Chapter 27: The End of a Friendship
"It seems Azmodan is determined to join the fray," the Archon of the Thrones said coldly.
"Indeed."
Gabriel and he gazed from a distance at the demonic army; the dense, black mass of demons appeared to number at least a hundred thousand. If all one hundred thousand were to pour onto the battlefield, it would undoubtedly place immense pressure upon them.
"A demonic army of a hundred thousand isn't the biggest problem," Samael continued. "The one we truly need to be wary of is Azmodan."
"Rumor has it he is an exceptionally cruel avenger, skilled in the use of a blood-red whip, and possesses power no less than that of us Seraphim." Gabriel curled her lips into a faint smile. "How amusing. Were it not for this war, we would surely never have encountered so many Great Demons—each one gifted with extraordinary talents and formidable capabilities. God really ought to have given us a few more companions."
Samael's sensibilities were not subtle enough to detect the sarcasm laced within Gabriel's words. He took her irony as a literal statement of fact, and the mention of "companions" sincerely brought to mind the silver-haired angel currently resting in the angelic encampment; he couldn't help but nod.
"Yahweh seems like a decent sort."
Observing Samael's demeanor, Gabriel felt an urge to flutter her wings, but she quickly suppressed the impulse, her gaze remaining fixed upon that swarming mass of demons.
"There are barely fifty thousand angels left in this war..."
"What?"
Gabriel lowered her head and spoke softly, "Every time I count the ranks of the Powers, that is exactly what I find myself thinking."
"We have slain far more demons than that," Samael said, furrowing his brow. "They fought for the glory of Heaven; they died with no regrets."
"At least, none among the Thrones," he added as an afterthought.
"Tell me—what exactly are we fighting for?"
Samael roughly grasped the train of Gabriel's thoughts, and he felt a profound sense of disbelief. "For what? The elves are our friends, aren't they? The demons stirred up this conflict—shouldn't we have stepped in to help?"
"But look at how much *we've* lost, compared to how little the elves have!" Gabriel couldn't help but raise her voice. "In these recent battles, just how many elves did you actually see on the battlefield?"
"Many of the Powers—the angels of the lower ranks—were trained by my own hand. Yet now, fewer and fewer of their faces remain to be seen..." The Archangel, usually so commanding, choked up; she fought back her tears, refusing to let them fall.
Samael fell silent for a moment, then cast a cautious glance at Gabriel, whose eyes were rimmed with red.
"The elves have always been a frail race; we cannot hold that against them."
"I know," Gabriel replied, turning her face away and speaking in a low, muffled tone.
"I just... I just want to bring them home to Heaven."
"Once His Highness and the others return with news of Mephisto, we'll know exactly how to proceed," he said, offering Gabriel a rather clumsy attempt at comfort.
Throughout this war, the heaviest toll had fallen upon the lower-ranking angels—specifically the Powers who comprised the Fourth Legion under Gabriel's command. It was only natural that she would be deeply distressed.
When Lucifer and Michael finally returned from the west to rejoin the group, they were taken aback to find the Archangel—usually so vibrant—looking utterly despondent.
"What happened to Gabriel?"
"It's nothing. How did things go on your end?" Gabriel asked, forcing herself to rally her spirits; she did not want too many of her comrades to witness her moment of weakness.
"It was hardly worth mentioning. Mephisto had only five thousand demons under his command; His Highness and I caught them completely off guard just as they were attempting to mobilize," Michael replied, punctuating his words with a sweeping, soaring gesture.
"It's a pity that cunning demon leader managed to slip away. And what of your mission?"
"Asmodeus's forces are not to be underestimated—they are certainly no less formidable than Baal's," Samael answered.
"How many?"
"Upwards of one hundred thousand."
"At the very least, we can be certain that they won't be forming an alliance today," Lucifer said, placing a reassuring hand on Samael's shoulder before casting another glance toward Gabriel.
"Let's head back. We'll take a well-deserved rest today; I'll make new arrangements for the night patrols," he added with thoughtful consideration. The party of four Seraphim returned to camp. After conducting their routine inquiries regarding the defensive posts manned by Beelzebub and Belial, Lucifer retired to his own tent. He was just preparing to go see Yahweh when Raphael came rushing toward him, looking visibly flustered.
"Your Highness, Prince Yahweh has gone missing!"
At first, Raphael had assumed the Prince had merely stepped out for a stroll and would return shortly; yet now, with dusk fast approaching, there was still no sign of him.
"You had him review official documents?" Lucifer's expression took on a peculiar cast. Raphael, not thinking much of it, simply nodded.
"Prince Yahweh handled matters with decisive efficiency—truly befitting the caliber of a Seraph."
"He didn't refuse you?" Seeing the utterly bewildered look on Raphael's face, Lucifer couldn't help but press a hand to his forehead.
"Never mind; it's fine. Just bring me the dossiers he's finished reviewing; I'd like to take a look at them."
"Shouldn't we go look for Prince Yahweh first?"
"It's quite alright." Lucifer felt no anxiety about Yahweh failing to return; he trusted that the Prince would not go back on his word—that is, until he laid eyes upon the towering mountain of dossiers Raphael presented to him, all bearing Yahweh's seal of approval.
Suddenly, he wasn't quite so sure anymore.
"Raphael..."
"Your Highness?"
"I'm beginning to suspect that Yahweh's temper is—well, extraordinarily good."
Just as Lucifer was debating whether or not he ought to go out and search for him, the dwarves from the West Camp's quarries arrived to present a newly forged suit of armor.
The silver-white armor stood silently before him, appearing breathtakingly beautiful. The dwarves' craftsmanship was, of course, beyond reproach; yet the beauty of this particular suit was not the sort of rugged, powerful aesthetic typical of dwarven work. Rather, it possessed a beauty that resonated deeply with his very soul—it looked utterly, profoundly holy.
"How did you manage this?" He gazed at the armor before him in sheer admiration, feeling a surge of genuine delight at having received such a gift. "This doesn't seem to be your usual style."
"His Highness Yahweh bestowed upon us materials of unprecedented rarity; it is thanks to them that we were able to complete this piece," the gift-bearing dwarves replied with equal delight. Their treasury was now piled high with a hundred nine-faceted Black Crystals—treasures their chieftain had already confirmed to be virtually impossible to find anywhere else in the world. Even if they were to turn the very core of the earth inside out, they could not hope to unearth an ore imbued with greater power than this.
"You've *seen* Yahweh?" Lucifer asked in astonishment, having certainly not expected to hear Yahweh's name mentioned by the dwarves.
"Then do you know where he went?"
"It seems he went to see the Elven King," the dwarves replied. Not long after they had bid farewell to Yahweh, the Elven King had appeared; he exchanged a few words with Yahweh, and then Yahweh had simply followed him away.
"The Elven King?" Lucifer repeated with a frown. Since the incident involving the dwarves some time ago, he had not laid eyes on the Elven King. As for the various council meetings, the King had consistently feigned illness to excuse his absence, sending only his subordinate Elemental Elders to attend in his stead.
"Why would he go to the quarry?" It was easy enough to understand why Yahweh might have wandered over there, but how on earth did the Elven King end up there?
Lucifer had assumed that the Elven King would be doing everything in his power to *avoid* the dwarves.
"Actually, he comes almost every day—though each time, he simply stands far away on the opposite bank of the river, watching us," the dwarves said, their tone laced with a complex mix of emotions. Ever since they had learned that the Elven King refused to acknowledge the dwarves' status as true elves, they had essentially adopted a policy of completely shunning him. Yet, to their surprise, after they had set up camp here, the Elven King would frequently sneak over to observe them from a distance.
"Everyone has noticed, but we all pretend not to know."
"He abandoned us, and we aren't ready to forgive him just yet."
The Elven King said nothing and did nothing; he simply stood there watching them, day after day. Whether the dwarves wanted to pick a fight or unleash a torrent of insults, they couldn't find a single pretext to do so—the sheer frustration of being unable to vent their feelings was truly agonizing. Yet, as time went on—and as the Elven King continued this daily ritual—the atmosphere within the clan gradually began to shift.
The snide remarks and sarcasm grew fewer and further between, and many of the dwarves began to speculate: could it be that the Elven King had come to regret his actions?
Could it be that their King... still cared for them after all? Lucifer saw through the dwarf's duplicity; he sighed, and the lingering resentment he held toward the Elf King dissipated considerably—after all, this was ultimately an internal affair of the elven race.
"I will go bring Yahweh back," he said to Raphael.
....
The Deity sat within the Elf King's austere tent, listening as Aslates recounted the story of the elf named Allen.
"Until one day, the child told me with great delight that a silver-haired angel had given him a pen," the Elf King said, looking at Yahweh. "It was from his very lips that I first learned of your story."
The Deity remained silent, listening quietly as the Elf King unburdened himself—much as one might listen to a long-delayed prayer.
"When that child was born, I was overjoyed; he was the first elf in our tribe to possess mastery over all five elements simultaneously. Most of the elves born during that period were—mutants," a flicker of anguish crossed his face. "Hideous creatures, as if cursed. I did not know what we had done wrong to deserve such punishment!"
"When Allen was born, I was nearly moved to tears of joy," he paused. "I believed he was God's salvation for us; yet, in the end, it was nothing but a false hope."
"I assigned him the finest tutors, hoping he would grow into an exceptional elf. However, Aslai informed me that Allen was incapable of shouldering the future of the elven race."
"His command over elemental forces was inferior even to that of a newborn elf."
"I was deeply disappointed."
"I felt as though I had been deceived, and so, I gradually grew indifferent toward him."
"Right up until the moment of his death, I never once offered him a word of genuine praise."
While the Elf King remained lost in sorrow over Allen's passing, the Deity withdrew His attention from the distant heavens. Unwilling to listen any longer as Aslates repeated things He already knew, He spoke up to interrupt him.
"Yet it was you who exiled him to a remote, solitary place—leaving him to perish at the hands of demonic greed," the Deity said, gazing at the Elf King, who had gone rigid with shock.
"Your wounds had clearly healed long ago, yet you continued to deceive the angels, deliberately manipulating the number of elves deployed on the battlefield."
The elves were, by nature, a whimsical and innocent race—carefree, kind, and pure-hearted; they were the cherished darlings of nature, bestowed upon the world by God. Yet, somewhere along the way—no one knew exactly when—the Elf King had changed. "Your scheme to incite a chaotic clash between the Angels and the Demons will only lead you to plummet into the abyss of darkness."
"How could you possibly know that?!" Aslates gripped the armrests of his seat with sudden force, staring in shock at Yahweh—the one who had, in just a few words, laid bare every dark thought lurking within his mind.
"If you knew all along, why did you still come with me? Are you making a fool of me?!" he demanded furiously.
"I understand your desire to restore the Elven race to glory; I simply fail to comprehend why you would choose to go about it in this manner."
"Glory? Hah!" With the air of a man who had nothing left to lose, Aslates let out a bitter, wretched laugh.
"What, truly, is glory?"
"To dwell on high in the Heavens like the Angels, standing beneath the very Throne of God—*that* is glory."
"To reign supreme over Hell like the Demons, holding the absolute power of life and death—*that* is glory."
"What glory do the Elves possess?! And what glory do *I* possess?!"
"Aslates... I never realized that your heart was so filled with resentment," God murmured, gazing at the Elven King, whose expression had turned utterly frenzied.
It felt like an inescapable destiny; God was reminded of that dream—neither wholly real nor wholly illusory—that He had experienced before the very act of Creation.
Was the rebellion of the Elves truly an immutable fate? Even after He had bestowed upon them hearts as exquisite and pure as crystal?
A soft sigh from Yahweh caused the Elven King's heart to tremble. As he gazed upon the Seraph—cold as crystal, yet serene as the moon shining over the Milky Way—that frenzied, ruthless intensity within him miraculously began to dissipate, if only slightly.
"You are right; my heart is indeed overflowing with hatred and resentment."
"I used to be so consumed by jealousy of Lucifer... yet now, suddenly, I no longer feel that way," he chuckled, only to see Yahweh frown and cast a sharp glance in his direction.
"Say no more." God turned His head, catching sight of the Seraphim Commander's figure gradually drawing near. Instinctively, He moved to silence the Elven King, whose words were growing increasingly reckless; somehow, He felt that these were things Lucifer ought not to hear. "Why didn't you speak up?" He leaned in close to Yahweh. "Do you know why?"
"Because of you, Yahweh."
"It was only after meeting you that I truly understood the meaning of perfection."
"God's love and esteem for you must surely exceed that which He holds for Lucifer—otherwise, He could not have created you," he said, gazing at Yahweh with earnest intensity.
"Join forces with me."
"Even if, in my eyes, your excellence surpasses Lucifer's, those blind and benighted angels will never see it that way; they will acknowledge no one but their own Arch-Seraph."
"The Three Realms belong to God alone," God stated coolly, His golden eyes looking down from a great height upon the self-styled cleverness of the Elven King.
"Say what you will," Aslates chuckled, assuming Yahweh was merely jesting. "Only by allying with me will you find a true path forward."
"Mephisto and Azmodan have already pledged their allegiance to Baal's faction; this signifies that they have committed the entire might of Hell's armies to the cause."
"Whether Angel or Demon, all shall be consumed by the fires of this war. Only we—the Elves—shall endure forever, sustained by the life force of the World Tree."
"You shall become, in every sense of the word, the King of Angels."
"To speak such words, Luci..." God looked at him, a look of disapproval—the first of its kind—crossing His face. "...*fer* would be deeply hurt to hear them."
Aslates was just raising an eyebrow at Yahweh's subtle, deliberate pause, when he heard Him continue: "He considers you a friend."
"A friend? Hah!" He scoffed, his voice dripping with mockery. "Elves and Angels—two disparate races—can true friendship ever truly exist between them?"
Perhaps, once, it had.
But no longer. Lucifer strode into the tent, seized Yahweh by the hand, and pulled him out. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, offering not a single word to the stunned Elven King.
There was no smoke of battle, no outburst of rage, no bitter recrimination; they spoke not a word.
Yet both knew, with absolute certainty: from this moment on, their friendship was no more.
The pale moonlight cast its cool, ethereal glow upon them. He dragged Yahweh along at a brisk pace for some time, until at last, he could no longer bear the suffocating silence.
"Do you truly believe that I considered the Elven King a friend?" he asked Yahweh.
Yahweh simply pointed to his own heart—a silent gesture signifying that, deep within his heart, that was precisely what he believed. Lucifer couldn't help but smile; angels were so guileless—just as he himself once was.
He found himself leaning in to embrace Yahweh.
"Don't move. Just let me lean on you for a moment."
God hesitated. He wanted to pull away, yet—moved by the aura of profound loneliness radiating from Lucifer—he ultimately did not refuse. He still did not understand: He had created so many companions for Luci, so why did the angel remain so solitary—to the point of grieving over the rift with his one and only friend?
God had always existed in solitude; there was no one like Him, nor anyone capable of attaining His transcendent plane of existence.
Yet, He had never once felt that this was a burden.
After a long silence, He spoke in a cold, measured tone.
"Stop groping. I have no wings."
"Didn't you already know that?" he said to the angel behind him, who was tentatively and cautiously probing his back.
"It truly seems nothing can be hidden from you. I just kept wanting to check one last time," Lucifer chuckled. He gently released Yahweh, gazing at the divine face that appeared even more ethereal and holy beneath the moonlight.
"I heard you crafted my armor. Thank you," the Arch-Seraph said, completely disregarding the contributions the dwarves had made to the work.
"If only you truly were an angel..." Meeting Yahweh's cool, detached gaze, he tentatively reached out to take the other's hand once more—only to have it cast aside, just as he had expected.
This war—it was time for it to end.
Yet, before it could conclude, there was one thing he absolutely had to do.
He gazed up at the night sky, looking toward the direction of the Highest Heaven, and spoke in a gentle voice:
"That way, once this war is over, I can take you back to Heaven with me."
[Hebrew Mythology] *The Arduous Chronicle of Raising a World* — by the Great Author "Dan Mu'ai"