Falling Stars
Revalia didn’t come home from The Observatory. I figured as much. After what transpired between us, I’m not sure things will or can ever be the same in our relationship. When I said I forgave her, I really did mean it—I love her with all of my being, how could I not forgive her? But she violated me in such a profound way that my love for her is a little bit broken. It’s a good thing that she’s leaving tonight. Maybe the distance between us will silently repair the cracks. I can only hope.
I suspect that she stayed with Lozhure last night. I don’t know how I feel about him. While we love each other unconditionally, as all angels do, he and I never bonded, and that’s perfectly natural for angels to do—some are more connected than others, and no one really knows why. But now? Is the feeling that I have for him defined as contempt? Disdain? I’m probably not saying it correctly, but I certainly know how it feels. It feels hot and red. It tastes sour like old sticky milk on the roof of my mouth. I want to scrape that taste off my tongue. Scrape Lozhure out of my life. Scrape the feeling of dirtiness and ugliness he imprinted upon me. Never in my entire existence have I been forced to partake in something I did not want to do. He used his strength and power to restrain and manipulate me. He knew I was scared, and I begged him to stop—begged them to stop—but he went against my will. They both have incorporated traits of humanity that are vile and malicious. I pray they will find their way.
I know I must tell Camael about what happened, and while I feel bad about giving up Lia and Lozhure, I know I can’t live with the guilt of having gone behind his back, into his sacred place, looking at his private belongings. He’ll be so disappointed in me. He might even punish me. This might compromise Revalia’s and Lozhure’s missions; it might even compromise my own. To think that I may never get to see those coffee-colored eyes in person stabs me deeply. I didn’t mean to look when I did—I just opened my eyes too soon and was able to see that image fading from my view. I know there was a face with a nose, mouth, and hair, but none of that was picked up by my vision. All I saw were his eyes: dark and mysterious. I know there are many unlocked secrets behind them, and I know that part of my mission will be to reveal them. I am intrigued by the many stories they hold. Seeing his eyes has reignited my love and devotion for the human race; seeing his eyes has reignited my desire to complete my calling successfully.
But to do that, I must dream, and that hasn’t happened yet. And even if it does, after I speak with Camael, my wish of helping my charge may be dashed as well. What a predicament I’ve surely gotten myself into! I thought for sure I would have dreamed last night after my Observatory ordeal. My emotions were at an all-time high (low?), and Camael always said that dreams are manifestations of our emotions. But nope. No dreams for me. So, I must wait yet another night.
Apparently, a handful of angels will be disengaging tonight as Camael has canceled all training sessions. Just as well. I’ve been meaning to spend some time in the gardens; I think it will be good therapy to relax among the creatures of the Creator’s divine design, so I head over there and sit at a cement bench in one of the courtyards. The gardens mirror many of the botanical masterpieces of Earth, and I marvel at the shear genius of it all. How humans can manipulate nature and turn it into art is yet another gift of the Lord.
God, Allah, Yahweh, Elohim, Lord, Master, Father, Mother, The Light, Jehovah—the humans have hundreds upon hundreds of terms of endearment for the One who fashioned all into existence. We in Ilarium usually refer to Him as the Creator or Lord and assign the pronouns Him, He, and His when making references. However, that is technically a misnomer as the Creator has no gender. The Creator has no body, no physical confinements. There’s no man on a throne with a long white beard fingering a thunderbolt. There’s no man in a red suit and cap who travels once a year on a sleigh drawn by reindeer. There’s no man behind the curtain—great and powerful. There’s a never-ending constant flow of life and love from the spirit Itself. The breath of life. The source of all. The rising dawn.
And as that thought enters my mind, the scene around me springs to life with the colors of dusk and dawn. The sky’s color shifts in a kaleidoscope fashion from black to purple to blue to yellow to orange to pink like a child playing with the colorful scope and laughing at the wonder of the ever-changing, ever-bleeding colors. I breathe in and try to coordinate my glowing aura with the altering hues of the sky; it’s like a dance that I’m learning for the first time, and I find I can keep up pretty well with this strobe light game. But I stumble, producing the wrong color from my core, and the colors pulsate rapidly as if to say, “Gotcha!” His childlike humor is so pure and innocent that I can’t help but laugh out loud. My Lord loves me! This is His way of showing me his love. His presence is so strong in the garden and deep within my essence, and His playful game is a little pat on the back to let me know everything will be okay. He has distracted me from my despondency and, for a brief moment, made me feel like me, Aestra, an angel again. I am so blessed.
The light show stops, and a peaceful orange and pink hue settles over the gardens. I close my eyes and listen to the multitude of sounds flitting throughout the vicinity. I hear crickets chirping and birds adjusting nests and the rustling of angel wings…
I’m not alone anymore. My only fear is that Camael has come to speak to me about The Observatory, and I know I’m not ready for that conversation yet. But when I open my eyes, I see Revalia standing before me.
“May I sit down next to you?” she asks.
“Sure,” I answer as I shift my body to the side.
Her wings fold in as she sits next to me. “My time is soon, ya know,” she says. She and I don’t look at each other. Her shame radiates off her, and I know I could quell her feelings with my aura, but a part of me has no will to be kind to her right now.
“I know. You’ll do a great job. I have faith in you,” I reply flatly.
She grabs my hands and places them in her lap. “Let me apologize for last night. You have no idea how bad I feel.” She sends waves of warmth into my palms, and I allow the energy to flow through me, washing over me.
“Lia, you don’t have to. I forgive you.”
“I know you do. You are my sweet, sweet Aestra.” She grins and tears begin to swell in her eyes. “I love you like no other. You are the light of my life, my rising star. I aspire to be as humble, loving, and forgiving as you.”
“Lia, please, you don’t…”
“Wait. Let me finish. You were right about what you said about power. Going to The Observatory did make me feel powerful. It made me feel like I had a degree of control … because, Aestra, when you get to Earth and have to live as a human, you quickly learn that there is very little that you have control over. Our power, our energy, our spirit is gone there. Do you know how many times a day I would try to will myself to fly? The shapes that we are in now is nothing compared to the real thing. When you’re in that body—and I mean truly in it—you can feel the death creeping in on you.” She stops and closes her eyes for a moment, reliving some human feeling.
I brush her brown hair away from her neck and caress the feathers at her shoulder tops. They are still bruise-colored; a curious shade of green, purple, and yellow mixed together. This apology has taken a lot out of her, I can tell. She looks sad and worn down. I give my wing a quick shake and my feathers touch hers. I hope the electricity of an angel embrace will help lift her spirits somewhat because I fear Revalia will fail in her next calling if she begins the mission with a defeated spirit.
Our bodies quiver at almost the exact same time when our wings make contact. She smiles at the transfer of energy but then begins to weep uncontrollably. I cease the transmission of my aura, pull back my wing, and squeeze her hand. “Lia. Lia. No. Stop. Don’t do this to yourself.” I speak to her as if I’m speaking to a hurt child.
“I wish you could come with me,” she sobs. “I wish you could stay with me always.”
I reach up and touch the place where her heart is. “But I am with you always. Here. We are bonded. Know that my love for you is stronger than ever.”
She wipes the tears from her cheeks, and with her other hand, she presses mine harder against her chest.
“Always,” she says, but her blue eyes are almost vacant. There’s an absence in them, and I am determined to never see that same absence in my own. I can’t fail…
“Always,” I answer, smiling weakly.
“Will you stay in the gardens and watch me disengage?”
I suddenly feel another presence nearby and resist the urge to look over my shoulder. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say.
“I know you love poetry so much,” she says as she rises and faces me, “so I wrote a poem for you. Remember it until we meet again, my star. It’s a haiku. I think that’s what it’s called.”
I chuckle softly. “Yes, you’re right.”
“Okay. Don’t laugh at me. This is my first attempt.”
“I won’t. I can’t wait to hear it.”
“Here goes: Sorry for being bad. I didn’t mean to hurt you, so don’t be so sad.” She pauses, waiting for my reaction, and while her haiku is so wrong on so many levels, I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s not very good.
I force my mouth to open wide with a large toothy smile, and I begin to clap. “Very good for a first time!” I exclaim. “I’m very impressed.”
This makes her happy, and if the last thoughts and memories she has before she begins her calling are good ones, then that’s all that matters. She leans over and kisses me on the cheek. “Goodbye, my dear,” she whispers into my ear.
“Good luck,” I say as I kiss her back, and with that, she flies away, the last time she’ll be able to do so before she returns to Ilarium.
“It was a good thing that you didn’t tell her how bad her poem was,” a voice says, creeping up from behind me.
Camael.
“It was the least I could do. I didn’t want her to be upset or uncomfortable when she disengages.”
“Tell me,” he says as he sits next to me, “what was wrong with her haiku?”
I’m agitated at the botched format of poetry. “Well, for starters, it wasn’t even a haiku! The syllable structure is 5, 7, 5. Hers was 6, 7, 5. And haiku poetry is supposed to be about the natural world—plants, animals, the cosmos—not really feelings and stuff like that. And to top it off, haiku poetry doesn’t rhyme!”
He laughs. “Yes, well, her intention was good, wasn’t it?”
“I suppose.”
“All that matters is that she tried, right? Good intentions with a far better result than last night, I would presume.”
He knows.
I stiffen and slowly turn my head to look at him, but he doesn’t meet my gaze. His eyes are trained on the dusky sky, staring into the distance. He cocks an eyebrow. “Look at the sky,” he instructs. “They’ll be falling very soon. You don’t want to miss the show.”
The sky darkens to a midnight blue. Millions of glittering stars emerge across the dome-like little twinkling lights, and suddenly, the first one falls. Just like that—a star falls from the sky; an angel disengages, making his or her way to the world to save the soul of a lost human being.
“Did you know,” he begins, “that hundreds of humans are watching this display just as we are?”
No. I didn’t know that.
“Well, they are,” he responds to my thoughts. “We are the stars to them. That is their scientific rational explanation to serve those who lack faith. When an angel disengages from the source and is incorporated with the flesh, the descent, to the human eye, is like a falling star. Little do they know stars don’t fall. We fall. We descend. Sure, the humans explain it away that meteorites are entering Earth’s atmosphere and burning up upon arrival. Falling stars. Shooting stars. They call it different things, but it’s all the same. If they had real faith, they would know that what they refer to as a falling or shooting star is actually their redemption, their salvation, an angel turned mortal to give their heavenly assistance in a limited, time-driven environment.” Another one descends. It’s like a flash of light streaking across the sky. Shooting across the sky. “Shooting stars,” he reinforces.
“I don’t like it when you do that, ya know?”
He gives a slight chuckle and turns to me. “I don’t like it either, sometimes, especially when I hear things that don’t make me very happy,” and he raises his eyebrow again.
“The Observatory,” I whisper as I hang my head low.
“Yes. That.”
I breathe deeply and exhale in preparation. I haven’t really planned out a speech, per se, but I know the sorrow and guilt that I feel, and I know I have to be open and honest with him. “Camael, I am so very sorry for crossing the line like that. I know I can’t put the blame on Revalia and Lozhure. I know I must accept responsibility for my own actions. It was wrong to go there, and I am willing to accept any punishment you deem fit.”
“Aestra, I am not going to punish you.”
I pull back. No punishment?
“No. None. For all of you. Revalia and Lozhure have been to The Observatory many times. I was well aware of what they were doing, and I knew they were planning on bringing you there.”
“And you didn’t stop them?”
He shakes his head, his yellow aura undulating slowly around him.
“Why?” I ask.
“It’s part of human nature. They were acting like typical teenagers. Rebellious. Fearless. Trying to take control of their destinies. Empowering themselves. Let’s face it, Aestra, we all have free will. I felt that a better lesson for them would be to find out for themselves rather than for me to intervene and punish them. The shame and guilt Revalia felt for hurting you was far worse a punishment than anything I could have doled out.”
“But they trespassed. I trespassed! On sacred ground!”
He moves his forefinger to his lips in a thoughtful gesture. “This is true. But sometimes part of the Training means that I have to take a step back and allow the essence of the flesh to work its way into the hearts of my stars. Forgive us our trespasses…”
Another angel disengages with a furious white light overhead like a violent light storm cutting through the sky. Lozhure.
Out of my control, my aura flashes harshly from a pale pink to a bright red, and the words leave my mouth before I have time to think them through. “How does that work when you’re always in our minds?”
Camael tenses up and looks at me sharply. “Your impulses need to be checked,” he scolds with a grimace.
I compose myself, steady my breathing, struggle to align my aura with his. He doesn’t answer me. “I’m so sorry,” I mumble, but he makes a shushing noise and points at the sky.
“Revalia,” he says. “Last one.”
I watch as the light zooms by. It is a deep and dazzling white light; it looks like it leaves a scar against the black sky as it blazes past us. Strong and rebellious like Camael said she was. “I worry about her. About her calling. She seems so lost.”
“Don’t be concerned with her,” he answers. “She will be fine. I have no reservations about her mission.”
“But she…”
“Has Lozhure, who will always be a competent, relatable, and empathetic companion for her,” he interrupts. “You have to be concerned with your calling right now. Let Revalia take care of Revalia. There is no more you can do for her.” He stands up and turns to me. “Aestra, Revalia will always be an angel. She and Lozhure can never move up to Guardian.”
I tilt my head. Never move up the ranks?
“They can’t. They will always have callings. Always have missions. They will forever be connected to the human world because they have been tainted too deeply with humanity. Know the difference, okay? Do your assignment, succeed in your calling, and do not break barriers or cross lines. That’s all there is to it.” He unfolds his wings, and in a flash, he disappears.
Tainted? What an odd choice of word to use. Tainted implies to be contaminated, soiled, spoiled, marred, damaged. So was Camael saying that Revalia was damaged by humanity? Made imperfect by the human condition? Yes, humankind is imperfect in and of itself, but I’ve always felt in the Creator’s grand scheme of things, those imperfections were the ultimate perfection. I always thought that they were His most perfect design because of their differences and imperfections. The Creator must know how Revalia and Lozhure feel about humans; He must know of their love and passion for them. I remember when Camael said to not break barriers or cross lines, and it all makes perfect sense. He must know. Now fear is starting to creep up inside me. Will I fall under the same spell as they have? Will I fail too? Does Camael foresee my failure? Was Camael warning me of something? Is my calling destined to die?
I think of my calling—the boy with the brown eyes. Majestic eyes. Eyes that speak volumes of riddles. I exhale with a desire and determination to know those eyes, save those eyes. Trails of Revalia’s disengagement dissipate in the sky. All is dark.
No, Camael, I will not fail. I will not become tainted. I will figure out the meaning behind your enigmatic words and the enigmatic soul of my calling. I can and will do this!