I burned as I fell. For the first time in an existence that spanned eons, I knew pain. My screams echoed with those of my brothers and sisters as they tore through my consciousness. I could escape neither the cacophony of their voices as they plummeted alongside me, nor my own agony as my grace burned away.
The physical plane slammed into me, pelting my now corporeal, vulnerable form with billions of solid particles. For an instant, the howls of my siblings faded against an even greater agony. My wings curled before me like a shield, but with most of my grace blown away in the blast, there was nothing to protect them from the sudden onslaught of matter. Quadrillions of atoms shredded my feathers to broken, bleeding stumps. Larger clumps of molecules pulverized the delicate bones.
In the instant before I slammed headfirst into the earth, I welcomed the thought of eternal oblivion.
But, somehow, I was one of the "lucky" angels who survived the sudden, violent expulsion from Heaven. Unable to materialize, I drifted in the ephemeral realm where spirits not collected by the Reapers dwelt, flashing in and out of awareness as my grace replenished. I had no notion of place. I awoke for brief moments, observed the hazy fog that marked the transitional space between the physical plane and the ephemeral realm. Beyond the fog were hints of the planet beyond.
Life flourished here. Soft auras of flora and fauna that breathed forth the sky. Small creatures that churned within sediment that had settled over ages or flitted to and fro above it. Younger trees that stretched towards the clouds. Warm-blooded beings that forever watched their surroundings for things to hunt or things which hunted. Waters that ran deeper than the sky, rushing up to the land to wear away the sands and the rocks. More water that wound between shallow crevices in the earth, feeding the life that grew around it.
As these periods of lucidity grew longer, the rest of the surviving celestial choir seemed to strengthen as they, too, recovered. Between the unanswered prayers to Father, the cries of despair and fear, came whispers from what remained of the higher echelons. They wondered how the doors to heaven had been closed, and what should be done. Eventually, a decision was reached and rippled throughout the ranks of surviving angels: Find A Vessel.
I was not the only one uncomfortable with the order. Despite the turmoil of the past decade, few angels took vessels. It was rare even among the cherubs, and they spent the most time among humanity. For a virtue like me, the idea of one day needing a vessel had never even occurred. We did not leave heaven. I was not a cherub. Certainly no soldier. I was a simple servant. So low that, whenever conflict broke out between the higher orders, no one even bothered recruiting me to their cause. Everyone knew a virtue would be useless in a fight.
But like all angels, I was made to follow. Whatever my misgivings, I pushed them aside.
Forcing myself to remain aware through sheer will, I focused on the world beyond the gray, lifeless veil. I did what I had done best for eons; I listened.
It was not long before I heard a prayer.
Like a homing beacon, I followed the voice to its source. A building that housed a modest collection of souls, the life left within their physical vessels burning with various degrees of strength. A few, however, were considerably dimmed compared to the others. The source of the prayer was barely a spark, a tiny ember struggling to stay lit within a mortal form frailer than the others surrounding it. I could sense the presence of a Reaper somewhere nearby, waiting for the moment the soul lost its tether to the physical realm.
Other souls surrounded the one struggling to remain. One of which spoke a rite in Latin. I recognized it as a prayer for the dying. As I settled within thin walls, letting the ambient electricity from the machines hooked to the fragile soul's mortal form resonate through me, I listened to the one who spoke.
Another presence coalesced beside me, assuming the form of a young human male. The reaper I'd sensed before.
There were no pleasantries. Just a blunt, "What happened to your wings?"
Crooked and broken, I could barely pull them closer. They would not curl wholly around me but stayed at awkward angles. "I… fell."
The reaper's temporary brow rose. "Must've been a hell of a fall." It smirked.
Deciding I had no wish to converse further with it, I returned my attention to the humans. To the flickering life that had called to us both.
I drifted closer as it continued to plead. Please, I don't want to die, it thought weakly as it struggled to draw breath as its heart weakened.
I ignored the curious reaper and oblivious humans. Focusing on the little soul's vessel, it was no more than an instant before I sensed the problem. An abnormal growth in its prefrontal cortex, with smaller clumps having broken off and spread to other areas. I adjusted my thoughts until they echoed on the same plane as the soul's.
I can heal you, I promised.
"That's not in the script, feathers," the reaper warned me.
I ignored it.
You can? There was a strange tinge to the soul's thoughts, something halting and uncertain compared to the surety of its earlier pleas. Disbelief, perhaps?
Yes. But I need something in return.
What?
Your vessel. Your body, I clarified, realizing the human had a limited concept of itself. Just until I can return to heaven.
You're an angel?
There was no point in subterfuge. Yes.
The disbelief was back, but so was another feeling. Something lighter. Something that eased its burdens and replaced them with a growing sense of relief. Was this hope? What will happen to me? It asked.
I hadn't planned that far ahead. Having never taken a vessel, I was uncertain what to do with the soul that resided within it. Does it matter?
No, it thought after a moment. I guess not.
Will you allow me in?
A moment. Two. The heart weakened. Its thoughts slowed. The machines hooked to it beeped and blared.
And then, a soft, frightened, Yes.
⊱ ────── {.⋅ The Long Way Down ⋅.} ───── ⊰
The priest sent thanks to Father.
Fascinated, I watched him with new human eyes, listened with new mortal ears. Despite its limited dimensionality, there was something pleasant about sound. The way the vibrations hit the inner flesh of the vessel's ear, how a new chain of neurons fired in rapid sequence. It evoked a plethora of memories, which in turn called upon a glut of sensations.
The vessel recalled a building. A place where other humans spoke or sang with one voice. Here the vessel had sat and listened as lessons were imparted from a pulpit. Lifted its voice to sing with the others—and it was in these memories that I realized the vessel was recalling time spent in worship at its local church.
Another human stood near me, hand clinging tightly to the vessel's. More memories burst to the fore. This soul represented many feelings—some of which warred with one another. Safety and confinement. Love and frustration. They were precious to the soul but overbearing. Especially of late.
So many feelings tied up in the word: mother.
The sight of another human woman in a white coat evoked a more confusing response from the body. A sensation less… pleasant. The impulse was to lean away. To not listen. To leave. I did not like it.
But for all the discomfort, the mess of instinctive responses from the brain seemed inclined to remain sitting. Even attentive as the human approached. The human—doctor, some memory whispers—listened as another—nurse—imparted words of wonder and pointed to the machinery.
She turned to the vessel, to me, and smiled. "Your vitals are the best I've seen in months."
Vitals. There were many meanings for this word. Given the surroundings—hospital, cancer ward—the doctor likely meant the vessel's heart rate, oxygen levels, and other crude measurements of health. "They're perfect," I told her. I should know. I returned the vessel to a pristine condition myself.
Dark brows—thin and perfect, the vessel thinks, and I do not like the sour feeling such a thought engenders—lifted. Settled within flesh, bombarded by the sensations of the vessel, my ability to sense the thoughts and emotions of the humans around me is limited. I searched through similar facial reactions in the vessel's memory, seeking to connect it to some meaning. Surprise.
"They're good," she replied. She pulled a device from her pocket. Stethoscope. Pressing the round metal to the vessel's chest, she inserted the other end's branching buds into her ears. After a moment of careful listening, the ends are pulled free as she tells the mother, "We need to run some tests."
⊱ ────── {.⋅ The Long Way Down ⋅.} ───── ⊰
They called it a miracle as they stared at their papers and their films. When the doctor told the mother that there was no trace of cancer, the mother fell into a chair. There was wonder on the faces of the humans who had gotten to know the vessel over the months it had spent in this place, this hospital.
There were more tests. Dozens. I observed the crude workings of their machines as they scanned the vessel. Studied a myriad of faces as one human after another drew more blood. Eventually, the small box fixed to the wall—a television—began to enthrall me more than the parade of technicians, doctors, and nurses that trooped in and out of the room. They all reacted with the same wonder and curiosity. It grew dull.
It isn't until the following day that the mother said to me, "We can go home."
"You're crying." Head tilting, my gaze traced the tears that leaked from her red-rimmed eyes. Curious, I reached out and followed the trail with my finger. Her skin was soft and warm. The ridges of bone apparent beneath the thin layer of flesh. The wetness of her tear stuck to my vessel's fingertip as I withdrew. "Are you injured?" I asked, examining the way the light gleamed off the remnants clinging to her cheek.
Her arms suddenly enveloped me, pulling my stiffening vessel against her own. I felt her chest expand as she drew in a deep breath. Smelled the floral aroma that clung to her clothes. "No, sweetie," she replied, a curious hitch to her words. "I'm happy."
The vessel's mouth pursed and it's brows drew low in reaction to my confusion. "I don't understand."
Her answering laughter was thick as she pulled back to stare at me with shining eyes. "My prayers were answered."
I tried to remember if that were true, but so focused on the little soul, I had not paid much attention to the mother's prayers at the time.
⊱ ────── {.⋅ The Long Way Down ⋅.} ───── ⊰
The little soul's name was Sophia Canning, and before her illness confined her to the hospital, she lived with her mother in a small blue house on King Street. It was to this house I was returned to.
In Mystic Falls, Virginia.