRE, AND REMADE. THE KINGDOM WE SENT YOU TO, WHERE YOU LEARNED WHAT YOU NEVER COULD HAVE BY OUR SIDE, WILL BE INHERITED BY SOMEONE WHO DESIRES IT. AND THEN...'

***

'Can you believe how sentimental he is?' Lucifer laughed quietly, running a hand through his hair as his beard disappeared and his body shrunk. 'Passed it on to all of us, too...even me. Speaking of that,' he perked up. 'I must do something before people start thinking I am kind. I have been helping so much lately, even the wretches making up my throne are screaming less. Maybe I should flay off their muscles too?' He tilted his head. 'Or should I just add more lungs? Hmm...'

Nodding to himself, the Devil floated away from his son. Before departing, he gave Vyrt one final glance, removing his shades. 'Do stop fretting, son. Because they don't know what's eating at you, you worry your wife and brother...and I cannot rest easy, either, knowing my enemies are halfway to defeating themselves.'