Defilement of the Divine Chapter 3 - Ariadne's Plague

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The Great Archives of Heaven stretched before Ariadne in silent majesty, each towering shelf a monument to eternal knowledge. Her opalescent wings shifted softly against her back as she bent over an ancient text, the light from her halo casting a gentle glow upon parchment that had witnessed the birth of stars. Solitude was her closest companion here, had been for millennia, and she found comfort in the whispers of countless scrolls that recorded the divine wisdom of creation itself.

The silver-white braids of her hair fell forward and swung pendulum-like over vulnerable nape flesh as she leaned closer to the manuscript, interwoven strands of living light pulsating with each thought that passed through her mind. Her fingers, slender and precise, traced the sacred syllables with reverence. This particular text contained healing incantations from the earliest days of creation, when Lumina had first taught the angels how to mend wounds and ease suffering.

"The seventh seal must be preserved," she murmured to herself, her voice like crystal chimes in the vast silence. Ariadne reached for a small pot of luminous ink, extracted from the essence of divine tears, and carefully reinforced the fading symbols on the page. Each stroke of her quill was deliberate, maintaining the exact form that gave the words their power. A single misplaced line could transform a healing blessing into something quite different.

Not that such corruption could ever occur within Heaven's walls.

The Archives rose around her in concentric circles, shelves of gleaming celestial wood reaching up toward a dome that mirrored the cosmos itself. Stars moved in slow, deliberate patterns across its surface, marking the passage of eternal day. No night existed here; darkness had no place in Lumina's domain. The endless light was comforting, a constant reminder of their Mother's presence and protection.

Ariadne shifted her wings, allowing them to stretch momentarily before settling them back against her flowing silver robes. The opalescent feathers caught the light in hypnotic patterns, each one a miniature repository of healing energy. She had been created by the Goddess for that purpose, to preserve knowledge and life in equal measure, and she performed her duties with unwavering dedication.

She rose from her seat at the ancient reading table, a single slab of marble that floated effortlessly above the floor, and moved to return the healed manuscript to its proper place. The organization of the Archives was a complex system that only she fully understood, a delicate balance of chronology, subject, and divine resonance. Texts that complemented each other were stored in proximity, creating networks of knowledge that strengthened one another.

As she slid the manuscript into its designated niche, her fingers lingered momentarily on its spine. The text would now endure for another ten thousand years before requiring her attention again. Immortality had taught Ariadne patience; time moved differently when one's existence had no end. Yet lately, she had felt a strange urgency, a subtle disquiet that disturbed her usual serenity.

Returning to her reading table, she selected another scroll, this one bound in shimmering thread spun from the essence of mercy itself. It contained Lumina's earliest teachings on compassion, instructions on how angels might understand and alleviate the suffering of others. Ariadne unrolled it carefully, using small weights of celestial silver to hold the corners flat.

"The wound must be understood before it can be healed," she read aloud, the familiar words bringing comfort. "To touch pain without comprehension is to risk spreading it further."

Wisdom she had applied countless times over the ages, healing injured angels and soothing blessed souls who arrived bearing the scars of mortal trauma. Her healing touch was legendary even among the celestial host: a gift directly from Lumina that allowed her to mend any injury, cure any ailment. If the wound existed that she could not heal, then Ariadne had never seen it.

A sulfur-tinged gust licked between her thighs first, making her robes cling wetly before rattling the pages. Ariadne looked up, her brow furrowed in mild confusion. The environmental conditions within the Archives were meticulously maintained; no random currents of air should exist here. Her wings twitched slightly, an instinctive response to the unexpected.

"Curious," she whispered, rising to investigate. Perhaps one of the crystalline windows had developed an imperfection, allowing the external atmosphere to penetrate the sanctum. Such a minor flaw would be simple to repair, but it warranted immediate attention. Even small disruptions to the Archives' perfect balance could have consequences over time.

She moved between the towering shelves, her steps making no sound on the polished floor of living marble. The feeling of disquiet that had troubled her recently intensified slightly, a vague uneasiness that was entirely foreign to her nature. Angels were not meant to experience anxiety — their faith in Lumina's protection was absolute — yet Ariadne could not deny the faint fluttering of concern within her chest.

Ariadne shook her head, dismissing the thought. Her role was knowledge and healing, not battle strategy. She trusted Seraphina completely. The Archangel of Battle had never failed in her sacred duty to protect Heaven's inhabitants, and she would not fail now. Still, Ariadne made a mental note to review the ancient texts regarding defensive wards. Perhaps there was wisdom there that might prove useful, some forgotten technique that could strengthen Heaven's already formidable shields.

Reaching the perimeter of the Archives, she examined the seamless crystal walls carefully, searching for any imperfection that might explain the unexpected draft. Nothing appeared amiss; the divine craftsmanship remained flawless as it had been since the dawn of creation. Yet the sense of disturbance persisted, a subtle wrongness that she could not identify.

"Most peculiar," she murmured, running her fingers along the cool, smooth surface. The crystal thrummed faintly beneath her touch, resonating with her angelic energy as it should. Whatever had caused the disturbance, it had not breached the physical integrity of her sanctuary.

Returning to her reading table, Ariadne tried to dismiss her concerns and focus once more on the sacred text before her. The words of healing and compassion usually brought her peace, but now they seemed oddly distant, as though viewed through clouded glass. She forced herself to concentrate, tracing the elegant script with her finger as she had done countless times before.

The soft hum of divine energy that permeated the Archives had always been a comfort to her, a constant reminder of Lumina's presence and protection. Now, however, she perceived a subtle discordance in that perfect harmony, like a single false note in an otherwise flawless symphony. It was so faint that any other angel might have missed it entirely, but Ariadne's senses had been honed by millennia of careful observation.

She rose again, her wings extending slightly in response to her growing concern. Perhaps she should report this anomaly to Seraphina. The warrior angel might dismiss it as irrelevant, but thoroughness was essential in maintaining Heaven's security. Even the smallest detail could prove significant when dealing with the machinations of the Fallen.

The chill came without warning, a frigid wave that cut through the perfect warmth of Heaven's atmosphere like a blade of ice. Ariadne's wings trembled involuntarily, feathers bristling as though trying to shake off the unnatural cold. This wasn't the gentle coolness of Lumina's mercy, but it was something else, something wrong. It was a bitter, piercing sensation that shouldn't exist within the divine realm. Her fingers froze above the manuscript, suddenly afraid that her touch might somehow damage the sacred text as the temperature continued to plummet around her.

The light dimmed further, no longer the subtle fluctuation she had noticed earlier but a deliberate darkening, as though the divine radiance itself was being devoured by some unseen force. The air grew thick, heavy with a scent that Ariadne could not immediately identify: something acrid and putrid, like flesh left to rot beneath a merciless sun. Her stomach heaved in instinctive revulsion. Nothing in Heaven should smell like that.

"Who's there?" she called, her normally melodious voice strained by sudden fear. The words echoed strangely between the shelves, distorted by the thickening air until they sounded foreign even to her own ears. "Reveal yourself, by Lumina's command!"

A soft, wet sound answered her, something between a chuckle and a death rattle that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. The manuscripts on nearby shelves began to curl at their edges, as though shrinking away from some invisible corruption. Ariadne rose to her feet, wings half-extended in defensive posture, her braided hair swinging with the sudden movement.

"You have no right to be here," she declared, trying to inject authority into her voice. Despite her growing terror, her first thought was for the precious texts surrounding her. "This is a sacred repository. I command you to be gone, dark presence! Depart, or—"

"Or what, precious little healer?"

The voice slithered into her ears like something physical, a violating presence that made her recoil. It was dry and rasping, like the rustling of plague-ridden bedsheets, interspersed with wet, bubbling sounds that suggested fluid-filled lungs. Ariadne spun around, seeking its source, but saw only the endless shelves extending into sudden shadows.

She was within the walls of heaven… she should feel safe here. She should feel powerful. She didn’t… What was going on?

"Your threats are as impotent as your goddess," the voice continued, closer now, each syllable accompanied by a sound like moist tissue tearing. "She cannot protect what she cannot see."

The temperature dropped further, crystalline frost forming on the reading table and spreading across the floor in intricate patterns. Not the clean, pure ice of winter, but something diseased, a yellow-gray formations that resembled fungal growths more than frost. The divine light continued to recede until only Ariadne's halo provided illumination, a small circle of purity in growing darkness.

Something moved in the shadows behind her, stepping with a sliding, uneven gait that suggested multiple limbs moving in disharmonious rhythm. Before she could turn, cold, cold, metal-coated fingers clamped around her throat. Their grip was unnaturally strong and the touch burned like acid, corruption seeking entry through her divine flesh. Ariadne tried to cry out, but the pressure on her windpipe transformed her scream into a strangled gasp.

"Such knowledge," wheezed the voice directly into her ear, fetid breath washing over her face. "Such precious, untainted wisdom from a healer."

Ariadne struggled against the grip, her wings beating frantically, but found herself immobilized by an incomprehensible strength. Additional hands grabbed her arms, restraining her completely. With mounting horror, she felt the creature press against her back, a mass of contradictions: simultaneously solid and fluid, cold yet burning with feverish heat.

"What are you?" she managed to choke out, though she already knew the answer. This was a demon, but unlike any she had encountered in Heaven's long history. This was something older, something primal, a manifestation of suffering that should never have entered Heaven. There was only one thing he could be, only one presence this foul. Penstilens.

The thought terrified her. She knew the name of virtually every demon Heaven had ever encountered, but among them Pestilens still stood out. Of all the demons she hated, he was the worst… and here he was, echoing through her most sacred space. This demon was her antithesis in the foulest, most profound ways — he destroyed what she had spent eons striving to heal. She had never laid eyes on this vile creature before, yet its presence was intimately familiar. The Plaguefather. The Rot Lord. Here? Within heaven? It was impossible!

The hands around her throat loosened slightly, allowing her to draw a ragged breath. "You should be less concerned with who I am, Ariadne, and far more concerned with what you are: Mine."

Ariadne was filled with panic. While they might have never laid eyes on one another before this moment, the two of them had waged a war across a thousand worlds over a million years, each eternally undoing the other's work in an endless cycle of creation and decay. Ariadne's entire existence had been dedicated to mending what Pestilens infected, her divine essence the pure counterpoint to his cruelty. Her panic intensified, and she thrashed wildly, trying to break his hold. But it was futile; Pestilens had her inescapably pinned, his cold, oozing form pressing harder against her. It was as though the entire weight of the damned universe had settled on her back, a suffocating mass that nullified every desperate struggle.

How had he penetrated Heaven's most secure defenses? Her thoughts spun wildly, each one more desperate and incoherent than the last. He couldn’t be here… it wasn’t possible!

More hands tore at her flowing robes, razor-sharp fingers shredding the divine fabric as easily as mist. The garment had been a gift from Lumina herself, woven from threads of pure compassion and knowledge. Now it fell away in tattered strips, exposing her divine flesh to the creature's corrupting touch. Her magnificent tits sprang free, large and perfectly round, jiggling obscenely with each panicked breath she took. They bounced and wobbled with hypnotic rhythm as she struggled against her captor.

Ariadne felt tears of shock and shame burn in her eyes as her heaving chest displayed her fear, each desperate gasp pushing her succulent breasts upward before they fell and quivered. No angel had ever been so violated, so exposed within Heaven's own borders. Her long, shapely legs trembled violently, smooth thighs pressing together in futile protection of the sacred nexus between her legs as the last shreds of divine fabric were ripped away. Her creamy skin glistened with a sheen of sweat, accentuating every curve and valley of her celestial body now laid bare for defiling.

Her chest rose and fell in rapid succession with each terrified breath. The sight of such perfect angelic flesh, vulnerable and on display, would make any being divine or damned throb with unholy desire to violate what was meant to remain pure and untouched.

"How did you get in?" she demanded, struggling to maintain some semblance of dignity despite her nakedness. "The wards—"

"Are exquisitely crafted, yes," Pestilens interrupted, his multiple sets of yellow, pus-filled eyes scanning the sacred texts surrounding them. "But designed to stop an invasion. A warrior. A corrupter. Not a little cold."

A cold?” Ariadne repeated, choking back disbelief.

Pestilens ran a hand callously over her exposed flesh, clamping down on one of her magnificent tits. His strong grip made her body jerk, the tender mound yielding beneath the cruel pressure. “Some of your sisters betrayed how they work,” Pestilens continued. Another hand gripped her other breast, squeezing with a possessive authority that made a gasp escape her lips. His sharp claws dug into her soft flesh, her divine body quivering under the rough touch. Her nipples throbbed from the friction, the pleasure-pain making her shudder. "I just needed to enter as something harmless," Pestilens rasped, the mockery in his voice unmistakable. "And then infect another, and another, and another."

Ariadne’s mind struggled to grasp what he was saying. Betrayal? Her sisters? The mere idea was inconceivable and distracted her from the savage groping. The pain radiating from her tits was acutely physical, yet the suggestion of betrayal burned deeper. How could an angel betray Heaven? It was impossible! Her thoughts raced, a chaotic swirl of denial and terror, even as Pestilens ruthlessly continued. "Too few sick to draw attention," he said, hands moving over her body with increasing boldness, his touch cruelly intimate. She bucked against the cold fingers, but the vigorous motion only seemed to please him, and her writhing became another violation. He held her easily, metal-coated fingers digging into her flesh until bruises formed beneath the creamy surface. "Among the recently arrived souls who wouldn't think it odd to be ill."

"I never thought—" Ariadne began, but Pestilens cut her off with a laugh that echoed through the Archives like the sound of a thousand deaths. Her interruption was pathetic to his ears; her struggle only made her more delicious prey.

"And then I came here," he finished, domination in every word. Pestilens’s hold on her was absolute, the icy pressure and burning heat of his form suffocating in its duality. His foreboding presence filled every corner of the sacred space, leaving no room for the hope that had once defined this sanctuary. "Coming to the most important place I can go after I gathered my power beneath the stones of Heaven."

The full horror of his revelation hit her. Like a malignant cancer, he had spread slowly, invisibly; his corrupting plague hidden among the newly blessed souls. Freshly arrived mortals might not even question their illness, assuming it was part of their divine transformation. His approach had been insidious, the perfect infiltration of Heaven's most sacred defenses. And now, after countless quiet infections, he was here — in her most sacred space, overpowering her, defiling her, taking everything she held dear.

Pestilens used this moment of distraction to force her forward, bending her over her own reading table. The ancient marble, which had always responded to her angelic touch with a warm hum of recognition, now felt cold and unyielding beneath her bare breasts. Her wings were painfully pinned against her back, the delicate appendages crushed beneath the demon's weight even before two of his multiple hands grabbed them as the base.

"Your healing gift is magnificent," Pestilens remarked, his tone almost scholarly despite the wet, rasping quality of his voice. One set of spindly hands forced her thighs apart while another held her upper body immobile against the table. "Unparalleled in all of creation. I've been enjoying our contest for the last eternity."

Ariadne renewed her struggles, her opalescent wings beating desperately against his grip. Divine energy coursed through her, seeking expression, but something was wrong: the power felt sluggish, reluctant to respond to her call. It was as though the mere presence of Pestilens was creating interference, disrupting the connection between her will and her celestial abilities.

"Release me," she commanded, forcing authority into her voice despite the undignified position. "By Lumina's name, I command you to—"

Her words transformed into a scream of shock and violation as Pestilens pushed between her legs, grinding his plague-swollen cock against her clenching cunt’s untouched threshold. Pestilens positioned himself at the threshold of Ariadne's untouched divinity. Time seemed to fracture in that moment, and each second stretched into an eternity of dreadful anticipation. The demon's eyes, filled with ancient malice, locked with hers, savoring the purity he was about to desecrate.

The first press of his necrotic cockhead against her virginal cunt tore a gasp from her throat, her body buckling at the unnatural friction… dry divine flesh grating against pustule-studded rot. Her celestial body, designed for flight and healing rather than this base violation, trembled with instinctive rejection. The marble beneath her felt colder now, as if the sacred material itself recoiled from the abomination taking place upon its surface. Her fingers scraped helplessly against the polished stone, leaving faint trails of golden light as the last desperate expression of her dimming power as her pussy spread around the tip of his cock.

"A virgin," Pestilens commented with satisfaction. "As expected from one too afraid of impurity to live in the slightest. We shall remedy that permanently."

With a single, brutal motion that seemed to tear through the very fabric of time, Pestilens drove forward. The invasion was methodical and absolute, a calculated violation rather than an act of passion. The demon's corrupted member shattered through her sacred hymen with a crack like fracturing stained glass, ichor-smeared cock splitting her cunt into weeping halves. The sound that escaped Ariadne's lips was barely recognizable as her own, a strangled, broken note that echoed throughout the Archives, causing the ancient texts to tremble on their shelves as if in sympathy.

"There," Pestilens hissed through teeth that dripped with blackened ichor. He began to move within her, and every single tiny movement scraped more putrid fluids off inside her cunt, burning like acid where they touched. "The Healer of Heaven is a virgin no more. Can you feel my plague children taking root?"

Ariadne sobbed, her body convulsing around the invading member. This couldn't be happening — not here, not in Heaven's most sacred repository. She was an angel, a being of pure divine light. How could she be defiled like this, used like a vessel for corruption? The pain between her legs intensified as Pestilens established a brutal rhythm, his shaft’s weeping lesions smeared gangrenous trails up her walls with every thrust, and each withdrawal sucked clotted gore from ruptured hymenal tissue back into his festering length.

Ariadne's consciousness flickered between horrifying clarity and merciful dissociation. In moments of lucidity, she felt every excruciating detail of her defilement: the way her untouched inner walls struggled to accommodate his grotesque invasion, the burning trails left by his corrupted fluids, the sickening pressure as he claimed depths no being had ever reached before. "Your first," Pestilens growled, his multiple hands tightening their grip on her wings, "and your last. The only one you'll ever know."

The demon's penetration was relentless, each inch claiming more of her sacred temple. The sensation of his diseased shaft inside her created a burning coldness, like frostbite and fire simultaneously consuming her from within. The weeping sores that covered his member left trails of corruption inside her, each pustule bursting against her inner walls and releasing its poison into her celestial form. "Our master will be pleased," the demon rasped, leaning forward to speak directly into her ear. His breath carried the stench of a thousand plagues, making her gag. "Malakai has waited so long for this to begin."

The name sent a shock through Ariadne's system. Malakai, the Fallen Prince, once the most beautiful of angels, second only to Lumina herself. His obsession with their creator had led to his fall, his transformation into something that mocked his former divine status. If he was involved in this attack, the situation was far worse than she had imagined.

Pestilens continued his violation, each thrust more painful than the last as small blisters began to form inside her vaginal walls. The fluids he was injecting were changing her from within, corrupting her divine flesh cell by cell. She could feel it happening; a creeping rot that spread outward from her core, transforming divine purity into diseased matter.

"Your healing gift is truly remarkable," Pestilens observed, his tone almost conversational despite the brutal rape. "Already your body attempts to counter my corruption. Fascinating. But futile."

He increased his pace, the movements creating a sickening squelching sound as his necrotic fluids mixed with her blood. Ariadne tried to retreat into her mind, to separate her consciousness from the violation of her body, but Pestilens wouldn't allow it. One of his hands grabbed her hair, yanking her head back painfully.

"Stay present, healer," he commanded. "Witness your own defilement. It is essential to the process."

His diseased member continued to pump in and out of her dry passage, the friction creating more tears that immediately became infected by his corrupting presence. The pain was evolving, changing from the sharp agony of violation to a deeper, more insidious burning as the corruption spread through her reproductive system. Ariadne could feel her divine energy struggling to heal the damage, but for every cell restored, two more succumbed to the infection.

"I will make every bit of you my own," Pestilens declared, his voice taking on an almost reverent quality. "Your power will serve our cause. Think of it… the greatest healer in Heaven transformed into the greatest vector of disease. Poetry, is it not?"

Ariadne couldn't respond, her voice reduced to whimpers of agony as the violation continued. Her wings hung limply now, their opalescent sheen already beginning to dull as the corruption spread through her system. The marble table beneath her was no longer pristine, stained with bodily fluids that should never have existed within Heaven's borders.

"Feeeel them," he gargled through phlegm-flooded lungs directly into her ear canal. One of his many hands moved down to her lower abdomen and pressed down, intensifying the burning sensation within. "My spores grafting to the walls of your cunt, your womb sac already swelling with my second coming as my precious sickness taking root in your formerly sacred chalice. They will transform you from within, consuming your purity and replacing it with glorious corruption."

She could feel it. The sickness was moving inside her, multiplying at an impossible rate. Angels couldn’t have children, any kind of offspring in the traditional sense, but the demon could infect her with colonies of disease… a practically sentient mass of corruption given purpose and direction by their creator. They were spreading through her reproductive system and out into the rest of her, altering its divine function, transforming it into an incubator for death and decay.

"Stop1" she begged, abandoning pride in her desperation. This wasn’t rape, it was terraforming. Her cervix dilated unnaturally wide already; each cramp seeded new hells in ovular chambers never meant to carry life. "Please. You don't understand what you're doing. This corruption could spread beyond control. Even your master—"

"Knows exactly what he's doing," Pestilens interrupted, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he approached his climax. "This is merely the first phase. The corruption of Heaven's greatest healer — what better beginning for our grand design?"

The implications terrified Ariadne more than her own violation. This wasn't a random attack; it was a calculated first strike in what could only be a larger campaign. And she, through no choice of her own, was to be the instrument of her home's destruction.

"No!" she whispered, tears streaming down her face. "Lumina, help me! Please!"

But no divine intervention came. The Archives remained dark, the air thick with the stench of corruption, and Pestilens continued his relentless violation of her body and spirit. With each passing moment, she could feel more of her divine essence being twisted, corrupted by the diseased intrusion. Her healing power, her most precious gift, was being perverted into its opposite: Transformed into a conduit for spreading rather than curing disease.

"Perfect," Pestilens hissed, his voice wet with diseased phlegm. The Greater Demon’s multiple sets of eyes gleamed with diseased triumph as he watched the transformation beginning within her. "Simply perfect." With a brutal jerk, he grabbed a fistful of Ariadne's silver-white hair and slammed her face down onto the sacred manuscript she'd been studying moments before, his pelvis pinning her hips flush against the table as he drove into her cunt from behind. The ancient parchment, infused with divine energy and maintained for eons with reverent care, immediately began to sizzle where her skin — now carrying the first traces of demonic corruption — made contact. The beautiful script that had recorded Lumina's teachings on healing began to blur and transform, the holy words twisting into obscene symbols that pulsed with malevolent energy.

Ariadne screamed in horror, not just at the continued violation of her body but at the desecration of the irreplaceable text. These scrolls contained wisdom from the dawn of creation, Lumina's direct teachings on compassion and healing. The manuscript had survived countless millennia, preserved by her careful stewardship, and now it was being corrupted before her eyes, divine knowledge transforming into something vile and wrong.

"No!" she cried, trying futilely to lift her face from the parchment. "Not the texts! Please!"

"Read them now," Pestilens mocked, grinding her cheek harder against the manuscript while maintaining his brutal rhythm, his diseased cock continuing to pump in and out of her bleeding cunt. "See how easily your precious wisdom yields to corruption. Knowledge itself is nothing but another host for my plague."

The symbols beneath her face continued to transform, the divine script bleeding and re-forming into grotesque shapes that burned her eyes to behold. What had once been instructions for healing now became formulas for spreading disease, corrupting divine techniques into methods of infection. And worse still… She could understand them now. The twisted knowledge was forcing itself into her mind, overwriting millennia of divine wisdom with perverted, inverted versions.

"Stop," she begged, tears streaming from her eyes to mix with the spreading corruption on the parchment. "You can't—"

Pestilens cut her off with a particularly brutal thrust, driving himself deeper into her torn flesh. His free hands continued to roam over her body, leaving trails of burning infection wherever they touched. Her once-perfect skin was beginning to erupt in lesions and boils, mirroring the diseased appearance of her violator. The primary feathers of her wings snapped under Pestilens’ clawed grip as he wrenched her wings backward, milky-blue veins marbling through brittle shafts as the corruption spread through her system.

"Stay present," he commanded her. “Don’t you dare disappear on me. You’ll feel everything, holy whore. Every tear in your cunt. Every pustule bursting in your womb." One of his free hands moved to her face, forcing her mouth open with brutal strength. Ariadne tried to resist, clamping her jaw shut, but his fingers dug into the pressure points at her jawline with precise knowledge of angelic physiology. Her mouth opened involuntarily, a whimper of defeat escaping her lips. “Now, receive the final sacrament."

Another of his hands positioned itself above her forced-open mouth. Before her horrified eyes, the palm split open to reveal a pulsating orifice from which thick black bile began to flow. The substance smelled of concentrated decay, the distilled essence of a thousand rotting corpses. Ariadne tried to turn her head away, but Pestilens held her firmly in place. "This is the condensed suffering of every plague victim who died cursing the goddess for abandoning them," he explained, his voice taking on an almost reverent quality. "Their despair has been fermented for centuries, distilled into its purest form. Now you will partake of it as your communion.”

The black bile poured into her mouth, burning her divine tongue and throat like acid. Ariadne gagged, trying desperately not to swallow, but Pestilens used another hand to dig two talons into the cartilage of her trachea until she choked down bitter sludge. The bile slid down her throat in hateful black rivulets, burning through her divine organs as it began its work. Ariadne's body reacted violently, spasms wracking her form like seizures. Her once-perfect limbs quaked in agony, and her abdomen rippled with each cruel contraction. The sensation was like nothing she’d ever experienced. If she had been mortal, she would have sworn she was dying. The corrupted holy text beneath her cheek absorbed her cries and her uncontrollably leaking body fluids, the ancient scrolls blistered like leprous skin before rupturing in viscous bursts of ink-black ichor that reeked of gangrene. Before her tearing eyes the formerly sacred texts dripped down the shelves, liquified as corruption dripped down from the shelves.

Her wings quivered weakly, their bright and beautiful sheen almost gone. Her mouth opened in a soundless wail of despair, and Pestilens’s thick black bile poured in endlessly, a sacrament of defeat. She tried to fight it, tried to expel the dark substance that burned so viciously, but she was helpless against his overwhelming force. Her body convulsed in submission, collapsed back against her violator, and she could feel him reveling in her agony, a sacrilegious exaltation at her broken state. Unbearable pain transformed into a horrible new normal as the divine organs in her abdomen turned against themselves, their function now the opposite of life-affirming. She was being transformed into a hollow shell filled with a seething mass of hate. The continued violation only remade her more thoroughly, each thrust an inversion of her very nature.

Ariadne spasmed wildly, her body no longer her own. Her pussy walls clamped in septic shock around Pestilens’ plague-crusted cock as colonizing infection bloomed crimson between thrusts, and her suffering in reaction only added to his triumph. "Perfect," Pestilens whispered, an obscene ecstasy in his voice as he watched her body convulse around his invading cock. "Your transformation progresses even faster than anticipated. You truly are exceptional, Ariadne."

The corruption was spreading rapidly now, moving through her digestive system and into her bloodstream. She could feel it in every cell, every atom of her divine being: The fundamental rewriting of her celestial nature. The pain was beyond comprehension, beyond any suffering she had witnessed in her millennia of existence. It was not just her body being violated but her very essence, her divinity itself being corrupted into its opposite.

"Why?" she managed to choke out between retches as more bile was forced down her throat. "Why me?"

"Because you are the purest," Pestilens replied simply. "The most devoted. Because I want you. And because your position as Heaven's sacred healer makes you the perfect vector for what is to come."

Ariadne's screams echoed through the Archives, mingling with the wet squelch of Pestilens's ongoing violation. The sounds themselves seemed to take physical form in the thickened air, vibrating through the crystal shelves and causing further corruption to spread to untouched manuscripts. It was as though the very acoustics of the sacred space were being perverted, transformed from vessels of divine harmony into conductors of disease.

"The perfect symmetry of it all," Pestilens continued, his multiple sets of eyes drinking in the spreading corruption with clinical satisfaction. "You will be the birthplace of Heaven’s first plague. Patient Zero. You are the perfect host. Your divine nature, your healing… It fights the corruption just enough to create the most exquisite mutations, but it cannot stop me, cannot stop the process. You were born for this purpose, Ariadne… this was always your destiny."

Ariadne wanted to fight, to resist the violation and corruption, but her strength was fading rapidly. The divine energy that had sustained her for countless millennia was being systematically corrupted, transformed into its opposite. Where once there had been healing light, now there was festering darkness. Where once there had been compassion, now there was only pain — given and received.

"You won't..." she gasped between retches as more bile filled her throat, "you won't succeed. Seraphina will stop you. Heaven will—"

"Heaven will fall," Pestilens interrupted, increasing the pace of his violation. "Not through direct assault, which your warrior angels might repel… it will be the corruption from within. Starting with you, dear Ariadne. The most trusted. The purest. The healer whom all will seek when they need help."

The horror of his plan became clear to her then, cutting through even the haze of pain and violation. She wasn't just being raped and corrupted; she was being weaponized. She was going to be the doom of Heaven with her very purpose inverted, her healing touch perverted into a mechanism for infection.

"No," she whispered, tears streaming down her face to mix with the black bile dribbling from the corners of her mouth. "Lumina, please. Help me."

"Your goddess cannot hear you," Pestilens informed her, his tone suggesting he was explaining something to a particularly slow student. “She already has bigger things to focus on. Right now, your walls are under attack. Malakai and the Greater Demons assault heaven as we speak.”

Ariadne's screams had transformed into broken sobs, her voice raw from the black bile burning her throat. "Almost complete," Pestilens announced, his movements becoming more erratic as he approached his climax. "Your final sacrament approaches. Are you ready to receive it, Healer?"

Ariadne couldn't respond, her consciousness splintered like a divine mirror struck by hellforged hammers. Each shard reflecting a different agony. Her once-perfect form was now covered in weeping sores and lesions, mirroring the diseased appearance of her violator. The opalescent wings that had been her pride were now hanging limply, their divine luster replaced by a sickly gray pallor. "Receive my blessing, and be transformed."

Then, with a shuddering motion that reminded Ariadne of death throes, he reached his climax, pumping thick, necrotic venom directly into her womb. The fluid burned worse than anything before, not just physically but spiritually, corroding her divine essence from within. Ariadne convulsed beneath him, her body rebelling against the fundamental wrongness of what was happening. Celestial flesh was never meant to contain such corruption, and her system's desperate attempts to purify itself only spread the infection faster. Ariadne's scream at this final violation was so pure, so filled with divine agony, that several crystal shelves shattered completely, sending ancient manuscripts tumbling to the corrupted floor. The sound echoed through the Archives, through the corridors of Heaven itself, carrying with it the first notes of a plague symphony that would soon engulf the entire celestial realm.

The greater demon withdrew his diseased member from her bleeding cunt, the sudden absence creating a sickening sucking sound. Black slime mixed with divine blood as it dripped from between her thighs, each drop hissing as it struck the sacred floor of the Archives. Ariadne collapsed fully onto the reading table, her strength entirely spent. The pain had transcended normal boundaries, becoming something so all-encompassing that her mind could no longer process it as separate sensations. It was simply her new state of being, a continuous symphony of agony playing through every cell of her violated form.

"Observe," Pestilens instructed, using one of his hands to force her head up, making her look down at her belly as the corruption visibly spread through her body. "The transformation is quite remarkable."

She watched it obviously spread, veins growing black as a growing rotline advanced down her arm fast as blood dripped from slit wrists. The corruption moved like a living shadow, devouring the celestial light and replacing it with gangrenous decay. Some of her feathers that had once shimmered with all the colors of creation now turned a sickly gray before blackening completely, their edges crumbling into ash that floated on the thickened air.

"No," Ariadne whispered, watching her most visible connection to divinity corrupting before her eyes. "Please, not my wings..."

"But they're so much more interesting now," Pestilens observed, reaching out to touch one of the blackened feathers. It crumbled at his touch, the ash swirling around his spindly fingers before reforming into something new: Not a feather of light, but a barbed spine that oozed corruption. "See how they adapt? Your power isn't being destroyed, merely... redirected. What once healed will now harm. What once purified will now corrupt."

Ariadne sobbed, feeling her divine gift twisted into its opposite. The power that had allowed her to alleviate suffering for millennia would now only create more pain. She was becoming a mockery of herself, a perversion of everything she had stood for.

"Every angel you touch will rot from within," Pestilens explained, slowly circling the reading table to observe her transformation from all angles. "Your colleagues will come to you for healing, as they always have, and your breath will blister their lungs before they think to shield.” Pestilens gripped her jaw, smiling a sickly smile. “And your tears... oh, your tears will be particularly virulent. You’ll spread corruption they cannot fight because it comes from you, the one they trust most."

The implications horrified her more than her own suffering. She would become a weapon against her own kind, a vector for spreading disease throughout the celestial host. And they would never suspect until it was too late, because who would question the touch of Heaven's healer?

Ariadne lay on the reading table, her mind fragmenting under the weight of pain and violation. Her once-beautiful form was now a testament to corruption. Weeping sores covered her skin, her wings hung in blackened tatters, and her silver-white hair had dulled to the color of grave mold. Even her halo, that most fundamental expression of divine connection, flickered erratically, occasional bursts of darkness interrupting its glow.

Pestilens effortlessly lifted Ariadne's limp body off the corrupted reading table, her violated form collapsing against him in total submission as she hung from his arms. Her head lolled back, and her opalescent eyes stared blankly at the fallen stars in the consumed heavens, tiny black lesions spreading across them until they were completely dark. Her mind reeled from the brutal assault, unable to process her new state of being, unable even to comprehend the enormity of what had just happened. She barely noticed as Pestilens lifted her up and let his thick black semen drip from her bleeding cunt and splatter on the sacred floor. He held her suspended there, dangling like a carcass on a butcher's hook, and watched as the slime mixed with her divine blood, fizzling and hissing with each tiny splash.

The incomprehensible agony had become so pervasive that her mind could no longer process it, her entire consciousness overwhelmed by the desecration of her very essence. With a calculation so cold that it bordered on efficient, he dressed her limp form in a pure white robe, as though swaddling a newborn. Her body, now slick with a sheen of his necrotic venom, slipped through his fingers as he wrapped the fabric around her. The robe quickly absorbed the festering fluids, its pristine surface staining with sickly colors as it concealed the full extent of her transformation. It was a grotesque parody of a shroud, hiding the horror beneath, making her seem almost angelic in her helplessness. He let her hang in the air for a moment, suspended by his many arms, watching with detached satisfaction as the robe bloomed with patches of dark infection beneath its surface.

The corrosion spreading from within, her divine nature had been rewritten, repurposed for a fate more terrible than anything she had inflicted on the damned souls she once governed. The transformation was complete, disguised under the purity of the stained fabric.

"Our business is concluded," Pestilens said casually, his tone suggesting they had completed nothing more significant than a normal meeting. "My part is done. Now it’s time for you to do yours.”

Through the haze of pain and corruption, Ariadne heard what sounded like Pestilens's form dissolving, a wet, squelching noise followed by the scent of concentrated decay. Then, abruptly, the oppressive presence was gone — vanished, as though he had never been there at all. Only the evidence of his visit remained: her violated body, the corrupted manuscripts, and the stains of black ichor that now marked the sacred floor of the Archives.

For several moments, Ariadne couldn't move, her divine system in shock from the extent of the violation. Her body trembled uncontrollably, aftershocks of agony pulsing through her corrupted flesh. Slowly, painfully, she pulled herself up from the reading table, her damaged wings dragging limply behind her. Divine blood mixed with corruption continued to drip from between her legs, forming sigils of disease on the floor beneath her.

"Lumina," she whispered, her voice a broken rasp, "forgive me."

With trembling, unsteady hands, Ariadne gripped the robes that covered her violated body, feeling the sting of their pure fabric against her corrupted flesh. She wrapped them tightly around herself, as if the thin layer could somehow shield her from the enormity of what had happened. Each movement sent tremors of pain through her form, but she fought to rise on wobbling legs, forcing her broken body to comply. The room spun around her, the haze of her suffering making it hard to concentrate, yet she knew she had to move, to do anything but lie there in defeat. Grinding her teeth against the agony, she had just managed to stand, swaying precariously, when the door to the Archives burst open with a sudden, violent force.

For a moment, her exhausted mind couldn't comprehend what was happening, and then the harsh, golden light from outside spilled into the corrupted space, illuminating her fragile silhouette. Panic surged through her, more potent than any physical pain, and she instinctively pulled the robe even tighter. It was her last defense, her only hope of hiding the visible evidence of her desecration. Her wings were wrapped around her now, feeble and blackened, but effectively shielding her from the gaze of whoever was at the door. Her thoughts were a jumbled mess, fear mixing with shame, and she wondered if she could even bear to be seen in such a state.

The figure at the entrance hesitated, standing in stark contrast to the darkened room around him. From her fractured viewpoint, she could see the light outlining a smaller angel, his form radiating urgency as he paused on the threshold.

Ariadne instinctively recoiled, leaning heavily against the reading table for support while she continued to conceal as much of herself as possible. Her heart sank as she realized she could do nothing to hide the state of the Archives — the shattered shelves, the blackened manuscripts, the stains of divine blood and corruption marking the once-sacred floors. The sight was damning, a testimony to the completeness of her violation and the enormity of her failure to protect the sacred knowledge within. The angel, however, didn’t seem to even notice. Perhaps it was because his manner was tense with barely controlled panic.

"Lady Ariadne," he gasped, his wings flaring in alarm. “You must come quickly. Hell has launched an attack on the walls. Many angels are injured, and Seraphina has called for all healers. The battle, My Lady… it's unlike anything we've seen before. They’re attacking the walls from every side!”

The irony was so terrible that Ariadne almost laughed, the sound catching in her ravaged throat. She was the weapon. She opened her mouth to warn him-

And her mouth closed. "I'll come," she heard herself say, the words emerging without conscious decision. Wha- why? Why had she said that! He shouldn’t…

The lesser angel nodded gratefully, already turning back toward the door. "Hurry," he urged. "The wounded are being gathered in the Central Courtyard."

As he disappeared from view, Ariadne took a single, painful step forward, then another. Her corrupted body screamed in protest, but she forced herself to move, to function despite the agony. She had to warn them. Had to stop this before Malakai's plan could fully unfold.

But even as she formed this desperate resolution, she could feel the corruption working within her, spreading through her system, changing her from the inside out. With each step, more of her divine essence was transformed, her healing power inverted into its opposite. She couldn’t say anything, no matter how hard she tried! The Demon was even hiding the corruption within her from their gaze! The evil was spreading with her already, and by the time she reached the wounded angels Ariadne had to wonder if there would be anything left of her true self to resist the corruption's purpose.

The thought terrified her, but she continued moving, step by painful step, toward the door of the Archives. Pestilens didn’t give her a choice.

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Outside, Heaven had transformed from a place of serene beauty into a landscape of chaos and destruction. Ariadne stumbled from the Archives' entrance, her corrupted body moving with painful slowness as she took in the scene before her. Angels and demons clashed in the air far above, their battle cries mingling with screams of pain and the crash of celestial weapons against hellforged steel. Lightning crackled across the sky, divine power unleashed in desperate defense of their sacred home. Fires burned along the walls in several quarters, corrupted blazes that devoured celestial matter with unnatural hunger. The battle for heaven was well and truly underway.

She pulled the remnants of a tattered cloak around her shoulders by instinct even as she hoped someone would notice the worst of her transformation. Unfortunately, no one did. The black, weeping sores that covered her once-perfect skin might still be mistaken for battle wounds, and in the chaos of war all around here no one was looking too closely at the unnatural darkness that had overtaken her wings. Divine blood mixed with corruption continued to trickle down her thighs, but the flow had slowed, her celestial body already adapting to its new, perverted state.

"Ariadne!" A voice called through the chaos, barely audible above the din of battle. "The healing station is this way!"

She turned to see a minor guardian angel gesturing urgently toward a makeshift field hospital established beneath a dome of protective energy. Dozens of injured angels lay on hastily constructed pallets, their wings bent at unnatural angles, their celestial flesh marred by wounds that leaked blood from bites or slashes. Healers moved among them, their hands glowing with divine light as they worked to repair the damage.

"I'll... help," she managed to say, her voice still raw from screaming. "Take me to them." The guardian angel nodded gratefully, seemingly oblivious to the subtle wrongness that now permeated Ariadne's being. In the chaos of battle, with divine energy charging the very air, perhaps the corruption was temporarily masked, hidden beneath the surface like a disease in its incubation phase.

She followed him across the courtyard, picking her way through debris and fallen combatants. "The attacks began without warning," the guardian explained as they moved. "The outer defenses held against the initial assault, but they are attacking in earnest. This is no skirmish… it's a full-on attempted invasion, Ariadne!”

Ariadne wanted to scream that she knew, that she was now part of that very invasion. She couldn’t, though: her tongue seemed frozen in her mouth. The corruption was already taking control, preventing her from interfering with its designated purpose. They reached the makeshift healing station, and the guardian disappeared back into the fray, leaving Ariadne standing before rows of injured angels. Their suffering called to her on a fundamental level. As the greatest Heaven's healer, she had been created to alleviate such pain. It made her cry because she knew that instinct would only spread more suffering now.

"Lady Ariadne!" One of the field healers spotted her, relief evident in his strained features. "Thank Lumina you're here. We're overwhelmed, and these wounds... they resist conventional healing techniques."

Before she could respond, could find some way to warn him without revealing the full horror of her transformation, he was leading her toward a particularly grievously wounded angel. The warrior's wings were nearly severed, hanging by threads of sinew, and a deep gash across his chest exposed the divine light at his core: His very essence was leaking out with each labored breath.

"This one first," the healer instructed. "He fought at the front lines during the first assault on the Pearly Gates, before the Archangel Seraphina drove them back. We've stabilized him, but I think the blade was enchanted and the wound won't close. Your expertise might be our only hope."

Ariadne looked down at the injured angel, her heart breaking with the knowledge of what her touch would do. She should refuse, should flee, should find Seraphina and confess the terrible truth before more damage could be done. But the corruption within her was growing stronger with each passing moment, its will supplanting her own.

"I'll... do what I can," she heard herself say, the words emerging without conscious decision. Her hands, once instruments of divine healing, now trembled as she extended them toward the wound. "Step back," she added, a last desperate attempt to minimize the damage if she could.

The field healer nodded and moved away, giving her room to work. Ariadne hovered her hands above the injured angel's chest, feeling her corrupted power gathering in her palms. It still felt like healing energy, but twisted, inverted — a photographic negative of the divine gift she had wielded for millennia. "I'm sorry," she whispered, so softly that no one could hear. "Forgive me."

Her hands made contact with the wounded flesh, and the effect was immediate and horrifying. Instead of closing, the gash widened, its edges blackening as corruption spread outward in fractal patterns. The divine light at the angel's core, which had been leaking steadily, now began to dim and distort, threads of darkness weaving through the pure radiance.

The injured angel's eyes flew open, confusion immediately transforming into agony as the corruption entered his system. His back arched in a silent scream, his partly severed wings thrashing weakly against the pallet. Where Ariadne's fingers touched, blisters erupted across his skin, bursting to reveal weeping sores identical to those that now covered her own corrupt form.

"What's happening?" The field healer rushed back, his expression shifting from confusion to horror as he witnessed the transformation taking place. "Ariadne, what’s happening to him?!"

She couldn't answer, couldn't explain the violation that she had suffered or how it had turned her healing touch into an instrument of corruption. All she could do was watch as the infection spread rapidly through the wounded angel's body, transforming divine flesh into a breeding ground for disease. His wings, already damaged, began to crumble at the edges, feathers blackening and falling away like ash.

"Stop her!" someone shouted, the cry barely registering through Ariadne's haze of despair. "She's corrupted!"

Hands grabbed at her, trying to pull her away from the infected angel, but it was too late. The corruption had taken hold, spreading through his system with exponential speed. Worse, it was jumping from him to the angels who had touched him and her both, moving from contact to contact in an ever-widening circle of infection.

"No," Ariadne whispered, watching the corruption she had unleashed. "No, please..."

But her pleas went unheard, drowned out by the increasing screams as more angels succumbed to the infection. Some tried to use their healing abilities to counteract the spread, only to discover that conventional divine energy merely accelerated the corruption, feeding it like fuel poured on fire.

Through tear-blurred eyes, Ariadne looked up from the chaos she had unwittingly caused. Across the courtyard, partially concealed behind a crumbling column, a familiar figure watched the unfolding disaster with clinical interest. Pestilens's multiple sets of yellow eyes blinked in sequence, his spindly arms folded in an attitude of scholarly observation. When he noticed her gaze, he raised one gangrenous hand in mocking salutation before dissolving into the shadows. "Malakai thanks you for your service,” she heard his voice whisper directly into her mind. “And wait for me… I’ll be back for you.”

Ariadne fell to her knees in the center of the expanding circle of corruption, her blackened wings trailing in the dust behind her. Angels ran around in terror, trying to contain the infection… but even as they moved to contain the damage, Ariadne could see that it was too late. Around so many wounded angels too weak to resist, it infected them quickly and spread fast, the corruption already finding too many hosts in a few seconds to contain any longer. Ariadne wept corrupted tears that burned the ground where they fell, forming tiny sigils of disease that pulsed with malevolent energy. Her halo flickered erratically now, darkness interrupting the divine light with increasing frequency. Soon, she knew, it would go out entirely, the last visible sign of her connection to Lumina extinguished by the corruption that had taken root in her very essence.

"I tried," she whispered to no one, to everyone, to the Creator. "I tried to resist."

In the skies above, the battle hadn’t yet started to turn… but Ariadne knew that it would. How could it do otherwise? What had begun as a conventional assault now revealed itself as something far more insidious. It was a carefully orchestrated infection, and her violation had been the catalyst. Hell had taken the first blood. In her corruption-addled mind, Ariadne began to understand the true brilliance of Malakai's plan. He hadn't sought to destroy Heaven through direct assault: that approach had failed countless times before, and he himself had been one of the angels to push it back time and time again in the past. Instead, the Fallen One had targeted its foundations, corrupting the very systems that maintained its divine order.

Starting with her, with healing itself.

Her consciousness was fading now, the corruption reaching deeper into her mind, rewriting her very thoughts. Soon there would be nothing left of the angel she had been: She would only a vessel for Pestilens's plague, a mockery of healing that spread suffering instead of alleviating it.

As darkness closed in around her, Ariadne's last coherent thought was a prayer. She whispered with a desperate hope that her sisters and her goddess would find a way to counter this corruption before it consumed all of Heaven. That something could be salvaged from the ruin that Ariadne had unwillingly helped to create. But as her divine consciousness slipped away, replaced by corrupted awareness, even that hope began to seem foolish. The corruption spread inexorably through Heaven's districts, carried by the very angels sworn to protect them. And at its center sat Ariadne, once Heaven's greatest healer, now the nexus of its fall.

The war for Heaven's soul had begun, and its first battle had already been lost.

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