Sacrament of Sin

Prologue Suriel

Sympathy for the devil echoes in the exhaustion between my shoulder blades. Every deep breath draws that misplaced sympathy into my chest until the ashy taste of rebellion seems to take root on my tongue.

It’s wrong in a place like this – rainbows twisting and dancing from unseen stained-glass windows, a constant softness on every corner, and cool, refreshing air filling my lungs.

Then again, my battered wings only seem to be fanning the flames of my discomfort until the question I’ve been mulling over for centuries tries to free itself from under the weight of the sporadic feathers I have left.

“I feel how restless you are,” my father says, his silent approach more like a magnet with revolving poles, drawing me in, then pushing me away.

The whole world seems affected by my breathing.

Inhaling tugs me towards my father, makes the lingering, sanitizing purity feel like a balm, makes the mix of white and colored light feel like acceptance.

This feels like home, familiar, right; the kind of embrace everyone craves even if they never admit it.

Then I exhale, something within my body aches and festers. It pushes me away from my father, makes the pearlescent clouds feel like they’re covering a thousand sins, makes the light into sharp eyes casting judgment that deems me unworthy.

I’m unfit to stand here with ghosts etched on my skin.

“Restless and questioning,” God continues. His hand spreads over my shoulder. An unbearable weight, and a sacrament all the same. “The path laid before you is not an easy one. It may break your brothers and your sisters, but you, Suriel, are meant for this.”

“What you’re asking is impossible,” I whisper. “I’ve always obeyed, My Lord. I’ve always welcomed your guidance. I’ve never failed to uphold your design. But asking something like this feels more like a test of faith.”

“Perhaps a test, but more of a challenge,” he agrees, firm, but without the sharp edge of a father’s blame. “It may change you, it will redefine the world if you succeed, but this matters. I would never ask you to walk among the humans if there was no purpose behind it.”

One of his comments lingers with me. “We’re meant to be unchanging.”

Father laughs once – an unfamiliar sound here.

It belongs in heaven to those that have earned it.

Yet Father, the father of all, hardly obeys rules.

God sets them, enforces them, then softens the weight of His judgment.

He’s been changed – changed by loss, by experience, by so much – yet God is eternal.

“I made you in the image of perfection, yet perfection …” my father’s eyes sweep over me, impossibly bluer than any color I’ve ever seen. God’s face flickers with youth and age, with galaxies and rain. “Perfection isn’t what warriors, let alone generals, are made of.”

My shoulders tighten and I glance at the misting, iridescent clouds below me, stable enough for us to call a floor.

“We guide humans, but they are …” I lack the word to describe how far they’ve strayed, how jaded and wild they’ve become.

“They are happy to share their sins and disturb the balance created.”

“Yes, humans are temptation, my son. You serve them to better them. I trust in your ability to do more than protect, Suriel. I trust you to guide one specific lost lamb to redemption. One last victory, no matter the cost. No matter what sin is demanded of you.”

I push myself off my knees and confront Father. Old, yet not frail, God still stands shorter than me. He grips his hands behind his back, gray and white with those too-blue eyes.

Shaking my head, I taste the defiance that I’m meant to swallow, like hell fire and sulfur. It tastes the same, makes me more eager to spit.

“Resistance is to be expected,” God says, not bothered, not disappointed, but not happy.

“Why me!” I hiss, dancing on the line between demands and honest questions.

His voice grows louder, wrapping around me. “It must be you, Suriel. If not you, the world will fall.”

“And some angels believe that best! You drowned the mistakes of the pasts and upheld those that served you. What is different now?”

“You are different. The world is different,” God insists, no sympathy, no judgment, just the harshness of consequences I want to ignore.

“It has to be you. Only you can serve her as needed. Only you can protect her, as she must be protected. Only you have what’s necessary to ensure that the worst doesn’t come to pass. ”

“This is torment,” I whisper.

“It is life. Surviving is not pretty. Humans know this, as do all archangels. You’re tempted to fall. I see it in you. The weight of your past decisions and the price you paid in devotion is a heavy burden, which makes giving in seem easy.”

“Then why test the limits when it could-”

“There are always options. You can pass this task to another and she will be claimed,” God says.

My eyes meet his and I bite my tongue, feeling something ripple through me, wrapping my hand around a weapon that hardly looks capable of damaging anyone here.

“Some part of you still feels compassion for the humans. So imagine her fate if a lesser angel is assigned. When said angel fails, hell won’t kill the girl.

It won’t be fast. She’ll be used … constantly.

Tortured without end. Always kept just alive enough that she can follow through on their design.

Her terror, her hourly torment, the agony of her existence and her endless questioning of who would allow this is only the preview of what the world will experience.

If that is more preferable than your discomfort … ”

As Father speaks, I catch the whiff of sulfur. I hear her screams and agony rippling through my mind, trying to open a door to the inevitable future that waits if intervention fails. It echoes in my mind until the voice twists, becomes my garrison, becomes pleas for mercy I can’t offer.

“The lake of fire is already there, waiting to be opened, Suriel. Michael and Jophiel are doing what they must. Raphael and Gabriel are fighting their fronts. You have only to defend … and you will,” God continues.

My hand brushes my scarred, balding wing.

The weight of this task is too heavy, a truly impossible feat that would take a miracle and an angelic sacrifice to fix.

After so many battles, after so many scars, so much bloodshed in order to maintain the design, perhaps I am not divine enough to offer what’s needed.

“So, do you rebel and add to the torment before finding the lake of fire … or do you become the shield against Evil?” Father asks.

Our eyes meet, and clash. “You must choose and only you can. To fall for something bigger than yourself … or to fall to your own indecision and wavering obedience,” his voice is already softer, further away.

The illusion of choice is cruel.

Yet, what would I do if I truly had it?

“I won’t fall,” I say sharply, defiantly, yet within the mold of overarching obedience.

God inclines his head, his shoulder-length gray hair falling forward as his mustache and lips quip up at the corner. He watches my dive through the clouds, simply watches, as he always does.

The atmosphere whistles in my ears while the remains of my wings catch fire, burning to the bone until it feels like they’re being ripped off me by unseen hands. The nearing ground below warns me that this may be the last time, the only time anything truly matters.