G R A C E is D E A D

+overture+

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Pinpoints of light bespeckled the city landscape beneath him. Lights from cars, lights from windows, lights from streetlamps. Red. Yellow. White. There was a golden glow streaming through the large pane of the bakery rooted at the base of the his chosen perch, a tall austere edifice of steel and stone and glass. There were savory smells rolling on the passing zephyrs, zephyrs caressing his skin and fondly ruffling his hair, like the affectionate lover he’d probably never have, nor have the capacity to want. There was the constant drone of traffic buzzing under the whisper of the breeze, punctuated sometimes by honking car horns and barking dogs and neighbors shouting at each other across the short expanses between their apartments.

A glossy white feather caught on the nighttime breeze, like a dead leaf unhitching from its mother tree, spiraling, twirling, helicoptering, subject to the whims of the wind, down, down, down. Soon it had disappeared into the patchwork of city lights. He couldn’t tell exactly where it had gone; the lights, the cityscape, were all a gray blur, a smear of grayscale watercolors. The lights held little glow, the shapes of the skyscrapers surrounding him barely more than narrow mountains. The breeze ghosted over his skin, but he didn’t shiver. He didn’t feel it. The sounds below were muted, as if he was listening to them through a sponge. Sponges in his ears, delicate ears, embellished with silver rings and studs. And the smells. He could no more imagine the smells than he could imagine the taste of the baked goods emitting them.

He folded his wings around himself, humble wings, with small downy plumes near the junction of wing and back, the feathers elongating as they branched out, smooth and silken and of the purest white. They hugged his curled form, ensconcing him comfortably and shielding him from a wind he couldn’t feel, and from eyes that were presently staring down the building at the milling nightlife below. Cool, calculating, rich sparkling amethyst.

“Do you know why angels have wings?”

It was far-off, stifled, but he could make out the articulation, hear the way the words were strung together. “To fly to heights inaccessible by other creatures,” he answered automatically, albeit slowly, as if unsure.

“That’s one reason.” A beat, and then, “Another, not so commonly acknowledged, is to hide.”

“…To hide?”

“Yes, to hide. Humans are master dissemblers…so complicated. Conversely, angels can’t disguise themselves, can’t school their expressions, can’t hide their motives.” A laugh. Rich and smooth. It had once resonated with a glorious mellifluousness, but was now a bell with a missing tongue. “Angels…picturesque perfection. It’s painful, isn’t it?”

“Painful…?”

“Hn, that’s right. That word is meaningless to you…”

His hampered gaze combed over this person before him, standing on the edge of the building and peering down as if unafraid of falling. And then those eyes, such sharp, shrewd, piercing

(beautiful)

eyes, were on him again, and again he ducked behind his feathers. (When had his defenses slipped?) Sanctuary, he pleaded. Sanctuary…sanctuary…

“Sariel.”

Sariel closed his eyes, his wings tightening around him like a cocoon. “H-How do you know my name?” he demanded.

The other knelt beside Sariel, reaching out to touch the wing closest to him. The feathers, so soft under his fingers. Soft, and warm, heated from within by a sacred fire. Those same fingers drew away and touched his own chest, feeling the pulsing of his heart. He used to have that same fire, but now it was blood in his body. It was his blood that could be spilled. It was his blood that would paint the streets if he should teeter just a little and fall off of the top of this skyscraper. Wouldn’t that be an adventure?

A sliver of viridian was looking out at him from between the white fringes of feathers. He reached for Sariel, pushing the wings aside, parting them like blinds. His fingers ghosted over Sariel’s face, and Sariel didn’t even flinch. Slowly, his feathery barriers fell away, his wings folding over his back again.

“Can you feel this?” He ran his fingertips down Sariel’s cheek. Clueless but wondering eyes steadfastly held his own.

“…Feel?”

He shook his head, his hand falling away. The wind gusted suddenly around them, tugging his long inky hair over his shoulder and whipping it around his face. He shifted and genuflected, leaning his elbow on his knee, and the wind stilled again.

“What is your name?”

“Callistus.”

“…Cal… Callistus?”

“Yes.”

“I think… I’ve heard that name before.”

“As well you should have. I was in the seraphim rank.”

Sariel’s eyes widened. “The seraphim? Then you’re… one of the fallen, aren’t you?” His tone was of horrified astonishment, with an underlying current of insatiable curiosity and wonder.

Callistus nodded, sagely, astutely. Sariel reached for him tentatively, his fingers seeking out Callistus’s face. When he came into contact with it, he couldn’t so much feel the fallen angel’s face as he could feel an internal tug, a magnetic attraction to the embers of holy fire still smoldering within Callistus’s heart.

Callistus made a face, a frown creasing his smooth brow. He pushed Sariel’s hand away and rose to his feet, returning to staring down the building at the buzzing nightlife below.

Sariel rose to his feet, swiftly, silently, virtually weightless as he was. He was intrigued, and more than that. “How? Why?”

“Angels are holy creatures. Holy, but not infallible. There are some angels, born like all of the rest,” born being used in the loosest of ways, “that… develop glitches and flaws in their…their programs (so to speak) as they grow and learn. These various angels, the selection totally arbitrary and unplanned, feel things they aren’t supposed to, get a taste of something they aren’t meant to have, a forbidden fruit, if you will. Haven’t you heard this before?”

Sariel shook his head.

“Hn. You must be young, then.”

“Two millennia,” Sariel informed him.

“Yes, very young. I should’ve known; your wings are rather underdeveloped.” Callistus shrugged, scuffing his boot against the flat stone roof. “Well, all in all, fallen angels are nothing more than defective programs. And the higher they are, the harder they fall.”

“What did you do?” Sariel pressed. “What made you fall?”

Callistus smirked. “That’s a story for another day.”

Sariel rose to his feet, indignant. “Why can’t you tell me now?”

Callistus didn’t answer, and regarded the angel coolly, with an infuriating hauteur that would’ve made Sariel’s blood boil, had he any blood to begin with. The breeze whistled around them, the car horns honking, the dogs barking, the people shouting, the lights twinkling. And while the world was a busy ant colony beneath them, the two seemed caught in a vacuum, still, silent, tension growing between them with a deadly subtlety.

And then it all shattered.

Sariel’s wings whipped from his back, unfurling and sweeping downwards as the blonde leapt from the rooftop.

There was a pause, and then, “Au revoir, my angel.” Callistus laughed to himself, turning smoothly on his heel and disappearing through the small doorway that led down from the roof. As the door clicked shut behind him, a lone white feather swiveled on the wind and lighted, alone and forsaken, on the cold, abandoned rooftop.

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