Chapter 41: The Serpent's Plot
Samael walked out of the prison; along the way, no angels moved to intercept him.
Lucifer had not stripped him of his authority; he remained the commander of the Thrones.
With a heavy heart, he descended through the celestial spheres. His magnificent six wings unfurled silently, leaving not the slightest trace in the sky.
However, the very moment he flew down from the Fourth Heaven, the Deity seated upon the Throne opened His eyes.
God gazed at a single leaf drifting silently within the Great Cathedral, then looked down toward the lower realms. The power of thunder flared in His hand, yet just as quickly, it subsided.
The authority of the Most High could not tolerate repeated transgressions by His angels. He had undoubtedly noticed Samael's aberrant behavior and had originally intended to strike the angel down on the spot; yet, His gaze fell upon the shackles binding Samael's feet.
The Archangel of the Thrones had not removed his leg irons; the iron chains clanked and scraped with a furtive, rustling sound—as if acknowledging the inherent wrongness of the path he had chosen.
To act despite knowing that one must not—that is the very definition of folly.
Tribulation is not the exclusive domain of any single creation. This particular tribulation—the one known as Temptation—has two facets: one reserved for angels, and one reserved for mankind.
Whether or not one manages to weather the storm depends, and has always depended, entirely upon oneself.
There was neither sorrow nor joy in God's eyes. He summoned Gabriel, who was praying in the outer precincts of the Great Cathedral. Of late—much like Metatron—the Archangel had taken to submitting requests for an audience every single day, regardless of whether there was pressing business to attend to or not.
"Strengthen the defenses both within and without the Garden of Eden," Gabriel murmured, repeating God's command aloud. She found the order utterly perplexing.
Eden was the paradise God had bestowed upon mankind; who, then, would dare harbor designs against it?
"Good day, Your Highness." The Guardian Angel of the Fourth Heaven stepped forward to greet the Seraph as she descended.
"Mm, good day," Gabriel replied, her eyes scanning the area surrounding Eden's sole entrance. She sensed nothing amiss.
"Have there been any irregularities?"
"Everything is normal," the Power Angel reported.
Everything was normal—yet God had suddenly issued instructions to reinforce the defenses, both inside and out.
*Outside... inside...* She mulled over the divine decree, and suddenly—in the depths of her bright, clear eyes—a fleeting glint of realization flashed past. As for the so-called "outside"—everything beyond the confines of Eden falls within that scope; aside from demons, only angels remain.
And among the angels, only the Fallen are truly worthy of vigilance.
Snapping back to reality, she gazed at the slender figure of the Power Angel standing before her and asked abruptly:
"What is your name?" The Power Angel's breathing hitched for a fleeting instant before she replied:
"Uriel."
"Uriel, you have yet to pay me your respects," Gabriel said with a smile, seeking to ease the Power Angel's tension.
Uriel bowed deeply before her. In accordance with the customs of the higher angelic orders—for angels place great emphasis on hierarchical structure, with each tier adhering to its own distinct set of rules—she performed the obeisance.
The Lower Triad: Angels, Archangels, Principalities.
The Middle Triad: Powers, Virtues, Dominions.
The Upper Triad: Thrones, Cherubim, Seraphim.
Her execution of the ritual was so precise, so flawless, that not a single fault could be found.
And how could Gabriel possibly find fault with it?
She was intimately familiar with this very etiquette. Years ago, when Lilith was elevated from the rank of Power Angel to that of Throne Angel, Gabriel herself had personally instructed her in every aspect of protocol. She had expended such immense effort to correct the bowing style Lilith had grown accustomed to, and spent so much time training her until she could instinctively perform the proper obeisance of a Throne Angel without a second thought.
"It seems you've realized," the Power Angel remarked—almost the very instant she completed her bow—realizing she had given herself away. She straightened her body, which had been inclined forward at a precise fifteen-degree angle, as she spoke.
"What have you done with Uriel?"
"You truly wound my heart; after all this time apart, you act as if you've forgotten me entirely." Lilith lifted her head, revealing a delicate chin and blood-red pupils that seethed with boundless malice.
"Lilith! Don't do anything foolish." Gabriel gazed at the Fallen Angel, seized by a sudden, inexplicable sense of unease. "Why have you come to Heaven?"
"Is it to exact revenge upon Adam?"
Lilith smiled amidst the gentle breeze—a smile as elusive and enigmatic as a fox—and in the blink of an eye, she vanished into the distance.
*I have bought you this much time; do not let me down now, Your Highness Samael.* '
"Lilith! Wait!"
Gabriel gave chase in Lilith's direction; shortly after she had departed, Samael transformed into a shadow and swiftly slipped into the now-unguarded Garden of Eden.
Modeled after the mortal realm, the Garden of Eden was divided into cycles of dawn and dusk, light and shadow. Samael did not take to the skies—that would have been far too conspicuous. Dragging his shackles behind him, he spent half the day traversing the borders of Eden, passing through emerald pastures and venturing deep into the dense woodlands.
It was within these very woods that humanity dwelt.
He ascended a precipitous cliff, gazing down from his lofty perch upon this exquisite paradise; before long, he spotted two humans strolling through the forest below.
Hand in hand they walked, seemingly possessed of an inexhaustible supply of words to share—yet, in the end, a thousand unspoken sentiments melted into the silent exchange of their interlocking gazes. They sat upon the verdant grass, stood beneath the shade of the thicket, waded through crystal-clear streams, whispered secrets amidst the blossoms, and rested in the breeze to cool themselves.
When hunger struck, they plucked fresh fruit from the branches overhead; when thirst arose, they used empty rinds to scoop water from the pure springs. The beasts of the field frolicked and gamboled about them, while sorrow remained a distant stranger.
Joy and tranquility possess a magical contagiousness; bathed in the radiance of humanity's happiness, Samael found himself nearly entranced. Yet, when he snapped back to reality—recalling the true purpose of his visit, and remembering that while these humans reveled in bliss, Lilith languished in the torments of Hell—the very ecstasy of the scene before him transformed into a searing venom, hissing and corroding the heart within him that had once been the cherished vessel of Justice.
With Justice thus corrupted, nothing remained but the fury born of that very Justice.
How could he strip humanity of this happiness? How could he ensure that they would be cast out and reviled by God?
He leaped from the towering cliff, landing softly amidst the dense undergrowth, and began to stealthily trail the couple, intent on discovering their weakness.
For the moment humanity came to harbor a quality displeasing to God, this entire idyllic dream would shatter into dust. "Dearest Adam, I wonder if you, too, have heard the voice that has been echoing in my ears for some time now?" the graceful Mother of Humanity asked her husband, stroking her long golden hair. "It is a rustling sound—faint yet vexing, like the buzzing of a mosquito."
"It may not necessarily be a mosquito," Adam replied with a smile. Taking his wife's hand, he gently led her a short distance away.
"It is likely just a serpent in the grass. Of all the creatures God created, the serpent alone is the most cunning; we need pay it no mind."
In the Garden of Eden, nearly everything was freely at the disposal of the human couple. They sang praises for God's bounty, their only daily task being the tending and pruning of the flowers, plants, and trees.
The 'Sun'—their source of light—hung high above them. As the humans sang, they trimmed away branches that had grown in ways displeasing to their eyes—a task that proved to be surprisingly difficult and arduous.
For they spent the entire day inseparable, their gazes intertwined with affection, making it utterly impossible for them to focus earnestly on their work. Eve, in particular, found the branches today to be peculiar; it seemed as though, no matter how much she trimmed, the task would never end. It was not until nightfall that Adam led Eve back to their dwelling—a small cottage constructed of wood. Though unadorned by luxury, it was the very abode God had specially chosen for humanity.
Adam loved this place far more than the magnificent palaces of the angels; inhaling the rich, fragrant scent of the flowers and herbs, he felt the weariness of the day simply melt away.
Eve, however, did not find such immediate relief. She looked at her husband, speaking with a touch of petulance: "My dearest husband, I cannot shake the feeling that the serpent has followed us home; even now, I can still hear its voice ringing in my ears."
Adam lifted his head and listened intently. Upon hearing Eve's words, Samael—who was lurking nearby—instantly ceased his movements; consequently, Adam heard nothing at all.
"You are likely just weary."
"I truly am weary." Eve leaned against Adam's chest—half-embracing him, half-resting her weight upon him. A stray lock of golden hair fell across her face, appearing exquisitely lovely in the lamplight.
Gazing upon her captivating charm, Adam's heart filled with joy. He simply held her tenderly, stroking her hair with a gentle touch—much as one might soothe a fawn. "Although, as you say, work brings us joy..." The woman pressed herself against the man's chest, feeling its surging vitality; then, tilting her head back, she gazed up at Adam—his handsome face reflected in her eyes, which were as deep and blue as a lake.
"Still, I feel we need more help. The garden was truly a mess today." She cradled Adam's strong hands in her own, looking with tender concern at the calluses worn into his skin.
"My strength is limited; I cannot help you with that."
"It matters not. As long as we work together, keeping things tidy will be effortless," Adam replied gently. Yet, his gaze was ardent—lingering passionately as it followed his other half.
"As long as you are by my side."
And so, soothed by her husband's comforting words, Eve drifted sweetly off to sleep.
Samael stood outside the dwelling all through the night. Because Eve's hearing was so exceptionally keen, the slightest movement on his part would rouse the woman from her slumber; thus, he was forced to remain utterly motionless. Only at daybreak, when the humans began to stir once more, could he finally find relief from the stiff, aching numbness that had seized his body throughout the night.
Meanwhile, he noticed that the defenses outside the Garden of Eden had been bolstered. Large contingents of angels now guarded the sole entrance, patrolling the grounds in separate formations to the north and south. Furthermore, other angels—concealed from view—were soaring through the air, scouring every corner of the garden. Fortunately, he had managed to transform himself into a lion just in time, narrowly evading their search.
*Have they already detected an anomaly?* Anxiety gnawed at Samael; he knew his time was running out.
What did God abhor?
Sloth, greed, lust...
Yet, these two humans—though burdened by the stain of sin—seemed utterly devoid of such vices.
He had caused the trees to grow in wild, frenzied bursts, rendering Adam and Eve's entire day's labor futile. Yet, Adam remained unperturbed; and as for Eve's fleeting agitation, Adam had soothed her restless spirit with but a few gentle words.
Nor did they harbor any lust. Despite lying naked side by side, they slept together in perfect, unblemished purity.
They were not greedy, for everything within this garden already belonged to them.
Humans were supposed to be dull-witted and ignorant; yet, for some inexplicable reason, these two proved so guileless and elusive that he could find no foothold—no weakness to exploit.
Why? By night, he evaded the angels' increasingly frequent patrols; by day, he lurked within a dark cave, spying on every move the humans made.
The innocent and guileless humans knew no fear; they conducted themselves with such uprightness and propriety that there was scarcely a single fault to be found in them.
How, then, could such beings ever be tempted to transgress a prohibition?
A prohibition... Suddenly, a thought struck Samael: when God had bestowed the Garden of Eden upon humanity as their home, He had imposed but a single ban upon them.
He rose abruptly from the shadows of the cave, his eyes glowing with an unnatural intensity.
"The Fruit of Knowledge..."
Humans were forbidden to eat the Fruit of Knowledge.
Why were they forbidden?
Because if a human ate of this fruit, they would surely die.
Samael stood beneath the Tree of Knowledge, his gaze fixed upon the golden fruit hanging from its massive branches.
Humanity's forbidden fruit—their taboo—was knowledge itself.
He reached out, plucked a single Fruit of Knowledge, and brought it to his lips; instantly, a sweet, crisp flavor spread throughout his mouth.
Angels possessed wisdom innately and had no need for the fruit; they regarded the produce of the Tree of Knowledge with utter disdain—with the exception of Beelzebub, almost none of the Archangels had ever tasted it.
Samael had never considered himself the wisest among the Archangels, yet after consuming the fruit, he truly felt a profound change within himself.
It was as if a sudden epiphany had struck him; everything instantly became crystal clear, and the vexing questions that had plagued him seemed to vanish into thin air.
"We ought to move away from here, my love," came a soft, yet anxious voice from nearby—the voice of Adam.
"But why? We have never visited this spot before."
"Because the fruit that grows here is forbidden to us."
The progenitor of humanity explained this to his companion, and after some persuasion, he finally managed to lead her away.
Samael listened to the sound of their retreating footsteps, yet felt not the slightest sense of urgency.
What need was there to rush?
A smile—a smile he had once found utterly impossible to master—curled at the corners of his lips.
Just as Lilith had said: he was so clever—surely, he would find a way.
For there is no one who does not enjoy the sweet sound of flattery.
The witch's seductive whispers slithered forth like the flicking tongue of a serpent—so soft, so beguiling, that they were utterly impossible to resist.
He transformed himself into a serpent; for in the guise of a snake, no trickery—however cunning—would ever arouse the slightest suspicion. "Of all the creatures created, the serpent is the most cunning by nature"—this was promised by God himself.
You provided the great author, Twilight, with a tale of the arduous formation of a world within the framework of Hebrew mythology.