Chapter 11: The wish transcend the morning sky
Uncertain about my next steps, I find solace in the unchanging routine of the human kingdom. Though I secretly yearn for something more, having a companion with wisdom is not such a dismal fate.
Even in its deprivation. Darwen has recovered physically, but there's a mental block, a sense of loss haunting him. Mortal life, I realize, is fragile. Careful for the next spar when it calls to test, a thread of dignity may shatter because of inferiority.
The healers ensure his positive recovery, yet his demeanor remains melancholy. A strong gust of wind passed by the room with black feathers covering the room. The embodiment of death, the fifth has come.
Once again one of my doors is broken, this time the window. I question whether or not they are to be repaired next time, it is a waste of material if they keep on broken in short intervals.
"Azazel?" He burst inside quite forcefully, from the front door to the window, none of them last I supposed. I need to make a greeting or he will need to get mad for not giving a proper greeting.
"Your formality isn't necessary. I don't require a greeting. Follow me, Mikhail. Father has summoned you back," Azazel states briskly. His tone lacks harshness, indicating this might not be a training session or an interrogation. Must I return after attaining what I desired?
At least, I shouldn't question what I don't comprehend. Maybe this return is temporary, and I can come back in a year or a decade. But I worry that the fragility of mortal existence might claim them before my return.
"So soon? Have I done something wrong?" I attempt to ask for more information, but Azazel doesn't know the specifics of the summons, and he won't divulge any details. Not until he activates the "Judgment of Mortality," putting an end to my concerns.
The solemn bell tolls in the quiet space, a special authority granted to him. This scale for judging one's morals is named after the ancient virtue that was once Kushiel's responsibility. It's unknown when Azazel received it, but it has never been used for malevolent purposes.
"You haven't done anything wrong; otherwise, your spirit would have been broken by now. The reason for your summon is unspecified, but it should not be viewed as a punishment," Azazel explains as he withdraws his authority. I am under no obligation to disclose or for him to inquire, but I am immune to such influences.
Without any more words exchanged, we depart. Before leaving, I leave behind a feather in my room as instructed by Father to signify my departure. I unfurl my white wings, the feathers forming into an unorthodox pair of twin blades hidden beneath their fluffy exterior.
Without a carriage, my wings prove to be a hindrance at high altitudes. The breathtaking atmosphere, while exhilarating, takes a toll on my lungs. This is my first time soaring so high, and it takes time to acclimate.
"You should be accustomed to this. Father's demands must be swiftly met. Practicing flying in your off-duty hours could be beneficial," Azazel advises coldly, his words serving as constructive criticism, meant to help rather than hurt.
The castle in the sky is called "Paradise" at the top of the north of the world, as the mimicry of the once-called heaven. How majestic from the outside white-like pearl appearance.
"We have arrived, try not to make yourself so lowly, and hold your head high. You are the powerful one here, there shouldn't be a sign of weakness on you, Mikhail." Azazel said as he pushed the great gate with his bare hands.
The hall burst with different kinds of angels, mostly what I have seen in the garden. All have their works assigned to them and without exchange of words, efficiently and hastily…and lonely also.
"Greeting lord Fifth, which task I can assist you with?" One of them begins to approach us, this one looks like an "assistant" kind of angel. They usually look friendly and machinery because the higher need them to act in their will toward mortals.
"Tell lord First that I have brought Third as he required and will be resuming to my old port." With those words, Azazel quickly zaps himself off there. Quite as his talent to take souls, also his talent to make disappearance seems like children's tricks.
I silently follow the angels, as usual, they never seem interested in talking with me. The loneliness I feel is familiar, so I try to ease it by recalling memories of the human kingdoms.
From my vantage point by the window, the moon appears as nothing more than a distant celestial object, hanging in the sky like an unmoving painting. The higher I ascend, the closer I get to the moon's embrace, which soothes and numbs the dread within me. Through the endless waves of clouds, I see stars closer than ever before, revealing their unseen imperfections in the vast expanse.
Father's voice interrupts my reverie. "Gazing at the moon so intently, you seem quite fascinated by that aspect created for the world," he remarks with a hint of warning, yet there's a touch of warmth in his tone. I may have been immersing myself in human affairs, but it's astonishing how much it has influenced my perspective.
"Ah, my apologies, Father. I will proceed with my reports now." I follow Father inside, leaving behind the view of the distant sky and the gleaming stars. In the room, there's only a table with two seemingly empty cups. No papers or blackboards are in sight. This feels more like a place for relaxation than work, yet Father wears a stern expression, waiting as I pull out the chair.
"Here is what I've observed since my time in the human kingdom. Please listen." I pour out my thoughts, sharing even the most mundane aspects of human life, their likes and dislikes, relationships, and their fictional tales. Father, however, seems uneasy with this unconventional approach.
"Put an end to this strange behavior you've adopted. I've never heard of such things being labeled as reports. I did not expect errors so glaringly uncorrected," he grumbles in discomfort. Patience may be a virtue, but it appears that my report has tested Father's patience to the limit.
"My apologies, I'll refrain from delving into such mundane matters. I've become captivated by the peculiar aspects of mortals, such as dreams and inspirations," I confess about my recent preoccupations.
He regards me with a complex expression, a blend of confusion and interest. It appears he sees this as an opportunity for study, a chance to examine the error I've displayed. The cold, metallic table becomes my sole focus, and I expect that it won't be long before I return to my slumber. I can only hope that this time, the process will be merciful and painless.
But things don't unfold as I anticipated. He merely gazes at me without proceeding to cut through my vessel or body. He watches me in silence until a falling star seems to snap him out of his trance.
"Curious, I want to know the story you are aware of about me, Mikhail," he finally asks, breaking the string of silent stares. The story of Father? I've heard many stories, and now it seems this will be the test to determine whether I harbor errors. I must carefully choose one that mirrors his authority.
"Father is the overseer of mortals who survived after the sealing with Mother. You rise as the archangel repeatedly," I begin, but I'm abruptly interrupted by a dismissive gesture.
"I should have specified. I want to hear the legend of Sariel, one of the thirteen primordial seraphim," he clarifies. These questions are quite peculiar, but they all seem to serve a purpose, so I must provide the answers that meet his expectations.
"Sariel, the seraphim of forgiveness and redemption. You were born as the last of them during the holy war on the fourth day of creation. You possess the most humane nature, suited for the judgment of mortals, and each tear you shed has the power to purge a sinner from the fate of damnation to salvation."
"It seems very few remember that last part," Father sighs, though his expression appears content with the story I've shared.
"Mikhail, you must understand the burden of governing a world that has become disillusioned with its old legacy. I am not the catalyst for change, nor do I crave eternity, so balance must be maintained in all things," he explains as books begin to scatter throughout the room. These books appear to serve as templates for all the tales that have occurred and have been rewritten countless times.
He directs my attention to the starry sky, each death among the stars triggering the birth of something new, while each birth is accompanied by the looming shadow of death, and this process accelerates over time. It all appears to be an illusion, something grand played out countless times until boredom sets in.
"So, you, too, serve as a catalyst of change for me, and I have truly given up. You act like him and possess the same heart as him, yet you are not Michael. No matter how much I try, the results will never be enough to satisfy me," he resents himself, revealing a sense of vulnerability. It's heartbreaking to see him in this state.
"Father...," I begin, attempting to offer comfort. I step closer and find myself seeking solace at his feet, much like a child standing behind their father.
"So I implore you, the flawed replica of Michael, to exist for your own purpose, in any way you desire, and shed the illusions of becoming him. But for the final time, as this delusion of mine still has its place, address me by the name that God has granted me," Father demands, and I understand that this may be the first and last occasion I witness his tears in their entirety.
"As you wish, Sariel," I respond, complying with his request. This is the last thing I can do according to his wishes, akin to the solitary star that continues to wander the sky, yearning for the return of the old moon.
The end
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A wandering star, straying wide and far,
Across galaxies, it journeys through time,
Longing for the return of the old moon,
Yet only shadows answer its hopeful rhyme.