Metatron discovered very quickly that "resting in Heaven" was an extraordinarily optimistic expression when Heaven did not yet exist.
There was no garden, city, library, clouds, music, food, or even a chair where he could sit and contemplate the increasingly questionable series of decisions that had brought him to that point.
There was only white in every direction.
Metatron stood exactly where God had left him after granting him his new name, the six enormous arcs of light he now called wings folded behind his back as he stared into the empty infinity with the expression of a man who had just discovered a particularly unpleasant clause in a contract he had failed to read.
He remained like that for several seconds.
Then he looked to the right.
Nothing.
He looked to the left.
Nothing.
He looked behind him.
Also nothing.
Finally, he raised his face toward the void.
"...God?"
No answer.
Metatron narrowed his eyes.
"Lord?"
Silence.
"Boss?"
A completely white head appeared upside down a few inches in front of his face.
"Did you call?"
Metatron screamed and stumbled backward so quickly that he tripped over his own wings.
God vanished and reappeared standing before him, placing His hands on His hips as He watched His first archangel regain his balance.
"You need to work on that spiritual awareness of yours."
"You need to work on appearing like a normal person!"
"I am not a person."
"That doesn't help!"
"It helps considerably from my point of view."
Metatron took a deep breath, though he still wasn't sure whether he actually needed to breathe in that body, and pointed toward the vastness around them.
"You said I could rest in your Heavens."
"Yes."
"Where are they?"
God looked around.
Then at Metatron.
"Good question."
The archangel's golden eyes narrowed.
"You haven't created them yet."
"Correct!"
"Then where exactly was I supposed to rest?"
God placed His hands behind His back and began strolling leisurely.
"Technically, nowhere."
Metatron closed his eyes.
"I hate verbal contracts..."
"A particularly amusing statement considering what I'm going to teach you today."
That caught Metatron's attention, and he immediately opened one eye.
"Teach me what?"
God stopped.
For a few moments, His relaxed demeanor disappeared. Not completely, because that smile seemed to have been carved directly into the Creator's essence, but something about the way He carried Himself changed. The white infinity became silent in a different way, as though even that nothingness were waiting for His next words.
God raised one hand.
"The Word."
Metatron looked at the hand.
Then at God.
"The... Word?"
"The Word."
"As in grammar?"
God slowly lowered His hand.
"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."
"I was a lawyer, not a theologian."
"And now you are My Scribe. We'll start with the basics."
God stepped closer and stopped beside him, both of them staring into that shapeless void.
"Before matter, before time, before there are stars to measure centuries or hearts to count moments, there is will. Idea. Possibility. And a reality that has not yet been given permission to exist."
Metatron listened carefully.
"Most beings yet to come will be bound by the rules of what already exists. To move a stone, they will need to touch it. To build a house, they will need to gather wood and stone. To produce fire, they will need something to serve as fuel. Cause will follow effect, and effect will follow cause."
God extended a hand forward.
"But we are before the rules."
His smile returned faintly.
"So we can write them."
Metatron looked back into the void.
"With words...?"
"No."
He frowned.
"You literally just called it the Word."
"Words are vessels. The Word is what you place inside them."
God touched His own chest.
"Will."
Then His forehead.
"Authority."
Finally, He pointed toward infinity.
"Truth."
The white seemed to ripple.
"When I speak through the Word, I am not asking reality to do something. I am not casting a spell. I am not persuading existence."
God's eyes appeared on that featureless face, black circles slowly turning within gold.
"I am telling it what is true."
Metatron felt his wings bristle.
God raised one finger.
"If I say something exists..."
A small glowing sphere appeared above His fingertip.
"Then there was never any possibility that it did not exist."
Metatron cautiously extended his hand. The sphere floated into his palm, warm without burning him.
"And you want to teach me how to do that."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because it would be inconvenient for you to call Me every time you want a chair."
The sphere in Metatron's hands vanished.
"We'll start with something simple."
God pointed ahead.
"Create light."
Metatron looked at the void, then at God.
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"Any specific word?"
"No."
"Any gesture?"
"No."
"A prayer?"
"..."
"I'm trying to avoid blowing something up."
"There is nothing for you to blow up."
"That is not as reassuring as you think."
God laughed.
"Do not think about the word. Think about the truth you want to establish. Do not wish for there to be light. Know that there is light. Then give voice to that certainty."
Metatron turned toward the void.
It seemed ridiculous.
Throughout his entire life, words had been tools. They could defend, accuse, persuade, lie, comfort, condemn. He had built an entire career around knowing how to choose the right words at the right moment.
But he had never needed to convince the universe.
He slowly raised his hand.
"Let there be... light?"
A tiny spark appeared.
It glowed for approximately two seconds before going out.
Metatron looked at God.
God looked at the spot where the spark had been.
"Well."
"Well?"
"That was pathetic."
"Thank you."
"But it was something!"
God clapped His hands.
"Again!"
Metatron sighed and turned away once more.
He tried to imagine light.
Nothing.
He tried to remember the Sun.
Still nothing.
He tried to focus on that feeling of warmth against his skin on a quiet morning, before his life had turned into a walking apocalypse.
A small golden flame appeared before him.
"Better!"
Metatron smiled.
The flame immediately exploded.
A wave of golden fire tore through the void in every direction.
"FUCK!"
Metatron instinctively covered his face with his wings.
God simply remained standing there while the celestial inferno spread for hundreds of thousands of kilometers before vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.
Silence returned.
Metatron slowly opened his wings.
"...I did that?"
"Yes."
"Was that bad?"
"Extremely."
"Great."
"But it was good."
Metatron turned toward Him in disbelief.
"How was blowing everything up good?"
"Because this time, you believed."
God draped an arm over his shoulders and pointed toward where the explosion had happened.
"Control can be taught. Conviction is harder."
"You could have started by telling me this thing reacts to my emotions."
"And miss that reaction?"
"You're a terrible teacher."
"And yet I am literally the best teacher in existence."
"Because you're the only teacher in existence."
"Details."
The lesson continued.
Metatron created light.
Then shadows.
Then one sphere and another.
The first fell straight through the floor because he forgot to specify that it was supposed to remain suspended. The second stayed in the air but started multiplying because he had vaguely thought it would be useful to "have a few more." God had to erase four million three hundred thousand tiny golden spheres before they occupied the entire visible expanse.
Somewhere between his attempt to create a solid surface and the incident involving an alarming amount of celestial water, Metatron began to understand.
The Word did not obey only what he said.
It obeyed what he meant.
Every hesitation mattered. Every contradictory thought inserted an imperfection into the command. If his mind said "light" while part of him was thinking of fire, creation did not know where one idea ended and the other began.
God could do it effortlessly because there was no difference between His will, His word, and His authority.
Metatron was still different.
He still thought like a man because he had once been one.
And perhaps that was exactly why God seemed to enjoy watching him learn so much.
After a period that might have been minutes or centuries, since time did not yet exist to make the distinction relevant, God finally clapped His hands.
"Excellent! You're ready."
Metatron was sitting on the first functional chair he had managed to create.
It had five legs.
He had given up trying to fix it.
"Ready for what?"
God spread His arms toward the nothingness.
"To build My home."
Metatron looked at Him, then at the void.
"You're telling me all of this was construction training?"
"More or less."
God walked forward until He stood before infinity.
This time, when He spoke, there was no humor in His voice.
"Watch."
His Presence changed.
Metatron felt it before he understood it.
The entire void seemed to bend.
God raised both hands, and the Word left His mouth not as sound, but as a law tearing through nonexistence itself.
"LET THERE BE HEAVENS."
Reality was born.
Metatron could find no other way to describe it.
The infinite white tore open into depth, height, and distance. An immense vault unfolded before him, blue, golden, and white all at once, stretching toward horizons that could not be measured. Currents of light crossed the newborn expanse. Seas of liquid radiance appeared above and below, separated by a crystalline firmament that seemed to contain stars not yet born.
Mountains appeared in the distance, made not of stone but of luminous matter whose surface reflected colors that did not yet have names.
Rivers of light emerged between them.
The radiant water descended the slopes in vast silent waterfalls and gathered in lakes so transparent that Metatron could see geometric structures turning within their depths.
The ground beneath them transformed.
White fields spread toward the horizon, covered in vegetation that seemed to shift between matter and luminosity whenever he moved his eyes. Enormous trees rose upward, their branches bearing silver leaves and golden fruit.
Above all of it, an immense expanse opened.
Not exactly another sky.
More like a higher level of existence.
Metatron remained silent.
"That..."
God tilted His head slightly.
"Yes?"
"That is beautiful."
God's smile softened.
"I know."
Metatron let out a small laugh through his nose.
"Modest."
"It would be false modesty to deny it."
"Fair."
God pointed into the distance.
"Your turn."
Metatron's smile vanished.
"My turn to do what?"
"I need a palace."
"You created an entire dimension with two words."
"And?"
"Make it yourself."
"No."
"Why?"
"Because you need the practice."
Metatron stared at the place He had indicated.
"And if I do it wrong?"
"We demolish it."
"And if it explodes?"
"We rebuild."
"And if I accidentally create some abomination that's impossible to destroy?"
God seemed to consider that.
"We give it a name and pretend it was intentional."
Metatron stared at Him.
"I'm beginning to understand how certain things are going to exist."
He stood.
Before them stretched a vast elevation at the center of the new realm. Metatron closed his eyes and tried to think not of walls, windows, or towers, but of what the place was supposed to represent.
Authority.
Peace.
Order.
A center.
The place toward which any celestial being could look and know that their Creator was there.
He took a deep breath.
When he opened his eyes, the gold in his irises grew brighter.
"Let there rise a dwelling worthy of the Presence of He who made the Heavens."
The mountain trembled.
Metatron's eyes widened.
White stone erupted from the ground in enormous pillars. Towers grew like trees, connecting through bridges and arches. Halls formed within halls, some small enough to receive only a handful of people, others so vast that entire cities could fit inside them.
Liquid gold ran along the walls, drawing inscriptions Metatron did not remember imagining.
At the center, one tower rose above all the others.
Then kept going.
And going.
And going.
Metatron began to frown.
"It should be stopping."
"Yes."
"Why isn't it stopping?"
"Because part of you thought My dwelling should be 'infinitely grand.'"
"Shit."
The tower pierced one layer of the celestial sky.
Then another.
God watched calmly.
Metatron pointed at it.
"Stop!"
Nothing happened.
"STOP!"
The tower grew even faster.
"Do not shout at it. You're treating it as something separate from your authority."
Metatron closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
That thing was true because he had determined it would be.
It was not a construction out of control.
It was his creation.
And his creation ended where he said it did.
"Enough."
The tower stopped instantly.
Metatron opened his eyes.
God clapped slowly.
"Excellent!"
"I almost pierced Heaven."
"Technically, you pierced three."
"Three?"
"We'll talk about those later."
Metatron decided not to ask.
That was when God looked toward the space beside them.
"I believe it is time."
"Time for what?"
"To expand the family."
Metatron turned.
"Family?"
God extended a hand.
Light gathered.
Not the way it had when He created objects. This was different. The energy began to assume a humanoid form before them, first as a skeleton made of radiance, then muscles, skin, clothing, and finally enormous white wings.
When the light faded, a man was kneeling before God.
He was tall, with flawless posture, white hair, and firm features. There was serenity in his face, but also something immediately martial, like a sword that had yet to be drawn.
He opened eyes blue as the sky.
And his first sight was God.
Then he bowed his head deeply.
"My Lord and Creator."
God smiled.
"Rise, Michael."
Michael obeyed.
His gaze then moved toward Metatron.
For several seconds, the two simply stared at each other.
Metatron raised a hand.
"Hi."
Michael immediately brought a fist to his chest and bowed his head.
"I greet you, elder brother."
Metatron froze.
He looked at God, who was smiling.
"No..."
"Yes."
"No."
"You are technically the first."
"That doesn't mean someone like him needs to call me that!"
Michael looked confused.
"Have I offended you, brother?"
Metatron immediately turned back toward him.
"No, no! You didn't do anything..."
"Then I am glad."
Michael smiled.
It was a small smile, but genuine.
Metatron realized at that moment that he was doomed.
"...Fine. Elder brother works."
God placed His hands on His hips.
"How adorable."
He began creating another light.
The second figure to form had long dark hair and light brown eyes that seemed perpetually attentive. The moment he opened them, he beheld God and knelt.
"Here I am, my Lord."
"Gabriel."
Gabriel rose.
His gaze met Metatron's.
He immediately inclined his head.
"Peace be with you, firstborn brother among us."
God continued.
Raphael was the third.
If Michael resembled a sword and Gabriel a voice, Raphael felt like a quiet morning. There was an almost immediate gentleness to his presence, and simply having him nearby seemed to lessen the tension around him.
"Rise, Raphael."
"As you command, Father."
Raphael stood, his brown hair swaying lightly before he looked at Metatron with emerald-green eyes.
A warm smile appeared on his face.
"It is a joy to behold you, elder brother."
Metatron sighed.
"The pleasure is mine."
Raphael tilted his head slightly.
"You seem tired."
"I kind of pushed myself doing something a little while ago..."
"And what is this 'something'?"
A new voice spoke behind him.
It was female.
Metatron turned.
Another figure was forming.
But unlike the brothers before her, she did not even wait for her creation to finish before she started looking around.
Light was still peeling away from her body when her eyes were already moving across Heaven.
The palace.
The rivers.
The mountains.
Her own hands.
The wings on her back.
Then she looked at God.
Then Metatron.
Then God again.
Her hair was long, a coppery gold reminiscent of fire beneath sunlight, falling in waves down her back. Her eyes shone a vivid amber, almost golden, and within them was a curiosity so obvious that Metatron had the impression he was watching a question take human form.
She looked at her own wings.
Opened one.
Then the other.
Frowned.
Then looked at God again.
"Father."
"Yes, Uriel?"
"Why do I have wings?"
God answered calmly.
"Because you are an angel."
Uriel looked at the wings again.
"And why do angels have wings?"
"To fly."
"Why do we need to fly?"
"Because there are high places."
"Why did You create high places?"
God opened His mouth.
Uriel continued.
"And why is Heaven like that? Why does that water glow? Why doesn't that mountain cast a shadow? What keeps the palace standing? Why does that brother have six wings while we only have two? Why do his eyes shine like that? Why is his hair similar to mine? Why is there a hole running through three Heavens in that tower?"
Metatron slowly raised one finger.
"That last part isn't important."
Uriel immediately turned toward him.
Her eyes seemed to shine even brighter.
"Did you make it?"
Metatron hesitated.
"Technically."
"How?"
"With the Word."
"What is the Word?"
"Well..."
"How does it work?"
"It's a little complicated to explain..."
"Can I learn?"
"Maybe?"
"When?"
Metatron looked at God.
God was very clearly enjoying Himself.
"Take very good care of your sister."
"You made her like this on purpose."
"I merely gave her a great thirst for knowledge."
Uriel stepped closer to Metatron and stopped before him.
For the first time since appearing, she remained silent for more than three seconds.
Her gaze traveled over Metatron from head to toe.
Then she placed her hands behind her back and leaned slightly forward.
"So you are my elder brother?"
"Apparently."
Uriel smiled.
"That means you know more than I do."
Metatron immediately recognized the trap.
"Not necessarily."
"But you have existed longer."
"Technically."
"I want to learn what you learned."
Metatron stared at her.
Michael made a small sound that might very well have been a laugh.
Uriel finally brought one hand to her chest and inclined her head before Metatron, adopting a formality similar to her brothers'.
"It is a joy to meet you, elder brother. I hope you will teach me everything you have already learned."
Metatron looked at her.
Then at God.
"I'm going to need a vacation."
"You asked for one at the moment of your appointment," God said.
"And you never answered."
"And it shall be postponed once again!"
The five archangels stood together.
Metatron looked at them.
Michael.
Gabriel.
Raphael.
Uriel.
Four new beings.
Four siblings.
All of them had existed for less time than it would take a human to make coffee, yet they already looked at him as though they had known him forever.
Metatron wasn't sure what to do with that.
Family had never been a particularly comfortable word for him.
His parents had made sure of that very early on.
His grandfather had been the main exception, and even after that, many of the bonds he had formed throughout his life had ended in disappointment, distance, or betrayal.
Still, this was different.
Michael was not looking at him expecting something in return.
Gabriel hid no intentions behind his smile.
Raphael seemed genuinely content simply to be there.
Uriel apparently only wanted to interrogate him until the end of eternity.
Metatron wasn't sure which of the four would prove the most dangerous.
Michael approached first.
"Father revealed to us that you were the first to be born perfect."
Metatron looked at God.
God whistled innocently.
Gabriel stepped closer as well.
"And He told us that you remained by His side when the Heavens took shape."
"I helped a little."
Uriel immediately pointed toward the palace.
"You created that?"
"Yes."
"All of it?"
"Most of it."
"And the tower?"
"We're not talking about the tower."
"Why?"
"Because we're not."
"But—"
"Uriel."
She closed her mouth for two seconds.
"Why not?"
Metatron dragged a hand down his face.
Raphael laughed softly.
Michael looked toward the structures in the distance.
"It must have been a blessing to be the first to hear the Voice of our Father."
Metatron grew thoughtful.
"Yes."
Gabriel added,
"Also the first among us to receive His Word."
"Receive is a strong word. I nearly destroyed a few things while learning."
Uriel moved closer.
"What things?"
"Doesn't matter."
"How many things?"
"Uriel."
"Can the Word make things explode?"
Metatron pointed at God.
"Ask Father."
Uriel turned immediately.
"Father?"
God looked at Metatron.
Metatron smiled.
"She's your problem now."
God looked almost proud.
"You learn quickly."
During the periods that followed, the Heavens truly began to take shape.
God established the fundamental structures of each realm, defining the laws, boundaries, and principles that would support everything still to come.
Metatron followed soon after.
Where God created possibilities, Metatron gave them form.
He raised roads of white marble that crossed celestial plains without ever cracking.
He created vast stairways suspended over the void, linking different levels of Heaven.
Libraries appeared, waiting for books that had not yet been written.
Enormous halls were built for councils that did not yet have subjects to discuss.
Gardens were born where trees would grow for ages without losing a single leaf.
Fountains of liquid light flowed through golden channels, restoring whatever spiritual exhaustion might someday consume.
And little by little, his mastery of the Word became more refined.
After some time, Metatron no longer needed to raise his hands to express himself more clearly.
Later, he did not even need to raise his voice.
When he said, "Open," doors appeared.
When he said, "Remain," mountains became steadfast.
When he said, "Come," rivers changed course.
And his siblings were beginning to find their own places as well.
Michael displayed an immediate affinity for strength and protection.
God gave him a sword, and the moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, it seemed to Metatron as though the weapon had always belonged to him.
Michael spent long periods training alone, experimenting with movements and stances even though there was still absolutely nothing for him to fight.
Metatron once stopped to watch him.
"You know there isn't any evil around here, right?"
Michael completed a strike.
"If there ever is, I will be ready."
Gabriel quickly discovered that his voice carried properties of its own.
When he spoke with intent, his words crossed great distances without weakening. He could stand before the palace and still be heard from the farthest mountains.
God "seemed" pleased with this.
"A voice to proclaim My will."
Gabriel respectfully lowered his head.
"Then may my voice never carry falsehood, Father."
Metatron watched him from the side.
"You're going to fit very nicely into the complete opposite of my former profession."
Gabriel did not understand.
Metatron decided he would explain lawyers another time.
Raphael revealed an affinity for restoration.
Small imperfections disappeared at his touch.
When a tree created by Metatron grew with all its branches pointing downward, Raphael placed a hand against the trunk and gently corrected its structure.
Metatron watched.
"I was going to do that."
"Certainly, brother."
"I really was."
"I never doubted it."
Metatron narrowed his eyes.
Raphael kept smiling.
He was beginning to suspect that this one would be the family's quiet sarcastic.
And then there was Uriel.
Uriel wanted to know everything.
Not some things.
Everything.
She wanted to know why the rivers followed certain paths.
Why the firmament had that particular hue.
Why stars would be necessary if God could produce light without them.
Why matter had properties.
Why certain laws needed to exist.
Why others could be broken by the Word.
Why Metatron understood certain things she did not.
What it was like to be human.
What a human was.
What had caused him to stop being human.
What a dog was.
Why he became sad whenever she asked about Pombon.
Metatron answered most of them.
Ignored some.
And fled from others.
At one point, she appeared beside him while he was building a library.
"Brother."
"No."
Uriel blinked.
"I haven't asked anything yet."
"You were about to."
"How do you know?"
"Experience."
"Can you see the future?"
"Maybe, but not right now."
"Father can, but why can't He see yours?"
Metatron stopped.
Uriel noticed.
"Was that the wrong question?"
He looked at her.
"No."
Metatron resumed his work.
"It's just that the answer would be long."
Uriel sat in the air beside him, her wings opening softly to keep her suspended.
"We have eternity."
Metatron looked back at her before letting out a small laugh.
"That was a good one."
"It wasn't a joke."
"That makes it even better."
Little by little, he began to realize something he had not expected.
He was enjoying this.
He would never admit that he enjoyed the work, especially not in front of God, because the Creator would probably increase his workload for fun.
But he liked this place.
He liked these beings.
He liked this strange family that had quite literally emerged from nothing.
Once, while watching Michael and Gabriel argue over where the entrance to one of the great halls should be placed, Raphael tried to mediate while Uriel asked questions about the architectural merits of both options.
Metatron spent some time watching his siblings from a distance.
It was still strange to think of them that way.
The word carried a weight he knew far too well, though not for the best reasons. Family, in his old life, had never automatically meant safety.
Blood had not stopped his parents from hurting him, just as love had not stopped his wife from betraying him. Friendship had been no guarantee of loyalty either. Over the years, he had learned, little by little, that titles were only titles and promises were only sounds until someone decided to honor them.
But those four were different.
He had known these beings for almost no time at all, and yet he already felt a certain responsibility for them.
But whatever the reason, he liked them.
And precisely because he liked them, that feeling bothered him even more.
Something was wrong.
Metatron could not explain where the certainty came from.
He had never been particularly religious as a human. He wasn't a militant atheist, nor was he someone who spent Sundays studying scripture or debating theology. Religion had existed in some corner of his life the same way it did for countless people: stories learned as a child, names occasionally heard, symbols seen in churches, movies, books, and conversations.
Some things remained in his memory.
Michael.
Gabriel.
Heaven.
The fall of the angels.
Lucifer.
Rebellion.
War.
Betrayal.
He would not have been able to quote chapters or verses. He would probably confuse half the versions if someone asked him for details. Some traditions said one thing, others said something else. Some stories he remembered might not even have come from the Bible at all, but from poems, paintings, literature, or popular culture.
That only made it worse.
Because this place was not his universe either.
God had made that perfectly clear.
His soul had come from another Creation.
Nothing required the events here to follow the stories of his world.
Perhaps there would never be a rebellion.
Perhaps Lucifer would never even exist.
Perhaps Michael would never wield a sword against a brother.
Perhaps those stories were nothing more than absurd coincidences.
Perhaps.
Metatron hated that word.
"Perhaps" was uncertainty.
And uncertainty was exactly the kind of thing that made a person search for answers in places where they probably ought to leave things alone.
His eyes passed over the four of them again.
They seemed so... innocent.
None of them knew how to lie.
None of them knew envy.
None of them had any reason to hate.
They did not even fully understand the concept of violence.
Metatron should have found that comforting.
Instead, an unpleasant chill ran down his spine.
Because he had seen this kind of beginning before.
He knew the pattern.
Everything looked perfect until it wasn't.
Metatron slowly curled his fingers.
Perhaps it was only the trauma of his past life.
Perhaps he was projecting his old life onto creatures who had nothing to do with it.
That would be unfair.
He knew that.
His grandfather probably would have told him not to condemn people for crimes they had not yet committed.
His gaze fell to his own hand.
God had explained that words were only vessels.
The true power was will, authority, and truth.
When he pronounced something through the Word, he was not asking reality to obey.
He was declaring something true.
Metatron slowly raised his gaze.
"Show the truth..."
Then...
Could he reveal that which would come to exist?
Simply show what would be the truth in the future.
Metatron felt something tighten inside his chest.
It was a bad idea.
He knew that immediately.
Perhaps that was precisely why it was so difficult to abandon.
He discreetly looked toward God.
The Creator was far away, apparently occupied with observing a still-incomplete region of the Heavens.
Metatron turned back toward his siblings.
"If the Word truly creates a new truth..."
His voice came out so quietly that it seemed meant only for himself.
Metatron raised one hand.
He did not know exactly what he was doing.
This was not part of anything God had taught him.
"Show me their future."
Heaven went still.
Metatron immediately felt that something had happened.
The world before him simply...
changed.
His eyes widened.
Michael was still there.
But not as before.
His form had become completely black.
It was as if someone had cut his figure out of reality itself and filled the empty space with absolute darkness. Metatron could still recognize his silhouette, the wings, the shoulders, the head.
Gabriel was the same.
A black figure.
Raphael too.
Metatron felt his heart, or whatever equivalent he now possessed, tighten inside his chest.
"What...?"
His gaze darted desperately between the three.
Then his eyes reached the fourth figure.
Uriel.
Compared to the others, she was perfectly visible.
His sister remained exactly where she had been, every detail perfectly clear.
But something was different.
Uriel was looking directly at him.
Smiling.
Metatron stopped breathing.
He did not know whether that was truly Uriel in the future or merely a representation produced by the Word.
He did not know why he could see her.
And most of all...
he did not know why he could not see the others.
"What the hell..."
A deep unease settled inside him.
That did not feel like an answer.
It felt like another question.
Perhaps one worse than the first.
"Why only her...?"
No answer came.
Metatron slowly lowered his hand.
The vision vanished.
Michael had color again.
Gabriel too.
Raphael was visible once more.
Uriel had returned to her exploration, apparently completely unaware of what had just happened.
Metatron continued staring at the four of them.
His smile had vanished entirely.
He did not know what it meant.
Perhaps nothing.
Perhaps everything.
Then he felt the sensation of being watched.
Metatron slowly turned his head and saw God standing in the distance, staring directly at him.
And still smiling.
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A/N: As you can see, or if you've already noticed, I'm going to start the lore well before the main canon so the fanfic can last longer, especially since there isn't that much Hazbin Hotel/Helluva Boss content to work with yet.
Because of that, I decided to divide the timeline into the Old Testament and the New Testament. The main canon will only take place during the New Testament, while the Eden arc and Lucifer's betrayal will happen during the Old Testament. This way, I can avoid going too long without touching on the main characters.
I'm planning for the Old Testament to be only around 10 chapters, so things don't drag on for too long. But don't worry, there'll still be plenty of content, since I tend to write a lot.
Also, what did you guys think of the cover? I'm planning to make Metatron look heavily inspired by Sanguinius from Warhammer.