The Fallen

Verchiel’s words stung like the barbed end of a whip’s lash.

“You know that’s untrue, Verchiel. I left because I did not want to choose sides. I loved the Morningstar, as I loved all my brethren, but to question the Almighty—I could think of no other solution but to flee.” Sam lowered his head, disgraced by his admission. Even after all this time, his actions shamed him.

“A coward by your own admission,” Verchiel said with a snarl as he moved closer. “If only the others could be so honest.”

The phone began to ring again, and Sam watched Verchiel’s attention turn to the device as the recorded message played out and Joyce began to speak.

“Joyce again, sir. Mr. Dalton from the licensing board just called and asked if you could reschedule Monday’s meeting to—”

A blast of searing white light erupted from Verchiel’s hand and melted the phone into nothing more than sputtering, black plastic slag. Startled, the child leaped from the sofa and ran to hide, as if sensing the violence that was sure to follow.

“The sound of their voices,” Verchiel said, his right hand gesturing toward his ear, “like the chattering of animals. It a

Sam clenched his fists. Anger unlike any he had ever experienced coursed through his body. Perhaps he had spent too much time among the humans, he thought. Their rabid emotions had obviously begun to rub off on him.

“I’ll ask you again, why have you come here?”

Verchiel cocked his head to one side. “Is it not obvious, brother?” he asked. “Have you not been awaiting me since your fall?”

“Yes,” he hissed, “but it’s been years—thousands of years.”

Verchiel shook his head as he replied. “A second, an hour, a millenium; increments of time that mean nothing to the Powers,” he said with a cold indifference. “You have si

Sam began to back away. “Haven’t I suffered enough?” he asked. “My self-imposed exile on this world has taught me that—”

Verchiel’s hand shot up into the air in a gesture to silence him. “Cease your mewling; I do not wish to hear it.” The leader of the Powers pointed toward the windows behind him. “You sound like one of them.” There was revulsion in his voice.

Sam knew it was probably for naught, but if there was anything he learned from living among humans, it was that it didn’t hurt to try. “But isn’t it enough that I have been denied the voice of my Father, that my true aspect is but a shadow of my former glory? Does this not count for anything?” He touched his chest as he continued his plea. “You may not believe it, but I have suffered.”

Verchiel again looked about the opulent living space. A cruel grin began to form on his pale white features as he fixed Sam with his icy stare.

“Suffered, have you?” he asked as he began to spread his arms. “Your suffering hasn’t even begun.”

Sam experienced a strange sense of elation mixed with sheer terror as he watched the enormous wings erupt from Verchiel’s back.

I once had wings as mighty, he remembered with overwhelming sadness. Wings that could have taken him away from this place, allowed him to flee the judgment of Verchiel. But that was long, long ago, and what were once mighty, were now nothing more than an atrophied shadow of their former glory.

Verchiel began to rhythmically move his wings and the penthouse was suddenly filled with winds as strong as tropical storms.

“Verchiel, please,” Sam pleaded, just before a crystal ashtray hit him in the face. It opened a bleeding gash above his right eye.

Sam’s body went limp and he ceased to struggle against the currents for a brief moment. He was picked up by the powerful gale and hurled backward, pi

Verchiel’s wings beat the air with ferocious abandon, their furious movement a ghostly blur.

“There is no mercy for what you have done, Samchia!” Verchiel shrieked over the pounding of the air. “Your time has come, as it will come for all the others who have fallen from His grace!”

Sam tried to pull himself away from the window, but the strength of the wind was too great. He wanted to speak, to scream out that he was truly sorry for his sins, but the blood from his head wound streamed down his face into his mouth, silencing him. He had never even seen his own blood, but now it was filling his mouth with its foul taste.

The inch-thick pane of window glass behind him began to crack and spiderweb across its surface. Windows that had been built to withstand powerful storms from the Pacific Ocean were no match for the power of Verchiel.

Again Sam struggled to speak. “Verchiel…,” he managed to bellow above the sounds of his brother’s merciless wings.

Verchiel continued his advance, wings flapping faster and faster still. “I can’t hear you!” he screamed in response.

Sam yelled all the louder. “Tell Him—tell Him that I’m sorry.” He could see the look of revulsion on Verchiel’s face, and knew his words of repentance were heard.

A heavy chrome kitchen chair tumbled away from the table, and as if made of tin, was propelled through the air toward him.

Sam closed his eyes on the horrible visage of Verchiel, his wings unmercifully assaulting the air. His time was at an end, of this he was certain. What he had feared most since falling to Earth was finally to claim him.

Samuel Chia, formerly Samchia of the Heavenly Host, willed his mind elsewhere, to a time before the war, before impossible choices, before the fall.

The chrome projectile did not strike him directly, but smashed into the window to the left of him, shattering the glass, allowing it to give way beneath the turbulent force of Verchiel’s wings.

Within a twinkling shower of razor-sharp glass and debris, Sam fell yet again.

And as he descended to his end, he dreamed.

He dreamed of flying.

Gabriel trotted happily into the living room where the Stanleys had assembled for Chinese takeout and the weekly Friday night movie rental. He was proudly holding a purple stuffed toy in his mouth.

Aaron sat on the floor with Stevie building a multicolored tower with Duplo blocks. Occasionally he looked up at the television to see what Mr. Schwarzenegger was blowing up. The fact that this was at least the third time his foster dad had rented the movie in the last six months didn’t bother him. The night was all about distraction, anything to keep from thinking about the strange incidents of the last two days. Except for the conversation with Vilma Santiago, he wished he could forget them completely.

The dog dropped the purple toy before Aaron and it rolled to topple the Duplo tower.

“Gabriel,” Aaron said, a

“Play with Goofy Grape now,” Gabriel demanded with a wag of his thick, muscular tail.

Aaron ignored him and helped the child select some more blocks to fortify the tower.

Gabriel lunged forward and snatched up the toy with his mouth. He gave it a ferocious shake and let it fly. The stuffed toy bounced off young Stevie’s head and landed among the piles of unused blocks.

“Goofy Grape now,” the dog said even louder.

Aaron glared at the animal. “No Goofy Grape,” he said sternly, referring to the toy that he had nicknamed because it resembled an enormous grape with a face. “I’m playing with Stevie now. Go lie down.”

He could feel the dog’s intense stare upon him, as if he were attempting to use mind powers to sway his decision. Aaron didn’t bother to look up, hoping the dog would eventually grow tired and go away.

Gabriel abruptly turned and quickly strolled from the room.