Project X - the Search for the Chosen Ones
Custom Search

Uriel's Story


Author: Alexander Aldarow    (all articles by this author)

Humans believe that each and every one of them has a guarding angel. Most of the time I wish I was a guarding angel, for a young virgin, who regularly says her prayers and dreams of a charming prince, or for a romantic poet, who dreams of a young virgin. But not to be a Guard for those.

My name is Uriel. This story began in such ancient times, that the mere amount of eons will drive any mortal mad. Great fear nests in my ethereal heart; it tells me the story is rolling toward its dreadful conclusion.

Did I exist before Time? I do not know. Matter starts to exist when it becomes aware of itself. ?I think, therefore, I am?, as a man put it. Was there God? Is there God? I do not remember him. In the beginning it was as if all the beautiful and chaotic Universe abruptly came to life, in attempt to create layers and lumps of primal Existence. That is the reason why, when you make an anagram from the Hebrew word ?yakum?, which stands for ?Universe?, you get ?kiyum? ? ?Existence?. Anyhow, imagine a giant mechanism, activated for a complex process. At first, it must produce few wrong cycles, before it stabilizes. Forgive me for using human terms, but all the angels and most of the Archangels (including me) are so close to the human nature. Unlike those, who were produced at the first cycles.

Also, not all the mortals were humans. I beheld development and vanishing of truly monstrous civilizations, who cared not much about logic, or laws, or moral. Their Cyclopean structures still stand erect on the wounded Earth, on scorched Mars, on venomous Venus, on grim Saturn, on other doomed planets. Their millennia were of untamed madness, a revolt against the Creation, with endless nights of wild dances and chants around gigantic fires, into which corpses of prehistoric lizards were sacrificed. Faint traces of these anti-human religions somehow penetrated into mankind, and since its beginning people worship Dagon and Wendigo, conduct orgies in the names of Pan and Nodens, propose their sanity and freedom to Azathoth and Baal, to Itaqua and Balon, to the very elements of destruction and darkness. Those forbidden names! How can an eternal being (if that is what they are) be named without the word ?el? (?god?) within? We all carry ?el? as an essential particle of us. Raphael, Michael, Azazel. Uriel. Satan is an exception, but then again, He always was.

The dreadful part of this is the nights, that become more and more frequent, when demented worshippers address to me. They are influenced by the craziest idea, that not only do I guard their admired Old Ones, but I command them as well. I wish! They perceive the Abyss of Perdition as an enormous prison, and I am the jailer, appointed by the government of Yahweh. Leave me alone, you filthy pagans! Yes, I am the Warder, but no one can control my Prisoners.

And sincerely, I cannot comprehend what still keeps them inside the Klippoth. Ancient prophecies? Kabbalistic incantations? Black hole-like extreme gravitation? They are swarming here, cursing, denying the Universe, arousing shock waves of distortion, consuming every sparkle of light that happens to fall into their ever-transforming jaws. Zoo of evil gods. Picture yourself at least one of them coming to Earth. They simply do not care about human will, human culture. Exorcism, A-bomb, negotiations ? nothing will work against their paws. Imagine Shubb-Nigurath's tentacles embracing the world until its suffocation. Imagine Nyarlathhotep, the messenger, the Black Pharaoh, revivifying what mustn't breathe from Egyptian tombs. Imagine Yog-Sothoth descending from a bleeding rupture in the heavens, his fanatics set towns on fire, celebrating the end in caves and at lakes till self-destruction. For that is what they are all about, Self-Destruction.

I guard them. I am the Watcher, the Keeper amongst Archangels. This is my duty. This is my everlasting nightshift. I fear for humankind when the shift will be over. Although I was strong enough to guard the demons, I will not be strong enough to observe what the demons will do to men. Therefore, I shall flee to the most remote star and hide inside its burning shell. Because eventually they will come for me. The Battles. The Battles I do remember. Legions crushing legions; anything serves as a weapon: talons, wings, comets, galaxies, energies. I recall once, at the era of Eksarphia, the good Shofti-Nuu fought the Great?

Something moved inside the Abyss. Of course, they always move down there, but this one moved somehow differently, making a loud disharmonic noise. Did they give life ? if you can call it life ? to yet another monstrosity? I hear it approaching my post. Silence again. The unbearable silence, like a web these spiders place around me. Who's there?! What's there? Stop at once!

It's Hypnos. He rules the Realm of Dreams. Sly and wondrous deity, he has access to minds developed enough to see dreams and nightmares. This noise he makes? Can it be?? Is it to awake one of the dreamers?

One was left outside, on Earth's surface, in his unspeakable and diabolic form. You're well aware who it might be. Fhtagn, indeed. Ruins of perished R'Lyeh-city are his bed. While oceans conquer continents and vice versa, he dreams visions and images so powerful, that they are beamed worldwide, reaching faithful believers. Since the beginning of times believers know: "They shall return". Cthulhu will announce the Apocalyptic comeback. His call will be cosmic wind, blowing out the Sun, seeding insanity and violence among the mortals, dragging anything good and bright left in Universe into colossal, strangling whirlpool.

Uriel's work will be over. Nephilim will finish their imprisonment, and they step on the human world, they will take no prisoners. Read the prophecies, see for yourself. From Alhazred to Lovecraft, they all foretold the fate.

But what is wrong this time?! I feel Hypnos's snake-like, freezing smile of triumph. I hear? ROAR! Like thousand volcanoes erupting simultaneously, myriad ghouls screaming in pleasure of rebirth, the atmosphere is smoking, electrified. Cthulhu call for his brethren, my walls cannot hold them any longer!

Is there any star out of the reach of the Old Ones?

More articles about literature


Our sponsors are Poker Room Reviews & Poker Promotions and UniWeb - web site building

Project X: 1994 - 2017