15
On wheels of screeching fire, Marc blazed across the smoldering landscape, leaving the Bone Desert and the sharp spires of the Black Citadels in his wake. Below, rivers of magma lit up the everlasting twilight of the infernal plains in a spider web of superheated orange.
Every river in Hell, from the massive spewage of the tallest volcanoes to the slowly coagulating inland streams, led to the same place. Mountains of brimstone passed underneath the chariot, and finally, the glow and heat caught Marc in the face.
The Lake of Fire rested on the floor of a massive valley, surrounded by cliffs and ridges that dropped steeply into the sizzling surface. Treacherous islands, like tectonic plates, drifted across the liquid fire, sometimes hardening and sometimes being swallowed entirely by the scolding waves. Red devils scuttled and leaped across the shoreline, stabbing their pitchforks at the blackened remains of the moaning souls, who tried to drag themselves out of the lake.
Beyond the lake, in stark contrast to its blinding light, a yawning hole split the ground open. Like a dead star, the hole sucked the very light out of the air, consuming it in its bottomless depths.
Marc took a deep breath and steered the chariot toward the hole. Very few things bothered the King of Hell, but the place known as the Pit was one that he tended to avoid. The Frozen Lake of the Ninth Circle was a winter paradise in comparison.
The descent into Hell’s deepest hollow killed the senses one by one. First, sight left you as the darkness crept into your eyes. The screams and the sizzles from the lake went mute and then sound left your ears entirely. The smell of brimstone and ashes abandoned your nose, and then the freezing cold numbed your skin. Soon even the taste of your mouth vanished. The Pit was as close to disintegration one could come while still being alive.
Marc dug his nails into the skin of his arm just to feel something. As the last dot of light disappeared above him, even the Nightmares pulling his chariot became unruly. They neighed and tossed their heads, refusing to go any further.
With a sigh, Marc let go of the reins and jumped off.
He tumbled through the darkness.
If it weren’t for the friction of the thin air licking his face and ripping through his hair, he might as well have been suspended in space.
It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t hot. Down here, time stood still.
Marc spread his arms, the air whistling through his fingers. Finally, after forever, he landed on the first terrace. Smooth rock pushed against his feet. It felt strange to walk again after falling for so long.
The air hung thick, and the darkness seeped into his lungs. Marc moved slowly, finding the first steps of the Last Stairway. Despite being blinded, Marc could feel their presence down here. Hundreds of minds, writhing in violent despair. Those who weren’t mad before the Fall surely were now. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like spending millennia locked away here.
He passed the first cage. The soft breathing of the motionless creature on the other side of the bars caused his hairs to stand up. It knew he was here, and like a fish waking up inside a melting block of ice, it was starting to move. Marc’s arrival had changed something the stale composition of the molecules, and they could all sense it.
Wings rustled as he passed the second cage. He quickened his steps. Those who say that God makes no mistakes have never met the residents of the Pit. Exiled from both Heaven and Hell, the abominations down here should never have been brought into the world.
Lilith and Asmodeus had once been angels too, and while they weren’t the most pleasant beings in existence, they both seemed like cuddly kittens in comparison.
“Marcellixis…” a voice whispered from behind the bars.
The King of Hell ignored it, hurrying further down the stairs. Talking to these monsters never had a good outcome. Hissing laughter followed his steps.
“Marcellixis…”
“Death to the king…”
For some twisted reason, Marc felt like the voices didn’t speak about him and meant an entirely different king – or perhaps, every king.
He passed hundreds of cages along the staircase to the lowest pits of Hell. Perhaps it was for the best that he couldn’t see their sickening forms. It was said that the darkness had twisted their bodies and minds alike, and that they were as hideous as the angels of Heaven were beautiful. The bottommost cages belonged to the fallen watchers. Angels who had once heralded Heaven’s glory, but betrayed the light during the Fall.
“The smoldering wasteland beckons…” The voice of Leviathan sounded like steel nails scraped across an anvil. “Come closer, demon prince… these jaws hunger...”
Marc took a measured breath. The steps grew wider and less steep. A rotten stench oozed out through the bars of another cage. As a citizen of Hell, Marc’s nose was no stranger to fouls smells, but the fallen angel in there caused the bile to rise in his throat and his eyes to tear up.
“Swallow the bitter water… swallow deep...” Wormwood said, his voice a gurgling rasp.
The bottomless pit continued even further down, but Marc had reached the end of the staircase. He passed the last cage – empty – bars broken and bent. He stepped onto the final landing that jutted out over the howling depths. A loud snap of fingers silenced the voices of all the fallen angels.
“Welcome to Tartarus.” The words were spoken with a mellow grace that didn’t belong in this place. “What business do you have here, demon king?”
A face dotted with pearls of light hovered in the darkness.
“Uriel,” Marc said, his tongue stinging at the mention of the name.
The archangel drifted closer, the gleam of his crimson feathers piercing the darkness. The Heavens didn’t trust Hell to keep the prisoners locked up, and had stationed one of their most trusted watchers here as a guardian. Uriel was one of the original seven, and as such, one of the oldest beings in existence.
“I seek the angel Phanuel,” Marc said. “Do you know where I can find him?”
“Phanuel?” The Archangel of Repentance lifted his glowing eyebrows. “That is a name I’ve not heard in a long time.”
“Do you know where I can find him?” Marc repeated, agitated by the mere presence of the holy being.
The warm brown eyes of the angel burned with intensity. “For what purpose?”
Marc clenched his cheek. “Are you familiar with the tale of the first demonic possession?”
“Oh, yes. One of Belial’s tricks. Exorcised by Christ himself. A saved peasant turned false oracle.”
“He had help from Phanuel, the Angel of Exorcism,” Marc said, his red eyes engaging the angel’s. “The woman I’m with… I believe she’s been possessed.”
“You don’t need the patron of exorcism to help her,” Uriel said softly, his eyes narrowing.
“I believe it’s not just any lousy demon… I think it’s the very same one that Phanuel drove out of the false oracle.”
“Belial is on Earth?”
“Yes, that is my belief.”
Uriel took a step back, turning away. His massive wings twitched on his back. “Intriguing...”
“Can you help me or not?”
A drawn-out pause, filled with nothing but bottomless silence, lingered between the two.
“Do you love her?” Uriel said finally.
“What?”
“The woman – do you love her?”
“Is that… of any consequence?”
“Naturally.” Uriel turned back, locking eyes with Marc once again. “There must be a motive when a demon wishes to help a human.”
“Fine, yes, I love her,” Marc said, his face tense. “Now, where is Phanuel?”
“Phanuel is no more,” Uriel said, repeating the words of Abaddon.
“Great!” Marc crossed his arms. “I came here for nothing?”
“You love this woman – I can sense your honesty, demon.” The angel unfolded his wings, scattering the darkness around him. “It is my duty to return Belial to her cage, and I have exorcised her before. I will help you.”
“You were Phanuel…” Marc breathed.
The archangel nodded. “A long time ago.”