Fall From Grace Page 9

  “It is not about merit, Gabriel. We are not perfect. But if you open your soul to His cleansing love and repent for your faults, you will find redemption.” Michael placed a consoling hand on Gabriel’s head to purge the Seraph’s woes. “Help me understand: what possessed you?”

  “As we spoke of Mankind, I felt something different within. Something impure. Vile. And, Creator help me, exhilarating. I can still feel it, this loathsome depravity gnawing at everything that I am…or thought I was.” Gabriel sounded helpless as the confession poured out.

  “Though we may err in the face of adversity, we must always keep sight of who we are and, more importantly, who we strive to become. Know it in your soul, Brother.”

  “But I’m not like you. I’m a liability. Always have been,” Gabriel said and released his six wings. “I’ve come to surrender my title of Seraph. It’ll take time for my body to absorb the additional wings, but I’ll not utilize them until it’s done.”

  Gabriel retracted four wings so only two remained exposed. It was rash of Michael to suggest that any Seraph relinquish their title, especially when the Host looked to them as archetypes of leadership. To see a Seraph demoted would do nothing but cause further harm.

  “What I see in you now is exactly why you must remain a Seraph,” Michael said and lifted Gabriel. “To admit our misdeeds is to accept the humility needed to rectify them.”

  “But I spoke against the Creator. Against you.”

  “Words of passion, not sacrilege. You have my forgiveness and His. Always.”

  Michael sensed Gabriel’s relief and found solace in providing comfort. Heaven’s spirit was comprised of individual affections, and empathy was vital to its preservation.

  “You’ve never betrayed my trust, despite my many lapses in judgment. If you believe that Mankind is our purpose, our future, then my allegiance remains yours…if you’d still have it.”

  “Now and forever,” Michael replied, feeling rejuvenated by Gabriel’s support. “Put past grievances to rest and set your mind towards the Host’s glorious future.”

  “What will you do to see it realized?”

  “What I must.” Having weighed all options, it was clear to Michael that only one course of action was righteous, that of honesty and belief in his fellow angels. His commitment to the Creator and Host demanded it. “I will not deny the Host what is theirs by right. His Word is not mine to censor. Whatever the outcome, I must announce Mankind.”

  The skyline of Araboth City disappeared beneath Satanail. He flew up beyond the boundaries of the Cherubim’s atmosphere, beyond the Observatory, rising to Heaven’s gossamer borders in a final attempt to change the disastrous course set upon the Host. The air thinned and dulled his senses, but he pushed on as if climbing an oiled rope. Flight became punishing as he entered heights not reached by any angel. Each strenuous flap of his wings was a struggle, like flesh and bone were being compacted by the pressure. If he broke through the intangible fringes, would the Creator hear his call?

  “I’ll not turn back, Father. You must hear me!” he shouted into the ether.

  Trails of blood began to seep out of Satanail’s eyes, ears, and nose. His body was begging to cease the ascent. It was an affront to the Creator, one imprinted in every angel. I will be heard, he repeated to himself as blood vessels burst in his eyes and tinted his vision red. Satanail didn’t fear death, for no angel had ever succumbed to it. Barely conscious, he screamed through the agony to impress his words upon the Creator.

  “Father! I’ve never called upon you for anything, not once, but I ask now: show me. Show me what Michael has seen.” There was no audible reply, no visions, no instinctual understanding that the Creator was communing with him. “As your Hand, I’m begging you, begging, show me Mankind.”

  Satanail had never begged in his entire life. To make such a plea went against everything he believed in, but he was at a loss. Unless something drastic was done, he knew in his gut that Heaven wouldn’t survive the scandal of Mankind.

  “This can’t be your will. I’ve done everything you’ve asked. Is my blood not as Michael’s? Am I not also a worthy vessel for your Word? Am I not your son?”

  In the absence of a reply or feeling, of anything at all, Satanail felt the Creator’s contempt, His sheer disdain. This was the one moment when Satanail truly needed Father, and he was ignored. After all he’d done in the Creator’s name, Satanail was of no importance to Him. He was stuck in the shadow of Michael, the promised child.

  “Damn you, Father. Damn you—!”

  Satanail’s vision went black, and his body gravitated back down to Heaven. Neither awake nor adrift in a dream, he felt an irrevocable transformation take place in his soul. The spark of benevolence that had driven his every thought and action was extinguished. For a brief moment, Satanail felt vacant, as if born anew in the darkness. All of the teachings he’d lived by were cast off and left his soul naked to redress with his own morality.

  Absent the Creator’s mandates, Satanail felt…free.

  Satanail dropped into Heaven’s atmosphere and regained his senses. The stifling weight of his faith was gone. This freedom must be shared, he thought. It would be his greatest gift to the Host, one to eclipse all of his other works, but there was much to do.

  Michael returned to Machonon in hopes that the accustomed surroundings would provide the clarity to craft his statement. His home was a spacious but sincere dwelling of four walls, each stone set by his hands. It was adorned with only a bed and the soothing trickle of a river running through the open floor. He never entertained guests and did not require the distraction of decorations or conveniences. This was the one location in all of Heaven that was solely his.

  A pair of giant, blank tapestries was draped down the walls. Michael dipped a brush in paint crafted from crushed flower petals and filled the tapestries with color. His mind returned to the blue planet, to Mankind’s incredible survival. The humans adapted to every trial and persevered against dangers that the Host could not understand. From natural disasters wrought by the planet’s environment to the daily struggle of finding food and water, they survived. What corruption was looming to drive them towards self-destruction?

  A knock on the door interrupted Michael’s introspection. Outside, dozens of Angels lined up and awaited his command. The lean, two-winged athletic messengers knew every nuance of Heaven’s atmospheric circulation and were second only to he and Satanail in their speed of flight. They each held a parchment and ink to record Michael’s words.

  “We await your message, Logos,” one said. It was Amitiel, the same Angel who gave Michael manna during his race with Satanail. He had not forgotten the generosity.

  “It is simple but of the utmost urgency. The Creator has spoken.” The Angels tried to appear unfazed, but Michael sensed their excitement. “Inform every region, every village, that His long silence has ended. Tomorrow, I will address the Host in Araboth City. The Word will be spoken, and Heaven will rejoice. Do you have any questions?”

  “No, Logos,” the Angels replied in unison.

  “Then may divine purpose speed your journeys.” The Angels split off to fly, but Michael stopped Amitiel. “A word, please.”

  “Yes, Logos?”

  Michael fetched Amitiel’s ceramic manna bottle from inside and returned it, filled with his own premium stock. “I wish to express my gratitude for the manna you provided.”

  “You needed nourishment, I had manna. It was nothing.”

  Amitiel’s candor was exemplary. He had not given another thought to the selfless gesture.

  “With respect, you are wrong. It is everything.”

  Amitiel nodded, kind but aloof, and departed.

  Michael’s announcement of the Word was set, such was the will of the Creator, but would the Host accept it? There was only one certainty: Heaven would never be the same.

  After the Creator’s brazen silence, and the Council’s lack of gall, Satanail felt like he was alone on a piece of drift
wood facing a tsunami. Though Sammael proved an interesting distraction, he was too erratic to be depended upon. Satanail had to recruit a less-seasoned mind for assistance, and one was already groomed for the noble task: Azazel. Michael believed the populace would blindly follow their leaders, but to see one of their own tread the path of defiance would prove a decisive and telling blow.

  Satanail landed in the market and walked the derelict streets to Azazel’s home. The entrance was still gaping and his wares in disarray from the storm.

  “Azazel?”

  “I’ve already received the m-m-message. Leave me,” Azazel responded from within.

  Satanail entered and saw Azazel hard at work, attempting to sweat out the troubles that besieged his mind. He was an agitated mess, overdue for a bath and change of attire.

  “What message would that be?”

  Azazel recoiled at Satanail’s voice, a reaction that he understood but hoped to overcome. “Angels have been dispatched to every region. M-M-Michael will address the Host tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow? Then it was as Satanail feared: Michael had wasted no time in commencing his foolish endeavor. The haste only made Azazel’s cooperation more pertinent.

  “I must speak with you,” he began, but Azazel avoided eye contact and returned to his work.

  “My home yet lies in shambles. Tomorrow would be better. Yes, tomorrow.”

  “By then my words will be past due.” Satanail reached out to stop Azazel’s hands from their craft, but the angel lurched away from his touch and scattered the materials. “You needn’t evade my touch, though I understand how you must feel.”

  “How can you? When I look upon you now, my stomach feels of s-s-stone. I can barely take in breath. I’m being d-d-devoured from inside by, by—”

  “Fear. That’s the word you seek, and you’re right to be afraid. These are frightening times,” Satanail said.

  “Fear? What does it mean?” Azazel asked, the knowledge of his condition offering a modicum of relief.

  “Balance is the great arbiter of all. There’s no light without dark, no heat without cold. Our emotions are no different. If there’s joy in Creation, there must be despair. If love is in one’s heart, there must be the possibility of hate.” Satanail treaded with care. He was introducing notions that could be considered the worst form of heresy. Azazel had to be empowered, not scared into obedience.

  “Hate…do you hate Cassiel?”

  “No. Cassiel was a mistake, a loss of control that I regret. I hold no hate for the ignorant, only pity. I know these words have no meaning to you. They were foreign concepts meant for dark musings over a mug of manna, but now they’ve been given life. Now, I feel everything.”

  Azazel was a wreck of nerves. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because soon, you will too.”

  Satanail recounted the Council session, presenting both the arguments for and against serving Mankind. There was no need to omit details or spin delusory truths. The tutelage planted in Azazel had begun to bear the fruits of individuality, of bold thought freeing itself from the restrictions of faith. Azazel didn’t flee in horror or curse him as blasphemer. Satanail had chosen well.

  “What of Michael?” Azazel asked. “He’s the Logos, vessel of the Word.”

  “Empty titles and pomp. Michael will regurgitate the Word until it abolishes what we’ve spent our whole existence molding, but I envision a different future. A future of autonomy where the Host is beholden to nothing but our own desires. We are divine. Our glory is infinite. To serve Mankind is a profane desecration of our natural rights. I can’t obey that command.”

  Azazel’s voice hushed, cautious of His invisible ears. “You would defy the Creator?”

  “Are you so sure this is His will? Was it spoken to you?”

  “No. Only to…Michael,” Azazel replied like a blindfold had been removed.

  “Why is that? If we all stand equal under the Creator, why would such an important decree be spoken to but a single angel? It gives way to misinterpretation. Manipulation,” Satanail whispered in Azazel’s ear. “I love Michael more than any. I share in his joys and laurels as if they’re my own, but he’s become weak. Shaky in his resolve. Without another voice to speak up for our people, he’ll usher us to our end.”

  “But the Seraphim speak f-f-for the Host.”

  “No Seraph can make this decision for all. Why is it that you’ve never found your place in Heaven? Because you know, you’ve always known, that there’s so much more for us than what Michael and the Creator have revealed. Your name can be synonymous with courage and ambition, if you’d but stand at my side. The choice is yours alone.”

  Azazel’s soul straddled his ingrained beliefs. Where would it fall: to the regulating safety of the Creator’s commandments or to the promise of a new path alongside Satanail?

  “I owe you my life—”

  “Don’t speak out of an assumed devotion,” Satanail urged. “You owe me nothing.”

  “You’ve given me sight. Identity,” Azazel said and expanded his wings. Satanail’s feather remained embedded in them as proof of his continued allegiance. “I owe you all.”

  In Azazel, Satanail saw hope that the Host wouldn’t deliver themselves unto bondage without question. Their voices would be heard. It was time for the angels to relinquish the protective embrace of their Father and forge a future of their own making. And Mankind? They could rot back into the pools of organic slush that spewed them out.

  “You honor me. No, you honor yourself and all of Heaven,” Satanail said. “Michael claims our purpose rests with Mankind, but he’s wrong. Our destiny is and will ever be to preserve our rightful place above all else in Creation.”

  That was Satanail’s new oath to the Host of Heaven. Since the dawn of their race, his designs, his guidance, carried them into prosperity, not the Creator and not Michael. Azazel’s pledge of fealty was the first of many to come. If Satanail could gather the Host under his banner, the Creator would be forced to repeal his edict and acknowledge their supremacy…his supremacy.

  You should’ve believed in me, Father. You should’ve trusted me.

  Now, your children will be mine.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Announcement

  Michael stood outside of the Sanctuary, in awe of the Host’s grandeur as millions of angels flocked to Araboth City. The streets and skies were packed down to the walls and resonated with the synchronized flapping of excited wings. Michael knew his Father was proud of him, for all was as it should be. It was a joyous occasion for the entire Host, a ceremony to commemorate the past and usher in the future. If ever there was a time for Michael to channel Satanail’s charisma, this was it. The presentation had to be flawless, every word infused with magnetic confidence to shepherd his brothers into the unknown.

  A hush fell over the city as Michael flew up and perched on a platform built around the Sanctuary spire. The Seraphs Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel, and Cassiel hovered below him, tapestries rolled in their arms. Sammael’s absence was expected and for the best. The Host did not need a fetid relic that had been eroded from memory by the waves of time for good reason. But where was Satanail? The Archon’s presence had a crucial palliative effect. Michael scanned the crowd for him.

  “Searching for your nerve?” came a welcome voice.

  “It is as steel,” Michael replied as Satanail approached. “But I would have you beside me, Father’s Logos and His Archon again joined as one.”

  Satanail joined Michael on the spire platform. Together, they spread their wings and showered wisps of feathers onto the crowd, evoking a raucous delight.

  “Welcome,” Michael began, his voice carrying through the city with a weight loud enough for all to hear. “This is a historic day. Much time has passed since the Creator guided us with His Word. Too much time. We have patiently flourished under our own volition, and our faith has been rewarded. Our Father has broken His silence!”

  The Host exploded with an unqualified love
for their Creator and His illustrious ambassador of the Word. Their ardor was all the encouragement Michael needed.

  “I stand atop our Sanctuary, an immortal symbol of His glory built atop the very Fires that fused us into being,” he continued, voice strumming the crowd like harp strings. “We are all divinity made flesh. Forever have we been lords of Heaven, unique in all of Creation, and yet isolated in our majesty. But an extraordinary transition has begun, one that will elevate the Host to untold heights and eminence. Friends, brothers, it is my pleasure, my honor, to announce that we are no longer alone.

  “I present the Creator’s latest masterpiece—Mankind.”

  The Seraphim unfurled their tapestries down the Sanctuary to reveal colossal paintings of a human male and female, wingless but beautifully symmetrical paragons of biological design. The Host became silent, unsure how to react. If the Council session was any indication, Michael had a small window to reassure them before unease spread.

  “In the far reaches of Creation, Mankind inhabits a flourishing planet crafted in Heaven’s image. Though still in their early days, these humans have a profound intelligence and endurance that no species has exhibited outside of the Host. They have defied the harsh odds of Mother Nature to become masters of their domain as we are of Heaven. I witnessed their penchant for survival, their untapped potential, and their love for one another. Humble beginnings much like our own.”

  The muted response persisted, but the Host trusted Michael and displayed no signs of outrage. There was only an unsettled confusion that he would soon alleviate.

  “By heeding the Creator’s teachings, we have brought everlasting harmony and peace to Heaven. Our greatest triumph is the loving unity that lights our souls, but not all beings are so temperate. It is the Creator’s decree that we use our knowledge and skill in guiding Mankind towards the same flawless union that we have upheld without fail. All that we have accomplished, all that we have experienced, has led us here, to this revelation. The prosperity of Mankind is our charge, our purpose, and I can think of none more rewarding.”