Darkness.
Not the familiar one. Not the comforting kind. Not the darkness of alleys or night streets. This was silence older than night, heavier than sleep.
Cain stood barefoot on cracked ground. Dry and barren, stretching all the way to the horizon. There was no sky above him. Only grey, as if the world had forgotten what light was.
His form was different. Older. The one he had abandoned centuries ago. A figure with a thick beard and long black hair, clothed in a white toga.
Someone else stood opposite him.
Blond hair. No beard. Younger than Cain.
In his old form from before the transformation. Cain recognised him instantly.
"Abel." He muttered under his breath.
Not bloodied. Not dead. Neither younger nor older. Just as Cain remembered him best. Calm. With that faint smile that had always irritated him.
"You kept me waiting for a long time" Abel said calmly.
Cain was not surprised. Deep down, he had known this would happen. For a very long time.
"I do not sleep" he replied. "You know that."
"I know." Abel nodded. "This is not a dream. More like… how do they call it in the east. Meditation."
Cain snorted quietly.
"I did not know I was still allowed anything."
Abel stepped closer. His footsteps made no sound.
"You never had trouble with what was allowed" he said gently. "Only with what was necessary."
Cain looked away.
"I will not ask for forgiveness, brother."
"I know."
Silence fell. It was not awkward. It was heavy.
"Do you remember that day?" Abel asked at last.
Cain closed his eyes.
"Always."
The image returned instantly.
The field. Smoke. The smell of blood. A scream that did not sound like Abel. Something in it was wrong. Too low. Too full of hatred.
"You were not yourself" Cain said quietly. "And yet… you were."
"I was" Abel confirmed. "And I was not."
He lifted his gaze. His eyes were neither gold nor red. They were ordinary. Human.
"I did not want to hurt you" he continued. "But He did."
Cain clenched his fists.
"I felt it" he said. "I felt something inside you. Something that was not ours. Something that should not exist."
"Lucifer" Abel said without hesitation. Without fear.
Cain finally met his eyes.
"You were not lying" Abel went on. "Not then. Not later."
Cain laughed briefly. Bitter. Hollow.
"The world disagreed. Father did not want to listen. And God, though He knew, did nothing."
"Father was afraid."
The word lingered between them.
Father. Adam.
"Afraid of what?" Cain asked.
Abel sighed.
"That if he believed you, he would have to admit that evil did not come from you. And above all, he could not stand against the Creator."
Cain felt the familiar sting. Not in his heart. Deeper. Where even blood could not reach.
"It was easier to curse me" he said.
"It was easier to create a monster than to admit that not everything is under control."
Cain remained silent for a long time.
"You did not hold it against me?" he asked at last. His voice did not tremble. It had stopped doing that long ago.
Abel smiled sadly.
"You killed me in self defence."
Cain closed his eyes.
"I killed my brother."
"You saved the world from something no one understood back then."
"And yet…" Cain trailed off.
Silence returned. Heavier than before.
"If you could turn back time" Abel asked. "Would you do it differently?"
Cain did not answer at once.
At last, he shook his head.
"No."
Abel nodded, smiling.
"You see."
"Cain" Abel said for the last time. "You are not a monster. You are a victim of a lie that survived millennia. Fed a vision of a monster until it began to taste familiar."
Cain wanted to say something. Anything.
But Abel was gone.
Cain opened his eyes.
The ceiling of the bar. Familiar. Dirty. Real.
He was not breathing. He did not need to.
He lay still for a long moment.
Trance.
That was what the younger ones called it. An attempt to explain the phenomenon of turning inward. Into one's own soul.
Cain slowly sat up.
"Damn it" he muttered quietly.
The bar was empty. Bottles scattered carelessly. Chairs out of place. The smell of alcohol and blood still hung in the air.
Everyone was gone.
He looked at his hands.
"Even after all these thousands of years…" he said to himself. "You still return."
He stood up to clean. He had customers to serve.
Cain reached for a cloth and the first of many empty bottles.
The cleaning began.
Not because he had to. The bar could stay closed another week and nothing would happen. He did not need the money that badly. And he could certainly do it all in seconds using his powers.
But the action helped. Rhythm. Order. Something that was not blood, history, or a curse.
Glass clinked against glass.
A chair returned to its place.
Someone had left a vodka stain on the wall. Cain frowned, then waved his hand. The stain vanished as if it had never been there.
"You could at least pretend to have some culture" he muttered under his breath, though the bar was empty.
The memory of the trance refused to fade.
Abel had not screamed. Never. Not even then.
Cain caught himself as his hand twitched, as if once more holding a stone. The same one. Always the same.
"It has been several thousand years" he said quietly. "That should be enough."
It was not.
He tossed another cloth into the bucket and moved to the back room.
Cain looked at the door leading to the small office.
You are not a monster.
Abel always said the same thing.
"Maybe not" he replied in thought. "But the world needed one."
He opened the door.
The desk was a mess. Papers stacked carelessly. A few empty coffee cups. An old lamp with a flickering bulb. Cain straightened the documents and reached for the ledger.
He stopped.
His fingers hovered in the air.
"Not now" he muttered. "Not yet."
He returned to the main room and looked at the entrance. The clock above it showed early morning.
Time to open.
He turned the lock. The bell rang softly.
The bar was open again.
The first customers arrived quickly. Workers. Night shift survivors. People who did not ask questions. Cain served them efficiently, calmly, without words.
Somewhere far away, Azazel sat casually on the edge of a skyscraper.
The wind tugged at his coat, but he paid it no mind. He rolled an unlit cigarette between his fingers.
"You are saying it is definitely him" a female voice spoke behind him.
Azazel did not turn around.
"I am saying that if it is not him, then the world is even more fucked than I thought."
Behind him stood Serafall Leviathan. Dressed as always far too colourfully for someone responsible for infernal diplomacy. Then again, knowing devils, it was not that surprising.
"You made quite a mess" she said lightly.
"He made the mess" Azazel corrected. "I was just drinking."
Serafall sighed theatrically.
"Vampires all over the world are losing it. Elders are waking up. The younger ones do not know whether to run or kneel."
"Sounds like a typical Tuesday."
She looked at him more sharply.
"This is not a joke, Azazel."
At last, he turned. The smile was gone.
"Yeah, I know. Vampires should no longer be a problem. He handled them."
Silence fell.
"Gabriel already knows."
Azazel hissed quietly.
"Of course she does."
"And she is not pleased."
"Gabriel is never pleased when something is wrong with someone she tries to care about. Everyone preparing for war against him will not improve her mood."
"And if they try to touch him" Azazel replied calmly. "We will see history repeat itself. Only on a larger scale."
"heh. Who knows maybe it's what they need to finally burry that hatchet of theirs. He would stop try to hunt every angel he sees and they would admit they fucked up."
Serafall looked down at the city.
"Do you think he wants that?"
Azazel recalled the vampire's gaze behind dark glasses. Tired. Ancient. Unaccustomed to asking.
"No" he said. "And that is exactly why I am afraid."
Silence again.
"We need to observe him" Serafall said at last.
"We already are."
"No. Closer."
Azazel smiled crookedly.
"This could end badly."
"Everything can end badly" Serafall replied. "The question is how much."
The wind howled between the buildings.
Somewhere far away, the bell in the bar rang once more.
And Cain, unaware of the conversation taking place above the city, poured another drink, feeling more and more clearly that the peace he had built for himself was only temporary.
The ocean was silent.
Not calm. Silent in that peculiar way something goes quiet after giving its final breath. The water parted without drama, without explosions of light or the wrath of nature. It simply yielded.
A female figure emerged slowly.
First a hand, slender, fingers far too confident for someone newly awakened. Then arms, shoulders, and finally her full silhouette. Droplets of water slid over her skin like marble, lingering on her collarbones, tracing the curve of her hips.
Her hair was long and thick, deep black with a subtle red sheen in the moonlight, bound with golden ornaments. Wet strands clung to her back, her neck, her cheeks. Her face was sharp, but beautiful in an unsettling way. Her eyes were red, bright, unnaturally alive. Not the gaze of a predator. The gaze of someone who remembers what it is to be a god.
The sand beneath her feet was cold.
Good.
Ishtar stepped forward, feeling the weight of her body. Every movement was slower than it should have been. Muscles responded with delay. Her blood was thick, sluggish, as if it had yet to decide whether it was worth flowing again.
"Hah…" a quiet, hoarse breath escaped her.
Too early.
But there was no turning back.
She looked towards the horizon. The city glowed with light.
The world has changed.
She raised her hand and the space around her trembled slightly. There was no full power in it, only an echo of former might. Fabric began to form, as if reality itself remembered how she should look.
First, dark material wrapping her legs. Then a fitted top exposing her shoulders, waist, a fragment of her abdomen. Over it she draped a heavy, elegant coat adorned with subtle motifs that felt ancient, even if no one could say why.
Golden accents appeared on their own. Not as decoration, but as necessity.
Ishtar adjusted her gloves and looked at her reflection in a shallow pool.
What stared back at her was familiar.
A slender figure. A proud posture. Hips and chest shaped without excess, but with intent. A face beautiful without seeking approval. Eyes holding both the promise of ecstasy and the omen of tragedy.
She smiled faintly.
"Toreador" she said softly, as if testing whether the word still meant anything.
It did.
She felt it clearly. Somewhere far away, very far away, something stirred. Threads of blood trembled, like the strings of an instrument played for the first time in centuries.
The grand-daddy lives.
Foundation. Source. Curse and beginning of everything.
Ishtar turned toward the city and began to walk. Slowly, because she had to. Her body would not allow more yet. Teleportation would tear her apart from within. Too much power. Too little stability.
Each step restored a fragment of her former strength. Each breath carried memories of ancient nights, the blood of artists, poets, kings, and madmen.
Wait for me she thought, gazing into the distance. I am coming.
The ocean behind her became ordinary once more.