The path twisted its way
deep into the dense forest. Shadows played across it, moving with
the leaves in the trees. He didn’t know if he lost sight of the path
because of those shadows, or because it had taken another of its sharp,
winding turns. Beneath his feet, he heard the soft crunch of shoe
hitting old loam. A path not traveled often. Yet the brush
had not over-grown the path; it was as clear-cut as if it had seen a million
travelers. He was so focused on moving forward, he almost did not
notice when the angel stopped suddenly.
He turned to face
him, concerned. What would make the angel halt? “What’s the
matter, Tiran?” he asked, afraid to know the answer. His imagination
spawned demons and ghosts hunting in their wake. But looking at the
angel’s perfect, sculpted face, he did not see the wary fear. That
look of blood-lust and panic he had seen when the angel had battled the
Venom Demon, and came crashing through his bedroom window. Instead,
the angel’s golden eyes reflected sadness. It was almost painful
to see such a look.
“I cannot go any further,”
he whispered. His voice like bells trembled a little. A small
shiver ran through his golden body, and one could see those translucent
wings shake. Tiran’s eyes continued to stare forward, not even registering
the boy’s presence.
“Does something keep
you back?” he asked. Tiran could not enter churches or graveyards.
If this was such a place, blessed by God…
“No. The Lord
keeps this place for all. As a reminder.” Tearing his eyes
away, he gave the boy one last look before turning away. “I just
can’t. It is too much.”
“Maybe we should turn
back,” he suggested. He started to walk back towards the entrance,
back to time and light and the real world. But Tiran held out one
arm and held him back.
“You must go.
You must see it. With you Eyes.” Again, his eyes drifted towards
the path ahead. “I will wait here.” Then, to further resist
the temptation to his eyes, he turned his back.
The boy looked down
the path. Suddenly, the thought of Tiran not accompanying him made
it seem darker, and a little more intimidating. Why did he have to
see? Why was it so important that he bear witness to the Forgiven?
“You’re sure they’re there?” he asked, his hesitation clear in his voice.
Tiran nodded.
“They are there. Waiting.”
“For what?”
“You…”
His eyes began to
burn in that slow, watery way. The same way they had when Tiran’s
form had first become clear, darting through the storm-laced sky.
Why me?
“And you’re sure I’ll
see them?”
A small laugh, bitter
and yet still beautiful. “You See the Fallen. You See the Forsaken.
You will See the Forgiven. Now go. They wait.”
Though time held no
claims in this strange forest, he could still feel the force of… something.
A great weight pressing on his mind and his eyes. “I won’t be long,”
he said as he started down the path again.
“That is for them
to decide,” Tiran mumbled under a breath, but he could still hear it.
The path led him onward,
but he wondered if he was the one moving. Every tree could not be
distinguished from the others. The small undergrowth was common,
monotonous. Yet he could feel that pressure moving him along, and
a great thing awaiting him at the end of this path.
It was not long until
Tiran was out of sight. The fear began to rise within him.
It was slight, for the whole place had a sense of holy peace. But
such feelings could quickly shattered. He had learned that when he
saw the Lamia coiling herself around the priest, in the midst of the Church.
In a place he thought he would be safe from such things.
Her image came to
him. Twisting, spinning around the priest’s body. Bringing
her small, green lips to his ear, whispering things that should not have
been said in a House of God. He stared at her. What else could
he have done? She stroked the holy man’s face, and giggled in a frightening
manner. And then she saw him. And with those green eyes, she
knew that he could see her. He could See her, unlike all the others
gathered to worship. She smiled again, whispering once more to the
priest, then uncoiling to come for him. He ran out of the Church,
the place he thought himself safe in. He ran through the white hallway,
past the pews of people droning on to God and the Blessed Virgin.
He slammed into the large, iron doors. He could See her coming closer,
winding her way down the aisle, ignored and unseen by the parishioners.
Fumbling, he got the door open, ran outside.
And Tiran had swooped
down. He had been waiting. He slew the Lamia with three short
strokes of his sword of light, and she managed to only brush his shoulder
with her long talons. And he knew that he would only be safe with
Tiran.
The path continued
on.
Tiran. He had
always believed in angels, but in the way everyone did. A part of
religion that was accepted. A part of a religion that was mindlessly
obeyed. But then Tiran had come, fighting a demon in the sky, and
crashing through his window. And everything changed.
He wasn’t the angel
they were taught about. His wings were more etheral than the rest
of him, only partly there. His face and body had the perfect shape,
but there was an air about them that marred the idea of true perfection.
He didn’t wear robes of gold and silk, but the clothes of an ordinary person.
Next to no one could see him. He did not come bearing God’s word,
or the Justice of Heaven. He could not even pray to God. For
he was Forsaken.
He knew all about
the war in Heaven. Every good Christian child did. Satanel
rebelled against God, and legions of the Celestial Kingdom were split.
Some fought for Lucifer, the Morning Star, the Lightbringer. Others
followed God’s Champion Michael in defense of the Holy Throne.
“Satanel fell from
the Heavens. He lost his war, and was so burdened with sin, he Fell.
He lost his favored place among the Archangels. He lost his wings,
and his golden light. He became merely Satan, losing his angelic
‘el’. He fell to Sin,” Tiran explained. “He and his legions
became the Fallen.”
Yet the war in Heaven
was not between two sides. Violence in the Holy Kingdom was abhorred
by many of the angels. And so one third followed Satanel, one third
followed Michael, and one third followed the seventh Archangel and did
not fight. God had been displeased at this, and when the war was
over, he cast them from the Heavens to the mortal earth. Tiran had
been one of them. As Tiranel, he chose not to fight, and was thrown
from Heaven. He joined the Forsaken, who had no place in God’s Kingdom,
or in Lucifer’s domain.
Now, for some reason,
all of this was revealed to him. And he was playing a role he did
not understand. He could See things that struck his soul with wonder
and fear. A world was opened to him, and Tiran seemed to understand
what he was supposed to do.
And for the moment,
he was to bear witness to the Forgiven. Those that awaited him at
the end of this path. Those that he could feel were so close.
His mind continued
to wander. Seven archangels? He had always been taught of four.
Michael, Gabriel, Raphael and Uriel. Satanel had been above them
all before his Fall. But Tiran said there had been two others.
The seventh, who had forsaken The Warrior’s cry to battle. His name
was never spoken. And a sixth. Phanael. One who took
her own wings, and forged a sword of them. One who became the Guardian
of Eden, and now resided there, keeping the sinful from its Holy Gates.
Tiran never mentioned if God favored her actions or not. But it most
likely didn’t matter. She had already sacrificed what God would have
taken away in punishment. Simply Phana now, Tiran had nothing but
respect for the sixth archangel of the Heavenly Host.
His pace had increased
unknowingly. Something was calling out to him. Not in words
or voice, but in a deep resonance within his bones. Tiran was long
gone, and he could not cry out for reassurance that this sensation within
him was not deadly. Then, in the distance, he could see an opening
in the forest walls. Blue sky and green grass were placed before
him.
He began to run, so
glad to see the open sky. The forest had a close, trapping feeling.
But there, under the sun and clouds, he could feel free again. Until
he found the Forgiven. But he saw no movement in the clearing, and
wondered if the path merely went through this break in the woods.
He broke free from the emerald prison.
And found the Forgiven.
And why they did not move.
They were in a circle.
It was a large circle, in the exact center of the clearing. At first
glance, they looked like the ruins of Stonehenge. But as he got nearer,
he saw that they were angels. Each frozen in a gesture of prayer
to the open Heavens. Their wings were spread wide, but the circle
was such that one did not touch its neighbor.
Filled with wonder
and awe, he came to one, and stepping inside the circle, looked at its
face. Male. It’s eyes filled with tears and a glow of joy.
A single drop of stone sorrow was trailing down its face. Statues
of such life-like nature, he expected to feel warm skin when he reached
up to touch its cheek. But it was cold stone. A face of perfection
(were there truly so many faces of perfection? The angel looked nothing
like Tiran.) caught in stone.
The next angel was
female. Her long hair was held by stone winds, spreading out like
wings of its own. One hand was at her breast, clutching at her heart,
and the other was reached to the sky. He could feel her pain, feel
her sorrow, her pleading, and her release.
These were the Forgiven.
Angels cast out as Forsaken, who had gathered in this clearing to beg forgiveness
of God. Their prayers and songs had haunted the earth for centuries,
before mankind had barely grasped the world after leaving Eden. God’s
heart had been moved by their songs. How could it not? These
were Seraphim, the most holy of the holiest angels. Their voices
were the very echoes of the universe. Tiran said that God had blessed
them, and forgiven them.
He started to cry.
This was the forgiveness God offered them? They could not return
to the Host. Once cast, an angel could not return. But he spared
them their absence. He let them sleep, eternally, in stone.
In each statue, he could feel a presence. It slumbered at the same
time it waited. Not like a fly trapped in amber. It was more
like an unborn child in the womb. A state of intimacy and slumber
that was comparable only to being with God.
Yet all he could think
of was how cruel it seemed. To abandon war and violence, only to
be rejected by God. To be stripped of the very essence of your existence,
and sent to life on earth. The only escape was this? To sleep
in peace, forever. Or was it forever? That sense of waiting
still lingered within him. There was the choice of death, of course.
But the Forsaken had no place for their souls to go. Their angelic
spirits merely wondered the earth, in the forms of fairies and other mystical
creatures. Many of the Forsaken had taken that route.
God had given forgiveness
to only… He counted. One, two three…seven, eight…eleven, twelve?
It didn’t seem right. There was a gap in the circle. It wasn’t
a mistake. Angels would not have made a mistake in forming their
Seraphic Circle. The gap was large enough for one more angel.
Where was it? Tiran claimed that most of mankind avoided this place.
Only one with the Sight could find it. Time and nature did not claim
toll on these carved souls.
He walked over to
where the thirteenth angel should have been. He saw faint prints
in the grass, like sandals. He placed his feet in the prints, and
he knew. It pressed against his heavy mind, a flash that broke open
something in his Sight, and left him drowning in visions. Songs,
weeping, the Circle, the faces, the Angels, God’s Hand on Earth…
And he knew.
Thirteen angels had
gathered for forgiveness here. Twelve received it.
A great weariness
suddenly overcame him. He was tired. He was saddened.
It was all too much for a boy who, mere weeks before, though of God as
an abstract idea. And now, it overwhelmed him with its realness.
He had to leave.
He couldn’t stand it any longer. The cruel, cruel game played with
these angels. But he walked one last time into the center of the
circle. Turning to the gap, he whispered, “I forgive you.”
Looking at all the angels, he suddenly felt those presences focused, alive.
“I Forgive all of you.”
No flash of light.
No thunder, or fireworks. Nothing. He simply went back to the
road, knowing he had bore witness. Wondering what had made him say
such things, and good they had done. He walked back down the path,
to the waiting Tiran. Tiran, who would not walk down that path.
Who could not bear to look at the Forgiven. Or the emptiness that
was made by that one, unforgiven angel.
