a haughty spirit before the fall

My name is balthazar. I sold the Son of God, I was worthy of more before I even became it. I was born of fire. God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it? I am Balthazar. And I will bring the fall to earth.

[dystopianarcher-blog]

God Called In Sick Today {Natasha, Duma, Lucifer, Raphael, Balthazar}

[dystopianarcher-blog]

Raphael is many things.

He is mad, he is vicious, he is lost. Right now, he is bleeding, pain oozing in dark red from a missing eye, cavern where it once was.

An eye for an eye Makes the whole world blind, Tsarina.

And he is many twisted things. But certainly not stupid.

And certainly not kind.

So on the outside, what everyone else sees is a Healer stabbing a Lost Queen. On the inside, there is a screaming, thrashing, begging Clint Barton, ripped, thrust in the cold.

Raphael knows of him the same way the other does, and his soul is breaking, is it not? So why not use it? Why not make yet another weakness his?

And so it isn’t Raphael, in those last seconds as she flies back. It’s Clint Barton, forced in place by burning claws.

But does it matter? For he might be screaming her name, too.

But this has truly driven him mad, mad, madder than he’ll ever hope to be. And in those few, desperate, desolate seconds that Clint Barton gets, he begs for death and mercy and revenge.

But he gets none of this. And an insane angel shrieks with laughing spasms.

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

He's done it.

He's actually done it, and the sight of Natasha staggering back, and falling- well, this has happened before, hasn't it? The girl is like a punching bag, on occasion, but this-

Raphael's laughter, though, and the scream of the soul he lets in beforehand (so, the archer is still around, even he can appreciate that bit of torture, well played, oh Archangel) and the sheer amount of blood that's escaping the girl tells the whole story. She's durable, yes. But not invincible, and that, Balthazar always knew.

She's dying. She's dying, on the way to where that pathetic little prick of an angel should be with her, if he still had his job. And he waits, he pauses from his onslaught, he stares, and grins, and waits to feel her soul slip from her body to his side-

And he feels nothing.

Which is when how the former Angel of Silence got to Hell becomes all too clear.

she cheated, she cheated again, she used his tricks and his love and made him Fall and now he is a god but that soul is not his, does not belong to him due to rules he did not make and has no control over, and that is unac-fucking-ceptable

"She belongs to me, you little piece of shit!" Balthazar, no more demon but newly crowned god, for once, loses his cool.

And lurches forward, to pull Duma's head off before he eats his fucking heart.

[dystopianarcher-blog]

God Called In Sick Today {Natasha, Duma, Lucifer, Raphael, Balthazar}

[dystopianarcher-blog]

Raphael smirks, power flowing through open arms, and the pain of Natasha’s bullets.

Balm, and blessing, and driving force, blood of a martyr to be drunk in revelry and admiration.

A blade that shines in his hand wet with countless creatures’ blood, he laughs. For oh, this is what he has been waiting for: kill them both, snap their necks.

And then hunt the blind one down, find his girl with him. Bathe in their blood. Torture them until they can’t speak and can only beg for mercy and death.

And laugh while it happens.

He circles Natasha, hisses, a taunt, a smirk, a knowing wink, even, that says, simply put: it’s fine. I won’t let you get out of this alive.

But the hunter wants to play, at least for a little while. And so he invites the Synchronite to his little ruthless game, the same way he’d invited his brother to his very own personal Hell.

He wants to kill her, but not quite, in front of the Quiet One’s eyes. Leave just enough light in her mind to be able to see him, once he tears out Duma’s heart.

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

Years.

Centuries.

Fucking ages of listening to him, following his orders, doing his will.

Oh, no. Things, things were different now, and Lucifer, apparently, would be the first of the Old Ones to fall, fall for a second time, the first to feel the wrath of a new god and be bent to his rule. A pity, though- the Archangel still had bite, and try as he might, Balthazar didn't see him bending. No, no. He'd proved that well enough the first time around.

Truly, again, a pity. He'd have to die.

Still, though, at least the boy was making this a challenge. Cold hurt, especially now, but then again- what has fire, to fear from the freeze? Nothing, truly.

The crazed Fallen was playing with his food; perhaps it was time for a little showmanship. Balthazar tensed his neck then, at least in theory- but in action, it was so much more, a force greater than that of sinew or muscle emanating in a shockwave from him, and throwing the former Lord of Hell to the ash-covered ground. "Not feeling at home, Lucy? Don't worry. I can fix that."

The wind, once normal in this place and now gone, picked up again, this time with no center of calm, that spot replaced by a center of pure, unadulterated will. 

The fire, Balthazar thought, was caught in me. Under me. Scraping at skin and sanity. I just needed time. Only time.

Now, I can control it.

With that, a hand flew down, fingers snapped, and then, an inferno raged, a literal ring of swirling fire forming a wide, but still imposing perimeter around the five entities.

"Come on, then," Balthazar said with a grin. "I'm a different God, after all."

"You might get lucky."

[dystopianarcher-blog]

God Called In Sick Today {Natasha, Duma, Lucifer, Raphael, Balthazar}

[dystopianarcher-blog]

There are pages written in murders’ and rapists’ blood, bound in the skin of those perished in sin. There are books sewn together with hairs of witches and the marrow of demons, books whose words many times speak of unaccountable horrors, of possessions, of sacrifices. And sometimes, even of the truth.

And this, all this, is what Raphael feels. It burns, catches, latches onto his hand as he clutches the Bible of Hell, teeth gritting.

Darkness, unveiled, revealed, opens his mind and he sees, or thinks he does, truly SEES the lies and deceptions of his Father, and the sin, and the nightmare opened forth from gaping eyes.

The screech, the scream, born from a traitor’s mouth.

Eyes burning white and black and every color in between, as Hell feeds onto what little remains of a fallen Archangel’s soul - fresh meat, fresh blood, fresh sin. 

And he lets them feast and tear, lips curling in a smile, madness.

“Feed me.”

Dona me veritatem.

Not spoken, but heard nonetheless by all.

Dona me libertatem.

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

Hell may be embracing the former Angel of Healing, but with Balthazar, the opposite is true. It is the demon who takes Hell, at least in his own mind, allows the power and rage of the Pit to enter, and through their dualities of nature, become unlocked. But the angel, the angel is weak, and this is why Balthazar, in the end, will win. Raphael is a madman, mind broken.

Balthazar, in contrast, is a fucking god.

Which is why, finally, finally, he lets the burning, the fire and turpentine that has existed beneath skin he barely needs now, he smiles, and allows it to consume him.

For a moment, time literally stops. He can feel it, he can see as his former master and would-be enslavers are caught in the throes of true power, and the sky, air- everything is crimson. Everything is fire. Everything, finally, is Hell.

And then, it's gone, because Hell is him, and there is nothing left for the land to have.

The angel beside him hardly matters. Now, the sky is gray, and the fire is gone, and the demons around him tremble, knowing there is a greater, higher master than the original betrayer.

There is only One, and his name is Balthazar.

And as it happens, the former is holding something he wants.

And with that, a fountain of fire comes from his hand, and the true war begins.

[dystopianarcher-blog]

God Called In Sick Today {Natasha, Duma, Lucifer, Raphael, Balthazar}

Blade searing through a demon’s brain, a mad mad mad grin splitting rotten rotting flesh, and Raphael laughs - or better, cackles as the blood wets blade so Unholy it might burn.

A kick, the decapitated beast falls down, rolls off into nothingness. For now, they are at bay. And the lesser ones fear the Fallen nonetheless.

Next to him, a pride demon hisses. Fangs glistening, eyes burning in their skulls. The blood that mats Raphael’s teeth, a tongue rushing over them.

“BALTHAZAR,” Raphael turns towards him, screaming, then, as thunderclap and change in winds warns them that something - someone - is there. And that they must be quick.

“Now!”

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

"Relax, Blessed One," Balthazar replies, even as claws maim one of those he used to call comrade, if one believed in such a concept. He, of course, did not, and it was the reason the lesser beast was now no more than a literal stepping stone beneath his feet, all sense of glamour gone and discarded for the sake of convenience. 

They're almost at the bottom, after all, and from there, there's only one way to go- up.

Metaphorically speaking, of course. Having a crazed, vengeful Archangel with one helps, however, even as he hears the boom in the distance, and knows someone's caught on. Balthazar, of course, can guess who, and his eyes actually crinkle with glee at the element of surprise- who has the little Tsarina brought, then? Did she dare come with him? Or even better, someone else?

The odds are stacked enough in his favor to find extreme amusement in this, and that is almost reward enough. As an added bonus, however, he finds that his suspicions were all correct- there is an eye at the middle of this maelstrom, the remnants of an ancient library decrepit and all but lost to the damned elements they sit in.

The middle, however, is calm. And there is an altar, with a book.

His book.

One more slashed throat and he's there, a hand in continual decay upon it, flaming eyes staring at his once divine partner in madness.

"I could use a hand," he says with a smirk.

A hand, consent, and merely asking.

All he's ever needed to get his way.

And now, he'll never even have to ask.

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

original here: [x]

Falling, after all, is just a faster way of getting down where you belong.

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

Crossroad Blues {Balth/Raph}

[dystopianarcher-blog]

Oh, the soothing screeching rusty gear voice of the demon filled him, for a brief moment, filled the darkness and white behind his eyes.

Hands shaking as they dug into Balthazar’s suit and tugged at him, sweat dripping down Raphael’s face staining his skin, he could not bring himself to speak anymore. Fear paralyzed him, washed over him in never ending waves.

But the tiniest spark of newly found rage was already gestating deep inside the cracks of a mind that no longer was there and never would have been.

The Healer slipped a hand behind Balthazar’s neck, pulled him close. Trembling, drooling lips hovered next to his ear.

“Take me to the book.” they whispered.

And the smirk that broke Raphael’s face into two was nothing but pain.

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

"Hell is full of demons still, you know. Give your mind but a moment. Let the emptiness fade, so that you may crush all that stands in your path." Balthazar's arm was around the angel now, slipped behind broken wings in an almost fraternal fashion. Oh, it was delicious. A Pride Demon, with the soothing balm of Hell.

And knowing that a certain seed no doubt gestated in the fractured pavement of Raphael's mind, he suggested the notion. Out loud, and all, words unthinkable before this moment, but as an old fool had once said, perhaps the stars were right.

"Your brother, you know. In his sin. And his poor copy." Oh, the look of concern and care in his eyes was almost better than hellfire and hate. "They may go. Attempt to block you from your deserved fate. Perhaps their...redemption, would fill you before the final blow."

And once again, the truth was more painful than a lie.

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

Crossroad Blues {Balth/Raph}

[dystopianarcher-blog]

Desperation is a cruel mistress and a sly one. She crawls underneath one’s skin, takes hold of them in ways you’d never think.

She is a puppet master; she is a mad general.

Raphael was lost. He was swimming in the emptiness that was the shell he had been up to now, wing crumbling and burning, the sight of hawk’s feathers blown apart, the bone underneath.

The Fallen creature wailed again, a ghost of a ghost of ancient powers. It wailed and stumbled forward and grabbed onto the demon crouching in front of him.

“Fill me.”

The rage would have come, but there was still time. For now, all that came were gasps for air and the never ending feeling of nothing. 

He no longer felt. He no longer breathed.

He no longer was.

“Please.”

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

"You will."

His eyes are flames, now, not as a threat but as example. Just a sign, a gift. Proof that indeed, there is something else to close this wound.

"You will be filled with the power of the righteously vengeful, a sword of atonement. You will bring justice in the dark."

Words you want to hear are true when you want them to be.

"Arm yourself, Blessed One. Adorn yourself with armor for the coming War."

Because there is a War, now, and he's made the first strike with the finest steel.

"And if there are those who should put a hole in your divine fury?"

every man wants to be a god

"Destroy them."

but i say unto you, that whosoever is angry with his brother without a cause shall be in danger of the judgment

Too fucking late, oh Blessed One.

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

Crossroad Blues {Balth/Raph}

[dystopianarcher-blog]

Take a moment to observe.

You are a crow sitting in a tree and you are watching as the men below you speak in hushed voices and menacing tongues.

You are a crow sitting in a tree staring with one beady black eye as the men who are not men at all exchange blood and vows, and you can tell that it hurts them both.

But it almost seems as if it hurts one more.

And it did.

Raphael stood, suddenly, quiet, as demon blood latched onto his and there was something.

Something different, was there not?

Something he couldn’t really define, not yet - but it was. Cold. An endless cacophony of bright black cold. Inside his…broken shattered spinning mind a single blade of ice broke through layers of grey matter and consciousness and suddenly became the only thing he was truly aware of and this.

Cold.

Was.

Nothingness.

It was shining light behind his eyes that erased completely all that he had ever been from the beginning of time and beyond that, before that, after that.

This Cold that ate all feelings and emotions and was swirling red and black now, behind weary eyes the Demon’s Sin seeped deep and became Raphael’s marrow. And there was Ice - a Song of Ice and Nothingness.

Eternal Ice until it hit Raphael, truly HIT HIM with the force it deserved as the only true remnant of Sanity exploded in the Presence burning to ash, crashing all dragging him down.

The Angel Truly Fell.

Raphael’s knees gave out, he crumbled through layers of burning flesh and empty numbness, a thousand story high tower in the blink of an eye or just less. And the Angel of Healing crawled through the mud, mouth set in stone in a soundless shriek as the echoes in his brain were silenced forevermore with searing cold and chilling fire.

“It’s. It’s”

Dirt coating a still open wound, blood melting with earth.

“It’s empty.”

Words spoken in tongues no man had ever known. An Enochian scream, shrieked through soundless ears and swollen eyes.

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

The greatest shows, sometimes, are the ones you expect. Not surprises. Oh, it's one thing to be pleasantly entertained by what was intended to be a side act, but sometimes- no, always- the entertainment one prefers is the one that lives up to expectation. Raphael. Archangel. Falling tonight, in a private show, one night only. The ticket is suffering, but isn't it always? And that scream- oh, Balthazar hopes to hear ten thousand more, a legion more, the entire Earth and every plane beyond, perhaps-

No. Not perhaps. He will. This, after all, is only Act One.

So he stares at the passion play of blood, earth, and madness, for once, his own rapture taking the forefront. This is a sight to behold. This... this is the burning he holds inside, the pinprick of fire under his skin made living, wings darkened and constantly molting; a manufactured, constant struggle of a nature that grows towards something it can never again have.

Never. It's such a nice word.

So Balthazar kneels, waiting for the precise moment when that ancient wail fades, and says but four words.

"Then we will fill it."

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

Crossroad Blues {Balth/Raph}

[dystopianarcher-blog]

Raphael took a deep breath once Balthazar had finished cutting, eyes focusing on the black bubbling blood.

He opened his hand then, the searing pain now nothing but a low throb, and braced himself for what was to come. Counting his heartbeats as he breathed, he nodded at the demon.

“Now.”

Red blood mixing with black mixing with crimson.

“I bound thee, Judas Iscariot, Balthazar, First Who Betrayed, First To Repent. I bound you by blood and by vow to myself - for you to find the Book of Damned Souls, for me to unlock its power and thus Hell be at our feet, so that the Cleansing be brought to Earth, and all who live in Wretchedness be freed of Sin through Bloodshed and Forgiveness.”

And it felt like liquid fire poured through his veins, shooting up through his arm, digging its claws into his shoulder, back, neck. Into his mind.

It was a raucous silent scream exploding in his ears, then, acid burning his every fiber, back snapping, bones shattering, wings being ripped, and all of that tenfold.

Pain that stung his eyes that stung his soul.

But nothing, nothing, nothing would have ever prepared him for what was about to come.

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

Oh, and there was pain. Of course there was, nothing so holy should have ever been near something like him, even if that sanctity was scratched away, barely there under bubbling sin and Pride shrouded hastily with righteousness. Balthazar's reeling mind had enough sense to back away, however, one hand hiding a gaping, simmering wound, the rest of him hiding his smile.

The show would be fearsome, but it would be a show.

Applause, however, was best saved for the end. So he watched.

Thy will be done, indeed.

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

Crossroad Blues {Balth/Raph}

[dystopianarcher-blog]

He pulled his sleeves up, too, veins and muscles showing through under paper thin sickly skin, Angel’s blood flowing where the human once did, tired flesh, tired eyes. Tired vessel, tired mind.

A body driven to its limit and then through it. But Raphael had no will nor intention to cease: and even he knew, deep down, that it was too late to even think about stopping.

Especially now (any ghost of guilt he might’ve had was soon silenced).

He glanced over at the waiting demon, took a few steps closer, arm outstretched before the blade came down upon his wrist and cut, deep, down the length of it, up to the crook of his elbow.

Raphael snarled as it burned, flesh torn apart, blood starting to drip: the wetness of crimson both blessing to his shattered thoughts and curse to those around him.

He handed over the blade to Balthazar, fist clenched as red flowed.

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

An angel blade. Disgusting, and nothing he'd be able to hold on for any amount of time. The searing of his flesh, and then the slicing...oh, that was worth it, though. The same long, deep gouge he'd given for a princess, and now gave for an archangel. Either way, really, he won.

And there was always the chance he could have both.

The blood, though, was black and boiling, and more importantly: ready.

But, you were never allowed to make the first move. So Balthazar let the blade clang to the ground, eyes upward, arm moving forward, if haltingly. "My blood, and service- my blood, which is my life, is yours."

And that which owns me, I own in kind.

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

Crossroad Blues {Balth/Raph}

[dystopianarcher-blog]

“If what you say is true, scum - and I do not doubt Izrial of dragging his brother along into his madness, for I have seen how he is with the serpent and I have been told what they have done - then wash yourself in your very blood, sinner. And prove it to me.”

He was playing harsh and dangerous: but it was necessary. A blood oath was something that marked forever, a blood oath was proof and fidelity seared deep into skin.

Pain that brought forth the clarity needed. He would have been tainted, yes, tainted in the deepest way and the most horrid: but if it was necessary, then so be it.

He glared at the demon, disgust for what he was about to do clear on his face.

“Tonight history is made, and may the consequences be righteous, and justify what is about to be done.”

He pulled his blade back out, then.

“A blood oath, demon. I shall fetch the book, and you shall help me unlock its powers.”

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

A nod, then, in silent assent that would no doubt be considered worshipful acquiescence. Another deal, this time with pain and blood on both sides.

But what true deal wasn't? Even the Tsarina knew that, but Balthazar was hardly about to mention the parallels. "You'll see for yourself, no doubt. If you haven't already. She is a silent killer, so is he. Furtive glances leading to your defenestration. Their lack of speech is their sin, Blessed One."

He removed his coat, then, rolling up sleeves to reveal unmarked flesh, for now, at least. "Blood for blood, and by the gallons if it takes it. Thy will be done."

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

Crossroad Blues {Balth/Raph}

[dystopianarcher-blog]

His lips curled in a snarl that expressed nothing but disgust - directed both at the creature at his feet and what he was telling him.

That Izrial had been tainted - that was proven fact. But that the quiet one had followed his example, lured to sin by the Tsarina, of all people, made his blood whiten his eyes, for a moment, pearly light of destruction shining through.

Another reason to add to the list. Another reason to rip their wings feather from feather.

But, beside it all, the Demon was right and Raphael was not one to deny his own worth: Earth was tainted and the Host was weak, and he was the only one who’d seen it as it was. Who’d seen and tasted the wretchedness, who’d tried to rip it out of Earth’s swollen, cancer-ridden belly. Kill the child that was Sin before it saw the light.

Could holding the Book truly be the key to the power he needed? The light to ignite his sword, the wind to whip them all, the claws to tear their flesh?

Could he take the very source of their wretchedness and use it to do good? And use it to cure them, truly, of their Sins?

Raphael took a step back and gave Balthazar the chance to catch a breath. Before he kicked his stomach, hard, just once (the alpha male makes sure to bare his fangs).

“Stand.” he hissed.

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

And stand he did. With the correct amount of deference and respectful lack of eye contact; one had to be careful about these things. Delicate, if you would. Clearly, the hooks had worked on Raphael, but it was easy, so easy to lose a fish at this point. And with a catch of this magnitude, even in a place with this amount of protection- well.

Balthazar had no desire to piss off an Archangel. Not at this stage in the game, in any case.

He ran fingers over his torso for good measure, making the pain of Raphael's kick obviously felt. "What would you have a broken servant do, Redeemer? If anything?"

[prof-jim-moriarty]

Ill-Lit Ships {Jim/Balthazar}

[prof-jim-moriarty]

“A certain Exorcist used to get rather chatty after a couple of glasses of wine and some affection. It was he who told me about Lucifer walking out. You’d be surprised at the things I know. Such a silly boy.”

The tone was almost bitter, but it was swamped in mockery. It was true, John had told the Criminal many things that he really shouldn’t have. Things that could potentially put a lot of people in great danger. Jim smirked and placed the weapon back in the box.

“I will be wanting to speak with them then. I always vet potential informants myself before taking them into my employ. I am a fan of the… personal touch.”

Jim licked his lips and shut the little wooden box with a sharp snap. He deliberated angling for more information, but he knew when he was pushing it. With a little nod he handed the box to the Demon.

“I think…. that is all the information I need for now. I am sure you would not object meeting for a chat and a spot of renegotiation if I think of anything else.”

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

"Loose lips are so often the best kind. But boring, after a fashion." Balthazar took the box with the same nod, this gift taken and given with the proper respect, if not deference. Men of business, after all, did not deal in sentiment. "I'll have him contact you, of course. Do let me know how you'd like it done, I know you have... standards and methods, of course. Or his contact information could be yours immediately. Your choice, obviously, as the potential employer."

One of the Corruption would do, surely, and there were plenty of choices therein. Two came to mind, but...there was a slight time for thought on that issue. Perhaps more, depending on the Criminal's preference. "And of course not. I think this meeting's been productive for us both; I don't see the harm in another if necessary." Eye teeth shone with flaming eyes as he smiled, a head cocked towards the door. "And thank you, Jim. Truly. Now, if there's nothing else...?"

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

Crossroad Blues {Balth/Raph}

[dystopianarcher-blog]

He released the pressure, then, but didn’t move his foot, torn as he was between kicking Balthazar just for the fun of it or letting him somehow be and just make him aware of the power he thought he exercised over him. A warning made of heel and leather.

“A helping hand? Why should I offer it to you, of all creatures - oh, remorse is a Holy thing but you are surely not the one to know such concept.”

But, after all, the creature had saved him - dragged him from his brother’s claws, let him heal his wounds, take respire. And the fact that the half-breed had done that stung Raphael all the right ways: curiosity pricked his mind, drew blood that blossomed in his brain.

“But why would you need the Book if not for selfish purposes, Iscariot? Why take me and not another? Why save me? Surely an Angel’s life has little to no interest for you, and trust me when I say your life in my eyes is nothing but scum.”

His foot brushed against the back of the other’s head.

“Why, then?”

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

"With desperation comes redemption, doesn't it? That girl...Tsarina...is a demon. Your brother follows suit with his own snake, and the one struck dumb behind him. Pagan filth reigns where even I know your Father should. Perhaps I have sinned- no, I have. You know this, of course. But even a sinner, when brought to his knees, knows the way of things. How things should be." The boot on his head was a threat, but also hesitation. It was time to sink in the hooks. "Things are...far from as they should be. And I am but a mere betrayer, and far below my knees."

Balthazar turned then, slightly, enough to meet the angel's eyes with an empty look. Eyes that spoke not of Hellfire or deception but of a broken man, alone and without hope. "I am the scum, cursed forevermore to writhe on his belly. I need no book, Blessed One- I am but the pathway to it, a mere tool."

"I know, however, that you must have it. And you know as well as I that there is no other worthy of its power. All in Heaven turn their eyes away with the sin of ignorance and disinterest, all on Earth are tainted. It must be you. Or all shall end up like me."

[prof-jim-moriarty]

Ill-Lit Ships {Jim/Balthazar}

[prof-jim-moriarty]

Jim’s brow furrowed slightly. He had not been expecting it to be easy. Not at all. But a little more information would have been nice. Especially with the gift he had brought. But then again, would he have been so giving? No. In fact Jim would have lied. Of course there was the chance that Balthazar was lying. But Jim got the feeling that it served him better to tell the truth right now. The Criminal slipped the knuckleduster onto his own fingers and admired it for a moment. Far too chunky for his liking. Pretty, but made him look like a thug. And it had looked ridiculous on John. He wiggled his fingers absent-mindedly as the gold weapon glittered under the light.

“I will need the assistance of one of your underlings. I am looking to hire someone with True Sight. There seems to be a lot of them cropping up lately….”

The Criminal looked up at the Demon with a sly grin. His head cocked slightly to one side. Rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“That’s the reason you’re killing them, isn’t it? These so called suicides? I need one of them. I hear it is easier to kill an Angel if you cut off their wings. My little assassin won’t be able to cut off what he can’t see.”

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

"And I wonder who told you that," Balthazar remarked, not bothering to hide the dry tone in his voice nor the disdain with which the demon eyed the weapon on Jim's hand. It wasn't even the memory of it; it was the sentiment. Constantine'd been barely clever, but hitting half a being's face off did have a certain... distracting quality to it. Lucky little bastard, but, like so many other troublesome things, irrelevant. He hadn't even had to kill John, in the end. Just render him useless.

The victory was almost sweeter, really. 

"In any case, I have a number of persons in my employ. All with certain marked skills... I'm sure a few would fit your needs." He grinned, an eyebrow raised as he gazed at the Criminal. "Does dear Jim have any other specifications, or will the one do?"

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

Crossroad Blues {Balth/Raph}

[dystopianarcher-blog]

He dragged himself to his feet, a flinch quickly masked, and smirked down at the cowering liar. Oh, the thrill that came from seeing them crawl at his feet, to know they were his and his alone.

The unmistakable taste of power that made his tongue feel like metal, cold, sharp, dangerous. Hands ready to break bones, teeth ready to tear flesh.

He slammed a boot against the demon’s back, pressed his crawling body to the ground.

“You think I am a fool, Iscariot? To believe words hissed through your rotten teeth? Oh, if you want me to truly trust you, you will have to prove it to me.”

More weight added, the crunch of bones.

“Or I could make you bleed the truth.”

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

"You could, yes. But blood has no tongue, Blessed One, and as for proof- you were there." Ah, yes, the neutrality of their location was a boon indeed. The angel hurt enough through these barbaric methods, and had he been able to strike him spiritually- well.

Balthazar suspected he may have had something to worry about. That said, planning was planning, and this, again, was no lie. Just a cheerful reminder, at precisely the right time.

"You saw Hell's creation, and you know the old laws. One of the damned, one of Heaven, and the Book of the Damned itself. Hell's Bible- though one no longer exists on this plane, as you no doubt know. Too dangerous in the hands of mortals- of course it was, destroying it was the only option, as it is with them. But the original, the source, it lies in the Pit, and you know this also."

"Which is why you haven't gotten it, I imagine." Concrete dug into flesh on cheek, and yet still, Balthazar managed a respectful smile. "You can't go there. Not as you are."

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

Crossroad Blues {Balth/Raph}

[dystopianarcher-blog]

Angel blades were always, always painful.

The first time was Hell.

The second was Hell, yet again, multiplied by deep white burning rage and. Truly, maybe, even. 

Betrayal.

Because never had Raphael dreamed, in all the millennia and centuries, never had he dreamed of watching his older brother’s hands in slow motion dig a blade deep into his hip.

The twin, yes, for he had no true bond with him (and he had always been jealous of the care Izrial had shown Duma throughout their youth), and, obviously, the Hunter he so feared.

But Izrial?

No, Izrial was not one to hurt. He was the one who mended broken souls. He was the caretaker. And, out of all of them, he was the true Healer. The only one whose Love could save (and give a wounded angel back his wings. But Raphael did not know this - and never would’ve).

So Raphael hissed when the demon crouched next to him, and his fist collided with the beast’s jaw. The archangel flinched, curled on his knees, a shudder as blood dripped and pain clawed.

“I have no interest in speaking with you, Balthazar.”

Trembling hands that rushed over to a gushing wound, the sound of flesh reconnecting, cells regrowing, interwining.

“The Holy do not talk to the Unholy scum.” 

[iwasbornofthis-blog]

So much hurt. Pain. Anger. Rage. Pride.

It was like fucking Christmas.

If you went in for that sort of thing, of course. Balthazar was hardly the type, but freely-given gifts of fate... oh, that, that he could deal with rather well. Any such excitement or sparks of accomplishment were well-hidden for now, however. He took the hit with humility one might expect from a beaten dog, falling to the ground with more force and pain than was even necessary, before continuing his speech- low, reverent, and not daring to look Raphael in the eye.

"Of course. Forgive me, Blessed One, of course one would never expect a thing. And the gall of one such as me, the ultimate of sinners, the Betrayer- but you then perhaps understand the dire straits which lead me to this, you who are the rightful Sword of God." His words came out in desperate breaths, injury in tone if not in truth. "Perhaps you can save me- perhaps not. Were there one who could, it would be you, but you and your Father know all too well my sin. I may be past redemption, but this world- their world, the world your Father swore you to protect, it is not. But it needs one who is not tainted. One who can be pure, and do that which needs to be done."

Eyes darted up to the healing Archangel's for but a moment, before returning to the ground. "There is power in Hell, you know. But Hell was created by the Most Exalted Lord on High, power He sent forth to cleanse sin. It... oh Blessed one, it needs but someone worthy to wield it."