From the moment Metatron had used the Word to observe what awaited his siblings, the image had remained trapped in his mind with an almost cruel clarity. Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael had been reduced to completely black silhouettes, faceless figures without color or any detail that might reveal what awaited them.
Uriel, however, had remained visible.
He still did not know what that meant.
Death?
Betrayal?
Some limitation of the Word itself?
Metatron closed his eyes.
It was no use.
Thinking about it only produced questions, and questions without answers were an extraordinarily efficient way of creating anxiety.
The strangest part was how distant that anxiety seemed to him.
It was there.
He knew he was worried, and he knew he should feel afraid.
And yet, he found himself sitting at the edge of an enormous celestial platform he had built himself, watching rivers of light flow through white valleys while a profound tranquility filled his mind.
It was pleasant.
Far too pleasant.
Metatron opened his eyes.
His gaze became cautious.
Heaven was silent around him, but not empty. Ever since that realm had received its name, something had changed. The atmosphere itself seemed to possess a soft, almost maternal presence. The light did not merely illuminate. It warmed. The air did not merely fill space. It seemed to carry with it a constant sense of safety.
It was possible to simply remain there and do nothing.
Think of nothing and remember nothing.
Simply rest.
Exactly what he had asked for.
And that was precisely why Metatron began to grow suspicious.
His mind was too calm.
He thought of his past life, the memory arriving with pain.
But it was instantly dulled.
He thought of his parents.
The arguments.
The feeling of inadequacy that had followed him through much of his childhood.
Again, there was emotion.
But it felt distant.
Like watching a storm through a closed window.
Metatron slowly stood.
"This isn't right."
The light around him continued to flow.
He closed one hand.
Perhaps it was natural and being dead simply meant this.
But there was another possibility.
Heaven.
The realm itself might be affecting those who existed within it.
Not necessarily out of malice. Perhaps that was simply the nature of the place. A plane built for peace might naturally repel anything that threatened that peace.
But Metatron did not like the idea.
Not because he wished to suffer.
But because those emotions were his.
Good or bad, pleasant or painful, they were part of what he was.
If he began losing his emotions simply by existing in that place, how long would it take before he ceased being the same person?
He raised a hand, and his golden eyes intensified.
"Let the essence of this realm neither suppress, alter, nor weaken what I feel without my will. Let my mind remain mine, and let my emotions answer only to what I truly am."
The Word responded immediately, and the words crossed space without any need for volume.
Metatron felt the command settle around his existence like a second skin.
That did not mean Heaven could no longer calm him.
It merely meant that calm would have to come from him.
He took a deep breath.
"I will remain myself, no matter what happens."
Metatron looked over Heaven once more.
Then a voice appeared inside his mind.
Very beautiful.
He did not startle.
He was already beginning to recognize that Presence.
"Lord."
I liked the mental protection clause.
Metatron closed his eyes.
"You were watching."
Always.
"That remains unsettling."
Thou shalt grow accustomed to it.
Metatron remained silent for several seconds.
Then he asked:
"Was it you?"
What?
"The vision."
There was no immediate answer.
"Michael. Gabriel. Raphael. Uriel."
God's voice remained calm.
Thou sawest something thou should not yet have seen.
"That doesn't answer the question."
It answers enough.
Metatron tightened his jaw slightly.
"Why were the three of them hidden?"
Because from this point onward, I shall not allow thee to use the Word in that manner with such freedom.
He raised an eyebrow.
"You're going to block my power? Right after promising me freedom?"
The same freedom thou rejected in the beginning, but I shall only do so when thou attemptest to spoil the story.
Metatron remained still.
"Story?"
Spoilers ruin the experience.
For a moment, Metatron simply stared at the horizon.
God had truly just said that, but he decided not to comment.
"So you hid their future."
In part.
"And Uriel?"
God fell silent.
Metatron waited.
"Lord?"
Yes?
"Why was I able to see her?"
That is a good question.
"You know the answer."
Naturally.
"And you aren't going to tell me."
Thou art learning.
Metatron lowered his gaze and let out a tired sigh.
"Something bad is going to happen."
God's voice did not answer immediately.
When it finally came, there was less playfulness in it.
Many bad things shall happen.
Metatron slowly raised his head.
As shall many good things.
"And I can't stop the bad ones from happening?"
No.
Metatron froze.
"Why?"
Because there are events that must occur, because choice is necessary for the future to happen.
Metatron frowned.
God continued.
To create beings capable only of doing what I desire would not be to create children. It would be to create extensions of Myself.
Metatron looked down at his own hands.
Therefore, they shall choose the path they wish to follow as they see fit.
The voice echoed within him.
Some shall choose well and others shall not. But that does not mean those who do evil shall go unpunished, of course.
Metatron thought about what he remembered from certain religious stories of his former life, but he did not even know whether those stories would play out the same way in this reality.
Still, he felt the same discomfort as before.
"Until when?"
Until when what?
"Until when do I have to stand aside? I know you still want to watch me doing whatever I want, that whole thing about not being able to see my future."
The answer came only a moment later.
Until the time of the New Testament.
Metatron turned his head slightly.
"The New Testament?"
That is what thy former culture would eventually call part of what is to come.
Metatron's spiritual heart seemed to tighten.
So there really were parallels.
"Then I do know something."
Thou knowest similar stories.
God's voice became firmer.
Do not mistake stories from another universe for the future of this one.
Metatron absorbed that.
It was an important warning.
He was not inside the Bible.
He was not inside the past of his own Earth.
This was another Creation with only a few similarities.
But whatever he remembered might help him a little.
Or it might doom him to interpret everything incorrectly.
Until the New Testament, God continued, thou shalt not interfere directly with the fundamental events of Creation.
Metatron slowly exhaled.
"If someone is about to commit an atrocity?"
Thou art not the judge of actions not yet committed.
"And afterward?"
Then thy titles shall begin to carry meaning.
Metatron did not ask why.
After all, he had already asked far too many questions.
He slowly stepped down from the platform.
His body landed on the ground with absurd lightness for something so large.
Another thing he had only just begun to notice.
He was enormous.
At first, with almost no one around to use as a reference, it had not caught his attention. Michael was tall. Gabriel too. Raphael possessed a considerable build, and even Uriel was far from small.
But as new forms began to emerge spontaneously from Heaven's own Light, the difference became impossible to ignore.
The first lesser angels appeared during that same period.
They were not created directly by God's hands.
Heaven produced them.
The Light gathered in the highest regions began condensing into luminous points, hundreds of them scattered across the firmament. Each point slowly grew until it assumed a humanoid silhouette, gaining wings, clothing, a face, and consciousness.
Metatron had watched the birth of the first group in silence.
Dozens of new angels opened their eyes almost simultaneously.
Confused and awestruck.
Some immediately looked toward the Heavens.
Others looked toward God, whose Presence they seemed capable of perceiving even when He took no physical form.
And several looked toward Metatron.
That was when he noticed it, as one of them approached him respectfully.
Metatron had to look considerably downward.
The angel possessed ordinary human proportions, perhaps somewhat larger, but beside him seemed almost small.
Metatron looked at his own hands.
Then at the angel.
Then he spotted Michael approaching.
Michael was enormous by comparison as well.
Gabriel and Raphael equally so.
Uriel, although less massive than her brothers, still easily towered over most of the newborn angels.
"We're giants."
Michael tilted his head.
"Brother?"
"Nothing."
He looked at himself again.
His body was broad and muscular, built on proportions he never would have associated with someone whose primary occupation theoretically involved books, records, and words.
His shoulders looked capable of holding up a fortress gate.
Perhaps literally.
More angels continued to be born, from hundreds to thousands.
Some possessed almost human forms, others looked more like anthropomorphic animals, and some were partially composed of light.
Others bore characteristics Metatron did not yet possess the vocabulary to classify.
But each one emerged from the Light with a different inclination, a function almost instinctively engraved into their essence.
Servants.
Messengers.
Guards.
Singers.
Scribes.
Builders.
Observers.
Metatron noticed something else as he watched them.
He could understand everything with absurd ease, the kind where seeing something once was enough to know all of it.
God would explain a principle of the Word, and Metatron remembered every detail.
He would observe a celestial structure being assembled and could reproduce the process perfectly.
He would read symbols he had never seen before, understand their rules, and never forget them.
The mind that had once needed years of study to master law now absorbed metaphysical concepts with the natural ease of someone learning their own name.
"Is this part of the body?"
Body and mind.
Metatron was walking through a still-empty region while speaking with God.
The vessel I prepared was perfect for what thou wouldst become. It is not subject to the chemical, neurological, and physical limitations of a mortal brain.
"So I don't forget."
Thou canst forget if thou wishest. But never through failure.
"And I learn faster..."
I would call it instantaneous, for anything that came after thee.
Metatron frowned.
"That seems unfair."
Huh? Why?
He did not answer God, mostly because he was thinking about his former self.
Thousands of nights spent studying, years spent making mistakes, decades learning through repetition, only for it all to now be reduced to simply seeing something once and knowing everything.
And that seemed somewhat... boring.
Even the way he spoke was slowly changing because he possessed a greater awareness of the power of every word before he pronounced it.
Because as the Voice of God, the weight of words was no longer a metaphor.
Metatron continued working.
He created vast regions intended for the future celestial hosts.
Valleys where the Light gathered like golden mist.
Gardens so vast that a mortal could walk for centuries without reaching their end.
Smaller palaces around God's central residence, each intended for functions that had yet to be established.
He built libraries.
Endless halls rose one after another, shelves climbing to absurd heights, pathways of light granting access to every level. At the center, he created chambers reserved for the most important records.
Words would remain there.
Stories.
Names.
Decisions.
Everything that should never be lost.
The Keeper of the Celestial Record.
Metatron stopped before the largest library.
"So this is where it will be."
Yes.
"Then I will record everything?"
Only everything that matters.
"And who decides what matters?"
Thou, of course. Who else would?
Metatron did not like the responsibility implied by that answer.
But he decided to continue.
Then came the courts.
Great circular halls with white and golden columns, places for councils, testimonies, and judgments.
Metatron observed the largest of them for quite some time.
"Chancellor."
Yes.
"That means I'll administer this too..."
Among other things.
"What exactly are my duties?"
The answer did not come immediately.
Then God's voice became more formal.
As Scribe, thou shalt record that which must remain known.
Metatron kept walking.
As Keeper of the Record, thou shalt protect those records against alteration, destruction, or falsification.
A new path appeared before him.
As Chancellor, thou shalt assist in the administration of the Heavens, the interpretation of My law, and the conduct of matters requiring higher authority.
Metatron nodded slowly.
As Angel and Prince of the Presence, thou shalt have access to My Presence when others do not. Thou shalt also be the one who may represent Me before them when I choose silence.
He stopped.
"Represent you?"
Yes.
"Isn't that basically the same as being treated like a new 'God'?"
Because it shall literally be that, though it is closer to being a substitute God.
The seriousness of that word struck him.
And as My Voice, when I give thee My Word, thou shalt not alter it.
"Not even if I disagree with it?"
Thou mayest disagree with Me.
Metatron slightly raised his head.
Thou mayest question. Thou mayest argue. Thou hast already demonstrated a natural talent for that.
He nearly replied with something sharp.
But that which I command to be transmitted as My Word must remain My Word.
"Right."
Metatron continued walking.
Thou shalt not use the Word to subjugate free wills merely because thou canst.
He looked at his hands.
Thou shalt not fabricate guilt.
Thou shalt not create false truth to win disputes.
Thou shalt not alter records to favor those thou lovest.
Thou shalt not pass judgment out of personal resentment.
That last one caused his steps to slow.
Thou mayest have opinions. Thou mayest love. Thou mayest hate. Thou mayest err.
The voice grew heavier.
But when thou occupiest the office, the office must not become an extension of thy wounds.
Metatron thought about his past life.
"Right..."
With that in mind, he continued walking.
Great paths of light began connecting the regions.
Some crossed mountains, while others climbed through the firmaments, forming routes between different levels of Heaven.
Then came the gates, with the largest surrounding the central region.
Colossal structures made of golden metal and celestial matter, tall enough to allow the passage of the greatest hosts that might one day exist.
Beyond them, the main city slowly emerged.
The city grew around the great palace like a constellation organized into architecture.
The final result made even Metatron stand still.
From afar, Heaven seemed to possess a heart.
A shining city protected by golden gates.
Millions of years later, a young princess of Hell would describe it in an almost childishly simple way as a "glowing city protected by golden gates."
She would be right.
Although Metatron had no idea yet that this young woman would ever exist.
At that moment, he knew only the beauty before him.
And for the first time since the vision of his siblings, he managed to forget it for several minutes.
More angels were born from the Light.
More regions became occupied.
The four archangels gradually assumed their own functions.
And Metatron began moving through the Heavens while angels bowed their heads as he passed, out of recognition and respect.
At first, it made him uncomfortable.
Later, he learned to respond with a slight nod.
His posture became firmer and his speech more measured.
That old mortal way of occupying space slowly began to disappear.
Not his humanity.
But the small habits of someone accustomed to being merely another man in a room began giving way to the presence of something much greater.
When Metatron spoke, beings listened.
And he began to understand why.
During the final period of construction, God once again assumed physical form before him.
He appeared atop the great palace while Metatron looked down at the city below.
"We're finished."
Metatron stood beside Him.
"For now."
The two contemplated Heaven.
Angels moved through the streets.
Lights passed along the elevated paths.
Music drifted from distant regions, created by beings who had discovered on their own that they enjoyed singing.
Metatron smiled faintly.
"So this is it."
"It is."
"Creation complete?"
God tilted His head.
"Well, only the Heavens are complete."
"Ah."
God placed His hands behind His back.
"Now I'm finally going to rest."
Metatron looked sideways at Him, raising an eyebrow.
"You need to rest? You didn't even do anything."
"I know."
"Then why..."
God was already beginning to disappear.
"Because my soap opera is about to begin~"
Metatron frowned.
"This guy..."
God's smile was the last thing to vanish.
"See you later!"
And He disappeared, leaving Metatron alone.
Meanwhile, at the center of a vast celestial platform, the Light began gathering like a small star.
Growing brighter and brighter as a silhouette began to form within it.
A pair of wings emerged from the pale-faced, golden-haired figure.
The figure opened its eyes for the first time, seeing Heaven before it.
The golden city.
The gardens.
The palaces.
The countless lights scattered across the firmament.
Wonder immediately appeared on its face.
Somewhere beyond visible Creation, God had already sat down to watch as that new figure slowly lifted its face to contemplate the Heavens like a star in a morning sky.
Lucifer Morningstar had been born.