Fall From Grace Read online

  Satan raised Wormwood to claim Fanuel’s head. The angel closed his eyes and mouthed a prayer.

  “What do you pray for? That your death is painless? Or that the Creator shows mercy on your enemies?”

  “I pray that Michael spikes your bloody head to the gates of Araboth.”

  Fanuel strutted into Limbo without fear, insulted Satan’s general, and had the gall to pray for his death. Such degree of arrogance deserved special recognition.

  Cassiel’s death left a hole of leadership in the Host. Only one individual was a natural fit in terms of skill and renown capable of elevating to the iconic standards of a Seraph—Metatron. Michael expected staunch resistance from him, but the war’s relentless pressure eroded all who stood obstinate against its tides of change. The Host’s survival necessitated the rise of a new Seraph, and an angel of Metatron’s stature was just the dynamic influence they needed.

  Michael entered the Library and approached Metatron. The Scribe’s milky, blind eyes seemed to divine Michael’s intent. His six arms were scrawling the names of every angel that had died in the war. The list rolled off his desk and coiled in a thick bundle next to similar ledgers stacked like memorials. If the angels and demons died off, would the Creator spark new sons on Heaven? Would they unearth the ruins of the Host’s civilization and learn from their genocidal tale?

  “If you have words to break, Slayer of Genesis, then do so and leave me to my work.”

  Metatron’s bitterness was justified. With eyes across Heaven, he would have viewed the simultaneous death of every life form. Heaven’s ecosystems may have been all that kept Metatron sane amidst the sustained violence barraging his mind’s eye.

  “An assault on Araboth is imminent, but you already know that,” Michael said.

  “I have seen the demons fester in their hive with a single mind for chaos, just as I have seen the Host stain this city with armaments of war under your hypocrisy of defense. There has not been so many of us collected in one region since our earliest days…when life yet held value.”

  “I come to you because I value every angel in these walls and beyond. Recall your Watchers. Have them and the Recorders report to the nearest Dominion for reassignment.”

  “Orders are for soldiers and zealots,” Metatron replied. “I am neither.”

  “Not an order—a choice. One I trust the Powers will understand. We must all step outside our stations and accept what the Creator requires of us.”

  Metatron’s quills stopped. He searched the scroll and pointed to a name—Cassiel. “You mean to ask me to adopt Cassiel’s title, or am I wrong in this assumption?”

  “You are legendary, Metatron.”

  Metatron scoffed at the suggestion. “Most angels have never set eyes upon me.”

  “But your name is synonymous with faith and duty. To see you rise and stand with us, you know the power of such symbolic imagery,” Michael urged. “You must realize—”

  “I realize more than you could ever know!” Metatron said and resumed writing, but his penmanship became sloppy. “I have enough purpose. Enough burden. I have seen enough.”

  Michael slapped his wings across the desk, scattering parchments and scrolls. “If you ignore this calling, you will see Heaven fall. You will see your Watchers and Recorders die…and you will be alone. A blind old fool who sees nothing. That will be your burden.”

  “Then I will bear it.”

  “I cannot force you to accept, but look at me when you forswear the Host. Look at me with your own eyes, Metatron. You owe Heaven that much.”

  Metatron lifted his eyes to Michael. The clouded orbs flushed clear, their pupils filling with sapphire passion.

  “The Scribe is all that I have ever been. What else can I do?”

  “Stop recording history and make it. Stand with us.” Michael unfolded a bundle of six swords. “Take up arms. Fight…as a Seraph.”

  Metatron put down the quills and rose from his chair. He wobbled on shaky legs, pale and gaunt from ages in stagnancy, but his body began to regenerate and sculpt with muscle.

  “Which blade should I claim?”

  “All of them.”

  The Seraph initiation ceremony was held in the Sanctuary, a spectacle that had not been seen since the original seven were chosen to divide Heaven into regions. The ritual was a healthy respite for the Host. The war had chipped away at everything they loved, depleting their sense of self and community. The angels were meandering without solid footing, and Metatron’s ascension was a perfect adhesive to mend their cracked path.

  Metatron knelt at the altar and faced the Host, surrounded by Michael, Gabriel, Uriel, and Raphael. Angels overflowed from the pews and hovered outside the Sanctuary to participate in the Seraphic sacrament. Michael thought of the brothers who were lost to Satan or death: Time, Erastiel, Azazel, Amitiel, Jehoel, Hailael, Cassiel, and so many more that should still be among them. He envisioned their faces in the pews before addressing the Host.

  “Brothers, the war has stripped so much from us, from Heaven, that these moments of fellowship are more relevant than ever. Our Seraph Cassiel has rejoined the Creator, his last breaths given to save my life and see Heaven protected,” Michael began. “But as loved ones fall, so too must others rise. No angel was created as a Seraph. One must accept the encumbrance of leadership and, through his actions, become an icon of faith. Hope and grace made flesh.”

  Raphael placed his palms against Metatron’s bare back. The skin bordering his spine separated and formed two additional pairs of slits. Metatron’s angelic grace flowed from the openings and spread out like wings, flapping to engulf the Host within their brilliant glow.

  “Now, we call upon one of our brightest to spread his wings and replenish that which was taken. He is an angel of knowledge, a mainstay in Heaven who has been with all of you throughout this war. He has seen and shared in your pains, your triumphs. Stand, and give him your blessing. I present to you—Metatron, Seraph of the Host.”

  The grace abated to reveal Metatron floating between the Seraphim. Six blue wings expanded and showered the Host with his feathers. Curved, slender swords were gripped in each of his hands. He soared through the Sanctuary like a prodigy sired from their collective worship.

  “Brothers, as I have become Seraph, so have you all become more than what you were. We have been scholars, artisans, poets, farmers, historians, stargazers, and we will be again,” Metatron preached. “But now, we must be warriors.”

  The Host erupted in applause. Their faith and mettle spread before Michael left no doubt: Heaven would never surrender to the dark. It was the light, the soul, and grace of Creation. Satan’s brazen rebellion was careening towards an inviolable wall of sanctity erected by the Host. The momentum of his defiance would shatter his cause against their universal will. The Creator, the Host, and the Cosmos had aligned to see Satan beaten into submission.

  Fanuel stumbled into the Sanctuary and collapsed. His hands were pressed over ragged wounds that spurted blood across the aisle and pews. Michael ran through the Host and wrapped his wings around the angel.

  “Give him room!”

  Though Fanuel knew and accepted the risks of delivering the message to Satan, Michael was implicit in whatever injuries had befallen him. Numerous arteries were sliced, deep enough not to heal while still causing a protracted death. Fanuel tried to speak between wet coughs.

  “Satan…he…he…”

  Raphael examined Fanuel, but the blood loss was extreme. Even if he managed to seal every artery, he could not expedite the generation of new blood cells before Fanuel passed.

  “He…accepts.”

  Fanuel leaned into Michael’s chest, his mission complete. His eyes closed and hands dropped from the wounds, thin trickles of blood running dry with his last breath of life.

  Satan waited atop the same mountain where he and Michael had started their races, appreciating the semiotics of the location. Staring down the slopes to Machonon, he wrestled with a strange nostalgia. M
emories hung in the air like sullen manifestations that felt distant, estranged. When his mind quieted, a faint fondness remained for his angelic life. Satanail’s voice lingered like a fresh haze after a storm split the sweltering heat, but Satan entombed such whims within his reliquary of hatred.

  Michael landed without a sound. Satan didn’t turn, taunting him to strike from behind, but knew that the Seraph wouldn’t take the bait. It was a mental challenge to test his nerve.

  “I have to say, Michael, this view does take me back.”

  “Face me, Satanail.”

  Satan turned towards his former brother and saw just how different they had become since their last race. Once spiritual twins, now they couldn’t even claim to be of the same species. Michael kept his distance, holding an impressive sword.

  The tension between them was titillating.

  “My name is Satan,” he corrected.

  “A moniker born of avarice, wrath, and jealously. I will never utter it.”

  “You’re still afraid that you’d like the taste of what it means. What it offers,” Satan said. “Why have you summoned me?”

  “To look upon your face as a brother one last time.”

  “We ceased to be brothers the day you chose humans over your own kind.”

  “Do not lecture me on loyalty. You shroud yourself in sanctimony and deception, frittering away the lives of those who gave you everything,” Michael replied. “The Watchers saw what you did to Azazel, how you reward loyalty.”

  “Azazel died with more honor than most.” Satan suppressed a tinge of guilt. Any lingering fondness for Azazel was a chink in his armor that had to be soldered.

  “We have destroyed so much that we both cherished. All the lives lost…and what has either of us achieved?” Michael rested the blade of his sword across his palms. “The only victory we can claim is the end of this war. Let us lay down our arms together.”

  Satan wavered to dangle a thread of hope. Michael was so vain. So foolish. “I’ll not dance this circle of words with you again. Even if I desired to, I can’t turn back. Satanail is dead. Your brother is dead. Accept it.”

  “I do. I had to be certain.”

  Michael raised his sword, white-hot flames igniting across it, and rushed forward to slash Satan’s head from his shoulders.

  Satan unsheathed Wormwood to block the blow. The swords collided in a shower of sparks, singeing their faces. They pushed against each other, power equal, neither budging.

  “This isn’t our moment. Not here.” Satan butted his head into Michael’s face and shoved him back. “Your life isn’t enough. When the streets of Araboth are awash with the Host’s blood, when the Sanctuary has crumbled, when your faith is broken and you see my demons march forth unto Earth…then you will die.”

  Whether from desperation or self-deceit, Michael had held onto the remote prospect that he could reach Satanail within Satan and find a means of dissuading him. But seeing Satan’s scarred chest, his black wings, his soulless eyes—Michael’s brother had devolved into a creature beyond classification. An ambassador of wickedness who served no higher power or purpose. A creature such as that could not be reasoned with, only put down.

  “If you are so confident in your legions, then meet my army on the plains between our cities. No more pillaging villages, no more night raids, no more displays of wanton destruction. Your demons, my angels, and no quarter,” Michael challenged.

  “Done. Make your peace tonight, for dawn brings the death of Angelkind.”

  “No. We are above you. I am above you. Always have been.” Michael’s wings spread to their full span, radiating his grace and purity of soul. “I do not fear death. I do not fear you.”

  “You should,” Satan replied.

  “I still love you, Brother. I will pray for you.”

  “I don’t need your prayers, Michael. I don’t need anything from you. Tomorrow, Father will see that he chose the wrong son.”

  Satan walked to the edge of the mountain and fell backwards, disappearing under the mist.

  A lone feather fluttered down near Michael’s feet. The black dye had smudged, revealing Satanail’s original gray below. The hue was pristine, beautiful, reflecting the colors around it like an opalescent fish scale. Michael picked it up and plucked one of his own emerald feathers. He bound the two quills and dug a small hole, burying them together.

  “Tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 27

  The Battle of Araboth Plains

  The steppe stretching between Araboth and Limbo shuddered with dread of the imminent carnage about to forever deface its grasses. Thunderclouds blotted out the morning light, waiting for the violence to commence before venting their temper. Heaven’s resentment seethed from the soil, howled in the winds, and boiled in the ocean. The world was suffering an excruciating and prolonged demise, but it would not succumb until its murderers were damned to the same fate.

  Michael stood atop the main gate of Araboth City like a sculpted watchman guarding its borders. An illustrious set of armor protected his body with bracers, greaves, and a chestplate all tempered from the throne’s gold by Uriel. The cathedra used to gain entrance to the Creator’s Word now shielded him from the evil that sought to silence it. Satan’s rebellion had forged Michael from a passive voice of faith into a weapon of Heavenly justice. It was time.

  With a wave of Michael’s hand, the city gates swung open. The Host’s army marched out in a semi-circle, millions of boots pounding like Heaven’s raging heartbeat. The tremendous force was divided into separate battalions commanded by Dominions. Michael needed to believe that the angels were more than bodies in a game of numbers, that each had a direct influence on the war’s outcome. It was a figment but all that kept him from fixating on fortune’s chance selection of would-be survivors.

  Michael kneeled and gripped the hilt of Excalibur, lowering his head against it in prayer. Father, look upon the Host of Heaven, and bless us with your forgiveness. Be our aegis against all enemies, visible and invisible. Give us the strength to face our brothers and deliver them from darkness. You are our light, our grace, our Creator.

  I am your Word. I am your Hand. I am your Judgment.

  I am Michael.

  Satan soared over his legions, admiring the enormity of his genius. The demons’ jagged armor was coated in ebony dye, rendering them near-invisible in the darkness save for the whites of their eyes. Bestial jewelry inspired by Lucifer hung from their gear and pierced their flesh. It was a reclamation of their bodies from the Creator through self-mutilation. Beelzebub’s knuckles cracked as he wrung his hands on the handle of his morning star. Mammon snapped his whip like a famished tongue, the jagged shrapnel at the tip rattling for victims.

  The volatile atmosphere was breathtaking.

  To whom do I pray to when I’ve already surpassed my Creator? Satan thought, peering into the infinite realm of possibility waiting beyond the meridian of conquest. There’s no power in prayer, only in action. I’ve brought us here without any serendipitous interference from the divine. Creation recognizes my authority.

  Your time is over, Father.

  “We’ve arrived at the precipice of immortal triumph!” Satan said to his demons. “The Host is weakened, a fly with plucked wings trying to scamper from under the shadow of my looming boot. I have but one more command for you, my sons: kill. Kill until the screams of the last angel are silenced and Michael’s head rolls down the mountain. Kill until their Creator topples off His throne from anguish and regret. Kill until Heaven, Earth, and all of Creation bows to me! KILL THEM ALL!”

  Satan led the march from Limbo, vowing never to look back at the slums of destitution and squalor. His legions entered formation on the steppe opposite of Michael’s armies, gnashing their teeth. At the rear, demons tugged hundreds of mobile tents like eggs ready to hatch Satan’s most ruthless invention.

  Between the Host’s army and Satan’s demonic horde, the bodies gathered on the plains numbered in the tens of millions. The l
oss of life would billow across the Cosmos and disrupt the harmony of Creation until every chord proclaimed Satan as Lord and Father of all.

  Michael dove off the gate and trailed Excalibur’s flames over his army. “Faith: it has forever defined our existence and is why we are here today,” he began. “Faith is the nexus around which our souls revolve, the gravity that binds us to each other and Creation. Faith in our Creator and Father. Faith in one another. Faith in the goodness that endures even when darkness smothers it from sight. Though it has been strained, the essence of our faith cannot be broken.

  “Look across the plains, and do not be afraid of the damned. Theirs is a distorted faith, vacant and corrupt, demanded by a false idol that advocates oppression and blasphemy. They are apostles of sin, and we are Heaven’s virtuous reckoning!”

  Uriel rapped a gigantic, double-handed hammer against his chest, shedding sparks onto armor crafted from dense coals. His body ignited like a torch, imbued with heat as the flames caressed his muscles. The fire activated gears in the framework of his new wings that extended dozens of sharpened daggers like feathers—a Seraph reborn of fire and machine.

  “Our brothers have betrayed themselves, betrayed the Host, betrayed Father, and betrayed Creation. The Kingdom of Heaven belongs to the devout, and I will give my life before I see it further debased by their heresy. What would you give to rid our home of this evil? What would you sacrifice to return the glory of Heaven? For us, for angels, there is but one answer: everything.”

  Gabriel raised his scythes and clanged the blades together. Metatron followed with his six swords, leading the Host in a rousing, metallic drumbeat. Even Raphael joined in, though he refused to be armed. The Seraphim were dispersed among the army as lodestars of fortitude and shone brighter than the great thermogenesis that disseminated the first elements of Creation.