Angels Before Man

by Rafael Nicolás

A neck tenderly held a head with plump, cherry pink lips and wide, blameless eyes cradled by long lashes; he held the blaze of all the stars in his face. All his skin was silk smooth and kissed brown as copper, he was clouded by wisps of muted flaxen hair that tumbled past his shoulders, and he was graced with various jewelry of every gem, more than the walls of the city. They were strung along the top of his head, dangling from his ears, holding his throat tight and loose, as well as his arms and legs, even more hidden beneath the drapery. There were sweet dips to his body, soft curves and edges all where they ought to be, and the smoothness with which he moved — it was utterly unbearable. The angel was so beautiful it ached him in the chest.

A neck tenderly held a head with plump, cherry pink lips and wide, blameless eyes cradled by long lashes; he held the blaze of all the stars in his face. All his skin was silk smooth and kissed brown as copper, he was clouded by wisps of muted flaxen hair that tumbled past his shoulders, and he was graced with various jewelry of every gem, more than the walls of the city. They were strung along the top of his head, dangling from his ears, holding his throat tight and loose, as well as his arms and legs, even more hidden beneath the drapery. There were sweet dips to his body, soft curves and edges all where they ought to be, and the smoothness with which he moved — it was utterly unbearable. The angel was so beautiful it ached him in the chest.

And then Lucifer followed him, followed him out into Heaven and toward the singing, though he felt as if his beautiful reflection were walking behind and, at any moment, it would step ahead, and Lucifer would become its shadow.

And then Lucifer followed him, followed him out into Heaven and toward the singing, though he felt as if his beautiful reflection were walking behind and, at any moment, it would step ahead, and Lucifer would become its shadow.

Yet, Lucifer missed the darkness, longed for what had come before. This was his first wanting. The stories he’ll tell of this time will be about wanting.

Yet, Lucifer missed the darkness, longed for what had come before. This was his first wanting. The stories he’ll tell of this time will be about wanting.

But we’re always looking for narratives, looking for meaning, looking for God. Even the angels.

Lucifer finally saw him well. He was indeed brunette, but a shade removed from black and tousled in curls that fell past the nape of his neck. His skin was brown as bronze, kissed by a handful of darker specs — like he were a mountain itself with touches of a wildfire’s ravage. The hooded eyes — those were hazel, but only between the soil browns and leafy greens. And no, there aren’t words for the full of his lips, or even the hill on his nose bridge; there are words, but they begin to fail, they become repetitious. He was tall, mountainous again, and broad everywhere; this mountain of an angel.

There are some that can be described forever — each strand of hair, every line on a knuckle — and surely, Lucifer could have seen himself doing that, even now. This was his, this is our, first drunkenness. This heat in his face, this rush; he was leaning forward, breaths refusing him. Lucifer uttered it delicately, feeling his lips shape around the name and tasting honey sweetness, “Michael, Michael, Michael.”

There was hesitance, then — “I remember when you were created, Lucifer. I saw how our Father sewed you from coppers, how He handled you when you were burning coals and when you were settings of gold. He embroidered a nose on you, a sweet mouth on you, then the outline for a pair of eyes before He placed suns there. He sculpted your face with wet clay; He opened you like a citrus and planted a garden of budding flowers inside. Then, He weaved your hair from the streaks of three stars and your wings out of four wandering crescent moons.” He breathed but was not finished: “And your hips — those came the tides of a sea, the same one whose pearls He took to carve your feet and hands. There was so much jade, so much marble; He fit it into the last places you were hollow. When He was done, I watched Him breathe life into you, then cradle you as if you were His first angel, before He settled you into fire and let you simmer.” Gabriel gasped and took his arm. “No, don’t cry, Lucifer!”

So far away in the crowd was Michael, with that proud grin of his and one hand in the air, but he called out to the youngest angel still. “Lucifer! Lucifer!” Even with all their distance, their gazes met and locked. An intake of breath, then the exuberant shout: “Lucifer — the Lord has never made as fine an angel as you!”

Occasionally, Lucifer wondered why their Father couldn’t just be literal about the nature of things. Always, it was metaphors, allusions, words designed for interpretation. The first falsehoods.

And if I’m told to take to the stars again, I’ll just take you with me.”

It was this — the breeze, the tap of your hand against the chest of a friend leaning on you, the slice of a citrus to share, the sun streaming down from between the leaves, the shade freckling onto your body, the little kiss of a prince on your jaw.

The two angels tried to take in the Lord’s barely-conceived garden, for the last time, but they could hardly see anything more than each other.

This, this here, could be worship. ‘This—’ Lucifer pressed an innocent kiss to the prince’s sweet, divine mouth. This could be religion.

‘Complete, He said, but I don’t want to be complete; I’d rather be split and become full with you.’ He’d part his legs. ‘Split me, here.’

‘I wish I had another eternity, so that I could spend it dancing with you, Michael.’

‘It makes you wonder who they really worship — Father or us two.’ Instantly, he stopped, wondering why he’d thought that.

‘In vain, I love you; in vain, the dawn streaming onto you, beside me; in vain, I want to be yours, your angel. Angel of love, angel of Michael.’

“Please— I know you were in pain, I’m so sorry, I’m so, so, sorry. I wanted to help you, but I didn’t know how, and Father is never wrong. He is good, He will always be good.” “Is Father good because He is good, or because He says He is good?”

The angel was no more than an embroidery, scurrying along a cloth tunic, trying to escape the wearer. A prized possession, bundled in naivety, to be kept unspoiled until he might be torn from paradise. Paradise? He cried one final time for help, for his brothers to wake up, to take his hands and pull him away from this God, from paradise, to hold him to their chests and pepper sunny kisses onto his cheeks, to protect him. From paradise. Paradise, what is paradise, whose paradise, paradise for who, paradise for the angels? Paradise for who?

The angel begged for mercy, crying soft, as he was undressed. The Lord stepped onto the bed of flowers. And, wrathfully, He took him. Paradise, paradise, garden of Eden, garden of paradise.

“I was in pain,” and that was true, “very much. Father was disappointed with me. I thought, that if all this pain inside was so great, I needed to find a way to take it out. I’m very sorry, very.”

“You will face Father’s wrath for your words, Lucifer.” ‘I’ve faced it already, and I am still here, and I am angry.’

Haven’t you ever wondered why Father is so strict about our subservience? It’s because disobedience is creation,” a shivering breath, “create with me, Michael, and let’s call it sin.”

“I want to taste you, Michael.” He gripped the vermillion robes the other wore, that fit him snug. “I want you in my mouth.” There it was — he’d finally said it, and with those words, the dam crumbled and oceans of secret cravings poured so fierce they both got ravaged by the tide. Drowning, Lucifer continued, desperate — all the color of life was draining from Michael — “I want your cock so heavy on my tongue that it breaks my jaw.” He began to laugh, little giggles, in his frenzy; he had never imagined, never even thought, that this would feel as nice as it did. His head was pounding, his heart was thundering; he trembled with delicious, saccharine desire.

“Michael.” ‘Bend me over the Throne and desecrate it with me.’

He was scared, feeling too small for the beast of his rage.

Lucifer found it like peeling a citrus — flaying. ‘I thought I might see, beneath all the skin, the hundred trinkets the Lord puts inside us — all the flowers, the golden organs, the hidden wings, the folds of the universe — but there’s only red muscle, pouring. Flesh, meat, plump and wet rivulets; with no eyelids, you can’t blink, Phanuel. Your face, I’m holding it in one hand, thinking about placing it over my own, so I might pretend to be you, just to know what it’s like to not be Lucifer.

‘Wherever you go, wherever Baal goes, wherever Asmodeus goes, I want to go too.’

“We might not win,” Lucifer replied, and there was a disgruntled buzz among the crowd, “but there is no defeat for us anymore. We have left our mark on Heaven, and we have broken free from His will. Now we know the furthest extents of pleasure and pain, that He forbid us from ever exploring, and no matter if He casts eternal nightmares on us, if He destroys us, if He silences us — He cannot take this away.”

“Apologize, I’m begging you, Lucifer, stop, I can’t do this— I don’t want to lose you⁠—” “It was for us. It was always for us.”