Fall From Grace Read online

  “We have heard from the Council of Seraphim, your peers and representatives of the Host. Face your brethren, Satanail, and speak for your actions,” the Qaddisin ordered.

  Satanail didn’t move. “I’ve said my peace before the entire Host, and those that yet hold importance to me have already embraced it. My brethren sit among the open-minded, not in this Court of obsolete opinion.” He aimed a scowl up at the judges. “I’ll not justify my actions to the Council or you. I’ll not grovel for lenience. You’re all beneath me.”

  “Then it is noted for the record that you chose not to defend yourself,” the Qaddisin said. “Let the vote begin.”

  “Satanail, you have been charged with defying the Creator, manipulating the Host, and fracturing the peace of Heaven. Council—”

  “—How do you vote?” the Irin asked.

  The Seraphim stood. “Guilty,” Cassiel started.

  “Guilty,” Uriel agreed.

  “I will not condemn a brother, even one so lost. Satanail is far from innocent, but I must say not guilty,” Raphael said.

  Sammael raised his palms like a scale. “Eh, I feel generous today. Not guilty.”

  “Guilty,” Gabriel countered.

  “Michael, understand this: should you find Satanail free of guilt, the vote will be deemed even and innocence will preside,” the Qaddisin explained.

  Satanail’s trial was of Michael’s making and its outcome his burden to assume—he had only to speak the word. Say it. A line has been drawn in quicksand, and you’ll drown if you straddle it. But oddly, an incongruity of hope yet lingered that Michael would restore their brotherhood. Satanail knew it was crumbling, but what if…?

  “Guilty,” Michael said, infused with a sadness that Satanail shared. The last, sweet residue of optimism for reconciliation was washed away by judgment.

  Michael has made his choice. He’s dead to me.

  “Satanail, the Heavenly Court finds you—”

  “—Guilty,” the Irin declared.

  “And what sentence would the Court pass on me, you paltry excuse for agents of justice?”

  But rather than impose a sentence, the Qaddisin looked to Michael. “Michael, you brought these charges before the Court. We would hear your thoughts on the matter of punishment.”

  “The Council has voted. Sentencing is within the jurisdiction of the judges,” Michael said. It was impotent of him to pass guilt but then shy from the results of it.

  “Satanail has betrayed the Creator—”

  “—And you are His Word. Speak. We will not ask again.” The judges insisted because they didn’t want the liability of sentencing Satanail. They were afraid. Weak-willed automatons.

  “Satanail should remain confined, solitarily, until he accepts the delusion and sacrilege of his words.” Michael winced as if the sentence was his own. “Only with him contained can we reverse the damage. If Satanail is freed, we will be battling a rising tide beyond control.”

  “An unprecedented sentence. You would damn Satanail, an angel of the same flesh and blood as your own, to rot?” the Qaddisin asked.

  “Until a later time when his influence is—”

  “Yes—” the Irin interrupted.

  “—Or no.”

  “…Yes.”

  “The Court is in agreement. It will be done.”

  Whatever hole Michael decided to stuff Satanail into, its walls wouldn’t halt his influence. The Creator’s Word would continue to decay until lifeless like salted earth, until not one angel could be sustained by its slander.

  Nothing could stop what was coming.

  The sentence was met with reserved grief. It did not feel like justice, not to Michael. The Seraphim gathered around Satanail, shaken by the gravity of what they had participated in, but their remorse was met with penetrating disregard. Michael was barely suppressing a barrage of sympathy, fury, and despondency, so how could Satanail remain so distant? Did he feel nothing? Had all of the Creator’s love been vanquished from his soul?

  The Qaddisin interrupted the somber rumination. “Satanail, we hereby strip you of the titles of Seraph and Archon.”

  Michael saw the smallest quiver in Satanail’s face, the only evidence that he retained any emotional response.

  “Until another Archon can be chosen by the public—”

  “—We appoint you, Michael, to act in his stead,” the Irin announced.

  “Are there any objections?” the Qaddisin asked.

  The Seraphim turned to Satanail with bated breath, expecting a burst of animosity, but his laconism was more disparaging.

  “Michael, do you accept this responsibility?”

  “I do.”

  “Then you are Logos and Archon—”

  “—Word and Hand of the Creator.”

  “The Heavenly Court is adjourned,” the Qaddisin declared.

  The four judges resumed their static trance. As the combined Logos and Archon, Michael had to represent a definitive strength and commitment worthy of both bestowed titles. His first act would be to enforce Satanail’s sentence without guilt or sorrow.

  “What now, Logos? Or is it Archon? I’m confused. Shall I just call you Lord Almighty of Heaven?” Satanail taunted.

  “You call me nothing. You have forfeited the right to speech, to sound, to sight, to knowledge,” Michael replied. He pulled a gag through Satanail’s mouth, stuffed his ears with cloth, and secured a black hood over his head. “Satanail must be contained in a place of unabated security and secrecy. Suggestions?”

  “Throw him in the deepest, darkest pit of muck and forget about him,” Gabriel said.

  “Does Heaven have such an abyss?” Uriel asked.

  “You know it does,” Sammael said. “I call it home.”

  “Sammael cannot be trusted. He spoke in favor of Satanail,” Cassiel replied.

  “So did I,” Raphael interjected. “But my vote does not infer that I would act against the Court’s ruling.”

  “None of us wish to see Satanail bring Heaven to ruination,” Sammael assured. “No location is more remote or stigmatized than Mathey. My eyes and ears are everywhere, and Satanail’s verbal vomit can’t sway them. They are, after all, forgotten.”

  It was a risky gamble, but the Forgotten were loyal only to Sammael. They would neither spread knowledge of Satanail’s location nor fall victim to his influence. If Sammael did prove untrustworthy, then at least both villains would be restricted to one region far from Araboth.

  “I will accompany Sammael on his return to Mathey and see it done,” Michael said.

  “Michael, you can’t—” Gabriel began.

  “It is decided.” Michael and Sammael each grabbed one of Satanail’s arms to drag him out of the courtroom. “But do not think this arrangement is a sign of trust,” he said to Sammael.

  “What would you have of us, Archon?” Uriel asked. The title felt foreign to Michael, one not earned but granted out of unfortunate urgency.

  “Return to your lands. Quell any uprisings, but do not use force. Lead with respect, with faith, with purpose, and they will follow you back to the Creator,” Michael instructed.

  “And if they don’t? Will my lands become flooded with more of your political prisoners?” Sammael whispered like it would be a favorable turn of events.

  “There is a long flight ahead of us, and I have heard enough of your voice for one day,” Michael said, but Sammael’s question was valid. If the misguided angels continued their dissent, to what lengths would Michael resort in the name of peace?

  Father, be my light and conscience.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Forgotten Land

  Michael followed Sammael through the skies leading to Mathey. Signs of civilization began to disappear until not one angel soared among the clouds. Wildlife declined with only the most primitive creatures, like stubborn invertebrates, braving the bleak elements. The terrain regressed into patches of cracked, arid dirt lacking the Cherubim’s blooming touch. Michael wondered why Heaven ha
d such a miserable place, yet the destitution never bled beyond Mathey—balance.

  Satanail’s wings were gripped in Michael’s hands, the former Archon still bound by chain and senses nullified. Would he find remorse in exile, or would the pollution in his soul be nourished by the deprivation? Creator help us if he finds a means of escape.

  “Is it much farther?” Michael called up to Sammael. There was an inconsiderate aversion in his voice, but he had greater worries than the Seraph’s feelings.

  Sammael spread his wings and drifted back to Michael. “You should be more appreciative of my aid. I thought angels valued respect.”

  “A courtesy that has fallen to the wayside of late.”

  “Only, it seems, when relating to myself. I bring combustible danger to my lands, to my people, and you treat me as rabble.”

  “How should I treat you?”

  “As a leader!” Sammael demanded. “One who commands prodigious numbers committed to my word and will alone. For all that you are, Michael, you’ve never held the rage of an entire people in your hands. You call them Forgotten, but believe me, they remember.”

  In truth, Michael doubted he could ever respect Sammael. Being so far removed from the Host had fostered an alarming cunning and self-serving disposition, but it was imprudent to provoke him. Sammael and the Forgotten were an omnipresent threat that must remain dormant.

  “Forgive my tone,” Michael apologized. “I would urge you to aim your people’s thoughts towards the future. Old quarrels serve no one.”

  “Fair enough, but though we’re allied in this effort, you don’t own me or them. I remember the name Michael before it was enriched by lofty titles, when you scoffed with the others at the creatures I chose to protect. Innocents that you would’ve seen destroyed because they lacked our exterior grace.”

  “Time clouds your memory.”

  “Does it? We’re ancient beings, and you’ve been revered as the standard of goodness for so long that you’ve entombed or obscured memories of when you were less than perfect. Outside the fabrications of your Heaven, my clarity is untarnished. But you actually believe that the public’s perception is who you are. If that’s stripped from you, what’ll you find underneath? Take care in the coming days, Michael, lest you lose yourself.” Sammael’s comments were vexing yet poignant. The choices that were ahead would test the bedrock of Michael’s identity.

  The light faded into a stale murk offering no nourishment or warmth. Michael felt a sudden and heavy change in the air that caused him to wheeze.

  “I cannot…cannot breathe…!”

  “You’ll adapt. Our air may not caress your lungs like the Cherubim’s gentle concoction, but you’ll be stronger for it,” Sammael said and savored a huge inhale. “Welcome to Mathey.”

  The region was a desolate void of cavernous landmasses that floated like fragmented islands above an impenetrable, obsidian mist. Violent, primal energies shot up from the mist and into the fractured terrain, maintaining its aerial buoyancy. Michael felt the effects of the kinetic maelstrom in his body, like it wanted to violate his cells with malignant masses.

  Sammael dove closer to the islands. What first appeared to be singular chunks of rock were actually constructed of smaller, individual stones.

  “Cassiel and your Nest had no hand in Mathey’s design. Every stone of these islands was carved and placed by my people with the strength of claw and purpose. Artistry in its rawest, purest form.”

  Unsettling clicks and groans echoed around Michael, though their source was impossible to locate. “For a region supposedly rife with your people, I see none.”

  “You see only what I allow,” Sammael said and unleashed a harsh, throaty roar. “Hold Satanail tight. It’d be…unpleasant if your gripped faltered.”

  Forgotten popped up from behind stones—beasts answering the call of their pack master. More poured from cave entrances and holes dug in the rock, extended nails leaving deep scratches. Their gaunt bodies were laced with lean muscle, and the gnarled stumps of malformed wings protruded around spiny vertebrae. Bald heads stared at Michael with gnashing, sharpened teeth and ebony eyes that lacked any whiteness or iris color.

  “My children. Beautiful,” Sammael said with a father’s pride amidst the Forgotten’s cacophonous language. “Listen how they welcome my return.”

  Sammael’s presence had a tranquil effect on the Forgotten. Despite their monstrous appearance and imposed segregation, he had developed a rudimentary society for them.

  “You have given them a home, a place for them to belong. I am impressed,” Michael admitted.

  “High praise from the Logos and Archon. You’re going to make me blush. Stay close. My home is near.”

  Stretched below Michael was a bridge so thin that Forgotten had to crawl across in single file to follow them. The rock of its underbelly formed sharp stalactites drenched in more Forgotten. They poured over each other in unison as if a hive mind dictated their movements. The bridge led to a pyramid-shaped mountain with sleek edges that almost seemed in motion. Michael realized that the entire face was slathered with Forgotten adhered to the slopes.

  Sammael flew towards the base, and the Forgotten guards parted to reveal an entrance carved in the shape of a vicious mouth. Michael followed him inside and noticed gears behind the opening that could slam the toothed jaws shut to seal the mountain.

  Two Forgotten came from the dark to bring Sammael a torch. He stroked their splotched skulls in gratitude, eliciting a content cooing sound. The creatures climbed his back and perched on the spread wings. They stared at Satanail, draped across Michael’s arms, with a sly curiosity.

  The torch flame illuminated thousands of Forgotten swimming over the walls and ceiling, but what remained unseen was even more alarming. Unfamiliar movements encircled Michael, not the gentle steps of angels or the Forgotten’s claws on stone but something more…abnormal.

  “What else resides in here?” Michael asked, but Sammael glossed over his inquiry.

  “Follow me. I have the perfect enclosure for Satanail.”

  The passages thinned as they delved deeper into the dank mountain. The walls hemorrhaged water and filled the air with rank moisture. Michael heard the Forgotten lapping the droplets to satiate their thirst. Each new turn brought multiple paths, and even the tunnels leading to the Chamber of Creation were a pedestrian puzzle compared to the dizzying labyrinth. It seemed crafted not only for protection but to also destroy the sanity of any whom entered uninvited.

  Michael had to drop onto his stomach and crawl to proceed, dragging Satanail behind by the chain. He shivered as a stream of tiny insect legs scuttled across his torso. Eventually, he was able to crouch up but faced only the blank, rough stone of a dead end. A claustrophobic panic took hold as if the air had been sucked out of the tunnel and the walls were closing in.

  “You would trap me here?”

  “Your issues with trust are unhealthy.” Sammael brought his torch to the floor.

  A ridged hole led down farther than the flames could reveal.

  “When Gabriel suggested the deepest, darkest pit in Heaven, he was not being literal.”

  “Yet here we are. Give me Satanail.”

  Michael relinquished Satanail’s chain. Sammael secured the end link through a hook fused into the rock ceiling, yanking down to test the strength. It did not budge.

  “Do you wish to say goodbye?” Sammael asked.

  Michael brought his mouth near the hood covering Satanail’s head, though he knew his brother could not hear him.

  “This is not permanent. I will return for you.”

  Sammael kicked Satanail down into the hole. The lengthy chain rattled into the darkness then—THUNK—snapped tight with a bellow of pain.

  This is cruel. Savage. We should not be here, Michael thought but could not reveal his uncertainty to Sammael.

  “If Satanail escapes, if any learn of his location, or if undue harm befalls him, you will be held personally responsible…and I will
come for you,” Michael warned.

  Sammael’s lips parted into a smile of rotten teeth that made Michael’s flesh crawl.

  Satanail’s freefall was terrifying, but fear was replaced by burning pain when the chain became rigid and dislocated his wings. Deprived of senses, he dangled and swayed from the chain with no knowledge of solid ground. Every experience held value, however, and Satanail would learn all that he could from the sadistic tribulation.

  My pain is my strength, he repeated to himself. My strength will defeat my enemies. My Word is free, and soon, so shall I be. My pain is my strength. My pain is my strength.

  Satanail had flown in Michael’s arms for such a distance that only one region could’ve been their destination: Mathey. The lack of air quality confirmed his theory. He was either underground or within a mountainous cave system, but he needed to free his senses in order to analyze the full scope of his quarantine.

  The soft textiles wedged deep in Satanail’s ears had loosened when Michael dragged him. He wrenched his head back and forth until the plugs shook free. A rush of sounds came back, each resonating with blaring clarity. Satanail focused to identify each vibration and pitch. Booming drums were merely droplets of water. A piercing shriek softened into the whistle of air. But one sound had no calming reveal—the screeching Forgotten. Thousands melded into a dissonant harmony more painful than his stretched and torn ligaments.

  Satanail’s ears isolated the frequency of the Forgotten’s cries and muted it. What remained was something akin to a serpent’s slither and the multi-legged scuttle of a crab. Four mixtures of tones circled him but didn’t belong to any one creature he could identify. He would’ve been fascinated, but alone and vulnerable, Satanail was most certainly afraid.

  Satanail’s body jerked, disturbed from above. Something was climbing down his chain. The extra weight drew closer. Closer. It was on top of his shoulders. Fingers caressed his hood with nails sharpened to acute points. Suddenly, the hood was shredded off his head, and the weight lifted.