36.5

 It is as if even the attosecond in which they exist has become frozen in time, and all those present at this point in the planes see a series of images sketched out on the blueprint. Astaroth picking up the mantle of creation, hesitating, and putting it down again; Astaroth crushing the prism that defined the essence of the Creator; Astaroth creeping through the planes, past a number of armed angels who just happen to be looking, despite their thousand eyes, the other way; the confrontation between Roisin and Hasmed, and his breakdown just at the moment the Creator’s prism become exposed; Gabriel directing angels to guard the entrance to the Hells, seemingly convinced an attack is imminent; Pestilence, in the guise of The Artist, talking in hushed tones with Gabriel, and pointing toward the Hellmouth.

And finally, Gabriel opening the route though the planes that leads to the Creator’s hidden soul-prism.

The archangel recoils as if burned, dancing away from the mantle of knowledge as if it is the chains binding Abaddon.

Astaroth laughs; breathless, disbelieving. “It was you, all the time. You planned this whole coup, leaving me to take the blame for ending the Creator when it was you all along, micromanaging with shadow puppetry from behind the scene, directing the audience to look one way while you swap out the dead rabbit for a live one. You were the traitor in the midst of Heaven, but only so that you could take the Throne yourself.

Gabriel’s expression hardens. “It was for the good of all.”

“All?” Astaroth capers toward him, gesturing this way at than, somehow encompassing not only the mortal word, but Heaven, Hell and all the planes that lie between. “Does this look like it’s for the good of all? You’re trying to rebuild Creation while simultaneously eradicating all free will from it.

“All who matter, then. It’s for the good of all who matter.”

“By which you mean you.”

“Yes.”

“And who else?”

“My brothers.” He holds a finger up to forestall Astaroth’s counter. “My loyal brothers, that is. The ones who remain faithful to the original Plan.”

“His plan? The Creator’s plan?” Astaroth gestures above them, as if the planes were still intact and Heaven was somewhere up there. “You arranged to have him killed.”

“Someone had to take the mantle, darling, and I knew you weren’t up to the task.” Grabriel reaches for the mantle of knowledge again. “Otherwise, it would be you re-writing Creation for the benefit of all your cronies.”  He snatches his hand back from the spark of void as he touches the mantle, but the reaction is certainly less marked than the first time. “Besides, it would never have worked without Pestilence telling me of your little subterfuge.”

Astaroth scowls as he turns on Pestilence. “I knew there was a traitor on our side as well but not once did I ever suspect it might be you. I thought we were working toward a common goal.”

“We Were. We are.”  The former Artist gestured toward Gabriel. “He promised…”

“Promised what? A return to the glories of Heaven?  You were bored shitless. All you were interested in was the new race of demi-mortals. That’s why you rebelled in the first place.”

“It wasn’t for me.” Pestilence turns back to Gabriel, hands upheld in entreaty. “You promised the Nephilim would ascend.”

“I did no such thing.” The archangel is inspecting the mantle of knowledge again, drawing one finger close to is until it sparks. “What I said was I would put an end to their long wait for redemption, and that’s exactly what I have done.”

“By killing them?”

“By ensuring they were never alive to begin with.” Gabriel smirks, which is something Roisin has only ever seen in comedic films, not in real life. “No need for redemption if you never had a soul to begin with, eh?” The mantle flares again and he yanks his hand back, sucking on his finger.

Roisin laughs.

“Think this is funny, do you, halfwit?” Gabriel snarls at her. “How funny would it be if I wrote out the possibility of mortal men on the Earth? That would deal with the human half of you, then the mantle would have nothing to mould to make you the Sixth.” He reaches inside what used to be Hasmed and makes a grab for the mantle but pulls his hand back without it.

From their side view, Roisin and Astaroth are both witness to Gabriel’s hand passing through the mantle without managing to affect it at all. “It won’t accept you Gabs. You can only wield one mantle. You’ll have to choose between Knowledge and Creation.”

Astaroth looks down at his hands, which glow with the radiance of Creation, then down at the mantle pulsing inside Hasmed. “I can judge my own creation,” he says, “And I find it unworthy.”

The architecture bends around him as he stands, the mantle of Creation growing brighter, shining through his form like a Ready-Brek halo. It is his crown of possibility, his stylus of rewriting, his badge of ultimate office.

What remains of Hasmed pulses with the deep, ultraviolet of voidlight. The mantle of Knowledge is waiting for someone to wield it in the name of Truth, Probability and Judgement.

Gabriel looks at Roisin. “You broke the Sixth Seal. You revealed the world. He stands over the body of the Angel of Annihilation. “He opened the Seventh. He released the silence.” He reaches once more for the mantle. “And now the world waits for Judgement.”

Roisin steps forward. “You don’t have to judge it. Let it run its natural course, as God willed.”

“Oh, child. How naive you are.” Gabriel’s voice is soft. “I do.”

Astaroth snarls. “You don’t have to be the new God.”

Gabriel’s eyes flash. “God was weak. When a farmer begins to care for his animals, he becomes a keeper, not a farmer. I am not trying to be God. “I am trying to be right.”