Fall From Grace Page 10

  Michael’s words had never been so fluid and inspired with principle. The Host was wary but receptive, and he had but to solidify their commitment in a grand gesture of faith.

  “I understand that you all have questions. Trust the Creator as you always have. Trust in my judgment, and I will not lead you astray. Bow with me, brothers, and together we will embark upon our destiny.”

  Michael took a knee in mid-air and furled his wings. Nervous sweat dripped off his forehead, but he could not falter. Remain as a stalwart example. They will bow. Be their strength, be their faith, and they will bow.

  They will bow.

  A hand rested on Michael’s shoulder—Gabriel. Followed by Raphael, Cassiel, and Uriel, the Seraphim all surrounded him and bowed to the tapestries. Seeing their leaders take an oath of loyalty, the Host began to kneel in reverence until only one angel in the entire city remained upright…Satanail.

  “NO!” he shouted. “Rise, brothers.”

  “What is this?” Michael asked. Locking eyes with his brother, he felt the nausea of a dreadful truth—

  Satanail was opposing the Creator.

  “This is my Word. I’m sorry, Michael, but I can’t allow this to happen.”

  There was remorse in Satanail’s voice but also a treasonous conviction. Michael’s body became numb as Satanail left his side to further address the Host.

  “Stop him,” Gabriel whispered.

  Public contradiction between the Logos and Archon would deteriorate the solidarity of Heaven, but Michael could not move. He was in shock, like a chamber of his own heart had ceased functioning to spite the rest of his body.

  “How’s that a masterpiece?” Satanail continued, disparaging the tapestries. “It has no wings. It’s frail. Why should I, created of smokeless fire, bow to something of dirt and clay?”

  Satanail’s poignant questions immediately spread across the Host. Angels lifted their heads, loyalties wavering into doubt as a poisonous fog misted from his lips.

  Michael never thought that Satanail would be so reckless as to publicly denounce the Word.

  Never.

  Uriel gritted his teeth and was prepared to remove Satanail by force were it not for Raphael’s calming influence. “Control your emotions and await Michael’s instruction.”

  “There is no cause for this heresy,” Michael pleaded but was barely audible above the clamor.

  “Heresy? How can you say that? You, the great Logos who preached the supreme glory of our race, speak of servitude. That is heresy. We were created to be without equal. I serve no one!”

  Michael was at a loss. Faced with a logical argument spoken from a master orator, all he could do was shut out the betrayal tearing his soul into shreds and rely on his faith.

  “We serve the Creator!”

  “Not in this.”

  Satanail spread his six wings, allowing the effervescent light to filter through his feathers. He stretched his arms and exposed his entire body to the Host, the muscles impeccably chiseled as if cut from stone by the Creator’s own hands. Satanail’s angelic form was a living work of anatomical art that made the tapestries of Mankind look downright banal.

  “This is perfection. I’ll not award my loyalty to an unworthy being, and neither should you.”

  “Have faith,” Michael pleaded. “Remember your oath. Every one of us made an oath at our inception to follow the Creator in all things. Do not turn from that which has been the provenance of our infinite well-being.”

  “We are the source of our own prosperity!”

  “SILENCE!” Michael’s bellow quaked over the mountain, causing angels to cower beneath his explosion of temper.

  The Host was being torn between their two hallowed leaders, icons of reason and faith. If Michael allowed Satanail to continue speaking, the entire Host could be gulled into dissention.

  “My silence would be a worse sin. I can’t hold my tongue, Michael, not anymore,” Satanail reiterated.

  “…Then you have no place here.”

  Michael felt their brotherhood tear asunder, dissolving a lifetime of kinship. The command he was about to issue would place him in direct conflict with Satanail, but an example had to be made for the greater good of Heaven. He could not watch the Host be baited into errant apostasy, whatever the cost. Michael turned to the Seraphim and commanded—

  “Remove Satanail from the Sanctuary.”

  Satanail expected his objections to evoke a heated response from Michael, but being restrained in plain sight was even more beneficial. He allowed Uriel and Cassiel to detain him but kept his gaze on the Host, meeting eyes with as many individual angels as he could. One of Michael’s most exploitable faults was that he viewed Heaven from a macro sense and failed to see how everything could change from the aspirations of a single angel.

  Among the masses, Azazel watched Satanail’s every move, waiting for his moment.

  “Retract your wings,” Uriel said.

  “And do not struggle, lest I find reason to reciprocate your offense,” Cassiel whispered.

  The Seraphs seemed to revel in their task, ignoring the fact that Satanail could crush them both if he chose to resist. But there was influence in martyrdom. The Host would immortalize the image of him being forcibly removed. The resolve of those that heeded Satanail’s message was further strengthened by his compliance. They would deem him a pacifist unjustly silenced by Michael and his detainment a threat looming over any others who cherished freedom.

  Satanail withdrew his wings and turned to Michael. It stung to so openly defy him, but it had to be done. Rational appeals had fallen on deaf ears and only daring action would suffice. The extent of his continued defiance, however, would ultimately fall in Michael’s hands.

  “Remember, Brother, this is my city.”

  “You stake claim to but stone and mortar. Araboth is not yours to command,” Michael replied. “Take him away.”

  Before the Seraphim could pull Satanail away from the Host, he caught Azazel’s eye and nodded. Would the angel’s mettle match the ambition Satanail had nurtured?

  Rise, Azazel. Your time has come.

  “Why is Satanail, our devoted Archon, being reprimanded? For speaking his mind?” Azazel shouted and lifted up from the crowd. “Isn’t that a right shared by all?”

  The look of shock on the Seraphim was truly priceless. Their sense of entitlement meant exactly nothing when others chose to repeal their supposed authority. That a lone angel would be so audacious never entered their worst thoughts. As Azazel soared over the Host, Satanail’s own words flowed from his mouth like sweet ambrosia to quench the thirst of their stupor.

  It was glorious.

  “Michael claims this is the Word of the Creator, but I hear only his voice,” Azazel continued absent worry of reprisal. His stutter was replaced with compelling tenacity.

  “This is not a forum for debate, Azazel!” Michael said.

  “Nor are we your subjects! We’re all equal in the Creator’s eyes. If he were to demand such a sacrifice of our standards, wouldn’t it be a message received by all and free from another’s interpretation?”

  It was almost tragic how Michael absorbed the verbal blows without persuasive retort. Satanail saw the remaining Seraphim struggle to contain the charged atmosphere, unable to admit that they’d lost control.

  “Should I silence him?” Gabriel asked Michael.

  “No, it would only stir more animosity. Remain firm in your example.”

  Michael was not a fool. He knew how the tides of emotion ebbed and flowed against all opposition. The Host was in flux, and the smallest error in judgment would turn away those that yet remained faithful. But the Creator hadn’t prepared him for this outcome. Michael’s only course of action was to respond with his own words, which would prove too few and too late.

  The damage was done.

  “Do not succumb to Satanail’s doubts, brothers. Embark on this righteous journey and discover blessings beyond measure. We have wings so that we may asce
nd from the Kingdom and into the celestial ether of Creation itself where Mankind awaits with open arms.”

  A chill passed through Satanail’s spine. Michael’s speech was admirable, inspired even, but too sterile to impregnate those minds already swayed.

  “Love will never compromise our grace,” Michael avowed. “On my life, I swear it.”

  “But serving Mankind will,” Azazel replied. “We all have a moral obligation to protect our divine rights or be condemned to endless subjugation.

  “Every angel must make his own choice. I choose to stand with Satanail and bow to no one, human or angel. Should any wish to fly with me in the name of freedom, all are welcome.”

  A horde of angels took flight and followed Azazel out of the city. Satanail had never been more proud of his people. They believed in him and took a risk, an act of faith not in the Creator but in the incontrovertible divinity that coursed through their own souls.

  “Michael…?” Raphael sought direction as the crowd split.

  “Let them go.”

  Gabriel flew forth and raised a closed fist alongside Michael.

  “I stand with Michael, with the Creator, as do all of Heaven’s faithful.”

  Satanail didn’t anticipate the conflict forcing Gabriel into prominence and hoped that the capricious Seraph would return to his lackadaisical ways.

  Michael again led the Seraphim in bowing before the tapestries of Mankind. The majority of the Host followed, but the acceptance was far from universal. That was all Satanail needed, the onset of incredulity. Michael’s attempt to commence an “exultant future” instead became the first crack in a schism that would sever the very infrastructure of Heaven.

  It has begun, Satanail thought as Uriel and Cassiel dragged him into the shadows of the Grand Hall.

  When the voracious inferno of discontent spread across the lands, taking on a life of its own, Satanail would unite his people in the flames and lead the fight for freedom.

  CHAPTER 10

  Imprisonment

  The days following Mankind’s announcement dissolved in a haze. Heaven was marred with treachery, and none were more crippled by the unexpected schism than Michael. Satanail, trusted above all, had rejected the Word—rejected him—and steered others to do the same. But even if Satanail had been the sole dissenter, there was no greater failure for the Logos.

  Michael trudged through the subterranean corridors of the Grand Hall with a hefty sack slung over his shoulder, dreading his destination. Crystals of dried ice embedded in the walls maintained a frigid temperature. A medley of scents wafted from storerooms stocked with reserve food and manna. Uriel and Cassiel stood guard outside of one, the wooden doorframe excised for newly furnished metallic bars with a locking mechanism. The cold touch of a key against Michael’s chest was a constant reminder of the contemptible secret held within.

  “Logos,” Uriel greeted. “He’s not spoken except to demand words with you.”

  “Gratitude seems improper, but you have mine nonetheless,” Michael replied.

  “These improper times demand vigilance,” Cassiel said.

  “Yours will not be forgotten. I would see you return to more tranquil environments and seek rest. I will assume your charge.”

  Michael peered through the bars to see Satanail lying on the dirt amidst stacks of food crates and clay jugs of manna.

  “Yes, relieve me of this stale tedium that’s their company,” Satanail’s voice mocked from behind the bars. “Go now, pups, and allow the adults to converse—”

  Uriel smashed his fists into the bars. Satanail did not flinch.

  Cassiel pulled Uriel away, but not before whispering his own threat. “One day, blasphemer, I will have your tongue.”

  Satanail bit into an apple and whistled a teasing tune at the departing angels. “Your Seraphim are quick to fluster, Michael, though I expect their agitation isn’t unique.”

  It was eerie to see Satanail so relaxed in his confinement, as if he was exactly where he wanted to be. Were it not so, Michael doubted their efforts could contain him.

  “Your thoughts would be better directed towards your own situation,” Michael replied.

  “The greatest minds in Heaven, and confining me among food stuffs was the brilliant result of your deliberation? Your imagination disappoints.”

  “It was my decision. Be thankful that you will not starve.”

  “Or want for drink.” Satanail dangled a frothy mug between the bars. “The manna has aged nicely.”

  Michael struggled not to let the smug gesture incense him.

  “How can you be so flippant? Do you realize what you have done to Heaven?”

  “Do you? Locking me in here won’t sit well with those that heeded my message.”

  “In your absence, they will see reason,” Michael assured.

  “Your naivety is unbecoming. Reason is why they flew away.”

  Michael spread his wings across the corridor, blocking all light with their imposing span. “You have wounded the harmony of Heaven, but I will see it restored to health.”

  If Satanail was affected by the conviction of Michael’s vow, he did not reveal it. “The Host’s union will mend, but not as you wish it. I spoke of freedom while you and Father demanded subservience. Which do you think the Host prefers?”

  “Manipulation is not preference. You knew, you knew, what your objections would generate, and you still chose to—”

  “Exactly. I chose to be the architect of my own destiny, and it felt sublime.”

  Michael had seen the same zeal in Satanail’s eyes many times, and with it he achieved great things for the Host. What would be the result if that passion were applied against the Creator without the caution of faith? The thought made Michael turn away.

  “LOOK AT ME!” Satanail shouted and shattered the manna jug against the bars. His sober exterior was diminishing to reveal the snarl of emotions within.

  Michael wiped the thick glaze from his face. “Who are you?”

  “Your brother. How can you sweep me out of sight like a Forgotten?”

  “What other ‘choice’ have you given me? You broke divine law and will be judged.”

  “Since when is your word divine?” Satanail asked.

  “My word and the Creator’s are one and the same.”

  “Your arrogance is disgusting. It bleeds absurd desperation. Bars and walls can’t confine my words. They’ll spread, and all of Heaven will flock to my call. I’m their future.”

  What Satanail spoke of was a sullen possibility, but Michael had to believe otherwise.

  “I have faith that the Host’s doubts will thaw in the warmth of their Creator’s love.”

  “Faith? Be prepared for profound disappointment.”

  “I have already endured it. You saw to that.” Michael opened the sack and removed a bundle of chains and clasps, each link as thick as a closed fist. He used the key around his neck to unlock the storeroom. “Spread your feet and hold your hands in front of you.”

  “Now you resort to chains?” Satanail scoffed but obeyed the command.

  Michael clasped Satanail’s wrists and ankles, binding hands to feet with a short length of chain that restricted him to a seated position. The sanction compressed Michael like a boulder upon his chest. He wanted to free his brother, to embrace him and forget all that had transpired, but that was a puerile longing. Satanail would now exploit any kindness as weakness to secure his moral dominance. Forgetting—ignorance—was impossible.

  “Your wings,” Michael ordered.

  The six appendages burst loose with a rush that blew a lone tear down Michael’s cheek. The momentary flash of emotion did not escape Satanail.

  “Your body betrays your thoughts. Misgivings?”

  “Fading emotions from our former kinship.” Michael pulled the wings back and locked the chains against Satanail’s body between each pair, preventing retraction.

  “What if I should choose to leave this place? Do you believe you could stop me?
” Satanail provoked, but it only reinforced what needed to be done.

  Michael closed the storeroom and locked the bars. He stared at Satanail, compelling his mind to harden until he felt nothing for his brother. No sorrow, no pity, nothing.

  “Without a doubt.”

  Satanail’s storeroom had no windows or view of the exterior light. How many days and nights had he been cordoned off? Michael expected him to lose his wits and wail apologies, but defying expectations was his specialty. Confinement accelerated Satanail’s spiritual becoming and provided time to master the nuances of his swelling emotional spectrum.

  Patience, he thought. Immobility doesn’t equate to inaction. When the public learned of his incarceration, his passive acceptance of the punishment would cast him in a more fashionable light.

  The Seraphim took shifts to guard their scandalous secret, and now Raphael stood outside of Satanail’s bars. Though ever in support of the Creator, the Seraph didn’t have a contentious bone in his body and was surely at odds with Michael’s decision. Whether sheer boredom or inspired tactic, Satanail decided to test the guard’s loyalties.

  “I imagine that your students are lost without you. Empty Thrones. You have to appreciate the symbolism.”

  “Very clever, Satanail, but I was instructed not to speak with you,” Raphael replied without making eye contact.

  “Then speak to me,” Satanail said. “Your Thrones: how fare their studies?”

  “You cannot beguile me with courtesy.”

  “I’d not dream of it. I’ve always admired your Choir. In fact, I myself have dabbled in your art, though my successes can hardly be compared to those of a master such as yourself.”

  Raphael turned to face Satanail. “To be a Throne requires the deepest commitment, a thing you could never grasp. You believe in nothing but yourself.”

  “One disagreement and you cast me unto condemnation? That’s unlike you.”

  “I would cleanse your mind if I could, but I suspect that your infection is beyond the grace of any Throne.” Raphael lived to heal, that was his oath as a Throne. It must’ve felt horrible for him to believe that his curative skills couldn’t help.