Fall of the Angels

by Josh Raymer

  The view—which depicts some of the universe’s most stunning phenomena, all scrolling across the horizon like a real-life screensaver—is still awe-inspiring. I allow myself to get lost in the planets, stars, and galaxies as they swim lazily by, my mind drifting to the events of the past week. I’ve experienced more in these past few days than I did in my first twenty-five years of life combined.

  When I walked out of Tully’s Tavern on my birthday, I had a vision for what my life would look like. One night completely changed that vision. Shattered it, in fact. The life I have now is still my own, but I’m inextricably tied to events and beings that were, just a week ago, nothing more than flights of a fanciful imagination.

  Did I believe angels existed? No idea, but that would be nice if they did. What about Heaven? I believed it existed but didn’t think I’d go there any time soon.

  And demons—don’t forget about them! They’re real, and all of them want you dead.

  It’s hard to pin down what’s been crazier: the hunt for Malphas on Earth or what’s happened in Heaven since I got here. Sure, down on Earth, I descended into a demon pit with a young girl watching my back and exploded a massive demon by setting off a cleansing flame inside his body. But up here, I used the fruit from a time-traveling tree to learn the truth about what happened to my dad. I also got backhanded by an archangel and discovered the first woman God created in a pocket dimension. Thinking about Lilith, I can’t help but wonder what she’s been up to since she left me. As long as she’s not causing trouble for us, it’s all good. I’d like to believe she’ll make good on her promise, but given that God locked her up for centuries, it’s reasonable to assume she might not keep her word.

  I sigh and rub a hand through my hair. I have no idea how long Bron and Augustus will be gone, and when I try to tune into the old man’s frequency, all I get is static. So, it’s safe to assume that the throne room, like Lilith’s corner of the world, doesn’t allow for angelic telepathy. Or Augustus wants some time to himself, just in case he sees Marianne during their trek to find Moses. If that’s the case, I don’t blame him. I’m thankful that when I used the time trees to find out what happened to my dad, I didn’t have someone dropping in on my private thoughts.

  My mind drifts to Peter, Colin, and the others, and my stomach clenches at the thought that they could be locked in a life-or-death battle with demons at this very moment. It kills me not to be down there with them.

  Everything in me wants to run and jump off this platform, click my heels, and teleport back to Earth. I have no idea if that’s how the return journey works after a nephilim dies, but I reckon I could figure it out on the way down. But if I left, it would leave Augustus and Bron shorthanded in a war that isn’t going our way.

  I love my brother and grandfather, but I love my great-great-grandfather, too. Leaving him would be wrong, just as it would be wrong to leave my friends on Earth in their moment of need. Besides, Colin revered Augustus. He would never forgive me if I abandoned his kin, even if I had noble intentions for doing so.

  The fact is: I’m staying here until the job is done. I know that time is passing much faster down on Earth, but I have to block that from my consciousness. If I give in to that anxiety, I will not have the willpower left to stay here until the job is done.

  What I can do is try to send Colin and Peter a message. I have no idea if this will work. I just know I have to try. I squeeze my eyes shut, take a deep breath, and clear my mind. I picture the two of them in front of me—not in combat, not looking defeated inside an old pickup truck, just looking at me bemusedly.

  My words, whether written or spoken, tend to mirror my thoughts: composed and well-reasoned. However, nothing is coming to me at the moment. Aside from the image of Peter and Colin, my mind’s eye is totally blank.

  Don’t overthink it. Just speak from the heart.

  There’s that voice again. It’s not Augustus, Bron, or even my inner voice. It’s a calm, reassuring voice that I want to push back against, only I haven’t seen the need. The voice, wherever it’s coming from, has tended to give good advice.

  Speak from the heart, I think to myself. I can do that.

  “Hey guys,” I think. “I don’t know if you can hear this, but I’m sending it out into the universe anyway. I’m OK. I’m here in Heaven with Augustus, and we’re working to end a civil war that’s broken out between the angels. It’s bad, and it’s only getting worse. I would’ve come back right away, but Augustus can’t do this without me. As much as I want to leave, I have to stay here and see this through.”

  I pause, my eyes welling with tears. I breathe deep and recenter myself.

  “I really miss you guys. But I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t know for sure that you guys can handle whatever is going on down there. Stay safe and watch each other’s backs. I’ll be there soon, and when I get there, I’ll make those demons pay.”

  As I open my eyes, it feels like a weight has been lifted off me. Until now, I didn’t even realize I was carrying it. Only by its absence has it become noticeable.

  You trusted that speaking from the heart was the right choice. How do you feel?

  This is the first time the voice has asked a question.

  Not sure how to respond, I treat it like angel telepathy.

  Lighter. Like a great weight has been taken off my shoulders.

  It feels a bit absurd, talking to the voice of a person (or thing) that I’ve never met and can’t see. At least with angel telepathy, I know who’s on the other line.

  That is because you released yourself from the burden of control. A nephilim who tries to control every outcome will not be effective. To wield this gift requires trust.

  I have to chuckle at that note. More and more, I’m learning how much my need for control has been inhibiting my effectiveness as God’s chosen warrior. I’d like to say it stems from the career path I chose, but the truth is, I was a control freak long before I stepped foot in a courtroom. I think it goes back to growing up without a dad for much of my life and having a younger brother I had to protect.

  As much as I could, I tried to shelter Peter from the parts of life that become more difficult without a dad. I learned how to perfectly knot a tie and throw a curveball so I could teach Peter, but there were certain times I couldn’t replace our dad.

  I couldn’t coach Peter from the sidelines in Little League like the other dads, or teach him how to talk to girls, or give him sound advice when he got in fights at school. Not being that much older than him, I was still trying to figure out all those things for myself. Still, it ate me up inside whenever I couldn’t protect him from the harsher aspects of our new reality. Each time Peter got hurt, it made me that much more determined to control everything around me.

  I see now in vivid detail how destructive this urge can be. I think I’ve known this truth for a while, but until demons and angels started trying to kill me, I didn’t realize how much it had affected my well-being. Now, having released myself from the burden of controlling what’s happening on Earth, I not only see the difference it can make—I can feel it. Even the air around me feels lighter.

  You are learning to let go. There is, however, one thing left to surrender.

  I’m not sure what the voice is referencing. I thought the insatiable desire I had to return to Earth was the only thing holding me back at the moment.

  What else do I need to release?

  A moment of silence passes. I gaze upward as if the voice will come from above.

  Would you like to see for yourself?

  I want to question the voice, ask who I’m talking to before I blindly agree to see what’s behind Door A. But since this is a lesson about trust, I bite my tongue.

  Yes, please show me.

  Nothing happens for a few seconds. I glance around, wondering if I’m about to be teleported away or some regal figure is about to appear to whisk m
e off. Right as I open my mouth to speak, my eyes gently slide shut, and my chin drops to my chest. I’m still awake, but my consciousness is leaving my body again, just like it did when I jumped into the bottomless pit with Lilith. I see myself standing there for a half-second before my roaming awareness is sucked through a golden wormhole.

  Only this time, I’m not deposited in Bron’s canyon. This time, I enter into a room that is bathed in a soft, white light. Besides the light, the first thing I notice is the water. It is deep blue and as still as a pane of glass. Standing on the water are figures robed in white who are all facing the same direction. As my vision shifts upward, I see they’re facing a giant white throne upon which sits the silhouette of a person.

  I can’t make out their features. It’s as if the sun is right behind him, leaving his body as a total shadow. But as I stare at the figure upon the throne, I feel an odd sense of familiarity, like I’m looking into the face of a friend I haven’t seen in a decade.

  Whoever the robed figures are, they seem to be worshipping whoever is on the throne. Some are kneeling, others have their hands raised, and a few of them are even dancing! Even from here, I can tell their praise is joyful, not forced.

  I realize now that I’m seeing Heaven’s throne room, but rather than smacking me across the face, this revelation dawns slowly and peacefully, like a bubble rising to the surface of a pond. It’s as if I always knew this fact and am simply recalling it.

  As my perspective shifts, I’m able to see what’s behind the sea of glass and the worshipping robed figures. I’m reminded of a concert when the audience collectively pulls out their cell phones or lighters and holds them up.

  That’s what I see: a million pinpricks of light set against a brilliant blue backdrop. And just like a concert, they’re slowly swaying back and forth as if in rhythm to a song. I can’t hear anything, but I know it’s a song of celebration being sung. Where this knowledge comes from, I can’t say, but I know it’s true, just like I know my own name. I let the sight wash over me for a while, lost in the beauty of the lights listing gently from side to side. After a few moments, another realization bubbles up to the surface: Bron said that if Augustus saw Marianne, she’d be a spirit.

  Those millions of lights…they’re all spirits.

  And if Marianne is here, waiting for Augustus, then perhaps I was brought here to see the two people my heart longs to see the most—more so than even Colin and Peter. Although disconnected from my body, my heart aches at the thought.

  My parents. They’re here.

  There are millions of pinpricks of light with no discernible distinction between them. Bron said Augustus would recognize Marianne, but he didn’t say how. Thankfully, I don’t have to stumble my way through this. I was brought here by someone—and I’m starting to realize who—for a specific reason.

  Can you show me my parents?

  I watch the lights sway back and forth as I await the response. It’s so peaceful; I lose track of time for a while. I haven’t been this relaxed in a very long time.

  Finally, the voice speaks.

  Let me show you.

  I zoom forward, homing in on a pair of lights that come into sharper focus the closer I get. What I thought was just light is actually the shape of a person. Their body, rather than being flesh, is made up of light. But their features are apparent once you get close enough. This fact becomes obvious as my consciousness glides to a stop a few feet away from a pair of figures who are dancing like they’re at a concert—their hands raised, their eyes closed, singing their hearts out.

  My mom looks like she does in my memories…the good ones, that is. Gone is the hollowed-out face and frail body that was ravaged by cancer. Here, she’s the same beautiful woman I remember from my childhood. She had beautiful strawberry blonde hair that always smelled like flowers and the deepest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. And that smile, with those dimples, always warmed my heart.

  I feel tears welling, just like I felt the pang in my heart earlier. My mom is so happy, so alive, and so peaceful. After a horrible, pain-filled end to her life, this is all I ever wanted for her. To know that the saying was true: she is in a better place now.

  Then there’s my dad. He looks like he did in my vision, except his appearance is more composed. His goatee is perfectly manicured, and his eyes are bright and alive, not dark and bloodshot. As I watch, he pauses from his celebratory dance to look over at my mom, who keeps on singing. He smiles at her, a simple gesture that communicates more about their love than a million words could describe.

  The tears are flowing now. I understand now what the voice was talking about. What’s been holding me back wasn’t just my need for control. It was uncertainty. Around my parents’ fate, yes, but also…all of this. Everything I’ve seen of the unseen realm—Heaven, Hell, demons, and angels—has been bloody and violent. It’s been war and betrayal, pride and ego, and the devastating fallout.

  Is there anything good on the other side of all this? Are we fighting for a worthwhile cause, or am I just trapped in a bleak struggle between eternal forces with no end in sight?

  Even if I’ve never vocalized these questions, they’ve been heavy on my mind since I walked out of Tully’s Tavern, and the illusion of my reality was shattered.

  How could I fight with nobility and honor if there was nothing virtuous backing my cause? If I was just another cog in a war machine, my heart would never be in the fight. I’d either run and hide to stay safe or tap out the first chance I got.

  But now, seeing this, I don’t have those doubts anymore. There is a light at the end of the tunnel. It’s real, and it’s worth fighting for. While the rest of Heaven might be burning down around it, this is the answer to the question we all have:

  What happens to us after we die?

  I thought it was violence, secrets, and lies when I first arrived here. And that’s still true. I’d be a fool to ignore that part of my experience. But it’s more than that. What happens after we draw our last breath is that we get to enjoy a beautiful existence with those we love the most, free from all the ugliness outside.

  There is still one more thing you must release.

  The voice is back. It’s the voice, I now know, belonging to God. He brought me here because he knew exactly what I needed, even if I didn’t know. And now, although I’ve gotten more from this trip than I ever could have dreamed, I’m going to trust that there’s something else holding me back I haven’t considered. I’m not going to fight his direction or argue with his reasoning. I’m simply going to let go.

  Show me, please.

  I pull away from my parents, and as my consciousness begins to turn, I get one last look at their smiling faces. It’s an image I will cherish for the rest of my life. I zoom in toward the throne now, angling toward the left side. Now that I’m a little closer and the backlight obscuring God isn’t so bright, I see there’s another throne near God’s right hand. It’s smaller but equally as impressive. On it sits, not a shadowy silhouette, but a man who looks to be of Middle Eastern descent. He has bushy black hair, a full beard, and a thick mustache. It takes me a second to realize who I’m looking at. I’m so used to seeing him depicted as a white man upon a cross.

  Sitting on the throne at the right hand of God—this is Jesus.

  As my consciousness comes to a stop before his throne, he steps off of it and walks slowly toward me, a gentle smile upon his face. He gives a small wave.

  “Hello Silas,” he says in a clear, calm voice. “My name is Jesus. I’ve heard a lot about you from my father. He is very fond of you and your kinsman, Augustus Shaw.”

  Lacking vocal cords, I go for telepathy, hoping Jesus will hear it.

  It’s an honor to meet you, Jesus. I heard a lot about you growing up from my mom.

  “Stacy Ford,” he says, smiling again. “One of my favorites. You and Peter were both very blessed to have her as a mother.
She raised you in the faith, even if all you heard as children were stories about arks and parting seas.”

  She made sure we knew who you were. I’m thankful for that.

  “As am I,” Jesus says. “Tell me, what brings you to the throne room?”

  Now comes the moment of truth. Why am I here? God knew there was a reason, and a compelling one at that. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have brought me here.

  I don’t have to search too hard for the reason, though. It’s the first question I had when I learned about my destiny as a nephilim. The one still left unanswered.

  Why did God pick me as his nephilim?

  “That is an excellent question,” Jesus answers. “The ways of God can never truly be understood by man. That’s why I taught with stories during my time on Earth—to help people comprehend, as best they could, what is truly incomprehensible. But that is not a satisfactory answer to your question.”

  He pauses, looking up at me to smile again.

  “Here’s what I can tell you, Silas. You were chosen for a reason. It was not some form of retribution against Augustus. It was also not a random choice. God chose you because he knew you’d make the right decision in this moment when Heaven finds itself engulfed in war. Even amidst your uncertainty, God’s faith in you has never wavered. Because he knows who you are inside here.”

  Jesus points to his heart. As he does, I notice the hole in his wrist is still there.

  That’s reassuring. Nothing about this decision has been easy.

  Jesus nods in agreement.

  “If it was easy, God could have chosen anyone,” he tells me. “But he knows beyond a doubt that you’ll make the right decision—now and in the future. Because there is another moment for which you were chosen. A decision you will soon be forced to make that seems impossible, and that will act as a watershed moment in history.”

  I guess it would be too easy to know what that decision will be?

  Jesus actually laughs at this as he shakes his head.