The last day of the Revolt; in the interstice before Fall. The horde of rebellious angels forsaking the grace of God for the darkness of the Evenstar Lucifel have been pushed to the boundaries of Heaven. At the very edge they stand, assembled in neat ranks. Their numbers are many, and they burn with newborn hate and outraged pride. They are in retreat. Ostensibly, Heaven is the winning side, but the filthy, exhausted and wing-ragged rabble facing the army of Lucifer do not look like victors. Four levels of Heaven have been breached; three have been heavily damaged. One level, this last bastion of Heaven, lies completely in ruin. The angels of the Host of Heaven are heartsore and weary. Those who defected were their brightest and their best; siblings, friends, teachers.. but not lovers, never lovers. All those who dared to love openly will be numbered among the Fallen. Irony then, that the leader of the rebels, though loved, has never been known to love. Lucifer, once Lucifel, had been the most beautiful, the brightest of all Heaven. Before his revolt, he had been the unanimously acclaimed leader of Heaven, second in rank only to the Holy Serafita. Lucifel, who brought light to the heavens, Lucifel, their shining prince. But it is Lucifer now who faces the Host, standing proud and tall at the head of his army, burning brighter in the darkness he surrounds himself with, than any star. In stark contrast the leader of the Host, God's own champion, a small, sullen figure of a boy, who holds in his hands a sword that seems almost too large for him, a sword that burns with writhing flame. The flames leap about the sword in a mad, flickering dance, a dervish; the heat of it is so intense that all around feel it, searing the skin of their faces, the back of their necks. The fire does not illuminate; instead it casts the Champion's face into shadow, so he appears steeped in unholy emotion. Lucifer is unarmed, but he makes no effort to shield himself, and neither does he show any sign of fear. His face, the perfect facade, is a mask devoid of emotion, as if not acknowledging the being before him at all. The sword hangs in the air for a single moment, suspended by rage and a pair of thin, shaking arms; then it descends. ==== Once upon a beginning: two stars in the sky. A prophecy: Of the two princes to be born, one would be a prince of light, son of the dawn; the other a prince of darkness who would seek to draw the world around him into the emptiness of the void. But it was not made clear which of the two was to be the harbinger of disaster, and so both were allowed to live. In the years that passed, they grew up. One was tall and fair, with a charismatic beauty that drew all who saw him to love him. That prince excelled at whatever he turned his hand to, always ice-cold, serene, perfect. The other, the younger, stopped growing before his body had attained its full growth- the supreme disgrace for any angel, to be trapped forever on the cusp of puberty. He was the Angel of Fire, as his brother was not, but while his brother shone with the clear brilliance of stars, his was the sullen glow of a smouldering fire-demon, an efrit. So most of those who knew the both of them said, although if they were wise they did not say it to the face of either brother. There was one, perhaps, who did not judge the brothers and find one worthier than the other, who looked upon them both with the same light in her eyes. She was a retainer, an angel who had been in their service since they were young, and her name was Baal. Perhaps she thought herself a mother to them, since she was the closest thing they had to one. Angels had no mothers; to say that they were born was merely a euphemism. They had only the Holy Father; the blinding moment of creation -conception- and then the cold sterility of the birthing tanks. ====