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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic

Immortality has its price. When you live for eons, when you watch the universe slowly bloom into existence, everything repeats again and again. It gets boring, so, so boring. Boring enough to make
you wish you would just disappear, if only you could. Angels live among humans, and they have changed to match.

Submitted: January 13, 2018

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Submitted: January 13, 2018



Immortality has its price. When you live for eons, when you watch the universe slowly bloom into existence, everything repeats again and again. It gets boring, so, so boring. Boring enough to make you wish you would just disappear, if only you could.

And then something happens. Something minuscule turns into something bigger, and life is born. A playground blooms before your eyes. And wouldn’t someone who waited for that for thousands, thousands of millions of years, do anything to get there the second that someone showed them how. They’d even fall.


 Abasdarhon was the angel of the 5th hour of the night, and they still are. Torn jeans and low cut crop tops have replaced their toga, blue hair shines instead of a halo and the temples they visit pulse with music and moving bodies. They relish in the burn of alcohol rushing down their throats as they line shot after shot, they celebrate life by dancing along with the crowd as the club fills to bursting, drawn by the siren’s call of their power. They worship the night along with their new flock, screaming out lyrics of today’s hymns and anthems.


Amitiel had been the angel of truth, and they remain one. ‘Truth’, says the latest rumor. ‘Truth’ says the newspaper. ‘Truth’ promises every news channel as they tell one story after another, their facts as conflicting as they could get. Data wars against data, research paid off, reports misplaced, investigations forgotten. The sheep just nod and listen. ‘Lies’ the angel shrieks as they are force-fed medication, thrashing against padded walls, the diagnosis of paranoia and other things like fire to their ears. ‘Lies’, the angel screams again.


Ariel was the angel of protection, and he still is. There’s no more right or wrong for him, he just does his work for whoever is the highest bidder, and the highest bidders pay well, very well. So he protects, though his armor no longer steel, but kevlar hidden under jackets, and his weapon is no longer his sword but a gun tucked behind his belt. He has traded bloodbathed battlefronts to either rundown streets of stylish parties, but the red of the fight is still the same color as he remembers it.


 Asteraoh was the angel who thwarted power, and he still does. Anarchist is what they call him as he makes sure that the higher a person rises, the harder they will fall. It’s quite easy, really. A bit of blackmail here, a bit of planted evidence there, and suddenly the highest are dragged down to share their cells with the lowest. Or maybe a whisper here, a suggestion there, and they bring themselves down on their own accord. He’s there to watch them crash and burn.


 Azrael was the angel of death, Azriel was the angel of destruction, and the two siblings still do their work. Their work is silent, but its consequences resonate loudly. A missing piece in one place, a small defect in another, then all they have to do is wait for the first domino to fall and set the chain into motion. Nuclear meltdowns, collapsed buildings, car explosions, they celebrate it all. And when that is not enough, they create bombs and weapons and let humanity do their work for them.


 Barman was the angel of intelligence, and she still is. In the age of information, her job became considerably easier. The world is connected, and most of humanity’s knowledge, good or bad, is at the press of a button. The rest? There’s a way. Connect, break in, collect, repeat. She's the exhausted girl you see with bloodshot and empty eyes, for she has seen too much and yet has not seen enough to quit her search. Maybe she finds things some people better want hidden, or maybe she finds things too horrible to seek out purposefully. And maybe she clicks share.


 Baruchiel was the angel with power over strife, and he still has it. What he says, happens. He asks for peace - he gets peace, he asks for a fight - he gets a fight, and right now he most often asks for the later. He’s a ringleader, yelling into a megaphone and riding the high of the crowd screaming for blood which soon follows. He yells encouragements for the modern gladiators of his choice and watches them win every time. Sometimes he goes overboard, and the bloodthirst rises to a lethal level. Fun has its price, he pays his due in blood and lives.


Dumah was, is, will be the angel of silence. They search for it, strive for it, will get it at any cost. The bustle of cities, the constant murmur of conversation, the scraping, the grating, the rush, the beat of life itself, they want it gone. But they’ll endure it, as patience is their virtue, and patience is what they need as they weave their plan. Soon, they think, and the thoughts are too loud, there will be silence, once the surface of the earth is scorched bare by explosions, the sloshing waves frozen solid by nuclear winter men will create. Then there will be silence, or maybe then they’ll have to find how the quiet even the rush of blood through their veins.


 Israfil was the angel called “the burning one”, and they still live up to the name. They remember when people burned sacrifices and offerings for his god, and even now they follow the tradition. Arson is their living. Crossed electric wires or simple lighters, ordinary wood or gasoline, all works, all burns. They watch news where people cry and mourn all the lives lost in the latest house fire, and then the pyromaniac strikes another match.


 Nathanael was the angel of hidden things, fire, and vengeance, and he still is. In this age, he’s a detective. He sees all things hidden, he finds clues and evidence everyone else has missed. Yet no matter what he finds, all the cases in his charge fall through. But what few people ever notice is that the killers he chases never come back to kill again. Angelic vengeance pays back any wrong sevenfold, and he really doesn’t hold back.


Rachmiel was the angel of mercy, but men have forgotten what mercy means. Mercy, people think, is letting your enemy live, saving a life. No, it’s relief, the end to ones suffering. It’s ridding them of a future filled with misery and death. Humans forget that their own philosophers say that to live is to suffer. To live is to feel the throb of joints as they grow old, the torture of self-doubt, the ache of a heartbreak, Rachmiel knows them and will show mercy to those who suffer. His mercy is divine, as divine as the silver blade he slits against throats.

Rahab was the angel of death, destruction, but also the sea, and oh how happy he has been these last few years. He had drowned so many, before, when the hulls of the ships were still wooden, when wind and waves were men’s only guides. Then the metal came, and few ever drifted to the depths. No, humans defiled them, destroyed ecosystems centuries in the making, chased the fish and killed the whales. Yet as temperatures rise, ice melts and waves reach ever higher, black with spilled oil and toxic waste, the angel laughs and encourages the destructive storms to feed upon the vengeful waters. He’ll have his due.


 Shepherd was the angel of repentance, and he makes sure that he remains so. He embraces sin as wholeheartedly as he once embraced his belief in god. He drinks, he fucks, he cheats, he fights, he does all that he never could. Lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, pride and jealousy, he tries them all again and again. Laws are nothing to him, and the opinions of men are even lower than that. He breaks heart, souls and bodies. He makes sure that he has something to repent for.

 Sraosha was the angel who set the world in motion, and she still does her work. Humanity strives on one thing, and one thing only. Chaos. Only then do they truly shine, the times when they have to fight for their survival, when wars rage and earth shatters. Nothing fuels men more to come together or break apart, to learn and create new things, or destroy themselves and their surroundings. So she becomes chaos, creates war, causes crisis. She forces the world to spin.


Once, Zahriel was called the angel of memory. She wishes she could forget it. The human mind starts is good at forgetting. As years pass, the past becomes muddled, indistinct. Not to her, never to her. She has seen the rise of wonders, the coronations of kings, the first blooms of love, the wondrous feasts and the excitement of world-changing discoveries. She has seen slaughters, warring tribes, warring cities, warring states and warring continents. Fire from above and water from below, disasters natural and man-made. She screams herself hoarse from the living nightmare and wishes that the millions of memories did not answer in turn.

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