Seven

The feather rocked to and fro upon proverbial heels, brining to mind a forsaken child, absently tracing nameless patterns into the fine layer of grime on the marbled floors with a stubby forefinger, curled into themselves like a mournful kitten in a downpour at one moment. Then one’s perception shifted once more, and the child under went a strange metamorphosis, shifting in the mind’s eye from a child to poor soul given up for lost by friends and family alike, pale back resting against a paler future, rocking back and forth in a mindless state, dead on the surface, yet screaming silence underneath. Locked in a corridor of memories with far too many doors that would not unbar the door, no matter how hard they rapped for sanctuary on their unchanging, unsympathetic faces. Yet knock the poor souls did….until the skin tore from frail frames and raw knuckles bleed crimson tears their eyes could not.

So they remained locked in the burning asylums of their mind, broken winged angels restrained by modern day science and tight woven cloth-all because of their loved one’s claim of love. Voiceless, compliant. Loving an ideal so hard they are oblivious to their inner demons eating them alive from the inside. Fools. The feather ceased its endless nodding-a drowsing grandfather jerking up his nodding head at the sudden prompt of grandchildren’s voices. It was not the hoary and alabaster plume of myth. Rather, it was a rich russet and gold, and darker banded with bands the color of shadow, not unlike a red-tail hawk’s. It seemed to reach a lazy finger in the direction of corridor, pointing to its fellows that ran a haphazard trail from the dark paneled and double-binary doors to the raised dais at the far end of the room. They lay where they had fallen, deceased soldiers strewn about the remains of the battlefield, some lying prostrate across the others, comrade in arms until their end.

They drew a ragged line, like the rough, wobbly, uncertain line drawn by the small hands of a child with their first box of crayons, marking the path of a God-forsaken creature. It was around this-for lack of a better expressive vocabulary to the causal observer, creature, that the greatest amount of the bronze and ebon feathers were strewn-laying in no particular distinct pattern. It then became clear that the feathers had not happened there by chance of an errant breeze, or swept by the bristles of a broom into a disorderly pile. Indeed, the feathers fell, like silent snowfall, condemning in their sullen drift, from the man. Or, to be politically correct, from the large, fanned wings arching above his head, lustrous in the wan glow of the paned stained glass, turning them hues of subtle red, blue, and green. How fitting, then, to have the impassive face of the reputed savior glancing down with obvious judgment, contempt in those limpid pools of “mercy.” “Damn you,” the creature spat through clenched jaws. “Damn you to he―” Yet the force of those condemning words were lost in the depths of his throat. Instead, the muted, strangled sound of anguish tore free of the depths of this throat in the oath’s stead, as his wings shook as if seized by a mischievous wind, or stood upon the precipitous edge of flight. Though no more would his wings bear him aloft into the bosom of the sky.

As if to confirm such grim thoughts, the tips of his wings began, it seemed, to smolder from within. They grew in hue and intensity, until they began to blacken and curl upon themselves, much like the dwindling filter of a cigarette that has outlived its abilities and usefulness, and so fades to memory….and ash. So, too, was the fate of his wings. As they cooled, they tumbled in silence onto the dark fabric of his perfectly tailored suit. The fate of the already shed feathers became apparent, as they, too, silvered and crumbled at the softest exhalation, mere silver gossamer threads of ash upon the floor, resembling nothing. And how they shrieked in their last moments of innocent beauty-shrilled like a teapot threatening to boil over, the sound of a thousand shredding, condemned souls of innocence as they were consumed by the taint of that which they had once served.

When at last all trace of purity had been scoured from him, Kasei lifted his head from where it had been cradled within the depths of his cupped hands, gave a resigned shrug of his now considerably lighter of weight shoulders, and calmly brushed the soot from his shoulders. The brief candle of pain had been extinguished. He rose from his crouched, submissive posture upon, wincing slightly as stiffened muscles snapped like green firewood as they straightened. The hollow slap of his bare feet rang like the empty, hollow prayers that had graced this establishment for many years. They, like the echoes of his footfalls, had gone unanswered. Kasei smirked at that thought. Nothing pleased him more, suddenly, than the thought of suffering innocents. The world would be a far better, more realistic place, if it were populated by such for all eternity. So….he would make them suffer. He would blind their eyes, so that they would finally see that the useless avatar they so idolized-didn’t give a damn about them. And that was the truth about their precious “savior.”

If Kasei felt the sudden, raw emptiness within, the absence of light that had once given him cause to exist, he showed no outer sign, nor indeed, seemed to care. He paced the length of the simple, sparsely decorated length of the raised dais, brushing past the gold and crimson clothed pulpit, to a smaller table, clad in similar colors. Here, beneath the rounded stained glass window, rested a smaller, more modest table, decorated only with silver candle holders and that thick, black volume with gold lettering, and ridiculous lower-cased “T” that filled so many with hope with its smooth talk and deceit. Between the two modest adornments, lay a silver bowl, filled to the brim with holy water. Kasei paused, glanced into its calm depths for a moment, inclining his head closer to the surface, parting his lips as if he meant to question his reflection. Instead, he spat into the bowl, and took no little pride in the small bubble of foam that rested upon the surface, tainting the waters with his open contempt.

He turned abruptly away, pausing only to take to hand a small book of matches resting by the base of the candleholder, and pocketing it. He then stepped down from that supposedly lofty height, and walked among the rows of mahogany varnished pews. He paused, then, drawing from the depths of his pocket the book of matches. Casual in his demeanor, he removed the nearest copy of the Bible, idly flipping the pages so that words and passages blurred into mere lines devoid of meaning. Then, dangling the book by a hand and extending it away from his person as though it were an unclean thing, he struck a match, and set the edge of the paper alight. This he did throughout the row, until the last match was used and then discarded and ground beneath his heel. Then, exhaling as though suddenly overwhelmingly bored, he dug his fingernails into the wood of the pew, applying pressure until the wood creaked ominously and then splintered, cutting into his hands, until wood fragments and blood merged.

The pain was surprising, unexpected. For a being once above such trivial things such as pain, lust, and gender, it was as shockingly refreshing as a shower suddenly run cold. This then was what mortals so bemoaned, so feared. Was he, now mortal, to be plagued by such? No matter. A small price to pay. When at last the bells ponderously groaned and muttered among themselves before tolling the hour, Kasei was startled. It was later than he thought. But then, he’d never had use for time before. And he certainly did not wish to waste the remainder of his evening in this mockery of a…..mortal’s ideal of purity. But one final task remained to him. As he exited the church, he drew a final match that had fallen loose from the book, and struck it. He flung it into the rain-deprived, patched grass. It was a dry year. Perfect tinder for the rebirth of a new meaning of fear. The flames spread quickly, consuming all and whispering in sly voices. It was not long before the church, too, was ablaze. As the mournful howl of sirens in the distance rose, Kasei gazed up only once upon the face of whom he had once served, immortalized in the archway of the church. As the flames licked around His face, the slender, aged paint began to run. And he cried tears of blood. How fitting, for the end of his reign, and the beginning of Kasei the Fallen’s.