This is the second of the Interludes, five prequels to the story, set when the Archangels themselves were young, before Earth, before Heaven, before time. Michael is roughly equivalent to 5 or 6 here, and he does get injured in this chapter. If you're uncomfortable with a child getting hurt, you probably shouldn't read this Interlude.

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MICHAEL'S INTERLUDE

One thousand tiny wings, lined with delicate gossamer feathers that shimmered and glowed, unfurled whisper-quiet in the Void. The faint rustle-shick of the shift reverberated through the darkness, as loud as a shout to the little angel who caused the disturbance. He laughed, a short crystalline burst that surrounded him, filled him, and just as quickly was swallowed by the Nothing. The angel flicked his wings to tumble through the Void, head over halo.

There was no such thing as "up" when he was alone here, and also no "down." If Michael flew, he felt as if he moved direction he was watching. If he let his wings fall still, he vaguely felt like he was drifting back. In the Eternal Dark, direction meant nothing.

Father brought direction. Father brought purpose. When Michael could see Father in the distance, a bright, welcoming glow, he suddenly had a reason to fly. He could fly toward Father. He could fly away from Father. He could also fly around Father, to the left or to the right or above or even below.

So many choices always left Michael overwhelmed with a dizzy giddiness that filled his mind. He was used to only two options: being or not-being. There could be noise or not-noise. He could flap his wings or not-flap. With Father, he could always do something new. He could fly straight at Father. He could fly at Him from the left, or from the right. He could zig-zag or spiral. He could fly in and dart out. He could soar high and dive, or he could swoop low and climb. He could make a different choice every single time, and he loved it.

Michael couldn't see Father now, so he curved his wings and rolled sideways through the Void, giggling as the movement ruffled his feathers, tickling his spirit. His young grace, thin but strong, shone brightly around him, illuminating his part of the universe.

Life was good.

Michael didn't know what not-good would even be like. Never seeing Father again? That wasn't not-good, that was impossible. Father was, and Michael was, and so of course they'd see each other again and again.

The Void threaded through Michael's feathers, inky fingers of black slipping between his barbs. Michael straightened his wings to stop rolling, head cocked to the side as he drew one wing in front of him. The Void was still there, dripping through his feathers in a gooey, stringy mess.

This was new. New almost never happened in the Void, and never happened when Michael was not with Father. Michael was not afraid of new. He did not know such a thing as fear could even exist. Michael did know curiosity, and he felt it now. Never before had the Void infringed upon his being. Always, his grace had chased away the darkness. How could it be mixing with his wings?

As all curious fledglings would do, at least in Michael's limited experience, Michael drew a second, clean wing around and prodded the dripping shadows. It was solid, spongy, and stuck to his feathers, stretching between his wings in a sagging strand of black. On his second wing, the Void started to climb up through his feathers, finding the structure of his spirit beneath the fragile covering. It wrapped around his wing and pressed down, and Michael had a new understanding of words such as sharp, pinch, and pain.

"Ouch!"

Michael flapped his wings hard, trying to shake the shadows off him, trying to pull away from the thing-that-hurt. The shadows stuck determinedly to his feathers, pinching him on the second wing again. Michael yelped, and little drops of pure grace welled up beneath the ink, bubbling out of his wing. As Michael watched, equal parts fascinated and horrified, the black licked out to swipe the grace into itself, consuming his light in its dark.

There was a moment of stillness, in which both angel and shadow contemplated this new action, and then the shadow was surging forward, pouring out of the Void to consolidate on Michael's wing. Michael squealed, flapping his wing as hard as he could, shoving with more wings, trying to push the darkness away. He only succeeded in getting more feathers stained with the inky shadows, the solid strands ensnaring him in a web of black. The pinch happened again, bigger this time, sharper, a bite, and Michael wailed.

This was fear.

"Daddy!" Michael's voice rang out through the Void, as thin and small as his grace. He flailed in the darkness, trying to push away from the solid mass that chewed into his wing, sucking grace from the wound. As it pulled up, he pushed away, and with a bright flash of pain through his spirit, part of his wing tore free and Michael went tumbling through the Void.

Holding his injured wing tight against his chest, Michael flew as hard as he could with his nine hundred and ninety-nine other ones, their frantic whirring the only sound he could hear. He flew and flew and flew, pushing his wings until they all ached, and only then did he curl up, letting his momentum keep him drifting ahead.

Michael squeezed himself into as tight a ball as he could, layering his wings around him in a feathery cocoon. His injured wing was right at the center, still dripping liquid grace. There was a hole in him. It hurt.

The little angel indulged in a few whimpers, brushing one of his whole wings over the injured ones. He needed to close the hole somehow. He needed to… he needed to pinch it closed, only without the sharp.

In order to pinch, he needed pinchers. Maybe hands, like Father had. He squirmed, his spirit rippling. Hands were attached to arms. Two arms, one on each side. Michael pushed his spirit out, stretching it into hands just like his Father. One, two. Two arms with hands. They were small and pudgy, not sleek and long like his Father's, but they were still hands.

Michael wriggled his fingers and practiced pinching a few times before he reached for his injured wing. He brushed his feathers in place and pinched either side of the hole, whimpering again at the new pain this caused. Still, he needed to push the hole back together. Gingerly, Michael eased the torn sides of his wing back into place and held it there. Now what?

His grace seemed to know the answer, jumping across the injury, weaving back and forth, closing the hole. The hurt started to dull, and the bright glow of unrestrained grace was dimming back into his usual level of brilliance.

A rustle whispered through the Void behind him.

Michael lifted his head from the huddle of his wings, looking around warily. He was a bright little ball in the Void, but he couldn't see anything else.

"Daddy?"

His Father didn't answer, because his Father wasn't here. His Father would have been a second glow, not the constant dark.

The moving dark.

Michael froze, fear swelling inside him again, streaking through his grace. That had been movement, on the edge of where his grace illuminated, a darker shadow than the rest of the Void. It moved again, swimming through the shadows, and Michael tracked the motion. Sideways. Around. Circling him.

The shadow launched itself toward him, opening into a huge mouth with giant fangs each as big as one of Michael's wings. Michael shrieked, taking to flight again. He bolted up this time, away from the shadow. It made noises when it moved, squelching, slurping sounds, and it was gaining on the fatigued angel.

"Daddy!" Michael screamed into the Void, clawing at the darkness as he tried to escape. It was coming, it was coming, it was right there! Michael twisted around, shoving his new hands forward to try to stop the living darkness from biting him again. A sword materialized in one pudgy hand, extending into the shadow with a sching. Black goo exploded over Michael's spirit, splattering against his wings and face. The shadow was in billions of pieces now, dissipating into the Void.

Michael's wings shivered, and the angel drew an arm in to rub it over his face, pushing the goo off. No more shadow monster to bite him. He was alone in the Void again. He was safe.

Something squelched off to the right.