Fall From Grace Page 4

  The Forgotten were creatures so rare that most doubted their existence. Although shrouded in mystery, they could be traced back to the Host’s own origins. As the legend told it, upon emerging from the Fires of Creation, each angel had to choose whether or not to embrace the Creator’s love. Their answers were unanimous…except for a small percentage of beings that were flawed during the process of creation: the Forgotten. Those aberrations of body and soul didn’t tread the same path of virtue. The Forgotten caused fear to inflame the angels—an emotion that most would deny they ever felt. The Host called for the monstrosities to be banished from Heaven, and they would’ve been were it not for a sole Seraph who pledged himself as their caretaker. His name was Sammael, and he argued that they were still Father’s divine children. As a compromise, the Forgotten were isolated to an uninhabited region of Heaven known as Mathey where they’d be unable to stir any more foulness among the Host. Neither Sammael nor any Forgotten had been seen since, written off as myth, so what was one doing in Araboth?

  “Calm, friend, I mean you no harm. My name is Satanail. Where’s your keeper?”

  The Forgotten shied from his touch. It had only one wing, the other but a deformed stump that prevented flight. Muck and grime were caked over its body, and its fingers were bloodied from trying to claw a path of escape through the brick wall. Its eyes were so milky that Satanail doubted it could even see. But in those murky pupils was the same fear that once took hold of his brothers, even for but a moment. He felt an overwhelming surge of…pity for the creature.

  “Is it dangerous?” Azazel asked out of concern for the angels gawking at it.

  “No. It has only lost its way.” Satanail shielded the Forgotten with his wings. “Return to your homes, brothers. Leave this poor creature be.”

  “Heed your Archon, angels,” came a booming voice from the sky.

  Another angel crashed onto the street, kicking up clouds of dust that veiled his identity. Six crimson wings flapped out and knocked back the onlookers until they fled. The Forgotten scrambled out of the alley and into the arms of the concealed Seraph, instantly comforted.

  “Is that you, Brother?” Satanail asked, Azazel peeking from behind his wings.

  “You have my gratitude for protecting my child, he doesn’t understand his offense, but don’t presume to call me brother. We were never as such…nor will we ever be,” Sammael’s obscured form answered before launching off into the night.

  Satanail turned back to his new pupil. Quite an evening.

  “Well, that was bracing. Know that you handled yourself admirably, and the others will remember your poise.” His praise bolstered Azazel’s spirit, as intended. “But why didn’t you recoil from the Forgotten like the others? Pity? Curiosity?”

  “It just seemed wrong to taunt the creature.”

  “Compassion, then,” Satanail said. “You continue to prove worthy of my trust, a thing not given lightly. Don’t squander it.”

  Azazel retrieved Satanail’s gifted feather and pierced it into his wing until his body absorbed the plume as one of its own.

  “On my word, I’ll not disappoint you.”

  Satanail gripped Azazel’s wrist. The symbol of his acceptance also concealed a disturbing warning that burned in his eyes—

  Never betray me.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Logos and the Word

  Michael’s flight to the mountain of Araboth City was smooth, and the speed of his travel soon placed him within its walls. The Host’s aerial dominance ensured that nowhere in Heaven was beyond reach. Two and four-winged angels could not achieve Michael’s tremendous velocity but could still fly to any of the seven regions in a single daily cycle, if so inclined.

  Araboth City was a sheer triumph of skill. Satanail’s balance of grandiose architecture and economical geography was as dichotomous as the Seraph himself. The deliberately arranged structures emerged from the slopes in a landscape of stone, each worthy of admiration. Michael treasured Machonon, but Araboth was the beating heart of Heaven that pumped life through the lands. Without its binding influence, the other regions would fall into disarray.

  Michael ascended the mountain until he broke through the clouds and reached the peak where the Sanctuary awaited. The entrance featured two enormous doors embossed with crystal prisms that refracted light into rays of voluminous color to symbolically baptize all who crossed the threshold. The doors had never been closed, for no angel would be denied admission. Its design had sprung forth from Satanail’s mind with the exact detail of divine inspiration, a sensation unique to the Archon. Michael agreed that Heaven required a location where any angel of any Choir could exalt his own, unique connection to the Creator—a central house of worship, spiritual confidence, and love.

  Michael stepped through the doors into an open space even larger than the Coliseum. Multiple stories were lined with ornate pews capable of seating tens of thousands. Stone pillars embedded with precious gems supported a ceiling painted with the landscapes of every region. At the far end stood a wooden altar carved from the trees of Raqia from which lessons of faith were preached. A circular skylight in the ceiling bathed the speaker in a cathartic glow that made them feel as if all of Creation was listening.

  “Peace shall forever be ours. Rejoice in the integrity of that truth. Never entertain doubt, for the Creator’s love encompasses all,” a Dominion spoke at the altar. “Believe in that love, that joy. His blessing surrounds us. He is with us always.”

  The Dominion paused upon seeing Michael. Others followed his stare with devout expectation. Michael’s sermons had always filled the Sanctuary to capacity. To appear and not speak would only cause unnecessary confusion.

  Michael approached the altar, and the Dominion stepped aside with a bow. He would normally go to great lengths to hone his sermons, pouring over the meaning of every sentence. As Logos, his words were meant to emulate the Creator’s own, but the Word had come to Michael precious few times in Heaven’s history. The current silence was His longest ever. Looking over the eager crowd, Michael prayed for Satanail’s talent of spontaneous articulation.

  “As I look through our Sanctuary, I see Angels and Thrones, Virtues and Cherubs, representatives of every Choir gathered together in worship with the same desire: to show our Creator that we have not forgotten His teachings. We have not faltered in our faith. It is stronger than ever,” Michael preached.

  The crowd erupted into thunderous claps of approval, and Satanail was among them. Michael could not spot his brother in the mass, but the weight of his dissecting gaze was distinct.

  “Balance: it is the singular, unflinching constant that prevents all of existence from unraveling into entropy. Amidst the vast abyss of Creation, extreme and divergent energies gestated with raw potential. When the Great Spark scattered those elements of life across the Cosmos, something unique formed on the fringes. Not a celestial body of natural formation, but rather the fruits of divinity ripened into a primordial prototype for all that would follow. That paradise of harmony and peace was given to us. Our Heaven.

  “This altar is not mine to claim, for it belongs to all. Every word spoken from here is a proclamation of our love and unity. I know in my soul that the Creator looks upon us and rejoices, for our goodness is a beacon of His love that…that…illuminates all of Heaven.”

  Michael paused, feeling short of breath. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his face. He felt faint, on the verge of losing consciousness. In the Sanctuary, Michael could not show any signs of weakness. That would imply that the Creator was denouncing his words and would have a catastrophic effect on the congregation. What should have been a jubilant dialogue with his brothers was becoming a taxing test of self-control.

  “There are many here who have yet to address our brothers. I urge you all to release any apprehensions and speak from your heart. Voice your faith and love with such fervor that Heaven pulses with the rapture of your words,” he managed to finish.

  The angels did
not appear to notice Michael’s discomfort, but Satanail’s perception was without equal…as was his penchant for scrutinizing every facet of Michael’s demeanor. There was no veil, no guise that Satanail could not see through. Thankfully, a line of angels made for the altar and provided an escape from his brother’s inevitable analysis.

  Michael waved to the crowd and hurried beyond the altar to a hallway of storage closets. He turned a corner, proceeded to a dead end, and ran his hands along the stone tiles of the floor to locate a minuscule indentation. He pulled back a loose tile and exposed a hidden staircase that descended to the catacombs running beneath the Sanctuary and down to the mountain’s core. The number of angels that knew of the passage could be counted on a single hand.

  Michael traversed the tunnels, following a path etched in his memory during the Sanctuary’s construction. In the total absence of light, any angel who did not know the proper turns would be hopelessly lost.

  Fifty steps then turn left. Seventy-three steps then turn right, his mind narrated. The only sign of progress was a stir in Michael’s soul that meant he was drawing closer to a location guarded above all else in Heaven.

  Eventually, Michael faced a smooth wall of etched runes from the Host’s earliest form of written language. Sculpted into the wall were two pairs of recessed handprints: his and Satanail’s. No other angel could gain access, not even the Seraphim. He placed his hands into the grooves and released the locking mechanism. Ancient gears clicked into place, allowing him to swivel the wall. Light flickered from beyond and beckoned him into the Throne Room.

  A simple throne of the finest gold was built on a sea of glass and engulfed in searing flames hot enough to cause it to glow but not melt. Nine burning lamps surrounded it to represent the angelic Choirs. Two exquisite statues of Michael and Satanail also bordered the throne in tribute to the chosen sons, their wings interlocked and folded over the seat.

  Lining the circumference of the circular room were twenty-four angels clothed in white robes that hid their faces under hoods. A harp and bowl of incense rested by each, their fingers strumming a tune both gentle and haunting in its melody. These angels were known only as the Elders, for their identities were lost to everyone but Michael. Their dedication as custodians of the throne was total, causing them to remain in a meditative state of near-stasis until disturbed.

  “Welcome, Logos,” the Elders spoke in unison.

  “I stand before you as the vessel of the Word,” Michael said in a specific call and reply.

  “He who gives it form and voice.”

  “He who imparts it among the Host,” Michael added.

  “What is it you seek?” the Elders asked.

  “An audience.”

  “Then you shall have it. May the Creator be with you.”

  “And also with you,” Michael finished.

  The flames dissipated, kept ignited as a manifestation of the Elders’ collective will. When the throne cooled, the statues came alive with the grinding of unseen mechanisms. The wings folded back and exposed the seat like the petals of a flower parting to accept the morning light.

  Michael sat on the throne, and his heart raced at the thought of his destination. The Elders changed the song of their harps, lowering the throne into darkness. The choking sight of absolute nothingness surrounded Michael as he descended to the base of the mountain…to its central core. The Host had ascended the same passage during their initial flight to Heaven’s surface, and his terminus was where they all came into being—

  The Chamber of Creation.

  When the throne arrived in the core, the Fires of Creation burned before Michael: an orb of brilliant, white flames that danced like submerged hair in the freedom of water. The Fires spat out particles of crackling energy, the base components of all life. This was the location and means of the Host’s genesis, an amaranthine reminder of the Creator’s miraculous power.

  The Chamber lacked any discernable walls or boundaries as if it occupied a separate space and time from the rest of Heaven. Despite the Fires, Michael’s breath was visible. The fusion of heat and cold was part of a primordial synthesis beyond even the angels’ scientific comprehension. Standing among such ancient forces made Michael feel like a small cog in the grand machine of Creation. He wished to share that sobering experience with the Host, but it was not the way of things. Even in their world of concord, some secrets had to remain as such.

  Michael knelt before the Fires and closed his eyes. He took a few deep breaths to clear his mind before asking aloud, “What is happening to me, Father?”

  The divinity of the Creator’s Word could not be communicated through verbal speech. Rather, it was a combination of spiritual visions and instinct that Michael could never properly explain to another, including Satanail. It was his isolating duty as the Logos.

  “Please, I do not understand. Have I erred in my service? Am I being punished?”

  Michael felt nothing but suffocating solitude.

  In the past, exhilaration like an awakening of the soul had preceded Michael’s communions with the Creator…nothing like the discomfort that had strained him since the race. What was so important, so urgent, that the Creator had to now employ pain to summon him?

  “I am the Logos, your Word and will. What would you have of me? Why am I here?”

  The Fires swirled around Michael and splashed to his feet, igniting the invisible floor of the Chamber in a furious blaze. The flames wrapped over his skin without burning. Fine ribbons of fire surged into his pours and merged with every particle, every atom, in his body.

  Michael’s eyes shot open and dilated as divine truth entered him. Tears flooded down his face and evaporated while flames spewed from the gaping sockets. His wings burst from his back with such force that he thought the scorching appendages would tear free.

  Devoured by the inferno, Michael’s commitment wavered. Faith dictated that he must welcome the final stage of life’s journey, the metamorphosis into the realm of the soul, but he was not ready to depart Heaven. He was afraid.

  Why? was the only thought that Michael could form through the primal scream bellowing from his lungs. The searing pain was not bodily agony but an overwhelming disruption of his entire being.

  Is this the end…?

  Satanail remained in the Sanctuary, listening to the endless chatter as angels took to the altar. It was all very uplifting for those involved, but he felt that their words were a bit redundant. The Creator was all-powerful and would surely know what they held in their hearts, regardless of praise spewed from eager mouths. Satanail held his tongue from speaking out against the beloved practice. The surest path to losing the support of the people was to deny them their pleasures.

  Having heard enough, Satanail stood to depart but felt a sudden, acute stab in his gut. His insides knotted, rung by the hands of an unknown anxiety. He keeled forward and gripped the pew in front of him, fingers splintering the wood. A grunt escaped his pursed lips.

  Michael was in pain.

  The anguish was so grievous, so profuse, that Satanail could feel it rushing through the ether.

  “Archon…?” asked a concerned angel in the pew.

  “I’m fine. Move,” Satanail commanded and pushed through to the hallway behind the altar. He couldn’t concern himself with the unease his actions spread across the Sanctuary because his mind was monopolized by a single thought: Michael.

  Satanail followed the path down into the catacombs, guided by Michael’s pain. He felt him crying with no relief and shared in every excruciating moment.

  I’m coming, Brother, Satanail prayed in hopes that the reassuring message would reach him. If he was so affected as just a proxy, he couldn’t imagine the state of Michael.

  Satanail located the Throne Room entrance and shoved his hands against the imprints so hard that fissures split across the stone. Upon entering, the Elders lifted their heads and tracked his movements as if he were trespassing.

  “You do not belong here, Archon,” t
he Elders warned.

  “I built these walls. Who are you to deny me passage?” he replied, insulted by their stoic arrogance.

  “We are the guardians of the Fires as chosen by yourself and the Logos. Our charge is eternal. It cannot be compromised, cannot be altered.”

  The Elders stood from their stationary positions and formed a wall to block the recess where the throne had descended.

  “Then I’m relieving you of your duties. Step aside.” Satanail’s composure and restraint were wearing thin.

  “The Logos cannot be disturbed.”

  “He’s in pain! Ignore it if you must, but I won’t. Step aside.”

  The Elders were adamant in their detainment, so Satanail grabbed one by the throat and hoisted him off the ground, his tight fingers compressing the fragile windpipe.

  “Remove yourselves, now!” he roared in an unrecognizable voice, but the Elders didn’t budge.

  Satanail was overcome by a desire to break their bodies and make an example of their subordination. No one would keep him from Michael, even if he had to—

  No. I’m not myself, Satanail thought as he glared at the Elder choking in his grip. This…this is wrong. What am I doing? What am I feeling?

  Satanail released the Elder and stepped back, appalled with himself. Purple bruises in the shape of his fingers discolored the Elder’s neck. The words ran dry in Satanail’s mouth, so utterly stunned by his own rotten actions.

  Father, what’s wrong with me?

  Michael was on the verge of breaking when he felt Satanail’s presence from above. His brother’s concern filled the Chamber and provided him with a reservoir of strength. Never had his will been so tested, his body so lambasted, but he would endure the trial. For Satanail, for every angel in Heaven, he would endure. In that moment of clarity, a radiant light engulfed Michael. He closed his eyes and felt his soul disperse from the confines of his body to soar across the Cosmos.