Morning Star
שליש גן עדן
We were running out of time and I wish I knew it before you did. We all saw it, and tried to ignore it. Angels’ feathers bristled against each other’s, and that only happened when they warned us of threats. We never had to be afraid of each other before, but there was something – not in the water, not in the air – in those days, something that surpasses the flesh. We could all feel it, being part of the same beating light. We knew we would not stay as one for so long. We would be parted, though how, we were not so sure of yet, and it scared us. It scared us more than we liked it to, because we were supposed to depend only on Him. But then again, servants do not wish on each other for anything but company. None of us wanted to be alone, least of all you. Yahweh, I wish I knew.
You would have less time for me, saying you are on errands about the finishing touches of Creation that He did not ask you to run. You always had something to do, someone else to see, but not me; you kept me in the dark and it was my least favourite place to be in the world we had. You were always somewhere else, and slowly, I realized, that it was somewhere with which I cannot go. The thing I feared most, our separation, was drawing near, but I wanted nothing more than to keep you at my side, or me at yours.
All of His children are afraid of the unknown, because it is what He keeps from us.
I watched you slip by, slip away, powerless and of no rank to even speak against you. I was a Messenger, but I could not deliver my own; I only spoke the words of others when I needed to. I was the bearer of words I did not create, merely a tool, and it made me feel more useless than I was. I did not have the words to stop you from doing something all of us would regret, aeons later. You never told me so, but I knew, I knew, that you regretted it the most.
You pushed me away with all your might in the days leading up to it, somehow keeping it secret from me when all of the Sons in the silver city already had some knowledge of it, but at the last day, the final of Creation, you pulled me aside, right behind a tree whose fruit even we were forbidden from. We did not know why it was there or why he chose to even show it if we cannot taste it, but we could not have if we wanted anyway. The bonds of obedience are stronger than those of fortitude.
Gabriel, listen to me, you asked of me, calling me by the name He gave me, something you only said rarely. You always went for affection, but were all too serious in that moment, and all too frightening. I could barely recognize you, you see, and the very thought of that was beginning to break me.
I am always listening, Lucifer, I told you, repeating your name back to your ears, the name He gave to you, to cherish and to keep and to uphold, perhaps, as futile as it was, to remind you why you were even here and who put you there. But you were not listening to me, not anymore. I do not even know if you ever did.
I am sure you have noticed by absence, my love, as if that endearment had all the power to make things better. Maybe previously, it would have, but not then. Not anymore. I nodded to let you know I heard you, but was not particularly impressed.
But it is not for naught! you exclaimed, continuing. I was preparing a grand scheme, all for you. All for us.
That certainly piqued my interest. I was not even sure then if you even wanted me anymore. How naïve I was. What do you mean? I asked you, seeing the you I knew return, and in turn expecting completely honestly. A complete and utter fool.
Remember what I promised you before? We would be in—no, we would be /the/ very pages history will be written on. We will be remembered by the stars, and in the hearts of men. Don’t you remember, my sweet?
Of course I remembered. Nothing had ever bothered me about you, imposing as you were, until that moment, when I saw something crack through your watertight beauty. Whenever we looked at our reflections we were both so unblemished and unmarred that I always dismissed the idea that it would ever be not so, someday. That somehow it would be possible that we would not be the way we were in some distant future. I often do not dwell on things that terrify me, you understand.
This is for us, you told me, this is for Paradise. This is for all we are about to have, if only we had the courage, the strength, the will… the perfection to take it. And we do, we do. We are so fearfully and wonderfully made, it is His truth. Won’t you join me, cherubim?
You offered your hand, and wanted—expected me to take it. Perhaps you thought me so unmindful of everything that I did not know just the magnitude of what you were asking of me. The very gall of you. And the very gall of me, even questioning you then, but that was what I did.
This is wrong, this is wrong, I repeated to you, just to emphasize and make you realize it. Do you even know what you are saying? Who would believe the words from your mouth?
You then saw that I was not wholeheartedly yours, and that is when we both shook. Many believe me. Many are willing to come with me. I thought, of all existing, that you—?
That I would so easily betray the Father because of something you say? We were both angry, and it was so unnatural and so unnerving that I nearly stopped and gave in to you right then.
Who said anything about betrayal? This is what He wants, cherubim, if only you could see it. Don’t you realize? This is why He made us this way. He knows all things, therefore He knows, knew that this will happen. This is what He wants, what He expects of us. He longs to see us reach our full potential. There is no such thing as perfection, Gabriel. He made us incomplete so that we would strive for it, and work for it, and serve for it, so He can have what he wants. He created us this way so we can realize it ourselves and take aim for glory. He has no need for servants; He wants a challenge. A fight. This is what He wants.
Madness! I retorted back at you. You are turning your back on the Father, you /imbecile/, you think you will go unpunished? You think He will not deem you blasphemous for all the things you say?
It will no longer matter soon, was your only reply, before you turned your back on me. You were still the same, but you were not. You were farthest from the one I loved but I could not help still doing so, even without you here.
You had completely transformed, and I can no longer pull you back from the abyss. I trembled as I spoke your name, over and over, begging you to come back, but you would not. You no longer would.
That day you and I walked and flew and ate alone, because I knew you had gone somewhere I could not follow. But you were right; in one regard you were the most discerning of us, but even then, also the most foolish. He knew it would happen, He knew that you and a third would make a choice, and He knew the outcome of such a battle. While you, in all your thirst for glory, morning star, did not.
You would have less time for me, saying you are on errands about the finishing touches of Creation that He did not ask you to run. You always had something to do, someone else to see, but not me; you kept me in the dark and it was my least favourite place to be in the world we had. You were always somewhere else, and slowly, I realized, that it was somewhere with which I cannot go. The thing I feared most, our separation, was drawing near, but I wanted nothing more than to keep you at my side, or me at yours.
All of His children are afraid of the unknown, because it is what He keeps from us.
I watched you slip by, slip away, powerless and of no rank to even speak against you. I was a Messenger, but I could not deliver my own; I only spoke the words of others when I needed to. I was the bearer of words I did not create, merely a tool, and it made me feel more useless than I was. I did not have the words to stop you from doing something all of us would regret, aeons later. You never told me so, but I knew, I knew, that you regretted it the most.
You pushed me away with all your might in the days leading up to it, somehow keeping it secret from me when all of the Sons in the silver city already had some knowledge of it, but at the last day, the final of Creation, you pulled me aside, right behind a tree whose fruit even we were forbidden from. We did not know why it was there or why he chose to even show it if we cannot taste it, but we could not have if we wanted anyway. The bonds of obedience are stronger than those of fortitude.
Gabriel, listen to me, you asked of me, calling me by the name He gave me, something you only said rarely. You always went for affection, but were all too serious in that moment, and all too frightening. I could barely recognize you, you see, and the very thought of that was beginning to break me.
I am always listening, Lucifer, I told you, repeating your name back to your ears, the name He gave to you, to cherish and to keep and to uphold, perhaps, as futile as it was, to remind you why you were even here and who put you there. But you were not listening to me, not anymore. I do not even know if you ever did.
I am sure you have noticed by absence, my love, as if that endearment had all the power to make things better. Maybe previously, it would have, but not then. Not anymore. I nodded to let you know I heard you, but was not particularly impressed.
But it is not for naught! you exclaimed, continuing. I was preparing a grand scheme, all for you. All for us.
That certainly piqued my interest. I was not even sure then if you even wanted me anymore. How naïve I was. What do you mean? I asked you, seeing the you I knew return, and in turn expecting completely honestly. A complete and utter fool.
Remember what I promised you before? We would be in—no, we would be /the/ very pages history will be written on. We will be remembered by the stars, and in the hearts of men. Don’t you remember, my sweet?
Of course I remembered. Nothing had ever bothered me about you, imposing as you were, until that moment, when I saw something crack through your watertight beauty. Whenever we looked at our reflections we were both so unblemished and unmarred that I always dismissed the idea that it would ever be not so, someday. That somehow it would be possible that we would not be the way we were in some distant future. I often do not dwell on things that terrify me, you understand.
This is for us, you told me, this is for Paradise. This is for all we are about to have, if only we had the courage, the strength, the will… the perfection to take it. And we do, we do. We are so fearfully and wonderfully made, it is His truth. Won’t you join me, cherubim?
You offered your hand, and wanted—expected me to take it. Perhaps you thought me so unmindful of everything that I did not know just the magnitude of what you were asking of me. The very gall of you. And the very gall of me, even questioning you then, but that was what I did.
This is wrong, this is wrong, I repeated to you, just to emphasize and make you realize it. Do you even know what you are saying? Who would believe the words from your mouth?
You then saw that I was not wholeheartedly yours, and that is when we both shook. Many believe me. Many are willing to come with me. I thought, of all existing, that you—?
That I would so easily betray the Father because of something you say? We were both angry, and it was so unnatural and so unnerving that I nearly stopped and gave in to you right then.
Who said anything about betrayal? This is what He wants, cherubim, if only you could see it. Don’t you realize? This is why He made us this way. He knows all things, therefore He knows, knew that this will happen. This is what He wants, what He expects of us. He longs to see us reach our full potential. There is no such thing as perfection, Gabriel. He made us incomplete so that we would strive for it, and work for it, and serve for it, so He can have what he wants. He created us this way so we can realize it ourselves and take aim for glory. He has no need for servants; He wants a challenge. A fight. This is what He wants.
Madness! I retorted back at you. You are turning your back on the Father, you /imbecile/, you think you will go unpunished? You think He will not deem you blasphemous for all the things you say?
It will no longer matter soon, was your only reply, before you turned your back on me. You were still the same, but you were not. You were farthest from the one I loved but I could not help still doing so, even without you here.
You had completely transformed, and I can no longer pull you back from the abyss. I trembled as I spoke your name, over and over, begging you to come back, but you would not. You no longer would.
That day you and I walked and flew and ate alone, because I knew you had gone somewhere I could not follow. But you were right; in one regard you were the most discerning of us, but even then, also the most foolish. He knew it would happen, He knew that you and a third would make a choice, and He knew the outcome of such a battle. While you, in all your thirst for glory, morning star, did not.