Robert Browne - The Paradise Prophecy

Perhaps if he had treated these creatures with more dignity, this would not have been possible. But he had made a mistake in telling them that they were free to choose, only to punish them if they defied his will.

The contradiction did not go unnoticed.

While history would continue to be written by his followers, painting the rebels as evil and self-serving-using fear as a common motivator-the rebels worked quietly and with purpose, forging their own kingdom amidst the fires of Abyssus and doing all they could to undermine his authority.

Lucifer, a formidable warrior who was once God’s most perfect angel, had demonstrated a capacity for ruthlessness beyond all others. He rose among the ranks to become the leader of the rebels, urging them to return to Caeli to fight again. To conquer their father’s kingdom and take back the dignity he had stripped from them.

But on the night of the fourth moon, at the end of the first lunar tetrad, news of this rebellion reached their father’s ears and he lashed out preemptively, showing the rebel king no mercy.

Too cruel to simply kill Lucifer, he instead banished him to the City of the Seventh Gate, locking him in a cell of fire to forever contemplate the consequences of his deeds.

And this was where Lucifer resided to this day. Forever in agony.

Although they considered their cause a noble one, the remaining rebels disbanded, fearing their father’s retribution. They began fighting among themselves, dividing into clans, each clan led by the strongest of them.

Belial. Moloch. Mammon. Beelzebub.

Michael.

And as time wore on, as century after century flew past-their spirits dampened and their memories blotted by war and greed and heartbreak-they forgot why they had come together in the first place. They themselves became tainted by their ever-growing thirst for power and the desire to control the playground their father had created.

But these earth creatures, these humans, turned out to be more resilient than they had expected, and that playground could not so easily be dominated.

Beelzebub, first brother to Lucifer, called for a meeting of the clans in Pandemonium, the one city in all of Abyssus that had not been marked by partisan politics-a neutral ground, built by the great Mulciber, where the leaders had no fear of a surprise attack.

And in that meeting, an alliance was formed. An agreement made.

A blood pact.

It was said that their father and his angels in Caeli had long ago turned their backs on the world he had created and had found other amusements to occupy their time.

No longer fearing his retribution, the clans would now work together for a common goal. If they could not return to Caeli, they’d create a heaven of their own. Their love for Lucifer had not waned, and because his fate had been cast under the bloodred light of the fourth moon of the tetrad, they would use the power of that moon to bring about the Final Conquest. They would open the seven gates of hell, release King Lucifer from his eternal bonds, and rule over their new paradise, forever enslaving these feeble humans as symbols of their father’s indifference.

Only Michael objected to this plan.

Perhaps, he told them, there was another way to achieve their goal. Perhaps if they honored their father, stayed true to the original intent of his creation, they could work together with the creatures of earth and live in harmony.

Michael, however, was ridiculed by the others. Even his sister Belial called him naive, a fool to believe that honoring their father would bring them anything but more heartbreak.

But Michael could not be deterred. As the others continued to corrupt mankind, harvesting souls, which together with the power of the moon would open the seven gates and bring forth their beloved king, he worked quietly and with purpose, undermining them at every turn, urging peace among the humans, using the mythologies his father created to help persuade them to remain good and pure, untainted by the rebels’ corruption.

And with each new lunar tetrad, he managed to beat back the forces of the alliance and prevent them from achieving their goal.

But it wasn’t easy, and Michael’s resolve began to weaken. In desperation, he called out to his father, insisting he listen, demanding that he pay attention to the world he had abandoned and bring it back to the light.

Then one night, when he was all but convinced that his call had gone unheard, his father came to him, amused by his demand.

“Look at this world you covet,” he said. “The people who inhabit it are as corrupt and self-serving as Lucifer and his creed. Why should I care what happens to them? Why do you care?”

“Because I remember what it was to live in the light of your grace. And I want these people to know that feeling. Here on earth.”

“They had their chance.”

“But don’t they deserve a second one?”

His father considered this. Then he said, “I’ll do better than that, my son. Look to the skies, and with each new lunar tetrad these creatures you so believe in will be granted another chance. During that time, you must listen for the song, the song of the Telum.”

“Telum?”

“A miraculous weapon so powerful that it will either give these creatures the peace you seek for them, or destroy them forever. And on the night of the fourth moon, whoever takes control of that weapon will control the fate of the world.” He paused then, staring grimly at Michael. “But be warned, my son, I won’t make it easy for you. That song will not be easily heard, and your enemies will know about this weapon as well.”

“But . . . why?”

“Because they are my children, too.”

Thirteen lunar tetrads had come and gone in the last several centuries, yet nothing had changed. Michael had failed time and again to hear the true song of the Telum, and with each new blood moon, the rebels drew closer to their goal.

But it would be different this time.

It had to be.

Because the rebels were closer than ever now, and he sensed that this was his very last chance.

Ashout interrupted Michael’s thoughts. A burst of laughter.

Keeping his hand clutched to his side, he turned and looked back toward the movie theater. Three men had stumbled out of a nearby bar and were eyeing the old man, working their way toward him.

All three were the size of college football players. Military haircuts.

Michael considered for a moment that they might be drudges, but he didn’t think so. The vibe they gave off was all too human-even from this distance.

“Well, well,” one of them said as they came to a stop in front of the box office. “Check out Gandalf. He ain’t lookin’ so good.”

“Isn’t that your pops?” another one said, and he and the third one doubled over in drunken laughter.

Unamused, the first one moved up to the old man and nudged him with his toe. “Hey, dirtbag, what do you think you’re doing sleeping in my spot? I got this suite reserved.”

The others laughed again.

Awake now, the old man flinched and cradled his head, muttering incoherently as he curled into a tight fetal ball.

The first guy nudged him again. “Get that dick outta your mouth and speak up, buddy.”

A renewed wave of laughter overtook the other two, but the first one still didn’t join in. He was an angry drunk, and the hate and disgust in his eyes was difficult to ignore.

But the old man was trying. Kept muttering to himself.

Michael got to his feet then, feeling the sudden need to reassure him. He didn’t normally do this-it was against his code-but there were always exceptions.

Always.

It’s all right, he said, burrowing his way into the old man’s brain. I won’t let them hurt you.