Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions

He was floating, a wisp of an Aspen leaf, in a realm of chaos magic.

Briefly, in the macabre void, he called to mind a disturbing conversation he had once with a garrulous [Reaper] by a pub's dirty alley. He had been leaning by a cracked brick wall, listening to sounds of hard sex in the adjoining brothel and trying to look older than his sixteen years—at that time.

He ignored at great length the invitations of cow succubi from the storey above. By this time, Israfel had seen his fair share of motherly bosoms, courtesy of his dear, dear aunt.

"Oi, lad. You got a smoke over there!" The Reaper said. He had a hat, a wide brimmed felt. Like a rice farmer, it covered a great deal of his hollow pupils. But Rafel was not scared. Not by a [Rank B] Hellion.

He was prince around these parts. "Oi, lad. I'm talking to ye—" came the Reaper's throaty voice again. "Got a cigar?"

Rafel didn't on him. But he nodded anyway. And produced from his pocket dimension a fat rolled smoke. He had just bought it from the [Arcane Shop] for a price of [15 soul coins]. It wasn't much, considering his Hell account. Having relatives who were among The Fallen put him pretty up there in finances.

But the Reaper didn't need to know all that. Rafel was just grateful for some distraction to pull his mind away from the ample tits swaying in his direction. It was the only reason he indulged the caped man.

As he handed over the cigar, the man brought it ceremoniously to his pointed nose, inhaling deeply.

"Ah—fresh off a week-old corpse! The powder rolled in aging skin, prime quality in these here parts. Much obliged, lad. Much obliged!" He smiled in appreciation at Rafel and took a long puff. Rafel noticed the Reaper didn't need a lighter. He only inhaled and the tub end lit, just like that, as if by a magic matchstick.

The man smoked silently for a while, watching Rafel closely with hooded eyes under his sharp hat. The brim was a rotund blade, deadlier than a katana.

Rafel had once seen a [Reaper] toss his hat, and seven heads went rolling.

The stranger puffed smooth circles that went sailing in the ritzy night air. It was Hel, but the busy neon lights flashed and raucous laughter sounded out like heavy Metallica. The man moved to Rafel and leaned with him on the brick wall. They chuckled together when the bartender tossed out a woozy patron and clapped her fair hands down her dirty apron.

"—and don't you be coming back here, godless wanker!"

Her cussing slithered with her serpentine voice. A female barkeep, her bouncing breasts already popping two of her shirt's buttons. She had a tight turban over her head. Her face was gray, not sickly, just. . .gray.

Rafel smiled when he saw the moving tendrils underneath. Just as he'd guessed. She was a [Gorgon].

"Not many of their kind 'round these days, eh?" the Reaper remarked.

Rafel said nothing as the drunkard yelled from the muddy pub front. "We are all godless here, woman. IT IS FUCKING OBVIOUS!"

"Then clear your fucking tab!"

The barkeep slammed the door so hard behind her Rafel feared the turban would come loose, hissing snakes whipping free, turning all in the perimeter to rigid stone within seconds. It held.

The Reaper was halfway down his cigar. He gazed up at the whores above still beckoning to Rafel: "You don't even got to pay, honey. I'll suck your young cock for free." Rafel saw the stranger's smile out of the corner of his gold eyes. "Popular with the ladies, eh laddie? I figure I'd draw SOME attention if I was half as pretty as ye. Back then, I almost thought you were a girl—ginger and all.

But then I looked closely," said the Reaper, his voice lowering, "and then it hit me, SMACK; right in the face like a pail of cold fucking water. . . you're the one, the one prophesied, the one who'll redeem us all. You're the Apollyon."

"I—" Rafel started to say.

The man waved the smoke in his face. "Eh, don't need to deny it lad. I sensed greatness in your aura. We, Reapers know these things. I have watched you in the arena, you know—lopping off Mauler heads, splicing Bonereavers, making Wailing Widows of Hell Lord mistresses. You are damn good fighter, on your way to champion if I say so meself.

You impress the crowd. THAT COUNTS. So do the dead bodies."

Rafel heard a bit of judgement in the man's voice.

For the first time since meeting, he peered under the bladed hat to look into the Reaper's absent pupils. The sockets were made of pouring mist.

"I would think a Reaper should not be tormented by the sight of corpses," said Rafel. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"Aye, mi'lord," the stranger agreed, "we are tormented, not by the dead, but by the faces of their loved ones who stand by. Trust me, Apollyon, theirs is the true condemnation."

The puffs of smoke went out, and the Reaper stomped the cigarette butt under his heel in the alley, rising off the brick wall. "Pleasure meeting you, Ginger!" He doffed his sharp hat. "And thanks for the smoke." He docked down the splashing neon and hid his pale face under. In three fast strides, he was whisking his way down the empty streets. He soon vanished into the mist of the late night.

Young Rafel had stood in that alley, beside that pub for a long time contemplating the Reaper's words.

. . .the faces of their loved ones. . .the true condemnation.

A splitting ache filled Rafel's head in the present, the memory fading like scarlet fall. He had only the smidge of an idea as to why his troubled mind conjured up this particular vestige of the past. This idea, he did not want to dwell upon. He was grieving. He knew it. His bones were laden with soreness.

But also with agony and painful rage.

BANG!

Light flashed behind his shut eyelids, along with another wave of lancing pain.

He saw a face. . .a smiling woman.

Magnolia white hair. Blue gem ocean eyes. Streaks of magenta. A boyish fade. Supple crossbow lips. An eternal smile.

. . . Cora?

"CORAZÓN!" Rafel thrashed in the blackness.

The image distorted: it was now of a giant man holding her head, grasping her throat, breaking her neck. Rafel had no idea how long or how hard he screamed for her, but it could not save her. His devastated psyche played in slow motion her falling body; the savage cracking sound of bone; the limpness; the vacant gaze. Rafel was in so much psychic pain it translated to corporeal.

He gathered as much of dark energy as he could in that cursed bleak void in which his spirit floated, and with a fiendish roar borne of equal amounts ire and grief, he tore himself free of the blackness, swimming up against tides of shadow—as if in a vast ocean to the little sliver of light piercing through. He broke out the surface.

And abruptly, Rafel opened his eyes.

He blinked at the continuing migraine. He was up in someone's arms, on someone's back.

They were flying.

He made out lovely red skin. This person smelled of tulips and bluebells, and watermelons. He shortly remembered this same dainty red hand, pulling him out of the ruins of Emberfall, lifting a smoking beam fallen over his head, dragging him through miles of pine forest, through acres of woodland: saving him.

He groggily willed his eyes to open more.

The first thing his eyes met was cleavage.

A woman then.

She was red skinned, a healthy, sensuous color. And apparently she carried him on her back. Her big, onyx wings were spread out, feather pluming in the cold wind. Rafel finally looked past her amazing boobs. They were flying over vast waters. He blinked twice.

The Cold Sea? They were flying over the Cold Sea. But to where?

He briefly winked out again.

As he opened his eyes the second time, he found that they had landed—some time during his doze—on one of the Corynthian Isles. The island was fresh with long beaches, cushy weather and exotic winds. It was split in the center by a winding creek that ran into the sea. His strange savior took the path of the wooden bridge over the creek.

Still carrying Rafel up on her back, she came by a moor populated in rich sunflowers, spear grasses, and treading herons. A woman sat by a small fire, roasting fresh trout. Rafel could only see her back. She had a large behind, wide hips and long flowing white hair that whispered over the globular mounds. When they neared enough, she turned and Rafel caught sight of her scarlet iris.

Right. A Fallen.

"Hèla," the island woman said curtly.

It was then Rafel fully looked up the delectable red complexion he'd been admiring. It was Hèla, the goddess of war, Lilith's right-hand in conquering the Capitol. Why had she pulled him out of the ruins of Emberfall and saved him?

"Sekhmet," Hèla returned.

Her name was nearly a whisper in the air. If his history lessons were correct, Rafel mused he might be dealing with a [Supernatural] far bloodier than her—because who was more bloodthirsty than Sekhmet: the lioness of Ra. In her blood rage, she had drunken the weight of the Nile from feeble human necks. The white-blond witch arose from the flickering fire.

Her lips were the color of royal Eldorian ale: delicious maroon. She was imposing in her stance, with a body of wonders. She sent her blood-red eyes behind Hèla to the young man bleeding and draped over her back.

"I see I don't need to guess why you're here, sister. Is that the Apollyon?"

When Hèla nodded, she gasped. "Fuck me."

To which Hèla promptly answered, "You owe me, Sekhmet."

The paler haired woman visibly sighed. "I came to this Island to be away from the damn world, both of gods and mortals. . .and you come to me with this redhaired demon. Look at him? He's dying."

"What he is, is the child of prophecy."

"I do this, Hèla. And we're even. My blood debt goes away." Sekhmet waited until the goddess of war nodded her assent before carrying on to unfurl Rafel's stiff limbs from behind her. Rafel gritted his teeth at his own weakness. Sekhmet's blood-red pupils went a touch gentler as she laid him by her small fire. She placed his cold head on the warm earth touched by the orange, leaping flames.

"A beautiful boy—but greatly injured," said Sekhmet. "Who did this?"

"Mephistopheles," Hèla returned.

"That corrupt wiener!" cussed Sekhmet.

Hèla had no reply to that. She turned around and her great black wings sprouted out her back. She began to flap, ascending into the cool forest air. The herons peered up at the banks of the creek. In finality, she said, "Oh, and keep this between us, Sekhmet. Nurse him back to health, whatever it takes."

The island witch's platinum hair caught the shimmers of the embers as she recited.

"Whatever it takes."

Alone with Rafel, the enchanting nurse lifted his head to push a pillow under. "I'm off to get some mandrake and herbs—but looking the way you do, Apollyon, I fear I might have to fuck you back to life." Rafel was unsure of what he heard. He was after all, sick to his mind.