Angels Before Man

by Rafael Nicolás

“All that I say comes from a place of love.” ‘Is love meant to pierce?’

What was he supposed to say? ‘Michael, you see, I’m terribly ashamed of my body, so much so that it’s transferred to being ashamed of all bodies.’

‘How terribly lonely that must be, to be so beautiful that others think of you a thorn.’”

His head felt light, and with a sweet smile, he realized all of himself felt light.

And they tried to look at all that was in the Lord’s young garden, but they could hardly see anything more than each other.

‘Not all pain is bad — it is good to bleed, I was told once.

“The Lord is fascinating,” Lucifer said. “He is so unlike anyone.” ‘I wonder if He is ever lonely.’

“But it’d be difficult to hate you,” Michael replied, his voice rumbling, shaking the Earth, with amusement. “If someone asked me to despise you, I don’t think I could.”

He gazed at his muscles, again, thinking a bit about how God had created Michael, lovingly carved the details — the dips by his smile, every eyelash, each curve of his knuckles, a dark freckle at his hip. Creation as an act of love.

It was heavy, something about looking back was heavy, like he was picking up all the universe, but Lucifer supposed ‘that is my universe — my memories are my galaxies and my moons, and they are infinite, they are eternal.’

Let’s go up there and count how many ripples there are in the water.” “We would never finish.” “That’s alright. We have all eternity.”

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

Whispering — “I daydream of you, of loving you.” “How do you love me?” “Like this.” Yearning mouth — it’d press soft to the smooth of his tunic. “Like a flower, like a symphony, trapped in my throat, like you’re an eternity, and I need you in my veins.”

‘I want to be soil. I want to be wet earth, begging to be sowed.’

‘There is another Eden, within me. I have it nestled between the heat of love. This is love.’ But when the sounds of heavy steps, approaching, came, they’d hastily rise. Gathering their clothes, taking each other’s hands, and laughing, they’d run away from Him, as fast they could. So that He doesn’t see, doesn’t notice. Two angels creating love, creating.

Raphael always took his time; there was nothing that needed to be handled more delicately than slaughter.

‘But what does it mean for a body to be perfect? Perfect for what? What does it mean for beauty to be perfect? Because there are different beauties — I’ve seen how daisies are pretty in a way roses quite aren’t. What am I for, Father? In what way am I perfectly made, for what purpose?’

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

He let himself admire Michael back, and he thought, ‘I like that I admire you, and that you admire me — that you are beautiful, and I am strong. We are really quite fitting together; our features, they complement each other. I wish I could make you see it. Let’s stand before a mirror together. I want you to see how we’re two halves of a single sun.’

I have nothing to be ashamed of. Isn’t this paradise? Why should I spend eternity disliking myself?!”

It showered his body — the reality of the Lord’s words seeping into him, deep — so much crying he had done, so much that he was raw, as if he’d been scrubbed clean of skin. A final tear trickled down his face. It came to him: “It’s me, I am the Beast.”

and they looked at each other, gazes brimming so heavily it became difficult to see the details. ‘Michael’s jaw, his nose, his mouth, his eyes, his brows, his lashes, his mouth, his neck, his mouth, his mouth.’

‘Devour me like a pomegranate and stain your tongue.’

‘What is inside of you, archangel? Did Father plant flowers within this body too? I want to peel you open and suck the nectar from them.’

‘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.’

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 kept unspoiled until he might be torn from paradise. Paradise? He cried one final time for help, for his brothers to please wake up, to take his hands and pull him away from the 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?

How beautiful — to die. How merciful. To exist and then to not, to have your time be spent, to have everything only once.’

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

‘Let’s forget everything about before today. Let’s cast God down to dwell with the beasts, where He belongs. And let’s wash ourselves of guilt like dirty clothes in a river.’

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.”

‘You’ll say you hate me and lock me for a thousand years, but then you’ll set me free. Father loves all His creation, I sang it in a psalm once, and you smiled. In wrath, you will still love me, won’t you? You will always love me.’