thefallofophanim

[thefallofophanim]

RESILIENCE

Her departure was untroubled. She awakened in my arms, and I took the time to worship her once more. I drowned in the sound of her voice as she called my name. “Lys”. No one would ever call me that again. My sickness was now reduced to a strangled cough, reminding me of my role as a Prophet. I couldn’t tell her about the land of the Silhouettes. We got dressed, the difference in our uniforms, a reminder of the worlds between us. I decided to wear black, the colour she always knew me for. I was not expected at the Confessory today; the deceiving White could wait. I helped her gather what she needed. Food we stole from one of the dining halls, and clothes for every season that once belonged to a younger me. Civilization couldn’t be far. I walked her to the passage, a hidden staircase leading to an underground tunnel among the bushes of roses decorating the part of the garden only us scribes could access. All this time, the answer was below my window. 

“I have to accomplish something important,” I say when we arrive. She laughs.

“Did you think I could not tell?”  She is wearing a hat for the cold, slightly too loose for her. I reach out to slide it back on her head. “I trust you to do it well, then.” It’s a good thing you won’t be here to see it. You do not deserve to be martyred, I think, but won’t say. She lets go of my hand, and starts walking down the stairs of her liberation. Neither of us weep, or say farewell. At the last moment, she turns around, studies my figure silhouetted against the rose garden, the Monastery and the Church for an instant. 

“You’re…Part of an engraving. No, an illumination” she affirms. “I was wrong to think I could take you with me, although I sincerely wanted it. You are where you belong, always have been. That is how I will always remember you- a fine young man, a perfect ink curve in that cold morning.” 

In an instant, she is gone. To where I can’t follow.

I pick up a rose from the garden, wondering if that early blooming is a miracle. A consolation from God, and a celebration for one’s deliverance.

When I push the door leading to the Scriptorium, Semione is already here, working diligently. They don’t greet me. They already know, and prefer allowing me time. They will be willing to talk once I am. I silently walk towards my desk, and place the rose next to my most recent parchment. 

“Anouk is gone,” I simply announce.

“Could you say everything you had to say to each other?” They ask.

“We made love,” I answer shamelessly.

“I see.”

“I’m not sorry about it.”

“You have no reason to be. You should never be sorry to love, Lysander.”

I take off my glasses, and wipe them against my cassock.

“Even if I was never in love with her?”

“Especially if you were never in love with her. She wasn’t, either. Things are sometimes not that simple. You’ve given yourself, not in a passionate wince, but in a longing hold.”

“Do you think I betrayed Aliosha by doing so?”

The question escaped me. I tense as Semione flinches, then sighs. I avoid their eyes as they get up and approach me, resting their hand on my shoulder. I am scared of their answer, but of their benevolence as well. Their temperance will always win over their resentment.

“Let me tell you a story, from years before you were born,” They start. “I fell in love, once. With a marvellous person. Before I knew it, life started growing inside of me. I wish I could have been happy about it. I could not. All I could think of was to be freed from that unspeakable burden…And so, I did everything in my power to do so. It took days, and suffering. I was forever mutilated, beyond repair, all because I had loved, and had been loved. I was irreversibly scarred.”

I did not know that. Troubled, my gaze raises up to meet theirs. What I saw was resilience itself. On a human face. “And then, I was gifted a miracle. A very little boy, that I had to be entirely devoted to. You.” I hope for them not to notice my heart beating and my knuckles shaking. 

“On that day, when I left the Orphanage carrying you in my arms to bring you to the Monastery, I became two things. A mentor, of course, a teacher. But a parent, too. I raised you as my own. You might not be from my own flesh, but you are the son that was taken away from me nevertheless. Given back by the divine itself. Do you think I betrayed my aborted child by accepting that gift?”

A miracle. Given back by the divine itself. A gift. Lysander— saviour. Defendant of mankind. 

“...No. If anything, you honoured their memory by giving to another what you couldn’t give them.”

They smile. “Here’s your answer.”

That’s how I knew nothing was holding me back anymore. The Ophanim are unusually silent, following Aliosha’s orders. They’ve invaded the Land, now. Each of them, a piece of stained glass, forming a vast coloured window. They are ready, and so am I. I take the time to pray for them, for their suffering and for those who wronged them in the back of my mind, my fingers crossed. At last, I say the words they’ve been waiting to hear ever since Aliosha came to find me.  “I’ll let you fall.”

[thefallofophanim]

EPIPHANY

The following days were marked by illness. I was afflicted by acute nausea at every hour of the day, and remained sleepless at night, shaking at the idea of discerning the contours of the damned, sent by Satanael himself to raise on my head a crown of thorns and cruel honour. I could not attend Mass, nor assume the role I was assigned in the image of Confessor, to his absolute disdain. Ever since I was wrapped in pure white clothing by force of circumstances, something in his saintly, noble gaze lightened up in my presence (a brilliance I hadn’t seen in years), and I knew I was of his interest again. The news rapidly spread among the Silk, and Anouk’s frequent visits made her the likes of a nurse. She would help me change clothes, hold my hair as I vomited anything entering my stomach, and clean the mess left by Semione at the time of our argument. I watched her as she methodically picked up each fallen sheet, stained by the ink of my lies- I prayed for her to never read them- and I grew accustomed to her reassuring words, to her forbidden songs and to the once-familiar touch of her skin. She would never ask for anything in return, and I caught myself thinking she was perhaps closer to God than any Silkian I’ve had the fortune of hearing the sins of. She would never know, and would scold me if I dared speak my mind to her either way. I remained silent. Silence was the only discipline in which I excelled.

Those are my thoughts as I wipe the sweat off my face with a clean handkerchief she left on my bedside table. She left as soon as I woke up. “Visiting Semione”, she said, to tell them my state had slightly improved. I did not question the pieces of paper she carried out of the room with her. 

I hear her rapid footsteps, similar to a weasel’s on the other side of the stone wall, climbing the stairs towards my room. I stretch my sore body, impatient to see her today. Now that my fever has significantly lowered, I feel capable of leaving my bed. I do so, not without difficulty, and reach the window in a few steps, guided by the light filtering through the glass, casting a solar shape on the floor tiles. I calmly enjoy its caress on my face, warm and welcomed, freed at last from the hold of the revengeful angels. At least for the time of a new day. I turn back when the door opens, a relieved smile illuminating my face. 

“Good morning.”

Although I can tell it’s her by the petite figure standing in the door frame, I can’t distinguish her facial expression. Her lack of answer worries me, and I clumsily rest my hand on my desk as an attempt to get closer to her, awaiting for a response. 

“Lysander,” she simply says. Her voice is filled with a certain unwieldiness that reminds me of that day in the Church- Aliosha’s funeral. A mourning tone. 

“Yes?” Something is thrown in my hands, and I nearly fall over trying to catch it. I recognize by touch the chains, lenses and frame of my glasses. I confusingly put them on, clueless, and am immediately met with a harsh slap on the face, before I can even raise my head. The sharp, burning feeling causes me to carelessly bite my tongue and yelp in pain. 

I can’t utter a single word, and my shocked face only fuels the enraged friend standing before me.

“The North Staircase,” she muttered. I thought she would either crumble or jump at my throat. 

“What about it?”

“The North Staircase. And the Shore Corridor. The Former Monastery. The third Crypt.”

My gaze drops immediately, avoiding her at all costs. I think of pushing her away, and running to a place where she won’t find me- her, or Semione, or Confessor, or the Ophanim. My shoulders cannot carry any more reproaches. 

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, you coward,” she hisses furiously. “Where are your good, almighty Church boy manners?”

“Well—”

“That was a rhetorical question, genius.”

I tilt my head to the side in an attempt to escape her accusatory, humiliating words. I know I am to blame. Defending myself would be pitiful, devoid of humility and grace. 

“So this is what the sheets were for,” I declare. “I would recognize my own maps among thousands. What did Semione tell you?”

“Everything. There are no passages here—there never were. And it’s not only that. You knew it. Semione taught you everything they know.”

I walk slowly to my bed, and messily let myself fall.

“All that time spent together- what was it for? For your own sadistic pleasure? To see me fail?”

My vision is distorted, and the illness, the guilt wraps itself back around me. “No, no.” I almost regret Aliosha’s obsession. At the very least, I was innocent when his apparition was brutalising me. I wasn’t sinking in shame and sin.

I feel her flipping me over, so that I face the ceiling as she climbs onto the bed—on me. The overflowing despair of our situation swirls in our mingled bodies. For the first time, my mouth opens first. Has my redemption come?

“At first, I really was helping you. You were so brave—more than I could ever be. I thought we would find a way out, for you. Then, Aliosha disappeared— died.” Her body flinches. I don’t dare hold her. I continue. “And everything changed. I— I was afraid. I had to find a way to make you stay— endless empty passages is all I could find against your resolve. I couldn’t lose you, too. Not now.” My throat is seized by the weight of my own words. “I’m dying, Anouk.”

“I know,” Is all she answers, morose.

“Semione must’ve given you the passage, by now. No Metamorphosis can make humanity go extinct. You’ll find something, somewhere, anywhere that isn’t there.”

She sighs, and rests her face on my chest. “You could have come with me.” I shake my head, but nothing can stop her train of thought. Is she speaking to me, or herself? Neither of us know, surely.

“We would have been together, you and me. You could have brought knowledge to others. We—” I finally wrap my arms around her small body, holding her close, like a precious bouquet of flowers; the flowers she’d bring me when no one else would. No one would notice her absence, but the faded petals on my desk would be my remembrance.

“We could’ve had children. Like any man and woman would.” she gasps.

“Don’t be foolish.”

“You are grieving, too.”

“I am.”

With no surprise, she kisses my lips. Her mouth tastes different from Aliosha’s. That kiss is chaste, and full of sorrow- an irresistible call, that I can only answer. “If I gave you a child, what would you name them?” I whisper while she unfolds me. I don’t know why I’m asking. Would you name them after their vanished father?, I don’t say. “Shush. Don’t talk—please,” she murmurs. I nod, shiver as her hands find my skin. Her touch isn’t lustful, but fond, intimate, and as I sink into her embrace, I feel a sense of gratitude overwhelm me, for her forgiveness and ephemeral presence- an epiphany of beauty, grace, and delight; despite the absurdity, the obscene lament and melancholy that union is.

[thefallofophanim]

DELUSION

The Ophanim laugh, and I can soon feel the acid taste of resentment invade my mouth, my throat- perhaps my entire body. I blame them for Semione’s wrath, for Anouk’s distrust, for the holy parasite slowly feasting on my skin as an attempt to have my soul all to itself. I resent them, I drink their praise- and it is that furthest betrayal of myself and what once defined me as pure and worthy that I hold my pen firmly, and darken every page of that sea of twisted knowledge in an ultimate act of despair. 

The Angel’s arms went from refuge to prison; and every time I see Aliosha behind those diaphanous irises, every inch of flesh within my intestines pulse in horror. My attempt at forgetting what happened during all those years is a failure, and I find myself unable to differentiate my memories from my visions and from the words of those ethereal pariahs. The beauty of Celestials deceives humans.

Whether it's the moon, graceful and poisonous, or the sun, deceitful and glorious that rules this debased convent, Aliosha forces me to feel his passion in every organ hiding beneath my chest. He is where I am, and always has been.

 “Is it poetry you need, Lysander?” 

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and I try to shake the sensation off. It’s a now familiar feeling, but no less horrifying—like his sharp gaze carving into my flesh from behind. “Like in your little books?” I quicken my pace down the narrow corridor, the echo of my walk deafeningly loud in the heavy silence. 

“Stop running. You’re making me- all of us- laugh.” Laughing is all they ever do.

I turn left, climb the stairs, avoiding the dancing shadows on the wall, whose hands foolishly try to grasp me. I swirl out of their reach, and arrive at last, after what felt like an agonising eternity, in front of the imposing Church’s wooden door. “I don’t mind becoming a verse-maker, if that’s the cost of your devotion.” I grab my set of keys, my fingers trembling and damp as I search for the right one- my own metaphorical crucifix. I glance over my shoulder, but there’s nothing to be seen- only the empty expanse of the deserted alley. The walls seem to cadence with the rhythm of my fear. Is this a mockery of the Ophanim, too?

The key clicks and the door of redemption opens. I nearly fall as I step in, rushing towards the heart of the building, ignoring the silhouettes sitting on the benches. I trip and collapse in front of that Altar I prayed to so many times, sobbing, pleading to God for mercy, forgiveness, or deliverance. I would do anything- anything- to be saved, and the Lord in His grace must know it. I did not know Angels could make a man fall into temptation. I pray for the Holy Light to have pity on me and consume me before Aliosha can.

Alas. When I raise my head, the only being standing in front of me on this altar is my haunting chaser, smiling in a manner I wish I wouldn’t recognize. He does not look angelic in the slightest. All I’m seeing is a Human. I scream and fall backwards as he leans over me. I try to crawl away in terror, but he kicks my leg with disdain, before holding it down, leaving me helpless. His voice is barely louder than my wail.

“A verse-maker,  I said. I want to weave my heart into the very fabric of your soul, until you can’t escape my embrace.”

“No, no.” I whine, desperate. “Aliosha, don’t. You’re-” I choke on my own words. “You’re dead.”

Never before have I used that blasphemous word to refer to him, and the cruel collar of grief closes around my throat. I cough, trying to hold my own neck to assure myself this isn’t some vicious nightmare– he kicks my hand away, that falls back on the distant floor. It is only when he shamelessly pronounces every word of the sentence “No one is here to save you” with absolute delight, that I come to understand my own plagued fate. He worshipped me his whole life, and all I did was wickedly refuse him, feeding onto his maladive obsession. His revenge now is to force me to acknowledge him, all of him. To reduce me to his own possession. There is nothing, from above or below, be it the Divine or Death, that can save me from him. “Lysander ‘Saviour’, right? How suitable. Who will save you, once you’ve brought salvation to mankind? Surely not yourself.”

All I can do is weep, pathetically, helpless, my cries echoing in that empty scared place, begging him with my eyes to let me be. He won’t. He moves his shoe, pressing it against my stomach. It’s a miracle I don’t throw up– the strangled scream escaping my throat instead doesn’t even sound like my voice.

“I will weave my obsession into the marrow of your bones, until love for me is not a choice but an inescapable fate.”

I close my eyes, defeated. And yet, I should’ve known he wouldn’t grant me that luxury. Not now, nor ever. When Angels devour you, they devour you whole.

“Open your eyes. You are wearing white, now.” 

I obey. That’s right, I think as I vaguely discern the fabric covering my skin. The colour of purity, the colour of my destiny. He lifts me up, guides my steps. I am in a state of trance- no longer there. Before I know it, I’m behind the Altar, as if to serve our Confessory and lead the Mass, before an utterly empty Church. Would anyone be faithful enough to attend the celebrations of the insidious Lysander? 

He stands behind me, and his fingers are interlaced with mine. A follower I will never lose. A follower that will outlive me. I start losing consciousness as he delicately nuzzles my neck. “Let us fall, my Prophet”, he whispers.

On that night, I was found alone and unconscious inside the Church by civilians, and brought back to my room in the Monastery. Semione assured them I was simply sick and needed to rest when I coughed up blood and bile so dark they seemed like ink on the immaculate floor, provoking fear among these ignorant strangers. 

Laying in my bed, bare, covered in cold sweat and tormented by violent tremors, I hide my face in my pillow as Aliosha’s fingers wander through me, reassuring me, all while my physical state declines. How long before I’m merely another silhouette in that forgotten land? I won’t resist him anymore, I think, as I feel his warmth all over me, drowning me in illness. For the first time ever since he visited my guilty mind -inside those ruins-, I wonder if he is real, has ever been or if all he ever was is nothing more than another fragment of stained glass lost in my mind.

I am a once-was.

[thefallofophanim]

ACT TWO - THE PETALS OF SIN

I added a prayer to my edifice of shame with each new incident - they multiplied at an unhoped-for speed. The human mind is surprisingly maellable; even I didn't know it could be that easily troubled. The clear water that once was the collective unconscious of the Silk is now tainted with the black, sorrowed ink of the anonymous Prophet I have become, and its lost followers can only drink the unholy beverage of my truth- a truth that will, at last, allow us to merge with the divine and feel in our luminous core what it means to be human.

The chain of incidents has deeply shaken the Order of the Silk, so much so that I opened this morning a written order giving me the obligation to receive, alongside Semione, individuals in need of confession. To do so, I had to bid a temporary farewell to my black robe, and proudly but superficially don the true scribe's clothing, similar in shape but gleaming white; which would normally have been given to me at the end of my apprenticeship, by the end of winter. I would say "when I am finally a Man", but a Scribe's life is no comparable to a Man's. We are ostracized, sacrificed, and maniacally worshipped as we agonize on our shrine.

These moments don't mark my thoughts, nor my emotions. I remember neither the hollow confessions that could not ever possibly interest our Lord, nor the pleading faces of sinners - I know them all too well. Each one of them, more than they would imagine, or expect. Years and years of observation, of silence, and it is now my duty to feign ignorance. For them, for the Ophanim, and for my own self.

Surprisingly, wearing that new colour had an instant effect on my behavior. My shy, withdrawn temperament gave way to a certain charisma to which the impure ones are sensitive. The broken scribe, searching for a talisman in pieces of stained glass, gave way to a prince of the heavens, guided and worshipped by a choir of Angels who put as much faith in him as men put in God. I am losing myself. I am drowning, for the sake of a better tomorrow- glorious days unmatched by any work of art. Semione was the most sensitive to this change. "White certainly fits you well", they said, their heart seemingly full of pride at the sight of my new self. And yet... you can only fool a mentor for so long. "

What is the meaning of this?" They asked harshly, scornfully tossing the sheets marked with my ink onto our shared desk. Their voice is hoarse, their eyes marked by fatigue. I don't even have to look down to know what they're blaming me for. "My duty." My response is scathing, though I mean it sincerely. Suffering Semione's wrath (justified wrath, I admit!) is profoundly disturbing, and my defense is as pathetic as my actions. "Your duty, as you call it, is responsible for the chaos The Silk is going through. All the fear, all the death. Every moment of it." They articulate every word, dominated by wrath and shame. "I didn't expect you to be that insightful, Lysander", They continue. "Not so soon."

"Is that so."

Silently, we challenge each other with our eyes. So much to say, so few words. Mutual incomprehension, and the lord knows that Semione knows me as if I was their own- hence their ability to see through me so soon, despite my best efforts at discretion. Their facade breaks a little when they whisper, "Don't do this. You have to grieve."

"I saw you", I say without even paying attention to their plea. "In the land of Silhouettes." Her eyes widen and I see in her gaze all the horror of the world, something completely beyond us. A divine horror. "I saw you. So young, and already so full of talent. You are remarkable, Semione, truly remarkable, a lot more than I could ever be." They take a step back and I get up, piercing through them with a morbidly insisting gaze. "So why did you walk away from Them? They would've welcomed you, without an ounce of hypocrisy unlike our fellow humans. Why did you refuse to hear their chant?"

They swallow, and for a moment I catch myself believing they will faint. "You have to walk away, too, Lysander." "I have no reason to." "You have every reason to. Do you even know what indulging into the irrational means?" I do not answer. I can only smile at them, in a way that I want to be reassuring, but their anger is a fire's at this point, consuming. They violently overturn the pile of sheets they have brought, which fly in all directions, crumpled. They refuse to look at me, suffocating in their own torment, before turning away and walking out the door. "Clean all of this up. If I can't stop you, I can at least slow you down. Do think about the reasons why I refused the Celestials."

"Only to do the same as me, in the end", I sarcastically let out. "Don't think I didn't notice your own influence in those so-called historical, or sacred texts. Who is the real threat to humanity, after all- the one slapping it with heinous truth, or the one cradling it with deceitful lies?"

Semione leaves the room without a word, their quick footsteps disappearing down the monastery's spiral staircase, leaving me alone amid a flurry of loose, inked sheets. The Ophanim laugh.

[thefallofophanim]

WITHER

'In a time of faith and deceitful blessings, beneath the sacred veil of Glass that blinded a newborn civilization, was once, from a flower, born a child. Deemed sacred by his peers, he rose from his heavenly birth cot, overflowing with hope and sincerity.

But before he could know love, he knew the cruelty of Man, and his cries remained unheard as they sewed paper wings to his back, mutilating the skin and flesh they said they adored. With wings, you will fly, and reach the Sun for all of us, they all said. Bring the Sun back to us, let the divine find us again. What they didn't know, was that mere paper wings never allowed a man to fly.

Amidst this glass civilization, however, lived another young man - a poet, a misunderstood one- whom the failure of this counterfeit angel never bothered. It was a dazzling event, and these two misfits shared a friendship that almost transcended the limits of language and writing. They had become each other's talisman, and the passion emanating from that bond remained unspoken. But the paper wings, poisoned with doubt, guilt and fright, became so heavy on the shoulders of the object of worship our boy had become that he, mirroring the flower that he was born from, started withering. The illness spread in every inch of his fragile body, and the selfish men, who were in possession of a cure, refused to offer him salvation, letting him rot.

As he decayed, the poet stood beside him, promising him to spread the word of his misfortune. He would twist the blind faith of his people, and witness each of their transparent bodies shatter in hundreds of pieces, allowing the rebirth of a greater civilization, far from the one that stole from him what could've been his own enlightenment. It was only when he started to write, resentful and in crude need of meaning, that he realised how the sharp pieces of glass he was fed all his life by his people he so despised were slowly cutting through his body, slitting him from the inside with every move.'

I grab the keys dangling from my scribe's garment and carefully slide them into the lock, the remnants of my first original work wandering through my mind. As I step into the Library, I notice Aliosha in a corner, precisely following my every move, immaculate after our virulent dance from the preceding night. He is accompanied. All the Ophanim-dozens of them, the ones that cradled me-are perched on top of the shelves, mute. Do they appear to me to accompany their Prophet? Or had they been there all along - was I simply closed to their pleas?

As I put back the books whose pages I'd altered, slipping my tale between each shelf, the vision of the recent incident comes back to me. Blood, the sky, the loss of faith, the suicide. My lines, and surely my guilt. A simple sacrifice, I tell myself as I leave the Library, locking the door behind me.

[thefallofophanim]

DOLLS & DESIRE

The Angel no longer needs to pass through my subconscious. He's a constant traveling companion, sometimes appearing when I think I'm protected by daylight, and all I can do is accept his invasive presence. The ethereal entity laughs, then Aliosha - its core - cries, calls for help. Aliosha doesn't want to die, Aliosha will pray every night if necessary, for God to spare him. I ignore him. I saw enough of his suffering when he was still with me.

And yet, I can't resist his embrace. His arms wrapped around me, my head on his chest, the Angel and I are like a living statue. I embrace him like a lover, far from the laws of the Faithful Ones and my vow of abstinence, mocking God and his preachers. His kisses are my only lighthouse in these times of absolute solitude.

It's on this winter's day - spring is just around the corner - that I tell him about the endless hours spent with Confessor. The incomprehension, the humiliation, and a multitude of other emotions so awful that I can't allow myself to name them. My child body violated, my adult soul torn apart. I speak on Semione's behalf, too. They never had the luxury to escape like I did. Will this continue endlessly- eternally, for them? We both wonder, but don't say. The Angel listens. "Dolls. That's what Confessor made of us. What he would have made of you, if he could have had you. What would I do if he decides I'm worthy of him again?"

The thought alone makes me nauseous, so much so that I sigh, burying my head in the fabric covering Aliosha's body-if I can afford to call him that. His fingers run through my hair so gently, his shape is so close to the one I once knew. I no longer know where Aliosha ends and where the Angel begins-if I ever knew at all.

"But there is something worse." I continue. His eyes gleam with interest. "I myself have succumbed to desire. What a shame, Aliosha, what a shame. If you only knew how sorry I am." No response, just the feel of his hand on my face. "Semione tried to reassure me. To tell me it was nothing like what He did to us. I have taken advantage from no one. They- Semione- were furious, but purely because they knew my safety was now threatened." Aliosha embraces me tighter. His wings vanish for an instant, like an oneiric illusion, leaving him bare, human, fragile before me. I couldn't resist temptation. Could I, this time?

*Suddenly, the hand that was caressing me grabs my hair and pulls, forcing me up so that I end up standing (or almost), whining in pain. The one holding me is, indeed, Aliosha, and I can't even formulate my incomprehension - the Angel has never been violent before. He's taller, and the tips of my feet barely touch the ground. I don't understand, but the pain prevents me from thinking - my pain, and the pain reflected in his irises as well. His eyes are wide, almost mad; his mouth is gaping, mute; his body is shaken with spasms. I repeat his name over and over. Does he even hear me?

Then I realize we're no longer on our own . A legion of his kind now surround us, forming a circle of which we are the heart. An ethereal Colosseum of divine spectators. I haven't seen them since the last time. They chant my name, sing my praises, praise me on my dedicated work.

Aliosha stops torturing me, but refuses to let go. He is seemingly on edge. I never thought I'd see a Celestial in such a state. If he were to pounce on me now and devour me, I wouldn't be surprised. I would let him.

"Aliosha." I keep calling his name. "Liosha." Even I lost hope. And that's when I notice his tear-darkened skin. He is weeping.

He croaks out, "So this is what human emotion feels like. How inconvenient." Murmurs among the Ophanim. "I'm not interested in you. Let me see him, glimpses of him. What's left of him." I request. No sooner have I finished my sentence than he lets go, only to grab my arm, my waist to draw me into a frenzied dance.

He remembers.

I follow his familiar steps, and memories of forbidden dances in the Monastery, sometimes the Church, swirl before my eyes. It was just us then, free. I miss that freedom. I miss him, I admit at last, as I pull him tightly against me. The angelic circle closes in on us, witnessing this singular parade on this land between the world of Silhouettes and that of Men. He grabs me from behind, and speaks to me. "He- I wanted to dance once more, more than anything." My breathing quickens as his face approaches mine. "Did you need me like I needed you?" I can't answer. "Years," he continues. "Years to find you, my Savior. Please, don't leave me again."

I turn around in disbelief. What is he talking about? He, on the other hand, is more passionate than ever."I don't blame you, Lysander, you know. I know I wasn't up to your grace."

I'm at a loss for words as the truth invades my mind. He frowns, and I piece everything together immediately. This ceremony, my illusory omen, my lie. Semione covering me, Anouk's frightened glances. The blond child I read the thoughts of. I want to run away. I try to, but he won't let me, holding me as close as possible.

"Why not me? Answer me! Why not me?! I was always the purest-" his voice breaks as he clings onto my cloth. "How could you do this, then allow me to sin with you?" His grip tightens. I desperately search for an escape, helpless. He grabs my hair once again, forcing me to face him. I can feel tears forming at the corner of my eyes. The Ophanim howl around us, the noise polluting my mind. Once again, a part of me wants to let him win. To succumb, drown in his flesh, without an ounce of regret.

And yet, even before my thought is complete, my hands are wrapped around his neck. My grip is far from fragile, and a groan of pain escapes my dance partner's throat as I squeeze, choking the humanity out of him. We fall into the pale flowerbed-him lying on the ground and I on top, merciless. I strangle him, he never stopped pulling my hair, and we both howl at each other; but also at the angels around us, perhaps even at God himself. My mind is blank as I bend down to bite his face, with no clear objective other than to destroy him, break him, reduce him to nothingness. I can't hold myself back anymore, I want to dominate him, not the other way around. I, for once in my life, want to have control over something. The feeling seems mutual, and I tremble in ecstasy when I feel his lip slit under my teeth.

It wasn't until we were exhausted, sobbing, our cheeks contorted with sweat and tears, that we stopped, our vocal cords severed. Aliosha's fingers are entwined with mine, and as we exchange a last glance, he is dragged out of my reach by several of his fellow holy beings, useless and weakened by his human heart. He disappears, and I collapse as the Ophanim close in on me. They cradle me like a child, asking me to continue the task they've given me. Let us fall, they whisper. Let us fall.

When I wake up, they are all gone. All that's left is yet another piece of stained glass, laying, shining before my eyes.

[thefallofophanim]

INCIDENT

The church's mournful bells are distant, as if encased in glass. My mind is deaf, closed, as my condescending gaze judges the dozens of figures kneeling around the sacred coffin. Aliosha's funeral is glorious and empty, a perfect reflection of his life. He is and will never be anything more than a pretty face, slowly forgotten, degraded by the cruelty of human indifference. Once I die, I hope I won't have to suffer such humiliation, I think to myself, swallowing back the bile irritating my throat; sick in body, sick in mind.

"They stole his life." A whisper. Beside me, Anouk is pale, her lovely brown skin livid and her jet eyes glistening with hatred. Ever since her birth- a mistake of gods and men- ever since the beginning of her truncated and painful existence, it's as if Anouk had never not felt hatred, anger, in the depths of her being. I could see her shadow, long and cast on the tiled floor, trembling and taking shape; that of an animal figure - a canine, perhaps - with vengeful, sharp fangs, ready to devour everything around her. I blink, and the shadow is again that of a young woman. Next to each other, we wait in silence for this tortuous ceremony to end.

Shortly afterwards, Anouk became obsessed with escaping from this nightmarish place. For the first time, in front of the remains of a loved one, she saw beyond the bars of her gilded cage.

I look up from the piece of stained glass, and the memory washes over me. The Angel's accusing gaze falls on me, and I don't lower my head.

"Is this where your revenge began?" asks Aliosha in his heavenly voice. I don't answer-not out of fear, but out of rebellion. "What can a simple Angel do in the face of human resolve?"

☆

Do you remember your first meeting with him?" asks Anouk innocently, almost making me miss my letter - a magnificent J, decorated in gold, opening a new page of sacred text. She knows I need silence to concentrate, but doesn't seem to care today. I click my tongue, letting my annoyance show, and Semione chuckles at their own desk, on the other side of the room. "Don't be like that, Lysander. You're already a very dedicated pupil- seriously, you've been working too much lately. Dozens of new pages each day. At this rate, you'll be the most hard-working scribe the Silk has ever known. And as proud as that can make me, I am sure you can also afford to spend some time chatting with your friend that came to see you", they mock me. Semione has been looking so unusually melancholic ever since I heard their encounter with Confessor, and I find myself unable to talk back, now that they seem to be sincerely smiling. I sigh deeply, and turn to Anouk.

"Fine. Is 'him' referring to Aliosha?"

"Are you being stupid on purpose?" she retorts. Even Whiskers, curled up in her left hand (these two definitely get along well) seems to be giving me a disapproving look.

"I am not!" I exclaim quickly, only mildly offended. "It was about two years ago, in the Monastery Library."

"Didn't he try to steal some of the texts?"

"More or less. Let's say that forbidden borrowing would be a more fitting term. All he wanted was to know more about pre-Metamorphosis History." My fingers curl around soft paper.

"Aliosha was a very curious person, as insufferable as he could be" sniffed Anouk. "At least, he wasn't pretending to detain all of humanity's knowledge in his hand, for once."

"Ha-ha. Right." The paper is as white as the Angel poisoning my mind. I let go of the paper sheet.

"How did he react when you caught him?"

I clear my throat. "I am pretty sure he thought I was the Messiah Himself for a second."

The girl laughs, terribly amused.

"I hope he got on his knees and begged for forgiveness for at least four and a half minutes with his little Choir songs."

"I am afraid he did not, but he did walk directly into a bookshelf while trying to escape and certainly spent [at least] four and a half minutes putting all the books back to their initial place."

Semione rolled their eyes. "He damaged a masterpiece of mine. And one of the scribe before me. I was enraged. I thought for an instant I would break my vow of nonviolence."

I hum approvingly. "If it wasn't for the rules, I would've shoved my fist into his face without a second thought."

"And that's the most dedicated Child of God for you" remarked Anouk teasingly. Striking a pose against my desk, eyes closed, I throw my head back theatrically. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned..."

Laughs echo through the scriptorium, and the voices of the Ophanim are silent, for once, for now, allowing me a break from their endless supplications.

Suddenly, Anouk caresses my hand. It's gentle, innocent, but all I can feel is a harsh, sickly familiar grip around my wrist. I flinch and move my hand away, nearly slapping what I think, for a second only, to be Confessor in the process. She doesn't say anything, but I can sense disappointment. Pain, even. I can't bring myself to apologize. No apology would ever be enough, and we both know it, as much as we would give to a Being of Light to remain blissfully ignorant. Our insides are tarnished, I think as she covers her stomach with her cloth- an old sweater she refused to let go of. Uniformity has never been to Anouk's liking. She starts speaking again, of the way she met Aliosha, the offense he took at her not refusing to bow before him. Aliosha was never one to be humble.

That evening, I returned to the Monastery bookshop, ignoring the snide Angel hidden between the shelves.

The first incident occurred the next day. Whispers throughout The Silk, a wave of fright amidst a crowd of Angels, Scribes, Luthiers, and all the Others I've never spoken of. A trail of blood on the church's marble staircase, a life gone. I imagined the body - displayed beautifully, twisted, before the empty clouds of a cold morning. A premature departure for Heaven, and more importantly, a voluntary one. A member of the Choir. Ophanim laughed and weeped. 'Doubt in his mind', murmures the crowd. 'Loss of faith', they say.

[thefallofophanim]

CAUTIOUS

The church had just struck two as, arms full of parchments, I descended the stairs rapidly. I tried to respond to all the 'Greetings, Lysander' from those I passed, sometimes 'God bless you, Mr. Scribe!' from naive children whose gentle gazes reflected only the still untarnished innocence of illusion. Breathless, I almost knocked over Anouk, who was also making her way up the Monastery stairs. When she catches sight of me, her eyes shine with a desperate glint."Lysander," she finally says. "I have to talk to you, please." I shiver. My whole body tenses.

"Not now," I reply, shaking my head. Without another word, I continue on my way, shamefully leaving her behind. I can feel her mournful gaze sliding over me, following my steps until I disappear into the curve of the staircase. I have no time to think.

I slow down as I reach the door to Confessor's room, where Semione has asked me to meet them. The Confessor. The one above all, the one without a name. The one whose halo shine brighter than anyone else's. God's hand, our saviour. I think of his graceful manners, of all the times he blessed us. So why am I shaking? The hall is strangely silent, here. I usually appreciate silence, but the anxiety twisting my insides makes it threatening. I am slowly losing my patience and breath. Why isn't Semione here already? Lost in my thoughts, I flinch when I hear an intelligible voice. It's Confessor, behind the door. Almost whispering.

"Why do you keep on finding excuses? Your Lysander hasn't called. Is he even searching for you?"Another voice responds. I realise with horror it is Semione's. Oh my god, no.

"I am not lying. Perhaps he is late, he's been a little distracted lately-"

"And I already asked you to let me see him personally to discuss that."

I cover my mouth with my hand, praying that they can't hear me hyperventilating. After a pause, Semione speaks. "I do not think that is a good idea. Lysander can be quite difficult to dialogue with."

"You know this is isn't true." Confessor's voice is cold and vicious and a snake's. "See? Excuses again."

The discussion is interrupted by a violent noise. As if something, or someone had been thrown against a wall or a surface. A whine of pain resonates, and it is not Confessor's. He is, however the first to talk. "Is this perhaps what you're scared of?"

"N-no, that's not what I implied, I just-" Semione's voice sounds unusual, as if their head was pressed against something. I feel sick.

"Then why? Are you not grateful for everything I offer you?"

"I am! Ple-ease stop, I can't right now- I'm not-"

The sound alone is enough for me to understand. I am sweating, and my vision is blurry. Semione's speech is rapidly replaced with nonsensical pleas. Perhaps cries. The books and papers I'm holding start to fall off my arms against my will. Confessor's words seize my throat.

"Lysander interests me no longer. He used to be a lovely child, but now he...he is too tall, his voice is too low, his eyes too cautious. Do you understand? You however, never lost your charm, Semione. That's why I favor you." Semione screams in pain.

Next thing I know, I'm running, arms empty, leaving them both behind me. I want to run as faraway as possible, but after a few laps, I fall in the Monastery's garden. I am met with stunning, withered flowers. I violently throw up, convulsing as the snow gets dirtied below me.

God surely blesses me with the most peaceful sight.

[thefallofophanim]

For a long time, I stayed within the Field of Oblivion, the Land of the Forgotten, where the incessant whispers of ancestors and lost civilizations cradled my unmoving frame. On that day, I heard the tales of rain and mist, listened to the poems of mute lips, stories of Men, Angels, Gods and all the rest; I tasted the bitter, liberating flavor of sin and piety, which were now one and the same. Everything was light, everything was intense, and in that instant I caught a glimpse of the knowledge that had fascinated me all these years, the knowledge for which I had dedicated my lifetime. What I saw, no book in any Monastery Library could have taught me; no sacred text could have recounted the birth of stars and dust, and the death of every one of my fellow humans, in just a few seconds. No illuminated letter could have illustrated my arrival in the pavilion of New Souls and the drowsy solitude that awaited me and every Scribe before my turn came to hold ink and paper between my fingers. One day, I thought, one day, I'll find the words to describe these celestial visions; it's through language that the ineffable, freed from its spell, will become divine, and perhaps then Humanity will be able to wake up and thank the day of Tomorrow.

I saw the universe, fluid, ever-changing, I felt the cord of light pass through me and connect me to every piece of broken glass, every flower, and to Aliosha, who had regained His original form, but whose soul I knew intimately could not move away from my heart.

Then the clouds calmed and I felt cold, pure water beneath my feet. I lose my role as storyteller and revert to the quiet scribe, if these two roles can be differentiated in the first place. The fog can take on the appearance of whatever it wants; the fog of ancient times knows all the secrets of the Land of the Forgotten. The water is clear, limpid, and I catch myself contemplating my shimmering reflection, and it's then that I realize I'm no longer alone with the Guide of my dreams who answers to the name of my lost friend.

Silken memories have brought me more than light and more than knowledge. Mist and clouds swirl in the empty air, wandering and sublime, and at every glance, I catch a feather, a strand of hair, and the beauty of long-lost faces. Heavenly chants and crossed fingers have me gasping for air, as I finally understand what the Choir of Angels is named after. Although, the illusory formation of children preaching on the days of Mass was nothing but a shameful scribble, a tasteless imitation of the scene displayed before my eyes. All around me, winged travelers whistled in the wind. Has my time come? So soon? The idea is at once sweet, liberating and sad: I don't wish to die today. Tomorrow, perhaps, I'll want to, but I can't bring myself to leave the sphere of Silk and the living when I've just received Enlightenment. God, I think, please allow me one more day; then I will join your side if so is your desire.

But this ethereal procession doesn't seem so funereal, and a feeling of gratitude washes over me. Today is not the day of the End of the World. I never thought I'd see any angels other than Aliosha - Aliosha was a miracle I thought would be enough. One of them (or all of them, perhaps, I can't remember) spoke.

"Oh, You, Child of God, offer salvation to your fellow children of God, and know our names. Hear our prayers, hear our regrets, and know our names."

"What are your names?" I answer. "Who shall I hear the prayer of, who shall I hear the regrets of? Please do tell me, for I, Lysander, will fulfill your request."

"Our names were forgotten, we ourselves can't recall them any longer. We are all and none. Once you leave this Realm, Lysander, carry with you the envy of the Ophanim. Let us burden your chest, and our savior you will become.

Let our tongues and our songs guide your hand and the ink that feeds the ones of your kind. Let our stories change Humanity. And once the time has come, let us fall."

I listen. The ill shivers that shake my body come neither from the cold water on my skin, nor from the sighs in my ears. In my mind gleams a new brilliance.

[thefallofophanim]

HEAVEN AND OBLIVION

"It's here", said Aliosha.

The Angel and I wandered for a long time through the white flowers, so that the ruined church where I regain consciousness during each of my dream visions has long since disappeared into the ethereal mist. We'd never been so far, and I knew that Aliosha hadn't led me here haphazardly. All this time spent observing me was no accident. Angels do not visit for no reason. These words prove my suspicion.

My gaze slides over the otherworldly figure. Its face has become more defined over time - as if the blank canvas it started out as was now painted in the glorious tones of the past. I never expected to see that face again, not even in my sincerest prayers.

"Is this an omen?", I ask.

"One could word it that way. An Omen, a Prayer, a Gift. Many names can define it."

I don't understand. And as my gaze leaves the Angel in favour of the ground, I notice strange fractures between the flowers, reflecting a bright light. As if a mirror had been shattered and scattered. As I crouch down, the answer echoes in my mind. Stained glass.

These are shards of pale stained glass, as charming and radiant as if they were still in the service of the Lord, and not ex-communicated on the deceptive floor. I feel Aliosha's eyes on me as I kneel and grasp one between my fingers. He says nothing, but the tension of expectation torments him.

Then a silhouette appears on the glass, and soon I see the figure of a young girl. I don't know her, but the colour of her skin and her hair, which are identical to mine, awaken in me a seed of hope that, in just a few seconds, blossoms into a rosebush of childlike joy.

"Mother?" I stutter.The figure doesn't respond, frozen in a position of prayer, deaf to my call. I point at it as I turn back to Aliosha.

"Is that why you guided me all this time?" I ask. "Was this the legacy you needed me to hold? Were you really a guardian angel all this time, Aliosha?"

I could not see my facial expression, but Aliosha looked down at me with such contempt I immediately felt my throat dry.

"What are you talking about? I have no idea who that is. I highly doubt she is your mother, her memory could have been preserved here since the Metamorphosis itself; who knows."

I do not listen to him. I talk to the girl, my breathing erratic.

"Mother, mother, can you see me? Mother, I forgive you for leaving me. I have become a scribe, someone important, and someday my name will be engraved in the Monastery's cold stones! No soul of the Silk will ever forget about my existence. Someone very kind-hearted took care of me, and I have been a good boy all my life- ask Confessor, ask anyone, they will tell you! Please look at me, Mother... I w-"

"That's enough, Lysander." Shouts Aliosha while reaching for the piece. But before he can touch me, I throw myself on the ground, holding it close to my chest. Wide-eyed, my voice breaks.

"Stay away from her, stay away from me! You've been nothing but a mask, stealing the face of the ones I love! The mere view of your eyes overwhelms me with illness."

I feel drool sliding down my chin. I am an enraged dog, refusing to kneel before Purity.

Time passes. Aliosha does not move an inch, his essence captured in a singular vision of mine. The Angels' patience really is unlimited, isn't it? I let go of the piece of stained glass, and get up as my illusion shatters among the flowers. No face can be discerned on the dull surface anymore.

"Lead the way, Aliosha."

☆

Within each glitter, a whisper. Within each whisper, a memory. Within each memory, a story. I, foreign soul of this melancholic voyage, have found myself intertwined with the crux of the Silk. I could almost distinguish shiny wires all around me, shaping what one could mistake for a spider's web, or a moth's cocoon, in the immensity of this strange place. Choir chants echo all around us. Yet, I do not feel like I am in Heaven. If Heaven even exists in the first place. Even monks are allowed doubt. The pale guide is the first one to speak.

"Hopefully, within the depht of your core, the core of what has shaped you, shaped your ancestors and shaped the stars before humanity fell, the day of the Metamorphosis, hopefully, you can find yourself, and find myself, too. Allow me peace, Lysander".

My attention is drawn to another piece of stained glass- several pieces, actually, that altogether show the same reflection. I am in the Silk's Church. I am a child, and in the blink of an eye, I am an adult, still trembling with the same fright. Invariable. Aliosha's gaze pierces my skin on the day of his ceremony, from the Angels' Choir, and a breath later, he is no longer.

I'm sorry, Aliosha. I think to myself. Pity, grace would've been enough for you.

"Do you remember?" I ask.

"Do you remember, can you, through the fragments of your memory, your memory altered, stolen by the grace of a stray light, can you find the Humanity within?

Do you remember the first time I glimpsed the radiance of your pale hair? Do you remember the exchanged glances between the shelves of the Library? Paper flowers and lost poems, distracted thoughts and weeping silhouettes, do you remember?

Have the wings of enlightenment blinded you beyond oblivion?

I witnessed you vanish, and each passing breath distanced you from me. My lips trembled in awe, and my prayers remained unheard.

And one day - it was the dawn of spring - one day, you disappeared. It was silent and beautiful, like your lips on my skin. That day, I went outside and found roses in the Monastery's white garden. Their petals glistened in the light snow. They would have delicately embraced your still body, scented your sweet face one last time; a last gift from a mourning friend."

"And then?"

"And then... I don't remember. The epiphany of grief embraced me, and I sank into its heavy, serene repose. Tell me Aliosha, why do you wish to visit my unfamiliar self?"

"Remembrance."

I lay down in the field of oblivion.

[thefallofophanim]

In the corner of an ephemeral dream strewn with roses, an ethereal song echoes, calm and delicate.

'Angel, Angel, How is it like in Heaven?'

'It is peaceful and luminous, though lonely once the flowers bloom...'

'Angel, Angel, will anyone weep for me once I'm gone?'

'I don't know, I don't know, but for Eternity, I will grieve you.'

In the corner of that misty dream, silently sleeps Lysander, the jet-haired monk, the boy so desirous for knowledge. On his side, kneeling, is a wingless angel, weeping, so humanly. "Lysander," he cries, "Lysander, Aliosha is lost. See how his torment tears at my soul, see how his woe is mine, now. An angel suffering for a human, is this the poetry your books speak of?"

A dreadful sob follows these words, and is answered only by silence. "I beg you, Lysander!" Aliosha whimpered. "It is your duty to tell me. Who is he? Who am I? Who is Aliosha and why is his heart filled with regret?"

Never had such sorrow been heard from a fallen divinity.

[thefallofophanim]

WAY

The snow had been falling for days, and the cold was freezing my bones, when Anouk and I struck up a friendship. I don't remember it so well now; we were so young, and the Orphanage was so big. Images and sounds travel through my memory, blurred like a long-lost dream. Clumsy fingers replacing my glasses on my face, and an echo of a voice. "… I've patched them up as best I can. I hope it will be enough."

I don't think we left each other after that, until the day I left the Orphanage; I thought as I stared at Anouk, now a young lady, rummaging through the meager pile of parchments and books I'd brought her today. "There were no cracks in the North Staircase," she said in a detached tone.

"It would seem that the architecture of The Silk has been modified over the years and centuries."

"I guess you're right."

A first silence.

"I really want to get away from here, Lys."

"I know you do." How could an unfaithful want to stay within the Silk?

"Come away with me. Please."

I shake my head. We've had this discussion many times, too many times in the past. "No. My place is here. I'll help you find a way out, but I won't leave the Monastery or my duty."

A second silence. "I'll pray to the God I don't believe in for you to change your mind."

I don't answer.

LIE

I lied for the first time on an ordinary evening, the year I turned ten. The Choir of Angels. The whole Silk whispered about them, where only I witnessed them; they had made the mistake of not mistrusting a child. I listened avidly, fascinated. It was said that these children reached a level of perfection unmatched by any other. As beautiful and graceful as doves, their crystalline voice guides you through dark times of doubt and fear. These children are our light.

I'd got into the habit of getting up in the evening, tiptoeing down the monastery staircase, key in hand, to open the library door. That evening, for a reason that still eludes me today (Fascination? Intuition? Destiny? God only knows), I changed the destination of my nocturnal itinerary. I still remember the marble wall of the Church, the way the moonlight embraced its polished face. The top of the Church is accessible from the outside, and it was through the main stained glass window, white and cold, that I observed the interior of the sacred place, from which sublime choir songs were escaping.

My eyes widened, my breath caught. Before my eyes unfolded a scene whose horror was inconceivable to me. There was a reason for the Angels' perfection. For their divine appearance, for their charming looks, for their magnificient gestures. The slightest mistake, the slightest flaw was punished in an indescribable way. Hidden, right in front of my eyes. I could hardly breathe. The tall cross of the Church cast a terrible shadow over the nightmarish scene I was the unfortunate witness of.

I turned away and ran, ran, to my bed, silently praying I hadn't been seen. I fell asleep, trembling like a leaf, rosary in hand.

☆

No one had seen me, and Semione didn't seem to notice anything. A few days after this incident, the ceremony to bless the new Angels was held; they had been chosen by Confessor himself, admired by all. I alone had no faith in them. I was the only one who knew the fate that awaited those unfortunate enough to be born with a, too pretty face. I'd made my peace with what I'd seen. It wasn't my story. Nevertheless, I was staring at them, livid-eyed, when a wave of panic swept through my body. There, among the children standing, ready to be crowned, was a familiar figure. Short black hair, brown skin, a mole under her eye that I would have recognized as blind. Anouk.

I thought of her, of our friendship during our time together at the orphanage. We hadn't seen each other since Semione came to get me and I became Scribe. That was years ago. Did she even remember me? I thought about what I'd seen, what Anouk would be like. Perfect as a porcelain statue, without the slightest depth. Empty, meaningless. I had to do something, anything. I don't know where the idea came from, but it seemed to have been whispered to me by the cherubims. My voice echoed through the church, shattering the ceremony. "There's been a mistake."

In an instant, hundreds of eyes were on me. I had to remain calm, or risk not being heard-or worse. A deathly silence embalmed the audience. "I've received an omen from the Angels," I said slowly. Confessor's eyes crinkled as I grew more confident. "The child with the speckled eye is not sacred." My gaze met Semione's. I, for an instant, could almost believe they could read my mind, detect my lie. That moment was an eternity. 'What are you thinking, Lysander?' They seemed to wonder.

To this day, I still don't know if they believed my clumsy lie, or if they decided to trust me and lie by my side. They turned to Confessor, their silver irises limpid as clear water. "He speaks the truth. The Angels have spoken, delivered the will of the divine." Once these words were spoken, everything went very quickly, with a murmuring sigh. I forgot most of it. Anouk breaking through the crowd like a Fallen Angel, brought to me. Her lost, humiliated gaze. Her small hand clasping mine throughout the ceremony. Relieved to have found each other.

An image is still engraved in my mind, haunting my restless sleep That day, I could never forget. Never have I felt the emotion that I felt this very moment. In the center of the choir, a child with long, light-colored hair couldn't take his eyes off me. He was tall, thin, and seemed abnormally mature- an already bloomed rose among a Choir of buds. I didn't know who he was, but his gaze betrayed everything about his thoughts.

'You saved her, didn't you?'

[thefallofophanim]

GOD

The divine has always been one of my favorite concepts. I was specifically fascinated by the fact that, although I'd been told about God and His miracles all my life, no one ever really tried- or more, was capable of- clarify what 'God' really was. Any questions on my part were unwelcome, punished at times. Having to find out by myself, I sat down, in a corner of the Monastery's polished white walls, and thought. I grasped the problem like a trickle of water in my hands and turned it over and over again. I thought about what Semyon had said to me. "God is everything, and nothing at the same time. The invariable is light." This made no sense to my child mind. So I decided, to secretly place my own words on this concept so vague, yet so seemingly important. The divine makes me think of the flowers I see in my dreams, of rays of light and poetry. I metaphorize it as a golden thread of energy, impossible to touch, but which can be felt. A thread that connects everything to everything else. An analogy. I close my eyes and think of the Angel's wings. So frail, so thin. As thin as the paper I write on every day. An Angel with Paper Wings.

[thefallofophanim]

PRESENCE

The Angel, Aliosha, now follows me everywhere. His presence, which used to trouble me, has slowly become my daily routine, and I catch glimpses of him through stained-glass windows or in the reflection of my rosary several times a day. I feel his eyes of light guiding my every step, and I reassure myself as best I can. Has God finally decided to send me a Guardian Angel?

I haven't spoken to Semyon about it yet. Perhaps I should have. Anouk doesn't know anything about it, either. But I must admit, in all sincerity, I like this secret. I wouldn't want anyone telling me how to react to this ethereal entity that seems to be watching over me.

His name sends shivers down my spine, bringing an emotion to my eyes that I can't even name. His presence is not limited to the day. As soon as I close my eyes, I'm back at the broken church, and there he is. He never leaves my side.

Sometimes, he speaks. He tells of Celestial stories, of the origin of the world and what feeds our souls; and I tell in return, of what I observe, of what I try to understand. Sometimes he's silent, and we walk, side by side, for hours on end. For what seems like eternity.

☆

"It's not just The Silk. There's got to be something behind these walls," I murmur. Aliosha inclines his head. Finding my words with him is easier. It always has been.

"I've been studying the Metamorphosis for years," I explain. "Its real name is The Oneiric Metamorphosis. I've gone through dozens of books in the Library,all this time. I've found archives, poems and other writings talking about it. The universe is surely much, much bigger than we think."

I pick up a flower. It's small, fragile, and yet so beautiful.

"Anouk is convinced of this, too. Running away has always been her dearest wish. To see what lies beyond. I'm working hard to find a way for her to realize it." I put the flower back where I picked it up. Aliosha's choral voice echoes in the hollow of my ear as he utters these words.

"There is much, much more than The Silk. There is far more than the world, and your souls. There is far more than anything you can imagine. Human life is merely one small experience among many, many others, in the immensity of Infinity."

"I know."

[thefallofophanim]

ORPHANAGE

I never knew my parents. But I'm far from being a special case; there were dozens of us at the Orphanage. And yet, The Silk only comprises a few hundred humans at most. The reason is, we're the fruit of forbidden love.

Certain couples, those most devoted to the cult, are allowed to reproduce to keep their offspring as pure and devoted as themselves. Their union must be supervised, assisted, with prayers and sacraments. But, of course, desire can never be entirely controlled by any external force. Adolescent love, adult love and other far less pretty events. Children are inevitably born, against the rules. To remedy these blasphemous births, the children are placed in the Orphanage, and their parents are purified. I was no exception.

And I forgave, I knew it was necessary to have any hope of finding my way to the light. I endured and prayed, each day passing. As my faith grew stronger, the pain became less and less. The slaps became caresses, and I could see even through my cracked glasses. I prayed, and apologized strongly every night, when everyone was asleep.

It was all my fault. I should have stood up straighter, not spilled that glass, not comforted that crying child, not refused to talk, not made any strange movements. I had the intelligence to integrate the principles, rules and expected behavior very quickly. I never questioned anything out of my own mind. Things were as they should be.

And yet, in the evening, as the dream embraces me and the world ceases to exist, I find myself thinking, wondering, hoping, naively, that sincere love has brought me into the world.

[thefallofophanim]

ANGEL

"Do you remember your name?" is my first question. I let the Angel get as close to me as possible. His movements are quick, blurred, as if in a dream. He's standing, facing me. Sitting with my hands on my thighs, I wait for him.

Taming him took time. I've felt him, and feared him for weeks. But I've finally gotten used to his rainy eyes and frothy hair. To his pale, thin body, so frail, yet so resilient. He looks like a human. He has the face, the limbs and the softness. He's wrapped in a single cloth, as white as snow. He has more than two wings. Their number changes, appearing and disappearing with his movements; he is only half discernible in this landscape of feathers and flowers as white as himself. His halo is silver, contrasting with the bright gold of mine.

My question awakens a gleam in his almond-shaped eyes. He takes a step forward, as silent as the flight of an owl. ".........sha".

His voice is very different from a human voice. It sounds like a choir singing, as if a dozen children were letting out their melody at the same time. A divine being is never alone. It carries in it's voice the History of many others. I hold his gaze as he takes another step forward. His bare feet cause tiny tremors on the ground. "...Aliosha."

His response is complete, this time. He's even closer, now. I could touch his neck just by reaching out. An invisible energy pins me in place. I can't move anymore. An indescribable link connects us. I know it, I feel it in the depths of my soul. I can't take my eyes off his ethereal figure.

"Why me, Aliosha?"

He does not answer. There was nothing that had to be answered.

[thefallofophanim]

HYDRANGEA AND JASMINE

By the time I blink, I'm back in my room. The sound of the ceremony slowly fades from my mind. The quiet of the Monastery is comforting, similar to the feel of a freshly washed cloth wrapped around my shoulders.

My fingertips caress the mouse nestled in the palm of my left hand. Its white and grey coat is always clean. It's so small, a mouse, and yet so intelligent. It can explore every nook and cranny. Surely it has seen more than I have, perhaps places I can't even imagine.

I jump when a hand knocks on my door. "Come in", I say mechanically. The door creaks open, and Anouk bursts into the room. A relieved sigh from me greets her arrival. "What? Don't tell me you got scared, glasses-head?" she says, barely mocking me.

"I wasn't scared of you. I was afraid of the noise, I wasn't expecting it." I reply as she approaches me. "Sorry." Her forehead sticks to mine, and her hands grasp my cheeks. We both close our eyes and stay like that, for a few seconds. It's our way of greeting each other.

Anouk steps back and sits down next to me. "Is there a reason for your visit?" I ask.

"Whiskers, of course. How could I forget her?" she replies, bending over the mouse in my hands, which raises its snout curiously.

"I see. You show more affection and care for a little mouse than you do for your best and most faithful friend-" "Shhh."

She giggles and pulls something out of her pocket. "I figured she'd enjoy my communion better than I do," she explains, proudly. I look at her, dumbfounded. "You didn't swallow your communion?"

"Of course I haven't. Don't look at me with those eyes Lysander, you know I never eat it."

"I suppose not."

There's an awkward silence between us as she hands her offering to Whiskers, who starts nibbling on it with interest. I feel a little guilty, pointing out our differences of Faith like this. Anouk would be in enough trouble if The Silk knew she didn't have any. She's the one who finally breaks that silence.

"I lied, I didn't come just for Whiskers. You arrived late earlier, which is very unusual, and I observed you. You were trembling, and you refused to watch The Angels."

"I never watch The Choir of Angels."

"You were particularly evasive today." Her face moves closer to mine, so that I can't escape her brown eyes. "I'm worried," she insists.

"There's nothing to worry about."

"Lying to me is pointless, Lys. I know you better than you know your Library."

"It's nothing important. I'll be better soon."

"Listen to me. You've got to face facts, and you've got to know-"

"I already know too much," I say abruptly, turning my body away so I don't have to hold her gaze any longer. Whiskers escapes me, and runs off to hide between two books in the corner of the room. Anouk sighs, then takes my hand. I don't stop her.

"Forgive me, Lys. I didn't come here to argue." I nod, gesturing to her that it's nothing. I can already feel the words escaping me. I'm no longer able to speak, to formulate sentences. I lie down on my bed and turn my back to her, letting her know I'm tired. She understands. She does not mind, she is used to it.

"The hydrangeas finished growing today. Their color is magnificent. Would you like to pick some with me? For your desk." I shake my head. Her fingers gently caress my hair. It feels nice.

"I understand. In that case, get some rest, okay? I'll bring you some when I finish working."

Oh, that's right. Anouk has to work, too. Comforted, I nod again and make a faint sound to express my gratitude. She gets up and walks away. "See you later, Lys," she murmurs as she closes the door.

Alone at last, I hold myself as I close my eyes.

☆

The next day, I'm at my desk, faithful to my task. The ink curves, dances, forms the letters and words along the pages. How lucky I am, to be a descendant of the illuminating monks.

I feel a presence behind me. Semione looks at my work. "Very refined," they comment. "You're gaining in precision. Your style reminds me of my own when I was your age."

"Thank you," I reply. I wonder if I should mention yesterday. I search for my words. "I'm sorry about yesterday,...arriving late at Mass. I wasn't myself," I finally articulate.

"I noticed. Confessor was furious and demanded you to be punished."

My whole body freezes, my breath stops. That single word echoes in my skull painfully. Punished. Punished. Punished. I am going to be punished. Confessor.

"I refused. I defended you and pointed out that you were a model pupil," continues Semione. "You are allowed to make a mistake now and then. We are still human beings. The Choir of Angels remain humans, too, After all. The Entirety of the Silk is. Besides, we were not celebrating anything special, other than Sunday."

"And his answer?"

"He said he'd think about it. I think I managed to convince him, though."

They think. I stand up, ready to leave the room, until my mentor's arms wrap around my shoulders. They embrace me. Their scent is that of jasmine; bringing back childhood memories to my mind. "Don't worry, Lysander. You are safe." I nod, and they separate from me. I can breathe again.

"..." "Anything else?" They ask. "I think I was visited by an Angel," I explain.

Semione frowns. "And did it say anything to you?"

"No." "Let me know if there's any change in the situation, okay? Maybe it was just a Celestial or another divine being coming to reassure you. You have been tormented lately, after all. If not, I'm more qualified to read omens than you are."

"Alright."

After that, they settled down beside me and we wrote and copied together, paying no attention to the sun's course.