From: The Fate of the Fallen by AE Winstead
TWO
The First War of Heaven
How you have fallen from heaven, morning star, son of the dawn! You have been cast to the earth…you said in your heart, “I will ascend to the heavens; I will raise my throne above the stars of God…I will make myself like the Most High.” But you are brought down to the realm of the dead, to the depths of the pit.
Isaiah 14:12-15 NIV
The air exploded from Arael’s lungs as her body slammed backward into the dry orange dust of the battlefield. She tried to get up, needed to get up, but an immense pressure pinned her to the ground. She raised her head and stared down, disbelieving, at the angel’s sword protruding from her chest. Surprisingly, the pain wasn’t immediate. Numbness overtook her first, as disbelief morphed into shock and shock into confusion.
Then the fire erupted inside her. Heavenly Fire—the force that fueled the sun and the stars and gave the angels’ weapons their power—flowed from the weapon in her heart and radiated throughout her body. The battle raged around her, but the agony chased all thoughts from her mind, turning them to a burst of red like blood exploding behind her eyes.
Above the noise of battle—growling, grunting, sword against sword—the screams and howls of a thousand shrieking voices pierced her mind. It took her a moment to realize the sounds were coming from her—her and the other angels who lay wounded and writhing on the ground as the Heavenly Fire worked its way through their bodies.
Lying helpless on the dirt of the battlefield, Arael became the pain. Nothing else existed in the expanse of time or space. Everything that had happened to her before that point—the ones she’d loved, the angel she’d been—fled from her. Staring wide-eyed at her assailant on the other end of the sword, another feeling crept in.
Betrayal.
Blazing emerald eyes, silver wisps of hair, and the outline of two menacing wings loomed against the backdrop of blue sky above her. He straightened, revealing more of the tawny face that belonged to her brother.
Michael.
This must be a mistake. She’d done everything as Michael had instructed. She’d infiltrated the rebel group and gained the leader’s trust.
“He’s planning an attempt to overthrow the Creator. He’s gathering forces, building an army. We have to do something,” she’d warned him.
All of Michael’s intel on Lucifer and the rebels had come from her. And this was how he repaid his informant? By banishing her?
At that moment, the words she’d heard in the secrecy of Lucifer’s meetings found their way to the front of her mind. “Some of our brethren are not as honorable as they profess to be.”
Had Michael tricked her? Had this been his plan all along?
She closed her eyes. It didn’t matter now…nothing mattered. She just wanted this torture to be over.
In the midst of the turmoil unfurling both inside her body and on the battlefield around her, someone called out to her. Her eyes jerked open as a voice intruded into her thoughts. A voice not her own, but just as familiar. It spoke two simple yet powerful words, louder than the battle raging around her.
I’m sorry, the voice repeated, ragged, even in her mind. She turned her head in the direction of the voice, and a flash of grief surged through her—grief so heavy, it would have pinned her to the ground had the sword not already immobilized her.
Another angel lay wounded beside her, another victim of the Heavenly Fire. She examined his face, his mouth set into a hard line. His eyes glowed the greenest shade of blue she’d ever seen. White hair curled around a delicate face, and his skin glowed the same greenish-blue hue of his eyes.
Uriah… Memories taken by the pain were beginning to come back to her now. She hadn’t been alone in her undercover activities. Uriah was her confidant, her training partner, her protector, but most importantly, he was her qanima, her spirit partner in every sense of the word. They hadn’t chosen one another, but perhaps more importantly, they’d been created for one another, their souls bonded at their creation by a power older than time.
How could I have forgotten him?
Only then did it occur to her that her brother had not only betrayed her, but he’d also included Uriah in his plan, which made her hate Michael all the more.
A moment ago, she’d been nothing but pain. No one. Just endless agony and torment. Now, looking at Uriah, she knew she needed to remember herself. And him.
I am Arael, a powerful Archangel in the ranks of Heaven. I am a Tempest in service to Elohim, the Creator. I am in Eden, the pass-through realm between the physical and spiritual worlds. I tried to help my brother, and he betrayed me…
I’m the one who’s sorry, she tried to respond with her mind but wasn’t sure he’d heard.
When Michael and his army had executed their surprise attack, she and Uriah had been in their designated position near the Conclave Hall. They’d been told not to move, but things had quickly gotten out of hand, and they’d been pushed into the heat of the fighting. In the mayhem, Uriah had been struck first. She’d turned in an attempt to save him, her fierce protective instinct kicking in.
She had failed.
Her eyes scanned over his face again—his eyes, his hair, all spattered with blood. As her qanima, she could feel his spirit inside of her, an integral part of her true essence. Looking at him now, she could have been looking at a reflection of herself, except…his life remained more valuable to her than even her own.
Arael searched her mind, looking for more of him, wanting something pleasant to cling to in these last moments before her spirit was eternally cast out of Heaven. She didn’t have much time, though, before another explosion of agony ripped through her body. Uriah’s face contorted into a grimace, a mirror reflection of her own. He was feeling her pain. Or was she feeling his?
Moments before, everything had been moving in slow motion. Now, things were happening too fast. The innate connection that had always bonded them was being burned away, along with the rest of her. From her place in the blood-soaked dirt, she reached her hand out to Uriah and he to her until their fingers touched. They could usually draw strength from each other in this way, but neither had any left to give.
An eternity passed before Arael tilted her head up to look into her attacker’s face—Michael’s face. She struggled to breathe under the weight of his betrayal, which hurt almost as much as her physical torment. His face was taught and filled with something she didn’t recognize.
Slowly the anguish began to subside. The fire of the physical pain turned to ice-cold emptiness and the emotional misery to white-hot hatred. Lucifer had been right all along. They were all liars. Michael, the Creator, all who still called themselves Righteous. Everything made sense now. The angels’ weapons seemed a complete contradiction to their life of peace and harmony in the Heavens. They had no enemy, so why did they need weapons? All of a sudden, it was all so clear. The Creator had planned this all along. He had given them weapons to destroy each other, just as Lucifer had said.
This was Arael’s last thought before the red faded to black.