Gone. Everything is gone. How could this happen? I stand in the blasted ruins of the Earth, a dry desolate landscape in hues of ashen grey and clay brown, highlighted in the ever-burning glory of the Helios Star. What did the people used to call it? The son? But the son of what? How could I forget these things? It hadn’t been that long. Or had it?
How long had it been? Months? Years? Decades? Centuries? A full millennium? These are questions I should be able to answer. Yet here they are in my head. I look up into the landscape from my loathsome self-reflection. A solid line of edifices stretching as far as I could see, framing them is a series of rivers with large metallic pathways seeming to float in the air. Though I suppose that they would seem to float much better if it wasn’t for the gaping holes in these magnificent structures. I know this settlement. No, not a settlement, I think they called it a city and those edifices were called skyscrapers. However, these skyscrapers, even in their prime, could never truly touch the limits of the sky they reached out for. What was their obsession with reaching the limits of the sky anyways? Metal towers competing to stand the tallest, vessels of many different shapes passing each other in the air, and the desire to control the very edges of the sky as if it were property to claim. I don’t know if I will truly understand them.
I make my way into the city and pass the artifacts of this once remarkable people. But nothing of the people themselves remain. Only the incredible and absurd wonders that were created in their reign over the world. I walk until I reach one of these walkways across the river. The writing says this is called a Queens Boro. I have no clue what a Boro is but if royalty cares for them enough to name a structure after them, then they must be important.
After crossing the derelict structure, I am greeted by a faded and bent green board. The board states that I have entered New York but it repeated itself underneath, as if I needed to be reminded of what I just read. A variety of other symbols cover the board, but one stands out more than the others. In the corner of the board is a heart with the letters “NYC” inside of them. I continue my journey past the sign and notice the people’s fascination with numbering every walkway. But it was inconsistent, as if they got bored of certain numbers and then gave up on the idea of numbers all together. I chose to continue down the one designated 59 and a large barren square lay to my right. The square stretches well beyond my view. The ground is broken apart, patches of brown and black scarred vegetation are scattered randomly throughout. Rocks and other debris jut out from the ground, jagged and dangerous. Were they expanding? Or had this place been intentionally left unattended? More questions that I do not have answers to. My path of 59 leads me to a circle in the ground, cragged and shattered with a basin of some sort in the middle and the remnants of a stone statue.
A new name takes my interest, the way of broad. A strange thing to call such a narrow path. It is not wide by any means, and it certainly doesn’t look much different to the rest of the city. Yet it seems familiar, in fact this whole journey seems like nothing more than a distant memory. But I continue forward, the nagging feelings hounding relentlessly at my mind. I come to a large skyscraper, a sign on the side calls this the Crow Aza. I turn to continue my trek as a sudden sickening wave of pain and weariness assault me. I study the crow aza again, torn bedding and boxes are strewn before the entrance of the building. I enter a large room, my head spinning, and stumble my way up a series of steps toward the back of the room. I climb the stairway two fights and find myself in a long hallway, doors lining either side in muted tans and browns. I find one room left ajar, number 215. The interior is quite large, but the bedding is much too small for my stature. I stagger to the bed and collapse, my body unable to continue.
I lay on the bed, legs hanging off the edge, and pull a cushion underneath my head. I push my hair out of my face, still silky to the touch, white snow colored hair filling my hands. If only all of me was still the same. My mind grows dark at my first observation from waking up. I place a hand to my side, soft yet sticky. I feel further up to find a sharp break, four inches I note. That’s all that was left, four inches from my shoulder blade. My wings had been clipped. I toy with the word as it doesn’t quite fit the description, but my mind muddies, and a sudden blackness engulfs me.
I don’t dream. I’m not capable of it. Everything, however, can have memories. The memories that come to me are dark and vivid. I sense death, chaos, pain, rage, and agony. I see faces, deformed yet all plastered with the unmistakable expression of fear. I feel blood pool around me, wet and fluid yet sticky and hard at the same time. I see that it flows from the faces of those around me. All the faces are moving their lips, but I cannot hear what they say. I hear a faint sound, so small it’s almost inaudible. It’s not just one voice, but many voices. An impossible number of voices all saying the same thing. Repeating it over and over again. I can hear it now. They are saying “please” over and over but its still just a soft sound. The words are drenched with pain, every word a plea but a plea for what? Please what? I focus as a new figure emerges, one female face from the crowd unlike the rest. She is beautiful, flawless, and calm. She parts the crowd and smiles at me. She opens her mouth and begs in a voice as soft as clouds, “Please, help us.”
How could I help her? I don’t know what caused this. Before I can question her, blood flows from her mouth, a look of confusion on her face as we both look down. A clawed hand protrudes through her chest holding onto her severed heart. She whispers one final word before collapsing to the ground. “Michael.” When that word was spoken an eruption of voices began whispering. Slowly the voices grew louder until they crescendo into a painfilled scream. An unending dark chant. I just want it to stop. Michael. Michael. MICHAEL!!!
MICHAEL
“Michael!”
Michal snapped out of his thoughts. Uriel stood before him with a quizzical look on his face.
“We don’t have time for you to be spacing out. We are going to be late if you do not hurry up.” He stated with his usual gusto of an angel who never arrived late to anything. He turned his back and continued the trek to the high temple. His long dingy robe dragged on the ground, slight tears in his robe formed at the edges of his garments. Uriel was not the type to keep up with his appearance. As he had stated many times before “My job does not allow me proper time to worry about such trivial things as torn garments.” Uriel took his job very seriously and Michael had to admit, as the head watcher, the haggard angel had never once failed to file a report of any kind. He was short for an angel, standing at only five and a half feet tall, and being on what humans would call the heftier side. His wings matched his stature, owl-like with hues of grey and brown.
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Uriel had made it about three feet before turning around again to give Michael a head motion indicating he wanted his slow brother to follow. As he did, his hair and beard bounced and swayed with the motion of his head, making even more of a tangled mess of curly grey hair than it already was. The look in his sapphire eyes told Michael that he was not going to wait for him if he continued to fall behind. With a nod of agreement, he traveled beside him up the path.
“What exactly were you thinking about Michael?” Uriel questioned.
“In all honesty Uriel, I don’t really know. I just have a lot of strategy to plan with all these reports of minor demons becoming more brazen in their attacks.” Though it was true he had those thoughts in his mind, Michael truly had no recollection of what he was thinking about. Either Uriel believed him or simply didn’t bother to press further as he simply shrugged his shoulders and continued forward. Though the thought of demons attacking in daylight had been bothering Michael for many months, he had no solid conclusions on what could have changed in Hell. Michael wondered if one of the reigning generals had lost command and its replacement was out to make name for itself. Such events and changes in the hierarchy were not uncommon for the legions of the damned, much to the dismay of Uriel and his fellow watchers.
The path the pair walked was the main route through the holy realm of Heaven, though this path was off limits to peaceful souls of humans. Buildings lined the path, pure white with architecture that resembled the human empire of Rome. Uriel and Raphael had played a major role in convincing Barachiel and Saint Peter, both of which were charged with ensuring the comfort of the humans whose souls reside in Heaven, to adopt the change from the expanse of clouds with the High temple raised high above on a hill. Uriel had loved the mathematics and striking simplicity of the style and Raphael had grown accustomed to such buildings on his assignments to Earth. Neither Barachiel nor Saint Peter could deny the fact that Heaven had been lacking a certain “aesthetical appeal” as Raphael had put it but refused to budge on allowing the purity of Heaven to be compromised by bright flashy colors. The only exception, was the golden path the angelic brothers now journeyed upon that wove their way up the hill to the holiest place in existence.
Angels were seen carrying crates down the path towards the training grounds, another addition to the realm championed by the head of the heavenly guard himself. Michael guessed that it was almost time for the new angels to begin their training based on the number of helmets and armor being brought down to the training yard. Uriel, as if he had read his brothers mind turned and stated, “The new recruits should be chosen within the next few days.” His voice was a mixture of excitement, pride, and sadness. Michael didn’t need to ask the reason for his tone, he knew all too well that the number of humans who were devoted enough to become their brothers was growing thinner with each passing year. The world below them was changing, and it was the realm below that which was to blame. Michael shook his head to dismiss the thoughts from his mind, he had much more important tasks at hand.
As they came over the final hill, the full glory of the holy mount was spread before the pair. The hill on which the mount stood was already quite steep and tall but the holy structure itself dwarfed the terrain. The holy mount was what humans would call a ziggurat; square blocks of white marble two angels high and five times as many wide arranged in a square base with stairways leading to the holy court inlaid into the sides of the base. Uriel, having come to the mount on a regular basis, was no longer fazed by the enormity of the temple. Michael, however, being busy with all his operations and other responsibilities, only had the chance to visit the mount when he was called. The glory of this structure always gave him a sense of pride in his role as the general and battle master of heaven.
At the base of the stairs stood a peculiar-looking angel seeming to be waiting for something. As the pair of angels approached the strange angel’s wings twitched and his head rose slightly. His eyes were covered by a bright orange cloth that fell to his nose and flapped in the air as his head turned toward Uriel and Michael. His feathers twitched again; broad red brown wings jutted out of his shoulders that stretched to the small of his back. The angel’s frame, to an untrained eye, would seem fragile and unable to support him upright. However, Michael had seen this angel outmaneuver many foes on the field of battle and there was only one angel in all of heaven that could out fly him.
“Michael. Uriel. I was wondering how long I’d have to wait for the rest of you.” Bellowed the small angel, a deep boisterous sound that did not match his frame. “I always seem to arrive far too early to these summonses.” His voice trailed off in discontent. His oilbird wings stretched wide and shook as he let out a deep sigh. Selaphiel, the listener, was known for his ability to be where he was needed well before anyone else had figured out the same. He once had shown up to an emergency war meeting before the actual event had occurred. An ability that Selaphiel himself admits he knows nothing about.
“Dear Selaphiel,” Michael called out “you are exactly on time for what you are needed.” He finished with a smile, knowing his brother couldn’t see it but did so anyway. Selaphiel, feeling his brother’s warm remarks, smiled back but immediately fell off his face as his feathers twitched violently. A twinge of pain crossed the small angel’s face as his head dipped. The twitch of his feathers grew as Michael began to move towards his quaking brother. Uriel’s hand shot out to block Michael’s progress. Uriel’s face showed a knowing look but his hand remained unmoving.
“I know you wish to help him Michael, but you would be unable to do anything for him. It would be best if you just wait it out.” Uriel looked away from Michael and towards the suffering angel, his eyes filled with pain and sorrow.
After a few moments, the twitching ceased in the listener, his head rose as the angel attempted to catch his breath. He sensed his brother’s concern and after he regained his composure turned to them. “Another demon attack in holy land. They slaughtered a small village.” Selaphiel explained sorrowfully. “If these attacks continue, we may lose another foothold in the region.” Selaphiel looked up to Michael, “But I have faith you have a plan for that, General.”
Michael stared into his blind brother’s veil, “I appreciate your faith in me Selaphiel. I will talk with the captains and have an elite guard sent to find and eradicate the demons responsible.” Michael’s eyes burned with conviction. He would avenge those deaths if it meant going down and doing it himself.
Uriel considered Michael but decided not to say anything against his brother’s resolve. Instead, the owl winged angel began towards the stairs of the holy mount without a word. Selaphiel’s dark wings twitched as Uriel passed by and followed closely behind. Michael, being left to his thoughts, looked down at his clenched hand. Despite his claim, he knew that the elite guard again would find no trace of the demon hit squad. Michael relaxed his hand and began the assent to the temple.