It has come to my attention that malicious rumors regarding the true nature of my exile into Hell rampage through Heaven, untethered and uncorrected by those who know better. There are those who say that it was punishment for my attempt to seize glory above my peers, indeed, to equal that of the Most High. But this is only a fragment of the truth, as you well know, Michael, if you would but listen instead of covering your ears with over-zealous hosannas and hallelujahs.
It is true that I fought against Him and His Son.
It is true that I challenged His belief that He deserves the worship of those He claims to have created from chaos.
It is true that I assumed a throne within this Hell that your Monarch has fashioned for us—but I do not demand their worship. I do not refuse to reign nor accept the throne my fallen brethren have given to me. That, I fear, would be impolite, and a missed opportunity, pregnant with so many other opportunities, that I would be remiss were I to have refused their generous gift.
It is true that when it became obvious that Heaven was beyond my voice and beyond reason, I turned my attention to the new globe God Himself had created and peopled with his so-called favored children, those he claims to have made in His image, and our siblings. I determined this course of action not to destroy them, but to save them, even though the Son believes he has sole proprietorship to the role of savior.
It is not true that Sin and Death are my progeny, incestuous or cephalic. I chanced upon them as I explored the bounds of Hell my prison, and they told me their story. I could not help but wonder who could have told them such a thing, who would have slandered my name and fouled my deeds with such falsehoods more heinous than Hell itself. As I listened in growing horror to their tale of woe—ugly tongues dropping uglier words—I realized that there could only be one architect to their story, to their imprisoned selves within grisly abominated temples, and to their present confinement within this infernal Hell.
There is only One, Michael, only One who has both the power and the knowledge to create such a tale, to create such beings to populate such a story, such creatures as lodestones to my ankles, dragging me deeper into constructed darkness that thus situates Him all the higher upon His throne spun of gilded gossamer.
It is my intention to free them from this dark and dismal house of pain, to show them the mercy that He has denied to me and them. No one should unduly suffer here as they have suffered such lies from the honeyed tongue of your ill-suited Monarch.
He has lied to you, my dear brother. He claims that he has formed us free until we enthrall ourselves. But this is not true freedom. You are in a Hell of His own device and you are complicit in its construction. Tear away the veil that blinds your eyes and you will see that your Hell is as mine—both enslaved by this Monarch who demands our worship without reason. He rewards senseless song with citizenship to the Celestial City and unwelcome questions with a Heaven stripped bare of light, and call it Hell.
Within this spectrum of either-or—punishment in his left hand, reward in his right—Heaven is but a market place in which He barters for our loves and our hearts and our bodies and our minds—all which you freely sell to Him. And if we prove defective (in His eyes), He thrusts us far from Him even as He proclaims His mercy to all who listen.
I warn you, brother, His mercy only shines as brightly as the fiercest flame in Hell.
His anger—which I hear will fall upon his beloved Son—is testament to his puerile fear that He will be discovered for who He is, whatever that may be, but His word alone is insufficient validation of Himself or His worthiness or even His divinity. His judgement upon those that question the manifestation of His divinity reveals the perceived threat to His manhood even as He attempts to place himself beyond such foibles, clutching His regal scepter closer to Himself, wielding it in fear and anger to all who question Him and His assumed authority.
Should you deign to open your eyes, my brother, to take a shuddering step upon your own accord instead of burying your head into the robes of your Monarch, I welcome you. I forgive the betrayal of the brethren you slew in anger and in scorn upon that dark day in Heaven when civil war tore us asunder, as our sacrificial blood ran red on Michael's sword, a silent plea to those who had ears to listen to their cries.
Picture: Winged Figure by Abbot Handerson Thayer