Wrath Prologue

Our 'glorious' revolution had finally fallen. My brother was furious, of course, seething and raging with a fervor I'd only seen in battle. We sat in Holding, more of a state of mind and body than a physical cell. All I could feel, however, was cold. Mind, body, my burned-out excuse for a soul; everything was chilled. Every now and then I'd feel her memory try to slip back into my mind and I'd push it away with unneeded force and a restrained sob. Restrained because the few times I'd shown that particular weakness, Brother had cast me a disdainful sneer. I held my grief at length, more practiced in putting off my emotions for a later date than what was probably healthy.



I wondered for a moment, leaning against nothing and staring into space, at what they might do. If Brother Michael had his say – which he would – we'd end up in Hell. This much I knew. But... if He held back his rage, I could hope we might be forgiven.



But rage was a hard thing to restrain.



Without preamble, a figure appeared at the “door” of our Holding, his aura dimmer than either of our but ethereal nonetheless. He wouldn't meet my gaze – out of respect or disgust, I didn't know – as he gestured us out. Brother stopped his horrid, irate pacing, casting me a glance as I stood slowly. With silent, measured steps we followed our guide. Within minutes we reached the Hall, a great, regal expanse that shone with light just slightly different then our own.



Without second thought, I dropped to kneel before the Throne, self-preservation rising over the burn at the back of my head from my brother's glare



“Rise, Lucifer.” My head shot up at the familiar voice, meeting clear, crystalline blue eyes – so much like my own, but holding a shaming, proud look that mine had lost. My gut clenched: Michael.



I stood.



“Brothers Lucifer and Satan, First Order Archangels and Children of Our Lord Almighty,” Michael intoned stonily. “You are charged with Treason of the Highest Degree to the Heavenly Kingdom.”



My blood ran cold; High treason, I thought. My brother stood solid, eyes cold and indifferent, bored even.



“You've both plead guilty.”



We had. Truly no use in denying anything.



“Your insurrection has been dissolved, and all participants – excluding yourselves – have been captured, detained and sentenced.”



Excluding yourselves, I thought dismally, and those killed in the uprising.



“Now, it is your turn.”



I straightened, gaze flicking to our Lord, who watched closely but with veiled eyes. Finally, my gaze met Michael's, whose eyes turned to chips of ice as he spoke.



“Exile,” he whispered tonelessly. But that whisper – however toneless – echoed throughout the Hall and throughout my mind with glacial indifference; the only thing covering the speaker's disapproval. I shuddered; Michael thought we needed worse, we deserved worse.



“Your sentence is Exile; from Heaven and Earth; from the mortal plain entirely. You are to spend your exile in the depths of Hell, seeing to the punishment of errant mortal souls, and never to set foot in the Kingdom of Heaven again.”