Fall From Grace Page 18

  “Devotion is born from a womb fertile with ambition. This womb has become barren,” Time replied, his voice reeking of disgust. Did he welcome Satanail’s visit?

  The Virtues, however, were loyalists to Michael’s regime. They surrounded Satanail with startling efficiency, his unwanted presence lifting their exhaustion. Satanail was prepared to make an example of their misguided courage, should it come to that.

  “Am I to subdue your Virtues, or shall you call them off?” he asked with a threatening swagger.

  Since allowing Michael to pummel him without retaliation, Satanail had a pestering urge to dirty his hands. He felt sorry for whoever would be on the receiving end of that thrashing.

  “There is no cause for that.” Time waved off the Virtues. “Return to your stations.”

  “The Logos must be warned!” a livid Virtue argued.

  Satanail flew over to the angel and placed a hand on his cheek. He felt the blood leave the Virtue’s face.

  “Do you wish to join Amitiel in oblivion?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then return to your station.” Satanail’s virulent tone was an effective deterrent that dispersed the Virtues. “This facility is now mine.”

  “I will not surrender my life’s work into further delinquency. It has seen enough exploitation,” Time said. His words were gutsy, but respectful, and without a trace of fear.

  Satanail poured the water between Time’s chalices. “You misunderstand. I would see the dignity of this fine institution restored. What Michael asked of you, ordered, was wrong. You’ve been one of Heaven’s most sedulous angels, and I’ve come to offer you a reprieve.”

  Satanail’s ability to sense the yearnings of others was so acute that many angels believed he could read minds. Appearing to grant those yearnings was a most valued skill.

  “A reprieve…is it possible?” Time asked, testing the liberty of Satanail’s proposal.

  “I offer an end to your repression, and with it, a future of unconditional possibility. Turn your gaze away from the Cosmos and onto yourself. Fly among your brothers. Live in the world, not above it. This is in my power to grant, Time.”

  “What would you ask of me in return?”

  “Only that you resign control of the Observatory. Allow me to staff it with Virtues of my own choosing…and show me the blue planet of Mankind.”

  “You can’t consider this,” the stubborn Virtue protested. Grumbles of cautious agreement came from the others.

  “My considerations are exactly that—mine!” Time shouted.

  “But we follow Michael and won’t work for this heretic. The Observatory can’t operate without us,” the Virtue declared and led his brethren away from their telescopes.

  “Is that so?” Satanail stomped his foot, quaking vibrations through the dome.

  Azazel and his Virtues burst in through the main entrance.

  “Your bleating is tiresome,” Satanail said to the Virtue. “I’ve no use for you. Leave before I reassess my mercy.”

  Outnumbered, the Virtues still loyal to Michael were shuffled from the Observatory, forced to pass by their former colleagues.

  “Don’t presume that you can hold this position,” the vocal, plucky one said as Azazel shoved him outside.

  “Michael’s angels must always speak final words. So petty. Azazel, begin the installation,” Satanail ordered.

  Azazel and the Virtues hauled in wooden barrels and stacked them around the base of the dome’s infrastructure.

  “What is held within those barrels?” Time asked.

  “Our arrangement doesn’t include your queries. The blue planet, if you please.”

  Satanail’s Virtues manned the telescopes, and Time dictated the coordinates. It was a spectacle of technology as the gigantic machinations focused light across the span of Creation. Images of Mankind’s world appeared: a small planet of water and land so mundane it hardly seemed worth the effort.

  “There it is, the world that would displace Heaven,” Satanail muttered. “You have my gratitude, Time. Enjoy your freedom. It’s long overdue.”

  “Where shall I go?” Time was excited and flustered by his fresh independence.

  “Wherever you wish, but there will always be a place for you among us.”

  Time nodded and flew out of the Observatory, his wings fluttering with the satisfaction of autonomy. Satanail returned his attention to Mankind’s home, unimpressed.

  “This feculent ball was made in Heaven’s image? Such gross incompetence. I’ll call it…Earth,” he said, drawing laughter from his Virtues. “I’ve seen enough. Bring the package.”

  Azazel retrieved a barrel twice the size of the others. Satanail positioned it beneath Time’s console and opened the lid. It was packed with a granulated onyx powder. The Virtues connected flammable fuses from the main barrel to the secondary stacks around the Observatory.

  “Azazel, remain here and await my signal.”

  “Are you certain this is the most p-p-prudent course?” Azazel whispered, his stammer again signifying doubt. Satanail was becoming all too weary of his wavering mettle.

  “I’ve given Michael ample time to dwell upon the beast at his gate. I don’t wish to see Heaven suffer and thus will extend my hand for the last time. Pray that he accepts it.”

  Michael entered Satanail’s residence expecting to find furious angels thrashing his memory, but it was unspoiled. The dwelling was now shunned as an extension of the pariah, though Satanail’s personal collection of antiquities still embodied the Host’s creative genius. Michael browsed through cultural relics such as the Princedom’s earliest experimental statuary and framed sketches of Satanail’s original designs for Araboth City. Archaic farming tools recalled a time when metalwork was handcrafted without the Forge. A functioning model of the Nest 1/1000th scale even generated an active, miniature weather system for interior climate control.

  Why, Brother? Michael asked himself yet again. He was drawn here by a trifling hope of discovering some evidence that Satanail had fallen ill, something that could be cured and all would return to normal. But it was an apparition of thought, the fallacy of a wounded soul.

  Art, sport, social intercourse, even fashion—all things came naturally to Satanail, but only recently had Michael felt the bite of jealousy. It joined his rage, fear, and other theoretical emotions altering the Host that Satanail had detailed in his memoirs. Those journals were the reveries of a great mind and worth preserving, but the shelves that housed them were empty.

  In the fireplace, Michael found traces of parchment among heaps of ash. Satanail had burnt all of his writings, perhaps to disown his former self. In his mind, he had undergone a metamorphosis. But unlike the caterpillar to the butterfly, an invasive parasite of sin had spawned within Satanail and was gorging on his grace.

  As the ash sifted through Michael’s hands—remnants of the brother he still loved—his thoughts returned to the beginning…

  Michael’s earliest memories were of his consciousness being released from a tender, omniscient light while fire fused atoms into molecules and cells. He was alive, his body curled in a ball next to another. Above them, the Fires of Creation emitted pure energy, pure love. There was no confusion, no anxiety, only mirth and discovery.

  When Michael and the other being rose to their feet, a single pair of wings expanded from their backs. They turned to each other, and he first laid eyes on angelic grace…on Satanail.

  “I am Satanail.”

  “I am Michael.” His name came to mind as if inscribed onto his genetic code.

  “What are we, Michael?”

  “We are alive. We are…brothers.”

  Again, the answer was ingrained within Michael. They were brothers, a fact as immaculate and vitalizing as the fresh spark of his soul.

  “Brothers, yes. We are brothers.”

  They embraced and felt the love of companionship.

  The love of family.

  “Where are we?” Satanail asked.


  A pillar of light shone down a passage from above, inviting them to the surface. The brothers linked hands and flapped their wings, basking in the euphoria of flight. They ascended within the light and emerged from a mountain. A canvas of land was spread before them, filled with life. Creatures of all shapes and sizes gathered around them in a grand welcome.

  “This is home,” Michael began. “This is—”

  “Heaven.” Satanail plucked the word from his mouth. “But where did we come from?”

  Michael felt the Creator’s sacred wisdom flow into him, a sensation he would come to understand as the Word.

  “We came from our Father. I can feel Him.”

  “I…cannot. Will He not speak to me?”

  “He is speaking to you, through me,” Michael assured. “He is our Creator, and He loves you. Do you yield to that love and return it unconditionally?”

  “I do,” Satanail replied.

  “Then you are His Hand, His will made manifest, and I am His Word, the vessel of His guidance. Together, we are to shape Heaven in His name.”

  “Together, we will make Him proud.”

  That moment, when Michael and Satanail had accepted the Creator into their hearts and souls, was the happiest of his life.

  Back in the core, the Fires began to shimmer. The elements of creation spewed forth from the flames and formed into more beings—angels. Each arrived as Michael and Satanail had, curled in a ball of consummate happiness. The mountain filled with the Host of Heaven. Hundreds. Thousands. Millions. They stood in unison, looking up the light towards Michael and Satanail.

  “Welcome, brothers, to Heaven,” Satanail spoke first.

  “Father has given us life. Devote yourselves to His love, His Word, and He will never abandon us,” Michael continued.

  The memory waned as the last specks of ash spilled from Michael’s fingers. That was a time of innocence and purity of soul, of total faith. Now, the divergence of His Hand and Word dug a basin in the Host that was flooding with insurgence.

  The Creator had done exactly what Michael promised would never happen: He left. How could Father do that to His sons? To be absent when they needed Him most was a negligence that Michael could not accept. He resolved to summon their Creator back to Heaven. Someone had to fight for their family.

  I am still your son…and you will answer me, Father.

  The static darkness in the Chamber of Creation suffocated Michael’s thoughts. It was a gluttonous void, like a black hole in the Cosmos that engulfed all traces of light and matter. Were it not for the throne’s grounding glow, Michael would have lost his mind in the abyss.

  One did not demand an audience with the Creator. To do so suggested that the Creator was required to answer, that He was beholden to His creations. There was a distinct possibility that Michael would be blasted into disparate particles before the first insolent word could escape his lips.

  “Father!” Michael’s voice did not echo, like the waves that carried sound were muffled. “I am your loyal Hand and Word, but your sons need more than my reassurances. Since I took my first breath, I have obeyed you in everything. I have earned the right to clear instruction, not surreal visions and instinct. Give me answers. What must I do? How do I save my brothers?”

  The Fires did not return.

  Michael felt only desperation, frustration, and resentment. He resented that the Creator forced this responsibility upon him and then disappeared. He resented that His dogmatic silence twisted the one angel whose brotherhood he valued more than his own life. But most of all, Michael resented himself for his own failures that had inflamed the rebellion.

  “I cannot do this on my own, Father. Is this my destiny, to fail you? To see the Host led into chaos? Is this what you want?” Michael pleaded. “Answer me!”

  The prayers were not answered or even acknowledged. If the Creator were watching, He would not miraculously come to their rescue. He would not save the Host from itself.

  Michael screamed until his voice was hoarse and smashed his fists onto the Chamber floor. His grief needed to feel something break, whether the mountain rock or his own bones.

  Why me? Michael curled into a fetal ball, nursing his swollen hands. Why do I have to mend this world? I have given more than any angel—all for you. I am so tired, Father. Choose someone else. I am done.

  A draft caressed Michael’s face, but there was no source of wind in the Chamber. The air was converging downward, drawn into something. His fingers found a tiny fissure on the ground, not a crack in stone but more like a tear in material. He gripped the edges and yanked them apart, releasing a suction that sent ripples across his skin. Michael continued to widen the hole, steeling himself against the vacuum’s pull. It felt like he was stretching open the fabric of Creation.

  Deep within the vacuum was a source of light, a golden pool whose brilliance beckoned Michael. He was filled with a sensation of chaste tranquility and knew exactly what he had to do.

  “A leap of faith.”

  Michael dove into the light and was sucked through a chromatic tunnel of energy, but it was not a source of creative combustion like that of the Fires. It was a passage, a gateway in Creation that traversed time and space. Billions of galaxies swirled past the edges of the tunnel. The golden pool on the other end became larger…brighter…blinding.

  When Michael’s vision returned, he was soaring down the crystal atmosphere of a planet dressed in sapphire oceans. It was Mankind’s world, but this journey was not a celestial projection of his soul. Michael was physically there.

  Heaven and Mankind’s world were connected.

  Michael inhaled the crisp air still moist from rainfall. His previous view of the planet was spectacular, but feeling it was transcendent. The skies were painted with sundry shades of nuance. The lustrous, life-giving rays of the sun shone down onto an arid land of sparse vegetation only recently satiated. Animals, both docile and predatory, gathered at a watering hole in peace. The liquid was a precious gift from the Creator that suspended their wild instincts.

  Michael twirled through the air and scattered the dissipating rainclouds. Sunlight reflected off suspended water droplets and created a multicolored arc. He followed the rainbow’s path to a tribe of humans. Adversity surrounded them, yet they thrived without complaint or expectation. Everything had been provided for the Host, guaranteeing their prosperity, but not the humans. Perseverance and survival made each generation stronger.

  Mankind was a miracle.

  “Greetings, brothers,” Michael called from above, but they scattered under his towering wingspan. “Do not fear me. I visit with peace and love in the name of our Creator.”

  Michael landed and kneeled to reduce his height. A small child, a boy, escaped from its mother and ran circles around him, giggling with an innocent smile. Michael plucked an emerald feather from his wings and gave it to the boy.

  “I mean you no harm.”

  The humans could not understand Michael’s words, but the clarity of his love was received. The tribe gathered around him in awe, each life an individual prodigy of Creation.

  “You are not alone. The Host of Heaven is your family. We will watch over you.”

  Michael had loved Mankind upon first sight, but now he would die to protect any of them.

  The tribe craned their heads as Michael flew up, pierced out of the atmosphere, and shot into the black expanse of space. The gateway to Heaven opened for Michael as if sensing his grace. He was pulled through and reemerged in the Chamber of Creation.

  “I understand, Father. Thank you.”

  Michael returned through the Sanctuary catacombs, his thoughts ablaze. The Creator had not ceded to his demands and revealed Mankind’s world. Rather, Michael had located the gateway and raised himself from dejection.

  Perhaps the Creator had not abandoned the Host but instead placed His complete faith in Michael, His chosen son.

  His prophet.

  Michael could not lead his brothers to victory by dep
ending upon Father’s strength and wisdom—he had to seize his own. They all did. Each angel had to step out of their Father’s shadow and adapt, survive as the humans had, for how could the Host guide Mankind without understanding their struggle?

  Michael’s doubts and mistrust were vanquished. Whatever obstacles Satanail erected in defiance, he would overcome them. He exited the hallway and stepped out into the Sanctuary…

  “Hello, Michael.”

  Satanail was waiting for him at the altar.

  CHAPTER 18

  Worship Above Reason

  When Satanail coasted through the Sanctuary doors, the mass of angels chanting their unanswered prayers had fled in a panic. Not one word was needed, only his notoriety. Michael, however, wouldn’t languish under Satanail’s stature. Suffering had whittled the Logos’ weak edges into a hardened carving of heroism, but could he swallow the bitter necessity of sacrifice?

  Satanail would see Michael concede…or choke on blood.

  A metallic cylinder was slung over Satanail’s shoulder. He tingled with anticipation as Michael approached. The brothers had always been a paradox of equality, mirrored souls and yet perfectly antithetical. Now, the balance that had sustained their coexistence was gone. Satanail’s heart hungered for conflict to erupt, to test himself against Michael in a visceral contest where victory meant survival. Soon, one of them would have to fall—it was cosmic law, the way of Creation.

  “I warned you not to return. How did you breach the checkpoints?” Michael asked.

  “Your guards valued the use of their limbs more than halting my entry.”

  Satanail stepped aside to unveil a severed arm propped on the altar. A Dominion at the gate had demanded his surrender. The guard’s arrogance wouldn’t be repeated or imitated.

  “Thankfully, I only had to remove the one. Messy business.”

  A slight flare in Michael’s nostrils escaped his wooden poise.

  “The angel, is he—”

  “Dead? No. Thrones staunched the bleeding, but he’ll need many treatments to stimulate the growth of a new arm. Until then, his ragged stump will be a testimonial to my methods of persuasion,” Satanail said.