Fall From Grace Read online

  “Y-y-yes, Archon.”

  “And Azazel…never speak of this again.”

  With that solemn threat, Satanail departed the Nest.

  Though the storm had ceased, Satanail’s thoughts remained in upheaval. He was through respecting his brother’s wishes for privacy. Whether Satanail knew the specifics of the Word or not, it was affecting him beyond measure.

  Michael would have to answer for it.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Quandary of Knowledge

  Michael returned to Machonon for a quiet respite before the inevitable whirlwind. The Wildlife Reserve was an ideal location with its synthesis of soothing scenery and feral symphony resonating in an approbation of life. It was so peaceful that animals would arrive of their own accord to enjoy its detailed recreations of their native environments. Michael could peruse a flourishing forest then glide into snowy tundra without leaving the Reserve.

  Though the Reserve was autonomous under the Archangels’ jurisdiction, Michael imposed one rule never to be broken: the animals could not be kept in captivity. That freedom and respect became an unspoken agreement offering a temporary, pampered escape while providing the Archangels a chance to study the variations in Heaven’s fauna. Had Michael not been chosen as Logos, this would have been his preferred specialty.

  An overgrown jungle of trees was layered with swinging vines, but the primates sat still. Their inquisitive eyes were trained on Michael. He had watched the creatures of Heaven crawl out of the ocean and transform over geologic spans of time as if following a plan imprinted by the Creator. Did the species he saw on the blue planet do the same? Angels were created complete, perfection without trial and error, or so he believed. No angel truly knew what came before the spark of consciousness.

  “Remarkable, aren’t they?”

  “Look at the depth of compassion on their faces.”

  Michael turned and was greeted by Jehoel and Hailael, a pair of inseparable Archangels that oversaw the Wildlife Reserve’s daily operations. The rugged, unkempt caretakers lived among its animals like kin, committed to the analysis and preservation of Heaven’s creatures. As joint chiefs of the Archangel’s Order of Hayyoth, their beliefs maintained that all life held equal position in Heaven and should be treated with loving admiration. Michael shared their views, but he lacked their astute insight into the animals’ behavior.

  “Compassion? I see only mild curiosity, as if my presence is a passing distraction soon to be forgotten,” Michael replied.

  “Gaze deeper, Logos,” Hailael said. “They’re creatures of empathy connected to all those in their vicinity. I believe they sense what lies in our hearts more keenly than we do, latching onto those base instincts without the outward complications of civilization.”

  Was it the nature of emotion to manifest in an aura shared by all life, or were the Archangels applying the complexities of angelic thought from a desire to personify the animals?

  “Do you believe that their intelligence continues to evolve?” Michael asked.

  “I’ve no doubt,” Jehoel replied.

  “To what end? Could they develop speech?”

  “All creatures communicate in one form or another, but will the primates one day break common words with us? Doubtful. They’re near the apex of their evolution,” Hailael added. “All life has a perfect form, an evolutionary destination. The Host was conceived outside of that design, but Heaven’s creatures have had to discover their genetic culmination.”

  “The Archangels have studied tens of thousands of distinct species, each derived from single-celled organisms. Not us. The Host is and forever will be unique. Special,” Jehoel said.

  “What if we were not?” Michael immediately regretted the statement.

  “My apologies, Logos, but I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I,” Michael said.

  “Well…if you need anything from the Archangels, give voice to the request,” Hailael offered.

  “The Logos won’t petition for aid, even when it’s needed most.” Satanail landed among the angels and sneered at the primates. “Yet he searches for solace among beasts that have no awareness of our affairs.”

  “Brother,” Michael greeted.

  Though irritated by the tactless barb, Michael was relieved to see Satanail. The primates, however, retreated into the foliage like a predatory danger had entered their domain.

  “What’s come over them?” Jehoel wondered.

  “Perhaps there’s one too many angels about for their liking. The Host can be intimidating to the lesser creations,” Satanail replied. “I need a moment alone with Michael.”

  “By all means. Archon. Logos.” Jehoel and Hailael bowed their heads before flying off to another section of the Reserve.

  “Walk with me,” Satanail said to Michael in more an order than a request.

  The brothers left the rainforest and entered grasslands where the grazing herbivores paid them no mind and any Archangels were out of earshot. Since denying Satanail in the Sanctuary, Michael had been expecting this confrontation. Satanail would not depart again without the insight he sought. His talents of persuasion were notorious.

  “I respected your clandestine temperament, so should you now respect my confidence. As Heaven’s Archon, it’s imperative that I’m informed of the Creator’s Word in advance of the public,” Satanail spoke with a calculated certainty. “It’s a matter of prudence, not decorum.”

  “As ever, you speak truths sired from a seasoned mind.”

  Satanail was expecting an argument, but the fact remained that his genuine concern had never wavered. It was wrong of Michael to delay sharing the Word, and he could see the tension that afflicted Satanail as a result.

  “Why do I feel as if Heaven is circling a cosmic drain? That all we hold close to heart is in jeopardy?” Satanail asked. “Tell me what you’ve seen. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Michael recounted everything that had happened since their race: every foreboding sensation, every image shown by the Fires, and the bewildering sense of devotion he felt upon seeing the inhabitants of the blue planet. The epiphany of the experience could not be recreated with words, but it eased his mind to share the details with Satanail.

  “I am lost. I was given no further guidance or indication on how to proceed. I thought time would reveal more, but I have only fallen into doubt. The clarity of His Word slips from grasp,” Michael concluded. He hoped for a sign that he was not alone in his disorientation, but a blank stare obscured Satanail’s thoughts.

  “You’re never lost, Brother, not with me. Use my counsel as a beacon and see clarity returned. We’ll translate Father’s intent until a proper resolution is devised,” Satanail finally replied, though there was something hollow in the words that Michael chose to ignore.

  “You stand a bastion of strength for Heaven. The Host will look to you for guidance.”

  “And to you for faith,” Satanail assured. “We’ve never failed Heaven.”

  “United in purpose, we never will.”

  Satanail’s words were intoxicating, like the first sip of raw manna: Michael craved more. He had never embarked on a crusade of change without the brace of Satanail’s advocacy. But buried deep within was a dissonant, bleak warning that the Seraph who stood before Michael was but a distorted mirage. Defiled. Corrupt. Contagious.

  It took all of Satanail’s self-discipline to control his response to Michael’s revelation. With the information came a profound understanding of his recent mental pandemonium. A firestorm of emotions burned within Satanail in but anticipation of the Word, so how would angels with far less willpower react to its unveiling? Doubt may have reared its head, but Michael’s faith would never challenge the validity of what he believed was the Creator’s sacramental instruction. He didn’t recognize the danger and sheer chaotic effect the divination could have on their way of life. Satanail’s obligation remained the safety and prosperity of the Host, not that of some speculative race Michael could’ve conjured in a m
oment of delirium.

  Still, Michael seemed desperate for a clean solution to the impasse of cryptic muck. To influence him towards the only rational course of action, Satanail had to balance his infallible support with authoritative reason.

  “I don’t often preach caution, but we must keep this revelation to ourselves for now. You say the Virtues have located the blue planet?” Satanail asked.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then you and I must find a means to visit it and conduct a direct analysis of this blessed race. To take action without doing so would be woefully premature.”

  No angel had ever found a way to penetrate the borders of Heaven, though it had long been a dream of Satanail’s. Heaven offered everything the Host needed to exist in unrestricted bliss, but the exploration of open Creation was a temptation he hoped to one day satisfy. For now, it remained an impossibility that would provide something of greater value: time.

  “It is not for us to decide whether or not I am to reveal the Creator’s intentions. I cannot—I will not—withhold the Word,” Michael replied.

  “Delay, not withhold. You requested my advice. It remains firm. If handled with haste, what’s meant to consolidate the Host could plunge Heaven into discord.”

  “No. This is a test of our faith, and I will not buckle beneath its weight. You have to trust in our brethren.”

  “You have to trust me,” Satanail insisted. “Trust that I know the nature of the Host, our strengths and flaws. Word of another race, of a rival to our own divinity—”

  “Rival? Nothing suggested a challenge to our standing.”

  “But that’s how they’ll be perceived, as opponents competing for distinction in the eyes of the Creator.”

  The poignant argument gave Michael pause.

  “There is much wisdom in your logic,” he said. “But the Council must still convene. A broader assembly of opinions may provide a more accurate forecast.”

  Satanail didn’t conceal his annoyance. The Council was but a collection of Seraphim whose opinions held no more weight than that of any random angel. Though their talents were ample, their diverging influence would do more harm than good.

  “We’re not of one mind on this. I urge you to reconsider.”

  “Angels have already been dispatched to summon Gabriel, Raphael, and Cassiel. I ask that you inform Uriel on my behalf.”

  The breath left Satanail’s lungs. Was their entire conversation a farce? Did Michael entertain him under the guise of needed opinion only to repress any outburst at the Council? Despite the insult, Satanail spoke no objection. He would see to it that the Seraphim responded with similar strife, ensuring that Michael would halt any further spread of the Word.

  “Consider it done.”

  “Again, you prove an unyielding tether of support. I would be adrift without you,” Michael replied.

  “I pray that day never comes.”

  Their considerable differences often clashed, but Satanail and Michael had been as one for their entire lives, kindred souls only separated by flesh. There was no angel he trusted or admired more. But now, Satanail sensed that kinship slipping away…and felt powerless to stop it.

  Satanail’s journey to Zebul only magnified his fixation. Why had Michael sent Angels to every Seraph except Uriel? Did he mean to preoccupy Satanail for some ulterior purpose? The task was beneath him.

  I’m the Archon, not some common messenger, Satanail griped. The contentious feelings were becoming more intense and harder to suppress. His values, his entire animus, were spiraling into something deviant. Yet the longer it continued, the less it frightened him. With the change came a rush of spirited nerve, of raw power.

  Zebul’s frigid tundra stretched below Satanail, the sparse shrubs and grasses matted down under fresh snow. The quiet surface concealed a labyrinth of mines where precious minerals and ore were collected for use in Heaven’s radiant architecture. Satanail never understood how anyone could confine himself in such filthy, suffocating passages.

  Mount Maadim, a gargantuan volcano, was the nerve center of Zebul. Still active, its ferocity was evident from pockets of fire bursting up from the snow. Satanail ascended the mountain and entered the crater at its summit, surrounded by visible waves of immense heat that parched his lungs. The local Seraph, Uriel, kept the volcano from turning Zebul into a wasteland of ash.

  The throat of the volcano led down to a chamber built in the bedrock. Pools of magma festered under the surface. This was the location of the Forge—a facility of machinations powered by the volcano to process ore. Angels clobbered away in an assembly line to carve raw gems and metal from rock, their bodies smeared with soot and grime. Further manipulation was done with hammer and anvil by the blacksmiths, savvy artisans who crafted everything from farming tools to the components of Heaven’s most advanced devices. The smiths were the most physically formidable of angels, though Satanail found that their mass of meat and muscle left little room for intellect.

  The piercing clang of metal on metal reverberated through Satanail’s ears. It’s a wonder they’re not all deaf. He approached a mammoth angel caressed by a frenzy of flames. Uriel hammered within the fires, his wings fanning the flames while rough fingers molded finer details in the glowing metal. His dark, leathery skin was as dense as the ore he forged. He was the only angel in Heaven impervious to and capable of manipulating fire. That talent was the sole reason he received the title of Seraph, as far as Satanail was concerned.

  “Welcome, Archon.”

  The flames surrounding Uriel dispersed. He hoisted a nearby barrel overhead and doused his body, cooling his flesh in a sizzle of steam. Despite his colossal size, Uriel was a gentle soul and undyingly loyal to Michael, one could argue to his detriment. Satanail doubted the brute ever had an original thought.

  “Greetings, Forgemaster.”

  “A rare pleasure, this. You haven’t visited since we set the first gears of the Forge. Is Zebul too severe for your delicate, city senses?” Uriel joked.

  “The heat doesn’t agree with me,” Satanail said, wiping sweat from his brow.

  “No? ‘From flames we emerged, and into flames I return to discover my essence.’”

  “How poetic. You’ve a touch of Princedom in you,” Satanail replied, though Uriel failed to recognize the hint of mockery.

  “Hardly. The words aren’t my own.”

  Uriel quotes from Michael’s elementary proverbs like profound scripture. Heaven’s expansion necessitated additional Seraphs, but Satanail and Michael were the only angels capable of genuine leadership. All others were but imitations, unworthy of the title.

  “Nor are mine. I come with news from Michael: the Council has been called into session.”

  The hammer slid from Uriel’s hand. Satanail thought the oaf might faint.

  “Then Michael has received the Word?”

  “Yes, and we’ve much to discuss. The Seraphim await.”

  “Erastiel!” Uriel shouted back to the smiths.

  A hulking angel abandoned his anvil and flew forward. The veins lining his body were pressed against the skin from layer upon layer of bulging muscles, but it was his eyes that intrigued Satanail. He recognized the same desire to move beyond his own, unfulfilling station that he first gleamed in Azazel—the desire of one overlooked and underappreciated.

  “You’re in charge until I return,” Uriel ordered. “See that we remain on schedule.”

  “Understood, Forgemaster.” Erastiel took over the lead anvil and swung with obligatory purpose.

  Upon leaving the Forge alongside Uriel, Satanail cast a flash of fascination and encouragement upon Erastiel that the blacksmith wouldn’t soon forget.

  CHAPTER 7

  The Council of Seraphim

  Michael waited to greet the arriving Seraphim on the steps of the Grand Hall, the center of all political discourse. Angels from the Choir of Dominions shuffled past him, signified by green robes with gold trim and orbed scepters. Model public servants, the Dominions were
administrators that managed the bureaucratic minutiae of the Choir system. Only the most meticulous minds thrived as Dominions, unsung angels of routine and order.

  Gabriel arrived first, perhaps in an effort to regain Michael’s favor after their quarrel. Raphael and Cassiel soon followed, and the Seraphim began to draw attention. Except during important public events, the distinguished leaders were rarely seen together. Angels whispered speculation but stayed at a respectful distance, content with brief glances and bows of respect.

  Uriel descended from the clouds. His substantial presence drew whistles of disbelief. He thrilled the crowd with a quick display of his muscles before stifling Michael in an embrace. Although imposing, Uriel was an angel of open sentiment. Had they been in private, he would likely have burst into tears of joy at the sight of his old friends.

  “You have been missed, Uriel,” Michael managed to squeak out within his arms, but the moment was sullied by a glaring absence. “Where is Satanail?”

  “I lost him outside Zebul. Said he wanted to fly alone.”

  “I thought he loathed tardiness,” Raphael said.

  “He cherishes attention more. I expect he is perched somewhere above, waiting to arrive in a hail of applause and prestige,” Cassiel spouted with uncharacteristic acrimony.

  Sure enough, Satanail floated down from the sky with arms and wings spread. He flew over the crowd, allowing the tips of their fingers to brush across his feathers. Though it appeared a self-serving act, there was something to be said for how Satanail played to the Host’s desires.

  “Brothers, forgive my delay.”

  “It is of no surprise,” Cassiel replied. “You come and go as you please.”

  Satanail shot Cassiel a stiff look that silenced him. Tension sizzled between them, and thousands of angels were watching. This was not the place to entertain personal disagreements.

  “I trust Satanail had his reasons, which are of no import now,” Michael interjected. He lowered his voice to the pair. “Whatever transpired between you, put it aside.”