Fall From Grace Page 3

  Satanail and Michael had witnessed miraculous events and brandished power eclipsed only by the Creator. Now, they were long removed from the early days of laboring side-by-side to develop Heaven. Michael had become withdrawn and devout to a fault, unable to live in the moment.

  There’s so much more to life than our faith, he thought. Why does Michael deny himself?

  Satanail’s musings were interrupted as he steered between a pair of residential towers. Someone was following him, and poorly at that. He was no stranger to a shy glance from the distance, but few angels were daring enough to pursue him at length without invitation. Satanail swung his wings down, driving a gust that ruffled feathers hidden in the dark.

  “Reveal yourself. There’s no cause to hide in the shadows,” Satanail called out. “Show me your face,” he asked again with a softer tone.

  The angel flapped forward, timid and unassuming. He was neither handsome nor charming and lacked the exact symmetry that most angels manipulated their bodies to achieve. Yet Satanail found something honest and refreshing in his simple appearance.

  “Forgive me, but your name has slipped from my memory,” Satanail said, not having an explicit account of every angel in Heaven. That gift was Michael’s alone.

  “A-A-Azazel, Archon.” His speech had a sporadic stammer that Satanail assumed came from an aberrant deficit of self-belief.

  “Call me Satanail.” Being referred to by title left a sour taste in his mouth. “Why were you following me?”

  “I…I only wished to lay eyes upon your glory.”

  “Am I so difficult to approach that you must steal half-gazes from afar?”

  “I didn’t want to d-d-disturb you,” Azazel said.

  The jittery angel intrigued Satanail. In a realm of omnipresent perfection, this one was unique in his flaws. Charming, even.

  “To what Choir do you belong, Azazel?”

  “None, Archon, I mean, S-S-Satanail,” he admitted.

  It was rare to find an angel that had yet to pledge himself to a Choir. The Hierarchy provided a sense of belonging and purpose for those who discovered their innate talents. What destiny did this angel seek—or turn from—that kept him from choosing a prosperous path? No Choir would reject a new initiate, no matter how demure. Azazel could find acceptance and companionship among any, yet he remained in isolation. Why? A wrist cuff woven with onyx jewels proved that Azazel wasn’t without skill of hand.

  “That is fine work. You’re a craftsman of adornments?”

  Azazel unstrapped the cuff and gave it to Satanail for further examination. “By hobby, not trade. I’ve no skills of n-n-note.”

  “Humility is a fine virtue, Azazel, but not at the expense of due praise. Doubt your own worth, and others will always do the same. Would you be willing to part with this cuff?”

  “You honor me,” Azazel said with a bow.

  “Lift your head. The honor is mine.”

  Satanail noticed that his compliments invigorated Azazel. He strapped the cuff to his wrist and stared into the eyes of his new acquaintance.

  “Remember this moment, and turn eyes from no angel.”

  “Yes, Satanail,” came Azazel’s firm reply, his spirit already strengthened from the scant lessons.

  Satanail didn’t see the empty, zealous adoration he received daily. Azazel wasn’t listening to the Archon—he was listening to Satanail as an angel, as a teacher, as an individual. In the absence of any defining attribute or characteristic of a Choir, Satanail saw something special: the blank slate of a mind to mold in his own image, an apprentice not of skill but of belief. Fascinated, he knew that their encounter was no coincidence. Such a peculiar angel calls for further observation, Satanail considered. An inquiry of the soul.

  “Would you care to join me for a drink?”

  CHAPTER 3

  Apprentices Old and New

  Michael desired nothing more than to retreat into the placid cradle of Machonon, but he had business to resolve. The manna deliveries to Machonon had been delayed, likely due to Satanail diverting shipments for Araboth’s festivities, but the lack of notice was bothersome. His task would normally be delegated to the Angels, a nomadic Choir with unsurpassed knowledge of all pathways between the regions, land or air (not to be confused with the general term “angel” used for their race). The Angel Choir acted as liaisons and messengers, but Michael felt this menial chore would help put aside the concerns heightened from Raphael’s foreboding words.

  As Michael approached the farming region of Shehaqim, the grasslands became robust fields flourishing with crops that supplied the majority of Heaven’s food. An irrigation system of buoyant platforms with recycled rainwater drifted over the area. Though no Choir was dedicated to farming, many angels excelled in the science of soil quality and seeding while others reaped the crops with choreographed elegance. It was a communion with the land that gave an intimate knowledge of the provisions that fueled the Host. There was no one perfect food in Heaven, not even manna, so a proper balance of sustenance was pivotal to achieve bodily harmony.

  At the heart of Shehaqim rose the largest tree in all of Heaven, bearing the appropriate title of the “Tree of Life.” With a trunk thicker than any structure in Araboth and a height that few had the stamina to scale, it was nothing short of a natural wonder. As the source of all manna, golden walls surrounded the Tree’s base to protect its roots, and the sole gate held one of the few locks in Heaven. Husky bees as big as Michael’s forearm buzzed out of hives that swelled from the branches in honeycombs of hexagonal cells. Their stingers could pierce an angel’s torso but were only a warning of the passive insects’ important task. They harvested manna from the sap of the Tree and carried it through small holes in the walls to the Refinery. There, the manna was cultivated from its raw form to strengthen the output of nutrients.

  A pair of twin, angel-made rivers surrounded the Tree and flowed through the fields: one of milk and honey produced from the animals in Machonon’s Wildlife Reserve, and the other of oil and wine culled from the luscious grapes of Raqia. The delectable liquids provided convenient strength and refreshment for the farmers.

  Michael scoured the lands for its viceroy but, as expected, he could not locate the Seraph. He landed in front of the golden gate and was greeted by a salty, eccentric angel. Sheburiel, the porter of the Tree, hobbled forward, skin wrinkled and sun-beaten from his unending charge.

  “Michael, it’s been an age,” Sheburiel said with a raspy voice. One of his hands was laced with metallic rings of different shapes and sizes.

  “At least. You look well.”

  “Bah, I look like a monkey’s ass, but this honed grimace wards off the more mischievous rabble,” Sheburiel snickered with an intimidating frown. “What brings you here?”

  “I seek Gabriel.” Michael’s tone betrayed an increasingly foul mood that surprised himself as much as Sheburiel.

  “Right, he’s here and there. Hard to pin down, that one. You know how he is.”

  “Unfortunately. He should look to you for a lesson in dedication.”

  “It’s not my place to instruct a Seraph in anything,” Sheburiel replied. “There’s no need to ruffle any feathers. Production is on schedule, the rotation has been seamless—”

  “Where is he?” Michael demanded, his patience dwindling.

  Though reluctant, Sheburiel nodded towards the Refinery.

  “He’s trying. Go easy on him,” he said.

  “Ease has never been his problem.”

  The Refinery had a pungent bouquet of odors produced by hard work. The commotion of the raucous farmers was drowned out by the resounding buzz of thousands of bees depositing their manna stores into large vats. It was then distilled to maximize the health benefits and prepared for shipment across Heaven. In its raw form, manna had an intoxicating effect that dulled the senses and proved more of a nuisance than a boon, but there were still angels who dabbled in its chemical effects…Gabriel chief among them.

  “Anot
her? I couldn’t possibly—wait, yes, I do believe your eloquent drawl has swayed me,” said an inebriated voice.

  Michael followed the ruckus and found Gabriel in a manna drinking competition with a group of rough farmers. Reckless and juvenile, Gabriel’s carefree love of life’s pleasures was a hindrance, despite Michael’s attempts to groom him for leadership on a grander scale. His bronzed skin, bright eyes, and smile that could lift the dourest of spirits accompanied an innate agility honed over eons. Very few angels were as naturally talented as Gabriel, but he lacked a modest appreciation for his gifts. Others had to earn their skills through dedication and time, promoting a balanced character that Gabriel lacked.

  Gabriel poured another mug of raw manna and winked at his challenger. He twirled a scythe between his fingers made of a hand-carved bone staff with crescent blades forged of fine ruby protruding from each end. A symbolic extension of his own body, the tool remained at Gabriel’s side as the source of many impressive, acrobatic feats and stylish dances of bravado.

  “Watch closely now,” Gabriel said with a rancid belch then hurled the scythe into the air.

  While the blades spun above, Gabriel chugged the entire mug without removing his eyes from the challenger. Spectators whooped and heckled as he drained the manna, spittle flowing from the corners of his mouth, and slammed the empty mug onto the table.

  “That makes an even dozen.”

  So uncouth, Michael thought under his scowl and snatched the descending scythe away from Gabriel’s open hand.

  “At last, a worthy challenger steps up. Take a seat, Logos. More manna!” Gabriel stood to embrace Michael but was forced back down to his seat.

  “Sit. Down,” Michael scolded. He slashed the scythe through the wooden table, ending the game and souring the mood in the Refinery.

  “Never much cared for that table. Horrible stains,” Gabriel joked, but Michael was not amused. “Get some air, brothers, and prepare for another round. This won’t take long.”

  The angels shuffled out. Michael paced, trying not to give in to hasty words, but Gabriel’s rash behavior was so frustrating.

  “Manna deliveries to Machonon have been delayed without notice, and I seek resolution only to find you getting drunk.”

  “Correction: drunker,” Gabriel smirked. “I’ve been drunk for some time.”

  “At least your immaturity is reliable. We refine the manna for a reason.”

  “No good one that I can speak of.”

  “You are a Seraph!” Michael shouted, growing more irate by the moment. “There are certain expectations of your behavior. This is a poor reflection on all of us.”

  “I only meant to provide some distraction for those unable to attend the festivities. Isn’t that the purpose of this day? I follow Satanail’s example in the spread of joyous unity.”

  “You have no cause to compare yourself to Satanail or any of the Seraphim. Not yet.” Michael lowered his voice and returned the scythe to Gabriel. “You are better than this.”

  “I’ve heard these words before,” Gabriel said with a wearied sigh.

  “Then take them to heart. You can be so much more. You are a natural leader.”

  “Heaven has enough leaders.”

  “Must you contest me at every turn? I took you under my wing. I vouched for you when the others claimed you were too brash, too inexperienced, to watch over Shehaqim.” What else could Michael say to reach him?

  “And I appreciate all you’ve done for me, I do, but Shehaqim remains my charge. Until that changes, I’ll manage it as I see fit.”

  “And the manna?” Michael asked.

  “I’ll send a caravan to Machonon tomorrow at first light. Is there anything else?”

  Gabriel stood to end the conversation. Once again, Michael could not breach his stubbornness, a failure equally his own. He wished Gabriel would recognize in himself the latent greatness that Michael saw every time he laid eyes upon him. Gabriel only needed to water his ambition and drive to sprout excellence, traits that Michael was confident he would discover.

  “You listen but hear nothing. Strength and grace: learn the meaning of the words, Gabriel, for I have no mind to coddle you anymore.”

  “As you wish, mighty Logos,” Gabriel said from a sarcastic bow. “But next time you need to vent your frustrations, do it elsewhere. Whatever your hardship, I’m not the cause.”

  Gabriel was right. Michael should not have criticized him so harshly, but it struck an ill chord to see his value wasted on drink and games.

  With a parting frown of disapproval, Michael flew out of the Refinery. I handled that poorly, he realized. Why is my temperament so compromised? Whatever was stirring within him, he needed answers that only one could reveal: the Creator.

  Satanail’s home was located within the central tower of Araboth City’s residential district, occupying the entire floor just below the clouds. A balcony wrapped around the building to provide a broad view but was still close enough to the lower levels to remain connected to the city’s pulse—his people. It was customized with furniture of decadent comfort, fine art of Satanail’s own skill, and a manna fountain that flowed with a private stock aged to his tastes. He poured two tall mugs and offered one to Azazel, who was taken aback by the sweeping sights.

  “Stirs the heart, doesn’t it?” Satanail said.

  “I’ve lived in Araboth my entire life but have n-n-never seen it so clearly.”

  “No matter how familiar, it’s important that we take pause to admire our own creations. I’d accept any journey, combat any challenge, to preserve what we’ve accomplished here.”

  “As would I,” Azazel replied without hesitation or stammer.

  In the presence of this complete stranger, Satanail’s mind gave way to thoughts that many would consider controversial, or worse, dangerous. But he wanted to delve into the depths of the angel and expose the core of his soul. When all pretenses were stripped, who exactly was Azazel?

  “Consider my home a place of confidence without affectation or titles. Here, we’re but two angels. Friends engaged in casual discourse.” Satanail studied Azazel’s reactions to each deliberate word. “I’m a seeker of knowledge, the mysteries of Creation but threads to spin on my loom of discovery. Tell me: do you ever have…questions?”

  “Questions?”

  “Fundamental thoughts about the nature of our existence. Why are we here? What mysteries await beyond the borders of Heaven?” Satanail was testing Azazel’s waters. Would they run deep or be a shallow disappointment? “When alone with my thoughts, I turn to Creation and wonder ‘who is our Father? Why does He not speak to us all?’ I believe, I know, that every angel deserves supreme awareness. Enlightenment. We’ve only to strive for it.”

  Broaching such topics could cause Azazel to recede into a shell of ignorance, but Satanail trusted his instincts. He needed to know how one free of a Choir’s indoctrination would respond. These questions, not doubts but itching curiosities, had always been his alone. He used to feel guilty that, unlike Michael, faith couldn’t silence his queries. But Azazel could prove that others shared his thirst for answers, even if they didn’t vocalize it.

  “I…trust in the C-C-Creator.” Azazel’s reply lacked conviction, more an automated response than a belief. Still, it was an auspicious beginning, the first chip of form from crude stone.

  “I’ve no doubt nor do I mean to cause you discomfort, but I want you to open your mind to truths beyond what we’re told. As angels, the only perfect beings in Creation, we must aim to expand our knowledge and constantly evolve. Give thought to my meaning, Azazel.”

  Satanail saw his message begin to unlock Azazel’s mind. With Michael’s increasing distance, perhaps a new companion was in order, one of a similar disposition. He released his wings and removed a single, gray feather.

  “Take this feather as a token of friendship. Heaven has grown complacent, and change is upon us. The future is laden with secrets. Shall we uncover them together?”

&nb
sp; “Together.” Azazel accepted Satanail’s feather, encouraging his newfound confidence, but the moment was short-lived.

  A foreign sound interrupted from the streets below: a scream. The cacophonous wail was something that Satanail hadn’t heard since his creation.

  “What’s that h-h-horrific sound?”

  “I’ll show you,” Satanail said while stepping onto the edge of the balcony railing. “If you can follow.”

  Satanail leapt over the railing and caught a gust of wind to swerve around the building. He looked back and saw Azazel barely behind him despite only having two wings. Impressive, he thought, his speed rivals that of the Angels. There was a drastic change in Azazel in but a short amount of time. Such was the power of Satanail’s influence.

  A crowd had gathered in an area of the market where independent farmers bartered delicacies grown in personal gardens. Vegetables were strewn about the street, and the angels were gawking at a strange figure cowered in an alley. Satanail flew towards the commotion and made a commanding descent that scattered the angels. Azazel landed behind him.

  “Clear a path,” he said. Mumbles of “Get it away” and “It’s horrible” sounded as they pushed through.

  The noise came again, a high-pitched screech like a young animal calling out for its mother. Each cry drew more angels to the scene only to have them recoil.

  “Keep them back,” Satanail instructed Azazel, who relished the temporary authority.

  Satanail withdrew his wings and took calm steps forward. He knew what trembled in the shadows.

  It wasn’t an angel.

  “By the Creator,” Azazel gasped, “What is that creature?”

  “A thing of the past…one of the Forgotten.”

  Satanail’s explanation spread like wildfire among the crowd. A few dramatic angels collapsed from the startling revelation.