Seven Archangels: Annihilation

Jane Lebak

Chapter 13

         Jesus appeared behind Raphael at a balcony in the Westfield Parramatta Mall in Sydney, Australia. The sunlight streamed through him as easily as it did the skylight over the interior courtyard. People passed without seeing either of them, but Jesus noted how all their guardians usually had something to say. So sorry. In our prayers.

         Jesus stepped alongside Raphael, dressed for the venue in khakis and a t-shirt, hands in his pockets. The Seraph greeted him with his heart but remained with his elbows resting on the railing, his back to the crowds that strolled between stores. Jesus leaned on the rail facing the other direction, close enough that one of Raphael's wingtips brushed his leg.

         Raphael continued staring into the faceless crowd. "This is a good place to people-watch."

         Jesus frowned. "What do you see?"

         "Everything, one at a time." Raphael singled his attention onto a woman pushing a stroller. "Boredom." Another woman with a friend. "Loneliness." An older woman carrying a cosmetics bag. "Fear of death." Three teens chattering into cell phones as they walked the mall. "Hunger."

         "It's not all negative." Jesus indicated a woman with a toy store bag. "Generosity. Over there I see excitement. That man drove here as an act of charity for a friend who can't drive any longer, giving up his morning so the man would have a day out."

         Raphael lowered his gaze.

         Jesus touched his arm. "Come with me," and they went.

         It was the Judgment Hall, empty at the moment, and the rustle as Raphael folded his wings echoed from the domed ceiling and stone walls. Jesus sat on the edge of one of the wooden tables at the front, one foot still on the floor.

         "If I did that," Raphael said, "you'd say it was disrespectful."

         "If you did this," Jesus replied, "your wings would bang into the table and you'd be uncomfortable anyhow, so I wouldn't need to say anything."

         Raphael turned around a chair and straddled it backward, grinning mischievously. Jesus returned the look.

         The Seraph regarded the hall, as large as a cathedral and yet small for its intended purpose. Sitting at the front he would have to shift into long-distance vision to see the back walls. Humanity was to gather here for the final sorting.

         In the middle of scanning the room, Raphael gasped, and his wings flared. The thought rolled out of him as forcefully as if shouted: Gabriel's funeral.

         Jesus raised his hands. "We're not here to plan anything." But Raphael didn't relax.

         "How are we doing?"

         Jesus said, "You're doing everything you can."

         "But it doesn't seem as if it's helping." Raphael bit his lip and leaned into the back of the chair. "I keep hoping something will trip and the balance will swing, but I can't find that one thing, and I don't know any longer."

         Jesus looked out into the rows of unfilled benches. "What would you do if this was it and he couldn't get any better than this?" When Raphael didn't answer, he added, "And with no hope of improvement?"

         Raphael blurted, "What are you saying?"

         Jesus said, "I'm not saying anything. I'm asking."

         "I'd do it anyhow," Raphael said. "I'd carry him with me. I'd give him all my healing power, and I'd keep doing everything I could."

         Jesus said, "Eternity is a long time."

         "It's too long to live with the knowledge that I could have done something and didn't. It's too long to live without him knowing I should have hung on."

         "Should have." Jesus breathed the words. "What of Gabriel?"

         Raphael was looking straight at the floor. "He talked about this with me, all these debates the Cherubim had for what seemed like years. There are a thousand shades of grey here, but they nailed them all down. He'd want to live if there was any chance he could still love and be loved by you."

         Jesus folded his arms and looked aside.

         "Mothers do this for infants." Raphael picked up his head and squared his shoulders, inadvertently flaring his wings. "I know he wouldn't grow out of it—in this scenario," he reminded himself. He began vibrating, his wings shaking. A glow cut through the front of the judgment hall, and it came from his shimmering eyes. "But I could do it."

         "Of course you could," Jesus said. "I'm not impugning your abilities. But I'm asking if you should."

         Raphael's soul vibrated more violently, and a hardness came into the set of his jaw. He seemed to grow taller as he stood out of his chair, and his wings spread. "Of course I think I should!"

         Jesus gave Raphael a few moments to calm himself, but the Seraph didn't try. Below the surface he'd been sparked into frenzy, and everything about him rang denial. This Seraph's eyes were brown instead of green, and his hair brown instead of blond, but the Judgment Hall had seen this conversation once before.

         "Would you consent to re-create him?" Raphael asked.

         Jesus said, "No. I would not."

         "Then I'll keep at it," Raphael said. "I'm not going to give up."

         Jesus didn't say anything in reply. The final vestiges of Raphael's voice finished their echoes through the vaulted ceilings, and Raphael turned, his heart coiled like an overwound spring and his eyes unyielding. He shoved the chair toward the table, and it slid to a stop when it banged into the side near Jesus's knee.

         Jesus said, "What if I told you to let him go?"

         "What?" Raphael lunged toward him. "I don't have to let him go! I can take care of him! I'll stay with him!"

         "But if I told you to let him go—"

         "I will not sacrifice Gabriel on the altar of my convenience!"

         "I didn't say you would do it because it was convenient." Jesus looked right into Raphael's eyes. "You've done everything you can."

         "And I'll keep doing it until we find another way—"

         "What if there is no other way?" For the first time, Jesus raised his voice. "I asked what you would do if I told you to let him go."

         Raphael had flames around his head. "I would hate you."

         "I didn't ask if you would like me," Jesus said. "I'm asking specifically if you would obey."

         Raphael vibrated so quickly that he threw off heat. His mouth was set in a line, and his eyes had darkened to obsidian as he threw shadows around the hall of judgment. Perfectly still, Jesus watched him. Just God and His creation and a question.

         Raphael took a deep breath. "Yes. But—"

         "Then let him go."

         Raphael whipped away, and even though Jesus couldn't see his expression, he knew he would have his eyes clenched, his jaw locked. Raphael had been Jesus's guardian angel.

         Raphael's fists were at his sides, and his wings were in flames, but his head was bowed, and all around him swirled streamers of a dozen emotions as he struggled to lock down some and unlock the one thing he wanted the most to stay secure.

         Jesus dropped his gaze, swallowing hard. Raphael's shoulders sagged. The fire went out.

         "Raphael," came Uriel's voice in the Judgment Hall, disembodied and without an echo, "you need to return right now. He's slipping."

         Raphael looked over his shoulder at Jesus, his eyes like ice and his glare as penetrating as an arrow into its target. Then he vanished.

         Jesus put his hands to his face, and he sobbed.

 

 

         Michael ached to see how Gabriel looked deflated, like an old balloon.

         Israfel already sat at the bedside, and she had Gabriel's hand in both of hers. From the corner of the room, Michael watched as Raphael appeared: shoulders slumped, wings limp.

         Where was the fire? Michael had expected Raphael to explode into the room, frenzied and half-mad, and instead Michael saw only resignation. With a second look, though, he could detect the aftershocks of fury as they rippled away, dragging the last of his strength with them.

         "Don't give up," Michael murmured, one hand on Raphael's arm. "You have to hang on."

         Raphael averted his eyes. Michael let out a gasp as if he'd been punched in the stomach. It didn't feel for the next minute as if he could draw breath.

         Uriel whispered, "Mary, I need you here," and in the next moment she was there, the front of her sweater dusted with flour, her hair pulled back in a ponytail with wisps escaping to frame her face.

         "This is it?" she whispered.

         Michael nodded.

         Israfel still had her harp in her hand, and she settled at the edge of the bed so Raphael could come closer to Gabriel. She rested the instrument across her lap and began to play.

         "Do you remember the song we sang—I sang—" Raphael looked down at Gabriel growing formless. "Every night before Jesus went to bed?"

         Between one musical phrase and the next, Israfel transitioned to a major key and a suspended seventh chord.

         Mary took Uriel's hand. Raphael sang,

 

"Blessed are you, Lord our God, king of the universe,

Who causes the bonds of sleep to fall on my eyes,

And slumber on my eyelids."

 

Mary added her voice to the bedtime prayer—Jesus's favorite lullabye—as he hesitated.

 

May it be acceptable in your presence, O Lord my God,

And God of my fathers,

To cause me to lie down in peace,

And to raise me up again in peace,

And suffer me not to be troubled with evil dreams or evil reflections

But grant me a calm and uninterrupted repose in your presence

And enlighten my eyes again

Until I sleep the sleep of death.

 

         Raphael eased Gabriel's hair from his eyes, fingertips tracing his forehead as if stirring the wavelets of a pool without breaking the surface.

 

Blessed are you, O Lord,

Who gives light to the whole universe in your glory.

 

Israfel transitioned into the words Raphael had always added into the bedtime prayer.

 

I promise I will never leave you,

And all the long night be at your side

Always thinking of you until you wake,

Until your eyes open again in the light of God.

You'll always be a part of me, always carried in my heart,

Because that is the promise I have made.

 

         Israfel brought the song back to the beginning, but the words still rang in Michael's ears. He could see Mary horror-stricken as he was, remembering how many times the angels had sung this at nighttime when Jesus was a child, a little boy bouncing on the edge of his bed begging for just one more song before he went to sleep.

         Raphael's face had crumpled.

         Mary touched Uriel's wing. "Please try once more, whatever it was he told you to do."

         On the other side, Raphael grabbed Uriel's arm. "Don't hurt him."

         Squeezing Raphael's hand, Uriel said, "I'll be gentle."

         Uriel went insubstantial and crouched in the middle of the bed, kneeling halfway through Gabriel and vanishing partly into him. The effect from Michael's perspective was much like seeing a cloud and thinking it looked something like an angel might, with clear-cut wings and shoulders but a smear of mist for arms and legs.

         Raphael leaned closer to Gabriel, kissed him on the forehead. He whispered as if every word stung, "It's okay if you have to leave us. It's okay if you have to let go."

         Israfel choked.

         Michael's heart ached. Why did you say that? Don't you realize it all depends on how tightly you hold on?

         Then Michael felt Uriel send to Raphael, Keep talking to him.

         Raphael looked up, blank.

         If you can't talk, then sing. Just keep doing it.

         Michael detected the Throne's surprise. He projected a question to Uriel, making sure not to attract the notice of the Seraphim.

         Uriel's voice replied in Michael's mind, His substance is reaching toward Raphael.

         Wouldn't you expect it to?

         It didn't before. It's as if he's awakening to Raphael's presence.

         Michael frowned. Mary had her hands on Israfel's shoulders, and he was sure the Seraphim hadn't noticed Uriel's wonder as they transitioned into the Trisagion.

         Uriel's misty form extended toward Raphael, and Michael felt himself emitting rings of tension even as Uriel sparkled with curiosity and searching.

         What are you finding? Michael kept the question contained within the walls of his mind. Dear God, let him find something—

         Uriel whispered, "Raphael, let him go."

         Raphael raised his head, tears overspilling.

         "You can't keep him forever."

         Raphael put his face in his hands, but Michael could see Uriel sparkling. Something had changed, and Uriel's look didn't match Uriel's words.

         "Hold my hand," Uriel murmured. "Now squeeze and let go, and as you do it, imagine letting him go too."

         As Uriel caught Michael's eye, a series of disconnected images swam through his head: Raphael's and Gabriel's wills coiled about one another like a spiral staircase, Raphael's tight as a stranglehold around Gabriel's and plugged into it, nurturing it but keeping it firmly in place.

         Michael gasped. His heartstring? Raphael has it?

         More images: the thing tested out sound, whole, muscular as an anaconda and miles long.

         Raphael moved closer to Gabriel at some prompting from Uriel, whose misty form now encompassed both of them.

         "Do it again," Uriel said to Raphael.

         The Seraph grabbed with both hands this time, squeezing until he ought to have crushed Uriel's hand, and then letting go with a long breath like a sigh that shuddered at the end.

         Michael tried to offer reassurance, but Uriel shook his head. Instead, Michael sent a stream of his energy into Uriel's heart to empower the Throne.

         God, please, let this work.

         "Keep doing it," Uriel murmured. "Raphael, let him go. Easy, easy, just let him go. You can't hold onto him forever. Let him go."

         Tears streaked Raphael's face. Michael moved close to the Seraph, stood behind him and rubbed his shoulders. Raphael grabbed his hands, and Michael hugged him.

         "Leave him alone!" Israfel was her feet. "If Gabriel's going to die, then let him die, but don't make Raphael help!"

         Michael moved close to her. "Wait," he whispered.

         She whirled on Michael. "Why are you torturing him?"

         He projected into her heart with the force of a pile-driver, Stop!

         "Stay relaxed," Uriel murmured to Raphael. "Keep letting him go."

         Tension rolled off the Seraph until Michael longed to send him calming thoughts.

         Mary settled at Raphael's side. "Are you in pain?"

         Raphael's head dropped. Michael got the impression that he thought murder should hurt. The things in the room were rattling as in the early stages of an earthquake.

         "One more bit," Uriel said, and then Raphael collapsed to his knees, elbows on the edge of the bed, and he sobbed.

         Israfel pushed past Michael to kneel with her arms around Raphael's shoulders. "I hope you're happy."

         "Look," Mary whispered.

         Michael stepped aside to see around Israfel's wings, and he too gasped. Oh, God, my God!

         —because while before Gabriel had been like an emaciated preschooler, now he seemed almost the right size, certainly an adult, and the misty edges had firmed up.

         Raphael raised his head in shock.

         "What in blazes just happened?" Israfel jumped to her feet. "I thought he would be gone."

         Uriel let out a long breath. "Raphael had his heartstring."

         There was silence in the room. Raphael didn't even move, only stared.

         Israfel pushed close to Uriel. "And you didn't tell him?"

         Like a marionette with its strings cut, Raphael dropped his head into his hands, and his chest onto his knees, his wings splayed.

         "Why didn't you say something?" Israfel shouted. "You made him let Gabriel die!"

         "I did tell him to let it go." Uriel's voice jumped as Israfel grabbed the Throne. "I did it the only way I could ensure he wouldn't keep holding on."

         "I could kill you!" Israfel was like lightning. "What you put him through—what you put me through—!"

         "I'm sorry." Uriel's gaze dropped. "I did what was necessary."

         Forcing himself between them, Michael stared into Israfel's eyes with what he hoped was enough steel to bring her to her senses. "Don't make me force you to leave. None of us have done this before. Uriel may just have saved Gabriel's life. We can quibble about the techniques later."

         Israfel swung away from him. "And boy, are you getting an earful about it then, too." She gestured to Raphael. "You nearly destroyed him with that stunt."

         Raphael still hadn't moved, as if giving up Gabriel's heartstrings had ripped out his own.

         Mary had her arm over Raphael's shoulders, the other hand smoothing his collar. "You've done the repair?"

         Uriel projected a negative. "I only dumped the thread back in with the rest of him. We need to give him time to settle, and then I learn to do beadwork on a soul."

         Michael positioned himself on the floor beside Raphael and laid his wings over him. It wasn't just relief he could feel but also shame. "You didn't know," he murmured.

         Raphael didn't reply. Maybe he hadn't heard.

         Uriel rested a solid hand on Raphael's head.

         A glow flared around Israfel. "Maybe it would help Raphael if you had Ophaniel wish him dead."

         Michael glared at her. "I told you to back down. Uriel isn't cruel. If it had to be done that way, it had to be done."

         Uriel slipped off the bed and hugged Raphael, who buried his head in the Throne's shoulder. Uriel soothed him for a few minutes, and eventually Raphael reacted, first by crying, then by putting his head against Gabriel's chest and hugging him, repeating how sorry he was. Mary and Michael stayed nearest, and Uriel didn't move, shoulders bowed as if defeated. Israfel laid on the opposite side of the bed, covering Gabriel with one wing while she traced his hair with her fingertips.

         Time passed, until eventually Raphael calmed. Israfel no longer looked ready to detonate. Michael breathed easier. It was time to proceed.

         "I need your help," Uriel said to the Seraphim. "What is Gabriel's biggest regret?"

         Raphael pulled back, rubbing his eyes.

         Israfel said, "He doesn't have any regrets. He just thinks it all to death."

         The Seraphim exchanged a knowing glance.

         Uriel sighed. "I need to know because it's hard to feed the string back through all the beads, so I need something heavy on the end to push it through."

         Mary said, "Like the way you put a pin on the end of a drawer string that's come loose, otherwise it bunches and you have nothing to grab?"

         "That's a good analogy." Uriel looked from Israfel to Raphael. "A regret should be heavy enough for me to keep track of the end and push it through."

         Israfel said, "That there weren't enough hours in the day to study everything."

         Raphael stared at his folded hands. "Israfel."

         She looked up. "What?"

         "No, I mean you were his biggest regret."

         Her eyes flew open. "Oh." She bit her lip. "It figures."

         "Not that way." Raphael twisted his hands. "He regretted that he never treated you like a primary bond. He realized he didn't make time for you, and then I'd encourage him to do it, and he'd get lost in some problem, and two months later he'd remember he had ignored you again." He sighed. "I'm sorry."

         "Uriel needed to know." Israfel forced a smile. "And I guess it's good for me to know that too."

         Uriel looked pale. "I was hoping he regretted something like not studying Hungarian opera." The Throne took a deep breath. Israfel seemed to have drawn in on herself. "I'd like to get started, but if you'd rather not be here, you can go."

         "I'm staying," Israfel said. "If I can help, I'm staying."

         "Thank you. He'll need your strength." Uriel looked at Michael. "I appreciated your powering me up before, but I'd rather you stay separate. I may need someone on the 'outside' so to speak."

         Michael nodded. "Just tell me what you need."

         Mary said, "And I'll pray."

         Uriel drew a long breath, then blew it out with force.

         Raphael said, "You're more nervous than I am." His eyes were still reddened, and he looked exhausted.

         "You know how to heal," Uriel said. "I'm brand new at this."

         Mary said, "Tiny stitches are harder to see."

         "Thanks." Uriel met her eyes, offered a smile. "Do you happen to have a thimble?"

         Mary smiled in return, and Uriel went desolid.

         There wasn't much to see from the outside. Gabriel didn't noticeably change from moment to moment, but periodically Uriel and Raphael exchanged comments: "That feels wrong." "Gentle." "That one was easy," and "Shine more over there."

         Uriel eventually discorporated, working entirely in the spiritual realm and communicating with Raphael only by projection.

         At one point, Michael felt compelled to remove Gabriel's trumpet from the case and bring it to the bedside. There was no reason given. He assumed Uriel wanted to pattern-match with something they knew to be Gabriel's soul material.

         Uncertain what to expect, Michael manifested his armor and sword, and he kept watch over them all: Mary sitting cross-legged in the corner, eyes closed as she prayed; Israfel also with her eyes closed but suffused in a creamy light which she thickened between her outstretched hands and directed toward Gabriel; Raphael clothed in the amber that enwrapped both himself and Gabriel; and Uriel, somewhere not quite here and not anywhere else either, utterly focused.

         Now Michael thought he knew why Jesus had chosen Uriel for the repair: the sheer sustained concentration was possible only for someone as contemplative as a Throne.

         Raphael's voice was the only half Michael could hear or feel, depending on whether he was speaking or projecting, but the tenor had changed. Raphael had gotten tense, and now worried, and now tense again. Then it changed to, "Take a break. Take a break now. You can't afford to mess it up. Back off. He'll last another fifteen minutes."

         Uriel swirled out of the mist into a shape, then into an angelic body. The Throne's hands shook. Strain lined the usually peaceful face, but there was nothing of worry or fear.

         Uriel projected an apology.

         Michael said, "What happened?"

         Uriel sank onto a cushion, and a moment later Mary was pouring a cup of tea. Uriel waved her off, simply lay sprawled, chin pointed at the ceiling.

         Raphael hunched, head between his knees, out of breath. Michael wanted to offer some encouragement, but the words wouldn't come.

         "Are you done?" Israfel said.

         Uriel projected a negative. Raphael gasped, "About halfway," and Uriel agreed.

         Michael swallowed. "You've been working so long."

         "You have no idea," Uriel said, throat raspy, "you have absolutely no idea how much damage Satan did in a quarter hour."

         With an effort, Raphael raised his head. "You're doing fine. It's taking a while because you're being careful."

         "I fumbled one of the eyelets." Uriel shivered. "I don't want to hurt him."

         Mary rested a hand on Uriel's hair. "Rest. You don't need to worry right now."

         Raphael's eyes sparked. "Just think—God did this all at once," and he snapped, "with all of us, at the same time."

         Michael grinned. "That is amazing when you think about it." He sat back. "What's it like inside one of us?"

         "I can't actually see the pieces," Raphael said. "I'm able to feel through what Uriel is doing, and that gives me a sense of how Gabriel responds overall." He thought. "Imagine tuning a piano blindfolded. You can hear when something is going right. Then Uriel directs the healing energy to whatever has just been set in place."

         "To reinforce it?" Israfel said.

         Raphael shrugged. " I assume so."

         Uriel said, "I hit a couple of parts preemptively to stop them from disintegrating when I moved them into place, but the rest of it is accurate."

         Michael felt Saraquael probing the Guard to get inside, and he told him no.

         Israfel moved up the bed toward Gabriel's head. First she tucked his wings so he'd be more comfortable, then straightened the wing-cloak Raphael had left lying across his shoulders. She reached for his hand, then stopped herself.

         Uriel sent Michael a question.

         "I'm fine," he said. "Only a couple of requests to get inside. Why?"

         "Because this may get harder for you in the final stages when he becomes aware." Uriel struggled upright, then went forward to a head-on-knees position.

         Israfel said, "Who wanted to get in? Not Satan, I hope."

         "Saraquael. Zadkiel." Michael shrugged. "They can handle whatever it is."

         "No doubt," Israfel said. "They might only have wanted a status report. They were pretty upset when I left."

 

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 >.