The memories wash from my mind. I wake with a deep sweat and heavy breathing. Those images grow stronger with each night. The pain and anguish spin in my head at a sickening pace. I sit up and calm myself from the terror of the memories. I look around the brightly lit interior of the room and study the view from the shattered window. Down the path from this skyscraper, a large open courtyard stood out in the square shaped city. Like the open land I passed before, the space was bare save for thin metal pillars that stood bent or had fallen on the ground.

Unlike its larger counterpart however, this area was small, and the brown hues had been replaced by dark grey rock. A variety of sized pictures hung on the sides of the surrounding skyscrapers, many of which depict a person smiling while holding a wide range of items. I struggle to find the meaning to these images, but the thoughts escape me. I push the thoughts out of my head, the mysteries of these people maybe be forever lost to me.

I descend the stairs back into the entry of the crow aza, the light revealing the true condition of its interior. Glass and wood cover the ground, tables are overturned and broken, the windows are shattered into jagged pieces, and clothing and bags are strewn about abandoned. I can only imagine what could have occurred to bring about this level of destruction. I walk into the street, the crunch of broken glass echoes in my mind, with each step, flashes of dark memories and the haunting chant. A sudden brightness snaps me out of my trance, intense light shines from the building across the way. I shade my eyes from the beautifully painful sight and begin once again down the way of broad.

The striking beauty of these people amazes me. These skyscrapers on their own are a marvel to behold with the art that goes into the curves and lattices of these structures. Each one is a testament to a knowledge of design far greater than one would have thought possible. Yet here they stand, their graceful authority a constant reminder of those before. My fascination only intensified as I begin to see the works they had created.

The most interesting of these creations was a large building painted in bright colors and dozens of statues lined its walls. These statues depicted creatures with round bodies, arms and legs as a person, and faces. Each of these statues is a different color, all plastered with an energetic smile. A red one, poses with its thumb out; a green one seems to be more feminine, wearing sleek black shoes with high heels and stands with its arms around its mid-section. At the entry way is a broken statue, much bigger than the others, its yellow body lay on the ground and one of its arms is nowhere to be seen.

I step past the broken statue, inside I see a similar sight to the crow aza. Shattered glass covers every inch of the ground, small pieces of multicolored dots mix into the fragments of glass. Lining the walls were tubes and containers in a wide variety of conditions. Some were covered in filth while others were broken open and lay smashed on the ground. A long table sat at the back of the room, papers and glass lay strewn about it, and a large square device sits on top. The more that I explore this city the more I realize how little I understand about these people.

I leave the statues behind me as I walk towards the courtyard I had seen earlier. As I approach the outskirts of the courtyard, the haunting voices return, screaming my name. My head swirls from the pain, feelings of nausea and dizziness overwhelm me. I collapse on the wall, my body unable to hold me as I shake uncontrollably. Images of death flash in my mind, the woman, the claw, the heart, and the blood. Waves of pain crash into me as I struggle to regain myself. The flood of memories finally subsided, and I open my eyes to see the star set beyond the skyscrapers in a fiery display of orange and red.

I stubble my way down the street marked 8, I pass many smaller buildings each with shadows of writing that used to be on them. A few of these names remain; Edison, Atkins, Barrymore, and a picture of a four-legged animal with wings. I simply marvel at the abilities of these people. I come to a building with pictures all over it, each is completely different from the rest. Names, pictures, black boards of glass that have shattered. A phrase is hung in bronze above the archway it reads, “8th Avenue New York, New York building number”……

777

seven hundred and seventy-seven steps to reach the top of the mount. At least that is what Michael had been told, he had never been able to keep track after three hundred and thirty-four. Barachiel had insisted on that number to reflect the holiness of the journey. He called it a pilgrimage, so that the angels might reflect on the perfect majesty of the dwelling of the Lord most high. Michael could appreciate the sentiment of the decision but felt slightly inconvenienced on being forced to walk those steps. He perfectly understood the importance of the trek but at times like these he wished he could simply fly up to the summit without being reprimanded by the chief of the heavenly host.

As Michael crested the last step of Barachiel’s “pilgrimage”, he could see Selaphiel and Uriel standing in a group with two other angels. The tallest of the group, which admittedly was not a difficult task, was Barachiel. Barachiel stood at an average height for angels of six foot four, his short well-kept white hair was a drastic contrast to Uriel’s balding grey hair and Selaphiel’s shaved black hair. His toned physique could be seen through his tight-fitting cuirass that he only removed to sleep and bath. His hair and features framed his piercing violet eyes which has made many lesser angels avoid eye contact while speaking with him. His wings were long and broad coming down to mid-calf, brown with white under feathers perfectly clean in comparison to the other angel beside him.

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This other angel stood slightly shorter than the eagle winged Barachiel but remained taller than Uriel. He had no hair to speak of, save the tight brown beard that he kept. His robes seemed to be haphazardly thrown on with deep cuts around the sleeves. The angel’s deep brown eyes seemed to be distant, and the distinct look of fatigue was about his face. Like Barachiel, the exhausted angel had eagle like wings but unlike his well-kept brother, the wings took a reddish hue and black feathers underlaid them. Scars could be clearly seen in the angel’s wings telling the tale of many battles and serious injuries he had sustained over his tenure. This was Jehudiel, the guardian of the saints, and from his appearance Michael could gather he had just returned from a mission when the summons came.

“Welcome to the summit Michael, I know you don’t get the opportunity to see this place as often as the rest of us.” Barachiel called out. “I wish I had the ability to see this place like you must see it brother. It pains me to say but the wonder lessens each time I lay eyes on this holy place.” Barachiel’s eyes twinkled with enamored pride at the white marble temple he had so painstakingly designed to show the glory of God. Michael had always enjoyed his trips up to see the resting place of his father but worries of battles below stole away his enjoyment of its splendor.

“I still believe it would be far more impressive if we doubled it in size and stationed more angels around in full armor.” A deep dry voice said from behind Michael. The sound of heavy armored boots echoed louder as the figure grew closer. “Though I suppose I have a different sentiment on what ‘commanding presence’ means.” The dry barking voice continued. Uriel looked past Michael to the new arrival and unperceivable to all but Selaphiel, shrank in its presence.

Michael didn’t need to look to see who the voice belonged to. It was one that Michael spent many meetings debating with about how to best execute operations on Earth. Gabriel, head of the heavenly guard, had arrived exactly on time at the summons. Michael turned to regard his brother; short military cut black hair, emerald-green eyes, and square features on his face. Gabriel towered over angels like Uriel and Selaphiel but stood only two inches taller than Michael at six foot eight. He wore heavy, unadorned angelic armor over his already muscular build. The silver angelic plate was polished to perfection and reflected Michaels pure white wings as he continued to march towards the circle of Archangels. Black hawk wings rested behind him in a tight diamond fold that reinforced his military stature.

“Michael, it has been a while since we have gotten to compare intel from the battles below.” Gabriel said with a thin line of agitation in his voice. “I would like to hear of these reports from the front lines.” the agitation within his voice showing ever so briefly in his eyes. Michael knew his brother had resented him for being chosen as the general. As a result, Gabriel tried his best to stay in Michael’s information loop as a way of keeping himself relevant in the decision-making process. A tactic which Michael disapproved of but was too busy to actively dissuade.

“Of course, brother,” Michael replied, mildly sarcastic. “Though it might be some time before I have a spare moment to do such. Besides we have council with Father to attend.” Michael looked to each of his brothers intently, studying their faces, raising his hand to signal them to move into the temple. Abruptly, Michael stopped his hand in mid-air and with a sigh, realized that one of his brothers was not there. The other Archangels looked puzzled at Michael, curious as to their brothers exhausted and agitated demeanor. They began to look around and each angel came to the same realization.

Barachiel’s eyes narrowed, red flushes of anger swelled on the angel’s face. “Where is Raphael?” he asked in a soft growl. “This is a summons from the Lord on high. If he is late,” the threat left open and trailed off. The Archangels stood in silence as the fury in Barachiel continued to rise. A distant yell broke the tense silence.

“I’m here, sorry for the wait!” a youthful rich voice cried out from above. A handsome tanned angel flew hurriedly down to the group, red curly hair and similar red sparrow-like wings flapping about in the air. The angel landed a few paces from the group, transitioning from flying to walking without missing a step. A feat not many angels could manage, let alone at the speed with which the young angel was flying. Michael couldn’t help but be impressed, he would expect nothing less of the Chief messenger of heaven.

“Why are you late?” barked Gabriel, “Do you not understand the importance of these summons?” he angerly questioned, his square features creased into a frightening glare.

Raphael simply shrugged, “I was out on a delivery and heard of the summons after I got back. I did get here as fast as I could.” Sensing his brother Barachiel’s glare at his back Raphael coyly asked, “Or would you rather I had taken the stairs?” A sly grin creeped across his face.

“Were you told what the summons was for Uriel?” Michael questioned, trying to interfere with the brewing conflict. His brother, being the head watcher and librarian of sorts in Heaven, was kept more informed than the rest of the Archangels of such matters.

Uriel’s expression changed to a face of worry. “No Michael, I wasn’t.” he stopped suddenly and gazed into Michaels burning amber eyes, “which means it’s something that will not be on the record.” Michael immediately knew why the owl winged archangel was worried. As did all the archangels except for Gabriel and his stoic indifference. The last time a summons was called with no pretense, was when God had decided to flood the earth.