The Fallen

He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was close to four A.M. and he wanted to go back to sleep; he was both mentally and physically exhausted. But he also feared the dreams.

“Well, let’s give this another try,” he said as he reached over and switched off the light. He lay his head down on the pillow and put his arm around the dog.

“Good night, Aaron,” Gabriel said as he moved up to share the pillow. “Try and dream only good dreams.”

“I’ll do my best, pal,” Aaron answered, and before long, fell into a deep sleep active with dreams, not of old men, ancient prophecies, and angels, but of ru

Verchiel noiselessly descended the winding wooden steps from the bell tower of the Blessed Sacrament Church. The stairway was enshrouded in total darkness, but it meant nothing to a being that had navigated the void before the Almighty brought about the light of Creation.

At the foot of the stairs was a locked door, and Verchiel willed the simple mechanism to open, and it swung wide to admit him to the place of worship. The angel found his way from the back room where the holy men prepared themselves to address their tribe, and went out onto the altar. He gazed above him at the steepled ceiling and the giant cross of gold, the symbol of their faith, hanging there. From his place on the altar, he looked out at the church, the early morning sunrise diluted by colorful stained glass windows. There was a certain peacefulness here that he did not expect from the animals.

Verchiel stepped from the altar and strode down the aisle. When he had traveled half the length of the church, he turned to face the great hanging cross. This was how the primitives did it, he mused, taking in the sight before him. This was how they attempted to communicate with God.

He recalled the countless times that he scoffed at their crude practices, as they built their altars of stone and wood and attempted to speak to the one true God through the act of prayer. It was a thought that filled him with unease, but perhaps this house of worship was where he could re-establish his co

He recalled how they did it—how they prayed—and moved into one of the wooden pews. Awkwardly Verchiel knelt down and folded his hands before him, his dark eyes upon the altar ahead.

“It is I, Lord,” he uttered in the language of animals. “It has been too long since we last spoke, and I am in need of Your guidance.”

The angel gazed around the holy place for signs that he was being heard. There was nothing but the fading echo of his own voice.

Perhaps if he were closer. He left the pew and strode back to the altar.

“My mission, my very reason for existence, grows murky these days.”

He gazed intently at the golden cross, hanging in the air above.

“There is a prophecy of which I’m certain You are aware. It talks about forgiveness and mercy for those who have fallen from Your grace, oh Heavenly Father.”

Verchiel began to pace in front of the altar.

“It says that You will forgive them their most horrid trespasses—and that there will be a prophet of sorts, one who will act as the bringer of absolution.”

He was growing agitated, angry. The air around him crackled with suppressed hostility. “And he will be a Nephilim,” Verchiel spat, reviled by the word. “A Nephilim, a creature unfit to live beneath Your gaze, a mockery of life that I have done my best to eradicate from Your world with fire and flood.”

The angel stopped pacing. “The wicked say that the time for the prophecy is nigh, that soon a bridge between the fallen angels and Heaven will be established.” He moved up onto the altar, his gaze never wavering from the golden symbol. “You need to tell me, Lord. Do I follow my instincts and ignore the blasphemous writings of those little better than monkeys? Or do I ignore the purpose bestowed upon me after the Great War in Heaven? I need to know, my Father. Do I continue with my sacred chores and destroy all that offends You, or should I step back and let the prophecy prevail?”

Verchiel waited, expecting some kind of sign, but there was none, his plaintive questions met with silence.

The rage that had served him in war all these many mille

There was a sound from somewhere upon the altar, and Verchiel stood mesmerized.

Has the Creator heard my plea? the angel thought. Was the Almighty about to bestow upon him a sign to assuage his doubts?

An old woman came out from the back room, a plastic bucket of water in one hand and a mop in the other. It was obvious that she had heard his supplication and was curious to see who prayed so powerfully.

Her eyes bulged from her ancient skull at the sight of him. The bucket of soapy water slipped from her grasp to spill upon the altar floor.

What an awesome sight he must be to behold, he mused, spreading his wings to their full span, catching the muted, morning sunlight.

She attempted to flee, wild panic in her spastic movements, but stopped cold in her tracks. An ancient hand, skeletal with age, clutched frantically at her chest and her mouth opened in a silent howl. The old woman fell to the ground in a heap, her dying gaze rooted upon the golden symbol of her faith displayed above her.

Verchiel smiled. “So nice to hear from You again,” he purred, divining meaning from what he had just borne witness to.

“Thy will be done.”

Still in his sweatpants and T-shirt, Aaron slowly descended the stairs. Gabriel waited eagerly at the bottom. Aaron yawned and smacked his lips. The foul taste of sleep still coated the inside of his mouth. Hopefully he could get some juice and then get back upstairs to run a toothbrush around his mouth before he had to speak to anybody.

He’d slept longer than he wanted to, but seeing that he’d had some problems last night, and that it was Sunday, he wasn’t all that concerned—just very thirsty.

“Can I eat now?” Gabriel asked from his side as Aaron padded barefoot down the hallway to the kitchen.

“Just as soon as I get some juice,” he told the dog.

The linoleum was cold on the soles of his feet, and it helped to clear away the grogginess that came with morning. Lori sat at the table beneath the kitchen window, feeding cereal to Stevie.

“Hey,” Aaron said, pulling on the refrigerator door.

“Hey, yourself,” his mother answered.

Gabriel momentarily left his side to wish Lori and Stevie a good morning. Aaron almost drank from the carton, but thought better of it and reached to the cabinet for a glass. Filling it halfway, he leaned against the counter and attempted to quench his great thirst.

Lori was staring at him. She had that look on her face, the one that said something was wrong—that she had bad news to tell. Aaron was familiar with the look; it was the same one she’d worn when the family vacation to Disney World was canceled because the travel agency had unexpectedly gone out of business. They never did get to Disney.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Stevie decided to feed himself and took the spoon from her. He shoveled a mound of Sugar Smacks onto the spoon and then, halfway to his mouth, dumped it on the floor.

Gabriel immediately went to work cleaning up the spillage.

“Stevie, no,” Lori said as she took the spoon away from the child and pushed the bowl from his reach. “I have some really bad news for you,” she said, placing a soiled, rolled-up napkin on the table.

“What is it?” Aaron asked, moving to join her.

Ly