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  FALL FROM GRACE

  By J. Edward Ritchie

  Copyright © 2014 J. Edward Ritchie

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the copyright holder.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1502973863

  Cover design and art courtesy of Whitney Alexander & Kevin Ritchie

  For Veronica

  You give me the strength and support to fulfill my dreams You are my love, my muse, my angel

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1 A Flight of Tradition

  CHAPTER 2 Rejuvenation

  CHAPTER 3 Apprentices Old and New

  CHAPTER 4 The Logos and the Word

  CHAPTER 5 An Unexpected Storm

  CHAPTER 6 The Quandary of Knowledge

  CHAPTER 7 The Council of Seraphim

  CHAPTER 8 Separate Paths

  CHAPTER 9 The Announcement

  CHAPTER 10 Imprisonment

  CHAPTER 11 The Trial of Satanail

  CHAPTER 12 The Forgotten Land

  CHAPTER 13 The Gift and the Silent Scribe

  CHAPTER 14 The Gathering

  CHAPTER 15 A Light Extinguished

  CHAPTER 16 Requiem for the Dead

  CHAPTER 17 The Gateway

  CHAPTER 18 Worship Above Reason

  CHAPTER 19 The Industry of War

  CHAPTER 20 The Demonstration

  CHAPTER 21 Vengeance

  CHAPTER 22 Destiny Forged

  CHAPTER 23 The Awakening

  CHAPTER 24 In the Shadow of Monsters

  CHAPTER 25 The Belly of the Beast

  CHAPTER 26 The Calm Before the Storm

  CHAPTER 27 The Battle of Araboth Plains

  CHAPTER 28 Demons at the Gate

  CHAPTER 29 Drifting in the Abyss

  CHAPTER 30 Behind the Curtain

  CHAPTER 31 The Razing of Araboth City

  CHAPTER 32 Blood in the Streets

  CHAPTER 33 Where All Roads End

  CHAPTER 34 The Fall

  CHAPTER 35 A New World

  CHAPTER 36 Damnation

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  A Flight of Tradition

  Michael stood at the precipice of a remote mountain that pierced the clouds like a monolith of natural grandeur. He respected the daunting height but felt no urgency, only calm. Emerald eyes, filled with millennia of experience, shone through the waves of brown hair flickering across his face. Lean muscle chiseled every facet of his body into physical perfection, though he would never accept such praise. Despite containing a power unmatched by all but one, Michael remained ever a portrait of stoic modesty.

  A faint harmony carried on the wind captivated Michael’s senses. He tasted the soothing tones, saw their beauty, and felt the caress of each individual note. In that serene isolation, he savored the full breadth of paradise…of Heaven. Though the lands of Machonon that Michael called home were hidden below the clouds, he could picture every sublime detail. Meadows of wild flowers were speckled over rolling hills, and a vast ocean ebbed and flowed as if breathing life onto the shores. Each region of Heaven was a unique utopia, but no other area had Machonon’s pastoral allure sculpted by nature and time.

  A shadow passed over Michael and brought a sudden impact behind him that sent a rush of gravel down the mountain.

  “Must you always make a grand entrance?” Michael said, a rare smirk escaping his lips.

  “I am as the Creator made me—flawless,” replied a deep and assertive voice. “Your inevitable failure must be a heavy burden. Shall we begin?”

  The snarky quip had no effect on Michael. On the contrary, his insistent humility irked his restless companion.

  “I care little for the outcome. A shared experience is reward enough.”

  “Noble rhetoric is a weak choice of intimidation.” The voice drew closer. “You’re stalling.”

  “Patience. I seek inspiration.”

  “And where do you find this elusive muse?”

  “In every moment of every day.” Michael gestured to the sky where a flock of purple-hued birds weaved iridescent trails across the horizon. The ethereal design was a fleeting signal to their kin, a spontaneous exhibition of flair that soon dissipated.

  Michael turned to his brother and closest friend, Satanail—a being of supreme confidence grinning behind a thick beard and bundles of long, black locks. Gray irises fixated on Michael like coffers of mystery kept forever sealed. He trusted Satanail with his life, everyone did, but he never could decipher the motives behind those vacant eyes.

  “Such resolute poise,” Satanail said. “I’d expect nothing less from the Logos.”

  Although physically imposing, Satanail’s oration was his true strength, each word chosen with explicit intentions. He was a magnate in Heaven, a beloved celebrity who embraced his role in stark contrast to Michael’s reserved demeanor. While Michael preferred the quiet of rural Machonon, Satanail thrived in the daily bustle of Heaven’s capital, Araboth City.

  “It warms the heart to see you, Brother,” Michael said and embraced Satanail’s robust build. Duties to the public often kept them apart, and this tradition was one of their few escapes.

  “A tender embrace won’t thwart my resolve,” Satanail teased.

  “Then may it give some solace before my triumph sours your spirits.”

  “You place confidence in a hypothetical victory, one that has never been realized. Today will be no different. Try not to dwell on the disappointment.”

  “I never do.” Michael stretched his limbs and expanded his lungs with deep breaths. “I trust you are prepared?”

  “Always.”

  Michael stepped off the precipice and dove headfirst down the mountain. Satanail followed, his exhilarated hoot like a trumpet blaring to commence the race. Their bodies twisted and turned with immaculate precision to avoid the rocky cliffs.

  The rush caused every cell in Michael’s body to pulse with life. “I have missed this.”

  “You say that now, but we’ve only begun.”

  Michael and Satanail hurtled into the layer of clouds, scattering the suspended particles. The blue skies below were populated with Heaven’s indigenous residents: angels. Broad, powerful wings carried them along the currents of air. Over time, they had learned to manipulate their biology to suit particular talents and personalities. The hue of their skin and feathers, muscular structure, and number of wings were but a few of the variations. Flesh was the temple of the soul, a sacred design that each angel honed to an individual ideal. With a population of over three hundred million, they had to devise some form of distinction.

  Angels paused to watch their most respected brethren spear down the mountain. Michael recognized everyone, having long ago committed each name to memory, but he needed to focus. The initial leg of their contest was a test of will to see who would first deviate from their plunge.

  “Give them a sight to remember,” Satanail said.

  Michael extended his arms and flexed the muscles rippled across his exposed back. Three pairs of faint scars were visible: a pair on his shoulders, a pair on the middle of his back, and the lowest pair above his tailbone. The scar tissue split apart to release six magnificent wings brimming with emerald feathers. Six wings was the defining trait of the Seraphim, the highest Choir in the Celestial Hierarchy to which only a handful of angels could stake claim.

  Michael spread his wings and pulled out of the dive into horizontal flight. A downward flap blas
ted him forward, thousands of tiny muscles in his wings providing absolute control. The source of velocity, however, was not in the might of his body but that of his soul. An angel’s connection to his own spiritual energy—his grace—and to that linking all of Creation allowed for exceptional feats, such as soaring many times greater than the speed of sound. That synergy of power was the very definition of angelic divinity.

  Satanail hesitated until the last possible moment before he released his own six wings, drawing relieved cheers from the spectators. He never missed a prime opportunity to impress. Gray feathers whipped down to alter his course and propel him after Michael.

  The intensity of their race carried the two Seraphs across the entire region of Machonon. Michael’s homeland was a minimalist refuge for environmental leisure, so he flew with care to avoid disrupting the locals. Satanail was not so considerate. He hurled near a group of meditating angels, distracting them with acrobatic dips and twirls for his own amusement.

  “Was that necessary?” Michael asked, annoyed though not surprised.

  “Stodgy philosophers. What’s the harm of a passing thrill?” Satanail said and rolled over, bumping Michael off course.

  Michael righted himself and flattened his wings to minimize drag. Whoever maintained the lead chose their route, so he chased Satanail into a series of groves and darted between the obstacle course of trees. The Wildlife Reserve, a haven for animals, was spread beneath them. Countless species coexisted while the Archangels, caretakers of all living things in Heaven, studied their biology and habits. A few Archangels turned from the menagerie to root for their favored participant.

  The veins of a freshwater river snaked through the Reserve. Sections rose from the channel and hung in the air as troughs for larger animals. Satanail flew into the elevated waters and spread his wings to shower his rival. Michael caught a fish thrown loose from the flow and returned it to the river.

  Angels cherished life, and Satanail was using that fact to his advantage.

  “Desperate actions betray your doubts,” Michael scolded.

  “Restraint masks your own. Hold nothing back and have dignity in defeat.”

  Michael never placed much stock in the pleasure of victory but today he was determined to achieve it, if for no other reason than to distill Satanail’s smug assurance. He jettisoned any inhibitions and sharpened his grace for a singular function: speed.

  Every independent muscle in Michael’s wings contracted in unison, generating a deafening shock wave in his wake.

  Before Michael could take the lead, Satanail hitched onto his ankles. Their perception of time became surreal, expanding each moment to a glacial pace. Michael felt like his wings were slicing through the matter of Heaven, boosted by subatomic vibrations.

  The wind currents warped around Michael and Satanail into a tunnel of feathers. Trees uprooted and swirled behind the Seraphs, their bare branches like fingers trying to claw away from the blistering surf.

  Michael shook off Satanail’s grip. He could finally best his brother…but a cluster of oblivious angels flew into their route.

  No time to brake.

  “Swerve!”

  Michael and Satanail each veered to one side.

  The air stretched like elastic then snapped back at the angels in a delayed cyclone, toppling them in every direction.

  All thoughts of the race were abolished from Michael’s mind. Satanail continued on, unaware, his vision locked on their goal. Michael scanned the skies: a dozen angels were plummeting to the ground, wings useless from the race’s volatile momentum.

  In one breath, Michael calculated the trajectory of each angel. He zigzagged and caught one…two…three of them like plucking feathered raindrops. Michael’s steering seemed to negate gravity, the green flashes of his wings bridging between angels like an aerial sigil of gallantry.

  The spectacular rescue drew an even larger crowd. Michael snatched up angels by the hands, wings, legs—anything to stop their erratic descent. He insulated each one with his body, colliding through trees in an explosion of bark and feathers to spare them the pain. He did not falter, did not slow, not even when an errant elbow clocked him in the ear and jolted his balance.

  But the last angel was pitching towards a distant cavern wall. His hands reached out, pleading. Michael thrust his wings back and lunged with all his discipline…he was still too far away. The craggy rocks of the wall were like jutting teeth ready to mash the flailing angel when—

  Satanail bolted down and enveloped the angel in his wings, making an unbridled landing that fractured the ground. The crowd vented their nerves with applause, unsure if the close call was entertainment or a narrowly avoided disaster.

  “You missed one.”

  “I thought you left me behind,” Michael said.

  “What, and let you rant on with excuses when you lose?”

  “Lose? I was only warming up the crowd.” Michael hovered to continue the race. “You have the lead.”

  A pair of tall trees in the meadow beyond was the designated finish line, planted by Michael and Satanail when planning their first race. Tallies were carved into the bark of the winner’s tree, and Michael was ready to claim his first notch.

  It was a straight lane to the end. No more distractions, just skill. Who wanted it more?

  Wing-to-wing, Michael and Satanail flew the final stretch. Everything around them blended into a blur of acceleration. Angels from the entire Hierarchy gathered to watch the result while the Seraphs pushed themselves to the physical limits of their species.

  Michael inched ahead of Satanail and lowered his feet to land—

  A rush of grueling sensations seized him. The emotional blitz blurred Michael’s vision and robbed him of breath like he was drowning in a flood of panic. The light of Heaven dimmed as his eyes rolled back and wings stopped flapping.

  Father…? Michael’s mind called out before numbing into a stupor.

  Satanail edged past Michael just before the finish line. Too bad, Brother. It was a good effort, he thought, but the interruption was still aggravating. Their race was more than sport between brothers—it was an evaluation of their divine gifts. Proof of their maturation…their evolution. Satanail may have actually lost had it not been for the undue strain of Michael’s heroics. The inept angels should’ve known better. The general route of the race had been clearly publicized in advance.

  Satanail’s sandals carved a trail in the meadow as he passed between the trees. Michael followed in an instant. The race was so close that an untrained eye would’ve deemed it a draw, until Michael botched the landing. His feet staggered down and gave out, thumping him across the grass like plumed tumbleweed and shearing his limp wings.

  The crowd went silent.

  When Michael didn’t stand, prostrate in a disheveled pile, an unconditional concern emanated from Satanail. He had often challenged Michael, physically and intellectually, but the love he held for his brother was the purest sentiment in his soul. Their bond was such that they were considered two halves of one being—the Creator’s Word and Hand made flesh.

  “Michael!” he shouted but received no reply. The blank, helpless look on Michael’s face seared into Satanail. He’d never seen his brother so unnerved, so vulnerable, and held him with a gentle care shown only to his most trusted companions. “I have you. Open your eyes.”

  Satanail had to control the growing number of curious angels or rumor would take hold across the Host of Heaven. A single angel was a being of understanding and reason, but all creatures gathered in mass could deteriorate into amplified, irrational exaggeration.

  “Stand back. There’s no cause for alarm. We’ve all taken our share of tumbles.”

  A worried horse nudged through and nuzzled Michael. He believed that horses were the only creatures other than angels that had achieved a perfect fusion of athleticism and elegance, but Satanail still saw them as lesser creations. Snorts of hot breath hit Michael’s face, and he opened his eyes with a groan. The cro
wd let out a collective sigh, Satanail included.

  “Ease yourselves, brothers. I but put haste ahead of form.” Michael’s passive spirit, known to elicit calm with his presence, appeased the bystanders. Still, Satanail knew he was withholding the truth.

  Mistakes and imprecision weren’t in Michael’s nature.

  “Your wings would beg for more caution,” Satanail said in a dry attempt at levity.

  “Pain has its purpose as a reminder of our errors not to be repeated,” Michael replied, picking bits of foliage and dirt from his feathers. “Blessed is the Creator.”

  “Blessed is the Creator,” the crowd answered in unison.

  An angel named Amitiel stepped forward and gave Michael his ceramic bottle of manna, a rich liquid-based sustenance and staple of their nutrition. Though Satanail had seen him before in passing, the angel lacked any feature of distinction save one: unlike most, Amitiel didn’t swoon before Michael and treated him as he would anyone in need.

  “Drink, Logos.”

  The revitalizing properties of the elixir couldn’t be contested, but Satanail often speculated about alternate nourishment. Were fluids, fruit, and vegetation enough to build upon the Host’s innate power, or were they only sustaining themselves at a base level? Being limited in any way seemed contrary to their pedigree, one of many thoughts that Satanail kept to himself.

  Michael drank deep, soothed by the manna. Before he could thank Amitiel, the angel was gone. No fanfare, no parade of astral flattery for the Seraph, only a simple kindness. The others, however, bowed to receive Michael’s touch. Satanail had seen this unnecessary act many times. Michael was the Logos, he who received the Creator’s Word. He was an icon of the Host’s faith, but there was a fine line between giving reverence to a respected leader and misplaced worship. Michael was a conduit, not the Creator Himself, and the omnipotent divinity that separated the two had to remain distinct.

  Satanail lifted Michael and raised their hands to conclude the race. Using a fingernail, he carved another notch in his decorated tree, but the signature lacked its usual gratification. Beneath the adulation wafting about like an intoxicating aroma, a whisper of Satanail’s pride was still irritated that the story of his win would be sullied by drama.