Satan, The Weak Fallen Angel

Dark epic of Satan’s fall, YHWH’s judgment, and Yahshua’s redemption in a wasteland

Satan, The Weak Fallen Angel

YHWH or YAHU pronounced YAHWEH is the name of God.
Satan's power lies not within himself, but in the weakness of men and their willingness to listen to him.

Satan, the once "Son of the Morning Star," stood on a ridge blackened like an Ouachita slope after a blaze, its stones crumbling like ash under a De Queen dusk, his silhouette jagged against a sky of mottled clouds. The air smelled of sulfur and regret. He scanned the wasteland below with his dark-imbued eyes. Shadows writhed like worms in ash. The shadows were those of his foolish angelic hosts who followed him in his rebellion against YHWH. He remembered the fall — plummeting through light, wings shredding, his pride turned into a blade in his chest. The impact cracked the Earth, and he laughed as his bones cracked. Pain was a new experience, and he foolishly viewed it as a sharp gift he now claimed as his own.


He walked now, his steps grinding stone into dust. Each step he took echoed his defiance. The ground split, revealing veins of molten rock, pulsing like the Caddo's hidden springs, glowing with a fevered heat, and he smiled. Creation was flawed, he thought, but destruction held truth in his twisted mind. He passed a tree, its branches twisted, fruit black as scorched Ouachita pine, weeping tar that stung his lips like betrayal. He plucked one, bit deep, and spat the seed into the abyss. It would grow, he knew, into something cruel.


A figure knelt in the distance, one who had followed in his greedy rebellion, now cloaked in tattered faith. Satan paused, his once-beautiful Angelic body catching the faint light. The figure prayed, words trembling, asking for strength. Satan crouched, close enough to smell fear, and whispered, "You've grasped all you'll ever hold." The figure flinched, its hands clawing dirt, but did not turn. Satan stood, amused. He needed no worship — only choice.


The wind bore cries from below, sharp as a gust through Broken Bow's pines, each wail a soul bartering its fading light. He descended, cloak trailing like smoke. A man offered his heart, still beating, for one more day of power. Satan took it, crushed it, and gave nothing. "You sold it long ago," he said. The man wailed, but Satan walked on. Mercy was a lie he never told.


He reached a lake, its surface glass reflecting a heaven he no longer saw. He knelt, nails scraping the ice, and stared. His face was beautiful once, radiant, but now it was sharp, carved by betrayal. He touched the reflection, and it shattered, the ripples spreading out like doubt on the Ouachita's shore, their faint lapping a dirge for the fallen and those who will refuse the blood covering. Did he miss the light? He glared at the stars, each a pinprick of the heaven he'd forsaken, yet his fingers lingered on the boulder, warm from an Angel's touch. His nails gouged the boulder, splintering it like pine under a storm's wrath, as he snarled at the stars he'd once called home. The question stung, unanswered. He stood, shaking water from his hands, and moved deeper into the darkness. He turned from the shattered lake, its ripples fading like his defiance, and saw her — YHWH's observer — perched on a boulder like a sparrow on an Ouachita crag, her eyes wide and unafraid.


Satan stopped. He was genuinely curious. "Why are you here?" he asked. The Angel shrugged, tossing a pebble into the void. Her pebble skipped into the void, each bounce a heartbeat's echo, and Satan watched, his fingers twitching, caught between scorn and a strange ache for her fearless gaze. Her wings gleamed, untouched by the wasteland's ash, a sentinel of YHWH's truth. "It's quiet." "Gabriel sent me to see your ruin," she said, her voice a ripple over Lake Ouachita's depths, "to mark the grief you bury in pride," she said. Her eyes, steady as a Caddo stream, held him fast, and his breath hitched, a crack in the armor of his scorn. Satan laughed, a jagged sound, but his eyes lingered on her, tracing the glow he'd forsaken, a pang he'd never name. His laugh made a sound like shale splitting on a Ouachita forest trail. Her words pierced him, and his fingers twitched, scoring the Earth like a plow through De Queen clay, betraying doubt he'd never voice. He kicked a stone into the void, its clatter echoing like a prayer he'd never speak, then turned from her light.


He sat beside her, his tattered wings folded like a broken vow, and for a fleeting moment, the stars' glow felt less like a lie — then he snarled, crushing the thought like ash underfoot. Together, they watched the stars flicker in the dark sky, each one a lie of hope for him. For a heartbeat, the stars seemed to pulse with a warmth he'd forgotten — then he crushed the thought, his snarl echoing like thunder over a Broken Bow ridge.


"You're not scared," he said. She shook her head. "Of course not; why would I be? You have no power over me," she said, her voice clear as a bell over the Caddo's banks, "for I stand still in His light. But you've lost everything. You're alone, forsaken by your own hand." she said, her voice soft as a southeastern Oklahoma breeze, yet sharp enough to pierce his pride. His jaw tightened, and again he looked away.


His Angelic power, now broken, dwindled to whispers in the ears of men, and he shuddered. He was haunted by a Cross yet to rise, where his power would further fray like mist, soon to be stripped from him at the Resurrection of the Son of YHWH and man. YHWH will come down to the Earth and give himself over as The Son to be killed by his creation as a living blood sacrifice for all sin for all who would claim the blood over themselves for the remission of their sins. Satan shuddered as he thought of his fate now and his final judgment to come.


Time bled forward, and the observing Angel's gaze held him steady like an Ouachita oak. For a moment, his defiance faltered, caught in the quiet of her truth. She rose, wings catching a stray gleam, and vanished like mist off Lake Ouachita, leaving him alone with his snarl.


Satan now wandered the surface of YHWH's Earth, his shadow stretching across eras. He saw empires crumble, hearts harden, and truths twist. He whispered in the ears of kings, lovers, and priests, but he never forced their hands. Their choice was his art, and each human painted their own ruin. Still, sometimes in the silence, he wondered if his rebellion was a trap, if his temporary freedom was yet another cage. A hideous cage of his own making by his rebellion and leading one-third of the heavenly host with him.


The ridge called him back, and he stood again, the ridge's stones grinding underfoot like a De Queen dirge, the sky unchanged, a wasteland eternal as his curse — dry as a Caddo summer, its dust choking the air like regret. o the true Earth and its beauty, he spread his broken, tattered wings, unable to fly, and roared. The sound of his voice shattered the shale, and he laughed, unconvincingly, even to himself while he tried in vain to enjoy his false freedom. Satan was no king, no God — only himself, pathetic, broken, but alive on this, his prison of Earth, his domain until the final judgment — The Lake of Unquenchable Fire. His roar faltered, a tremor in his claws betraying the fear he'd never name as the wasteland swallowed his echo. He spread his wings, craving flight, yet his feet clung to the Earth, bound by a cage he'd forged. His eyes flicked to the horizon as if seeking a light long lost, then hardened, fixed on his ruin. A faint breeze, sharp with the scent of scorched De Queen Earth, brushed his face, stirring memory of grace he'd never reclaim. He stood frozen, the wasteland's silence a weight, before his fear drove him to implement his final mission against YHWH's created images; those who subdue the Earth. He began to know fear and set out on his final mission to gather as many of YHWH's creatures called Man to himself. He would lie, claiming there is no God, eventually contradicting his lie and claiming himself to be God, dragging as many as he could sway from The Way, the True King — Yahshua the Messiah.


He whispered of freedom, but the wasteland's dust clung to his wings, a chain he'd never break.


Written by Noisy Wren, 2025