The Eighth Circle

There was no sound as Lucifer rose to the world's surface. There was no flash of savage hellfire, no rendering of the earth's crust or cacophony of black screams echoing from the throats of tormented souls. It was simply that in one instant the fallen archangel was no more than a being of the nonexistence, a name held in time and space by nothing but man's iron belief in God His Father.

And in the next he was there, standing knee deep, naked in the swaying wheat fields of western New York...

Formed in the image of those twisted men who fell through the seven Circles, Lucifer open his eyes to gaze with black irises across the Middle Land, the place between Heaven and Hell, and the only realm he had never held a place in before now. White hands and pale, bare arms lifted up before him as he experienced the bite of the wind once again, hissing at the memory of the flailing plummet that had been his Fall, his descent into the fiery bowels of the Other Realm.

Hell. His Realm.

White, colorless hair spun in his face, and the Fallen pulled at it impatiently, freeing his view of the rolling land around him, the pitching valleys on the either side of his small field cut up like a patch quilt into little pieces of farming plots. They discolored the face of the earth until the Creator's original work of perfection was no longer recognizable. The selfish layer of mankind's hubris covered it over, marring it like dust building up on forgotten art.

Lucifer felt bile rise in his body's throat. In Hell he existed as little more than a bodiless presence, an intelligence and ferocity with no physical anchor. Despite this, the Hellspawn and demons that dwelled there, lesser angels who had failed in their divine charge just as he had, could more than feel his existence, more than know of his endless vigilance.

His being, after all, was as much his own torment as that of all other souls destined for eternal punishment.

But after an infinite length spent in a time measured differently from that of man's, God the Father had given Lucifer a respite, offered him at long last a chance to be free from the Other Realm that was both his dwelling and his cage.

And offered him a chance, also, to fill the depths of Hell with those unfit to seek out Heaven in the coming days.

The Fallen spat in disgust at the twisted land that had been his God's greatest gift after the gift of life. It was perverse now, as torn and shredded as the souls who served him.

And it needed cleansing.

With a slender finger, Lucifer drew a ring across landscape before him, turning on steady, bare feet until the circle was formed. Then, as the smoke began to rise like a wall in the distance all around him, he turned east, pulled towards the place God had indicated would be the center of his Judgment.

With a crack of bone and ripping muscle, Lucifer screamed and fell to his knees in the damp ground. He adjusted in seconds, welcoming the pain just as he welcomed the delicate brush of wheat against his exposed chest and the softness of the muddy dirt that spilled between his fingers as he clenched them in response to more shifting bones.

It was proof enough he was, in fact, released.

The Fallen laughed aloud, the unfamiliar sound echoing across the field as he felt the growth of extra limbs between his shoulders, extending quickly as they grew. A minute later Lucifer was quivering from pain and ecstasy, on his knees and elbows, uncaring of the mud that clumped in his hair and smeared the pale cheek he had pressed against the ground.

Wings. He had been given his wings again.

The smile on the human face of the Lord of Hell at that moment was one that reflected the absolute depth of his shattered mind and soul. The wings, black and leathery like a bat's, were a far cry from the majestic, snow-white appendages that had been the model for noble eagles and regal cranes.

But they were still wings.

Lucifer crossed himself and murmured his prayer of thanks into clasped hands. He, of course, recognized the gift for what it was: a means to an end. God had granted him this boon only as a facilitator for the task at hand, and was careful to articulate this in the membranous, veined skin and sharp, angular bones.

He was a tool, the Fallen knew, but he was a tool who had been given back some small semblance of the lordly angel he had once been an eternity ago.

His prayer at an end, Lucifer rose from his knees and stretched his black wings out to their extent, each tip a man's-length in either direction. As the fiery ring he had created raced towards him from every direction, the Fallen smiled again, looking to the sky, now billowing with the grey and black smoke of a burning world.

Then he leapt, streaking into the clouds just as the wall of fire converged in the spot he had been standing only moments ago, scorching the field so that in an instant it was engulfed in the wild inferno that was Earth's first taste of divine rage.

"First warning," Lucifer spoke to the wind as he flew east.

The Flood had come again, but this time mankind would drown in it's own blood.

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Invisible to the eyes of those men and women who slid through and around his transparent body, Lucifer wandered the polluted streets of New York City like a ghost bent on revenge. His black eyes took in the towering skyscrapers with no trace of the envy and wonder of a common tourist, examining the rows upon rows of commercial windows with icy rage.

This is what man had made of God's gift to them. This is what they had turned their Eden into: a jungle of industry and twisted mechanical structuring, paying no heed to the delicate balance the Father had built the world upon. The Fallen's nostrils flared as the stench of trash, fumes, and spilled gasoline drenched the air, apparently unnoticed by all but a few of the others that crowded the sidewalk with him.

Pathetic.

Having seen enough, Lucifer tired of his invisible game. Shifting course, he strode towards the corner of the street where a jumble of pedestrians waited impatiently for the traffic lights to change, allowing them to cross in relative safety. Picking out one particular individual, a well-dressed man in a suit and tie, screaming into his cell phone from behind the cigarette stuck between his teeth, Lucifer strode forward. Without so much as a pause he passed through the businessman's body, feeling the dormant soul held within splinter and pass into Limbo as the Lord of Hell claimed the earthly clothes as his own. Without looking back he felt the body shudder and collapse, naked, to the ground. There was a woman's scream, followed the shocked shouts of surprised confusion by the others on the corner, and the Fallen smiled as he crossed the street and turned a corner into an empty alley.

Second warning, he thought with amusement as he let invisibility fall away, keeping only his wings transparent.

The black suit fit him nicely.

He moved now with the habits of a human, hands stuffed into the pockets of his stolen pants, enjoying the looks that people gave him as he emerged again onto the sidewalk of a different street. He didn't bother hiding his bleached hair or his black eyes. Let them think what they wanted of the stranger who suddenly walked in their midst.

Turning left, Lucifer headed for his place of calling, feeling the pull grow stronger as the minutes passed and he moved closer and closer. Instinctively he fought the summons the slightest bit, pausing in his trek every so often to examine a particularly interesting aspect of the humanity he despised so much. A video store. A market. A restaurant that stunk of bad fish. In one instance, a curb-side magazine-stand caught his eye, its collapsible shelves stacked with dozens of trash journals, useless monthlies, and a selection of shabby paperback books.

It was one of these that drew him, and as he reached out to touch the cheap, faux-leather binding of the text, Lucifer's hand shook, marking the blow to his self-control.

Picking it up, he examined the Bible's brownish front cover with wide, angry eyes. On it was stamped a figure, a man with a halo around his bowed head, one hand raised to Heaven, the other clasping a copy of the scriptures against his chest.

Recognizing the Son and Prophet, Lucifer barely managed to contain his fury as he turned the holy book over to examine its back cover. There, embossed in the space above a section reserved for the price and printing information, was a creature unlike any the Fallen had ever witnessed. Man-like in form, the beast stood on two hoofed feet. Long, curved horns crowned the face of a man who relished in his task, reaching out with clawed hands to pluck the bodies of tormented men and woman from the fires of Hell, breaking bones and twisting forms until they were unrecognizable.

So this is how I am seen, Lucifer heard himself think.

"Hey," a voice cut into his musings. "Hey buddy! You gonna pay for that or what?! Cause if not get the hell out a' the way! You're blocking customers, you prick!"

The Fallen looked up to stare at the short, portly man who sat behind the counter of the stand. Lucifer must have had his thoughts marked plainly on his face, because the vender blanched as he looked into those black eyes.

"No," he hissed in response, pocketing the small Bible. "I shall not pay for this. Nor should anyone."

Screams echoed once again as he walked away from the magazine stand, leaving a dead, burning husk of the man to collapse over the counter, an empty shell of a body with nothing but flickering flames and smoke where eyes, ears, teeth and a tongue used to be.

"Third warning," Lucifer spat bitterly, coming to a stop at the edge of the road. His eyes were focused now, and he no longer felt the urge to fight his calling. Instead, as he thumbed the fake leather of the text in his pocket, he wished only to be done with his task, to be rid as quickly as possible of this race of man, this humankind who had taken the world and broken it over his knee, twisted it until even the Word of the God the Father had a price.

He wanted to end it now.

But as he moved again, crossing the street as the light turned green, Lucifer kept calm. Purposefully he walked, his stride strong and steady as he made his way towards the center of the City. Within an hour he was crossing into the sparse trees of Central Park, ignoring the looks shot his way by the families and people who were spending an uncaring afternoon amongst the leafy shadows.

Before long something in him shifted, and Lucifer slowed, coming to a halt near the middle of the park. Looking around, he found his calling.

The great tree towered above many of the others, a symbol of strength and long life. Green foliage cut shadows in the sunny day, and the trunk's girth was as wide as the body of four men. A metal chain, painted white, bordered the grassy circle of ground at its base, acting as little more than a ceremonial barrier between the brick walkway and the tree itself.

Pausing only long enough to understand what was to be done, Lucifer stepped over the chain, coming to stand in front of the living titan.

Almost at once, a whistle blew, and a uniformed guard moved towards him, angrily waving him away from the trunk. In moments the officer was on the ground, screaming and writhing for only a second as his body smoked, eaten away from the inside by hellfire.

As the park came alive like an angry swarm, the Fallen reached out and placed one pale hand on the bark of the tree, the other reaching into his jacket pocket to pull out the shoddy Bible. Three more armed men ran towards him, and they too were felled with less than a thought. Lucifer turned the book over in his hand, taking in the image of himself, the figure structured by man and his wild, unholy imagination.

He would give them what they wanted.

Bones broke again as the Lord of Hell fell to his knees once more, his body swelling and shifting. In a spasm of pain he threw the scripture against the ground, setting it aflame as he screamed in rage. The ground beneath him caught aflame as white skin tore and oozed, breaking as it blackened as though burned. Horns, charred and lethal, grew from his temples as his face elongated. The black of his irises spread to the rest of his eyes as fingers turned into clawed appendages. His clothes tore and burned away and his shoes turned to shredded leather as his feet became horse-like and grew. His wings reappeared, wider and their membranes tinged the color of spilled blood.

As the change finally ended, Lucifer got to his feet and turned away from the tree. The park was in panic, people running everywhere as they witnessed the monstrosity that had risen like a titan in their midst. Twisting his horned head, the Fallen watched them flee, contempt written across the face humanity itself had dubbed 'demonic.' With a flick of his clawed hands there was an eruption, and a wave of hellfire flames rolling through the park greens. Turning, he drew the inferno from the fury in his soul and sent it spewing in every direction. Everything around him turned to burning embers, and soon the city skyline, visible through the skeletal branches of the now-dead trees, began to fade in a haze of smoke.

"Please…" a voice said suddenly, "Please… let us be."

Lucifer looked down. An elderly man knelt on the ground at his feet, bald head bowed before the Fallen. His frail, fragile body shook in terror, and his clothes were charred and burned, his skin raw and chafing against the broiling air around them.

Yet he'd still mustered the courage to approach.

It was in not reverence that the man knelt, however. A statement of respect, perhaps, but his faith was evident by the string of rosary beads wound around his clasped hands. The small wooden cross at their end dangled sadly in the air.

Gently, Lucifer bent down, towering over the figure despite falling to one knee as well. Carefully he reached out with a great clawed hand and lifted the old man's chin so that their eyes met, one pair black and clear, the other sky-blue, tear-sore, and paled with age.

"Please..." the human begged again. "What have we done to deserve this? What?!"

"Believe you truly that it is in I you will find the answer to that?" Lucifer asked quietly. The man's eye's widened at the Fallen's voice.

He had a good soul, Lucifer could tell. He would be one to pass through the Higher Gates.

"We… we can change!" the human sputtered, "We can fix things. Help us fix things!"

Lucifer shook his horned head sadly.

"You are honest in believing this, but only the power of the Father himself may be able to sway the thoughts of all men as one… the trouble lies in that there should be no need for Him to sway at all."

And with that, the old man died. It was not a painful death, nor a slow one, but rather it was merely Lucifer releasing him from his mortal bonds, carefully guiding the intangible soul upwards in his palms, towards the smoke-filled sky, until it dissipated into the planes of Heaven where the Fallen was no longer allowed to follow. In the same moment, the clothes the human had been wearing caught afire in the heat, and Lucifer turned back to his calling.

Getting to his hoofed feet, he struck with an open palm the trunk of the great tree behind him. Instantly the growing flames that ate at its wood were quenched, replaced instead by patches of bleach-white sickness that grew and spread. Within moments, the entire tree was a pale, leafless, lifeless husk of its former self, untouched by the hellfire around it, but dead nonetheless.

For the next race of man to remember this day.

Walking away from the memento he had created to last the next eternity, Lucifer took a running step and leapt into the air. Spreading the great, leathery wings of his devil-body, he lifted himself high above the scorched park, high enough to gaze out over the burning City.

In the distance, barely audible against the hot wind that picked up the growing fires and spread them across the metropolis, Lucifer could hear the ringing of screams, the cries for help that would never come.

"Last warning," he whispered to the heat and fire in the air around him, clasping his hands together as he summoned his will into the great orb of flames that grew between his fingers.

And then there was nothing left but the twisted metal, concrete dust, and powdered glass that varnished the ground, glittering in the misty red that had engulfed the silent world at its end.

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Photo courtesy of http://chevsy.deviantart.com/art/apocalypse-272331042