The theme is angels as a variant in the World of Darkness. This and similar stories of mine present angels more as mythological beings, and their relationship to Man, God, demons, and each other in a much more dark and cynical perspective than is typical for the subject. Thus the treatment is more in keeping with modern gothic themes, and has something in common with books like Good Omens, films like the Prophecy, and games like In Nomine. Therefore it might not be suitable or enjoyable for those with strong convictions and beliefs about angels. - This story is part of an ongoing chronicle at my web site (see profile) using a shared character. If you would like to contribute to this chronicle, please stop by. Otherwise, any helpful hints and critques are most appreciated. - Cheers, Sol.
Prelude
Falling
Stars
Stars like twinkling diamond dust upon the blackest firmament.
I remember when I was born. I don't suppose that is the correct term for it, but there you are, or there I was. First, I was only a part of the Symphony, indistinguishable, radiant but only a part of a larger whole. Slowly, with purpose that I was unaware of, small melodies became distinct. And I do mean small melodies, that could hardly be heard and yet in unison provided some of the most powerful of moments. It was as though the Symphony were breaking up into myriad harmonies of intricate complexity, and yet together, forming a sound so simple and divine that the moment I was aware, I worshiped it. I slowly became conscious of my birth. Others were there before me, many others. Some had grown confident in voice and they led our choirs. It was a wondrous time. Who knew then how much strife and discord could come of it all when the beginning was so beautiful.
Sometimes, I close my eyes. Yes, I know, it seems an affectation, but I am in human skin now. We model ourselves after the great apes, the plainswalkers, who walked upright, hairy, unkempt, very unglamerous. But as they evolved, so did we. Their form became our form, our lesser form, unless you were the lowest Choir of Angel, in which case this form was all. Not to decry angels or the angelic form. But sometimes, I wish was back in Heaven. There you see, we have other shapes, perhaps more fitting. Mine was sleek and powerful, more akin to the divine animals worshipped by the city dwelling apes who succeeded the plainswalkers. Still, I can get over it. I stare at these fleshy appendages, useful but so oddly incongruous to my senses. Hands, they're called hands. I can do so much with them, but they more than anything remind me how cloying it feels to be in this skin.
The strangest thing is feeling, I think. I can feel, I can touch. Before, the Symphony was tangible in a similar way. But it was more of a thought, more pure. Physical manifestation slowly grew. My own voice had a small part in its making. It was called Creation, and all such physical forms came into being or had their roots in those first few moments. First there was the Symphony, and then were created the melodies that would form the archangels, and then the elohim. Then we added our own voices and fire and sky were born, uniting into a fiery explosion from which all things came to being. Realties formed, many of them. We were drawn to this or that one, melodies I haven't heard since then nor am likely to ever again, all travelling to be part of realities sundered from this one.
Heaven was beautiful, more beautiful than it is now. It's blasphemy to suggest such but that is how I see it. It was tangible, but not in the same way. The manifestation of creation was more fluid, more malleable. Each manifestation was at once many things and only one, just as Creation was many realities, many universes, and yet, as far as I know, but one semblance of the one Symphony. As if in other rooms, the music changes and grows in different ways, so our realities become distinct. Even Heaven is probably not the same, not perhaps to exist in those other rooms. It is, but more so was, such an incredible vision. It vibrated and filled our celestial essence with that of the one Voice whom we served. Our own voices stopped singing, now and then, and we became more distinct, more separate from the One. We could manifest different harmonies, not all of them in keeping with the Divine, so it seems.
But the more Time, grows, the more it cloaks and chokes the very essence of harmony out of physical form, binding it to lumpy awkward forms that seem more like prisons than vessels fit for anything of the divine. But that is what Time is I suppose. It was the strangest thing when I first encountered it. It was nothing that we need consider, much, but to feel it around, permutating everything, it was strange. I know this may sound odd to you, but before Time, music wasn't made in a linear fashion. The Symphony grew and fell into itself. I could go back to the moment of my creation and even before but Time created barriers to such comprehension. So you see, I know very well how I was created and what the moment of my creation felt like before. But in Heaven, Time's touch was so much lighter compared to weight of it upon this world. Like a choking air, it suffocates you and everywhere you go, you must move through it to get anywhere. Motion is always forward and all actions are touched by Time. But I tell you, it wasn't always this way.
Not everything of this world, this reality comes from the Divine. No, our erstwhile brothers, becoming more enamoured of their own voices than that of the One, they've added much to this fabric. Sometimes, sometimes, seeing the cruelty of the apes, men they are called now, I sometimes wonder if the voices of the Enemy were louder than ours when this world was done and set. There seems to be so much of their stench in Man and the struggles we face now seem insurmountable.
And there you are, that is how I, who now must add the cloak of a Man's name to my being here, this is how Angela came into not only this world, but into the fabric of Existence. And Time pulls all of us into a vortex that we struggle against. Like Man, we fear the oblivion, dark, devoid, meaningless and most of all, Quiet.
story by Solanio