The Angelic Conflict (Extended Published Version)

Untitled Part 3

THE DEMON eyes Yazhêl as it crawls towards its brother I'amzer. The red surrounds their human, too menacing the sacred messengers cannot come near the girl.

"Good day to you, brethren!" Goh enthuses, tossing a sloppy, sexy smirk. Only two of the elect angels could not dismiss its salutation: I'amzer, who nods calmly; and Yazhêl, who even greets back, its tone devoid of elation.

"Our human has been marvelous, hasn't she?" Goh hollers, its chin as high as its brows, thrilled to see all the angels still recovering from the demonic blows. Their white robes stained in smokes of red, they attempt to approximate themselves to each other yet do not have the remaining strength to do so.

"Dimwit!" the demon sputters at Goh. It rolls its eyes, then at once draws its attention to the mortal world.

What a pitiful state, the demon muses. Humans are trapped in a much inferior dimension strictly governed by a certain fixed set of laws of physics. They seemingly could easily fill up a space and are in constant contact with other matter.

The demon does not quite understand why others of its kind desire to visit the lower dimension. True, manifestation— whether to embed fear, or to disguise as an angel of light— is a good tactic; but only at times. It is almost always better not to be detected by humans at all, especially at the time of science advancement and exultation. When there is no direct contact or special conviction from the Enemy, humans have a harder time imagining a world they could not get a glimpse of— to end up with the conclusion that everything they do affects the spirit world, and vice versa— to know that each clash of weapons in the higher dimension is based on every decision, on each thought of each human that ever existed, exists, and will exist. This is the simple truth that most humans who have lived either never knew, or laughed at and dismissed: men dictate the seasons in the angelic realm, where they themselves give off colors they cannot see.

Like right now, as the demon watches the humans go on with their petty, mundane lives, it perceives much red. Bloody red. The kind that is dull and almost disgusting. The kind that can trigger the nausea in anyone. A kind of red that does not exist in the world of humans. And that kind of red means only one thing for the Corporal and each angel of its kind: power, strength, victory— haven.

The Corporal proceeds with its schedule. It readies the small scroll that is kept on one side of its belt. The official demonic scroll collector will visit with a new scroll soon; the old catalog will be retrieved and brought back to their center of operations to be compiled and stored for the records of the Great Cherub.

This program brings much anxiety to the Corporal; it has barely filled half of the scroll, and it thinks that perhaps it has to be more eloquent and detailed now to fill up more space. "Anger towards the Enemy grows stronger," the demon cogitates. It scribbles down on the scroll with its thoughts.

When the demon could not even fill a hundred and sixty-fourth of the scroll, it hastily rolls it close. "Çanver5!"

"Yes, sir!" A tall, lanky demon dashes towards it.

"Many humans have a demon whose only job is to cite their actions. Do you know that?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Well, I can't do everything anymore!" the demon says, tossing the scroll to the cadet.

Çanver catches and stares at it. "But, sir..."

"I tempt, I influence! And if duty calls for it, I am the one to initiate possession! The rest of the pack almost always relies on me to ward off El-Shädda and their squad once they recharge. So be of some worth! I assign you as my new deputy. You and your mute twin will do the documentation from now on!"

Çanver clicks its heels and salutes.

The Corporal shifts its gaze to their holy companions— all four of them have their weapons set aside; they are resting, supporting each other.

"But do not worry much, Çanver!" the demon declares in mocking hilarity. "It does not matter if our scroll is barely used. It already holds so much of the rebel acts of our little girl that it, as it is, is already something that would greatly please the Satan." The demon chuckles like a TV personality, demurely and attractively, like its natural persona before its fall: handsome, unlike some of its moronic brethren, like Goh, who has once before taken up the image of a headless ghost. "Our little girl has been behaving rather well, hasn't she!" and here the demon caresses the girl's Consciousness to tease I'amzer and the others. The girl's reaction to the demon is evident; her face winces as if being reminded of something maddening. "Poor little, soul," the demon whispers. "She already hates your Master so much."

Af watches the Corporal, then looks at the angels. It almost at once retches— at their placid faces that seem to exhibit how the demons are beneath their beings; at their primness; at their golden-laced, white apparel; and at their swords constructed of Truth. "Self-righteous motherfuckers," as Af calls them.

Suddenly, the angel Mikiy'h forces itself to rise from its reposal. "Brothers," it whispers, lifting its gaze towards the skies. Not at the cumulating gray clouds, but at the reflection of light in the distance no human eyes can see. "Is it?"

"It is!" Leb, another angel, agrees. The sacred messengers start to communicate in low voices as they so often do, their tone too cheery for their current predicament.

But of course, the Corporal and its demons could still clearly hear their hushed tones.

Af sniffs the air. "That's—" His eyes shrink into slits.

"Damn, no!" The Corporal unsheathes its sword with its right hand, its shield fans open from its right. They all sense it, and they must all be correct. The aura. Strong and white. Pure white.

"Male," Af blares. "Nineteen years old. Under Sergeant Bulbz. He currently has the largest battalion attending a single person in the whole northern region of this country."

'Avon, Çanver's twin brother, mumbles something into the latter's ears; and Çanver screams, "Incoming!"

***

  1. The author confirms that the unfamiliar names can be pronounced in whichever way the reader reads them. Çanvercan either be SAHN-vur or Kahn-ver or Sen-VUR. All she had meant to provide were the Hebrew words from which the names were derived. Unfortunately, she had lost her original notes and have no way to execute her plan in haste and this edition has to be printed ASAP.