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cymorilcinnamonroll · 1 month ago

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And the Angel of Death Loved the Painter's Brush - An Archangel x Artist Romance

The seraph fanned his wings under the summer sun, raven feathers like black pearl inlay against the azure sky. He sipped his cappuccino, checking the time on his silver watch. Midday. She should be here by now. He sighed, tracing the skull-shaped cufflinks and damning himself for wearing a heavy, royal blue Armani suit in such heat. He swept his long white hair out of his eyes and rose, the sole visitor on the island cliff they had agreed to meet upon. It rolled down into crashing waves, tidal pools moss green with seaweed. The ocean spread out before him like rippling sheets on a laundry line, straddling the border between Heaven and Earth. The mists of the afterlife shrouded the horizon, veiling the archipelago that was a waystation between the mortal and immortal realms. Remiel, the archangel of death, was the isles' one true resident, able to cross the realms with ease. For others, the waters were treacherous, fraught with Leviathen, lost souls, and secrets that would put Circe's mysteries to shame. How his visitor was navigating them, Remiel hadn't a clue

He surveyed the ocean, tempted by the cool water's embrace. It was the water of life, fed by the great rivers of Eden and so potent, to touch them was to rip one's soul from one's body. Assuming one had a soul. Angels were singular creations, formed of heavenly fire and the light of God. Remiel doubted that anything resembling a spirit resided within him. Angels were function, not will. Those that claimed to have free will were a fallen lot, divorced from the presence of God. To some, that was liberating, but many of his dark brethren secretly grieved. Remiel couldn't imagine the void that would be left in him were his Creator ripped from him. True, God had abandoned Heaven during Lucifer's rebellion, but the angels still knew he was somewhere, perhaps creating new universes or watching over prodigal sons. Perhaps asleep, resting until the Apocalypse commenced and the Messiah descended to Earth.

Remiel wondered if the End Times were nigh. With Eve's reawakening and Samael's plots, it seemed they drew closer each day. He sighed, wanting to wash away the creeping thoughts of suspicion. What side would he choose, if Heaven's factions split? Gabriel's wishes to walk amongst the humans? Michael's steadfast clinging to tradition? Samael's radical plot to destroy Hell and reunite the Fallen with Heaven?

He shook himself free of his worries and dove into the purifying waters. He sliced through the currents, angels' adamantine skeletons piled high as reefs underwater from the Heavenly War. The bones skimmed his feet as he walked across the depths, watching schools of fish fin overhead like silver clouds. He remembered his horror when his brothers had died and, instead of coming to Remiel as souls were supposed to, they had snuffed out like candle flames. Vanished into the ether. Gone. There was no afterlife for angels. No isles of the Blessed or Asphodel Fields. Only nonexistence. Remiel knew the paths of death well. None led anywhere for angel- and demonkind.

The bottom of a sailboat shimmered above. Remiel ascended, wings pumping like engines and propelling him upwards. He broke the surface in a veil of foam, the sweet waters fresh on his lips. Drenched, he landed feather-light on the boat's prow, smiling at Shannon. She looked at him in awe, clearly not expecting the Angel of Death to make such an abrupt appearance. He bowed, wing tips skimming the water. Shannon grinned back, trying to mask her surprise and clasping the tiller she had released in her confusion. His angelic glory overwhelmed her as it might a mortal, but Shannon was not quite human, clearly unaffected by the water's deathly touch. She masked her discomfort well.

“Fancy meeting you here, Remy,” she said, steering the sailboat towards a rocky beach beyond the cliff.

“If it isn't the Mother of All Living in the flesh,” Remiel said warmly, settling himself on the prow's seat. He let his hands drift in the sea, dragging seaweed along. “Something tells me you didn't come here for the fishing.”

Shannon laughed. “I wouldn't put this much effort into hooking fish.” She thumped the heel of her foot on the boat's floor. Remiel's eyes were drawn to the carvings in ancient Greek and gold inlay under her toes.

“You didn't,” he said in wonder.

“Steal Charon's boat?” Shannon flashed a winning smile. “Of course not. All it took was a kiss.” She laughed. “The old man was more than obliging to lend me his most prized possession.”

Remiel shuddered at the thought of puckering up to mummified Charon. Only Shannon would have the gall to let her lips grace Charon's mouth. Samael would throw a fit over his lover's methods of persuasion.

“Sam doesn't know, of course. He thought I was bribing dear Charon with an exorbitant amount of money. But we all know Charon doesn't go for spare change, and God knows I needed the cash, so I pocketed the difference and Samael is none the wiser. I don't get paid enough for this divine fiasco of a job, and college loans are hella expensive,” Shannon sighed. “Not that you celestial folk would know anything about being young and broke.”

Remiel shrugged. “I can imagine the difficulties of balancing your mundane and mythical life.”

Shannon puffed air through her lips. “You don't know the half of it.” She landed the sailboat on shore, jumping into the water to pull the small vessel to land. Remiel helped, examining Shannon. She wore combat boots, dark wash Shanas, and a distressed Guns n' Roses t-shirt under a leather jacket. Eve- Shannon Parker, as she went by now- had reincarnated into a particularly peculiar time, where women wore pants and electricity was channeled into instruments to produce “rock” music, of which Shannon was an aficionado. Whenever he saw her, she was wearing some variation of her current outfit- obscure band names or rock groups plastered across her breasts. Remiel much preferred classical. But Eve had always been experimental, whether it had been messing with Gabriel's instruments in Heaven or boldly concocting new recipes out of Eden's limitless supply and forcing the angels to try her experiments, manna be damned. She loved exploring, and it was that damning curiosity that had gotten her into this mess in the first place.

He shouldn't look down on her for her boldness, though. It was because of it his job was about to get much easier. She was in the process of becoming a psychopomp, a guide for souls. Under the training of Samael, Shannon was learning how to put spirits to rest and save lost souls. There were situations where mortals were needed to act as undertakers and the attention of an angel was overkill. With Samael's power, she was lightening both Remiel and Samael's case loads. Samael, the punishing angel, presided over the darker aspects of death- the rotting, the disposal of remains. Remiel ruled over the transition and served as the guide of souls, the one humans met when they passed on. He was the process of death and the angel that led souls onward to the proverbial light. Samael stepped in in the case of egregious sinners, when one's good deeds were vastly inferior to the harm they had caused in the world. Those souls were not of Remiel's domain, and he was glad for it.

Boat firmly planted in the sand, Shannon began combing through the beach, searching for shells and sea glass. Odds and ends from the mortal realm ended up here- Remielsaw a pocket watch, several rings, and jewels just below his feet. The treasures to be found in the border isles were endless, if one cared for such things. Remiel did not.

“Remy! Aren't these fabulous?” Shannon called. She modeled a pair of round wire-rimmed sunglasses she'd found in the strand. “Should I do my John Lennon impression?” Careless of his approval, she began singing “Let it Be” off-key. Remiel cringed at the less-than-dulcet tones pouring from her lips.

“When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be...” She twirled, laughing, and collapsed on the sand, watching a pair of birds of paradise fly overhead. The isles were a hodgepodge of biota, this one tropical. She watched the cloud forest that crested the island's mountains. “God, I love this place. It's like Wonderland. I saw a sea serpent and hippocampus on the way over here, then a selkie started tailing my boat. You guys should have guided tours, like a safari or something.”

“I imagine Sandalphon would disprove of revealing the immortal world to humanity,” Remiel said. He flew over to where she rested. “So how goes your training?”

Shannon shrugged. “Same old. I feel like I could put souls to rest in my sleep. Samael's been an ass about my studies- he won't let up. I swear, he's a drill sergeant. Not like you, Az. I like how you're casual about this whole thing. You trust me. Sam's just so worried about me and afraid I'll screw up.” She crinkled her nose, as if smelling a bad odor. “I hate it. He's so overprotective. He thinks I'm fragile. Just because I'm a human doesn't mean I break easily.”

Remiel knew all about how breakable humans could be, but said nothing.

Shannon tilted her sunglasses and yawned. “But whatever. I'll show him I'm capable and he'll stop ragging on me.” She rolled over and chewed on the end of her long, rose-red braid.

Remiel let his toes touch the surf, digging them into the sand. He watched the waves. “Give him time, Shannon. He has a plethora of reasons to worry about you. I worry too, though I may not show it as obviously as Samael. It is our duty, as angels, to protect mortals, not put them into compromising positions.”

“Hah. I could write a book about the number of compromising positions Sam's put me into.” Remiel blushed at her innuendo. “But I volunteered for this. And anyways, I'm not exactly mortal, am I?” she said bitterly, painfully aware of the heart in her chest that was not her own. It was the serpent's, the Forbidden Fruit he had offered Eve and she had consumed, giving her soul immortality. “I'm living on borrowed time.”

Remiel knelt and smoothed her arm, concerned. “You must stop thinking of yourself as broken, child.”

“My life isn't mine, Remiel. He claimed me, the duplicitous bastard. I should have died and been at peace. Samael's selfishness is the root of all evil.”

Remiel cringed. He remembered the mad desperation on Samael's face when he'd learned Eve was dying. “It's hard to watch things you love perish, Shannon,” he said gently. “Though it may have been wrong, Samael did what he thought was best for you.”

She untied her braid and ran her hands through her hair. “Why does he always get to make the decisions?” she said quietly.

“Is that what you truly want? Death?”

“I- no, I just... I love him too damn much to ever wish for that. The thought of what he'd become if he were alone, it frightens me. Samael's madness is always there, just under the depths. I think he needs me, though he'd never admit that. He's changed since I've known him, become kinder, though he's still an ass. He's becoming more like he was.” Shannon let sand run through her fists. She stared intently at the grains as they poured onto the ground.

“It's true,” Remiel affirmed. “You're an inspiration to him. He's growing more angelic.”

Shannon smiled softly. “He would hate you for saying that.” She flung her glasses into the sea and rose. Remiel pumped his wings and rocketed off the ground. He fluttered in the air beside her. “But I'm forgetting what I came here for,” Shannon said. “Sorry for making you listen to my personal drama. We have more important things to deal with.”

“Anytime,” Remiel said. “A friend of my brother-in-arms is a friend of mine. We all care for you, Shannon.”

Shannon blew air through her teeth in skepticism. “Michael may beg to differ with you.”

“Michael is blinded by his devotion to our Father. He does not forgive easily. Relations between him and Samael are... tense, and you have sided with, in Michael's eyes, a treacherous party. He expected more from you.”

She sighed. “There's no doubt Sam's slick as a snake. But it's hard to be unbiased when your heart belongs to Michael's enemy.” The two walked farther inland, following a river thick with jungle vegetation. Shannon's combat boots squelched in the damp underbrush. They came to a grove of banyan trees on the riverbank where a canoe was docked. Remiel alighted on it and helped Shannon into the vessel.

“Give Michael time,” Remiel advised. He took a paddle from the base of the canoe and began guiding the boat sleekly through the waters. The canoe startled a pair of pink dolphins. They crested the water, skin like pale jewels in the afternoon sun.

“I will. I just hate disappointing him. Michael's been so kind to me. I feel like I've failed him, with all that I've done.”

“It wasn't your fault Metatron attacked, Shannon.”

“The Grigori War started because of me.” Shannon hung her head. “All because I couldn't keep my damn curiosity on a leash. I had to keep asking questions about things that should have stayed buried. I set Samrafil free, and all Hell broke loose because of my damned actions.”

“You'll make reparations in time,” Remiel said gently. “And it was only natural for you to be curious about the forbidden. Samael unfairly kept you in the dark. You were deceived.” They entered a forest of kapok trees, their trunks thick as elephants. Flower petals fell like snow, painting the water a multitude of colors as they floated on the currents. Shannon traced a palm front. She looked hurt. Remiel wished he could heal her soul, but some hurts were too deep for even an angel.

Heavenly song appeared as they approached the Gate. It was one of the many entrances to Eden in the border isles. Silvery light poured forth from a circular entrance over the water, veiled in clouds and mist. Shannon's heart stirred, old memories of her past life surfacing. She held her breath at the angels' song. Shannon clutched the sides of the canoe, steadying herself. Remiel guided them through. Peace washed over him as they entered the heavenly paradise.

Angels ringed the Tree of Life, a great, marvelous creation of indescribable beauty whose leaves bore the names of every soul in creation. Seraphs and cherubim orbited around like electron clouds, pouring songs of praise while others tended to the tree, plucking and pruning ceaselessly. Remiel's underlings tended to the fallen leaves, whose golden-brown surfaces named the souls that were due to die. The angels of death picked up single leaves and flew off into the ether to attend to their duties, while angels of birth above cared for new leaves, shepherding new souls off into birth. God's throne blazed in the sky above, the sun of this world, His heavenly palace at the center of the cloudless azure. At the heart of the Tree Gabriel, the Angel of Life, supervised, laughing joyously as he chatted with Lailah, the Angel of Conception. Gabriel spotted Remiel and waved, grin like a supernova. Lailah smiled, face glowing with new life. Shannon waved back shyly.

“Well, if it isn't the troublemaker and Mr. Tall Dark and Deathly. Welcome, you beautiful people!” Gabriel said, diving down, red macaw wings fanned open, and landing on the prow of the canoe. Lailah followed, her flamingo wings like dawn. She landed at the boat's back, the two angels balancing one another as if on a seesaw. The canoe bobbed with their weight.

“Oh, Shannon, you look adorable!” Lailah said, reaching out to touch the collar of Shannon's leather jacket. “If only I were allowed to wear leather on the job,” she sighed, fingering her rosy gown with gold trim.

“Thanks.” Shannon blushed, once again in awe of the angels' presences. “I wish I could pull off robes like you. I drown in them. Oh! And your sandals! Where'd you get them from? They're adorable.” Shannon admired the Angel of Conception's footwear.

“A thrift store in this quaint little French town. Want to go shopping this afternoon? My treat.”

Shannon's eyes brightened. “Are you sure?”

“Of course! I'm bored out of my wits, listening to Gabriel's same handful of jokes over and over again. I need some girl time.”

“Hey!” Gabriel said in mock-offense. “The one about Moses' wife and the Red Sea is a killer. I don't know why you weren't amused.”

Lailah narrowed her sparkling black eyes. “Jokes about PMS aren't funny to those of us with two X chromosomes, Gabe. The monthly curse isn't a laughing matter.”

Gabriel chuckled. “I suppose not.”

Remiel shifted uncomfortably. He always felt uncomfortable around discussions of human biology, having been celibate all his life. Unlike Gabriel and Lailah, who had been together since God knew when. Theirs was a union of purest love, of joy in their shared work and each other's company. Remiel admired their partnership but thought he could never have one. His was solitary work. And yet...

Remiel's mind strayed to the young man in Highgate Cemetery he had seen yesterday. He had been sketching amongst the moss-covered stone angels, face serene, like a Romantic poet of old. The artist had worn all black, blending with the shadows. His hands had moved across the canvas like a lover, tending delicately to the curves of gravestones and ivy-covered trees. He had signed his charcoal sketch “Dante,” named after the poet that had wandered the underworld in his dreams. Remiel had watched him from a mausoleum, paralyzed by his beauty. The artist had had long black braids and golden brown skin, with amber eyes that bespoke the African plains of his ancestors. He smelled like rich earth and expensive wine, and it was all Remiel could do to keep his fingers from running through Dante's hair like rain.

Finished, Dante had shivered, as if he knew someone was watching him. He had looked directly at Remiel, though Remiel should have been invisible to a mortal, and smiled softly. “Aren't you beautiful,” Dante had said, peering at Remiel with that curiosity that was so peculiar to humans. Remiel had startled, drawing back.

“You can see me?” the archangel asked in disbelief.

The artist had smiled and nodded. “Yes. I've seen many things in my time, but none so poetic as you.” Dante admired Remiel's bone-pale hair, youthful face, and pewter eyes. The artist approached, and time stood on its head. Remiel's heart fell silent as he choked on his breath. He fell into the artist's smile, felt like he was drowning, and for the first time in an eternity, felt young. Why? Remiel questioned himself inwardly. How did the young man elicit such a reaction? The grace of God walked with him, the beauty of the Creator clear in the boy's face. He could be no older than twenty, Remiel was sure, such a new thing to the world. Remiel spread his wings instinctively, his heart throbbing. Something he had never felt before- desire- stirred within him. Scared by the reaction, he backed away.

Dante laughed kindly. “So you're a shy angel, then? Just like a bird. Please, don't fly away...” his voice drifted off like the peal of deep church bells. Remiel felt roused into prayer by it, as if he wanted to worship the artist and count out on a rosary Dante's virtues. He ached to touch him, to hold him and know his soul. Remiel shivered as passion overwhelmed him, suddenly feeling like his thin black robes were not enough.

“I have nowhere to go,” Remiel admitted, voice shaking. “And I do not think I could leave.”

Dante approached gently, footsteps quiet. His movement was liquid, like a dancer, and a belt of chains jangled at his waist. Up close, Remiel could see that gold eyeliner ringed his eyes, making Dante look like a lion. He wore ripped black Shanas, a fitted ebony sweater, and fingerless leather gloves. His black Oxford boots fell softly against the mausoleum floor. Dante reached out his elegantly tapered fingers smudged with charcoal, brushing Remiel's raven forewing. Remiel caught Dante's hand with his own pale one, intertwining his fingers through the artist's. The archangel shivered, the sense of the forbidden surrounding Dante terrifying and exhilarating. Dante sighed, overcome by the grace of the angel, who radiated the peace and calm of death. They stood like that for minutes, staring intently into each other's eyes, Dante knowing.

“Then stay,” Dante whispered, bringing Remiel's hand to his full lips. “Let me draw you,” the artist murmured into Remiel's glowing skin. Remiel thrilled at Dante's breath across his knuckles.

“What are you?” Remiel had asked, baffled.

“A human that has seen too much, many of which hasn't been kind,” Dante replied, English accent lilting. He shrugged, releasing Remiel's hand. “My family's always been able to see spirits. We moved here from Port Au Prince when I was young My grandfather was the Houngan of his village in Haiti, my father is a voodoo priest. Seeing spirits runs in our blood.” Dante moved away from the Angel of Death. “I was my dad's prized son, raised for the clergy, until he found out that I had, as he calls it, 'unnatural love.'” Dante smiled ruefully. “As if loving men would damn you. He kicked me out when I was seventeen. I've been working at a coffeeshop and paying my way through art school ever since.”

“I am sorry. Your father is wrong, even if he is a man of God. Love never damns one.”

“Even you?” Dante had asked. Remiel froze.

“I... do not love.”

Dante's eyes sparked. “Is that so? The lwa do. Erzulie Freda has three husbands. Sometimes, they take human lovers in maryaj lwa.” He chuckled. “I always thought it was a stupid idea. The lwa are tempestuous, just like the gods. Why a human would want to involve themselves with one always baffled me. But, seeing you, I can understand why. You are the most glorious thing I've ever seen.”

Remiel blushed madly. “Your words are kind.” He wanted to say how beautiful he found the bold artist, to explain how he wanted to fall to the ground in prayer at Dante's feet. But the words caught in his throat, and he found his mouth hanging open, amazed.

“Why have I never seen an angel before?”

Remiel struggled for words. “We tend to be elusive and keep to ourselves. We do not take on physical form often. Have you ever seen the sparks of light that follow humans?”

“Yes, everyone I've ever seen has one.”

“Those are guardian angels.”

“Oh,” Dante said, surprised. “So is that what you are? My guardian angel?”

“No.”

Dante scrutinized him. “Then why do I feel like I've seen you before? I feel like I know you.” He went back to his sketchbook and thumbed through the pages. Shock registered on his face. “Here,” he said breathlessly, showing Remiel the sketch. Remiel paled upon seeing the picture. It depicted the archangel reaping, face calm as he brandished his scythe, separating a woman's soul from her body. Dante's hands shook and he dropped the sketchbook. Remiel dove and caught it, saving the pictures from the wet ground.

“I drew that after a dream I had last year,” Dante explained, voice shaking. “That's my mother. She died in labor, giving birth to me.” The artist looked at Remiel, questioning. “There was an angel in it. The Angel of Death.”

Remiel felt fear spread like ice across his back. He hated the thought that Dante was afraid of him. He dared look into Dante's eyes, only to find fascination, even thankfulness, dancing there.

“Who are you?” Dante breathed.

“Remiel,” the archangel murmured,“the help of God.”

“Remiel,” Dante said, testing the name. “No wonder you feel so bloody peaceful, if you're the Angel of Death.”

Remiel didn't know what to say. Instead, he looked through the sketches. He was blown away by their beauty: Dante exaggerated anatomy like Michelangelo yet had the romanticism of the Pre-Raphaelites. Scenes of gods, angels, and all deities in-between covered the pages. Urban fey and London's Celtic spirits filled the pages next to voodoo lwa. It was like a journal of what Dante had seen: a gancanagh chain-smoking in the meat-packing district, a troll's skewed reflection in a puddle of gasoline, gargoyles clinging to the London Eye. It was distinctly English and Haitian, an exotic blend of mythologies, one that flowed in Dante's veins, the other adopted.

Dante watched him flip through the sketches. He caught Remiel's hand, making him stop on the picture depicting the archangel. Dante studied the rendition and then looked toRemiel's face. “I got the eyes wrong. And you have an aquiline nose. I have to fix that.” Remiel handed back the sketchbook. Dante settled onto a gravestone and erased the imperfect features, then quickly sketched new ones, peering at Remiel all the while. Remiel found himself self-conscious, something he'd never felt before. Artists favored Gabriel and Michael, never him. He tucked his long white hair behind his ears and blushed, fidgeting with the hem of his cloak.

Dante turned to a new page and peered at Remiel. He put away his charcoal and pulled out a pen from his messenger bag. Remiel felt naked, suddenly conscious of himself. What did Dante think of his tall stature, too tall for a mortal, his unnatural grace and deathly affinity, the alieness that he possessed? He cursed his monkish robes and wished he wore something more human. Remiel closed his wings, unsure.

“I want to sketch you,” Dante said quietly, studying Remiel. “I want to remember you.”

“You- you do?” Remiel whispered. Most shied away from death. Why would this human want to remember him? Still, Dante looked upon him with a kind of reverence, with- did Remiel dare think it?- desire. The artist considered Remiel like one would eye a piece of artwork they wanted to own. Remiel, who had spanned eons, whose true form was vast beyond comprehension, felt small under Dante's gaze. He wanted to be owned. To be possessed. The primal need that filled him sent tremors through him.

“Of course,” Dante breathed, voice heady with unspoken want. Remiel shook at its intensity.

“I- I don't know what to do,” Remiel said, feeling helpless and cursing himself for it.

Dante smiled. Remiel would have murdered for that smile. He cringed at the sudden realization, instantly knowing he would do anything for this child, even something completely against his nature.

“Just be yourself,” Dante whispered. “Relax.”

Remiel did. He unfurled his wings and sunk onto a marble lion, sitting on its back and watching Dante's graceful hands move across the page. Dante sketched his form, ink staining his hands. He stared intently at Remiel. Blushing, Remiel looked to the ferns that skimmed Dante's ankles.

The artist cursed in disbelief. He watched Remiel in wonder. “How are you so beautiful? It's unfair. I can't capture that beauty on a page. No wonder humans invented religion. They can't help but worship God and His creations. You're immaculate, Remiel. Terrifying and perfect. No wonder people die when they see you.”

Remiel winced at the mention of death. “I would never hurt you, Dante-”

“I know that. I've had bad run-ins with immortals, and I can tell which ones mean me harm. You mean me the opposite.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Dante nibbled on the cap of his pen, grinning lazily. “It's your eyes, angel. They speak volumes more than you say.”

Angel, he had called him. Remiel shuddered at the tenderness in Dante's voice. Dante went back to drawing, smile permanent. He glowed, Remiel thought, so alive with life as he sketched furiously. Energy poured off him like rain from a rooftop.

“Call me Remy,” Remiel said.

Dante grinned, amused. “Remy. I like it.”

He sat like that for an hour, for once the subject of a mortal's sketch. Dante kept tearing sheets from his sketchbook, crumpling them up and throwing them in his messenger bag, dissatisfied. After the silence became unbearable, Remiel spoke: “Perhaps I could speak to your father.”

“And tell him what? That in God's eyes, gays all join hands with straights in Heaven and sing kumbayah? He'd never buy that. He'd think you were a demon, that it was a trick.” Dante sighed, reaching into his bag and withdrawing a cigarette and a lighter. He lit it and took a slow drag. “Dad thinks I'mdestined for Hell. Anything I associate with, spirit wise, he considers of the Devil.”

Remiel moved to comfort Dante. Dante withdrew from his touch, cursing. He buried his face in his hands. Remiel's heart stirred. He wanted to draw Dante to his chest and enfold him in his wings, protecting him from the pain of the world.

“I can't do this, Remy. I can't draw you. Look at this.”

Remiel did. All he saw was beauty, a loving depiction of himself. His breath caught in his throat.

“The wings are off, and the proportion's all wrong-”

“It's beautiful. May I- may I have it?”

Dante looked surprised. “Sure, but I don't see why you'd want it.” He took a contemplative drag, looking at the dark clouds overhead. “You must have met all the great artists of history.”

“Yes, but none has ever drawn me.”

Dante rose, putting away his sketchbook and slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I can't see why not,” he whispered. “I've never seen anything so beautiful. Even God Himself must pale in comparison.”

“Don't say such a thing.” Remiel turned his head, embarrassed. He felt an inexorable gravity drawing him to the artist. Dante brought the cigarette to Remiel's mouth. Remieltook a drag, his lips skimming Dante's fingers. Dante stubbed the cigarette on a headstone and threw it onto the ground between them. He took his gloves off and pocketed them, then put his bare hands on Remiel's neck, tracing down to his shoulders and out to the ridges of his wings. Remiel sighed, folding his pinions closed over the artist and enfolding them in the feathery darkness. Thunder rumbled above and a slight rain began. Remiel's wings shielded them from the drizzle.

“I'll say it if it's true,” Dante said. He let his hands slip down Remiel's chest, exposing the milky flesh beneath the neck of his robe. His fingers lingered at Remiel's collarbone. The archangel shivered, the mortal's touch sending thrills to his core. Dante traced circles into his flesh. “You're cold.”

“Side effect of being death,” Remiel breathed. He caught Dante's hands and enfolded them in his own.

“We should do something about that.”

“About being death?” Remiel asked, confused. He meant to push the mortal away, but couldn't bring himself to.

“About the cold...” Dante murmured. He closed the space between them, body pressing into Remiel's like a lock into a key. Remiel felt Dante's arousal against his leg and sucked in his breath. Remiel hardened, lust overcoming him. He panicked, never having felt such need before.

“Dante,” Remiel said roughly. “I can't.” Still, the angel's body didn't obey him. Remiel crushed Dante to him, hands roving down Dante's back. “I can't, but I... I can't help it. Please, don't think less of me.”

“How could I?” Dante asked, drunk off Remiel's beauty. “But you're right. We can't, not yet. Coffee. Coffee will warm you up.” Dante tucked his cheek into Remiel's chest.Remiel shuddered, desire razing him. “Come to Java Junkie tomorrow at 5. I get off work then. Coffee's on me. You can model for me again, and I'll draw something that doesn't suck.”

Remiel nodded, wordless as he fought down the desire that threatened to overwhelm him. “I'd like that,” Remiel said through gritted teeth. His arousal was painful, unused cock hungering.

Dante smiled, untwining himself from Remiel's embrace. “You're a tease, you know that, angel? I know what I'm dreaming of tonight.” And with that, he left, vanishing into the trees like the wind. Remiel had been left with his lingering scent and an insatiable ache.

That ache flared again, rocketing Remiel back to the presence. He winced, trying to catch what Gabriel was saying.

“... and so, the mohel says to the demon, that tail is unkosher-”

“Stop right there, Gabe. This joke is disgusting,” Lailah interrupted.

“What's a mohel?” Shannon asked, innocent. Lailah shook her head, face darkened. Gabriel laughed riotously.

“Remiel, care to enlighten her? Az? You okay there?” Gabriel asked. “You look like you're about to worship the porcelain god.”

“What?” Remiel said.

“You look sick. You okay, sweetie?” Lailah asked.

“I, um.” Remiel cleared his throat. “My thoughts strayed. My apologies.”

“What were you thinking about?” Shannon asked, curious.

“Nothing important. Now, shouldn't we attend to the Book of Life?” Remiel asked, trying to distract them from himself.

“Right,” Gabriel agreed. “That's why we've been waiting for you two all day long. Shall we?” Lailah and Gabriel sat in the boat. Gabriel took a paddle from Remiel and helped him guide the canoe to the massive root system under the Tree of Life. The current carried them between the roots thick as trees, towards the great heart of the Tree of Life.

“It's beautiful,” Shannon said breathlessly, clearly blown away by the tree's magnificence. They came to the hollow interior of the tree. A spiral staircase was carved into its walls, rising up to infinity. Hosts of angels attended to the tree's interior. The inner bark was like birch, living script with words in all languages flowing across it as it wrote itself. For the tree was the Book of Life, and what was written in it was all that had been and was. What could be slept beneath, waiting for the opportune moment to grow.

“That it is,” Remiel agreed.

Shannon held her breath. She steeled herself. “Will it hurt?” she asked softly.

“Only a little,” Lailah said, gentle. Gabriel tied the boat to the dock at the base of the staircase. “Here,” Lailah urged, enfolding Shannon in her arms. They ascended together to the tree's heart. Shannon would commune with the tree, baring her soul to its alien will and noting the names of the dead she was to reap. Remiel, job done, looked to Gabriel.

“I... have a problem, Gabriel.”

Gabriel peered at him in knowing. “And would this certain problem have anything to do with love?”

Remiel startled. “How did you...?”

“It was written all over your face, Remy. Lovesickness. And coming from you! Of all the things I expected to fall in love, you're up there with rocks and prune juice.”

“Those seem rather unromantic, not to mention their utter lack of feelings.”

“Exactly. Now tell me, who's the lucky angel?” Gabriel asked, slapping the Angel of Death on the back in congratulations.

Remiel didn't know how to respond. Gabriel paled. “She is an angel, right? Not a...”

“He's a mortal, Gabriel.”

Gabriel's eyes grew wide as moons.

“You think I'm an idiot, don't you? Hell, I'm a fool.”

“No! No, Remiel, even bloody Samael can't keep it in his pants when it comes to humans. I just... expected something different from you. You're a traditional angel, celibate. To hear that you've fallen for someone, much less a mortal, is surprising. I swear I won't tell another soul.”

The two paddled away in silence, Gabriel brimming with questions but keeping them to himself. Remiel couldn't stand the quiet.

“I'm meeting him for coffee,” Remiel admitted. “He works there.”

“Wonderful!” Gabriel said enthusiastically, glad for the detail her brother had spared. “Oh, but you need my approval.”

“What?”

“As your older sis, it's my duty to ensure you're involved with a proper man. Which is why we're going to his coffeeshop now and I'm scoping him out.”

“Really, Gabriel. That isn't necessary-”

“Ah ah ah! Of course it is. And I'm dying for a caramel machiatto. You get a discount, right, because the barista's your boyfriend?”

“He's not my- my lover.”

Gabriel snorted. “Remy, I know the look of blue balls when I see it. And you had a major case of them earlier. He'll be your something soon enough. Nothing could resist you.”

Remiel was baffled. “What does that mean?”

“God made you so beautiful that souls are ripped from their bodies when they see your true form, Remiel. As if this boy could withstand you.”

Remiel blushed, thinking of Dante. “I don't want him to desire me just for my... my beauty.” He reached into his pocket, withdrawing Dante's rolled-up sketch. He unfurled it and showed it to Gabriel. “He has such talent, such a presence, I nearly lost it, Gabriel. I could barely control myself.”

Gabriel examined the picture. “That's quite some artistry. I've never seen the likes of it before. He draws like a man possessed.”

“He drew me,” Remiel said in amazement. “No one draws me. Ever.”

Gabriel grinned. “Apparently, this mortal does.”

“I don't know what to do.”

“I do. It's simple. Go to him. Order coffee. Let him take you out on a date as he proposed.” They crossed through the Gate into the border isles and came to the banks of the rainforest. Gabriel summoned a portal to London, donned a dapper blue pantsuit, silk scarf, her catseye sleek as a fox, Ruby Woo MAC lipstick on point, and stepped through. Remiel stuck with his designer blue Armani and entered. It was raining over Big Ben, streets bustling with umbrellas fighting the wind. Gabriel grinned deviously, taking wing as Remiel followed. Invisible to mortals, they soared overhead to Java Junkie. It was tucked between an ancient Anglican church and a rowdy pub, with peeling paint and obscure music floating out into the rain. The pierced, punk, and fabulous spilled out onto the streets from the coffeeshop, standing and sitting under the awning as they laughed and chatted, clutching mismatched, chipped cups.

Remiel landed, soaked. He welcomed the storm, feeling fresh and purified. Gabriel had allowed the rain to skim off him harmlessly, dry and immaculate as always. He was put together and in control. Remiel looked like he felt: a hot mess.

“I don't think this is a good idea...” Remiel muttered, fear pricking him like needles. He tied his long starlight hair back into a ponytail and wrung it out, nervous.

Gabriel thumped him on the back. Remiel coughed. “Cojones, Remy. Don't forget you have them. It's just one adorable, puny human.”

“I feel like a gnat under his gaze. What could I possibly have to offer him? Why would he ever be interested?-”

“Shh, you're over-thinking things.”

“I am, aren't I. Lord, I'm...”

“What?”

“Scared.”

“That's natural. Embrace it. Just be yourself, Rem. There's no reason he wouldn't love you. Now come on- let's get out of the rain.”

They entered. The smell of coffee grounds overpowered the shop. Remiel honed in on the young man behind the counter. Dante was busy preparing a spiced chai latte. His braids were tied back in a knot and his eyes focused intently on the drink, skimming foam off the top. He wore a black hoodie, skinny Shanas, and combat boots, silver studs sparking in his ears. Remiel trembled, desire flaring in his core. He could smell the spice of Dante's skin, his faint cologne wafting through the coffeeshop.

“He's beautiful,” Gabriel murmured. “No wonder you've fallen for him.” Gabriel removed her glamour and entered the line. Remiel kept his glamour on, invisible to all mortals save Dante. He lingered in the shadows, unsure. “A caramel machiatto- keep the change,” Gabby said brightly, turning to wink at Remiel. Dante processed his order.

“Hey,” said a buxom blonde punk, starry-eyed over Remiel. She looked up into his eyes in wonder. “Wanna buy me a drink?”

“Not particularly,” Remiel said. The girl shied away. The archangel barely noticed. He only had eyes for Dante.

“That'll be four pounds...” Dante said, handing Gabriel his drink.

Gabriel took a sip. “Mmm. Heavenly. Say, Dante, is it?”

Dante raised his brow. “Yeah?”

“I have a favor to ask you. You see that gentleman over there?” Gabriel said, indicating Remiel. Remiel ducked his head, cheeks flushing. He heard Dante draw a sharp breath.

“I do,” Dante said, voice rough.

“He wants to treat you to a drink.”

“I don't get off my shift yet-”

“You do now!” Gabriel hopped over the counter and took on the barista's duties. She began bubbily processing orders in a flurry. “Consider it a well-deserved vacation. Now what'll you take?”

“I can't-”

“Your boss is asleep in the back room. As far as she knows, you'll have been working this whole time. Would you really deny an archangel like me the joy of a working man's life?”

Remiel dared look at Dante. He was smiling, taken aback. “I'll take black coffee then.”

“Good. Then take your coffee and this cappuccino over to Remiel. Enjoy! Next customer...”

Dante approached, the sway of his hips like a jaguar. He balanced the cappuccino in the palm of his hand, grinning. “Hey, angel. I see you've got yourself a wingman.”

Remiel blushed, taking the drink from Dante. “He's my brother. You'll have to excuse him. Gabriel can't control himself.”

Dante laughed. “Gabriel, eh? She looks like she's having the time of her life.”

“He is easily amused.”

“And you, Remiel? Are you easily entertained?”

Remiel considered his question. “I enjoy watching things.”

Dante walked to a dimly lit corner and sank into a leather wing-back chair. Remiel followed suit. “So do I,” Dante agreed. “That's why I want to be an artist. I love the details of life. Everything's so immaculate in their creation, even broken things. Like stained glass windows. All the pieces fit together like a puzzle and create something whole. By themselves, they can't stand, but brought together, they're beautiful.”

Remiel sipped his cappuccino and licked the foam from his lips. “You enjoy stained glass works?”

“Oh hell yeah. Tiffany, Pre-Raphaelite designs. I love them all. I want to be a stained glass artist and open my own studio. See?” He rummaged through his messenger bag, withdrawing his sketchbook. Dante looked at Remiel, amber eyes unsure. “What do you think of my new design?” he asked quietly, flipping to a sketch. It depicted Remiel kneeling in prayer, scythe draped over his back, skulls and flowers at his feet. A scroll with the words “MEMENTO MORI” hung in the air above him. Self-conscious, Dante closed the sketchbook. “I couldn't stop thinking of you last night,” he admitted. “So I drew this.”

Remiel's breaths grew heavy. “I cannot stop thinking of you either,” Remiel said, voice heady. He reached across the table and took Dante's gloved hands in his. “Everything you create is beautiful, Dante. Unlike any human's work I've seen before. You will go far, and you will not be left wanting after your dreams.”

“Thanks,” Dante murmured, running his fingers over Remiel's palms.

They kissed, rain fell outside as the sweet smells of Remiel’s frankincense cologne and Gabriel’s gardenia perfume mixed with cappuccinos, the gargoyles on London’s eaves and the cobblestones pooled with oil rainbows.

And like that, Remiel broke the ban on angels falling for mortals, kissed Dante, and set in line a series of events

That would make all angels

Fall.

#remiel #angel romance #angel x human #archangel remiel #archangel gabriel #lailah #angel lailah #eve #chavah #samael #novel excerpt #biblical fanfiction #biblical fiction #urban fantasy

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cymorilcinnamonroll · 1 month ago

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Ibis - A Book of Enoch Watcher x Human Romance

In the Land of Nod fruits were plentiful, if bruised, and fragrant rains often poured. We watered our gardens, our trees, through a maze-like irrigation system that Forbearer Adam had taught Grandmason Cain, and Cain passed down to us. I recited my morning song, invoking my patron goddess Asherah:

“Oh, the fabled Cainites— whom Yah’s favored Sethites hate! Our men of renown, bound to the earth and her green yields, worshipping at the altar of strange gods. Mammon— industry; Moloch— empire; the port wine-stain feathers shaped like wings of rawhide upon our scarlet backs! ‘Industrious Cainites, cavort for us— wilt thou part the bloodied rose?’ the kings of foreign lands plead, “Dance the whip and flaming sword! Show us what sin is sweet on your tongue. Kiss away our sorrows and wipe away our tears, sweet Kohonet daughters of Cain!”

I accompanied the morning ritual to Asherah as dawn broke with the clash of my cymbals, naked at her altar enriching her sanctuary of beauty and fertility. My magick rippled throughout Nod, blessing both harvest and land, and I went to my palatial bedroom connected to Asherah’s inner chambers to ready for the morning.

“Sweet Lady, give me patience to deal with my little cousins, Istehar and Naamah,” I sighed, making a Tawu over my heart with thumb and middle fingers interlocked in an X. Lazily, I admired my wing-shaped birthmark in the mirror as I clothed myself in a gray layered dress, stitched with pomegranates interred within black, Egyptian glass beads. My aerial port wine-stains were shaped like an owl’s, spread from my elbows in fine feathery traces up to the nape of my neck. It was the fabled mark us Cainites bore; but to keep off misfortune or to attract it, I was never sure.

“I hate early mornings,” I sighed, “I have a feeling in my bones that the foundations of our world will shake. Perhaps High Priest Elizander is gambling heaven and earth with that errant angel again? I hope papa has not lost more money over craps or scarab races with them, dear Lady!” Papa owned a great temple and ten-thousand-cubit estate on the outskirts of Ken ha Gadol; it was the Kingdom of Nod’s finest palace, save his brother’s matriarchal sanctuary the Kohonet, ruled under the thumb of the wizened Rahab.

“Oh crap, I was distracted! I forgot the last part in my invocation for rain,” I sighed, preparing myself as I sang an old song I had learned from Nod’s High Priestess, Rahab, Queen of the Kohonet:

Mammon, empire! They are men of renown, the Canaanites! Men of giant stature, men of sages and might— their women of beauty, science, and song! As comely and brave as bulls the maidens all, as sandstone skinned as the great wind-worn sculptures in the desert!

I was summoning the old gods of the blood, as was my duty as Lady of Ken ha Gadol, and the spirits scraped at the back of my skull like a crow pecking pomegranate seeds. My patriotism swelled, and with war gathering on the horizon I shrilly cried the last verse in a toga that held both a ripe fig and bottle of wine, ready to loose red juice and blood at any moment, beating my breast in a frenzy that would make the First Architect Cain proud:

Life in Nod is sweet, as sweet as gristle on bone. Scorned of all Creation the Canaanites are, yet blessed by the Sitra Achra! Watch our demons cavort! Sing of our many conquests! Name the line of Kohonet priestesses and kings! Atop snowy Mount Zephon, watch as we topple the sky!

Only the Assyrians could rival our cruelty; the Egyptians, our majesty; the Minoans, our mystery.

I sent breakfast to Elizander as I wandered out to Asherah’s orchard at our palace at the base of Mount Zephon. Alisha of Chavah’s seed I was, she who was Samael’s beloved; I was a Kohonet-trained priestess, formed in the crucible of sisterhood, of blood, bark, and wine. Under Queen Rahab my birthmark had blossomed, and the secrets of Asherah— as well as serving the nation— had been drummed into my head like the thump of a war-drum.

“How is breakfast, my Alisha?” papa asked while a servant brought us garlic, herb omelets, challah, and dates. I drizzled honey on a loaf, drinking it down with some saffron tea. The fine brick walls of our home had high ceilings with windows made of costly Egyptian glass that, when opened, let drafts of sweet oasis air in. “Wonderful, papa. Say, does the High Priest have need of me today?” I asked, yawning.

Papa smiled. He had a face scarred by a Sethite prince’s sword, but was otherwise greying and handsome. After mama’s passing, papa took a harem, yet never remarried—she had been his one true love. I tried to stay clear of his consorts.

“Keep an eye on the Watcher atop Mount Zephon, Elizander says.”

I nodded, my mood souring. Things were changing, east of Eden: Watchers made camp atop mountains by the smatterings of cities and towns that ringed King Ahrand’s country, his holdings, like glimmering rubies. Cymballed Naamah led them, alongside peerless, virginal Istehar, with their lovers Azazel and Samyaza. Oh, how I despised my impish, coquettish cousins!

The Watcher of our town, Baraquiel, had set up camp on Mount Zephon, above the ornate, carved cave where hoary High Priest Elizander so divined. We entertained my Uncle, King Ahrand and Cousins Naamah and Istehar often; I did not have to work the land: I could have gone into the Kohonet like smiling Naamah and gorgeous, virginal Istehar if I wanted.

“Sister Alisha, come dance with us! Your hair is the reddest of us all, like flame across an amber night. We shall teach you the secrets of Lady Lilith and her starry Lilim, where there are men of pleasure and Watchers to delight our every wicked craving. Why, just yesterday Azazel crushed malachite into a fine powder to paint my bronzed lids, and for Istehar, Samyaza fashioned a bracelet of onyx and polished jewels to affix over her tanned wrist," Naamah had burbled; they were always begging me to join them.

I shook my head, remembering their incessant prattling last week— oh, goddess forbid I had to play hostess to them again!

I sat idly by after having finished harvesting palms, fruits, and nuts, as my labor on the estate farm was done for the day and my midwife’s herbs dutifully replenished; Elosha, my childhood best friend, was to give birth the town over next week according to her moon chart. And without warning there came a great wind racking up golden dust in the damp soil, shaving scruff from the wheat. I looked beside me to find that I was not alone at my favorite fretting place; the Worry Rock, as I called it. No, there was an angel, an angel of might and of

handsome mien to boot; he wore skin in midnight’s particular hue, eyes that shone like lapis lazuli, and was decorated with luxurious curls of white-turquoise hair that fell to his waist in braids. The angel held an astrolabe in his hands, charting the early morning stars that had stubbornly refused to set.

“To what do I owe the honor, introverted Watcher?” I teased. Our town misfit angel, Baraquiel, kept to himself; it was said he abhorred women and had refused every temptation Samyaza and Azazel had lured him to the Kohonet with. As for us humans, Baraquiel would only talk in whispers to High Priest Elizander. The fact that I was, in my dirtied state, the first woman he had probably laid eyes on in years, mattered very much to me.

I had my vanity, after all.

“Rain is coming today. Lightning strikes. It boils my blood, stirs my wings to ride aback the wings. That is the problem of sin, comely daughter of Chavah— Azazel’s wings are withered, having strayed too far from the Father, and Samyaza rots not long behind.” I crossed my legs, admiring his wings— ibis, like I saw on trips to Egypt with papa. “And yet, Samael and Lilith are still whole, and they have flown long after leaving Yah’s paternal court,” I pronounced.

Baraquiel winced. “Do not speak to me of the ways of God: you are a heathen. What would you know of my Father?” His inquisition rent my heart into ire and iron, and I rebuked him.

“Quite a lot, actually: I’m a Kohonet-trained qodeshah. I tend the sanctuary of Asherah, and nurse her sacred groves. I midwife babes, heal the sick and heal the lame with my sacred herbs and unguents, dancing for our kingdom’s rains.” Baraquiel smiled. His teeth gleamed sharply, his

midnight skin shining starlike with dew. “Isn’t qodeshah what Father’s humans call whores?” I winced. “That is not the heart and soul of our practice, Baraquiel. Indeed, we tend to the men

once a year at the Festival of Atargatis, turning away neither ugly nor old, sick nor poor from our patient breasts. That is how Lilith and Chavah love: given freely, humbly, like mothers— their suitors as if their own kin. The Sethites gossip a lot, but their lies about Cainites are rumors: they hold neither sting nor vinegar.”

Baraquiel twisted one of his intricate braids, laden with bronze beads. “So, then, would you not turn me away?” I blushed, and Baraquiel looked at me hungrily, like a lion waiting to pounce.

“It is many moons until the Festival of Atargatis…but I would be happy to show you Asherah’s grove.”

“You want me, Alisha. It is etched in sinful Cainite daughter’s bones to tempt angels. Why I signed that pact with damnable Azazel is repugnant to me. ‘Take a wife,’ he said, but the Kohonet was stifling— all those oudh-clad ladies barely clothed? Not like you, Alisha. That dress— it suits you well. Stately. Modest. Good for farming— good, in fact, for flying.”

“I do not want you!” I blushed, but I was certain he always saw me admiring him from my palace chambers as he made his daily walk to High Priest Elizander, where they gambled over dice; playing craps with a cantankerous, wheezing elder was not how I imagined I would spend eternity, if given the chance. Once, Baraquiel and father had raced scarab beetles. Papa lost and refused to see Baraquiel again; I could surmise papa forfeited quite a sum of money. In the morning Baraquiel appeared jolly at Elizander’s door with casks of fine Minoan wine, and by then it was not hard to guess where papa’s money went.

Baraquiel smirked. “You are a qodeshah, my Alisha. A heathen. It does not matter what you want, does it? It only matters what Azazel and Naamah deem you fit for.”

I scowled. “You are coarser than sand, Baraquiel, and are ignorant of our ways. I’ll let it be known that I have never done a dance with a Watcher.”

“Not even shy Samyaza?”

“That lunatic is just pining after closed-leg, prissy Istehar! I can’t stand the lot of them! Naamah is spoiled, and Istehar is a shrew.”

“And I cannot stand my fallen brothers. So what does that make us, dearest Alisha?”

“In a pickle.”

“I like to eat pickles; they are one of humanity’s finest creations. That does not sound so bad.”

We were leaning against each other by now, some sort of animal magnetism drawing us together, or simply us bonding over both being irascible, ornery bastards. I was not too sure which it was.

“Where does an angel get pickles from, Baraquiel?” “Elizander makes them. You really should talk to him more. He is wise. In fact, just yesterday he told me how to ingest Syrian rue so as to experience strange visions.”

“You’re doing drugs with an old man?” I laughed. “What did you mean, then, when you said ‘my dress was made for flying’?”

Baraquiel smiled. “Shall I show you, Alisha?” He lifted me gently but sturdily into the air as we set off flying. The air was sweet, warm, and thick, the clouds damp but not clinging, and his great ibis wings spread out like war flags.

“I could get used to this, Baraquiel.”

“Call me Baraq.”

We took to playing craps with Elizander.

Over time, I built up stamina to visit Baraquiel’s camp atop Mount Zephon. Always, we went flying, and over time, he fell from the stars for me like Lucifer struck down from heaven, in love with a comely daughter of Cain. We worshipped Asherah and danced for Samael, and made love for Lilith and Chavah. I found myself with child by the third month, and Baraquiel dropped his pickle mid-bite out of sheer joy.

“I will have to be a little more careful when you fly, then.”

The rains came that night with a loud thunderstorm, filling Nod’s wells for years to come. The canals were brimming with fertile waters, freshly churned soil, and loam. Baraquiel, the angel of lightning, was like a weathervane, the winds responding to his moods. We made plans to marry, and Rahab blessed us on our first journey to the Kohonet together. Naamah was ripe with her second child, and Azazel lingered at the edges like a black ink-stain, scheming.

That night, Baraquiel’s feathers began to fall out, one by one, like snow atop Mount Zephon.

By the fifth month, my husband had Elizander cauterize his dead ibis wings from his back.

“Where I’m going, as father to the fruit of my seed, I won’t need any marks of my old pact with Yah,” Baraquiel simply said, caressing my swollen womb as I cried over his lost bit of heaven.

Samyaza had finally had enough of Istehar refusing his advances; she asked him the Secret Name of Yah, escaping his assault by flying to the stars. Yah, taking pity on one of the Cainites for what might have been the first time in eternity, changed Istehar into a constellation. They came to call her the Star Maiden. Samyaza hung himself the next morning, and Yah made his death a starry tomb; you may know him as Kesil the Hangman. What it took for an angel to die, I did not wish to know.

The Nephilim, our children with the Watchers, grew fast if they were conceived out of lust, not out of love. Baraquiel and I heard rumors every day that they were giants, full-grown in a year, and Azazel and Naamah were setting their scions and the Kohonet’s other half-angel offspring as lords over our enemy the Sethites. And then the Nephilim turned on Nod.

First the Nephilim ate the cattle. Then they ate the sheep. Finally, the goats and pigs. When even that was not enough, the Nephilim turned on man. Azazel and Rahab had lost control, and the Land of Nod fell into misrule and infamy. Elizander, papa, his consorts and servants, Baraquiel, Elusha’s family and I fled to Egypt, carrying as many riches as we could to start life anew, and just in time at that, for Raphael was sent to bind the Watchers hand and foot in Dudael.

After that, Samael sent a flood, a great drowning of his son Grandmason Cain’s land, to wipe the Nephilim off the face of the earth.

All but one.

I gave birth to a girl with ibis wings, lapis lazuli eyes, amber skin, and red hair: Sarai. Elusha was her godmother, and we cut her wings like the Sethites circumcise their children.

Baraquiel has taken to dyeing his white-turquoise hair with henna. We work as scribes and gardeners, and I serve as a priestess of Qadesh— the name of Asherah in this foreign land. Every year I serve my goddess. I turn away no man, young or old,

Greek or Egyptian or Sethite, African or Assyrian. But it is a bitter service, and all I can do is think of Baraquiel, my dear husband, as the strangers ruthlessly spear into me from above.

One day, in our large house by the Nile, Sarai was playing with seashells, and I looked over at Baraquiel— still beautiful, but more mortal than he had ever been— and I squeezed his hand, asking him “Was it worth it? Leaving Heaven, leaving your holy post atop Mount Zephon, taking a heathen bride?”

Baraquiel smiled like it was the most obvious, pleasing answer in the world. “My darling, beautiful Alisha, is it worth it to spend months brining a pickle? Does rendering the common, humble cucumber into a treasure for the tongue not take some patience sacrificed, and tempers tried? Are you not my greatest service of all?”

And with that, we kissed, drank wine, and called over our darling little Sarai to enjoy a plate of dates. She pecked her papa on the cheek and told us stories about her doll. When I looked into Baraquiel’s eyes I saw the crackle of joyous lightning.

Love, true love, is often hard to find. But I lived in the Land of Nod once, wiped from the face of the earth, and I myself won a husband from the stars. Strange, us forgotten Cainites. Foreign in our magic, sinful in our ways.

Proud people, though, the memory of Nod.

And for Asherah?

I dance.

#book of enoch #baraquiel #watchers #anunnaki #grigori #angelology #angel x human #angel romance #angel oc #fallen angel #biblical fiction #biblical fanfiction #azazel #samyaza #short story #fiction #original fiction

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