Fall From Grace Read online

  “Are you going to tell me what really happened, or should I guess?” Satanail asked under the chorus of plaudits, perturbed by Michael’s secrecy.

  “Simple overconfidence,” Michael said. “I almost had you.”

  “Almost. It’s sure to be one for the Scribe’s scrolls.”

  Nothing simple about it, Satanail thought. He wanted to further monitor Michael’s condition. There was more affecting him than a lack of coordination. Something deeper was amiss.

  Something spiritual.

  “Return with me to Araboth. Relax a bit. The Princedoms will have prepared a lavish celebration.”

  The Princedoms, artisan angels that embodied creativity, were known for festivities of unrestrained jubilation. Satanail reveled in the wild splendor, but such levity and merriment was far from Michael’s preference. Still, if plied with food and drink, Satanail hoped to procure a more revealing confession of the race’s conclusion.

  “An enticing invitation, Satanail, but such accolades belong to the victor. I am for Raqia to have Raphael and the Thrones address my…clumsiness.”

  “Right. Clumsiness.”

  Michael pulled a broken feather from his wing, loosing a stream of crimson blood. Angels didn’t bleed often, and the droplets rattled more than a few in the crowd.

  “Blood is a confirmation of Father’s gift of life. We bleed because we are alive. We are Creation’s original miracle. Go, follow your champion and see him properly honored,” Michael said. Satanail wondered if, in defeat, his own thoughts would be so altruistic.

  Michael flew into the sky and disappeared from sight, his sincere thoughts closed behind a door of artificial composure.

  The Host was fooled, but Satanail had peered through the keyhole to the vault of Michael’s subdued passions. For the first time in many ages, he saw the ominous approach of change.

  CHAPTER 2

  Rejuvenation

  Michael drifted in the wind, allowing the mild currents to caress his sore wings. His secluded flight path offered a panoramic view of the radiant countryside peppered with airborne angels. Taking to the sky, unrestricted in their exploration of Heaven’s terrain, was an empyreal expression of the Host’s divinity. Each angelic soul was an integral part of a greater, unyielding unity that constituted the foundation of their culture and community. But even the tranquil sight of Michael’s brethren could not shake the disturbance he felt during the race. Physical pain was nothing, nerves communicating the state of his body, but he could not rid himself of a foreboding feeling. Emotional disorder. When faced with spiritual turbulence, there was only one place to renew the symmetry of mind and body.

  The lands of Raqia stretched in a sea of condensed trees with a canopy that concealed the wondrous creations within. Michael dove, and the robust branches parted to grant entry. The trees of Raqia were older than most life on Heaven. Each one contained a dormant intelligence accessible by those who had developed a bond with the prehistoric rainforest.

  Michael maneuvered through the hearty tree crowns, greeted by avian chirps and tribes of nosy monkeys swinging from vines draped across the branches. Heaven’s primates bore a striking resemblance to the angels, almost like crude, wingless imitations of what could have been.

  Michael emerged into the central area of Raqia, its air dense and moist. The thriving, monumental woodland was splashed with the gorgeous hues of varied plant life. The roots of fragile sprouts commingled with those of stupendous specimens in a symbiotic ecosystem. The tendrils of the conjoined plants coiled up trees and slithered along their branches like bristling snakes. Pillars of light pierced the canopy to support the teeming life with vital energy.

  The seven Seraphs had the daunting charge of governing the seven regions of Heaven as viceroys, not to rule but to ensure a stable equilibrium. Raqia, Raphael’s region, had a special marriage between crafted structures and the order of nature. Buildings and residences were constructed within the enormous trees and in conjunction with their branches. Bridges of plank and rope encouraged more docile forms of travel to prevent unnecessary agitation of the wildlife. The humble simplicity of Raphael’s organic approach had become a rarity as the Host’s ambitions gravitated towards artistry of stone and metal.

  The Monastery was tucked away in the recesses of the rainforest. Michael sifted through overgrown foliage to a courtyard where the Choir of Thrones meditated. The secluded community bordered a lake so still that the water was a mirror reflection of the canopy. True minimalists, the Thrones were free from the distractions of urban opulence. Instead of a central dormitory, hovels of leaves and branches lined the courtyard. The Thrones preferred to sleep on the open earth in order to maintain the closest connection to the energies of Heaven.

  Michael took care not to interrupt the Thrones. His presence in any region garnered attention, and he understood the immense concentration required for their work. The Thrones were the most docile of the angels with slender bodies and a vaporous delicacy to their wings. They spent their days studying the potent energies that coursed through Heaven and connected everything. As conduits, their grace channeled those energies to heal the bodies and minds of any who required it. Theirs was a vow of total altruism.

  The Seraph Raphael kneeled among the Thrones, imparting silent lessons to his students. Though angels did not have different sexes like the other creatures in Heaven, many chose to implement softer, more feminine features. A sleek, tender build suited Raphael, for his passive movements and quiescent lifestyle did not require an athletic body. Not all power was derived from physical strength. Few angels were capable of such astonishing feats as Raphael.

  “Step forth, and speak of what ails you,” Raphael hummed.

  Michael approached, and the Thrones stopped meditating to bow. Satanail did not approve of this act, but it had become a sign of respect and honor ingrained in their culture. Michael would not command any angel to bow before him nor would he deny them if that were their wish, even though he never was comfortable with the courtesy.

  “My wings, I may have fractured them,” Michael said and displayed his six wings to the Thrones. They rarely, if ever, left the Monastery and became animated by the chance to examine the renowned Seraph.

  Raphael hoisted himself to a stand with a gnarled staff that was more a prop of stature than a crutch. He circled Michael and ran his fingers along the wealth of scrapes on his body. The staff pressed against a darkened bruise on Michael’s ribs, causing him to buckle.

  “Among other things. How did you receive such an abundance of injuries?”

  “In foolhardy competition,” Michael admitted.

  “Once again, you have allowed Satanail to coax you into carelessness,” Raphael chided while continuing his examination of Michael’s wings.

  “Duly noted, but he challenges me where others will not.”

  “Perhaps next time you will not be so eager to impress.”

  One of Raphael’s many talents was discerning the core truth of things. Satanail’s judgmental stare was a source of motivation for Michael, as if every moment between them was an unspoken contest for supremacy. They held the most celebrated positions in Heaven, yet Michael often felt a struggle for equality in his brother’s eyes.

  Raphael turned to his students. “Gather around, and tell me what you see.”

  The Thrones paced around Michael, their normally austere faces in awe of his exceptional form. He blushed under the stringent inspection.

  “Contusions and lacerations suffered from blunt impact,” a Throne spoke up with the confidence of reciting a lesson.

  “An acute but superficial observation. Place your hands on him to gaze deeper. Sense the life circulating through his body. Where is the flow disrupted?” Raphael instructed.

  The Thrones rested their hands on Michael’s bare skin and closed their eyes. He felt them draw upon their collective grace to search his body for the root cause of pain.

  “These wounds are but the physical repercussions of a more profo
und affliction. His spirit is—” another Throne began, but Raphael suddenly severed their connection to Michael.

  “Very good. Return to your prayers and meditate upon what you have seen.”

  Raphael ushered Michael away to the privacy of his dwelling. A worn fabric curtain covered the entrance to a space that was little more than a spacious knot in a tree trunk, for Raphael loathed excess of any kind. Inside, the bark vibrated with life and provided nourishing warmth like a cocoon.

  “A ‘profound affliction?’ Is hyperbole part of your lessons?” Michael teased.

  “My students only wish to display their intelligence while in presence of the Logos. Many have not laid eyes upon you since their inception,” Raphael said. He placed his palms on Michael’s chest and concentrated.

  “I hope they do not judge me as wounded disappointment.”

  “On the contrary, to see you in such a state only reinforces the truth that all stand equal in Heaven. Despite what some may claim, we are all flawed.”

  “Were it not so, we would have nothing to strive towards,” Michael agreed.

  Raphael’s hands began to glow under the skin, and Michael felt a tingle surge through his body. His cuts closed and bruises receded, leaving no sign of their damage. The bones in his wings shifted and realigned to restore full range of motion. It was a profound experience to have a healer’s grace redirect the energies of life to accelerate rejuvenation—a unique amalgamation of science and faith. Michael could only claim a basic understanding of the art.

  “I am ever in your debt, old friend,” Michael said and rotated his wings. He rose to leave, but Raphael grabbed his wrist with a look of agitation.

  “Pause a moment longer. Your body is healed, but I sense that your mind remains in disarray. May I?”

  Michael nodded, seeking answers but also wary of what would be discovered. Allowing a Throne to probe his mind, even one as skilled as Raphael, was an invasive process.

  “Lower any walls blocking the source of distress. Let me in.”

  Michael calmed his thoughts and took long breaths. The silk tips of Raphael’s fingers gently massaged his temples. Michael felt a trickle of Seraphic grace leak through his skull and travel along the electrical currents of his brain. It was not painful but somewhat jarring, like the sands of his memories were being sifted through a fine grate.

  Raphael’s eyes shot back and forth under closed lids, his face twisting as he scoured the most ancient and guarded recesses of Michael’s subconscious.

  “A foreign presence is in here with you,” Raphael began, strained. “Not a thought or memory. No, more like an implanted slice of time. It is still gestating, not ready to be revealed. It wants me out, but I am almost through. I—”

  Raphael flung away from Michael and crashed into the bark wall as if hurled by an invisible force. His body crumpled down and thrashed with violent spasms.

  “Raphael!” Michael pinned down his weakened friend until the seizure stopped. “What did you see?”

  Though unharmed, Raphael’s face was lined with something that had never entered his soul: uncertainty. Disquiet. Anxiety.

  “Impenetrable divinity. I am sorry, but I cannot help you.”

  Araboth was the first region settled by the Host. As Archon, Satanail had been the driving force behind the development of Heaven’s society, and his greatest achievement was the city that shared the region’s name. Satanail planned the designs, laid the first stones, and guided the construction of what would become the opus of his ambition and genius. Built among the gradual slopes of the tallest mountain in Heaven and surrounded by lush plains, Araboth City was a creation worthy of the Host.

  Twelve gigantic walls of stone with regal gates bordered the foot of the mountain, each carved with stories of Heaven’s early days. The angels’ gift of flight made the concept of a barrier absurd, so the walls were a means of architectural expression. Stylish openings cut into them sent patterns of light through the shadowed lower levels of the city, and vents channeled the wind currents along deliberate pathways to establish lines of travel.

  Beyond the walls, the city sprouted into the sky as a testament to progress that rivaled Mother Nature’s own wonders. It was built not only around the mountain but also vertically with massive structures that extended into the clouds as if reaching for the Creator like trees to the nourishment of light. Some buildings culminated in saucer platforms or had unfettered balconies that jutted from the walls like stairs while others were slick, erect lines of aesthetic austerity.

  Araboth’s original settlement, the Old District, occupied the highest elevations of the mountain with an artistic finesse akin to cosmic reverence. The nine corridors of the Grand Hall wrapped around the last stretch of slopes, each overlooking a different section of the city. The Hall was where Satanail conducted his business as Archon and directed the Dominions, a Choir of master bureaucrats and administrators that maintained the basic structures of society. Resting on the summit, above all else, was the Sanctuary—the most sacred place in Heaven.

  As the cultural, religious, and political nexus of Heaven, Araboth was home to millions of angels. Satanail flew among them to soak in the grandeur of his city, following the organized traffic that flowed like feathered waves. He could pass entire days soaring among the towering spires, walking the markets of the lower levels and engaging the vendors, or simply appreciating the innumerable works of art and statuary that adorned the streets. Michael could have his privacy—Satanail knew that brotherhood was only found among the people.

  His people.

  Araboth was rife with the festivities of an annual celebration Satanail had organized for the Host to appreciate each other and their blessings. Droves of angels from each region made for the open-air Coliseum where the Princedoms engaged in a variety of entertainment. Rows of seating lined the elliptical amphitheater while flags designated the boundaries above for in-flight attendance. Musical performances, theatrical recreations from their history, and acts of skill were but a few of the sights.

  Satanail welcomed the enthusiasm his presence generated. Angels swarmed him from all sides, wanting to share a mug of manna or impart kind words. He obliged while making his way through the crowd to the Coliseum activities. A stage play drew his attention where Princedoms told of his and Michael’s victory over the primordial beasts, the Behemoth and Leviathan. The formidable encounter was among Satanail’s fondest memories as one of the earliest benchmarks of angelic power that secured their undisputed sovereignty of Heaven. He stepped onto the stage to join the troupe, delighting the audience.

  “Witnessing Michael send its brother, Leviathan, to the ocean depths, the Behemoth became enraged. Its gargantuan body thrashed, leveling an entire forest with the might of its fury. But did I give in? Did I waver?” Satanail narrated as the players reenacted the battle.

  “No!” came a resolute shout from the crowd.

  “Never. With these hands, I buried the Behemoth in a tomb of stone and dirt where it slumbers to this day, never daring to defy us again. I fought for you,” Satanail said while pointing to various angels that almost fainted from the attention. “That victory was our claim to these lands. The earth beneath our feet, the air under our wings, is ours forever!”

  Satanail took a bow with the troupe then jumped off the stage to continue on foot. Flight had its benefits, but he also enjoyed a brisk walk to appreciate the finer details of the city and its inhabitants. As Archon, it was paramount that he had total understanding of everything in his jurisdiction, and that meant immersing himself in the community whenever possible.

  The extravagant festivities continued well into the evening. Thousands of angels took to the sky in a dance of synchronized flight while works of fire splashed the night with vibrant colors, courtesy of Forgemaster Uriel. The city resonated with camaraderie, and Satanail decided to address the crowd at the zenith of its euphoria.

  Satanail flew to the center of the Coliseum but didn’t have to raise a hand for silen
ce. Seeing his famous gray wings was enough for the crowd to simmer down. Satanail never wrote his speeches—the words flowed with ease as if the Creator spoke through him to guide His flock.

  “Brothers, are you enjoying yourselves?” he asked, causing hollers of approval. “Then allow me the indulgence of a few words. As Heaven expands and the Host spreads across the regions, we must remember and celebrate our genesis when the Fires of Creation imbued us all with life. Given mind and flesh, I stepped into this world and saw unlimited potential. I had a vision, a vision of an ideal city befitting our divinity, and we brought it to fruition together. Today is about what we have accomplished as a people, for nothing in all of Creation can match our will, our talents, our power.”

  Each poignant syllable drew joyous tears from the angels.

  “Everything I do is for the betterment of the Host. You chose me to be Archon, and I’m ever your humble servant. So today, I make you a promise: this is only the beginning!”

  Satanail spread his arms as the roar of the crowd washed over him like sweet nectar. The solidarity strengthened by his every action and word was the spine of Heaven’s peace. Michael believed that only through sober faith could the Host remain united, but Satanail found far more success in appealing to the primal aspects of their nature.

  “Drink deep of the pleasures before you. There’s far more to come,” Satanail finished and shot off into the night.

  The message was a resounding success, but again Satanail lacked the fulfillment that normally accompanied the festivities. Ever since Michael fell to injury in the race, a nagging feeling of rejection festered in the back of his mind. He was Michael’s closest confidante, and his brother had never been reticent to share any concerns. This time, however, Michael’s reluctance was blatant, almost to the point of insult. Had he done something to lose that trust? No, impossible, but then why did the sense of exclusion persist?