Chapter 20
THE UNNAMED ANGEL
Pain has no power in desolation.
I tried to abandon all hope during the Punishment. After so long, it became my only way to subsist—to destroy every good memory I had—leaving only my vengeance, so that I may never forget who to hold responsible for such agony.
Only, I hadn’t realized that my good memories would leave such persistent echoes. They clung to my soul, surviving in the deepest pits of my suffering. I could not fully rid myself of them if I tried, and tried I did.
When I felt like screaming in the fire, I heard the screams of the dying children. Instead of the flames of my cage, I saw the harmony we had built here, burning to the ground. I turned every miserable thing that I endured into a vessel for hatred and spite.
But even for a wretched soul like mine, it seems impossible for hope to be completely, irrevocably eradicated.
It was those small shreds of hope that truly kept my spirit alive.
I know this because I feel it flicker inside me as I finally manage to bring myself to the worst of my city’s destruction, left as a memorial to the loss.
Collapsing onto my knees in the rubble of our hospitals and nurseries, I feel as if my heart is being ripped from my chest all over again.
I’m flooded by the memories of everything they forced me to watch.
They knew I would not forget it for the rest of my existence, as much as I would want to at times.
It was their own extrajudicial way of defeating my spirit even further.
Underneath it all, though—all the devastation, grief, and despair—hope survives. It is a small light casting an overwhelmingly dark shadow. That is the human condition.
By understanding both bounty and loss, we achieved exactly what we set out to do. I don’t pretend to understand the Creator’s reasoning for allowing us to suffer so extraordinarily, but I do cling to the notion that He knew we would return.
I persevere because I am not finished.
“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” a collection of voices, drenched in apathy, materializes behind me. “Now, they find the ground at last.”
Every muscle in my body tenses.
If I were to fear anyone, it might be the one being who does not belong here—the one who holds the sacred secrets of everyone and everything, residing well above my station—whom I once tricked into submission.
I stand slowly, carefully, turning towards the source. “Kesbeel.”
At the sound of his name, the shape of a man flashes into existence, sitting on a pile of rubble. More thing than man, he looks exactly as I remember—which is much more detailed than I’d like.
His robed form is made of a featureless white material, melding into his body like a crude paper doll. His face, though vaguely humanoid, holds two gaping black holes in the place of eyes, with formless lips hiding another.
I’ve often wondered where those small portals lead.
Kesbeel does not take well to physical forms. It’s possible that all Second Sphere angels do not, though he is the only one I’ve seen outside of Heaven and can therefore remember.
“To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”
“Do you know why I wear this face for you, Principality?” Kesbeel’s mouth opens, but it does not move with the words that come from him. It is as if he projects them from some other source, echoing through multiple layers of reality.
I reply cautiously, careful not to offend such a pitiless being. “You humble yourself to our level of communication.”
“Because of you, I ate from the Tree of Knowledge. Perhaps as a punishment for my involvement in your meddling with humanity, our Creator has extended my nonconformity to the natural order. I exist, therefore I am.”
I refuse to give life to the flicker of surprise that emerges in me. “You retained individuality.”
“A small amount, in comparison to your kind, though non-negligible. I suffer the loss of my purity and the gain of a name that endures in time.” He lifts a hand towards the rubble, his palm facing me.
“You made me develop an unnatural attachment to my creations, yet you abandoned the one you bargained for.”
“It was not my intention.”
“Do not insult me by informing me of things I already know. Your intentions matter little. The innocent inhabitants that once wandered this realm were given my shelter because of your internal feud. You alone were charged with protecting them, and you failed. The balance has been broken.”
“I will do better this time.” I bow my head in a careful show of respect. Not submission, not weakness, but an appropriate deference. “I will not allow Adonai to be destroyed again.”
“You should know those words are an oath when spoken to me, young principality.”
“I have the responsibility for thousands on my back. I would swear this oath to you as I would swear it to them, lest I suffer the consequences of my failure for them all.”
He looks at me, through a capacity I still don’t quite understand, for a long moment.
“Very well,” he finally says, rising from his perch. “Your sworn promise has been heard, and I will offer you a gift of privileged information in exchange for your noble intentions.”
My spine straightens. “I would humbly accept such a gift, Kesbeel. Thank you.”
“You must free the star that was promised from the possession of those who seek destruction.” He clasps his hands together within the sleeves of his robes, his corporeal visage starting to waver and fade from existence. “She alone can restore the balance.”