Cecidit
Chapter 1
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Some people say that white symbolizes purity. That white is untainted and can never be anything less than immaculate. White roses are a prime example of this theory. Romans believed white meant sacrifice and virtue. Priests wear white during Mass. Everything about the bright color was supposed to scream cleanliness and holiness.
To some people, however, white means nothing. White, as it is truly defined, is the absence of all color. It's void; blank and unfeeling. White is too bright, too clinical, for some people. It is the color you see before you die when your life flashed before your eyes and you have no hope of coming back. It's the color of death. White can cause pain, it can harm, and it can be a symbol for everything that is unholy, if you look at it in a different light.
That's how Jerahmeel saw white as he stared at it. The white face of Hell, the archangel thought.
"You are no longer welcomed among us, Jerahmeel."
Jerahmeel, who was kneeling before God on one knee, looked up. His eyes seared at the holy envisagement, but he made no move to turn his head. His last act of defiance. "Of course, Father."
"Spread your wings," God commanded.
Jerahmeel did as he was instructed. His wings were the only set that weren't perfect. The other angels all possessed white or grey wings that had the most beautiful symmetry. Jerahmeel's wings were slightly disproportioned. His right wing was slightly smaller than the wing that sat on his left shoulder blade. Another unusual thing about his wings is that they're not white, or even peppered. They're black. Completely and utterly black. That small difference made some other angels skittish about Jerahmeel. There were rumors that the color of his wings symbolized the color of his soul.
Uriel and Michael, his closest companions, grabbed either wing. The embarrassment of this made his banishment even more sour. He placed his knuckles on the ground, bowed his head, and waited for the pain.
It was not just pain. It was incomparable agony. The agony that one feels when they can't bear to live anymore. It was the distress that sinners have when forced into Hell's arms. It racked his body, filling him to the point of the screams which he dared not release. He swore that as Uriel tore to the right and Michael to the left, he could feel his soul leaking through the tears in his flesh.
It was the mindset of anguish that affected Jerahmeel the most. He knew that he was going to the Mortal World; the world full of filth, lies, and greed. All seven Deadly Sins were going to be around Jerahmeel constantly. He would never again feel his wings. Jerahmeel would never again see God's face.
He collapsed onto his knees as they finally quivered enough beneath to give out. He sat before God, his head bent and sweat pouring off of his forehead. His back shook with the tumultuous breathing he produced.
When Jerahmeel looked up he saw Michael. Michael - his friend, his brother - was staring at him like he was Lucifer. That same stare as he had when the other angel had been banished. Shame, guilt, betrayal, grief, loss, hatred. Jerahmeel's eyes pleaded with Michael to understand, but the angel turned away. He turned towards God.
"Be gone, Jerahmeel," God's voice rang clear. It did not waver. He would not care about the loss.
The ground parted below Jerahmeel. Before he could form a sentence, his body fell through the clouds that had kept him afloat for so long. His eyes began to shut as he fell farther and farther from his home, but the second he hit the oxygen he was left gasping. His eyes bulged and he began to flail as he fell.
He heard one last Heavenly voice. Michael. "So be it."
Jerahmeel screamed Michael's name into the clouds above. He was so close. He reached an arm towards Heaven, but it was just beyond his reach. He was falling farther.
The Mortal World was below him. The world full of everything he had grown to dread. He fell quickly, and all Jerahmeel could think was I don't want to go. Wanting. That's what had gotten him exiled in the first place, and now he would never gain redemption.
He longed to apologize to Michael. This had happened to him during Lucifer's Downfall, and now Jerahmeel would be written about. He would be loathed and despised and spat on by the Mortals. They would know about his banishment, and they would have him killed.
All Jerahmeel could process were the months of pain he would be forced to suffer. Tearing off an angel's wings is one of the most taboo things in Heaven. If you tear off one's wings, so are yours torn. (Unless you are doing this atrocious act under the permission of God. Punishment, for example.) This is the law of Heaven. An eye for an eye. God was unwavering in his discipline.
Jerahmeel fell. He continued to fall until he felt Michael take pity on him. He hovered above the ground, and then splattered. Jerahmeel let out a cry of pain. His back jostled, and now he was left writhing in the rain. Jerahmeel arched, but that only intensified the burning sensation between his shoulder blades. He let out another cry before black circled flitted in his vision. He choked on a sob and passed out.
A reader may find Jerahmeel's punishment to be unfounded. There has been no mention of his crime until now. Jerahmeel did not commit a crime, per say. He practiced two Deadly Sins, and he also had a conversation with Satan.
The aforementioned Deadly Sins that Jerahmeel committed were practiced often. He had received stern lectures on the consequences of what would happen, and even a warning from God himself, but he hadn't listened. He was still greedy and lustful, which Jerahmeel did try to keep himself from being. The author does give him credit there.
The conversation with Satan was less honorable, and definitely less forgivable. Satan, or Lucifer, as some angels still call him, had come to Jerahmeel in a vision. He had offered him everything that God could not give. The conversation went as follows:
"Jerahmeel, I can do so much for you. You will have everything: money, power, fame! Whatever your heart does so desire!"
"Why are you asking me? I am the least powerful archangel of all."
"Precisely. You are the least powerful, so the most easily swayed," Satan had cooed, "I am asking you to, instead of inspiring about God, instill faith of me into Mortals."
"I will not."
"Think on it, Jerahmeel." Satan's voice was like oil sliding throughout Jerahmeel's eardrum.
As one can see, the conversation was not particularly invasive about the workings of Heaven, nor was it corrupt on Jerahmeel's part. However, God has strict laws in place about having any form of contact with Satan. It was the final straw. God does not banish his angels often. Therefore, Jerahmeel was exiled to live among Mortals.
Jerahmeel awoke in a confused state. He was no longer outside in the rain, this much he knew. He also knew he was lying on his stomach, and not his back. (He was severely grateful for whomever decided upon that.) He was also very groggy, something that he had never really experienced before. His entire body was throbbing, soreness washing over him like waves. He was sure that Uriel was laughing at him right now. Jerahmeel tried to sit, only to be scolded.
"Lay down, angel." His head snapped over to the sharp feminine voice, but he immediately regretted his action. His neck sent tingles of pain all the way down to his toes. He obeyed her.
"How do you know me?" Jerahmeel demanded, shocked that his voice came out more hoarse than he'd like to admit. She looked at him, and he truly saw her for the first time. She had dark eyes - too dark - and her hair matched. She had an alluring appearance. Too alluring. The way this young woman moved was nothing short of seductive, and all she did was walk across the room. Her eyes flitted around the room in a defensive way. He could smell the demonic blood coursing through her veins. He allowed a strangled noise to escape his lips, "Cambion."
She smirked, "That is correct. Drink this." She placed a glass beside his bed. "It's a Mortal drink called water. It will keep you from dehydrating."
"I don't need water," Jerahmeel insisted.
She laughed, "If your voice is an account for anything, you do. You're now somewhat Mortal, Jerahmeel."
"What a comforting thought." He fell back onto his stomach and winced at the stiffness of his body. "How long was I unconscious?"
"Here, it's called sleeping."
"I know," he snapped. "Just tell me."
She observed him sharply, "A few days." She patted his shoulder, and he immediately recoiled. "Sorry. I forgot. Stripped wings. I heard it was painful. Like having your bones ripped from your body and then being thrown into something."
"Thanks for that reminder."
"I'm Éponine."
"You already know me."
She nodded, and they said nothing more. Jerahmeel fell back into unconsciousness.
When he was finally able to stand, Éponine took him outside. She helped to keep him steady as he attempted to walk. The cambion let the fallen angel lean on her in a way that Raphael would've found pathetic. He didn't care. He wasn't one of them anymore.
"I haven't ever met a fallen angel. I saw the scars and then I knew," Éponine confessed to him as he stumbled.
"I've never been out of the shelter of Heaven," Jerahmeel admitted to her. "What is the Mortal World like? Is it full of hatred and murder?"
She shook her head slowly, "Kind of. More like pollution. We're living in a strange world."
"Have you ever been to Hell?" At this point, Jerahmeel was standing on his own, and now hobbling a bit. "I think I'm going to be alright."
"Once," Éponine said wistfully. "It was euphoric. Deamons crawled the walls, literally. Some of them were blessed enough to be in a humanoid form, but most were jelly-like masses that just sat there. Some were like animals; usually reptilian in nature. My father, Ba'al, is an archdemon. Actually," she frowned, "He is the second-in-command of Hell."
Jerahmeel could tell Éponine didn't want to talk about it. "We were sheltered," he said softly. He took a shaky step towards Éponine and placed his hand on her shoulder, "Thank you, Éponine."
"You're welcome. You need a name.
Jerahmeel withdrew his hand, "What?"
"A human name."
Jerahmeel nodded solemnly, "My last reminder of angel status." He pursed his lips, "Where exactly are we?"
"France."
He nodded, "Grantaire."
Heaven is located above the clouds. Its glorious appearance is hidden by the balls of fluff that hang in the air, just beyond a child's reach. The closer the clouds, the closer Heaven is. If one is an occupant of Heaven, one insists that the clouds shelter them from the horrific images of the Mortal World. They say that the Mortal World does not deserve the privilege of looking at the Heavens that reside above them.
Mortals know all about Heaven. They know of its existence. Some even possess the audacity preach that something beyond their comprehension. They think that Heaven is something to strive for in life. Many people who are there disagree, if they aren't as high up on the hierarchy as archangels.
Jerahmeel, or Grantaire, didn't know which side he belonged on. He knew the Mortal World was less corrupt than than Heaven viewed it. However, Grantaire also knew that the angels made the realm out to be far worse than it really was. Éponine wasn't enough to base his judgement on an entire realm, but if a cambion could show compassion, the Mortals couldn't be that bad.
It was a foggy day. Grantaire knew that someone, presumably someone in power, wanted to observe the Mortals. When the clouds were low, Heaven was within a Mortal's reach. Grantaire looked out at the large city, still foggy and sporting a half-risen sun. The fog would soon be gone. Most angels would only listen when the sun was rising and most Mortals still found comfort in their dreams.
Grantaire looked out at the buildings' tops and spoke, "Michael, I know you can hear me. The real question is if you want to listen." He pursed his lips. "I have wronged you, Michael. It was selfish of me to force you to go through this again.
"I remember how you felt when Lucifer was cast away. He was like a brother to you. I can still recall what you said the day he was damned. 'Now my light is damned with him.' Michael, that broke my heart. I never wanted to see you so weak again. Look at me now, though. Now I'm the cause of your grief. I told myself I was going to protect you. I know, I know, you're the right-hand man. You don't need my protection. Michael, I wanted to protect you. I loathe myself, since I'm the cause of your miseries.
"What is it like up there? Is everything as it should be? Is Gabriel still being mysterious, although he clearly doesn't make any sense at all? Is Uriel being violent again? Try to keep him under control for me, alright? I would bet my wings," Grantaire's voice broke on the word. "I mean, I would bet that Sealtiel is praying right now. Isn't he?
"It's ironic," Grantaire hesitated. "I was the angel that inspired people. I awakened them to God. If anyone was to instill a love of Him into the people, it would've been me. I don't even feel like I believe anymore. I want to - of course I want to - but I feel like he tore my faith out of me with my wings. Do you understand?
"No, I bet you don't. You're probably up there pacing. I bet you're saying to yourself, 'You've seen God. How can you not believe? Why are you questioning his existence?' Truthfully, I wish I knew. Maybe I'm just bitter about my exile. Maybe I'm skeptical because if God is so holy, why would He damn someone like me? I was an archangel! I'll tell you why. He did it because He was scared. He's scared that Lucifer really is powerful enough to overthrow Him. He's scared, and He's power-hungry. Why else would He do away with His only competitor?
"No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be cynical about this. Aren't we taught to look at the bright side of things? Constant optimism is so tiring, Michael. What is there to be happy about? We angels have to be perfect constantly, don't we?
"I'm so sorry. This is going to be even worse than when Lucifer was condemned. We were banned from communicating with him, remember? Now you'll never get rid of me," Grantaire offered an unconvincing laugh.
The sun was almost completely in view now. The fog dissipated quickly after its appearance. Grantaire offered Michael another soft apology before he stood and walked back into the apartment.
The first time Grantaire decided to leave the house, he had with him only Éponine and the will to see everything the Mortal World had to offer. He was stuck here, so why not make the most of it? Surely this place isn't as bad as the angels made it out to be.
He listened to Éponine patiently as she discussed the Mortals' knowledge about Heaven. "They know it exists," she had said. "They think that is is wonderful and this perfect place to be. People also know of the existence of Hell, and they're under the misconception that it's awful. Hell isn't that bad," she seemed like she was trying to convince herself. "Do you know about Transfers and Hunters?"
"What in God's name are those?"
"A Transfer is someone who can travel between realms. There are ten of them alive, and their positions are sort of like a monarchy. If one dies, the oldest son takes over. They're like messengers. There's one who reports directly to Satan, and one to God. The others just deliver other messages between Heaven, Hell, and the Mortal World.
"Hunters, on the other hand, are dangerous to me. They're deamon slayers. They'll kill mercilessly, no matter what we do. Those people are under the impression that Hell is atrocious, and so are all of its creatures, cambions obviously included."
"What about other Fallen Angels?"
She hesitated and put a gentle hand on his shoulder as they walked, "I haven't heard of any. You're kind of rare, Grantaire."
"I understand," he sighed.
They walked into town square. It was a Saturday, so the square had a general aura of business. Grantaire had to sidestep many people as to avoid a collision and cause his scars to send him into a fit of pain.
"We can change things!" a masculine voice yelled over the swarm of noise, which was quieting after he had emitted that cry. "The time is now. Heaven is sending us a sign! Only one week ago, there was an angel spotted as it fell from the sky. Heaven is sending us angels! They want the Mortal World to be more holy, everyone!"
Grantaire was mesmerized as he stared at the man speaking. He addressed the people in the square, but he also paced occasionally. This speaker looked like he had gold shining out of his skin. His complexion was perfectly tanned, and Grantaire could see the muscular physique beneath the red jacket he wore. His bright blonde curls went past his shoulders a few inches, giving off even more gold into the air.
This man's character was what struck him the most. He was very passionate, this much could already be discerned. However, he was also speaking about the Mortal World like it was his own child. Therefore, Grantaire assumed that he could be very possessive and gentle if he had to.
Only one person came to mind. "Michael?"
AN: Okay! Phew! Hi everybody!
I'm Riley, I'll be fanfictioning with you for probably a few months. Because this is going to be LONG. Most likely. I already have the plot developed, I just...have to write it?
There's a lot of symbolism if you look for it. A LOT. Especially about my choice of archangel for R.
I know that was probably confusing at the beginning, so I'm sorry. No. None of Les Amis are angels, except R. He's fallen. At least...yet. I'm not sure how to go about that. Hm, that's actually kind of interesting...
Any questions? Feel free to comment them!
I hope you continue to read! :)
P.S. The title isn't gibberish. I'm not fluent in gibberish. (Only baby talk. My brother is two.) It means 'fallen' in Latin. I'm sick of titles being in French, so I chose Latin. French is derived from Latin. Ganando.