Eden had a great wall around it, on which history was depicted; the creation, the cosmos, the planning of the first humans. Even the Morningstar had earned a place, he and his followers depicted as furious dark smudges on the smooth white stone. At the gates, two Cherubim monitored everyone’s entry. You could fly over the two hundred-foot wall, but it seemed traditional to squeeze through the gates if you were human-sized like Iofiel.
Eden was not much different, technically. It was still an array of terrains arranged through a mysterious though surely deliberate pattern. The animal life here was more abundant, extinct beasts of every mutation dwelling pleasantly. The air here was free from the smoky hue of humanity.
The centerpiece of Heaven, surrounded by orchards and orchids, was the tower. It may have had another name than that, but Iofiel wasn’t sure. Calling it a tower, like a simple Earthen thing, felt like comparing a pebble to a planet.
It was tall, sure, but wide as well, made of every type of stone and covered in a white powder that gave everything a pastel look. Every fifty feet was a band of clean, bright material. The first was wood, but the next one up seemed to be ruby, and Iofiel definitely spotted the glow of gold from higher up.
There was a gated door at the bottom— where a guard was currently gently barring a dimetrodon from entry— but like dark eyes the tower was coated in openings of various sizes. Her flock split up, and though Iofiel didn’t feel confident on her own, a deep instinct was kicking in. She knew what to expect.
She perched in the window and crawled through. Inside was a circular space made of mixed of wood and stone that reminded her of the University. She was on a simple wood deck, and a low ceiling reminded her that there was probably another one above her. Probably another couple hundred. Around her, angels were taking steps forward. Some climbed down the center via ladders. Others choose to leap, slowing their descent with careful wingbeats.
It felt like it should have been chaos, and it mostly was. Everyone was, at least, quite polite about the mess. Iofiel watched for a moment before deciding to take the decisively slower route down via a ladder. However, after about a hundred feet, her arms were feeling sore and the air traffic had slowed some, so she allowed herself to fall the rest of the way.
Heaven was good to angels, anyway, as one would expect it to be: her physical form was real, but not as solid as on Earth, and landing on her feet granted no ill effect.
She’d caught the tail of the crowd, it seemed. The narrow tower opened into a slightly wider tunnel, dark and devoid of decoration. The air became smokier and surprisingly chilly the farther she went in the dark.
The end of the hall was a contrast in every way; bright, cold, and light. It was akin to a mosque more than anything else, but wider, circular. The ceiling was open to the sky, ish. It felt more like there was a hole, and the sky was leaking down— stars clashed with bright white clouds in a series of pastel tones.
That was far, far up however. The whole structure was rounded, but with a clear back wall. Angels were naturally segregating themselves based on sphere and order, common angels and Archangels on the lower tier. Their area was the largest, and most like stadium sitting, a series of benches at a slight angle as to allow an unobstructed view of the back wall and center. Principalities, though part of the third sphere, had a different place out of Iofiel’s view— they were often larger than the human-shaped lower angels, so the idea of them more or less having a balcony made sense.
She couldn’t clearly see how the higher spheres were arranged beyond a couple gashes of color. A large swatch of red-gold near the very top was likely where the Seraphim were perched, for example, but her eyesight failed her.
Besides, standing around this much was discouraged. She filed into a seat, between two full angels. The one on her left was a Guardian of some sort, she could sense. The other one might have been a soldier by the calluses on their hands. She would’ve asked, but the hall was hushed: the loudest sound beyond footsteps was the distinct, soft sound of feathers shifting.
It took a while for Iofiel’s heart to settle down. There were a lot of angels coming today, perhaps even all of them, and that meant it was going to be a while before the event could begin. Both of the angels beside her had their eyes closed in meditation, but she was still too hyper, not wanting to sit still.
The center and back of the room were probably about equal in area to the perimeter. There was some ground space, walled off, where a teal mosaic depicted something Iofiel couldn’t make out. Suspended in the air above it, stretching up to the very ceiling, were tall golden spires. Each was diamond shaped, with various intricacies carved into it. Bits stuck out, curled around their base in patterns like ferns and staircases. Others were geometrical, a series of simple lines with dark recesses between, a humble glow emitting from the core.
The shapes hung tall, each at least a hundred feet tall, somewhat connected to each other but gently bobbing freely. Between them were various other shapes, wide arches and lotus shaped platforms. It was, Iofiel realized, like a grand relief had been sawed apart and dumped into anti-gravity. Except it was artless, and pure magic. Like a mobile, it twirled.
The first sign of anything happening was the appearance of Jophiel, suddenly, falling from above. Her large grey wings, at least twice that of Iofiel’s, slowed her fall with one large movement. Then she folded them behind her.
Like the other Archangels, Jophiel wasn’t quite a girl in the same way Iofiel wasn’t. The Seven Archangels were rare in that the majority used gendered pronouns, but this was supposedly linked to some sort of old tradition; Michael being male only in the sense that the humans often thought of him as one.
Jophiel was as inhuman as Michael, with pale purple skin and streaks of grey extending from her back like her wing’s pigment had leaked onto her body. She had no eyes, but this was befitting of the Archangel who oversaw the upper spheres anyway. They had so many eyes, they saw everything. She had none, and she did too.
The Seven Archangels were Archangels, essentially the same as Maalik or Tzaphkiel. Like them, they had been born with a single imprinted task, and that just so happened to be overseeing everyone else. While the upper spheres were said to be closer to The Creator, the lower ones knew humanity.
After Jophiel came Camael, another Heaven-based Archangel. She was dressed like Iofiel and the other angels were, a simple long tunic with a thin metal collar at the top. Some angels didn’t have necks, but those that did commonly wore these: a sort of sign of servitude towards humanity and the greater good.
Uriel, Gabriel, and Raphael all arrived at the same time. Though Gabriel had four eyes, the three of them were decisively common looking beyond their colorful outfits. The traditional long flowy robes of the past still persisted in Heaven, though most of the Archangels had gone decisively modern, most opting for some form of long pants over a skirt.
Like Jophiel, Uriel was incapable of seeing, her eyes permanently closed. She was... well, she was very magical, her exact role in the grand scheme of Heaven unknown to Iofiel beyond the concept that she was very good at spells. Some sort of magical repairman, then.
Zadkiel appeared a moment before Michael. He was extraordinarily simple looking, dressed like a common soldier and with hair that had been magically dyed like Iofiel’s to a teal blue, as to match Michael.
Michael was last. That made sense for Michaelmas, the mass for Michael. Looking at him caused Iofiel to take a sharp intake of breath, and she wasn’t alone in this. He was, as always, the closest thing to Light. His name, a question, perfectly summed up his duality. He was, still, beautiful.
For the occasion he had donned his armor, a teal and green plate made of unknown materials. It was unimaginable to suggest, but he looked less comfortable in warrior’s garb than his old tunic.
Angels could live forever if not for the existence of evil. There had been many Zadkiels, a few Raphaels, but only one Michael. This was the Dragon Slayer, the Brightness Feller.
It was
hard to make him out from a distance, really, beyond his color scheme. The Archangels separated, a few heading up out of view. Much to Iofiel’s pleasure, Michael was at the very bottom, on level with her.
He looked around a few times, floating in the air, his wings outstretched and hanging down.
The song came about organically, a single syllable hung out for only a second too long before, slowly, every voice in the citadel joined. Iofiel didn’t know the words, or the tune, or even quite what kind of song it was. But she was singing too, high and lilting,
holy,
holy,
holy.
And this was Michaelmas.
They sang together and came together for a period of time Iofiel couldn’t be sure of. Until the song was done. Then Michael, his hand over his heart, perched on the flat tip of one of the floating gold spires, spoke to those amassed:
“And so we are here in this year, on this day again. For some, this is a tiring annual trek. For many, this is your first such gathering. And I will say that again: for many. This year has brought the largest such influx of new angels we have ever had. On the Battlefield, we are winning but dying. On Earth, the demons are slipping through. And in the grand sense, though it pains us, we are looking towards the end.
“There will be a solar eclipse tomorrow for most of the Western hemisphere of the Earth. Following this will come red rain to much of the Mediterranean. The waters will turn from blood to black. Panic will be quelled with science, but there will be a few panicked casualties. The rest of the year will bring record highs to much of the world, maintaining droughts throughout much of already troubled lands. Temperate areas will start to wither, too. The world will slowly turn towards fire.”
Michael stood up, flaring his wings.
“A new species of cicada will crawl out of the dirt en masse. The point is, perhaps we won’t be seeing another summer. It is thus paramount we preserve our numbers. We all work hard, but we must work harder still. We must sacrifice more. The Adversary could win this, is winning this. And that is, quite simply, bad.”
Everything was still, silent. The closest thing to noise was the distant hum of magic that shook Iofiel to her gut. She couldn’t quite feel fear in Heaven, or else maybe she wasn’t even afraid: just filled with apprehension.
“For our angels in training, who may not see their specializations utilized, this... may be a difficult time.” Iofiel felt called out in some way, though she was sure all her classmates were experiencing the exact same shock. “I have met with some of you— such as kind Iofiel, whose course is notable— and I cannot order so much as ask that you consider where you will stand when the trumpets fall. We will all battle on the very last day. Consider preparing.”
His tone was a little darker than expected, a bit more direct. He flicked his wings again like a bug had landed on him, and— wait what the hell did he just say?
Wait.
Well.
It was kinda vague, except that it wasn’t quite, really. It was, in fact, blindly specific in every which way. The only way he could have been more specific— a hard to accomplish feat— would have been to point to her and specify her hair color. Her physical reaction— a delayed but real crunch up posture wise— was enough for her seatmates to flash confused looks.
Iofiel missed the rest of what Michael said. She really, really did. It wasn’t much, though her pulse raced every time Michael glanced in her direction. Actually, the rest of Michaelmas was a bit of a blur from then on: Michael remained the centerpiece speech wise, but the other Archangels did eventually join in.
Raphael spoke a bit about the recent spree of angel deaths and again urged fledglings to seek the easiest paths towards soul redemption and battlefield effectiveness over any sort of long term scheme. Zadkiel echoed their urging for soldiers, while Jophiel relayed some sort of cryptic message she’d learned from the Virtues.
Gabriel, the messenger, gave a sharp warning not to appear to any humans and rush the end times, noting hysteria bred sins more than a ‘death in sleep’ scenario would.
Michael said something specifically for the University angels: “Don’t warn the demons.”
Like any angel would!
And then Iofiel realized she was, in fact, the sort of angel who might, and certainly the only angel who openly fraternized with demons to begin with. So another direct message to her, from Michael, very directly.
Speaking of, after a few more cautious warnings from the other Archangels, Michael again spoke: “This may seem like an unfortunate thing. Some of you may be drawn towards behaviors that are unacceptable, pressed by the idea that you will not be alive much longer to feel the aftereffects, that perhaps there will be no punishment for deviance because we can’t risk losing you. We can. As long as G-d permits, we will have another you. There is no excuse for anything ill, no matter how innocent it seems.”
Why did Iofiel get the impression Michael was, for whichever reason, utterly pissed off at her? Perhaps it was partly paranoia, but everything he said seemed targeted towards her.
They ended with another hymn, and Iofiel’s mind was still so dazed that she joined in late, the imprinted words slow in her throat.
When it was time to leave, most of the angels turned. Some of the more powerful ones transported themselves away on the spot with a quick heel turn. Iofiel kept sitting for a while. She didn’t recognize anyone around her, though she kept expecting someone to stand up and point, let the whole host know who she was and what she’d done.
Because it was, it turned out, a big fucking deal.
Because it was, maybe, the divine will, the destiny of the cosmos, that a stupid angel with too blue hair would decide to be nice to an imp who didn’t deserve it, and that the balance of everything would get tripped by one dumb act of comfort.
And because then, someone did point at her, or at least the vocal equivalent of that: Michael said her name, again, looking at her. Not all the angels had left yet, and those that remained froze exactly as she’d imagined it. Good on her brain for thinking up that horrifying scenario and being right on it, then. Maybe she was gaining psychic powers.
It took a moment, sure, for everyone to look around thinking ‘oh, who is that?’ before they found the one angel who wasn’t moving. The one who was still sitting.
Iofiel stood up, her wings feeling too stiff to fly. She climbed up onto the seat in front of her as to have more space to take off, but slipped and fell.
Michael said her name again.
She lay on the floor for a while, the cool stone doing its best to calm the flush of her cheeks. Someone pulled her up with a less-than-kind amount of force by the wing. She knew without looking she’d lost a feather in the process.
Climbing onto the seat, she managed a weak jump, and flew towards the center of the atrium, landing on a floating pedestal a few feet from where Michael was perched. Her flight was sloppy, each inborn movement of her wings alien to her mind. She was surprised she managed to land at all, and hadn’t simply fallen to her death.
There wasn’t much room, but he joined her there. Her wings were still hanging out, and he gently fixed the mess where she’d been grabbed, putting the feathers back in place.
“This will have to be in private.”
Of course it would be.
16: Violet And Gold
THERE WAS NOTHING cold in Heaven but, for a few moments, Maalik’s blood. The other Archangels around him remained as studious as ever, a few quick glances between his neighbors revealing not a single crack in their serene expressions.
Maalik probably looked like he’d just been stung by an eel, even with all his practice pretending otherwise. His heart had stopped and then come back in double time, his mind unable to fully process what had come after Iofiel’s name in Archangel Michael’s speech.
It was pointless to say angels didn’t get called out often at Michaelmas. Never in the two years he’d been, at least.
Dear Iofiel, whose course is notable.
The fresh Hell did that fucking mean? Iofi was someone to whom Maalik was weak, and her decision-making skills were worthy of scorn, but the idea of her having any sort of ‘course’ was deeply troubling. That is to say, a terrifying inevitability he’d been sort of aware of, but still kept him up at night.
If she had a purpose, if she’d been created in the dirt of Eden for a reason, what did that mean for Maalik? Was he going to have some role, as her friend/roommate/guy-she-kissed-once?
Oh right, this whole ordeal also meant That Grand Ol’ Sunbeam absolutely knew he’d done some illicit macking on... what was she now? The harbinger of the end? Wonderful. Maalik had a crush on the goddamn adversary.
When the ceremony officially ended, Maalik was swept up with the crowd, doing his best to breath slow and hard. He was self-conscious about all his faults on any fine day, but here in Heaven his brain was on overtime. Breathe normal, think normal, reveal nothing, be nothing.
A quiet murmur was lost between wingbeats and shuffling as angels filed out of the tower. Maalik followed a group of other Archangels that seemed around his ranking. Most of them were taller than him, bigger somehow, like not being cradled in the confines of the Uni had led to actual aging.
They had to wait a few moments in an orderly queue as the upper angels left first through the top of the tower. Though the filing in had been clean and agreeable, leaving was always a strange mess of ‘having thousands of angels of various sizes try to fit through one hole in a reasonable amount of time’.
Angels were at least pretty polite on a whole, and eventually Maalik found himself in a small gathering flying out over Eden. From here he was supposed to head directly back to Earth, but as he was turning off one of the Archangels called after him.
“Wait! You’re from the school, right?” He froze, nearly forgetting how to fly as a shot of adrenaline rattled through his veins.
She was hovering in the air, her bright pink hair tossed about wildly with every beat of her wings. Maalik couldn’t figure if her eccentric appearance— her clothes were definitely off standard— meant she was likely a moribund soldier or some higher, Earth-bound Guardian.
Good Angel (Good Angel Duology Book 1) Page 18