Fall of the Angels

by Josh Raymer

  If a riot was happening at the world’s most dangerous prison, would those in charge solve the problem by opening the doors and unleashing the prison’s deranged denizens upon the world?

  That sounds like the premise of a Michael Bay movie, not a viable solution to our problem. Not to mention these aren’t angry prisoners we’re talking about. What Augustus is suggesting would decimate Earth in addition to overhauling Heaven. Gregori wanted me dead, and there was nothing I could do to stop him. Hundreds (or is it thousands?) of angels would carve up humanity like a Thanksgiving turkey. Especially if those angels had just been evicted from their home in the same manner as Lucifer and his followers. Their collective fury would be unimaginable.

  Bron obviously shares my trepidation with this plan. What baffles me is that Augustus would ever suggest such an apocalyptic scenario as the solution to our problem, which is really just Heaven’s problem.

  As long as this civil war is contained, Earth has no reason to sweat. Augustus is family, and he saved my life, so I want to help him end this war. But it can’t come at the cost of innocent lives back home. I fought too hard along with Colin and the others to save the lives of my brothers and sisters in Sherwood. This time we’re talking about everyone. All of us.

  And you heard every bit of that inner monologue, didn’t you?

  I would be lying if I said I didn’t, and I try not to lie to family.

  “Voices, gentlemen,” Bron interjects. He taps his massive head with a bronze finger. “I’m tuned into your frequency. However, I feel certain matters warrant the effort needed to vocalize them.”

  “I don’t voice those objections lightly, Augustus,” I explain. “You saved my life, and I’m in your debt for that. Plus—we’re family. But you can’t deny that sending the angels to Earth would be catastrophic. If their war didn’t destroy the planet, their collective anger over being cast out of Heaven would be enough to ignite a powder keg. Humans would be toast.”

  “Mr. Ford speaks the truth, Augustus,” Bron says quietly. “God sent two angels to ensure the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. Expelling the heavenly host in its entirety would herald unprecedented destruction. Whole countries would be decimated within a matter of days.”

  Augustus nods slowly. His expression conveys the sense that he acknowledges our arguments and can’t dispute their validity. It’s his smile that tells me he knew we’d object to his crazy plan from the outset, and since he suggested it—or perhaps even before—he’s formulated his rebuttal.

  “You’re both absolutely right,” Augustus concedes. His gaze is upon the ground, which he kicks at with his foot. I’m reminded of a child whose only negotiation tactic is to employ the “yeah, but…” argument with their parents. Then again, that argument always worked for Peter.

  Augustus continues: “Sending a bunch of pissed-off angels to Earth would be game over for mankind. That’s why I’m not suggesting we send them to Earth and give them free rein.”

  “What are you up to, Augustus Shaw?” Bron inquires. “Your time as God’s warrior was marked by unmatched resourcefulness, but I can’t envision a plan that would let you accomplish this.”

  Augustus glances sideways at me. His expression begs me to guess what he’s planning.

  “I’m not reading your mind on this one,” I respond. “Or venturing a guess.”

  “But you are curious to hear more?” he asks.

  “It’s fair to say you’ve piqued our interest.”

  He claps his hands together and draws a long blade from inside his jacket. The hair stands up on the back of my neck upon seeing the blade. After perishing in such a bloody conflict, I’m unsurprisingly still in fight-or-flight mode.

  It’s only when Augustus begins scrawling in the red dirt beneath our feet with the blade that I realize it was meant for drawing, not violence. His illustrations provide little insight into his plan. There’s essentially one circle with three smaller circles inside it.

  “OK,” he says as he finishes the final circle. “This larger circle is Earth. The three smaller circles are zones where the angels could be deposited across the planet.” He pokes at each one with the blade. “I don’t know where these zones are located, but I know there will be three of them.”

  “How do you know that?” I ask.

  It’s Bron who answers, “The Lord has quite an affinity for the number three. It would either be that or the number seven, but Augustus is correct—three zones were established as part of the Lightfall protocol. I am also unaware of their location. However, I know of someone who might possess this knowledge…and now I understand why you came to see me, Augustus.”

  “Guilty as charged,” Augustus says, hands raised. “But we’ll get to that in a second. As I was saying, the banished angels will arrive on Earth in one of these three zones. We don’t know which one. My plan to keep them from decimating the planet is simple: turn those zones into traps. Don’t let them escape.”

  From out of the dirt swims a hazy memory of a dangerously beautiful demon bound to a chair. That trap was supposed to be strong enough to contain her, but Lamia turned our interrogation on its head before slipping away ahead of my cleansing flame. Perhaps it was one bad experience, and traps are actually reliable methods of combating demons. It seemed like Colin and his team had used them before. Regardless, I’ll greet any plan that relies on traps with a great deal of trepidation, especially when those traps have to hold hundreds of angels and not just one demon.

  “Let’s say for a moment that I buy the fact that we can create traps powerful enough to hold all the angels in Heaven,” I say. “Then what? We keep the angels locked up forever?”

  “That does seem a rather vital part of this plan, Augustus,” Bron adds.

  “I’m glad you asked,” Augustus counters. He’s building momentum now and getting into the meat of his argument. I recognize the body language from my time inside courtrooms and watching Peter explain to women at Tully’s Tavern why they’d be foolish not to let him buy them a drink. “While they’re inside the trap, the angels will be at our mercy. We’ll have all the bargaining power. The only choice they’ll have is to decide whether they want to surrender or die.”

  “You’re going to have to elaborate on that last part,” I tell him. Bron is silent.

  “When an angel is cast out of Heaven, his transformation into a demon begins. His angelic lifeblood—his grace—slowly trickles away. As that connection to Heaven and God is severed, his rage and propensity for violence increase exponentially. Once they snap and commit the ultimate crime of taking another life, their journey to demonhood is complete. Their wings are clipped and what remains is a twisted, hate-filled shell. It’s a tragic metamorphosis.”

  All those shadowy figures whose blood I spilled across three states were angels at one point. The fact that such regal, powerful beings were transformed into skittering, foul creatures through the taking of another life is heartbreaking. I have nothing but hatred in my heart for their disgusting existence, but it’s undeniable that demons are tragic figures. Cut off from their home and powerless to stop their grace from seeping away—I’m not surprised they’re driven to commit acts of evil.

  “I don’t think it’s right to subject every angel in Heaven to such a horrible fate,” I say to Augustus, whose expression remains unchanged. “I’m assuming there are still good angels here who are fighting on the right side of this conflict, and if there are, they don’t deserve to be cast out with the traitors. Surely you don’t think that’s a fair and just solution to this problem, Augustus?”

  His reply is blunt: “I don’t. Not one bit.”

  “Then why suggest Lightfall as a solution to our problem?” Bron asks.

  Augustus sighs and massages his brow. The confidence he displayed moments earlier is gone. His shoulders slump. He’s either a very good actor, or he’s genuinely conflicted about this plan.

/>   “I know a lot of the angels personally,” he says quietly. “I would consider them my friends in addition to being brothers in arms. It pains me to even consider damning them to the same cruel fate as their traitorous brethren. But one thing I know about angels with absolute certainty is that the good ones are unequivocally devoted to protecting Heaven from the traitors who support Gregori and Malphas. The good angels will stop at nothing to prevent Asaroth from being freed. The problem is they become so engrossed with their mission that they never consider the consequences of warring with beings who are their equal. I believe this lack of foresight will cause them to burn Heaven to the ground, all the while thinking they’re saving it from this uprising.”

  “You think they’ll unintentionally destroy Heaven in defense of it,” I conclude.

  “Exactly,” Augustus confirms. He’s solemn, his gaze cast out into the beyond while his thumb rubs absentmindedly over the handle of his blade. “We either stand aside while this civil war destroys Heaven, or we use the Lightfall protocol to end the conflict prematurely. We don’t have the firepower to intervene and stop the angels from killing each other. These are our only choices.”

  These bleak options certainly sound like our only viable courses of action. I have to examine all the possibilities before I concede myself to such a “rock and hard place” reality, however.

  I didn’t think there was a way to save Sherwood from a bloodthirsty army of demons.

  I had unspoken doubts that my brother would escape Malphas’s clutches in one piece.

  There’s always a way to achieve the seemingly impossible if you’re willing to look for it.

  “How certain are you that Heaven will be destroyed?” I ask.

  I direct this question toward Augustus, but it’s Bron who responds. No surprise when I realize that Heaven’s architect would have the best handle on assessing potential damage.

  “Augustus is correct,” he reveals. “Irreversible damage is all but guaranteed. If you think about Heaven like a model of your solar system with God’s throne room, where the departed souls are gathered, serving as the sun, then we’ve already lost Pluto, the outer realm. The angels decimated that area shortly before you arrived. That’s what I was doing inside my home, Augustus. Calculating the damage, not sleeping as you had suggested.”

  “Whatever you say, Bron,” Augustus replies jokingly.

  “Regardless, the fact remains that Heaven is not on the verge of being destroyed. It is being destroyed at this very moment. The bastille is currently under siege, and the armory will be next. If it hasn’t been hit already.”

  “Could the traitors actually reach the throne room and free Asaroth?” I ask.

  This feels like a silly question, but I can’t shake the shadow of doubt. Surely God would stop the fighting before innocent souls were put in harm’s way.

  Wouldn’t he?

  Bron’s answer hits me like a blast of icy wind.

  “The traitors have nothing to lose, which makes them dangerous,” he says. “They could do it.”

  “And then?” I ask.

  “I…I don’t know.”

  Silence hangs thick between us. Nobody says anything for what seems like a long time. I’m trying to process the possibility of war consuming the throne room of God with no success. I simply can’t believe that God would allow traitorous angels to wage war in such a sacred place. The most sacred place, I suppose. Shouldn’t that holy ground be under God’s protection?

  I’m coming to realize that God takes a laissez-faire approach to the affairs happening around him. He wouldn’t directly interfere with Gregori’s plan to aid Malphas. But I also know that when he works, as the old saying goes, he does so in mysterious ways.

  Look no further than Bill for proof of that axiom: God sent him back to Earth with a mission to undermine Gregori’s plan by helping me destroy Malphas. Without the power I received when Bill sacrificed himself, Malphas would’ve ended me and then killed everyone else in Sherwood. God’s plan assured our victory.

  So I know that God is not absent in the affairs of my world. But what about his own? If Bron is right and the fighting does reach the throne room, would God stand aside and let the angels destroy the place in their single-minded quest to protect Heaven? I would like to think the answer is a resounding hell no. But I’m sorely unqualified to predict the actions of God.

  “I hope you see now why I think we must consider drastic action,” Augustus says, cutting through the overlong silence. “We’re up against it here, no doubt, and everything will change no matter what choice we make. I’m just hoping to minimize the damage as much as we can.”

  “I hear you,” I tell him. “I can’t believe there’s not another way, though. One that doesn’t involve such destruction, cruelty, and risk. I feel like we’re going to be wrong either way we go.”

  “If you can think of something, I’m game to try it,” Augustus offers.

  I look over at Bron, who is staring at the ground and mumbling to himself. Our discussion replays in my mind as I search for an alternative to these abysmal options we have. There are good angels fighting a righteous battle right now against the traitors who supported Gregori and Malphas. This civil war is destroying Heaven as we sit here discussing our options. Augustus thinks the angels are too wrapped up in the battle to hear reason—that their destructive actions can’t be stopped. I figure if someone tried to chat with me during my clashes with Malphas, I wouldn’t have been very receptive. So I get where he’s coming from with that assumption. It’s still hard to swallow, though.

  But Augustus knows the angels better than I do. If he says they won’t deviate from their marching orders once they have them, I’m in no position to say otherwise.

  There has to be another angle to this problem that we’re not considering. I knead my knuckles into my forehead, willing the answer to surface like a bubble breaking the water’s surface.

  Think, think, think. What would Colin say if he was here?

  Wait. That’s it.

  “If this is a war, there have to be generals leading the charge on both sides, right?” I ask.

  “Yes, that’s true,” Augustus says, his eyes narrowing. “It would be the archangels commanding the angels who remain loyal. Right, Bron?”

  “Indeed,” Bron replies. “Gabriel, Michael, and Raphael.”

  “Would they be fighting? Or do they survey the battle and issue orders?” I ask.

  “Their power is so great that God only uses it for the gravest of threats,” Bron recites slowly. His eyes are closed, and he appears lost in recollection. “The last time they were called into battle was when Lucifer and his minions were cast out of Heaven. That clash was quite ferocious.”

  “OK, so they’re not fighting, but they’re in charge of the troops. That’s our answer. If we want to stop this war before it destroys Heaven, we talk to the archangels. We help them understand what the ultimate result of this conflict will be. Even if they’re stubborn, they can’t be that shortsighted.”

  “You are correct to assume the archangels will be stubborn,” Bron tells me. “Since they occupy a higher plane of existence than humans, angels have a difficult time understanding the affairs of man or empathizing with his plights. Angels view human affairs as petty and trivial. Even as God’s chosen warrior, the archangels will view you as beneath them. The validity of your argument can not be denied. Yet I hesitate to say that the archangels will take your warnings seriously.”

  “These guys sound like dicks,” I confess.

  Bron guffaws. His booming laughter reminds me of those awkward friends we all have that laugh so long and so forcefully they make everyone else uncomfortable. Perhaps it’s been too long since Bron heard anything resembling a joke. Augustus is looking at me wide-eyed and laughing to himself. He points at Bron as if to say, get a load of this guy. I laugh along with him.

&nbs
p; “Silas Ford, you slay me,” Bron says finally. “Referring to the highest order of Heaven’s angels as a slang term for human genitalia is both hilarious and appropriate. You are quite the comedian.”

  “You should meet my brother,” I reply. “He has a wicked sense of humor.”

  “Ah yes, the one Malphas kidnapped to use as leverage against you,” Bron says. “His tolerance for alcohol in his bloodstream is surprisingly high for someone his size. Impressive, really.”

  “Sounds like a man after my own heart,” Augustus adds.

  “Peter would be flattered to know Heaven’s architect admires his tolerance,” I admit. “Don’t tell me he inherited that from you, Augustus?”

  “When you live as long as I did, you try out a lot of hobbies. Drinking was one of the few that stuck. That and ballroom dancing. Blame my wife, Marianne, for that one. She loved to dance.”

  The mention of his wife brings a bittersweet smile to Augustus’s face. I know that he and Bron can read my thoughts, and I try not to dwell on it, but I can’t help but remember what Colin told me about Marianne’s death at the hands of demons. From what little I know about that tragedy, it seemed like Augustus was never the same after her death. Hearing him talk about her now gives me hope that maybe he’s reached a healthy place of remembrance where Marianne is concerned.

  “I don’t suppose another of your hobbies was negotiating with beings who exist on a higher plane of existence?” I ask, trying to return us to the matter at hand. Augustus blinks, shakes his head, and returns his focus to me. It takes him a moment to process my question and reply.

  “That would definitely be handy right about now,” he says. “I’ve developed a mutual respect with several of the angels up here, but I don’t count the archangels in that group. Bron, you really think we stand such a slim chance of getting through to them?”

  “I estimate a 12 percent chance of success,” he reveals. “That assumes they are willing to speak with us at all. With the battle raging, there’s no guarantee we will get an audience with them.”