Fall From Grace Page 13

  The glow of a single torch mounted far above offered little illumination of Satanail’s surroundings. He was hanging above the rocky floor, but the walls and ceiling were too far to measure. As his eyes adjusted, his limited sight discerned movement. He ground the gag between his teeth and spit out the rancid cloth.

  “Show yourself!” Satanail’s coarse voice shouted.

  A giggle answered from the dark and seemed to revel in his capture. Satanail made out the basic shapes of Forgotten coating the curved surfaces. But they kept their distance as if held back by the presence of a greater predator.

  Whatever was taunting Satanail, it wasn’t the Forgotten.

  “One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six wings,” four unique voices counted in a high, raspy pitch.

  “You’re a Seraph,” the most commanding one continued.

  “I’m no mere Seraph. I am Satanail,” he announced to the unseen visitors.

  The slithering drew closer until Satanail saw its source. What was once a Forgotten had somehow become a lecherous pariah whose torso didn’t end in bipedal legs but was instead sewn into a serpentine tail. Makeshift wings were stitched into the creature’s back, each comprised of discarded feathers strung on rearranged bones. The assemblage of flesh was revolting yet marvelous.

  The creature slid towards Satanail and coiled its tail around him. The scales compressed his chest as its face drew closer. The long, full waves of hair were surprisingly soft. Rows of fangs parted to release an extended, split tongue that licked around his mouth with stinging saliva.

  “Satanail, my husband has spoken many tales of you.” The creature’s voice instilled an odd desire within him. Echoes of “Give us a turn” and “I want to touch” were silenced by a hiss.

  “What are you?” Satanail asked.

  “I am the pleasure of flesh. I am carnal lust. I am Lilith.”

  The creature revealed the mammary glands of a female, but how could that be? Forgotten were asexual like angels. She lowered Satanail’s face into her plump breasts, the erect nipples tickling across his lips. Scintillating sensations tingled through his body. Heat. Desire.

  “Do you want me?” she whispered and gently bit his earlobe.

  “Yes,” Satanail replied without thought.

  Lilith pressed her lips to his and opened them. Her tongue slid into Satanail’s mouth and massaged against his own in a moist, delicious dance. He tasted the sting of her saliva but craved more. Enthralled moans came from the others.

  “LILITH!”

  Sammael descended from the hole above. The intensity of his arrival sent the Forgotten scrambling, but Lilith remained.

  “Husband, I was only entertaining our new guest,” she said and slithered into his arms.

  “He’s not a guest. He’s our charge and deserves none of your special entertainment,” Sammael said then turned his wrath to Satanail. “I see you’ve met my wives.”

  “Wives? Only the one.”

  Sammael snapped his fingers, and three other “wives” came out of the darkness, each as debased in form as Lilith.

  “Eisheth,” Sammael introduced and pointed to a crouched Forgotten with a stretched lower jaw that dragged on flimsy slats of skin. Crustacean claws for limbs massaged a cluster of oozing orifices on her underbelly. “Naamah,” he continued to one with cloven hooves, spiral horns, and steam leaking from her pursed lips. “And Agrat.” A large, predatory feline had five Forgotten faces sewn into her mane, a row of bone spikes embedded along her spine, and a swollen phallus for a tail. Lilith was the obvious favorite among Sammael’s bastardizations.

  “What’ve you done to them?” Satanail asked, repulsed and fascinated by the science.

  “What our Creator did to us. I blessed them with gifts that their bodies embraced. Did you think angels were the only ones who could manipulate flesh? Naamah, turn on the lights.”

  Naamah’s mouth opened and spewed out a trail of fire, igniting torches mounted on the walls to illuminate the chamber.

  Hundreds of Forgotten were suspended from the ceiling, each in various states of dismemberment. Shreds of intestines dangled from their half-carved bodies. Individual limbs swayed on rusted hooks. Severed pieces of wildlife spilled from sacks for Sammael’s experiments. Pained whines reacted to the light—

  The Forgotten were still alive, many with Sammael’s perverse “gifts” partially sewn into their flesh.

  Satanail’s stomach heaved bile into his mouth as the wives cackled at his revulsion. “You’re…you’re…”

  “I’m an artisan. A creator.” Sammael flew up to Satanail and twirled a serrated blade stained with blood between his fingers. “Would you like me to give you a gift?”

  Lilith gripped Satanail’s face and forced him to watch while Sammael sliced into his flesh.

  CHAPTER 13

  The Gift and the Silent Scribe

  Satanail lingered in Michael’s thoughts with a gnawing suspicion like insects crawling under his clothes. The flare of a smoldering spirit was still within Satanail, yet he had accepted the Court’s ruling without any protest—the same angel who walked the lines of decency to secure victory in simple sport. Satanail had never been bested in even his casual pursuits, and now Michael was to accept that he yielded when standing at the crossroads of history?

  Michael knew he was missing something. Satanail predicted the reactions of others before those same thoughts entered their minds. He must have foreseen that Michael would silence him. Azazel was a paltry replacement, unable to lead with the same convincing articulation, so what was Satanail’s next move? He disputed Mankind by invoking the sacrosanct concepts of choice and freedom. Michael felt those very rights being ripped from him as if he were marching along a predetermined path whose stones were set by Satanail. The Word of the Creator guided his labors, so why could he not waive the sense of being Satanail’s instrument?

  Michael glided over the walls of Araboth City anticipating the relief of routine, but unease had swept across the public in his absence and impacted every aspect of their daily lives. Traffic had ground to a halt. Only the most devoted citizens traveled the airways. The Princedom’s art was devolving into bland exercises absent inspiration. Merchants ceased displaying wares, and the Angels abandoned their routes. Loyalties divided old friends. The faithful sought refuge in the Sanctuary, while those affected by Satanail remained despondent in their homes.

  As Archon, Michael’s priority was to mend Heaven through solidarity, but he had no idea how to proceed. Satanail had been a stellar Archon who maintained an intimate connection to the public’s temperament—the pulse of Heaven. By doing the same, Michael hoped to discover and mend any rifts in the union.

  Michael landed in the shadow of the residential tower where Satanail resided. Those most loyal to Satanail occupied the area and could help him gauge the discontent. Concealing his famous features under a cloak, Michael walked the same streets Satanail frequented. There were no more boisterous conversations from welcome windows and doorways, only cautious whispers.

  “I heard that the Seraphim condemned Satanail in a private trial. No one’s seen him since,” an angel said in a worried group.

  “Rumors and fabrication. Satanail must return. He’s viceroy of the city,” another replied.

  “They say Michael is acting Archon and that Satanail’s been stripped of titles and hidden away Creator knows where.”

  Satanail’s trial was closed to the public to avoid such scandal. How had its knowledge spread? Michael slinked forward to hear more, saddened that his paranoia was justified.

  “Even if Satanail were no longer the Archon, elections would need to be held, right? Michael can’t be both Logos and Archon, can he?”

  “I’m more worried about that supposed ‘trial.’ What if the Seraphim deem our opinions to be against the Creator? Will we disappear too?”

  “Keep your mouth shut, and it won’t be an issue.”

  “I would not have it so.” Michael stepped forth and lowered his hoo
d. The entire group kneeled not from love or respect but as if punishment awaited those who disobeyed.

  “Please, brothers, stand.” Michael tried to act with his usual calm, but the encumbering hardships stiffened his manner. “Let it be known that none should have worry of persecution. The transgressions of one angel will not be applied to others. Keep your souls open to the Creator and His love will follow.”

  The angels appeared placated. Michael parted ways, hoping that the encounter would help cease the spread of rumor.

  A Seraphic voice drew Michael into the city plaza where a golden monolith rose from the center. Its shadow spread across the gemstone tiles in five directions to form a star. Ascending carvings of the Choirs decorated the monolith with Michael and Satanail at its apex. Many angels knelt around it, including Uriel. He clutched a candle in his hands and muttered a prayer.

  “Father, give me the courage and strength to enact your will. Embrace those who remain in your fold and have mercy on those who’ve strayed.” Uriel stopped his chant as another angel knelt beside him—Raphael.

  “I am worried about you, Uriel. You should have returned to the Forge. To your people.”

  “I can’t. This is an issue of personal faith. What right do I have to speak on it to others?”

  “The right given by those that look to you for guidance,” Raphael replied and gestured to the angels circling the monolith. “Why do you seek comfort in these carvings?”

  “Because they represent all that we are.”

  “Do they? Angels, Archangels, Virtues, Powers, Princedoms, Thrones, Dominions, Cherubim, and Seraphim. We devised the system of Heavenly Choirs, not the Creator. The number of our wings, our gifts—” Raphael brought the candle flame to Uriel’s arm and watched it lick over the skin without burning. “—Make us unique, nothing more. Could an Angel not perform the social duties of a Dominion? Could a Cherub not create the art of this monolith? Your faith is strong. Listen to it. Allow it to inspire others. The Creator will not guide you hand-in-hand, no matter how devout your prayers.”

  There was a complex truth in the advice. Michael’s faith was a constant struggle to believe that the Creator’s divine influence guided his leadership.

  “I know, but something has to remain constant,” Uriel said. “Now more than ever.”

  “And it will,” Raphael assured. “The bonds of our Choirs are not so easily broken.”

  “How could anyone follow Satanail like that? One moment of unease, just one, and they turned their backs on everything to give allegiance to a…a worthless renegade.”

  “Worthless? Do not assume to know the worth of any angel, even those that defy the structure you hold so dear. Structure begets stability, but with it comes a shared responsibility. The enduring nature of Heaven rests upon all of our shoulders, we can only do our part.”

  “They’re making a mistake,” Uriel said.

  “It is theirs to make.” Raphael placed his palm against Uriel’s forehead to soothe his thoughts. “Resume your role as Forgemaster. Show others that your faith has not been shaken. Trust in the Creator. Trust in Michael. He stands atop this monolith for good reason.”

  “As does Satanail.”

  “But Michael was chosen to usher the Host to our destiny, as he always was, as he always will be. Sometimes to move forward, one must delve into the past.”

  Raphael’s message lifted the floodgates that stifled Michael’s thoughts with negativity. If but a single angel retained his faith, it could still radiate back to others. Regardless of how much darkness befell Heaven, there was always a path back to the light.

  History was cyclical. If one gazed into the past with focused vision, the answer to any conflict could be found. For Michael to solidify the Host’s wavering support and eliminate the threats facing Heaven, he did not have to emulate Satanail…he had to understand him. This was Michael’s journey, and he would lead his brothers to salvation.

  All of them.

  Satanail remained suspended in darkness, mesmerized by the creak of his swaying chains. Sleep was impossible. Slow streams of blood trickled from his various cuts into the jaws of edacious Forgotten below. A throbbing ache persisted between his legs. Sammael took great pleasure in carving his flesh, but Satanail was unable to stay conscious long enough to see if the savage had added any extra “gifts” to his physique.

  Satanail could only breathe through his nose, and the broken cartilage made each inhale excruciating. Sammael had sewn his lips shut to dull the screams. Blood pooled in Satanail’s mouth. It tasted metallic, like how the air in the ore mines would coat the back of his throat.

  When Michael teetered at the edge of sanity upon receiving the Word, Satanail felt his trauma. Did Michael now share in his torment? No, he thought, Michael would never endorse this barbarism.

  Satanail and Michael should’ve destroyed Sammael eons ago along with all of the Forgotten. The foulness of Mathey and the abominations bred within, they were to blame for all of it. They were so wary of conflict that they bargained with Sammael, made him a Seraph, rather than follow their instincts. Once he was out of sight, they didn’t waste another thought on him. Sammael was left to his own devices, and horrors sprung from their ignorance. The antithesis of all goodness and love was no longer theory but a hard fact of Creation’s balance.

  Evil was real.

  The cackling of Sammael’s wives made Satanail cringe. What they’d done to him, the degradation, the sickening liberties taken with his body…such atrocities would change anyone.

  “Do you hunger, little angel?” The clop of Naamah’s hooves approached, and a belch of fire lit up the prison.

  “Begone,” Agrat’s five faces echoed. She leapt into view and swatted her paws at the Forgotten being nourished by Satanail’s blood.

  “Man-na,” Eisheth garbled and scuttled forward with a jug carried in her dragging jaw.

  Agrat stood on her hind legs and raised a paw to Satanail’s face. Claws extended and slashed the stitches sealing his lips.

  “Open,” she said, but Satanail clenched his mouth shut.

  “We can’t permit you to waste away. Open,” Naamah added then unleashed a torrent of flame under his feet.

  The sizzle of Satanail’s flesh drew hungry clicks from the Forgotten. He suppressed any screams…until Agrat scraped at his burning, blistering soles.

  Eisheth leapt onto Satanail’s back and shoved a shelled claw between his teeth. He gagged as her loose jaw drooled on his shoulder and the bodily slime trickled down his back.

  “Man-na.”

  A second claw brought the jug against Satanail’s lips, but he closed his throat and splashed the liquid out with his tongue.

  “Drink,” Agrat ordered.

  Naamah jabbed her horns into Satanail’s lower back, forcing his head to tilt and open his throat. A syrupy liquid drizzled from Eisheth’s jug and flooded his distended stomach. The disgusting concoction wasn’t like any manna that he’d tasted from the Tree of Life. Did the same slop sustain the Forgotten?

  “Drink. Drink it all.” Naamah dug her horns in harder until the last drop fell.

  Satanail’s body convulsed as the liquid corroded his stomach lining and contaminated his bloodstream. His larynx vibrated and produced the dissonant voice of a Forgotten. But buried under the horrid debauching of his senses was a tantalizing strength.

  “How was it?” Agrat asked.

  “Delicious. Have a taste.” Satanail vomited in Agrat’s faces, laughing as it sizzled her eyes. He craned his head up towards the hole above. “You can’t break me! Are you listening, Sammael? YOU CAN’T BREAK ME!”

  Agrat recovered and climbed Satanail’s body, claws slashing open long lacerations with each step. She clasped his cheeks and stroked the membranous coating of his eyeballs, threatening to pluck them from the sockets.

  “We shall see,” she growled.

  Eisheth brought another jug to Satanail’s lips, and Naamah’s horns applied their pressure.

  Don�
��t let them win, Satanail pleaded with himself as the force-feeding process restarted.

  Never let them win.

  Nestled in the most tranquil corner of Araboth City was the Cascading Gardens. The floating, multi-tiered islands were overflowing with greenery and frothy waterfalls. From husky jungle shrubs to delicate meadow flowers, every plant was interwoven in self-sustained harmony. The blend of aromas was so pungent that visitors were known to lose time in a stupor of ecstasy. At night, nocturnal flora bloomed with a fluorescent glow that sent ripples of color across the Gardens. Michael lingered as those luminous waves washed over him. Their beauty was but an infinitesimal portion of Heaven’s glory that sustained his resolve.

  A lone building hovered in the heart of the Gardens, kept afloat by braided vines linked to the islands. Sapphire blossoms decorated an archway and released a constant swirl of petals down the entrance. This was the Scribe’s Library, a collection of the Host’s knowledge. Michael flew into the enormous, open-air athenaeum lit by thousands of candles. Rows of shelves housed countless scrolls, parchments, and bound books containing the entire chronicle of Heaven.

  The Choir of Powers occupied the Library. As scholars, their strength was education. They could read hundreds of pages in a single breath while using both hands to inscribe the Heavenly Records. The Powers were split into two subdivisions known as Watchers and Recorders, all connected by a mental bridge that spanned Heaven. The Watchers were stationed in every region (except Mathey as per the agreement of autonomy) to witness events as they unfolded and transmit the information to the Recorders for a real-time account of all that was.

  Michael browsed the Heavenly Records. When touched, the writing projected images, scents, and sounds as experienced by the Watchers—a preserved moment in time. He relived events such as the first Word, the Sanctuary’s opening, his traditional races across Machonon with Satanail, and their taming of the Behemoth and Leviathan. But he could not locate a precedent for the current dissension or any new insight on Satanail. There were no answers, only painful memories, but one resource still remained that could provide a critical perspective.