The Apocalypse (Lucifer's Return)... A Finish the Story Contest Entry

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Early in the morning, in the bitey air of an unripe April, fine pearls of rain drew averted trajectories, trying to prolong their run towards the ground. The morning sunlight slipped through them, caressing their lopsided dances.
A freshly baked pretzel perfume mingled with the acrid, yet familiar note of wet tarmac. Similar to the inviting singing of a mermaid, that fragrant smelling trail traveled for blocks coming from who knows where, bringing the illusion of a tasty breakfast at hand.
On Madison, the sound of a distant pneumatic hammer, disinterested in that diaphanous moment of peace, reminded the city of its daily duties. The need to renew the infinite interweaving of order and chaos, the human sap of a monotonous and, at the same time, different becoming.

An old beggar was taking shelter from the drizzle under the entrance of the Met Breuer.
He seemed to come out of nowhere and, in a sense, gave the idea of ​​having been there forever. The shabby headgear with ear-muffs could barely contain the explosion of white hair, gathered in damp, frayed cords due to the persistent drops of aerosol. The festive and bizarre trichological chaos reigning on his head only sharpened the contrast with the fixedness of his gaze, veiled by a cataract under the crusty eyelashes. Forearms and hands rested parallel, laying on a small and unusual pink plastic banquet that seemed to have been recovered from an abandoned nursery.

In front of him, carefully lying on the small pink table, he placed a typical cardboard square. Strangely enough, where a message of help was supposed to be found, not even a "everything helps" decorated the miserable panel which, laconic and brash together, was left naked to look at the sidewalk.
None of the hasty passers-by would have ever bothered to look down at the bizarre old man but, if someone had stopped for a while, perhaps he would have noticed that his open lips uttered a constant chant, a whisper of elusive and continuous vibrations.

"Now the distortion around him has become almost visible, how much do you think it could go on?". In truth, for several hours what had happened under the gray shed had captured the growing interest of two luminescent figures, on the other side of the road. From time to time, they exchanged positions to steal each other the best view. Their feet seemed to slip soft like fog on the cold sidewalk.

"Learn about silence once and for all, Duth. Would it make sense to even just hazard a guess in front of this.. thing?".

"But how is it possible for a human to perform the Chant, or to just gather.."

"And instead, if you bothered to listen, you would have noticed that this supposed human has just added the sixth voice," the archangel interrupted him, punctuating the words as he tried to separate red pomegranate grains from their peel.

"I think we've observed enough, we do not want him to start opening a seal, do we?", he continued, trying to resume his usually compassionate tone, "We have to report about it to Metatron. Stop stalling, let's move".

The old man's eyes suddenly gnawed them, like a blacksmith's hot pincer. Duth did not even have time to finish wondering how a simple homeless had been able to identify them on the subtle plane from which they were watching him.

An Autie Anne's Pretzels van sped in the direction of East Harlem, sprinkling the city with its fragrant trail. For an instant, the driver seemed to have heard a curious song, but he didn't pay too much attention...

...

The two archangels bowed their heads in respect as Enoch half walked, half glided to his seat at the three pronged altar. They remained in that posture for a while yet as the Metatron made a silent prayer to the invisible figure whose super imposed presence briefly lit up the center of the altar.

"What news do you bring?" The voice of the Metatron seemed to emanate from the very walls of the realm.

The two archangels lifted their heads.

"We lost two of our own Lord Metatron, field workers. They were watching a part of Earth where we suspected a breach in the seals."

"And?" Enoch was never known for his patience...

"We figure it may be one if the fallen angels trying to find a way back..."

"So you really have no news?" Enoch's voice was noticeably higher, just a tiny notch.

The two archangels fell silent, their heads slightly bowed again. None was ready to run the risk of being the one to give the Metatron a negative answer.

"The Creator won't be pleased." The Metatron continued, breaking the icy silence. "And there is still enough space down below for more of the fallen."

The archangels didn't move, nor did they utter a word in response. They simply remained still, their gazes fixed at a point in the transparent beams below their feets.

"Go and find your partners." The Metatron bellowed. "And do not break my routine again, unless you bring me news of who was responsible..."

"No need!"

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

Enoch lifted a hand, and two figures dropped with a thud on the transparent beams that served as floor on the plane. A light laughter followed, a sick sounding laughter whose source could no more be deciphered than the source of the no longer luminescent bodies that laid on the floor.

"Oh Enoch, Enoch... The power of the Metatron seems to have made you over confident in yourself. You are but only a glorified human, or you forget already. Well, there are the bodies of your lost angels."

"Who are you?" The Metatron demanded.

"Who am I? Who am I?... Hmmm, let me tell you."

Suddenly the very foundations of the whole realm seemed to vibrate, and all but one of the three parts of the altar shattered with deafening sounds. The two archangels who initially summoned the Metatron were forced upon their knees, and Enoch himself was only hindered feom falling face down by his one hand which rested on the one remaining part of the altar.

The old beggar appeared for a brief second, then metarmophorsed into the most striking angel the others had ever set their eyes upon. He was so striking that they couldn't look upon him for more than a few painful moments.

"I am my Father's son!" The angel bellowed from everywhere and nowhere.

"Lucifer..." Enoch whispered, in obvious discomfort.

"You will call me Lord." Lucifer responds. "And so will my sister, who you all foolishly call Creator. So will she too, eventually."

With one brightly illuminated hand, Lucifer lifts up the weak Enoch, the bearer of the Metatron.

"Go bring me the Akashic Records..." He utters.

"It's time to set them straight... All of them..."

As if in agreement, the realms shift again in a distortingly violent vibration...

THE END...

OR IS IT?...

#SladenSpeaks

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Written for the lovely @banafish's Finish The Story Contest #27

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