Fall From Grace Read online

When Michael opened his eyes, he was somewhere else, not Heaven but a raw reflection of its glory. Pristine sapphire skies, lush vegetation, and expansive bodies of water filled the peaceful landscape. He bent down to touch the grass only to have his hand pass through the blades, incorporeal. Was this a vision? No, it was too detailed, too profound. It was the truth of reality. This was what the Creator wanted him to see.

  Familiar animals roamed free, oblivious to his presence. They appeared as parallels of Heaven’s own wildlife, perhaps distant relatives that took slightly altered evolutionary paths. A small moon was barely visible in the daylight. Michael realized that he was observing the environment of a celestial body, a blue planet orbiting a burning star. In all the randomness of Creation, how could the world be so similar to Heaven?

  Michael’s soul flashed over the planet, absorbing the plethora of gorgeous sights. The uncultivated lands were reminiscent of ancient Heaven before the angels molded their realm. He could not recall when he last felt such peace of mind. The Creator’s works were sublime, but why was he here? What was he meant to understand of this young world?

  A pack of peculiar creatures caught Michael’s attention. They walked upright, almost angelic in appearance, but lacked wings. Curious. They reminded him of an evolved mammal similar to the primates he enjoyed visiting in Machonon’s Wildlife Reserve, but their intelligence was more advanced than any animal in Heaven. They showed rudimentary signs of language, values, and even culture. Michael discerned both male and female examples of the species but was not prepared for what he saw next.

  A female cradled her offspring, a child of no more than a few days. Michael had seen animals give birth on Heaven and nurture their young, often feeling a tinge of remorse that angels could not reproduce, but nothing compared to this visceral experience. He felt the connection between the parents and child. Their pure love for each other surpassed even the Host’s brotherhood.

  They were a family.

  It was the single most awe-inspiring image Michael had ever witnessed. In that moment, he loved them unconditionally.

  Michael’s vision of the family faded as his consciousness stretched across the porous paths of time. Thousands of years of the world’s history bombarded his mind. The mammals evolved and rose to claim every corner of the planet. Thousands became millions. Millions became billions. They harnessed powers of science and technology that made the works of Heaven primitive in comparison. But at the conclusion of the shocking barrage, one revelation left a scar on Michael that would never heal—they would destroy themselves.

  Bloodshed saturated the civilization from its earliest days, evolving with them from sticks and stones to abominable works of fire and brimstone capable of annihilating entire portions of the world. A final image seared itself in Michael’s memory, one of a planet ravaged by destruction and incapable of supporting life. Bodies were strewn about the ruins, mangled skeletons all that remained of the once resplendent species.

  Death was their fate…but it did not have to be.

  Michael’s soul was recalled to the Chamber of Creation. The Fires withdrew from his body and reformed their orb. Michael stood, forever changed by what he had seen. Supreme beauty and love would give way to carnage the likes of which no angel could fathom. He sat on the throne, speechless as it ascended.

  The Creator’s Word had been received with rapturous clarity.

  Satanail awaited Michael’s return at the periphery of the Throne Room. He sensed the Elders’ distrust of him, and who could blame them? His rash actions were abhorrent. Had any other angel witnessed his aggression, he would’ve faced judgment before the Heavenly Court. Worse still, those emotions lingered within, like another voice attempting to taint his soul with wicked intentions.

  Finally, the throne arrived with Michael. He stepped off, and the Elders reignited the flames. Satanail immediately saw that his brother was different. Though his grace seemed traumatized, there was an assured power and fortitude in his stride. Whatever Michael had endured, it instilled him with an unfamiliar drive that Satanail found…disconcerting.

  “Brother, what’s happened?”

  “The Creator has spoken.”

  Satanail knew the monumental importance of that statement.

  “What did you see?” he asked and expected an answer. His counsel had always been trusted to decipher the Creator’s often-construed messages, but Michael ignored him and pressed on. Satanail blocked the exit and placed a hand against his chest.

  “Stop. You’ve an alarming air about you. Speak to me.”

  “In time, as I will to all.” Michael grabbed Satanail’s fingers and peeled them back from his chest. “You should not have come here.”

  “I was concerned. Your pain…I felt it,” Satanail replied, not understanding how Michael could be so flippant of his gesture.

  “The pain is gone. I appreciate your sentiment, but you can do nothing for me. Not now.”

  A stranger stood before Satanail, grim and distant from the Word. He allowed Michael to pass but made one final inquiry.

  “What did you see?”

  Without turning back, Michael answered, “Everything.”

  CHAPTER 5

  An Unexpected Storm

  Satanail flew spirals around the slopes of Araboth City, but even the beatific scenery couldn’t soothe the ire that constricted him. Something vile—malicious—had entered his soul because of his desire to aid Michael with no regard for consequence, and his brother’s indifference inflamed the festering contamination. That darkness remained inside of Satanail like an infection of dormant sin that fermented as his bond with Michael strained. He cherished that bond like no other and felt a great shame swell over his sudden perversion of character.

  Ambition was ever an admitted vice, but obsession began to clench Satanail in its jaws. He had never craved the weight shouldered by the Logos, content to let Michael conduct all manners of faith, but now it felt as if his soul was mutating into something unrecognizable. Something covetous. Had Michael also sensed this change, hence his silence? Had the Creator marked Satanail unworthy? No, he was overreacting. Michael would remember the worth of his counsel, and those feelings would be purified by renewed trust. He was sure of it.

  Dwelling on worry only sustained what Satanail hoped to abolish. He envied the blissful ignorance of the common angels in his city. None of them could understand the obligations that he balanced daily. He found fragments of companionship in his fellow Seraphs, but only Michael grasped the full extent of his burden. If that link became severed, Satanail would be alone. The thought bled with grief…until he remembered an angel who had proven receptive to his insight, one who held him in the highest regards.

  Satanail descended to the Merchant Quarter at the mountain base where a bazaar was alive with activity. Travelers entering the city were welcomed by a wealth of fabrics, tools, food—every supply one could need. Many merchants operated from their homes, simple burrows carved into the face of the mountain like tailored grottos.

  An air of contentment surrounded Satanail like a blanket woven by the community as the sights and sounds of the crowded bazaar began to distract from his agitation. Flickering lanterns accented a piquant fog of incense smoke. Wares were thrust forth by eccentric, costumed angels that bounced across the tents and awnings as mascots for the shops. Obscured under the flashy racket, Satanail’s ear caught the familiar stammer of the angel he sought.

  “Cuffs, necklaces, and rings of the f-f-finest fabrics and gemstones in Araboth,” Azazel said from his stand with a banal drawl. Where was the tenacity that Satanail encouraged?

  A shabby table extended from the entrance of Azazel’s home to display his handmade adornments. He spoke truth, they were crafted of superior materials, but Azazel lacked the charisma to draw in a crowd. Others sang, danced, or performed feats of skill to gather customers, and accessories for beautification weren’t popular. Many angels felt such products unnecessary because their physical form was already considered a
esthetic perfection.

  “Your wares boast great talent, but the pitch is too modest. Has my influence already faded?” Satanail asked, his presence surprising Azazel.

  “It’s a blessing that remains planted in memory.”

  “Then nourish it. This is no place for bashful peddling. Be boisterous. Give them no choice but to recognize your skill.”

  “I’m not one for song and d-d-dance. My pleasure lies in the p-p-process of creation, not the barter of its results,” Azazel admitted.

  “A sentiment shared by all adept artisans.” Satanail continued to be taken by Azazel’s values and saw the makings of a kindred spirit that could fill the threatening void. “But ask yourself, what purpose does a thing serve if it’s not put to use by others?”

  “Yes, Satanail.” Azazel’s familiar address drew odd glances from the crowd. “To what do I owe this visit? Has your cuff proven f-f-faulty?”

  “The cuff is flawless. I wouldn’t don it otherwise,” Satanail said while presenting the cuff so others would take notice. “Will you indulge me in the comfort of good company?”

  “You’re always welcome here in my home,” Azazel replied, honored to oblige.

  Azazel turned from the angels beginning to crowd his table and led Satanail into his quaint dwelling. He drew a sparkling, beaded curtain over the entrance. Most angels never bothered to install proper doors and were more than willing to entertain visitors at any hour, but the curtain provided privacy without the appearance of social detachment.

  Satanail perused the pleasant room decorated with Azazel’s works. Necklaces, rings, bangles, brooches, and amulets hung from the jagged walls and rested on tables by vats of ebony ink. The modest accommodations lacked luxury, but there was a tangible comfort to being within the mountain’s embrace that encouraged an uninhibited connection with oneself.

  “It’s not much to look at but suits me fine,” Azazel said.

  “A haven of creativity. Splendid.”

  Satanail examined some more extravagant items that Azazel kept for his personal collection, all of which were garnished with black stones. “You favor onyx and obsidian in your work.”

  “I’ve found that the sincerest elegance blooms in the absence of color. When facing the abyss, the soul awakens,” Azazel replied absent his normal fluster. Comfortable surroundings and topics diminished his nervous manner.

  “The depths are the truest source of genius.”

  “I appreciate your kind words, private and public,” Azazel said and handed Satanail a mug of manna.

  “A fair trade for the generous gift of your time.”

  They clinked mugs and took large swigs. The manna infused Satanail with vigor and numbed his faculties in an unexpected but pleasant high.

  “Unrefined. You continue to surprise, Azazel.”

  “I hope I’ve not offended your tastes.”

  “Moderation is a quality of the meek.” Satanail swirled the liquid in his mug, his thoughts returning to Michael.

  “If I may—” Azazel began.

  “You ‘may’ cease with the formalities. Speak to me as you would any other.”

  “I’m grateful, but why have you come here? I doubt the draw of my conversation.”

  Satanail didn’t have a defined answer for why he sought comfort in the shy merchant. It was ludicrous to think Azazel had any wisdom beyond his own, but he was drawn to him nonetheless. Though inexplicable, Satanail needed to explore the kinship…with truth.

  “I came to you because of Michael.”

  The mention of the Seraph made Azazel apprehensive. Not many angels would openly discuss a Seraph other than to sing praises, a fact of great annoyance to Satanail.

  “I doubt that I’m qualified to provide any advice concerning the L-L-Logos. You both operate far above my station,” Azazel muttered.

  “Are you an angel? Then you’re qualified,” Satanail reassured. But even if Azazel had no real insight, speaking his mind would help Satanail sift through any imprudent emotions before he confronted Michael. “The Logos received the Word of the Creator today.”

  “The Word…what was said?” Azazel asked in a bold inquiry from someone who had never been privy to that knowledge before the general Host.

  “Therein lies the issue. Michael has always relayed the Word to me before any other, and together we’d determine a proper course of action.” Satanail swallowed his remaining manna then continued. “But he dismissed me like some babbling fool, as if I could no longer understand his plight. I’m the Archon, Hand of the Creator! Without me to see His will done, the Logos is but an empty tongue.”

  Satanail’s indignation stirred within, met with a loud clap of thunder that caused Azazel to jump back as if the Creator was warning them about the conversation.

  “Perhaps Michael but waits for the proper m-m-moment.”

  “What of the insult levied upon loving brother as he cast me aside? Yes, he’s the Logos, but he’s not my better. He doesn’t stand above any angel. He is not my Creator!”

  Losing control in the spirit of the moment, Satanail unfurled his wings. The mug shattered in his grip, digging the pieces into his palm. A thin stream of blood dripped to the floor.

  “I…I d-d-don’t know what you expect of me.”

  “You need only listen and infer deeper meaning for yourself. Shouldn’t all of us be privy to the Creator’s direct Word? Why must it be filtered through a Logos, a messenger?” Satanail had similar reveries in the past, but a callous lack of restraint was now giving them voice.

  “Words sure to spark controversy if spread,” Azazel warned.

  “Controversy is the herald of change.” Satanail saw Azazel’s reticence giving way to insight. “You stake claim to no Choir and pledge loyalty to no Seraph. Look to yourself, Azazel, free of my influence. I need to know: am I wrong in this?”

  If Azazel was a brother of similar nature, there could be but one possibly reply—

  “No.”

  Another crack of thunder shook the walls, and a gust of wind hurled Azazel’s shop table inside. It splintered on the entrance, shooting loose gemstones and shards of wood right at Azazel’s face…but Satanail batted the sharp chunks away with his wings.

  Satanail and Azazel rushed outside to see the sky marred by furious clouds. A thunderstorm ravaged the bazaar, creating a whirlwind of debris and goods. Angels fled from bolts of lightning that struck the streets and set the tents ablaze.

  “Why are the Cherubim assaulting us with this t-t-tempest?”

  “This isn’t their work,” Satanail replied. He brought down his wings and wafted gusts of air to douse the flames.

  “But the w-w-weather rages only by their command.”

  “It wasn’t always so, and I’ve never fled from the elements. Come, Azazel. I’ll show you how to tame this beast of nature.”

  Satanail flew into the monsoon rains and swayed among the heavy squalls. The lack of control was invigorating. He raised a hand as if to snatch the bolts of lightning from the clouds.

  If this storm is a warning, Father, then you have my apologies.

  It won’t be heeded.

  Michael navigated through rolling thunderclouds, using flashes of lightning to stay on course. The foreboding storm was far too fierce to be a product of the Cherubim, especially for such a populated region. Could it be an omen from the Creator? A prophet of transition?

  Confronted by the mounting questions beyond his ability to answer, Michael wondered, what would Satanail do? He felt horrible about how he had spoken to his brother earlier, but his mind still flashed with images of horrors and death. It was too soon.

  During Michael’s ethereal travel, his conviction was absolute, but now doubt crept in. If he showed any signs of disbelief or hesitation, it would spread to others. He needed definitive proof of this new species before presenting such a daunting revelation to the Host. He needed to find the blue planet.

  Michael flew through the storm into the highest borders of Heaven where its a
tmosphere melted into Creation. There were no stars or celestial bodies, just a glistening curtain of energy. No angel had ever sought to leave the realm because there was never any just cause. Compared to Heaven, all of Creation was in a primordial state incapable of sustaining advanced life or producing any resources of worth for the Host…or so they thought. But what if, in their isolated presumptions, they were naive to the Creator’s complete design?

  Floating near the edges of Heaven far above Araboth City was the Observatory. The massive dome was built to house one of the Host’s finest technologies: the cosmic telescopes. Capable of peering into the vast reaches of Creation, the telescopes were comprised of thousands of jumbo glass lenses focused by the Choir known as Virtues. If the planet Michael saw was part of Creation, the Virtues could locate it.

  Inside the Observatory, the Choir studied the Cosmos on a macro scale, supervising the movements of celestial bodies to ensure that Creation remained in order. The telescope lenses that peered into the void beyond the curtain were in constant motion, refracting light down through the tubes to present images. A mathematical brilliance was necessary to focus on exact locations spanning inconceivable distances. In that respect, none were as talented as the Virtues.

  The Virtues lived in a world of numbers and theory, and as such were not the most social of angels. Keeping a record of all the galaxies, matter, and swirling cosmic energies was no small task, so they only gave Michael stilted nods as he walked through the Observatory. Since he arrived, nearly a hundred stars were formed or lost in supernovas. He could not fathom the mental toll of constantly dealing with life and death on such a scale, but that was the purpose of the Choirs: to gather likeminded angels, visionaries, and amplify their expertise.

  Only one Virtue was not stationed at a telescope, one so committed to the mysteries and evolution of Creation that he took the abstract concept of “time” as his name. Time, an angel of total temperance with the icon of a sun branded onto his forehead, sat alone at his center console. He poured crystal water between a pair of chalices to mediate the complex workings of his mind.