Seven Archangels: Annihilation

Jane Lebak

Chapter 5

         Michael took the long way home, walking through the Gobi desert instead of to the conference center where the other angels awaited.

         Jesus joined him after a few minutes. Michael didn't look at him, only kept his head lowered and his shoulders hunched as he walked, his green wings tense but not extended.

         Jesus didn't challenge him, just kept pace, occasionally sweeping the black hair from his dark eyes.

         Between one stride and the next, Michael stepped onto the snowfields of the Antarctic, ice that flowed like rock through centuries, rigid instead of rippling, locked into one form by an accident of location.

         Jesus walked beside him there too.

         Then they were climbing a mountain, and Michael used his hands to heft himself high through the trees and boulders, using a path too narrow to call a trail, seeking handholds until he reached a sheer rock face and there were none.

         Jesus stopped at his side while Michael craned his neck to search up the sheer rock.

         "Is he going to survive?" Michael said.

         "That depends," Jesus said, "on how tightly Raphael hangs on."

         Michael chewed on that for a moment. "Even if the Father would let him die, Raphael wouldn't."

         Jesus nodded. "Raphael is definitely a force to be reckoned with."

         "Uriel said Gabriel was stable for now, at any rate." Michael plunged his hands into the pockets of his clothes, which had morphed into jeans and hiking boots. "And we've set the strongest Guards we can around that room, so there's no way they'll know where he is to attack him again."

         Jesus' brow furrowed. "Tell me about the rest."

         Michael drew a sharp breath, then moved back to the rock face, found a handhold, and tugged, then looked for the next. "How's Remiel doing? Was she caught?"

         "She's safe," said Jesus, "and undiscovered."

         "It's occurred to me, if she'd been annihilated, we wouldn't know. Satan wouldn't tell us." Michael looked for the next handhold. "How is she, mentally?"

         "I'm holding her together." Jesus looked into the deep of the woods. "The strain is hurting her, but she'll make it out again. Go on—that isn't all that's bothering you."

         Michael ascended a little further. "I nearly didn't pierce their Guards at all. There were two levels. The first shattered easily, but the second held, and I'd never have broken through if not for that sigil ring." He frowned. "I'd better get that back from Mephistopheles. I really don't like that I let him keep it this long."

         He pulled himself up another four feet, then searched again for a place to cling. Jesus remained at the base looking up at the climbing angel.

         "It was just luck that I'd made that sigil at all," Michael said.

         Jesus was smiling. "Luck?"

         Michael lowered his eyes and looked at the stone only inches from his face. "Just because of that game."

         "Lucky break." This time it sounded a lot like laughter in Jesus's voice.

         Michael looked down. "You prepared that?"

         Jesus nodded.

         Michael jumped back from the wall, landing lightly with his wings spread.

         Jesus folded his arms as he stood eye-to-eye with the Archangel. "Is that it?"

         Michael made his eyes as bright as he could. "For now."

         "What about your real terror?"

         Michael paled.

         Jesus chuckled. "Michael'shêli, I made you. I know when you divert your fear by dealing with another problem." He leaned against a pine. "Granted, it makes you efficient, but I can't have you crippled by doubt at a time when the host needs you at your sharpest."

         Michael shook his head. "I can't do this."

         "Not on your own."

         The Archangel folded his wings. "I don't even know where to begin! I only have this position at all because I stood up a long time ago and told Satan that God alone was God. Anyone could have done that."

         Jesus nodded.

         Michael frowned. "But now I'm supposed to be holding what might as well be a press conference to tell everyone in Heaven what happened to Gabriel and how we're going to respond to protect the rest of them, and I haven't even figured it out for myself."

         When Jesus said nothing, Michael turned to him. "What would you have me do?"

         "I would have you do what you've been doing—exactly what you've always done before. Speaking up. Seeing what needs to be done and then taking care of it."

         Michael walked back to the rock wall and lifted himself from one handhold to the next, faster than before. This time when he reached a spot where he saw no handholds, the rock itself seemed to resolve into more protrusions. He climbed until he reached a ledge, then pulled himself to sit on it. Jesus was already there waiting. Michael sat breathing hard.

         "We can be destroyed." He waited for his breath to stop coming so rapidly. "And not by you. And I never thought it was possible one moment to love you and the next not to, but I wouldn’t even know I didn't love you any longer because I wouldn't be around to know anything. That's something I couldn't fix, and it would be all over for me, for any one of us."

         Jesus looked grim. "That's what it would mean."

         "That's wrong."

         "That's why he wants to do it."

         "To be uncreated by something that's not itself Uncreated, that's unimaginable." Michael clenched his fists until they hurt. "Until now. I never imagined it until now." His eyes narrowed. "Why?"

         Jesus laid an arm over Michael's shoulder, and Michael cupped him with his wing.

         "Why?"

         Jesus said, "I won't permit it to happen to you."

         "And it was okay that it happen to Gabriel?"

         Jesus regarded him narrowly.

         "I'm sorry."

         "I'm not going to tell you all the details. Right now I'm asking you to trust me, and you'll figure out why in your own time, if you ever need to. The blow was going to land. It landed in the way to do the least damage."

         Michael said, "And you were in control even then. Things like my sigil. Things like Camael being part of the team."

         "Things like that."

         Michael drew his wings close to his body and gazed out at the clouds. There was so much higher he could climb, but for now he sat.

         "Humans deal with death all the time," Jesus said. "Angels don't. Never have."

         Michael traced a finger over the flat of his knee. "You should end us all simultaneously."

         "Humans have learned to recover from grieving."

         "We shouldn't. It's against everything we are. Annihilation isn't a fulfillment, only a crime. The most tragic and unfair death humankind ever experienced is still a fulfillment. There's more to it. There's justice." Michael's opened his hands and leaned forward. "If our enemies can escape it into oblivion, what purpose is Hell? We made our choice for all eternity. You can't change the terms now."

         Jesus frowned. "Can't I?"

         Michael blanched. Even his wings went yellow.

         "I won't, though."

         "You'll stop them if they try again?"

         "No." Jesus put a hand on Michael's knee. "I designed you to be my champion. You'll stop them."

         Michael's mouth twitched, as though to say, Well, that eases the pressure.

         Jesus laughed out loud. He clapped Michael on the shoulder and then got to his feet on the ledge. "You're more than capable, and you're in command of the most amazing force I could create. Plus, they trust you as much as I do."

         Michael stood, reached for his sword and realized he wasn't wearing it at the moment. "You'll guide me?"

         "Of course," Jesus said. "I always do."

         Michael glanced at one of the hawks circling and called it closer. It cried with that small-sounding voice, then drew nearer. He studied its flight, not moving. He could have left then, but for the moment he was content to stand, just stand, with his Lord at his side.

         "You're needed," Jesus said.

         As Michael turned to ask more, Raguel appeared before Michael, armed. "We've got trouble at the gates."

         Michael flashed away with Raguel, not saying goodbye because he wasn't leaving Jesus behind. Jesus remained on the cliff face, inhaling the scent of pines and watching a hawk in a stoop, and it was good.

        

 

         Michael and Raguel appeared at the heavenly gates where Mephistopheles stood before two Principality guards.

         Flanked by white stone walls, the main gates of Heaven were formed of wrought iron, with guard houses on either side and a wide field visible through the bars. More for appearance than function, the gates served ceremonial purposes. Angels and saints could flash into Heaven at whatever point they wanted; the last time the gates had been opened had been for Jesus's ascension with the newly freed human souls. The gates served also as a convenient meeting-place whenever the enemy requested an audience.

         Mephistopheles inclined his head, letting the light of heaven play over the ringlets of his hair and accentuate the poised lines of his face. "My compliments to the help. The service here is quite excellent."

         Michael's eyebrows raised. "Would you care to fill out a comment card?"

         Mephistopheles slid his hands into his pockets, but not before Michael caught a glimpse of his sigil ring. "Actually, the one I wanted to speak to was Raphael."

         "I'll be glad to take him a message," said Michael.

         "While I'm sure you would do an excellent job," Mephistopheles said, pacing languorously, "I'd prefer to see him in person."

         Michael's wings raised a fraction, and his eyes went cold. "And you'll tell him what?"

         "Give me the Seraph."

         Michael's hand itched for his sword even as he forced himself not to form it. Mephistopheles still kept his right hand hidden, but Michael knew that if he concentrated from where he stood, he could make the ring hot enough to burn. But knowing it couldn't be hotter than the anger of God, he restrained himself.

         Mephistopheles paused. "Why can't I speak with him?"

         "Why can't you get it into your head that I won't let you?"

         Mephistopheles formed his sword (left-handed) and instantly Saraquael with ten Archangels materialized behind Michael, who even then didn't make a sword of his own. He still looked like a backpacker. He could alter his clothing to armor in an instant if necessary.

         Mephistopheles didn't acknowledge the newcomers. "Are you afraid I'm going to do something to him?"

         "Like annihilation?"

         Even Michael was surprised when Mephistopheles lowered his blade, and the ice-chiseled etiquette wavered. "I'm not going to gloat." Michael fought the urge to tighten that ring on his hand. "I wouldn't be so uncharitable as to vaunt the annihilation of a Cherub to his closest Seraph. But he was a member of my order, almost my superior, and I said I'd do him a favor."

         Other than the out-and-out lie about being Gabriel's superior, the entire sentence didn't ring either true or false to Michael.

         "At the end he wanted Raphael to know he loved him, and that he didn't blame him."

         Michael's eyes went obsidian.

         Mephistopheles whipped his head around. "You disbelieve me?"

         Michael gave in just a bit and made the ring hot. "His last words would have been his love of God, which of course you've forgotten."

         "I complied with his request." Mephistopheles gave no indication of feeling the metal searing his hand. "You should endeavor to show more appreciation."

         "Thank you," Michael said. "Get out."

         Mephistopheles flashed away.

         Raguel rubbed his chin. "Do you think Mephistopheles was telling the truth?"

         "I doubt Mephistopheles knows if Mephistopheles was telling the truth." Michael's brow furrowed. "Saraquael, choose three Principalities and have them keep tabs on Raphael all the time. This may mean Satan wants Raphael next, and that's unacceptable."

         Saraquael nodded. "Should I assign guards to the rest of the Seven?"

         "With all due respect," Raguel said, "I don't need that. And I can't imagine Satan being able to lay a hand on Uriel."

         "I can't either," Michael said, "but to be frank, I couldn't have imagined having to have this conversation yesterday, so Saraquael, do it. Actually, make them Angels, and make them unobtrusive. Their first responsibility is to get help, not to get into the line of fire."

         Saraquael nodded.

         Michael folded his arms. "And although I hate to admit it, it's time for something else too."

        

 

         Two hours had passed. Mary returned to Uriel's bungalow, carrying a medium sized basket.

         Uriel sent Mary a series of images: the room, the room again, the room yet again, along with a sense of time passing. In Mary's human mind, that nonverbal communication parsed as "Still the same."

         It wasn't entirely the same. Uriel had replaced the quicksilver droplet of soul in Gabriel's heart, hoping it would migrate to the correct place, and Raphael had fallen asleep, wings overspreading the Cherub, the amber glow pulsing even as both slept.

         Mary peered at Gabriel as if looking over the side of a crib, and her heart trembled even as her stomach twisted. You didn't get used to seeing something like this.

         Mary kept her voice low. "I brought you something." She set the basket at the edge of the bed, then unpacked a beige cloth, smoothed the cloth into a square, and set out cups, a thermos, muffins, butter and knives, another thermos, bowls, and cookies.

         "Perhaps you recall," Uriel said mildly, "that angels don't eat?"

         "Joseph and I got tired of praying ceaselessly with words and scriptures, so I prayed with cookies." Mary poured a cup of tea from the first thermos, handed it to a suddenly solid Uriel, then wrapped two cookies in a napkin and passed those over as well. "Peter has every human he can in prayer right now, and Paul organized folks to visit churches on Earth and get them praying for healing, although clearly we can't specify for whom. But me, I baked cookies."

         "It's good to know some things never change," Uriel said.

         Mary looked up from pouring herself a cup of tea. "How so?"

         "Remember when Elizabeth was giving birth to John? How many loaves of bread did you bake?"

         Mary closed the top on the thermos. "It wasn't the bread that was a problem. It was the fish."

         Uriel laughed out loud. "I'd totally forgotten the fish!"

         "How could you forget the fish? I was still morning sick all the time, and the fish reeked like crazy."

         Uriel chuckled behind one hand. "That's the thing I never expected about being a guardian angel—the way humans push yourselves rather than admit defeat."

         "Someone had to cook the fish." Mary cocked her head. "Well, fair's fair. I never expected angels to be anything like you are either." When Uriel looked puzzled, Mary continued, "I figured that beings with a perfect understanding of God would never disagree and would live in perfect harmony all the time."

         Uriel squinted. "And when you find those creations perfect enough to have a perfect understanding of God, let me know!"

         "Of course only God is perfect." Mary fiddled with the handles of the basket. "I knew it said in Job that God finds fault even with his angels. I knew the Yom Kippur liturgy actually says angels sin. But even hearing in Daniel that the guardian of Persia fought with Gabriel for twenty-one days and had to be called off by Michael didn't prepare me for the idea that angels might disagree with one another."

         "Don't God's people disagree with one another?"

         "We're not angels," Mary said.

         Uriel's hands opened, forming a faceted gem that revolved slowly, splintering the light to scatter tiny rainbow dots over the walls. "None of us is big enough to contain and understand all of God, even with unclouded reasoning abilities. God designed us all a little differently from one another so that spread out over the whole of creation, eventually one of us amplifies each aspect of himself. But given that, doesn't it make sense that the angel of justice might argue with the angel of mercy? Or," Uriel added, winking, "that an angel embodying God's creativity might argue with God over a schedule?"

         The Throne made the lighted jewel disappear.

         "It makes sense. I just never expected it." Mary handed over a cookie. "Please?"

         Uriel tried a bite, then radiated approval.

         "Thanks." Mary looked at Raphael. "He pulled Gabriel out of Hell, and you helped put him back together, and I baked cookies."

         Uriel said, "Cookies solve all the world's problems."

         Mary paused. "That's not true. Some problems can only be solved with brownies."

         "Aren't brownies a type of bar cookie?"

         "Oh, dear," Mary said. "All the world's problems can be solved with cookies." She sipped the tea and finished her cookie. "This is so much like when Jesus was a baby. You guarding me, Raphael guarding him."

         Uriel had a wistful smile. "Gestation is a hazy time. I wasn't expecting that either."

         "I've gotten to realize we're never really prepared."

         Uriel squinted, projecting assurance that God had prepared them, then added, "We just never realize it until afterward." Setting the empty cup on the bed, Uriel said, "Raphael figured out how to toughen up Gabriel's spirit to survive death. I think he was able to do that because as Jesus's guardian angel he'd witnessed him doing the same thing to himself from the inside. No one else had ever seen it done."

         Mary took a deep breath. "But what's next?"

         Uriel's fingers knit together. "We have to find the rest of Gabriel. I'm not positive we got everything. Especially not after you found that residue in the field."

         "There wasn't anything else, though." Mary got another cookie. "We checked."

         Uriel gestured with one hand. "That can't be all there is of him. If it's not in the field, then it's got to be back in Hell. Or else it's gone forever."

         Mary bit her lip. "Can we send in a search party?"

         Uriel emitted a small cloud of frustration, worry for the ones they'd send, fear of a baited trap.

         "Have you asked Michael?"

         Uriel's eyes lowered again, and another cloud of frustration: no time to have mentioned it already, and uncertainty. Finally words, "I won't be sure until I try putting him back together."

         "You could try now," Mary said.

         "He's too dehiscent." When Mary squinted, Uriel added, "You know, thin. Ready to pull apart. Imagine trying to cover a pizza pan with only a handful of dough. What would happen when you rolled it out, and kept rolling it?"

         "How thin can you pull a soul?"

         "Not that thin," Uriel said. "I've never done anything like this before, and even so, I know it can't be pulled that thin."

         Raphael stirred.  Mary sat back from the edge of the bed to give him room.

         As he sat up and checked on Gabriel, Mary felt from him the same shock she'd felt, as if Gabriel's form were an insult; it was bad enough he'd been damaged and mangled, but why did he have to look that way so they remembered it anew every time they looked?

         "Cookies," the Seraph said, blinking away the sleep. He wasn't looking at the cookies, though, only at Gabriel. "I still can't feel him. It's as if he's not there."

         Mary clasped her hands. Uriel said, "Give him time."

         "Time for what?" Raphael began to vibrate. "He's had time. It's not doing any good."

         "We can't say that for certain," Uriel said, "and he's not any worse, so that's something."

         Raphael tried to adjust Gabriel on the bed. "He looks so small."

         Uriel flinched.

         Mary moved to the head of the bed. "Here, can I try something?" She grasped the fabric that had been Raphael's wings, adjusted it beneath Gabriel, then tucked him up so he seemed even smaller. She paused. "This isn't hurting you, is it?"

         "Not at all." The Seraph squinted. "What are you doing?"

         "Remember how I used to carry Jesus?" She tied a firm knot at the base, then pulled the ends up tight. "Come closer and bend over him."

         It took a lot of adjusting of the fabric (thick, silky, warm on its own) around Gabriel's form, but when Mary was done, Raphael had Gabriel bundled up at chest height, and he had his hands free.

         "That way you can carry him easier," Mary said. "It gives you mobility."

         Uriel quirked a smile. "Where is he going to go?"

         "Wherever he wants," Mary said, "although it might be best if he stays here."

         Raphael looked down at Gabriel's featureless face, the limp hair, the way he'd seemed to lose his shape. "I don't want to risk anything."

         "But he's with you," Mary said.

         Raphael's eyes glistened, and after a hard swallow, he nodded.

 

Copyright 2008, Jane Lebak

Cover

Copyright 2008, E. J. Mickels

E.J.Mickels II—aka 'Hisart'— a multi talented artist, has a BFAA in Drawing with Minors in Illustration and Graphic Design from the University of Akron. A veteran of the USAF, he has traveled through Europe and most of the USA.

E.J. ventured out as an Illustrator and has appeared in The Sword Review as well as Ray Gun Revival and in Dragons, Knights and Angels. He also wrote and keeps his own web-site-< www.Hisart.us >—which contains a small fraction of the art he has produced. He works in any medium and is just as comfortable setting at a PC with pen and tablet as he is with a chainsaw, airbrush or welder. He has done custom motorcycle and helmet work, as well as in the distant pas,t worked as a tattooist. He is also a writer, he participated in NaNoWriMo 2005, and maintains his own blog 'Sword and Pen' at < www.hisart777.blogspot.com >.

E.J. is currently the ArtWrangler at Double-Edged Publishing's Fear and Trembling magazine: < www.fearandtremblingmag.com >.