Fall From Grace Page 17

  The Fires that had burned as His divine oracle since before the dawn of Heaven regressed into a spark…and extinguished.

  The Creator had rejected Michael’s appeals. Rejected him.

  A terrible darkness fell on the Chamber, brought upon by an absence of ultimate divinity. Michael could not sense the faintest glimmer of His presence, only spiritual desolation. The Chamber was the hallowed core of Heaven, a junction to the Creator and a constant source of nirvana, but Michael’s sins had contorted His bliss into anguish.

  “Forgive me,” Michael said to the Creator, to Amitiel, to the Host, and to Heaven as the finality of their loss impressed upon him. “Forgive me.”

  Father had abandoned His sons. A bleak future was upon the Host, and they had to confront it alone because of Michael.

  We are forsaken, he lamented. But they can never know.

  It was inopportune for Michael to leave Araboth City since Satanail’s rebels had erected a base camp within view of its walls, but he needed to be secluded. Uriel remained behind in his stead to preserve the city’s withering civility. Cassiel also returned to the Nest and conjured a series of contained tornadoes to protect its borders. The lockdown prevented angels from visiting loved ones outside of the city, an unfortunate necessity meant for their own safety.

  Amitiel’s corpse rested on a blanket next to the river flowing through Michael’s home. He dipped a cloth in the water and dabbed away splotches of blood congealed on the angel’s skin. The scarlet liquid had turned a muddy brown, devoid of life. The body was a dead shell, but Michael wanted to restore Amitiel’s appearance before the ceremony of remembrance.

  Michael wiped down the stained feathers on Amitiel’s severed wings. His fingers traced over the flawless design of muscles and tendons. Wings were an integral part of their angelic identity, and it was agonizing to see Amitiel’s body without them. Even in death, an angel must spread his wings to fly, he thought. Amitiel should be complete when laid to rest.

  Michael turned over the body to clean its terminal injuries. Bone fragments protruded through shreds of flesh and quills matted in the wing stumps. He washed away the gore but could not steady his hands to reattach the wings, languished from exhaustion and mourning.

  “Michael?” Gabriel entered and placed a mug of manna in his hands. “To Amitiel.”

  Michael drank it all in one swallow. The raw liquid warmed his blood but did not dull his guilt. “More,” he implored like a drunkard.

  “Later. I’ll help you finish,” Gabriel said, holding Amitiel’s wing in place. “Take the needle and concentrate on what needs to be done.”

  Michael threaded his needle with thin silk woven from the cocoons of moths native to Shehaqim. The Host provided the insects a haven to spawn their young in exchange for harvesting silk, which was pliable but harder than many metals. It seemed uncivilized and grotesque to stitch Amitiel, but the Thrones required a soul’s grace to heal. In death, it was gone.

  “Think of mending cloth. Begin below the wound and loop it through, one stitch at a time,” Gabriel instructed in a soft, steady voice. “It’s alright. He can’t feel it.”

  Michael and Gabriel secured the wing in silence. Once reattached, they extended it and coated the feathers in an adhesive glaze to maintain its position. They repeated the process then laid Amitiel on his back. His body was sanitized, wings spread and hands crossed over his chest.

  “He looks peaceful,” Gabriel said, but Amitiel was still gone.

  Still dead.

  “I did this, Gabriel.”

  “Satanail—”

  “Spoke pernicious words at my mind’s door, but I granted them entry. There is no one else to blame. If I had remained temperate, controlled, if I had—”

  “Stop. It all happened too fast. Amitiel, he…he went berserk. He attacked you, meant to kill you. It was an accident,” Gabriel consoled. “It was an accident.”

  Michael did not blame Amitiel, and it did not happen too fast. He saw him coming, saw the stone in his hand. He could have taken the blow…could have done something else…anything else. Instead, Amitiel became a casualty of a grievance between Michael and Satanail that now possessed Heaven. The stigma was unbearable, but his sin warranted it all and more.

  “There is a hole in me, as if a piece of my soul was excised and replaced with…with emptiness,” Michael said, wondering if Satanail felt the same.

  “You’re a good angel, Michael. Don’t let this destroy your faith. The Host needs you.”

  Michael stared into the river, its waters clouded with the last of Amitiel’s blood. “They need someone pure. I am no better than Satanail. I cannot lead them.”

  Gabriel punched Michael right in the nose. A follow-up knee to the gut keeled him over. The blows were light but enough to jar Michael from his stupor.

  “Is this what you want?”

  “Yes! Condemn me. Strike me down,” Michael pleaded. “But please…please do not forgive me.”

  Gabriel dabbed the blood from Michael’s swollen nose.

  “We’ve all lost something that we can’t regain, but Amitiel is at peace. You have to ensure that Heaven’s light remains, for all those that live on. There’s only one Logos, and it’s not me. It’s not the Seraphim. It’s you. Always.”

  “But all I see is darkness.”

  “How many times have you saved me from myself? Not the Creator, you. I still believe in you. The Host still believes. You’re our light. Shine true, and He will guide your hand.”

  The burden of the Creator’s departure was Michael’s alone. Hope, whether true or false, was not his to invalidate from any other angel. If the Host saw the Creator in him, if he was the final column that supported their faith, then it was his obligation to remain solid. Michael would not renounce his brothers…even if Father had.

  Michael rested a hand on Amitiel. “Let us take him home.”

  When Satanail led his people away from Araboth, he needed Michael to know that the gesture didn’t signify defeat. He would remain within sight, a constant presence on the horizon, so that Michael couldn’t look out to Heaven without being reminded of what was stolen from him. What was yet to come. The image would take a debilitating toll on his morale.

  The caravan of rebels built a shantytown on Araboth’s plains, free of any restriction or law. Cloth tents were pegged into the ground and layered in makeshift towers. Angels from every Choir lent their skills to the community. There was even an arena of sport encouraging angels to discharge their emotions through competition. The town was alive with promise and constantly expanding. Though it lacked the standard grandeur of Heaven, it was entirely theirs. The Creator and Michael had no presence or authority. Angels acted on their own desires yet still functioned as a society. Their instincts to survive, to commune, remained intact.

  Araboth City had become a microcosm of everything that Satanail preached against. Cassiel’s tornadoes were but pointless bluster and false security. Michael contained his people behind guarded walls and checkpoints while Satanail’s thrived in their freedom. The rebels had reached upwards of one hundred thousand angels with a steady line still streaming in. Soon, their territory would be larger than most cities in Heaven.

  All it needed was a name.

  Satanail descended to the center of town. “Brothers, a soul has been taken from Heaven. In Araboth, you witnessed the consequences of the Creator’s Word. Father has forsaken us for another. Mankind is meant to supplant the Host and wipe our memory from Creation. I won’t wait for that to happen, nor will I stomach the existence of those that would see it so.

  “Know this: a fight is coming. Follow me, and take comfort in my protection. But stand against me, stand against us, and be crushed by my wrath. Swift. Merciless. Divine!”

  Satanail savored the unanimous applause. Public approval was a living entity to mold and wield. Michael was incapable of appreciating its potential for creation…or destruction.

  “We’re our own masters. We’re alive, free as
never before. Behold the blank slate of destiny. I’ve given you the tools to construct your own future, just as you’ve done on these plains. Michael denied us Araboth, but our spirit isn’t made from stone and mortar. It flows through us. Binds us. I’ve not forgotten my promise—we will reclaim Araboth—but now bask in your first creation. This is a home of your making. This is freedom!

  “THIS IS LIMBO!”

  The newly dubbed Limbo exploded into licentious celebration. Satanail strolled the grassy pathways, bombarded with praise at every turn. Raw manna flowed like water, brought from the farmers of Shehaqim. Music shook the tents, as vivacious and tribal as the rebels themselves. Some danced nude in the sky while others made bonfires from heirlooms of their old lives.

  Satanail must have shared a hundred mugs of manna while regaling angels with the lavish details of his vision. As the night concluded, he was so intoxicated that he could barely walk yet still had enough verve to greet anyone who called his name.

  “Satanail,” said a somber voice. Azazel was waiting outside a tent with a pensive look that soured his high. “A m-m-moment?”

  “For you, my most loyal supporter, anything.”

  Satanail stumbled into the tent, and Azazel sealed the flap behind them. The feel of the meeting was far too dreary.

  “So austere, Azazel. Where has your levity gone?”

  “I but worry for you. Michael will see us.”

  “Let him. That’s why we set camp so near to Araboth, to rub his dour face in our mirth.”

  “No, I mean he w-w-will see everything,” Azazel warned. “He uses the Observatory as eyes, casting them upon every region.”

  “Does he now? That’s…very astute of him.” Turning the Observatory on Heaven itself? Satanail felt foolish that he hadn’t first considered the idea.

  “You’re not c-c-concerned?”

  “Why should I be? We’ve nothing to hide,” Satanail said and whisked Azazel into a dance. “Your exploits have done me great honor, but I’ve returned. These pressures of leadership are no longer yours to assume. Cast aside your troubles and savor the present.”

  “But the Observatory—”

  “All things in due time. I urge our people towards sensory pleasures not to weaken their minds but to begin their lives anew. New bonds. New alliances. New strength.” Satanail removed a piece of parchment tucked in his shirt. “But if you must have a task, then gather these materials.”

  Azazel scanned the list, confused. “Works of fire? Haven’t we celebrated enough?”

  “Preparations in advance of my final demands. Fire has many uses, and not all of them are pretty.”

  Satanail continued his drunken waltz, spinning and dipping Azazel until the angel wriggled from his grasp.

  “Michael won’t submit to any d-d-demands.”

  “Of course not.”

  Satanail’s smile faded to match Azazel’s sober mood. No amount of manna could dull his senses towards rash stupidity.

  “I’m many things but not impetuous. We can’t take action without appearing to pursue a peaceful resolution, and so we shall.”

  “And when Michael declines?”

  “Then, dear Azazel, his Heaven burns.”

  The Host gathered in Shehaqim and hovered in a layered sphere around the Tree of Life, wings wrapped over their bodies in mourning. A dulcet flutter sounded across the farmlands as they flapped in unison. Even the bees ceased harvesting manna and muted their buzzing to join the hushed lament. Torches were passed through the crowd, and each angel lit a white candle until thousands of dancing specks combined into a vibrant orb representing the Fires of Creation.

  In the waning light, Michael and Sheburiel swung open the golden gates to the Tree. Manna leaked from its bark and trickled tears down the ridges. At the base of the trunk, the Seraphim suspended Amitiel’s body over a hole dug in the soil—a grave. The roots of the Tree pierced the grave walls like bedding to accept the deceased angel into their fold.

  Amitiel’s body looked tranquil, almost asleep.

  Michael joined the Seraphim and faced the Host. “Brothers, though there is temptation to dwell upon our loss, that is not why we have gathered,” he began but felt the piercing stares of blame. “We are here to remember one of our own as he lived, not as he died. Honor the time we had together by offering each other the healing guidance of our memories. Although no angel has ever passed on from Heaven, life does not end with death. The soul can never perish, it but returns to Father.

  “Our brother’s name was Amitiel, an Angel of virtuosic truth who frequented every region and touched countless lives. Should anyone wish to share their thoughts, all are welcome.”

  Cassiel was first to speak. “Few Angels travel to Shamayim, so turbulent is the region, but Amitiel never delayed a single message or delivery. Whether he arrived sopping wet from a monsoon or nearly baked from heat, he laughed off the hardship with a smile. He…he was…”

  “He was a friend to all,” Gabriel continued. “No matter how far he had yet to travel, he always took the time to share in a mug of manna and speak of his journeys. And his stories, by the Creator, that angel had good stories. He welcomed all that Heaven had to offer, ever seeking new adventures. We’ve lost not only a brother, but a treasury of outstanding experience.”

  Jehoel spoke from above, flanked by Archangels. “I recall a time when Amitiel brought a supply of feed for the birds of prey. It was one of his first deliveries to the Reserve, and he made the mistake of entering their zone before storing the feed. Within moments, dozens of large birds—powerful and spastic with hunger—crowded him from all sides. But when I flew up to assist Amitiel, the birds were perched on his limbs and wings, waiting their turn while he fed them all by hand. Those birds could’ve torn him apart, but he connected with them despite having no Archangel training to speak of. In that one instant, the birds recognized his generosity. Whatever the situation, Amitiel would look beyond himself to the needs of others.”

  The speeches continued throughout the night. Some induced fits of laughter and others cries of remorse, but each intimate story summoned Amitiel’s presence. He was brought back to life through a montage of memories.

  When the angels had exhausted their tales and the candles had burned near the end of their wicks, the Seraphim took hold of Amitiel’s body.

  “We now commit Amitiel, angel of the Host, into the soil of Heaven. Though Amitiel is gone, he will never be forgotten. His memory, his grace, lives on in all of us,” Michael said. “Go into the Creator’s arms, Brother. We will see you again.”

  The Seraphim lowered Amitiel into his grave, and the roots of the Tree of Life wrapped around him. One by one, the Host dripped wax onto the body in a final farewell until only Michael remained. Alone with his sorrow, he shoveled dirt back into the hole and smoothed it over.

  “I do not ask forgiveness, Amitiel. I do not expect or wish it, but your death will not be in vain.” Michael sliced his palm on the shovel and watered the soil of Amitiel’s grave with his blood.

  On my blood, my life, my soul…this is my oath to you.

  CHAPTER 17

  The Gateway

  Satanail trespassed through the night skies of Araboth, concealed within the clouds. A procession of angels had flown to Shehaqim for Amitiel’s burial service, thinning the guards. Satanail thought the ceremony was morbid, even disparaging. The rotting flesh of a corpse was not something to be memorialized. Still, it provided a window that gave further value to the angel’s sacrifice. Satanail wouldn’t have Amitiel’s soul see him waste the opportunity.

  Behind Satanail, Azazel led a tight troupe of Virtues eager to prove their allegiance. They wore gray cloaks and floated on the wind like a pattern of drifting clouds. Satanail’s methods had a reputation for the theatrical, thus the simple ruse was a more apt choice. Michael was too perceptive for him to list into predictability. Innovation was essential to the rebellion’s success.

  Satanail held up a fist, and the angels halted.
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br />   The Observatory hovered above them, a tool that couldn’t remain in Michael’s custody. Satanail ascended along the outer edges. He could breach the front entrance with little resistance but preferred a clandestine approach.

  Two Virtues lingered outside an open window, unwinding with a shared jug of manna.

  “What of Amitiel’s body?” one asked. “Do you suppose it’ll decay like the animals?”

  “I hope not. Worms and insects crawling through him…such a vulgar end. Maybe residual grace will preserve his visage,” the other replied.

  “But then why bury him?”

  Satanail pressed against the curves of the dome below them and tapped on the exterior. The sound rippled across the surface, its origin uncertain to the Virtues.

  “Did you hear that?” the first asked, wary.

  “Probably a bird. I’ve asked Time to install torches out here. Forget it.”

  “I should circle the perimeter.”

  “If you must. Leave the manna.”

  The first Virtue flew off to investigate. Satanail watched his lazy partner guzzle the remaining manna.

  “Your lack of vigilance is shameful, Brother.”

  “Wha—?”

  Satanail grabbed the Virtue’s ankle and yanked him from the windowsill. His forehead smacked against the dome, knocking him unconscious. Satanail secured the fool so he wouldn’t fall. A death without purpose, dealt solely from malice, was a tragedy that he sought to avoid.

  “Remember this lesson.”

  Satanail slinked through the window. The Observatory was quiet as he clung to the ceiling, crawling across like a Forgotten. The few remaining Virtues at their telescopes appeared weary and aloof. Though Time still coordinated from the center station, his managerial efforts were lackluster.

  “Where’s your renowned devotion, Time?”

  Satanail dropped from the ceiling, flipped, and landed on his hands and knees. He slowly rose—style was a striking form of intimidation.