Grimm - Book 1

1944 (CE)

As war, savage war raged on the surface of the earth, the gates of Heaven creaked open, releasing a guttural sound that shattered the air. A man in pure white robes walked through unflinching, his steps deliberate and steady. He entered a vast temple, its ceiling stretching skyward and walls adorned with paintings depicting ancient biblical messages.

A creature stood guard at a massive wooden door, radiant and immaculate, its wings as wide as a man. A spear rested on its shoulder, inlaid with gold and quartz, its tip sharper than any mortal blade.

“Who goes there?” the creature bellowed, its voice echoing through the hall.

Ishmael, son of Abraham, strode forward, each step long and purposeful. “It is I, Ishmael,” he said. “I return from a long and arduous journey to deliver a message.”

Ishmael’s words hung in the air, resonating with a weight that seemed to make the walls themselves tremble. The creature’s eyes, like twin suns suspended in a golden sky, narrowed with scrutiny. Every fibre of its being radiated divine authority, yet it hesitated. “Ishmael...” it finally said; its voice was now quieter but no less commanding. “Many have walked these halls claiming messages. What makes your message worthy of the heavens’ ear?”

Ishmael stopped a mere few feet away from the gatekeeper, his robes brushing against the cold marble floor, the silence stretching like it was a living being. “It is a warning,” he said, his tone steady and unwavering. He took a deep breath before speaking. “Hell has gathered strength beyond imagination. For decades they have multiplied. For every sinner the exterminators have taken, two have risen. They bide their time, and now the time is ripe. A great vengeance approaches – one that Heaven itself cannot ignore.”

The creature lowered its spear slightly, though the brilliance in its wings flared as if stirred by agitation. “You speak of rebellion... of war again. Are you a messenger or a herald of doom?”

“I am neither,” Ishmael replied, raising his chin with quiet resolve. “I am the voice of truth. I have walked among the living and the dead, and I have seen the signs. Rumors, rumors of war and hatred. The angels may call it doom, but it is inevitability. The forces of Hell rise, and Heaven must decide: stand idle, or confront the tempest that gathers at its gates.”

The creature took a step back, its massive wings rustling like thunderclouds. “Then... what do you ask of us, son of Abraham?”

Ishmael’s gaze did not waver. “Prepare. Rally the faithful. For soon, the battle will descend not upon Earth, but upon the very gates of Heaven itself. The war that was once waged in the shadows... shall now be fought in the light.”

A long pause followed, the kind that stretches beyond time, where even the distant echoes of creation seemed to hold their breath. The creature’s eyes, radiant and impossibly deep, seemed to peer into Ishmael’s very soul. Then it nodded once, decisively. “So be it. Let the horns of warning sound. Let the seraphim marshal their ranks. Heaven shall not be caught unready.”

Ishmael turned, the fabric of his robe flowing behind him like waves from the ocean. He strode through the colossal temple; the first cracks of an ancient war began to whisper through the heavens themselves. Somewhere far below, in the mortal plane, the winds of 1944 shifted – though no human eye could yet perceive it, the tides of a cosmic conflict were stirring.

The creature’s wings fluttered, stirring up a colossal wind. It flew up, high into the air; the gigantic temple was now a small dot in the horizon. The creature flew through the sky, tearing through the air and leaving behind a small trail. The message had to be passed on.

The sound of horns echoed across the heavens. Their tone was solemn, ancient, and heavy with meaning. It had been centuries since the last time they had been blown, and now their call reverberated through the endless skies, summoning the council of Heaven.

The Great Hall shimmered into being. It was a chamber vast beyond comprehension, its marble floors glowing faintly with divine light, its vaulted ceiling painted with the very constellations of creation. The walls were unlike any mortal creation, they were decorated with the very essence of beauty. Thrones of purest gold lined the hall in a perfect circle, each reserved for one of Heaven's highest.

The council gathered. Seraphim with wings of fire. Archangels whose swords had once split oceans. Cherubim who bore the memory of God's first words. Their presence filled the chamber like a storm contained within walls. Common angel's and other godly creations took seats around the table, they were to be the witnesses to the hearing.

At the center stood Michael, captain of Heaven's armies, his armor blazing like the core of a star. His hand rested on the helm of his mighty sword, a blade forged before time itself, the sword was decorated with many gems, an ancient language carved into the sides of the sword. Gabriel, lustrous and calm, stood opposite him, scrolls of prophecy unfurled in his hands. Beside them were Uriel, the flame of God's judgement, and Raphael, healer of both flesh and spirit.

When silence fell, it was Gabriel who first spoke, his voice like water flowing over stone.

“Brothers and sisters, the warning has been given. Ishmael, son of Abraham, has returned. His words carry weight—Hell rises once more.”

Michael’s eyes, sharp and unyielding, burned with restrained fury.

“I need no son of man to tell me what I already feel in my bones. Their armies stir. Their shadows press against creation. With every soul lost in the wars below, their legions swell. It was always only a matter of time before they came for us.”

Raphael shook his head, his tone calm but edged with gravity.

“You know as well as I, Michael, that we are weakened. Too many battles, too many purges. For each sin struck down, two more appear. To meet Hell head-on would be folly. We cannot prevail by force alone.”

Uriel’s wings flared, his voice a thunderclap that shook the chamber.

“Better folly than cowardice! Shall Heaven cower while Hell defiles creation? I would see the skies burn before we yield to fear!”

The chamber trembled with his fury, the stars painted on the ceiling quivering as though alive.

Raphael lifted a hand, his words cold and deliberate.

“There may yet be another path. Not war of host against host, but a strike at the root. Remove the head, and the body collapses. If Lucifer falls, Hell will devour itself.”

A silence followed, deeper than any before.

Michael’s voice was low, heavy as iron.

“Do you know what you are suggesting, Raphael? You would have us slay the Morning Star himself?”

Raphael’s gaze did not waver.

“I know what I say. Yes.”

Uriel roared, his words searing the air.

“Madness! To pierce all eight layers of Hell? Past legions beyond number, into Lucifer’s very throne? You speak of the impossible!”

Gabriel raised his hand, his calm presence quelling the storm.

“Enough, Uriel. Rage has no place here. We weigh truth, not pride.”

Michael turned, eyes burning, his words sharp as a blade.

“And where, Raphael, would we find such a force? No angel, no mortal could endure such a task.”

Raphael’s answer came swift, without hesitation.

“The Reapers. The Masters of Death. None reap souls as they do. They walk unseen, unbound by fear or flesh. If any could reach Hell’s heart, it is them.”

Uneasy murmurs rippled through the council, a thousand wings rustling like wind.

Michael rose from his throne, his armor casting a long shadow across the hall.

“Then the choice is already made for us. Hell has drawn its blade. To face them openly would lay Heaven and Hell bare before mankind. But if we strike the head, the rebellion dies with it.”

All eyes turned to the throne at the far end of the circle—empty, radiant, reserved for the One who was not present.

Uriel’s voice broke the silence, fierce yet trembling.

“Should we act without Him? Without our true Commander?”

Michael stepped closer, his voice low, edged with grief.

“You know, Uriel… He will not answer.”

For the first time in millennia, Heaven’s council would act without direct word from God.