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peachyteabuck · 5 years ago

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saints can’t help me now

summary: I will tell you the mystery of the woman and of the beast that carries her, whose name has not been written in the book of life from the foundation of the world. Kings give their power and authority to the beast, and those who are with him are the called and chosen and faithful.

pairing: forest god!thor x reader

words: 4,642

trigger warnings: dub con, attempted sexual assault, vague biblical allusions that seem quite out of place in such a pagan context

notes/other: this was done for @darkficsyouneveraskedfor ‘s in the dark challenge + my prompt was “shh, it’s okay. it’ll only hurt a little.” this is also a part of @spacelabrathor‘s forest god anthology bc te amo forest god thor.

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

There are drops of truth in every legend, however flimsy or warped. A lie doesn’t come from nowhere, lore isn’t rolled off tongues without pretext. Little children don’t lie in their sleep, in the middle of the night; they don’t lie without purpose (or the illusion of one). Behind every threat is certainty, behind every falseness a reality.

You’re smart enough to understand this, to trace the oaks back to their roots. When a villager begged for refuge from a storm and whispered to you to heed warning about some deity that had been cast away from his throne, you listened – and never traveled too deep into the deep woods. Gods are never meant to roam such an unholy place as this, which its ravenous terrain and its isolating nature and its punishing climate. Gods prefer the busy cities, the lovelier farms, perhaps even their own homes on a planet you don’t know of. An almighty being? In a space such as this? You merely laugh at the thought. Such an image is not one that inspires hope or wisdom or rebirth, rather one of a spirit thrown from its rightful place, rightful palace. Such a spirit would be vengeful, vindictive, deceitful, despiteful, unprincipled, unforgiving.

When a merchant took your money and told you of a divine man who hunted without care, you listened – and kept your cat in whenever the sun was not at her highest. Woodland creatures you rehabilitated and travelers looking for rest were sequestered within your walls until you felt it was safe. If you had to leave your home (as you often did) you refused to travel alone, preferring to starve than die at the hands of some ruthless beast. The light of day, the heat from a fire, the illumination from a torch – you trusted it all to keep you from a harm you felt was preventable.

When a fortune teller read your cards and spoke of a demiurge who threatened the peace of your home, you listened – and used every moment of every step as a way to prevent conflict. You gave what you could of whichever soul asked for it, you never disturbed the ground, you kept to yourself. Your voice remained undersized, your movements diminutive. A camp four miles away called you wee, the fortune teller called you cautious, you called it survival.

But none of that, nothing you had done or prepared or pushed to the forefront of your mind seemed to matter as you were being chased through the thickest set of trees you’d ever seen by a pack of wolves (werewolves, no less) who had spotted a way to broaden their gene pool and stalked you til dusk. Each press of your bare feet to the hardened ground forced bits of bark and bone into the callous flesh; normally you’d wail at such anguish, but the blood pumping in your ears drowns out any of your nerve’s attempts at reaching your bran. While you wince at each point of contact, the pain never seems to come.

From behind you their howls of laughter hit the trees and then your eardrums, a reminder that for them this is a game. Their idea of said game going poorly is if they do not catch you, if they cannot drag you back to their settlement as a token of their hard work.

It seems as quickly as your hunt for food had gone sour you’re plucked from the freezing ground and tossed into a barren field, slammed into the ground as your shoulders continue to rise and while your heart continues to beat at a rabbit’s pace, your eyes moving faster than the organ as they take in the scene in front of them.

Your thoughts are quick, like the blood in your veins.

Rolling hills. Crops. Yellow Crops. Deep yellow crops. Corn? Dead crops. Still cold. No snow. Yes ice. Stones, under you. Small stones. Broken stones. Bad dirt. Bad crops. Bad yield. No settlements. Sky dark. Feet hurt. Still cold. Feet really hurt.

The distinct sound of a boot digging into the ground makes you turn around, knife in your corset drawn with a shaking, aching hand.

In front of you, a man. A man in shoes meant for winter. A man dressed in dark clothes. A man with a large chest that rises slowly, slowling, slower. A man with golden skin, as deep as the flora around you. long, dirty beard. A man with long, dirty hair. A man with a set of horns that curl like a ram but peak like the blade in your palm. A man who towers over you. A man who looks less like a man as your eyes focus, but his form doesn’t become clearer.

The man is the first to speak, his lips thick and turned up into a sinister looking smile.

“What’s a little thing like you strolling alone in these woods?” His voice flows like honey with each step of gravel as he circles you. You’ve seen vultures spot prey with less purpose as his gruff laughs bring thick clouds of condensation, which fill the air between you and him. “Big, mean wolves prowl these very woods, looking for cute little things like you to prey on.”

You try to swallow what little spit remains in your dry mouth, but it seems the only thing in your throat is a thick knot of fear. Stuck in place from terror alone, each cell that makes up your body is more frozen than the ice hanging from the bare branches above you.

“I- “you’re momentarily distracted by a twig snapping in the distance. “I’m not that small!” The man (if he even is a man) laughs, loud enough to make you flinch (of course that’s all I can do, you curse yourself. Can’t run away, but can flinch at some fucking laughter.) “In these forests you are. You’re a pretty little toy for all the packs that try to stake their claim here. It’s useless, they’ll never succeed, but that sure doesn’t stop them from trying.”

Your heart beats faster than you’ve ever felt before, each painful expansion of your ribcage syncing with the blood pounding in your ears. “Wh-what happened to them?” He cocks an eyebrow. “What happened to who?”

You speak again, a little louder. “What happened to the packs, why haven’t they laid claim to this territory?”

His broad chest shakes as he chuckles at your insolence. “Because I already have.”

Your heart quickens again. “But you’re only one man,” another twig snap, another sound ignored as a different kind of fear rises in your abdomen. “How can you overpower those powerful packs, they’ve formed a coalition – the village hasn’t stopped talking about it – there’s at least a hundred of them altogether, I-”

An answer comes after a beat of heavy silence, though the tension of waiting seems better than the truth that comes all too quickly. “Because yappy puppies can’t usurp a god,” he hisses.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck.

Thor, the god you’ve been petrified of since you were a child, has been the guard of this forest and everything in it for a millennium. In like fashion to other sprawling hills and tall trees, he beckons in the seasons and calms the bears into hibernation and tells the snow when to melt. Thor is the life of the forest, attuned to the air every living breathes day in and day out. Yet he’s incomparable to his benevolent siblings, hungrier and more desperate and willing to throw away his duties to sink his jowls into anything unpardonable. This god is jaded, exhausted of the mind-numbing monotonous work of running the home of so many creatures; like knife dropped in the dirt, he threatens even the ones who step careful as marksmen watch their targets.

For a few moments you think your mouth will release a quip, a sarcastic response that would get you killed, or worse. Somehow your lips stay still, warming as each pant releases hot, white puffs into the cold night air.

There’s fear in your eyes and it permeates the air around you. The god’s nostrils flare as the pheromones hit his nose. In a far corner of your brain you wonder what it smells like – such a strong emotion. Is it thick and sweet? Does it coat his tongue the same of when you bake fresh bread? Or is it deep and revolting – the smell of one’s soul decomposing before the corresponding body’s gone cold.

He steps closer.

You wince. “Please- “

He laughs like he’s watched a child fall to the ground in a field. “What? Are you scared?”

The word leaves his lips much slower than the others, like thick syrup in his mouth. Guess your fear is a much sweeter scent than expected.

“Should I not be?” The defiance in your voice comes like the wolf that bursts through the thinning trees behind you.

With the air knocked out of your lungs and each muscle stunned into inertness, there’s not much you can do but watch the god as you’re dragged away while two wolves trail behind you.

The grey sunlight fades as the flora becomes thicker, and for a hundred or so yards you feel as if your life is crumbling around you. But soon with the shadows from the trees comes the realization of familiarity.

Their faces – their snouts, eyes, ears, fur – they’re one you’d seen before. They’re the same ones from the small fairy circle down the way from your cabin, where you’d been trying to find something to eat besides dry mint leaves and crunchy bread.

These aren’t the wolves from the coalition near the village, these aren’t those nasty wolves who steal and plunder and take without end, these aren’t the wolves who chased you into the arms of the god who previously stood before you.

This is something worse…so much worse.

You’ve housed some of them, their yellow eyes and pink snouts have been fixtures of your spare room – you’ve stitched their paws and rubbed salve into their poison ivy rashes and brushed matts from their thick fur.

As one of them jumps on top of you – one you recognize from the scar you’d helped heal after a hawk had attempted to take out his eye – you can feel another pry your arms flat above you and two others hold your legs apart.

His long, wet tongue traces from your shoulder to your temple, his snout breathing hot air onto your feverish skin.

“I’ve been waiting to do this,” his voice is muffled, as if you’re talking to a person resting at the bottom of the sea. “Oh, I’ve been waiting to do this since I saw you and your brow furrowed with worry at that wound the wicked bird left upon me.”

He nudges under your jaw, grazing his sharp teeth across the fragile skin above your jugular as he pants.

If your hands were free, if your lips could move, you’d push him away and call him some mutt in heat, spit in his face and kick him away and run until you could not see the wretched creatures and they could not see you and the distance would make you forget everything that had and would happen and you never would have to think of their paws clawing at your body again and…

And…

“Stay the fuck away from her,” the god from before snarls from behind his teeth. The wolves, now thrown more than a hundred yards away from you, are nearly frozen in fear and realization that their plan has taken a toll for the worst. Your hands dig into the earth in an attempt to gain footing, but you can barely hold yourself up on your elbow as your vision spins. “If I find you again I will rip your heart from your thoracic cavity and leave you all to be found by the rest of your pitiful kind, do you understand?”

The wolves do not nod, but they also do not stay. Within an instant, you find yourself blessedly alone and then cursedly close to the very thing you fear the most.

“Why don’t I take you back home?” Thor whispers, watchful as you finally pick yourself up from the mud and moss. Bits of twigs and leaves and crushed bugs litter the light fabric, but you make no effort to remove it from your person – none of that matters when he locks eyes with you, blown pupils glittering with something you can’t place.

Still, with chest heaving and hands shaking, you lead him back to your homestead.

It’s not a long trek through the woods, yet Thor’s breath is audible like a deer sprinting from a pack of canids. You question nothing, though, absolutely nothing as you lead him on the winding, invisible path that leads you less than a stone’s throw away from the entrance.

You don’t say anything as you pull away, not a promise nor gratitude nor acknowledgement of his actions. The silence from you is met with Thor tugging your back to his front and wrapping your arms around you.

“I think you should thank me,” he coos. In the window of your dwelling is your cat, eyes wide in fear as she paces. She knows something is wrong, something bad is happening. But she doesn’t know how to fix it. “For protecting you.”

Some parts of you – maybe a few ribs, the bottom of your spine, your dry mouth – know what he wants. Behind your eyes you see images of you, him, your large bed. Of your small, begotten frame under his large form as he takes what he desires.

Some part of your brain, the logical side, knows you should feel fearful at this massive beast laying you down onto your worn, soft sheets. The other part, though, feels a particular heat flood your center and between your legs.

“And what is it that comprises such appreciation?” you ask, still facing your home as the god lingers behind you. Your breath – already shaky and shallow – hitches as one of his clawed fingers pushes aside your thick hair to expose the smooth skin of your neck. He places such small, light kisses there that for a moment you believe it was simply whispers of wind from the night, but once sharpened teeth graze your heartbeat you’re aware of the affections being his.

“Oh, little pet,” at his words your eyes shut on their own accord, and your bottom lip finds itself between your top and bottom teeth in the same fashion. “We both know what I want.”

You gulp, trying to find verbal footing as he begins to kiss down the back of your neck to the top of your spine. For a moment you try to speak, but it seems with each attempted sentence his hands move closer and closer to undoing the ties that keep your shift from falling off of you.

The god leads you into your home with a large hand pressed into the small of your back, and into your bedroom as if he had been there before, as if he had memorized the hallways in your home from years of spending time there; as if he was some constant fixture of your household.

The yards and yards worth of fabric from blankets and pillows alike have only ever smelled like you; pockets of your pesky familiar here and there maybe, but nothing that cannot be overpowered by a good night’s rest. It’s a comfort after a long day, something familiar and comforting.

As Thor lowers himself onto the edge of your bed you fear the stench of him will never leave you. A candle of doubt in you wonders if this is a bad thing.

With no hardship he pulls you to him, like a suitor inviting a debutante to be a partner in a waltz – though, this feels less like a dance as each second passes, your heavy breathing akin to a kidnapping than some public displays unadulterated affection.

“It’s cold out here in these woods,” he whispers to you. His hot breath sends shivers down your spine as his hands pet over your shaking form. “I must admit, it would be nice to have a toasty little thing like you to help keep me warm in such a chill.”

You shiver, hoping this behemoth does not mean what you think he means. Alas, as he pushes your long, wild hair to the side to expose the tender skin of your neck – your wildest fears bubble to the surface of your flesh. It’s his hands, so calloused they feel like bark, that manhandle you in the gentlest way possible into a position that makes your face burn hotter than a bonfire.

You’re in his lap now, spine pressed to sternum with him towering over you. For a moment you feel safe in his embrace, his larger-than-life stature making you feel like some protected child. It isn’t until he’s tearing at your clothes with a loud rrrrrrrip that you understand how little this creature truly cares for you. Still, it’s hard not to feel like some fragile, blown-glass vase from the village beyond the mountains, where boys with similarly rough, burnt hands create the most beautiful little sculptures you wish you could afford; an object of which is revered and magnificent, but an object of which holds neither agency nor uniqueness to the rest of the pretty things surrounding it.

It doesn’t occur, in that very moment, that there is no way this god would be cold in the thick of winter – not with heat radiating from him akin to your cat’s fur after being warmed by a particularly warm beam of sunlight. But the deity doesn’t have much need for the truth, not when he’s got your soaked cunt free from its increasingly uncomfortable confines and is tracing the slick up and down the lips between your trembling thighs.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he coos like a mother lying to her child while pulling a rose thorn from a tiny, smooth foot. “It’ll only hurt a little"

Thor’s hands are huge already, but now they seem omnipresent as he pets over your form. Part of you – the sensible part, the part that guided you through being banished from your family and made you carve out a piece of this expansive, soul-crushing forest – that wants to, or at least wants to try to, push him away; tell him no, stop, please, I’ll do anything.

But nothing, nothing but desperate whimpers, ones you wish were from displeasure, leave your lips.

“You know, gods can still starve,” you gulp as the short, wiry hair that patterns his jaw rubs against the skin of your neck and shoulders. “The fish from rivers and boars from the deeper parts of my forest quiet the growling in my gut, but there is another hunger I need satiated.”

You remain silent as before, fearful a protest would make your periled situation that much worse for pitiful little you.

He grips between your legs, palm flat against the hottest part of you, his own hand rough against your own silky folds. As you squeak from the contact Thor laughs deep in his broad chest, leaning down to nibble at the edge of your hot ear. “This piece of fruit will do,” you gasp as a single, thick finger enters your dripping heat. “I love a good juicy peach. You’re absolutely dripping for me, aren’t you?”

Again, he is met with silence. Never one to be deterred, he slips another finger into you. “Humans are so cute,” he purrs. “You all think you’re so strong, always fighting wars that never end and death that always comes. It seems the things you can never resist are a good fight, a good fuck,” a pregnant pause fills your bedroom as he crooks his fingers just right, soliciting the desperate whimper he’s wanted since he spotted you in the woods all those hours ago. “And me.”

He fucks his digits in and out you with slow motions, ones that drive you to the brink of madness. You’ve never been one to coo and moan so unabashedly, to let yourself fall apart so easily for someone who holds so much pure power over you. If you weren’t already vulnerable, you would be now – for as assuredly that the sun rises in the East and you wake up soaked in blood every some thirty days, this man, this god will look down on you and understand how little you can do to fend him, his advances, his charm, from your trembling body.

Thor lays down on your sea of blankets, leaving you feeling empty without his touch. A smug look paints his face as he waits for you to climb up his chest, but you do not move, simply peering at him with a heaving chest and feverish cheeks. Your mind wavers, wondering if his horns will tear into the fabric that paints your bed – but you do not have much time for such frivolous thoughts before they are interrupted once again.

“I wasn’t asking,” he tells you pointedly. “Now, come provide me with the sustenance I so desire.”

Sans your dress, moving up the length of his body is relatively easy. As he grips your hips and lowers you down to his mouth you wish you had some sort of obstruction, some reason to resist the god below you.

No such luck. As before, you are unimaginably vulnerable to Thor and his ways.

He begins with light kisses on the inside of your thighs, still tense and desperate to run away. Thor seems to notice this but does nothing to soothe you and your resistance – he understands much better than you how much he holds above your foolish head.

It doesn’t take long for you to forget your plan of escape, the path of freedom dissipating in the pleasure pooling from your scalp to the nailbeds of your toes. This god is nothing if not skilled, wide strokes of his tongue and nips at your innermost thigh and kisses on your sensitive nub soon having you rutting against his face like a dog in heat, like the wolves from before. Your hands try to find purchase in his wild hair, but with the horns in the way it’s easier to wrap your own fingers around the keratin masses than dig your fingernails into the scalp of the man below you.

You wonder if you’d have considered them less such wild beasts if you knew this was the pleasure they were chasing. Would have not run so quickly if you, too, understood the magic building in your core as you balance yourself against the wall your bed leans against. When Thor leaves you, would the animals accept your contrition and give you the same pleasure this god is? Or would you be left to chase a high no mortal could gift you?

It’s trail of thought cut short by him bullying three of his fingers into you as his lips suck at you, your screams filling every empty bit of air in your homestead. As your own yelps of pleasure fill your ears you cannot sort what is babble and what is tongues, what are incoherent syllables and what are pleas to celestial beings to never leave you.

These, too, are soon muffled, Thor making quick work of your mute state to flip you onto your stomach and propping your ass up toward him. “You know,” he says mostly to himself, knowing his words will fall on ears deaf from ringing. “The Christians who pass through my forest often speak of how the original woman was tempted with an apple and I never believed their silly tales.”

He pauses a moment to trace his fingertips up the ridges of your spine before grabbing at the base of your hair. You yelp, but he ignores you.

“But now…” his unoccupied hand comes down to SMACK at your ass, eliciting another squeak. “Now I feel able to comprehend how such a person could be tempted by the prospect of such delicious sin.”

Too far gone to be ashamed now, you push back against him in hopes of reprieve from your suffering. Without much further wait Thor enters you slow and steady, the one hand still in your hair while the other grips your hip. Thor’s bigger, much bigger than your fingers or the occasional drifter, and your walls and scream the unfamiliar girth.

The man behind you does nothing to soothe you, merely hissing into the cold night air. “God, you little witch,” he grunts behind grit teeth. “Maybe it was worthwhile saving you from those wretched wolves.”

Your mouth hangs open and your lips remain mute, your hands grasping at the sheets until they become impossible to open up again. Nothing, not a single sound of yours, bounces form the walls – merely Thor’s loud grunts and the sound of his skin slapping against yours. It isn’t until his fingers release your hair and move to your neglected clit that you begin to sing for him, screams out of tune and sharp but still smooth music to his ears.

“Yes,” he moans, feeling you contract around him. “Yes you temptress, cum on my cock, fuck let me bring you to your peak.”

How could anyone refuse that? Certainly not you, the spell-caster who was saved by this magnificent, sympathetic creature with a heart of gold and pure intentions. The tight coil in your organs releases with a shout from you and a deep groan from Thor, who continues to fuck into you as you collapse and become limp under his touch. He reaches he peak quickly, stilling for a moment before flipping you over again.

You move easily under his touch, dead weight instead of some feisty, feral little lamb with too much fight in her. On your back, he spreads your legs once again, moving to revere your swollen cunt and his thick seed dripping out of you.

It reminds you of when the artists in the villages step back when they’re finished with their works, admiring their handiwork and talent. You recognize that same affection of progress and of a finished piece in Thor’s eyes, the focused, blown pupils trained on the white trailing down to your sheets and the corners of his mouth turning up into a small, satiated smile. He’s some paragon of silent pride, one hand moving up and down your folds before pushing his seed back into you.

“Beautiful,” Thor whispers, kissing where you are most sensitive once more before moving to lay beside you. The world spins around you as he pulls you into his broad chest, his heart thumping dull in the ear pressed to his heaving ribs.

You say nothing to the contrary, succumbing to sleep like a babe after a long feeding.

orThor disappears just as he entered, confidently and without much fuss. You wake up alone, more alone than you did that morning, surrounded by the very scent of him. Somehow, as the sun comes over the horizon, it’s enough.

Over the next few weeks, everything mostly returns to normal. You go through the ebb and flow of your routine; watching over your territory, eyeing the dark of the night each time the wind made the trees move like children listening to songs around a bonfire. Sometimes the swaying calms you as you clutch a cup of mint tea in your trembling hands, but others it mirrors the churning of your stomach.

Tonight, it feels like both. And tonight, you bury your face in the last of him left with you while hoping you never have to see the god again.

#inthedark!challenge #thor odinson x reader #thor x reader #lukis writes stuff #kinda had a breakdown and thought abt being in the church #if god can be vengeful than i can be flowery with my language #as with all of my works this is barely proofread and i hate it #but whateva

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apostate-crowley · 5 years ago

Text

Sauntering Vaguely Downwards

Rating: G

Words: 20,153

Characters: Crowley, Gabriel, Uriel, Michael, Beelzebub, Aziraphale, Sandalphon

Tags: Crowley was Raphael before he fell, religious crisis, heresy and blasphemy, angelic patronages, the archangels are siblings, pre-fall, the seven days of creation, the fall

Warnings: two mentions of suicide ideation and a graphic description of fire during the Fall

please ignore how pretentiously this starts off okay

+++

Day 1

The creation of the Earth was not actually the first thing to ever happen.

That date-- Sunday, October 21st, 4004 BC-- named merely the creation of the universe. God, of course, exists outside of it. There was God, and there was Time, and then God decided to create some archangels because she's not all that into heavy lifting or doing her own dirty work.

There were four of them. They existed nowhere and no-place, they had no bodies, they had no plane to exist in, no distance or spatial sense. There was Time, passing, and an awareness of four spirits, and absolutely nothing else. There was no sense of being surrounded in darkness or pure stark whiteness, or some other color entirely. There was no way of knowing if there were great tracts of space separating them all or if they were huddled together, stacked on top of each other like newborns.

They just suddenly existed.

Years and centuries and millennia later, Crowley would think he had felt very young at the time.

My children, a voice said. It didn't speak directly into their hearts or minds or anything like that. They didn't have any. Their souls, perhaps.

It also was not one of the four spirits, and they could not sense it at all.

I have brought you into existence to fulfill a grand purpose. You are to create a plane of existence, and fill it with wondrous things. Set aside one most perfect planet, and I will fill it with beings like yourselves.

In a state of nonexistence without sound or language yet, these words were not spoken so much as they were understood.

There was a moment of stillness as they contemplated those massive orders. They were the first orders ever given, and while the archangels had no concept of almost anything, they seemed immeasurably daunting. Frankly, though, the Almighty could have asked them to fetch her a coffee and it would have seemed immeasurably daunting.

Read on Ao3

Perhaps it was a moment, perhaps it was an eon.

Raphael thought, and considered, and imagined--

There was some sort of a bang. They were engulfed in heat and light and color, and it was already dissipating, spreading out and leaving behind cool emptiness and darkness.

They were aware of each other.

-----------------------------------------------------

They spread out after that, each creating in their own separate direction. They had quickly discovered that energy can be turned into matter. It was good, honest, tiring work, but they never seemed to deplete themselves entirely. Raphael was planning on inventing something to renew their stores of energy, though, he had had quite a bit more earlier in the day and would like it back.

They were aware of each other, and they were aware of themselves, in a way that was very odd and completely natural and deeply intrinsic. He was Raphael, God's chosen Healer, he would bring health and life and resurrection to the other beings. He is to be patron of the blind, of travelers, of doctors and nurses and medical workers. Those ill, in body or mind.sa He is a special protector of sailors and pilgrims on their voyages. He is herald of happy meetings, matchmaking, and marriage, and he doesn't know what any of those are yet, but he knows he is meant for them, that that is God's personal plan for him.

He has been given a staff, to guide and direct the feet of men, to lean on and shepherd.

He is Raphael. God Heals.

He is working with Michael, and they are creating the stars.

He knows Michael's destiny as well as he knows his own.

Michael is the advocate of the Jewish people, the strongest of the archangels, and is destined to arise in the time of the end, herald the second coming of the Christ, and be the one to personally face and defeat someone called 'Satan.'

These are largely empty words. Almost none of those things exist yet, not even as concepts, and the end of time must be very far away, because they are all fairly certain that time has just begun.

Michael is for mercy, time and time again, for long-suffering, for last-minute saves. Michael is the soldier, the great defender, the leader of the Army of God. She is to become known as the demon-slayer, and painted a thousand and one times killing a great snake or dragon.

She is the only archangel who has been granted two gifts: both a longsword and a shield. The shield is to defend those of Jewish descent, the innocents, and all those who need one last chance. The sword is to fell those for whom mercy is not an option.

She is Michael, Who Is Like God.

Michael's destiny is confusing, to say the least, nearly nonsensical in practicality. Why would they create something called 'demons' just for Michael to destroy them? Why would anything ever need to be un-created in the first place? It's not like they're going to run out of room. They could always just make more.

But anyway. They are somewhere off in the universe, and they are creating stars.

"The next one should be purple," Michael said. Raphael's face twisted. "Oh come on!" she said. "We've only done two purple ones."

"And that is more than enough."

"What do you have against purple stars?"

"No, we agreed earlier. We were going to color-code heat. Purple is a ridiculous temperature for a star. It's way too high."

"A bluish purple, then. It'll only be a little over 30,000 Kelvin," she said.

"Fine," he said. "But we're putting it near the center, alright? It won't make sense anywhere else."

She nodded, businesslike, just a hint of excitement, and grabbed his hand, and they flew on ethereal wings through nothing, needing no friction or wind to reach the center of the universe. Michael let go of him and spun around extravagantly, hydrogen pouring out of her hands freely, infinite amounts-- enough to fuel a star.

Raphael grinned and gestured with his staff, stirring up entire deserts worth of stardust. He made it dance, like a conductor at an orchestra, spinning and twirling and threading through itself, a myriad of particles and folding and refolding, following a complicated pattern that only two beings could see. The dance was seamless, flawless, exquisite. It grew faster and faster, like a sea turning stormy, and the dust started to crash into itself. Heat grew at the center, and the particles buzzed faster. They started to gravitate, to condense and crash and rub past each other at impossible speeds.

Michael threw her hands up dramatically.

There was a spark, a tiny flicker of light, and the whole thing caught fire.

It had taken them billions of years, or maybe half an hour. None of them knew how to keep track of Time yet.

They were floating, somewhere, looking out at it.

"What are you thinking for the Perfect star?" Michael asked.

"Something yellow," he said. "Medium-sized, temperate."

"Medium?" she asked.

"As a median measure, Michael, not a mean one."

"That's so boring though," she said. "What about green?"

"There's no such thing as green stars."

"That's what'll make this one so special."

"We should probably talk to the others," he said. "The Perfect star's a big deal, isn't it? It's for the Perfect world. It should probably all be group decisions."

She rolled her eyes. But nodded anyway.

They hadn't come up with any... system or anything. But they could all sense each other. Except for Her, whoever she was. The archangels were as conscious of each other as they were of themselves. Right now, Raphael knew that Uriel was creating little things, like themselves but-- simpler. Not capable of feeling quite as much or as deeply, most content to follow orders, and each generally meant for one specific task. And Gabriel was creating something very big, and difficult, but almost laughably basic. It existed halfway in the universe and halfway out, and functioned like semi-intelligent echo machine. He was calling it Metatron, and he was hopeful that it would make Her more inclined to speak to them again.

The two of them wanted to speak to the others, and so Uriel and Gabriel knew, and they appeared.

"The Perfect world," Uriel said. "You are ready to make it?"

Michael nodded.

Uriel had a beautiful purpose. She is the angel of repentance, of light, of poetry and beauty. She is patron of both the arts and the sciences, and was given a scroll to contain her infinite wisdom. At the same time, she is to stand watch over thunder and terror, and she will be the angel of Hell and the Earth. Her role is as different from Michael's as possible. Time and time again, she will give the humans warning well in advance of something bad, and help them prevent it before it even becomes close to an issue. And when she can't do that, she will be there afterwards, offering repentance and wisdom and showing humans how to create beauty themselves. She is, quintessentially, an angel for peace, for light out of darkness.

Frankly, the only reason she wasn't creating the stars was because she insisted her little creatures were more important and they had to be done just right.

Raphael didn't question it. Uriel was the artist of their lot; surely she knew what she was talking about.

The healer, the warrior, the artist.

Uriel. God Is My Light.

"The creatures I am making," she said. "They are just like us, in a way, but there are differences. They are not as sturdy, more delicate. I was not able to give them as much power as we have. They'll function well enough as helpers, but they aren't really like us."

"Disappointing," Gabriel said. "But this is about the Perfect world, not your little..."

"Angels," she said. "I call them angels."

Gabriel is to be the messenger of God. He was given a trumpet, to herald his arrival and his sayings. He will become humanity's most well-known angel purely by virtue of how often he appears before them. He will deliver prophesies, revelations, make grand announcements, and interpret dreams and signs. He is to be patron of messengers-- telecommunication workers, radio broadcasters, postal workers, and stamp collectors. He is to watch over the angels themselves. He will be known by some as the keeper of holiness and the peacock of paradise.

Gabriel. God Is My Strength.

"The angels are relevant," Uriel said. "She said She is going to create other beings, but that they need a world to live in. If this is true, then they must be even more delicate than the beings I have created. We'll need to be very careful. Their world will have to be soft, and comforting, and free of danger."

"What's the point?" Michael asked. "They're going to have danger eventually."

"What do you mean?" Raphael asked.

"The demons," she said. "Evil ones come to harm our little creatures. Even if we just kill them right away, that still means there will need to be a war. There is no safe way to have a war."

Raphael frowned. "We could keep it off of Earth. No chance of innocent bystanders then."

Michael huffed. "The demons want innocent bystanders. They're hardly going to be so accommodating and move their battlefield if we ask nicely."

"I don't understand why there have to be demons," Gabriel said. "We're the ones creating everything. Can't we just not create demons? I mean, guys, come on. How badly do we have to screw up to let our one perfect world get infested with demons?"

"I don't think it works like that," Michael said. "Obviously, no one wants demons. None of us would ever dare create one. So that must mean it happens by accident, right? One of us is creating something, and something... goes wrong."

Gabriel turned pointedly to look at Uriel. She glared back.

"Oy," she said. "I am good at what I do. The angels are all pure souls. Perfectly obedient. I think, in time, they may even be capable of learning. Feeling more, even. If anyone is going to create a demon, it certainly won't be me."

"Maybe She creates them," Raphael said.

Michael shot him a sharp look. "Don't say things like that," she said. "It's rude. We're wasting time. There's no point arguing about who's fault demons will be. They're inevitable, and if they don't happen one way, they'll happen another. You can't prevent the future."

"Michael's right," Gabriel said. "We are going to have to deal with demons. The humans are going to have to deal with demons. We need to keep that in mind when building their planet. It needs to be as safe and secure as possible."

"Right," Raphael said. "I've been thinking about that, and I have a lot of ideas. First of all, the universe is a bit messy. There's all this space junk and scrap material floating around, and that's not even counting all the stuff that's going to break down in the future. I propose we put some really fucking huge planets in rings outside the Earth. They'll have a higher gravity, and most of the space junk will crash into them instead. Like big safety magnets to keep the Earth safe."

"Agreed," Michael said.

"I don't think we should put the Earth right next to its star, though," Uriel said. "The poor dears might overheat. We should put some planets in front of it, too, give it a bit of a buffer."

Gabriel summoned up a scroll and plucked a white feather from his wings. He set the scroll down on air and began to draw up a diagram.

"After we're done with the Earth we should really look into building an office or something," he muttered. "This is ridiculous."

"Any thoughts on the star itself?" Uriel asked, looking directly at Raphael.

"Don't--" Michael started.

"Yellow," he said. "About yeh big, lukewarm, and let's put, say, 50 million years on it."

"Do you have any idea how many yellow stars he's already made?" Michael asked. "All 'main sequence' this and 'sustainability' that. By the time humans actually get around to really looking, there's only going to be a handful of hypergiants left."

"Humans don't need hypergiants. They need a stable, temperate environment and minimal UV exposure. Look, I'm the doctor here--"

"You are definitely not a doctor."

"I am a doctor, and I'm telling you, any other type of star would be way too extreme for them. We could maybe consider a smaller white one, but I'm serious about this, guys. Their climate is going to be tricky enough to stabilize as is, and God only knows what we're going to do about atmosphere damage. I know it's not the most exciting thing in the world, but a star that is completely average in all ways is definitely our best bet here."

Uriel nodded. "I agree with Raphael. Besides," she said. "I like the idea of golden light."

"Ha HA!" Raphael crowed, preening. Michael shot him a near-lethal glare.

"That does sound pretty sick," Gabriel said. "Golden star it is. I'm marking it down."

They made the solar system, set in a mid-range zone of an average spiral galaxy, and they made a young star and grew it to maturity and gave it a set of planets.

After fierce debate, the Earth was created with very precise specifications for its orbit, size, and placement among the other planets. Then they covered it entirely in water, mostly to get Raphael to shut up about hydration already. Uriel had a proposal about giving the humans tails and gills; it was being considered.

In one second, the entire universe fell silent.

They couldn't feel Her presence. There was no physical or mental sensation that accompanied it. But.

The entire universe fell silent, and the archangels turned to look at the Earth.

It was slowly tipped on its side a bit, its axis tilting. In an instant, the oceans were flooded entirely with salt. A good-sized moon appeared around it, drifting lazily. The waters on the surface of the Earth moved and shifted, swaying and gathering and crashing in waves.

The Earth spun, starting a gentle rotation, and it began to move in its orbit, as if it had been given an encouraging nudge.

Let there be light.

The sun, so far dormant, was flicked on.

And that was how the first day passed.

----------------------------------------------------

Day 2

"Okay," Gabriel said. "So I've written up a current status report for us, and I've gotta say, guys, it's not looking good."

Raphael drummed his fingers on his staff. Currently lacking anywhere better to meet, the archangels had gathered together to sit cross-legged on one of Saturn's rings. The rings, being made almost entirely of ice, were not nearly as pleasant or inviting as they had looked from a distance.

"Right now the Earth is one big puddle of salt water and entirely incapable of supporting human life. Metraton says God has nixed the mermaid idea, so that means all that water Raphael insisted on is... undrinkable. Completely useless. Not to mention-- if humans aren't going to be water creatures, then making the entire planet out of water was a big mistake. We really screwed the pooch on day one, guys. Wow."

"We already know this," Michael said. "Don't you have anything new to say?"

"Well," Gabriel breathed, and Raphael felt something like an itching sensation inside his chest, and it made him desperately wish that Gabriel wasn't talking anymore and they were doing something else. "I went down there, and it turns out the whole planet is covered in an impenetrable layer of fog so thick that you can't see the sun through it. Also its unbreathable. So, um, the agenda for today: try to fix the atmosphere, get the seas all sorted out and divided, and, also, we still need an HQ."

"Can't that wait?" Michael asked.

"Not really, no. My butt is going numb from sitting on this stupid planet ring," he said. "Also, Metatron was pretty specific. God wants to divide the waters of the Earth, create an expanse, and build Heaven. I'm thinking all white, lots of glass-- very sleek, very modern. What do you guys think?"

No one else cared enough to answer.

"So that's it?" Uriel asked. "Sort the water into oceans and build a Heaven? That's all we're doing today?"

"Creation of the entire universe and physical plane of existence one day and the next we're designing an office," Raphael muttered. Uriel shot him a look, and he couldn't quite interpret it.

"I'll... work on the parting of the waters, but really, I think it would only take one of us to build Heaven," Michael said. "And I'd prefer to spend the day getting to know the lesser angels. I'll have to lead them as an army one day. I need to take stock of their abilities and start assigning them ranks. With your permission, of course, Uriel. They are your beings."

"They are all our beings to share," her sister said. "I created them and gave them each a purpose, but any of you are free to direct them. It's your job to turn them into the Army of God and lead them into battle. Whatever you need to do to prepare for that, you do."

Michael nodded. "Thank you." She turned back to her brothers. "Sorry if it seems like I'm skipping out. But--" she grinned, "--it's time for angelic boot camp."

"I'll also be skipping out," Uriel said. "Not for the part about Earth, of course, but I think Michael's right about designing Heaven. It should be easy. And..." She frowned. "There aren't enough angels. I can feel it. We need more."

Raphael nodded. "Whatever you think is best."

Their sisters stood elegantly, primed their wings, and took off in a blur. Had they been in an atmosphere at the moment, there would have been a whoosh of air and the clap of a sonic boom.

Gabriel grinned and flung an arm over Raphael's shoulders in a half-hug. "Looks like it's just you and me now, buddy!"

Raphael mustered a smile.

------------------------------------------------

They decided to create Heaven outside of the universe. It was originally going to exist metaphysically, but then they realized that creating a concept is all well and good, but people cannot physically go to a concept. Then they had about a three-hour debate on the nature of metaphysics. It gave Raphael quite a few ideas for Hell. He thought it should be mostly filled with annoyances.

In the end, they created an external miniature universe attached to the outside of the main one, containing solely one office building with multiple levels. There were three basements for Hell (which wasn't enough, but that was a problem for the demons to figure out), an excessive 28 upper floors for Heaven, and two floors closest to the "ground" that technically belonged to neither. One was for the Celestial Observer offices and one was for the Infernal Times. It wasn't clear who exactly would be staffing those levels, or why they were kept separate from their main realms in the first place, but then, neither Gabriel nor Raphael were actually good at thinking things through.

"I'm not saying the parallel escalators acting beyond the laws of physics are necessary. I'm saying it'll look cool," Raphael said.

"Hell doesn't need anything that looks cool. They don't deserve cool stuff. What Hell deserves is a creaky, cramped elevator from the 1970s with fake wood paneling and a carpet that's falling apart at the seems."

"Ugh," Raphael said. "But the symbolism! The metaphorical power of the entrance to each realm looking exactly the same--"

"We already agreed metaphors are stupid and hard to understand, Raphael," he reminded him tersely.

"Okay." He leaned forward, shifting completely and gesturing as he spoke. "Think of it this way. The creepy elevator probably would be cool to a demon."

"Huh?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's spooky, see? I bet they'd like that. Seems haunted. Exactly the sort of thing you'd expect a demon to inhabit."

"Isn't that the point?"

"No."

"No?"

"The creepy elevator would be giving Hell exactly what they wanted," Raphael said, sincere as anything. "We need to go with the not-at-all-metaphorical escalator. From a moral standpoint."

"Huh," Gabriel said. He shrugged. "Alright. Sandalphon, write that down. The main lobby gets twin escalators."

"Consider it done, my lord." Sandalphon scratched down the instruction on his scroll.

Early in the day, Gabriel had run past Michael's boot camp on Mercury and snagged one of the angels who had been sorted into the "last resort" category. He had declared Sandalphon his personal assistant, and the lesser angel had been immediately relieved to get the hell out of there.

Sandalphon was the patron angel of unborn children. He had a vacant smile and was very good at agreeing with everything Gabriel said. Raphael supposed Uriel had warned them that the other angels were... not like them, but still. He supposed he hadn't quite believed it.

When she had said they might be able to learn, he had taken that to mean that they were learning, that they were feeling and thinking and growing more complex and mature and individual by the hour.

And then he had actually met an angel, and seen absolutely no evidence of the being having a will of his own.

Useful helpers, Uriel had said.

"Now," Gabriel said. "I know we don't technically need it, but have you thought about air conditioning? I'm thinking we set all of Heaven at, like, 60 degrees and then give Hell no a/c and also it's really muggy."

"60?" Raphael asked. "Bit chilly."

Gabriel shrugged. "We're angels," he said. "It speaks well of our asceticism. And self-discipline! A proper angel does not care about either pleasure nor pain. The physical is irrelevant, and comfort is a slippery slope to hedonism. It'd be fucked up if angels started seeking things out just because they liked or enjoyed them. You start doing that, and next thing you know, you're committing ten sins a day, because it's fun. No. God's work isn't supposed to be fun. It's tough and it's grueling and it takes real effort and determination, a tougher kind of soul. The easy way out is the path to sin."

"Right you are, my lord," Sandalphon nodded.

"I know, and I agree with that," Raphael said. "But I think keeping Heaven perpetually uncomfortable might lead to a bit of resentment."

Gabriel shrugged. "What's the worst that could happen?"

-----------------------------------------------------

The second day, being such light work, was essentially done with before noon. God had shown them all sleep the night before, and Raphael took advantage of it, indulging in a short nap on the waves of the Indian ocean, wings and limbs sprawled out luxuriously. He discovered that water felt pleasant, and that his hair turned dark and moved of its own volition when submerged.

It was cold, and misty, and sunless, but it was still infinitely better than Saturn's rings. Or-- God forbid-- the corporate monstrosity that Gabriel had turned Heaven into. He could only imagine what his sisters would have to say about that.

Probably nothing, actually.

He hadn't said anything either, really. Why bother with preferences? Gabriel was right, to a degree. He didn't think discomfort was something to aim for, but luxuries and indulgence and physical pleasure definitely weren't either. Heaven was functional. That was all it was required to be. That was all it should be.

It would be one thing for a human to indulge in the pleasures of the flesh a little bit, in moderation, keeping in mind that their first and primary joy should be doing the Lord's will. It was quite another for angels to seek out those same pleasures, when they had no need for any of the physical drives that compelled humans.

Angels do not need warmth, food, water, fresh air, sleep, entertainment, hobbies, favored friends...

Angels don't need a lot of things. But a nap did pass the time.

He woke up feeling a bit guilty, a bit agitated, and flew off to Mercury. He could check in on Michael's camp, at least.

The camp had fifteen barracks in three neat little rows. It had a bunch of other buildings Raphael could only guess at the purposes of.

It was also, for some reason, encircled with a completely pointless barbed wire fence.

He frowned flying over it and touched down in the center, next to Uriel. She was watching Michael spar with her arms folded, looking focused and vaguely perturbed.

"What's going on?" Raphael asked.

"Just look," she said.

Michael was sparring with an angel. Raphael looked at them, into their soul. Qaphsiel. Angel of tears, of temperance, presider over the deaths of reigning monarchs. Would be present at a lot of future revolutions.

Michael had her sword in her right hand and her shield strapped to her left arm. It appeared that Qaphsiel had been issued a sword dripping with lightning. Raphael looked closer, and he saw speed and anger-- both in the name of God, of course.

They were, of course, entirely outmatched. Qaphsiel fought without thinking, entirely reactively, and Michael fought... well, like she had been born to do it. She was a force of casual strength and power, almost leisurely in her movements, and Qaphsiel whipped around furiously, a blur of rapid movement. Sparks flew everywhere, and at some point, Michael's shield was completely electrified.

Seconds later, she had Qaphsiel pinned to the ground and practically frothing at the mouth.

Michael stood up, releasing her opponent. Qaphsiel jumped to their feet, threw their sword to the ground, and marched off into the gathered crowd of spectators. A good number of other angels heckled them as they went.

"Who's next?" Michael called.

A small wisp of a girl stepped forward. She had a large, gray-patterned quill in her hand, which she handed over to a fellow angel and was then given a simple shortsword. Michael had apparently created a store of weapons, for those angels who were not naturally battle-inclined.

This angel was Penemue, curer of stupidity. A mostly quiet watcher. There was... something off. Raphael couldn't see any more.

She took her sword up hesitantly, and held it... correctly, but only in the most technical sense. She waited for Michael to strike first, and then seemed to make only a token effort at defending herself. She was disarmed in thirty seconds, and didn't seem phased at all. She gave a small smile and a shrug in response to the crowd’s jeering and... shouts of encouragement.

Raphael frowned.

"How many have been like that?" he asked.

"Too many," Uriel said.

"Have they been... talking? Why are they doing this?"

"I don't know what's going on. I do know none of them are stupid enough to say anything outright in front of an archangel."

He considered that. Michael finished her parting bits of instruction to Penemue, and a new angel took her place. Jehoel. Angel of fire. Seemed to actually take this seriously and make an effort. Thank God.

"They can tell you're an archangel?" he asked, watching the fight. It was going well. It might even last a full five minutes. Jehoel was good.

"Michael announced it," Uriel said. "I flew in when she was giving a lecture on, like, tackling or whatever. She stopped everything to announce me and made everyone bow."

Raphael made a noise.

"I know," she agreed.

"Well," he said. "She hasn't done that with me, at least. Maybe I can figure something out."

"Good luck," she said. He raised an eyebrow, giving her half a smile.

Luck was an occult force, naturally, an evil thing to believe in, much less to wish upon someone. Only God should be invoked for granting good fortune. Anything else is idolatry.

Raphael gave his sister a parting wave and sauntered off.

---------------------------------------------------

The camp was larger than it had first looked from the air. Even with 50-70 angels crowded around to watch Michael decimate patiently decimate all of them, there was still a huge number just roaming about. It didn't take long to find a fair group of them, sitting around in the shade of one of the barracks, carefully keeping out of the scorching sun.

Raphael took a seat among them unceremoniously, and the angels closest scooched over a bit to make room.

"It's a bit messed up. That's all I'm saying," one angel said, clearly on the tail end of a rant.

"What is?" Raphael asked. Someone else rolled their eyes, and several people groaned.

"Don't get him started again."

"No, no. He should hear this," the first angel said. "This affects all of us. We're angels, right? We were created to... what, serve? Fight and die in some war? What war? Against who? And we're fighting for God? Well I've never met God. I didn't agree to this, I didn't ask for this. I was born yesterday and told I'm meant to be cannon fodder for some distant unknowable God. Who says She's worth it? Who the hell said I was willing to die for Her? To kill for Her? Because it sure as fuck wasn't me."

The other angels made rough sounds of agreement.

"I'm... not meant for war," he said. Azazel. This was Azazel. "I can feel it. And Michael and Uriel and them, they can see it, too. It's my destiny. I am meant to teach humans, and to lead angels, and to rebel. There's something more there, too, there's this word I keep seeing-- it's 'scapegoat,' but I don't know what it means yet."

An icy chill flung itself over Raphael's heart.

"Rebel?" he asked. "Rebel against what?"

Azazel shrugged and laughed, sort of hollowly. "I don't know yet, but right now, I'm thinking this bullshit."

The other angels and cheered encouragement.

Azazel gave a slanting grin, but then sobered up again, his eyes dark and his tone serious. "That's exactly what it is, though. Bullshit. The archangels do not speak for me. God does not speak for. No one should be able to decide my life and death. I am not a pawn, I am not to be used. I'm a person, dammit!"

The angels cheered.

"I have rights!" Azazel continued. "I have a right to live! I have a right to decide for myself who I worship! Or don't worship! Who says I have to give my life in service to someone else? Why give me life just to tell me it's not truly my own?"

"The draft is immoral," another angel spat.

"The draft is immoral!" Azazel shouted, louder.

"Vive la révolution!" someone else shouted, and it was chaos after that.

-------------------------------------------------

There was something of a war council room, in one of the base's many outbuildings, and Raphael went there with the instinctive knowledge that that's where Uriel and Michael would be.

"Well," he said. "I found out what's going on."

Michael leaned forward, hands folded on top of her desk.

"There's dissension in the ranks," he said dryly. "It appears we have some angels who are unhappy being forced into war."

Michael frowned. "But it's inevitable. We will all be forced into war. Every creature in existence will have to fight in this war. There's no avoiding it."

"Yeah, well try telling them that," he drawled, pulling out a chair and dropping into it. "It's like they think if they just refuse to fight, then maybe they can have peace," he said. He frowned. "Could we have peace?"

"No," Michael said, in a tone that brokered no argument. "The demons are pure evil and cannot be allowed to continue. It's too dangerous. We need to wipe them from existence."

"Too dangerous?" he asked. "Wait, so choosing to start a war that all of creation will be sucked into is less dangerous than trying to make some sort of an agreement with the demons? What about... What about the innocents? Children? Humans who aren't really on one side or the other? They shouldn't... They shouldn't suffer the horrors of war."

"Casualties are inevitable on all sides, Raphael," Michael said calmly. "And if they are truly innocent, there is no shame in martydom. There's a good deal of honor, actually."

"There's nothing honorable about a dead kid," he said. "A dead kid is a shame on all the adults who allowed it. Every single person who failed them. That's a stain on all of our souls."

Michael rolled her eyes. "It doesn't matter if they die, Raphael," she said. "They just go straight to Heaven. Well. Usually."

----------------------------------------------------

Day 3

"Okay!" Gabriel said brightly. They were in a white conference room in Heaven. It had a long table with more empty seats than they would ever need, glaring fluorescents, uncomfortable chairs, and chrome accents. It was entirely possible that one of the levels of Heaven was actually just ten identical clones of this room, to be used almost never for meetings-that-could-have-been-emails and left empty the majority of the time.

Felt a bit wasteful. They probably could have used that space as more 'living' quarters for deceased human souls. Raphael wasn't exactly sure where they were going to put all of them. He knew the space worked miraculously, but still, he wondered if it was possible to reach maximum capacity. Maybe he should bring that up later, attempt to work out a back-up plan.

"So we have a lot on the agenda today," Gabriel said. "Yesterday was an anomaly, don't get used to it. Today we are creating landforms! We are then going to cover these landforms in plants. Should take all day, and I'll be up front with you guys, it sounds like it's gonna suck."

They agreed to make seven continents, to go with the seven seas, because God had decided that seven was a holy number that signified completion.

Gabriel made Antarctica and Europe. Michael made North America and Africa. Uriel made Australia and Asia. Raphael made South America and all the world's islands.

He just kept creating more and more species of tropical plants, and he kept yammering on about biodiversity and medicinal uses, and he knew it was annoying, but he couldn't seem to shut up.

Uriel smiled gently and said they were all works of art, the Amazon Rainforest his magnum opus, but he saw Michael roll her eyes and Gabriel smother a laugh.

He felt something strange in his chest.

He went down to the Earth personally at times, pulling fruit apart with his hands and dropping seeds onto moist dirt. The Earth was still covered in a haze. It was light enough to see by, just barely, and it was keeping things hydrated.

He wandered his rainforest, and he could just imagine it, full of life and loud. He'd have bugs, bugs everywhere. God, he hopes he gets to create some bugs. And there'll be animals! Swinging from the trees and scittering into the undergrowth. There'd be large things that stalked the jungle like kings, there'd be small things that burrowed into the trees themselves. And he'd picked a prime spot, really, it would be a true rain forest.

Birds. So many birds. He'd criticized Michael for her gaudy stars, but hell, he wanted colorful birds. Big and bright and loud. The Earth was so silent so far. Even with the plants, it still felt lifeless.

He needed proof, constantly and verbally. He would fill the Amazon to the brim with life and make it buzz and hum and sing.

When he got finished with South America, he flew west to an island and wondered how he could make it different. He knelt in dark, lush dirt, his gown and hands and feet and face already smudged with it, and he grinned.

When he returned to Heaven, filthy and exhausted and sweating, beaming like a jackal, Gabriel gave him a disapproving frown and pointed him to the showers.

"No wonder it took you so long," he said. "The rest of us finished hours ago. What, were you planting things by hand?"

"Yeah," he said. "Only a little bit, though. There's something to be said for doing things the long way. Caring for the Earth like a human would, really experiencing the world and putting yourself in their shoes. That's what it's all about."

"No it isn't," Gabriel said, frowning. "We're supposed to prepare the Earth for the humans and then hand it off. Distant protectorship only. We have serious matters to handle that mortals aren't capable of comprehending. The assignment today was to plant, Raphael, not to play in the dirt like a child. It's one thing to take joy in the Lord's work, but She can't have you wasting time that isn't your own. You get that, right?"

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, yeah, of course. Right."

Gabriel smiled. "Showers are on Level 5, left of the human soul dorms."

-----------------------------------------------

The main problem with angels so far is that Michael, carrying a longsword, soaked in mortal blood and leading one group of humans against another, seemingly at random, is considered the most out of all of them, like God; while Uriel, advocating science and art and forgiveness-- enlightenment-- is often overlooked or forgotten to be an archangel entirely, as if there are just three of them, or she is tacked on as an afterthought to make it an even number. There's something deeply horrible in that, but fuck if Raphael can put it into words.

He knows, in theory, that none of the archangels are greater or lesser than the others. It would just be nice if the rest of creation would get the memo.

Unfortunately, sending a memo would probably just make them worship Gabriel even more.

--------------------------------------------------

The showers were these sort of ultra-modern air-blaster thingies, no water needed. Very efficient. Made you quickly and flawlessly clean. Raphael stepped out feeling a bit like he had just fought a tornado and lost, and he just knew that his hair looked like it.

He put on a fresh robe and stepped out of the showers, then hesitated.

The work for the day was done. He had fulfilled his assignment. There was nothing more that he had to do.

He could go visit the lesser angels and hear them talk, give them a chance to air their grievances. Explain to them why following the Almighty was just and good and desirable, a privilege really. Tell them why their cause was holy.

Because demons (who didn't even exist yet) were bad, and need to be stopped. Because She created us, all life, and so we owe Her.

He left Heaven discreetly and flew back to Earth.

The trees in the Amazon were tall. The canopy was thick. Even if there had been anything to see beyond it, Raphael wouldn't have been able to.

When he got tired of thinking, he closed his eyes and made it all go away.

-------------------------------------------------

Day 4

"There is no work today," Gabriel announced.

"What?" Raphael asked.

"No work," he said.

"We can't possibly be done," Michael said. "There are no humans. Unless-- Is She making the humans today?"

"Nope," Gabriel said. "But she is parting the great fog of mist that has encased the Earth. Should make it possible to see the sun and the moon and the stars from the surface. Also, it'll apparently make breathing way easier. Should you wish to indulge in breathing, of course. I don't recommend. It could be jarring if you need to suddenly stop for some reason."

"So, wait, we're clearing the fog today but we aren't doing any work?" Raphael asked. "Oh. Oh! She's clearing the fog?"

"That is correct," Gabriel said. "Metatron has relayed the Almighty's wishes to me directly. The air is going to be remixed in preparation for humans being given the breath of life. It sounds like very delicate work. I recommend that we all avoid the planet today."

His gaze wandered over to Raphael, who stiffened in his chair.

"This is excellent news," Michael said. "The other angels are hopeless in a fight. We have no way of knowing how long we have until the demons crop up, and we are woefully unprepared right now. Unless any of you need some, I'd like to put every single angel through their paces today."

"Agreed," Gabriel said. "Well, except Sandalphon. I'm planning to use this bit of free time to get the office organized. I need him as an assistant. I need to assign a secretary, set up a filing system, design forms, figure out what we could use forms for... There's so much to do, guys."

"I think I'll invent the written word today," Uriel said.

Michael hummed. "That's lovely."

There was a beat of silence.

"Raphael?" Michael asked.

"Oh!" He sat up, snapping to attention. "I, uh... I'll figure something out. Um, I've been meaning to talk to the other angels, actually. Give them a bit of a pep talk. Strengthen our troops, ya know?"

Michael gave him a thin smile.

-----------------------------------------------------

Michael was giving a swordfighting seminar to a crowd of a thousand angels. Unfortunately, Uriel had managed to make 20 million of them in two days, so that meant most angels weren't in attendance.

Some of the more trusted angels had been put in charge of their respective barracks and told to make sure everyone did their exercises. This did not happen.

Gabriel was allegedly working on arranging for civilian angelic housing in Heaven, but who knew how long that would take? Especially since all the plans, memos, and notices were currently written in random inkblots that conveyed concepts through magic. It worked, a bit, but it was very unreliable. Having a written language would be-- to borrow a phrase-- a godsend.

Probably should have invented that earlier, really. In fairness, they are all very new at this.

Raphael was wandering the base camp, letting his feet guide him on instinct. He felt something momentous in the air. A thrill of excitement and importance.

There was no work today, but that didn't mean nothing was going to happen. Twenty million souls in existence. One of them was bound to do something interesting.

As it turned out, something interesting happened in the mess hall.

Azazel was sitting on top of a long cafeteria table, gesturing and speaking passionately. He had a much larger audience than his small handful of listeners two days ago. Raphael frowned and moved closer.

He suddenly stood up on the table, near-shouting, and the crowd grew more agitated. They went from murmuring to shouting. Raphael saw another angel jump up on the table and punch a fist into the air.

"God has no inherent right to rule and we should be able to choose our own system of government! We create our own society! We should start a democracy! I reject--"

He never got to finish the sentence.

They were all on the top floor of Heaven.

The kid was standing apart from the crowd, in the center. His eyes were wide, his wings bound in heavy chains behind him.

He wasn't a kid, really. Raphael reminded himself of that. His physical form may look young, but that was merely an illusion, and even then, his body was old enough to be technically an adult.

Didn't stop him from looking like a scared kid looking frantically out at the crowd.

Uriel stepped forward. "Lucifer," she said. "Bringer of light, angel of Venus. You have questioned God's authority. You have asserted that one such as yourself is fit to rule in Her position."

She stared deeply at him. Tilted her head. "You regret that you are in trouble," she said. "But you still believe what you said was truth."

She straightened. "I sentence you to Hell."

Uriel stepped back to the edge of the crowd. Lucifer's face drained rapidly of all color.

And then the floor dropped out beneath him.

------------------------------------------------------

10,000 more angels fell in the next three hours, righteous rage and sympathy taking root in their hearts.

Raphael watched and watched and watched.

The gush slowed to a flow, then a trickle.

He felt numb. He got on the escalator. He went down to Hell.

In the center of the lowest level of Hell was a shallow pit filled with fire. It was filled with lowly creatures and insects. The demons were groaning, wailing in agony. Some were dragging themselves out of the pit. They put their bodies back together, as close as they could to what they had before. They were covered in warts, in gashes and injuries. They were missing parts and had parts discolored. Their feathers had all burnt off in the fall and immediately grew back, this time in stark, shocking black. Some of them were missing feathers, some of them were still smoking. A lot were crying blood.

Raphael walked as close to the pit as he dared. "I'll heal you," he said. "Anyone who needs it. Come over here, and I'll heal you."

---------------------------------------------------

He found out there were some things he couldn't heal.

He couldn't turn black wings white again. He couldn't get rid of the warts or slime or horns that some had acquired. He couldn't erase the memory of the Fall.

Penemue had described it haltingly. She said it had taken eons, that she had wanted to die, that she had felt part of her soul be ripped out. Raphael had wanted desperately to tell her to stop, that he knows she is the curer of stupidity but he would really rather be stupid and ignorant about this, he didn't want to know, thanks.

He didn't, though. He said nothing. He listened. He healed her burns and broken bones.

It had been a long, hard Fall.

The demons kept coming. Whatever was happening up above wasn't stopping. And there were so many of them, just so many, and Raphael could only heal one demon at a time. Demons are capable of healing things too, of course-- but not heavenly injuries.

Being stabbed by a human with a human-made sword is vastly different from a God-given weapon rending your very soul in half. Fortunately, none of the demons had been smote. Bound and pushed down a 34-story drop had dire physical effects, but it wasn't fatal.

Raphael left briefly to go upstairs and request more angels to come down and help. He promised repeatedly that he wouldn't be gone more than five minutes.

"So that's where you went," Michael said.

"Yeah. Listen, I really need more angels, specifically healers. There's too many of them down there. I've barely made a dent in it."

"Good," Gabriel said. "That's good."

"What?"

"That you've only healed a few. Better than the alternative," he said. "You aren't going back there."

"What?" he asked. "No, that doesn't make sense. Even with a thousand angel healers, I'm the best qualified to direct their efforts. I need to be down there."

"No you don't," Michael said. "Uriel is the angel of Hell. She is the only one capable of walking through there unscathed. What you have done is a fluke, obviously. We can't risk it again, and certainly not any more angels.

"Where's Uriel, then?" he demanded. "Someone needs to go down there and heal those people. I promised."

"She's still damning the traitors," Gabriel said. "You know, her actual duty as the angel of Hell. There's a line formed now, and a long one, too. People keep talking. She'll be busy for the next few days, at least."

"Then I need to go back."

"No. Absolutely not," Michael said. "The point of a punishment is that it's bad, Raphael. It hurts, mentally or physically or both, and it makes you realize you were a moron and brought this on yourself and it fills you with regret. You undoing the punishment right away is in direct counter to God's wishes."

His eyes flashed. "You want them to suffer?"

Michael folded her arms. "No. Of course not," she said. "I would prefer they hadn't sinned at all. But since they have, they have to pay the price and face the consequences. They all know what they are by now."

"It's sick," Raphael said. "This is sick. Let me heal them."

"Raphael," Gabriel said, gently, resting a hand on his arm. "They aren't worth the trouble. You aren't meant to heal demons. A righteous person is meant to hate that which is evil. It's okay, you know. There are exceptions to love for all things."

Raphael's ears were ringing. Funny. He hadn't known they could do that.

"Ah," he said. "I-- hadn't considered that. Thank you."

Gabriel nodded. "Of course."

"Want to come back and watch more of the trials with us?" Michael asked. "It's very spiritually uplifting. Creation is all well and good in its own way, but there is no greater work than keeping God's kingdom clean and free from reproach. Separating the wheat from the weeds, as it were."

"Ah," Raphael said, again. "Um, no thank you. All that healing, it-- a bit-- sapped my energy. Angels definitely aren't meant to perform miracles on demons, that much is for certain." He laughed nervously. "Thank you so much for catching that. I don't know what I was thinking. I think being down there, with the hellfire, and the... demons-- messed with my head. Must have. Boy! Am I making sense? I don't feel like I'm making sense. I need to go take a nap."

On the fourth day of creation, the lie was invented.

"Perhaps that'd be best," Michael agreed.

"We'll fill you in on the trials tomorrow," Gabriel offered. "I left Sandalphon up there. He is rearranging the entries in the Book of Life, and he said he's going to remember all the drama so we can have something of a highlights reel in our morning meeting tomorrow."

"Thought that was for archangels only," Raphael said.

Gabriel waved a dismissively. "Sandalphon's cool. He's my friend!"

Both Michael and Raphael shot him strange looks, but Gabriel didn't seem to notice. Michael turned back to her red-haired brother. "Go. Get some sleep. We'll see you again in the morning," she said.

Raphael nodded, and turned to leave.

"Wait," she said. "Raphael. I'm sorry you had to see that. All the demons, down there."

"Yeah," he said, voice thick. "So am I."

He walked back to the angelic dormitories. He kept on walking, and discovered that the floor above them contained luxury apartment suites, set aside for the archangels. He went into his own, and found that it looked exactly like the rest of Heaven: white, sleek, modern. It was perhaps a bit more indulgent.

It had a balcony, and that suited his purposes perfectly well, actually: he had been planning on merely passing through his rooms before finding an alternate way out.

Instead, he stood on the ledge of the balcony and spread his wings.

He tipped forward, and let himself fall in a controlled dive.

Given that Heaven and Hell exist within a pocket universe created solely to contain them, there is no "outside" for either. To leave the building is to leave the universe. So, when Raphael fell, he promptly blipped out of existence in one universe and was reanimated at a random point in the other, which happened to be in the vicinity of the IC 1101 galaxy.

Pity. He had been hoping to land closer to Earth.

Not that he "landed" at all, really.

He sighed and pushed his wings against vacuum, turning in the direction of Sol.

---------------------------------------------------

There are many ways into Heaven and Hell. When sneaking out of one and into the other, Raphael traveled through a universal wormhole in his bedroom, flew through space, and then scanned the Earth until he found what humans would later call the Grand Canyon. He dove headfirst like a bird of prey, and then flared his wings out and came to a running stop. The canyon walls arched high and towering over him.

He let his feet guide him on instinct, the staff in his hand making an excellent walking stick. Soon enough, he stopped before a large boulder nestled up against the canyon wall.

He gestured with his staff, and the boulder moved out of the way.

The door opened to a room on the second level of Hell, small and cramped and full of currently-empty filing cabinets. It would be spillover storage, a few millennia from now.

Raphael stepped out of the storage room and into a narrow, damp hallway with flickering lights.

A smaller demon froze in his tracks, staring up at him with wide eyes.

"Excuse me," Raphael said. "I don't suppose you could direct me to the Pit?"

--------------------------------------------------------

Hell seemed to be getting organized. There was a lot less pitiful wailing now, and more of a thrum of angry, vengeful tension in the air. Raphael could practically feel the demons turning bitter around him.

The demon Amy led him into the Pit, and everyone hushed, turning to stare at the glowing white archangel. The hush lasted all of a second, and then the demons were murmuring.

Amy stood awkwardly at his side, clearly wanting to leave and, more importantly, not be seen with him, but unsure if that was permitted.

"You can go," Raphael said. "Unless you'd like me to heal you first. You've got-- a broken leg."

And severe burns and flames for hair and glowing red coals for eyes, but Raphael could already tell he wouldn't be able to heal any of that.

Amy made a squeaking sound and started in on nervous stuttering. He caught sight of other demons striding towards them, and immediately bolted.

Raphael straightened, and looked head on to face Beelzeble. The prince was attended by Dagon on one side and Orobas on the other.

"Your Highness," Raphael said, with a slight bow of his head. "I wasn't expecting you here. Gabriel will have a hard time replacing you."

"He'll never be able to. No one will ever rule as I would have done," ze said. "My name is Beelzebub now. I'm afraid 'Princess of Heaven' is long since behind me. I'm ruling flies now." Ze cast a sardonic look up at the massive insect that formed the top of zir head. "Clever pun. Your sister's a creative one."

Raphael's lips twisted. "Are you in charge down here?"

"Yes. One of seven princes. We're getting a system in place."

"Excellent. In that case, Prince Beelzebub, I request permission to heal your subjects."

Ze folded zir arms. "Am I meant to trust one of the archangels who banished us?"

He rolled his eyes. "You think a lone angel would come down to the bottom depths of Hell to pick a fight? There must be thousands of you!"

"30,000 and counting," the prince said. "But I will not underestimate the arrogance of an archangel. Credit where credit is due. You're a powerful being. If you died in Hell-- no matter what the circumstances-- you'd be a martyr. And it'd give Heaven the perfect excuse to swarm down here and slaughter us."

"I am a healer," he said. "I don't kill, I create. Michael's the warrior."

Beelzebub arched an eyebrow at that, and yes, okay, with zem having worked directly under Gabriel, he could see where ze would have zir doubts.

He sighed. "If you're so worried about it, then post a guard," he said. "Though I want you to know this is fully ridiculous. I'm risking more than you are here."

Ze frowned. "How so?"

"I'm not exactly supposed to be here," he muttered. "Apparently, a proper angel would just leave you to suffer. I'd tell you to keep it quiet, but you have no one to tell, do you?"

"Not quite yet. We'll put a system in place eventually," ze said. "I don't require a guard for you. Your little rebellion is leverage enough."

"I'm here voluntarily," he said. "There's no need for the posturing."

"And there's no need for you to tell me how to protect my own people, either."

--------------------------------------------------

Day 5

Raphael crept back into Heaven an hour before the morning briefing was scheduled, exhausted in a way he had never experienced before. Healing took only a minuscule fraction of his energy, not even noticeable compared to creation. It was strange. Almost like he had been exhausted by merely talking to the demons.

Almost every single one so far had been banished for sinful emotions or thoughts. Some had committed actual evil deeds-- Azazel, of course, spread doubt and dissension. Lucifer committed apostasy, loudly and publicly-- a twofold sin in its potential to stumble others. Raum had managed to make an announcement throughout all of Heaven that the archangels were corrupt and should be attacked on sight. A few had tried to go down fighting, and a few previously devout angels had become enraged at the sight of so many being damned, one after another. There was a rumor-- completely unconfirmed-- that Beelzebub fell while speaking privately with Gabriel, and absolutely no one knew why, or what had been said.

They were all so keen to tell their story, especially to an angel, an archangel, even.

And Raphael listened and the words wore him down. He was exhausted, and it wasn't through any physical exertion.

A few were completely silent throughout the entire procedure, watching him with wary eyes and tense muscles. Somehow, those demons were worse.

He dragged himself into the conference room, feeling frayed and deadened all at once.

Gabriel straightened a scroll and laid it out neatly on the table before him. "Alright," he said. "So! Yesterday we did nothing, and it was a total disaster. As of two hours ago, we had 197,083 angels fallen. Uriel here has been working nonstop. On the plus side, though, now we know where demons come from."

"No one will ever create a demon," Uriel said. "Demons create themselves."

A moment of silence hung in the air.

"Have they stopped falling?" Raphael asked.

"No," Uriel said. "But I'm taking a break. The rest can wait in line."

Gabriel nodded. "As they should. We have actual work today. Thank God, as apparently idle hands are the Devil's tools. Today, we are supposed to create fish and related sea creatures, birds and related flying things, and all manner of insects."

"I'm afraid I'll have to bow out," Uriel said. "I just came for the meeting. To stay informed, you know? I'm still busy damning the souls of the wicked."

Michael and Gabriel nodded sagely. Raphael thought of Lucifer and Penemue and Amy, even Beelzebub.

He was pretty sure none of them had been evil until someone told them they were. He's pretty sure, actually, that Hell is a self-fulfilling prophecy. If you tell someone that they are evil incarnate, that they are demonic, for breaking any slightest rule or speaking out of turn, if you punish them maximally for the slightest offenses and send them to Hell for it, broken and mutilated and alone, stripped of everything they had built their identity on... Well, yeah. He thinks you'd get some villains out of that. You'd create a veritable factory of them.

Uriel was wrong.

Demons don't create themselves. Absolute authoritarian control creates demons out of anyone who steps out of line.

He wonders how, between creating the stars and taking a rest day, they got to this point.

"What's it like down there?" Gabriel asked conspiratorially, like it was a secret. He was fishing for gossip, not an official update. "Or, well, up there, I mean?"

"Efficient," Uriel said. "The demons' sins are stated, so the public can be aware. I peer into their soul to search for repentance."

"And then you drop the floor out," Gabriel said. Uriel nodded.

"Have any of them repented?" Raphael asked.

"Not a one," Uriel said. "Some are regretful. They wish it hadn't happened, or they're 'apologetic,' and wish it didn't have to be this way. Some wish they had never had whatever thought got them sent up there. But there's been no true repentance. None have disavowed those thoughts and emotions-- or actions-- and sworn to do everything within their power to prevent future stumblings. It's one thing to wish you hadn't done something. It's another to own that it was wrong, that you personally did wrong, and to solemnly promise never to do it again."

Michael gave a faint smile. "You truly are the angel of wisdom and mercy, Uriel."

Her sister ducked her head. "Thank you."

Sandalphon leaned forward across the conference table towards Gabriel. "Some of them have been crying," he said, a gleam in his eyes. "Great big sobs, snot dripping everywhere, face just soaked in tears and they can't stop."

Gabriel grinned, leaning forward with interest.

"A few of them even begged for mercy," Sandalphon continued. "Saying they'll do anything, anything, for a second chance. Means nothing, of course, if they can't take it back un-feel or un-think whatever shit they fell for."

Gabriel huffed a laugh. "Serves them right."

Michael gave a small, glinting smile. "It's just a shame we can't have all of the angels watching," she said. "Aside from the first few Falls, the numbers have been going down. It's a wonderful lesson for them all to learn, it really shows just what price sin pays, and the public nature of it increases the shame and taboo, but, unfortunately, we need them to get back to work. Well, at least some of them."

"Yes," Gabriel sighed. "God certainly won't wait for us. We need to have the Earth ready for humanity by tomorrow. Speaking of which, we need to discuss angelic hierarchy, duties, structure and all that. I'd put a few people in position tentatively yesterday, but we've since lost most of them. Beelzeble, especially, is... irreplaceable."

"I asked Michael for ten of her most loyal soldiers to be posted as guards on the line," Uriel said. "We've had some instances of demons-to-be attempting to fight their way out and run away, as well as angels in the audience going into fits and rushing the line."

"What? Why?" Gabriel asked.

"They were attempting to free the damned," Uriel said. "I added them to the line, of course. If they're so anxious to be with their fellows, then I certainly won't stand in the way."

Michael snorted.

Gabriel straightened his scroll again and peered down at it. "Yes, well, onto managerial organization. I've come up with a number of different ranks and duties, I would of course welcome any input you guys have to offer. There shall be three Orders of angels. In the highest order, we will have the seraphim, the cherubim, and the thrones. In the middle order, we will have the dominions, the virtues, and the powers. And in the lowest order, we will have the principalities, the archangels-- that's us, and any unsorted minion angels."

Silence.

"Hey Gabriel," Michael said. "Why are we in the lowest order?"

"To show our humility," he said. "This makes us better than all of the other angels, actually, and super virtuous."

Raphael had so many things he wanted to say to that, but none that could sufficiently defeat... that particular logic. It appeared that all the other archangels were thinking along the same lines, too.

And they ended up going along with it, purely because no one wanted to be the one to explain why that was unbelievably stupid.

They spent the next hour talking about duties and domains. Or rather, Gabriel and Michael spent the next hour talking. Michael already had ideas in her head about how she wanted to structure her army and who she wanted at the top, and Gabriel had somehow become Heaven's manager when no one was looking.

Raphael slumped in his chair and picked at his fingernails. Sandalphon was watching the conversation with that eerie expression of blank placidity on his face. It was a lot creepier now that Raphael knew he actually did have thoughts in his head, and they apparently featured the enjoyment of others' suffering.

Uriel, at least, had enough soul to look bored and impatient.

Finally, the meeting wound down, and they all stood from their chairs. Raphael stretched and gave his wings a few good flaps to loosen them.

"Okay," Gabriel said, while Raphael was just five steps from the door, and he cursed internally. "So, just to recap: bugs, birds, and fish. Uriel is casting out the fallen, I am designing birds, Michael is designing fish, and Raphael is taking the insects. Oh! And Haniel and Netzach want to get married. Raphael, I was figuring you could handle that? If you have some spare time today?"

"What?" he asked. "Wait. Um, handle it how?"

"You are the patron angel of marriage," Gabriel said. "As well as an authority figure over both of them. It doesn't get more ordained than that."

"The first marriage in Heaven," Uriel said, smiling. "That sounds lovely. The angels could use something to boost their morale, after yesterday. Oh, we should do it first thing."

"Marriage?" Michael asked. "Among angels? Seems a bit... indulgent, don't you think?"

"It's not technically a sin," Gabriel said. "So long as they remember to always put God and duty first, and never let their love for each other exceed their love for the work. 'Sides," he shrugged. "We need to show that we will reward loyalty. Marrying the souls of two joint administrators sends a great message."

Raphael remembered him saying something earlier, while doling out assignments, about making both Haniel and Netzach the chiefs of the principalities, as they refused to be separated and wouldn't get any work done alone anyway.

Those jobs had been seemingly assigned at random. For some reason, Raphael was now in charge of the virtues, which were apparently meant to be sign-giving and miracle-performing angels. Raphael was going to have to deal with symbolism at some point.

He didn't know shit about symbolism.

Zaphkiel had been assigned as chief of thrones, and Zadkiel was chief of dominions, and Raphael was 100% going to mix them up constantly. Several angels had been sorted into multiple different categories. Camael was apparently leader of the powers despite being one of the dominions. In true fashion, Beelzebub hadn't been replaced. Gabriel had simply increased his own workload and Sandalphon's authority. It was chaos.

He was fairly certain Haniel and Netzach were only being given their position and their wedding as a publicity stunt.

He was also fairly certain that it crossed the line just a little bit too far and qualified as propaganda at this point.

He wasn't, fortunately, stupid enough to say it, however.

"Are you okay?" Uriel asked quietly, as they followed their siblings out the door. "You haven't said much today."

Raphael shrugged. "I don't have anything to say."

-----------------------------------------------------

Heaven-- of course-- had one floor that was just a massively large ballroom. It was ridiculously huge to begin with, and had some sort of miracle on it that allowed it to be large enough to hold all 20 million angels without being overcrowded. It had been designed for galas and holiday parties and, naturally, weddings.

Just because it was large enough to hold everyone's physical manifestation did not, in any sense, mean that everyone had a view. Gabriel had attempted to remedy this by having a construction crew of angels install flatscreens and speakers around the room.

He had sent out a memo to summon all of the angels to the ballroom, and there was a lot of excited/nervous chattering, and then Raphael stood from his seat silently and made his way to the front of the room. The angels quieted as he passed.

He took his place and waited, and all of Heaven watched quietly as the two brides took their walks.

Haniel and Netzach stood before him, facing each other, clutching at each others' hands, fragile, breathless smiles on their faces. Raphael gave them a soft smile of his own.

"Haniel, Joy of God, Grace of God, Leader of the Principalities," he said. "And Netzach, angel of eternity, Leader of the Principalities. All the souls of Heaven have been assembled before you to bear witness to this moment. Today, we will join you two together in holy matrimony. This is the first marriage in all of history, in all of Time. You will set a precedent to be honored throughout the eternity you represent. You are both leaders among angels in more ways than one. Yours is the marriage between equals in all ways. It will be a celebration of love.

"As God's angels, we all have love amongst ourselves. It is expected. It's what's natural. We are creatures sculpted from pure light, built out of love and designed to love every other thing. But the love between those who are married is different. The love of an angel for the universe is static. It is calm, and simple, and pure. The love of a soul for their marriage mate is entirely different. It's boundless. The marriage between two spirit creatures is truly the binding of your souls. Your joy will be her joy, your sadness will be her sadness, and in this way, you will be one flesh. The love of one for their marriage mate is ceaseless, it's defiant against all odds, it's enduring and changeable and everlasting.

"As marriage mates, you must value each other and each other's happiness above all other pursuits. You must continue to offer your devotion and love, no matter what the circumstances, so long as your wife is doing the same. Can you do that? Can you swear to me that you will do that? Netzach?"

"I swear," the angel said, eyes burning with solemnity.

"Good. And Haniel?"

"I swear." She nodded.

"You are the angels of joy and eternity, and I wish you to have exactly that. Blessed be your union."

"Blessed be your union," the assembled crowd echoed.

The two brides fell into each others' arms, embracing giddily. Haniel grinned and pulled back, brushing her wife's curls out of her face and leaning in for a kiss, right there in front of the assembled Host of Heaven. Netzach's eyes widened, and her hands came up to clutch at Haniel and return the gesture desperately.

They flew off into the crowd, hand in hand and beaming, and the entire ballroom was clamoring.

Gabriel sidled up to him out of nowhere. "Well, I have to say," he said. "After all that shit you said, I'm thinking maybe marriage is a sin after all."

He smiled, and gave a bit of a laugh, but his eyes were hard.

Raphael met his gaze head on. "It is the nature of marriage," he said. "It was created as an expression of utmost devotion. She designed it as an outlet for a stronger, more intense form of love. I think of it as one of Her kindest and best creations."

"For humans, maybe," Gabriel said. "I don't think it's really meant for angels, though. Pure devotion? Love more intense than that we have for creation?"

Raphael nodded. "Marriage is beautiful. It's a celebration. I believe the more love we feel, the more angelic we are. To feel a deeper love, and find someone who feels the same and share that devotion with each other-- I think we can achieve nothing better."

"It sounds gross," Gabriel said flatly.

"Not all forms of love are for everybody," Raphael said gently. "But you don't need all forms of love to have a healthy marriage. The physical, obviously, should only be indulged in if all partners feel inclined towards it. But it's not necessary for anything. I think humans will tend to be a bit more... inclined, than most angels are. And platonic love can be just as deep and intense and enduring as romantic love. It's not secondary, not in any way. Just a little bit different."

"No, that's gross too," Gabriel said.

"What?"

"All love," he said. "Even without the... sex, and the kissing, and the romance. Friendship is bad too."

"Excuse me?"

"Servants of God should be devoted to Her and solely Her," he said. "We are to do Her work and fulfill Her will and that's it. Frankly, it sounds sinful to show favoritism like that."

"Sinful?" he asked. "Love is not sinful!"

"Isn't it, though?" he asked. "We should give love equally to all Her creations. We are meant to protect and serve. What if one day you had to choose between protecting your wife and following the Great Plan? If you felt love or something, you might make the wrong decision."

Raphael frowned.

"Even a lesser emotional tie-- say, the betrayal of a friend-- could cause people to stumble in their faith. People should never love anything so much as they love God, even in a completely conflict-free scenario. Elevating a fallible being up to a parallel status with God is, in itself, a sin. Worse, what if an angel grew to love their spouse more than they loved God? They'd Fall for their idolatry. I just-- I feel like it's a slippery slope. One day you're deciding that you like a particular angel more than the others, and the next you're in Hell, worshiping the Devil."

"Uh-huh," Raphael said slowly. "Yeah. Gotta say. Don't agree with you there."

Gabriel shrugged. "We'll table it as a debate for tomorrow's meeting."

"A debate over what?" he asked. "We can't possibly label love as a sin. We're creatures of love, Gabriel, or have you forgotten that?"

His gaze hardened. "There are different forms of love," he said, echoing his brother's words. "I think we need to sit down and delineate which manifestations of love are holy and which are a perversion. The sort of love that someone could Fall for-- that's dangerous. Marriage is a distraction at best and an outright sin at worst. I'm sorry, Raphael, but we might have to ban it."

"And what would happen to Netzach and Haniel?"

He shrugged. "Maybe we'd have it annulled? I don't know. Again, Raphael, we'll talk about it tomorrow, okay?"

He gave a weak smile, and disappeared off into the crowd.

Raphael remained rooted to the spot.

The angels were talking and laughing and smiling. Haniel and Netzach's halos were the brightest in the room, their eyes pure white and their whole beings emitting a bit of a glow. It happens, they had found. With particularly strong and holy emotions. Happiness and righteous anger and protectiveness and justice and zeal.

Love.

He felt a sickening dread sink into the bottom of his stomach.

----------------------------------------------------

He had volunteered to design the insects.

His siblings had been surprised. Then Michael had cooed about how virtuous and selfless that was of him, to be willing to design such lowly and disgusting creatures. A pitiful assignment. None of the others had wanted it.

They all split up as soon as they reached Earth.

Raphael thought of the demons.

They had all been transformed into a beast of the Earth as they fell. Usually something unclean. Something lowly and small that would crawl through mud and dirt for its whole existence. The animals hadn't been created yet, but they would be.

It took time and good deal of effort for the demons to regain humanoid shapes. Their wings had burned during the Fall, feathers turning to ash and flying away. Retransforming made them grow back, but without the holy light of their Grace, the feathers appeared black.

Black as sin, they were saying.

Their humanoid forms tended to keep their animalistic form as well. Raphael didn't know if that was a choice or something they couldn't help. Maybe it was a reminder, or a safeguard, or something symbolic about duality or the truth of their nature or some other garbage. It didn't matter.

Raphael thought of demons, and he created the insects.

Flies, able to cling to anything and impervious to gravity. Ants, impossibly strong for their size and functioning as an army. Bees, he liked bees, he thought he really outdid himself on bees. Locusts and emerald ash borers and maggots and spiders. Each would serve their purpose and fulfill a necessary role. They would maintain and complete the Earth.

Except mosquitoes. He was feeling a bit tetchy when he made mosquitoes.

He created water skimmers and cockroaches and dung beetles. He made butterflies and moths and parasites. There were fleas and ticks and lice. Ladybugs and gnats. Lightning bugs and horse flies. Wasps and hornets and all sorts of little pollinators to keep the plants alive.

He made disgusting, vile little creatures. The humans would hate and fear them. They would spend so much time and money trying to kill them and keep them away. They weren't exactly wrong to do so. A lot of them carried diseases and bit or destroyed crops.

But the Earth still needed them anyway.

So Raphael created them, and he thought that if no one else would love pests, then he would do it himself.

-----------------------------------------------------

"So is this how it's going to be?" Beelzebub asked. "In Heaven by day, in Hell by night? You're risking quite a scandal there, Archangel."

"I'm doing the bare minimum," he said. "The healer who has the power to ease someone's suffering and denies them for any reason deserves to be damned."

"And if they damn you anyway?"

"Well then, you'll have a lot of demons with untreated festering wounds then, won't you?" he snapped. "You have a lot more to lose than I do."

Ze folded zir arms. "Most consider their own life to be of the highest importance."

"Not very angelic of them. Probably why you're all demons," he said. "You seem very suspicious of someone who is only here to help out."

"How would you feel if I went up to Heaven and asked to touch all the angels?" ze asked. "I know what you archangels are really like, Raphael. I wasn't magically transported up to the execution level. Gabriel struck me across the face, clapped one hand over my mouth and the other around my wrists, and dragged me there."

"I am not my brother," he said firmly. "His views are not my own. I have told you before that I am against violence, and I mean it. You can trust me to heal."

They stood there for a while, saying nothing and glaring daggers at each other.

"You're a moron," Beelzebub said finally. "You shouldn't be down here; this'll be the death of you. But since you are, Murmur has a broken wing."

"Murmur?"

"Matthias."

"Ah."

------------------------------------------------------

Day 6

"Alright, we have a very full day today," Gabriel said. "Lots of work, and also lots of logistics to discuss. On the agenda, we have: creation of land animals, subcategories wild and domestic; cultivation of the Garden of Eden-- with very particular instructions, mind you; God is going to be creating Man and Woman; discussion on the sinfulness of marriage/love; and, last but not least, I think you guys should get assistants too. Very useful, makes you seem important, and they could double as bodyguards. Discuss?"

"Sounds cool," Uriel said. "I'm all for it. Like an artist's apprentice. If anything should happen to me, I want someone I trained and can trust to step up and fill my role."

Michael nodded. "I've been meaning to choose a second. I have an elite group of warriors, but there's been no particular standout among them."

"I could create one especially," Uriel suggested.

Gabriel snapped his fingers. "Yes! That! Love that. And Raphael could use a, uh..."

"Nurse," he supplied. "Doctors have nurses."

"Great." He smiled. "Well, now that that's settled. I think deep interpersonal connections are inherently sinful and we should ban marriage."

Uriel leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. "Explain."

"Godly love is meant to be equal, without favoritism. Allegiances to anything other than God will only serve to divide us. We should be friends and brothers to all of creation. This idea of picking and choosing one or a few people to love more than the rest, it's... It's not right. It leads down the path of sin. Angels are meant to love God and The Work. Take Netzach and Haniel, for example. What if Netzach Falls? Would Haniel follow her down? Their friends will talk about it. What if they look back and realize that they could have seen it coming? That they heard her spouting radical ideas wrapped up in a mask of theocracy? What if they sympathize with her, or doubt or decision to damn her? The whole Host could end up full of divisions and doubt, because a few people got married and had friends and oh, they weren't really that bad, were they?"

"Those who doubt our leadership are doubting the authority of God," Uriel said, frowning. "Anyone who does that deserves to Fall themselves. We've been very clear. The faithful and discreet slave is chosen and directed by God. Our leadership and decisions cannot be questioned by anyone of true faith and morality."

Michael nodded. "Of course. But I think Gabriel has a point too. It's not just about sympathy for demons. Obviously, Falling is a loving arrangement. It keeps the Host clean and morally pure, free from reproach. Anyone could look at us and see that we are truly God's people and holy. We protect the real angels by removing dangerous sinners from their midst. If the demons didn't Fall, they would tell lies and alternative views. They'd corrupt good people's minds and hearts, with blatant propaganda."

Uriel nodded.

"So it's not just about sympathy for demons," Michael continued. "Because making them Fall is sympathetic. It is an expression of kindness. Those who doubt that in any way clearly don't have the right heart condition and need to correct their thinking. But about marriage itself... Yeah, Gabriel's right. Outright ties and allegiances like that will only bring us trouble. It could easily lead to idol worship. People may give their spouse love equal or greater than what they hold for God."

"Still. Banning marriage altogether seems a bit harsh," Uriel said.

"Ye-Yes! Thank you!" Raphael said. "This is absurd! Just because it could cause some angels to sin doesn't mean we should get rid of it for everybody! If somebody falls into a trap of vice, then that's their own problem."

"If your right hand is making you stumble, cut it off and throw it away from you," Michael said. "For it is better for you to lose one of your members than for your whole body to land in Gehenna. Sacrifices must be made. If removing marriage is inconvenient, then so be it. If it lowers your enjoyment of life, if it impedes certain things, if it bars certain activities altogether, then oh well. It isn't necessary for life. It's a potential stumbling block, a large one, and we must do whatever we have to to remain free of sin."

Uriel nodded, and that was it, the matter decided.

Sandalphon made a note down in his scroll. Raphael's thoughts were swirling around in his head like a whirlpool. He felt... bad. Confused. This couldn't be right.

"Alright, now onto creative matters," Gabriel said. "Wild animals, domestic animals, and a Garden."

"I'll take the Garden," Raphael said quickly. "I did insects yesterday."

No one protested.

"I still have demons to damn," Uriel sighed. Michael patted her on the hand.

"How many have we lost?" Gabriel asked.

"About six million," Uriel said.

"What?!"

She nodded. "Six million. It's slowing down though. It'll stop soon."

"That's horrible," Raphael said. "So many of them?"

"It's good, actually," Michael said. "Not that they're sinning, obviously, but that they're being removed. We're separating the wheat from the weeds, the sheep from the goats."

"Yes," Gabriel said. "Yes, we'll definitely start telling the angels that Falling is loving. Merciful, even. Anyway. Michael, you take wild animals, I'll take domestic?"

She nodded.

"Great," Gabriel smiled. "Let's get to work."

--------------------------------------------

The Garden did have horribly specific instructions for its creation.

Eden was meant to be towards the east a bit, and to have a river flowing inside it to water the Garden. Then the river was supposed to split into four rivers: the Pishon (which encircles the land of Havilah), the Gihon (which encircles the land of Cush), the Tigris (to be east of Assyria), and the Euphrates.

So Raphael moved a bunch of dirt around and called forth rain from the sky and created some rivers. He traced them all back to their root source, and found a lovely spot of land in the east. He decided it would be Eden.

After seeing some of the larger predators that Michael was creating, he also decided the Garden would have a big ass wall. Just absolutely gigantic. With spikes. Tall enough to tower over fully grown specimens of the finest, most perfect trees in creation. Thick enough to withstand any attack, by any animal or any weapon humans could possibly think up in the next few millennia. It was unassailable, truly.

With a gate, of course, it wasn't a cage. And angels to guard the gate.

The garden was meant to exist outside the realm of botanical possibilities. All bets were off on it. It was to contain every seed-bearing plant, every tree with seed-bearing fruit, every tree that was pleasing to look at and good for food, plus two others in the very middle, but Raphael wasn't meant to create those ones.

He made the Garden lush and beautiful and full of good things. They would have fruit and vegetables and herbs and spices, and they could do whatever they wanted with them.

If the humans were to be created in God's image, then surely they would be highly creative and intelligent. Raphael gave them every resource they could ever need for that.

And then it was done.

They all Knew. It went beyond the way the archangels were aware of each other. This was for everybody, all creations in the universe. The trees stilled their branches, but their leaves shivered with anticipation. The grass stood upright, at attention. All the nearby animals wandered to the Garden's walls. They sat patiently outside, or prowled around, or pawed at the stonework. Every angel in Heaven flew down to Earth and stood above the garden, around its walls, forming a glowing, holy halo. All the demons in Hell stopped what they were doing and saw it from a distance.

The archangels dropped with whooshes of air. They stood in a circle in the center of the Garden, four points on a compass.

God was there. It was impossible to say how, or where specifically. It was just this sense of a Presence.

Two trees began growing.

They finished, towering, the largest in the Garden.

Let us make man in our image, according to our likeness, and let them have in subjection the fish of the sea and the flying creatures of the heavens and the domestic animals and all the earth and every creeping animal that is moving on the Earth.

The archangels raised up their hands, as if on instinct. Dust began swirling up out of the ground. It moved in circles, tighter and tighter, condensing into a spinning tunnel between the trees. They moved the dust faster, and faster, and like a forming star, it settled into the shape of a man.

It was empty. They had created a body, but there was nothing inside it. Adam was not like them. He was made of dust, not light, and when he started out, he was empty on the inside, entirely lifeless.

A wind blew down from up above. Adam's skin grew brighter, more vibrant and reddish, and he sucked in a breath and opened his eyes.

He looked around, bewildered.

From every tree of the Garden you may eat to satisfaction. But as for the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Bad, you must not eat from it, for in the day you eat from it you will certainly die.

"Oh, well that's bullshit," Raphael said.

There was a moment of stark, crisp silence, in which every sentient being in the universe turned their attention towards him.

He felt his face flame.

There was really only one option. He kept talking.

"That's bullshit," he repeated, tilting his chin up. "Why can't they have that knowledge? Why is that barred from humans? Without knowing good and bad, without their own sense of morality, all you have is blind faith and obedience. Forbidding access to information is-- is-- mind control! You can't do that!"

He stood his ground. He glared up at the sky. He raised his staff to gesture with."Why can't they know?" he asked. "Why do you fear the spread of information? Do you think if they had all the facts, they wouldn't worship you? Do you think, if you didn't rig the game and you went about things honestly, anyone would?"

He leaned forward, wings arched upward for a fight. "Do you deserve it?"

He was standing in the top floor of Heaven, wings bound behind him in chains glowing blue. Matching fetters bound his feet and cuffed his wrists behind him.

His siblings stood before him, faces grave. The room was empty, otherwise.

"What happened to the line?" he asked. "The audience, the spectacle? Thought you were rather keen on that."

"Apostasy," Uriel said. "Is what Azazel and Lucifer went down for. Some others, too. It's one of the worst sins. An unforgivable one."

"And?"

"And we won't give you a platform to continue to spread your lies from."

"Where did I lie?" he asked. "Not one of those statements was a lie."

"You accused God of mind-control," Gabriel said incredulously. "You challenged Her inherent right to rule. Her justice and wisdom."

"And I didn't lie," he said. "All I did was ask questions."

"We aren't here to discuss semantics," Uriel said. "We aren't here to discuss anything, really. You're an apostate. You speak poison into the minds of others. You spread mistrust and propaganda and lies. You twist words to sound reasonable and logical, when really they're anything but. You're a silver-tongued snake. A wolf in sheep's clothing. Listening to you at all is so dangerous it could be considered a sin in itself."

"Shame, then, that the whole universe just heard. Few million more demons for you, yeah?"

"A few hours ago you called that horrible," Michael said.

"Heaven needs to be rebelled against," he said. "And I'd have done it earlier, but I had to be sure."

He hadn't intended to rebel even as he started speaking out there. But he had thought about it. He had questioned, he had doubted, he had wondered and imagined what would happen.

It had felt just a little bit inevitable, but no, he hadn't intended to rebel, not in a million years.

"He has a point, though," Gabriel said, speaking to his sisters. "Everyone heard him. Everyone. We-- He was an archangel. It was public. People will talk. It doesn't look good."

"That's true," Uriel said. "I can feel it. There's 902,784 souls awaiting judgment, and rising. It was half that before."

"Sympathy for the devil," Michael said. "Like I was saying earlier, when we were talking about marriage. Just the idea of people knowing a sinner is one of the biggest stumbling blocks we will ever encounter. If we want to keep the Host clean, we need to wipe them out entirely."

"Agreed," Uriel said.

"We're already doing that. That's what damning is, and it isn't enough," Gabriel said. "If only there were a way we could make it so they had never met any demons in the first place. Like if we could've seen their future sins and sorted them preemptively."

"We couldn't do that though, and the time has passed," Michael said. "We can't rewrite history."

"No," Uriel said. "But we can rewrite memories."

"What?" Gabriel asked.

"No," Raphael said. "No, don't do this."

"We can weave thoughts like threads in fabric," Uriel said, ignoring him completely. "Divine inspiration. To give humans ideas and encourage them in the right direction. The demons do it too, with their temptations."

"What you're talking about is a lot more than a little nudge," Gabriel said. "A single implanted thought in an unguarded mind is-- well, it's easy. But a memory is a whole nest of thoughts. And emotions. It's like a great big ball of string all tied together."

"We're archangels. We can handle it," Uriel said. "And we're not erasing the demons' existence entirely. Just any personal memories of them."

Michael smirked. "Guess your little stunt doesn't mean much now, Raphael. You were willing to Fall for it, and no one will even remember," she said. "But you'll still Fall."

"Right," Uriel said. "Down to business then. Archangel Raphael, you have committed the sins of blasphemy, heresy, and-- most damning of all-- apostasy. Do you have anything you would like to say for yourself?"

"Yes." He straightened. "I stand by my words. This is wrong, you have created a corrupt system, and I'm ashamed to have been a part of it. This isn't right, and I will not bow before an unjust god. You have created a system without choice or free will at all. Your options are to serve God or to be--"

"That's more than enough," Uriel said. "Your confession has been noted."

She snapped her fingers, and the floor dropped out beneath him.

---------------------------------------------------

Falling was hell.

Falling was worse than Hell.

Surely Hell couldn't possibly be worse than this, could it?

-------------------------------------------------

It felt like eternity.

Raphael had no clue how long he was there. He remembered the demons, the other demons, telling him that Falling took years, decades, centuries, millennia, eons.

He had thought, surely, they were exaggerating.

They hadn't been, though. They hadn't been, and now he was feeling it. He felt every excruciating hour tick by one by one in a slow drop of years, and for the first time ever, Raphael felt old.

Surely too much time had passed. By the time he hit the ground, the world will have ended. He'll have to make a new one. He's an archangel-- or was, at least-- he's one of very few beings in existence capable of doing that. He would if he had to.

But oh, he had just made the Earth, and it had been so perfect.

Not 'just.' Years ago. Thousands, millions of years ago. Had to be.

Had to be.

-----------------------------------------------------

He had plenty of time to think, as he was Falling.

He supposed that was rather the point. Like a human time-out for unruly children. Sit quietly, alone, and think about what you did wrong.

Raphael didn't think about that, though, he was thinking about the future.

Would the demons remember him? Would the archangels include them in their memory wipe? They had no reason to, really, who cares what demons think of one of their own? It's not like any angels would be listening to what any of them had to say. That would be a slippery slope, as Gabriel would say. Or an outright sin, maybe.

Turn away from temptation. Keep your eye on those who cause divisions and occasions for stumbling contrary to the teaching that you have learned, and avoid them. Look out: perhaps there may be someone who will carry you off as his prey through the philosophy and empty deception according to the tradition of men, according to the elementary things of the world and not according to Christ. If anyone comes to you and does not bring this teaching, never receive him into your home or say a greeting to him; for he that says a greeting to him is a sharer in his wicked works.

If any man teaches other doctrine and does not assent to healthful words, those of our Lord Jesus Christ, nor to the teaching that accords with godly devotion, he is puffed up with pride, not understanding anything, but being mentally diseased over questionings and debates about words. From these things spring envy, strife, abusive speeches, wicked suspicions.

Ideas can be very dangerous things. Ideas not of or for God are too sinful for a faithful person to permit themselves to listen to. It's why silencing him was necessary, why the archangels came up with the memory wipe, why so many demons are to be dedicated teachers and inventors.

Murmur will teach humanity philosophy. Aamon will reconcile enemies, and know of the past and the future, and procure love for those seeking it. Orobas is unfailingly honest, will uphold deals with humans in good faith and tell them the truth of any matter they could ask about. Penemue would teach the humans to write, teach them of bitterness and sweetness, and be credited with spreading sin across the world because of it. Azazel would teach humans to make weapons and armor, he would invent cosmetics, he would reveal the secrets of witchcraft to them so they may use it themselves. Amy would teach astronomy and liberal arts, he would give familiars, reveal treasures, and incite positive reactions from human rulers. Barbas would reveal secrets, teach medicine, cause and cure diseases. Belphegor would inspire humans to ingenious inventions that would make them massively wealthy. Naberius would make humans cunning in all arts and sciences-- rhetoric especially-- and restore them their lost honors and dignities.

And so many, so many others.

Just about every demon Raphael had met so far was a teacher at heart. Just about every single one of them would inspire humanity to create. Oh, there were exceptions, of course. Some of them have embraced bitterness fully, have decided to scorn the humans and cause them only trouble. The Evil Trinity-- Lucifer, Beelzebub, and Astaroth-- are resoundingly evil, and the other four princes aren't far behind.

It is easy to say the demons are all evil liars committed only to spreading destruction if you've never gone down to Hell and talked with a fair share of demons.

There is no such thing as neutral information. It is either helpful or it is harmful, in Heaven's eyes. And demons are willing to spread it indiscriminately-- hurtful things, dangerous things, deceitful things, truths that can be turned into weapons and used to fight back, little white lies when there is no such thing.

Demons will talk, will say anything and everything, will talk for the sake of speaking, and angels will stand silent, carrying out untold orders from Up High, parroting back only what is sanctioned, and in the prescribed way.

Raphael had a lot of time to think.

For one, he realized his name didn't fit. God Heals, what bullshit. God has not healed a single thing. She may have put life in Adam and spun the Earth on its axis, but the bulk of creation was delegated to others. And Raphael could see it, has always been able to see it, but never thought about it. God doesn't heal. God will never heal. She will give angels and saints the ability to do it for her, but never once in all of history will there be an instance of God personally healing someone.

God does not heal, and he is not Raphael.

He gets it now, why some of the demons have been changing their holy names once they get down there. It feels like a lie branded onto him. And even with the meaning aside, he is not that person. God doesn't get to decide that. She doesn't get to stick holiness on him, have him be labeled entirely by it, and decide that's his identity. No. No, he will choose his own identity, and he will be his own person, not just one of God's.

And for the first time in his life, he was alone in his own head. He could not sense his siblings. Even when he focused, he had no sense of their general mood or occupation or where they were in relation to him. His familial bonds had been completely cut off, severed with a decisive blade.

It was a clear message. He hadn't been betrayed by his brother and sisters. He had been the betrayer, he had been the one to turn his back on them and what they stood for, and as of this moment, he no longer had a brother and sisters.

Sacrifices must be made. Have no dealings with apostates.

The words of a snake are poison.

-------------------------------------------------------

He hadn't been so clear-headed at first.

He had thrashed and twisted around. His wings were bound in chain. Heavy steel, forged in the heart of stars, glowing blue with holiness. He had nearly pulled every muscle in his wings and back straining against them.

It was a panic response, obviously. His wings were not strong enough to snap heavenly steel. Pushing against it wasn't going to do anything. But he was falling, falling, falling, and the instinct to unfurl his wings and stop it, soar to safety instead-- it was near insurmountable. He itched to fly. Winged creatures were never meant to fall with so little control over it.

They had started to burn. The chains, that is.

It was a slow, creeping heat, the kind you didn't notice at first. It was sensation, awareness of an object that contained the heat of your body. It was a bit warm. A tingling itch. It was clearly heated, nearly hot, but only uncomfortable for being in prolonged contact.

Then it wasn't.

The flesh of his wings reddened and burned and blistered first, and it smelled like cooked meat. His struggling began anew, and kicked up a notch.

Feathers touching the chains smoldered. They gave off streams of smoke, turning black and curling in on themselves, then turning to white ash and flying away as dust, gone.

And the heat spread, and his whole wings were on fire.

Raphael struggled and twisted and tried to pull away from his own body. The fire burned the length of his wings and kept eating. It caught his hair, his robe. He was covered in it, his skin wasn't holding up. He was going to melt.

He closed his eyes against the heat. They were watering uncontrollably, nature's last-ditch effort to preserve them, but the tears were evaporating on his cheeks.

He imagined something without wings or hair or robes to burn. Something with no soft flesh to exploit. Something that could not be bound by chains at all, something that could slip right out of them with ease.

He fell away from the fire, and left it behind up above him.

His eyes were open now. There was nothing to see, of course. Only infinite blackness flying by too fast to process. But he imagined that at least he would get a bit of warning, some time to brace himself, before he fell into the next fire.

----------------------------------------------------

It didn't work out like that.

He never saw it coming. No light, no flames, no plummeting through the great big hole in Hell's ceiling into the main cavern of the bottom level. There was just an increasing sense of red, getting redder and brighter as he Fell, and then suddenly he was in hellfire.

He slammed down into the bottom of the Pit, pain reverberating through him.

It was a shallow pool. Less than one foot of boiling sulfur. The flames resulting from it towered about thirty feet high.

He couldn't see anything but the bright scarlet red, and that fit, he supposed. Not much worth seeing in a pit of boiling sulfur. It was a shame this form wasn't capable of closing its eyes, though.

Flames crackled and snapped loudly. Bubbles popped and roiled on the surface, muted above him. He stretched upward, clearing his head of the fluid, and the landscape of sounds changed.

Something was sloshing. Towards him.

Beelzebub, he thought, grateful he still had the ability to recognize a soul even before he could see the redder-on-red form of the prince through the flames. And that was the last thought he had before he was yanked up by the throat and marched back through the Pit.

They came to the embankment and cleared the hellfire. Raphael still couldn't see anything, no doubt his eyes having trouble adjusting from being in literal flame to darkness. Everything was black, with a faint hue of red, and the demons themselves were ghostly, hazy figures of pure.

A neutral red. The standard version of red. Dimmer than the hellfire for sure, but by no means dark in itself, unlike the room. Some of them were brighter or darker than others, curiously, and some were veering a bit towards purple.

Beelzebub lifted his snake form up high, and he wriggled instinctively. "And here we have a former Archangel," ze said. "You all saw that display in the Garden. One of you dukes will be getting this thing added to your legion. Who wants him?"

Red shapes crept closer, and it was suddenly very very bad that Raphael could not see their faces.

--------------------------------------------------

Four hours later, it was finally over. Beelzebub tossed him to Duke Hastur, who did not precisely catch him. They both ended up flailing rather ungracefully for an embarrassing amount of time before sorting themselves out.

"Crawly little thing, aren't you?" Hastur said. "Listen, fuckface, I know you're new here, so let me just tell you something. You may have been a big man up top, but that means nothing down here. If it weren't for your big speech and the healing you did, we probably would have hunted you for sport. Like a cop in prison. The only reason I wanted you for my legion is 'cause I figure you still have all your archangel powers, and it's a feather in my wing to have a former top gun under my name. But it's my name. Got it? You work for me. You were a big man up there, not down here. If I even think you're getting any funny ideas, I will put you down and feed you to the hellhounds. Understand?"

"Perfectly," he hissed.

"Good," he said. "It's the dawn of a new day, crawly. Why don't you get up there and make some trouble?"

--------------------------------------------------

Day 7

Not-Raphael (no new name yet) manifested physically within the depths of the Earth and then burst forth out of them, inside the walls of the Garden, in the form of the largest snake the world would ever see.

Was it over the top? Yes. Was it highly noticeable? Also yes. Was it a poorly concealed defense mechanism after being made to feel small and helpless?

He slithered through the Garden.

It was empty, now. Only a single human, some plants, and decidedly friendly and safe animals. The demons had turned their attention away. The angels had gone back to Heaven and work. God's presence was gone.

Not-Raphael saw only black, with faint, barely-there blue forming vague shapes that must be the plants. The whole garden smelled holy, and the air was filled with a soft thrum of energy because of it. Evil manifests as energy-in-the-air too, but a decidedly different feeling energy, if that made sense.

The holiness prickled on his scales uncomfortably, made him feel tense and on edge. Jittery.

He wandered around aimlessly until he found a soul.

The soul was a yellow, wobbly-ish figure, indistinct and made of light, as everything he could see now was. The only reason he knew it was a human and not a small, odd plant was its color and movement.

This soul was different than the soul of Adam. It was she who was called Woman, but someday she would be called Eve, the Living One, as mother of all life.

(Adam would never truly receive a name. Everyone had been calling him Man, and eventually the word that meant 'man' would be considered a good enough name in itself, and many humans would be named Adam after him. They were, respectively, Man and Woman, and being the first of their kinds, that was generally good enough. Adam had then gotten sappy and sentimental later in the day, and invented a name for his wife. But that hadn't happened yet.)

He made himself a fair bit smaller before approaching, and twirled up a tree and into its branches, dropping his neck down.

Eve glanced up, startled, and smiled. "Hello," she said.

"Hello," the snake replied.

Eve had never been so close to another animal before. She had been born yesterday. She didn't know they couldn't talk.

"Did God really say you must not eat from every tree of the Garden?" he asked.

She nodded, innocent and sincere. "We may eat of the fruit of the trees of the Garden. But God has said about the fruit of the tree that is in the middle of the Garden: 'You must not eat from it, no, you must not touch it; otherwise you will die."

"Ohhhh," he scoffed. "The tree isn't going to kill you, you know. The fruit isn't poison. Perfectly harmless, in itself. God just told you that 'cuz She knows that in the very day you eat from it, your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good from bad."

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They had never seen God curse anyone before. No one had. Presumably, it had never been done.

But now, God let loose curses.

To the snake:

Because you have done this, you are the cursed one out of all the domestic animals and out of all the wild animals of the field. On your belly you will go, and you will eat dust all the days of your life.

To the demons:

And I will put enmity between you and the woman and between your offspring and her offspring. He will crush your head, and will strike him in the heel.

To women:

I will greatly increase the pain of your pregnancy; in pain you will give birth to children, and your longing will be for your husband, and he will dominate you.

To men:

Because you listened to your wife's voice and ate from the tree concerning which I gave you this command, 'You must not eat from it,' cursed is the ground on your account. In pain you will eat its produce all the days of your life. It will grow thorns and thistles for you, and you must eat the vegetation of the field. In the sweat of your face you will eat bread until you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken. For dust you are and to dust you will return.

And then Eve was given her name, and God gave the first humans some better clothes, long garments made from animal skins, thick and warm. And She said, to the angels:

Here the man has become like one of us in knowing good and bad. Now in order that he may not put his hand out and take fruit also from the Tree of Life and eat and live forever--

And suddenly the humans weren't in the Garden anymore.

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If he had known this would happen, he wouldn't have built the wall.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair at all. They deserved a sporting chance, at least, to get at the fruit. And what were they supposed to eat out here? Where were they supposed to take shelter? Humans will die within days-- not weeks, days-- without water, thanks to Adam's curse, and they're in the middle of a desert. Plus, they don't know anything about survival. Or anything at all, really, except for right from wrong.

Immortality lay at the center of the Garden. It hung from a tree. It would rot off the branches, or be eaten up by birds or bugs before it went back into the earth, and eventually, God would let the tree itself die. Life. Health. Freedom from death.

He thought about the angels guarding it. Two cherubim at the tree itself, two more at the gate, which is in the east, every last one of them armed with a flaming sword and experts in how to use it.

He wondered how they were able to live with themselves.

He wondered if he was going to be able to live with himself.

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There was an angel on the wall.

Mind, he couldn't see the wall. Still blind as a bat, apparently, except for whatever weird shit was going on with the red and the blue and the strangely yellow humans. He had accepted it as further divine punishment at this point. Little bit of extra, for the ex-archangel who fell so far.

It was ironic, actually, and he was going to try to think of it as funny. Raphael, patron angel of the blind, who was blind before and gained true perspective at the cost of his eyesight.

See? It was funny. Definitely funny, and the poor attempt at irony was horribly tacky on God's part, and Not-Raphael was going to laugh about it any day now. In a few short years, at a maximum.

He was sure God was laughing, at least.

The hazy steaks of red and blue light did not appear to exist outside of the Garden or Hell (he half-heartedly wondered how he would perceive Heaven). It was just black. Plain black. He could tell where the Garden was from the outside only because he could "see" beams of blue light shooting up from about midway in the sky out of nowhere.

But that didn't matter now, because he was on the inside, slithering up the wall towards a shining blue figure with big, obvious wing shapes. Must be an angel. Had to be. All the demons had been red, and Eden was blue, so surely angels were blue too?

He turned back into a humanoid form once safely on top of the wall. "Well that went down like a lead balloon."

"Sorry, what was that?"

He turned to face the angel. Better for hearing. More polite. "I said, 'Well that went down like a lead balloon.'"

And shit, shit, he saw the angel's soul, just like always.

Aziraphale. Aziraphale, really? Bit on-the-nose there with the name there, Uriel.

He had been made the morning of the sixth day as a helpmeet to an archangel who turned traitor that afternoon. Now an unsorted cherub with no specific projects to be doing, he had been put on guard duty when Heaven needed spare angels. No one knew quite what to do with him.

So much for taking over Raphael's job. Looks like that had been nixed almost immediately.

But then, he had no training, and that wasn't even his patronage, his patronage was--

He needed to stop soul-staring.

"Yes, yes, it did, rather," Aziraphale said.

"Bit of an overreaction, if you ask me. First offence and everything," he said. "I can't see what's so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil anyway."

"Well, it must be bad--" The angel paused, clearly expectant.

Oh shit.

He thought fast. "Crawly."

"--Crawly. Otherwise, you wouldn't have tempted them into it."

Speaking of tempting.

He started talking, asking his questions, but the angel didn't take the bait. Best not to speculate, copping out by refusing to even think about it, smart. Still, though, even just listening was on the wrong side of borderline. A proper angel would have smote him on the spot.

He had not crawled up the wall right next to a trained, armed cherub with a God-given weapon with the intention of finding an improper angel.

Still, though. This was interesting, at least.

Hey, speaking of which: the blurry, indistinct outline of the angel seemed to be just that-- only the angel.

"Didn't you have a flaming sword?" he asked.

"Uh--"

"You did. It was flaming like anything. What happened to it?"

"Uhhh..."

"Lost it already, have you?" Was that it? Was that how angels stayed loyal? Pointedly not thinking, general incompetence, and not considering the consequences of their own actions?

Was Sandalphon a role model?

"...Gave it away."

"You what?!"

"I gave it away!" Aziraphale said, loudly, with no fear of God hearing. "There are vicious animals! It's going to be cold out there. And she's expecting already. And I said, 'Here you go. Flaming sword. Don't thank me. And don't let the sun go down on you here.' I do hope I didn't do the wrong thing."

Crawly's chest and his heart in particular felt very, extremely strange.

This was selflessness. This was fearless kindness. Doing the right thing even when it goes against the theocratic law. Even when there could be dire personal consequences for doing so. Aziraphale had the ability to ease people's suffering and give aid to the vulnerable, and so he did, without a second thought, without hesitation.

This was what angels were supposed to be like. In that moment, Crawly was convinced that Aziraphale was the truest, best angel there ever was. The only good one in Heaven.

"Oh, you're an angel. I don't think you can do the wrong thing."

They kept talking, and Crawly had a niggling desire to know what Aziraphale's form looked like, what his face was doing, but he repressed. Best start getting over his issues about that as soon as possible. He was going to have an eternity to live with that, he would rather not be miserable for all of it.

He was going to miss his eyesight every now and then, for sure. It would take some time and a good bit of effort. But this was his life, this was who he was, this was how things were going to be. And he was going to be content if he had to fight for millennia to get there.

For the first time in his life, he felt true hope.

Rain started sprinkling down. Without even deciding to do so, he shuffled closer to his angel. Aziraphale extended a wing up above his head, protecting him, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Maybe it was.

Maybe kindness could become the default. Maybe humanity could become something beautiful out of this, knowing what was right and working to do it. If people like Aziraphale could make kindness so simple, so effortless, then the rest of the universe could-- should-- follow their example.

It would take some time. Some effort.

But Crawly thought they really could.

#just reposting an old fic from ao3 for today's prompt cuz im lazy #good omens celebration #goc #fic #good omens

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