Chapter 2 Present Aeon
Present Aeon
“So…a second Heaven?” This came from Michael.
The Council of Twelve had assembled to discuss the specifics of a new world Luc had designed, the blueprints of which were spread out in front of them on the circular beige marble table in the Artisanal Chamber, the Council’s regular meeting place.
It was an expansive annex to the right of the Great Hall’s main building, more a hall itself, in length, than a room.
Colored light poured through twelve stained glass windows—six tall ones on each side that climbed toward the vaulted, decoratively tiled, yellow limestone ceiling—onto the creamy marble floor that matched the table currently displaying Luc’s blueprints.
As a student, and later as Council architect, Luc had spent an indefinable amount of time toiling over his project, scrutinizing the boundaries between what he liked to call ‘land’ and ‘sea.’ He was confident that his proposal, if he managed to finally get it approved, would change the angels’ entire outlook on their existence—it would be a defining moment in their history, with his name attached to it in indisputable ink.
He’d pitched the idea to the Council in several different ways already, but his current pitch went thus: Heaven had grown quite dull over the aeons.
The common angels were growing restless with their unchanging tasks and surroundings.
How better to elevate their spirits than to provide them with a peaceful paradise populated with vibrant, colorful scenery and diverse, amusing creatures?
A second Heaven?
Luc was certain this new world would surpass Heaven in every way.
“It’s called Earth,” Luc reminded Michael, meeting his scrutinizing stare from across the table.
Most of the Council members were listening to Luc’s proposal from the comfort of their blue-cushioned and gold-framed high-backed chairs, the metal of which gleamed in the tall windows spilling light across the chamber.
Michael, however, stood while Luc paced.
The older angel always nitpicked at Luc’s designs, as if he wanted to find fault with them.
In his single aeon as Council architect, Luc had only managed to earn a terse civility from him.
At this pronouncement, he predictably grimaced.
“Would you explain the animals again?” Sidriel, the Council painter, asked, pointing to the sketched figures on top of a stack of loose papers at the far end of the table.
“Ah!” Luc smiled. A slim angel with a gold hoop nose ring, tawny brown skin, and black hair cut close to her scalp, Sidriel always took interest in his project.
She was a lover of aesthetics, particularly the strange and outlandish.
Unfortunately, she was easily swayed by the majority opinion and, therefore, of little help to Luc’s overall cause, but her questions were better than speaking to a silent room.
“Animals,” Luc explained, for what he felt was the hundredth time, “are sentient beings like us, but with different physical and mental features.” He pulled one page from his stack of sketches and held it up for all the Council members to see.
“This is a bird. It has wings, like us, but, unlike ours, those wings are always visible. This particular type of bird—I call it an ostrich—doesn’t use its wings for flight, but it runs very fast. And this”—he snatched up another page—“is called a grasshopper. It’s tiny, about this big.
” He held his thumb and forefinger apart.
“But it can jump ten to twenty times its body length.” Luc held up a final page.
“And this is a horse. It can rotate its ears and sleep standing up.”
“Why would it need to sleep standing up?” Muriel, the Council stonemason, frowned. Her bobbed auburn hair fell across her face as she tapped her pointed chin.
“Well, because it can! Because we can’t! Don’t you see?”
The blank stares around the table told Luc that they very much did not see.
“Lucifer, what is the practical use for all of these creatures?” Raziel asked.
An imposing angel with dark brown skin, impressive height, and a deep voice that thrummed musically in the hollow chamber, the scholar sat on one of the blue-cushioned benches set against the wall, the only one in the room taking notes.
Now he paused, his pen in mid-aether, awaiting Luc’s explanation.
The use? No, no, they weren’t understanding the point of Luc’s design. They never understood.
“Listen,” he implored them. “We’ve been in Heaven for aeons and aeons.
We keep adding on here, but what if we could do something better out there?
” He pointed out the window to where the courtyard-under-construction sat between the Artisanal Chamber and the main building of the Great Hall.
Coming from the ground floor, this wasn’t a grand gesture—they couldn’t see the golden aether above the building from this vantage point, much less the rest of Heaven stretching beyond—but it would have to do.
“You mean, the Void?” Tenin, the Council glassworker, queried brusquely, disapproval heavy in his voice, in the furrowing of his large, fair brow and the folding of his thick, brawny hands.
Of course, Luc meant the Void. Everyone at the table knew that. And maybe they hated the Void—maybe they wanted as little to do with it as possible—but was it really such a far-fetched idea that something incredible might be built in the center of it?!
“The Creator built Heaven in the middle of the Void,” Luc repeated.
He always made some version of this speech.
“Why couldn’t He create a new world a short distance away?
In fact, there could be a whole system of worlds.
We could add on and on. Our world could be infinite!
” Luc spread his arms. “There’s so much space for new ideas.
New creatures! New landscapes! A new canvas!
” With each phrase, his voice rose, and his arms flailed left and right.
“It doesn’t have to be useful! It can simply be beautiful.
Isn’t that enough?” Pacing around the table, he pointed out, once more, the innovative natural features he’d designed.
Caves! Sand dunes! Snow-capped cliffs! Lush green valleys!
Sunrises and sunsets and stars, stars, so many stars!
Despite Luc’s unflagging, even desperate, zeal, the uncertain stares and murmurings continued.
He was losing everyone at the table the more he went on, and he had no idea why.
How could they not see what he was seeing?
How could they not show even the slightest bit of interest?
How had he worked so hard and so long on this proposal, and still, it wasn’t enough? It was never enough.
His chest tightened with the effort it took to keep from exploding in a fit of frustration.
At one time, it would have been enough.
The Creator had created all of Heaven’s original infrastructure with a single breath—its foundation, its atmosphere, its Library, and the homes for the original eighty-four angels—but He’d given the angels the task of adorning it further. That was their original purpose—to adorn Heaven in splendor!
When Luc was still in lessons, excess had been the standard; architects had focused on aesthetics as much as, if not more than, utility. Opulence had reigned supreme.
In the past aeon, however, the focus had shifted to practicality and expediency, despite Luc’s role on the Council. He was only one angel, after all, and beholden to the Council’s vote. He hadn’t even met the Creator as he’d once believed he would.
When Heaven was first created, the Creator had walked among the angels often.
He’d set the original twelve governing angels in their places on the Council and had divided the rest of the original angels—the common angels—into twelve artisan guilds of six angels each.
This later became the basis for the lower guild councils, which to this point in time still had six representatives from their respective disciplines.
At that time, when the angels had been much fewer in number, the Creator had met often with the Council and had even sat in on their meetings.
But, of late, He had been largely absent from proceedings.
Indeed, only Michael, Muriel, and Raziel remained from those who had spoken directly with Him.
Council projects were still submitted for His approval, but the method of approval required no direct interaction with Him and, indeed, resulted in none.
“If you can’t decide, let’s ask the Creator then,” Luc demanded in the lingering silence.
“You need a majority vote for that,” Tenin reminded him. “We can’t just bother the Creator with any idea that comes along.”
“This isn’t just any idea. This is—”
“We don’t need all of this space,” Raziel argued.
“Why not? If we can have it, why not? Does it matter that we don’t need it?”
“We don’t need whole other worlds,” Tenin contended. “We’re not that many, and our numbers are no longer increasing.”
“And yet, we needed this space!” Luc spat, gesturing to the finely detailed windows and the prismatic ceiling of the grand room.
“It serves a purpose,” Raziel noted gently.
“The ceiling mosaics serve a purpose?!”
“It was a different time.”
A few grunts of agreement resounded around the room.
Luc scoffed.
“I can’t believe you won’t even consider this,” he muttered, mostly to himself.
“Well, since it’s clear we’re not considering it, let’s move on to the next order of business.
Protecting our borders, which I think we all agree is of utmost concern.
” Michael unrolled his own blueprint on top of Luc’s, a crudely drawn diagram that showed the perfect square of Heaven’s borders and the current positions of the warriors’ posts.
“I haven’t finished speaking,” Luc bit out.