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Sariel dreams of the rainbow.
The world"s colors drip like wet paint running off its canvas. The gaps which lay beneath reveal true darkness, absolute zero, the nothingness upon which reality is built. A wave of desperation washes over Sariel at the fleeting sight. He doesn"t have time to hesitate.
He reaches instinctively for the void as it, too, begins to collapse, trying to grasp that intangible, illusory unreality. It is just beyond his fingertips. Without his wings, he cannot close the distance.
The rainbow winks out of existence. The empty sky is colorless and dead.
All Sariel is left holding is a single black feather.
Sariel wakes, and he is still alive.
Another peaceful dawn breaks over the sky realm. The sky, stretching infinitely beyond the island"s edge, is blue once more. The wind rustles through the trees in a whisper, stirring the tall grass of the meadow to answer.
Sariel squats in the dew-laden grass with a loaf of Uriel"s bread, crumbling pieces of it between his fingers. The rising sun slowly warms his bony shoulders, the slouching curve of his spine, the dull feathers that line his arm. Long after he runs out of bread, Sariel remains there, motionless, expressionless, silent.
Shiny black ants pour out of their hill, following some signal to action that Sariel can neither hear nor sense. He can only stare in mute satisfaction as they finally discover the bread crumbs. They scurry about with excited antennae twitching, gathering their bounty in tiny jaws, and hauling it back into their hill.
Sariel presses his long, pale fingers against the earth, trying to locate vibrations from the ants" diminutive footsteps, but they are too light. The ants mill around his fingers for a moment of confusion when their trail is interrupted. Sariel peers close as one intrepid worker climbs over his knuckle. Then another follows, and another, reconnecting their broken line.
Sariel withdraws his hand and leans back onto his haunches, content to simply observe without interfering.
The ants are no larger than the fingernail on his pinky finger, yet they carry chunks of bread many times their size. Their tireless constructs are fascinating in their efficiency. The colony is one vibrant living organism, and all its ants an extension of its collective will; they have no ambitions of their own, no desires, no conflict to run contrary in their programming. The colony is their purpose, their reason for coming into existence.
Supreme Primarch Sandalphon says Belial and Lucilius are gone. The rainbow took them both.
To be alive, and to know why, without ever needing to question it – how Sariel envies the simplicity of ants.
“Do ants have hearts?” Sariel asks.
Earlier, the head researcher told him organic creatures of the sky realm are not crafted with the efficiency of a primal core at their center, but rather, an interconnected system of organs, various fluids, and a beating heart. They are not imbued with Astral power, so they cannot regenerate when their fluids are spilled and their organs are broken.
Knowing this, Sariel does not like to break organic bodies open on his scythe. He cannot stitch them back together again like Belial can.
Belial hums to himself as he works. “Sort of,” he answers without looking up. “Insects lack blood vessels, so their bodies don"t require the same kind of pump, but – their dorsal aorta does perform circulation of their internal fluids. Oho! Found it.”
Belial grins in triumph, his arm currently buried to the elbow in Sariel"s open chest cavity. He withdraws his arm slowly, his dripping fist closed around a gleaming piece of metal. A broken-off piece of a weapon. Sariel"s last combat mission involved a great many weapons. Some fragments he brought back inside of him.
Sariel blinks, passively watching his dark blood drip onto Belial"s white lab coat. He doesn"t like to be a bother. If he was more efficient in his execution, this extraction would not be necessary.
Belial drops the blade tip into the bowl with the other pieces of metal he"s fished out so far. It might cause Sariel excessive pain if his vessel regenerates with the foreign objects still embedded inside. Pain is irrelevant to his performance record, though. Belial does not need to waste his talents for the sake of any mission.
Belial is kind to spend his valuable free time on this – on a defective beast like Sariel.
“I bleed when I am cut, deputy head,” Sariel points out, touching a finger to the ragged edge of the wound. It comes back wet. “Do I need the blood? Do I need a heart?”
“The archangels were created in the image of Astrals, to fit in with Astral society, so we have a facsimile of their biology,” Belial explains with an odd note of pride. He is knowledgeable about all things, rightfully assigned the domain of cunning. Belial has an answer for everything. “Our flesh and blood is made of synthetic materials tinkered up in Cilius" lab, though. It"s just for the aesthetic. Your wings are where your power is actually stored. Rip the wings off of a butterfly, and... well, there isn"t much left to look at, is there?”
Sariel looks at him blankly. Belial laughs.
“In answer to your question, no, you don"t need the wet and messy stuff,” Belial says with a vague wave at Sariel"s exposed innards. “If you"re curious about your heart, I can simply cut it out of your chest and show it to you.”
Sariel shakes his head. He does not want to spend any more time in the laboratory than he needs to. Even if he does prefer Belial"s thoughtful care over that of the head researcher"s cold, clinical disinterest.
“Suit yourself, Sarry,” Belial winks, deftly picking up the needle and forceps used for suturing. His specialty. “Y"know, those primitive skydwellers speak of their hearts in a figurative sense as well. They believe their emotions are stored in the heart, rather than the brain. Hold still for this part, o-kay?”
Sariel waits obediently as Belial"s clever hands pinch flaps of his pallid skin together. A row of neat black stitches soon winds its way down his belly, closing the yawning gap.
A primal beast will regenerate whether they receive treatment or not – and Sariel will follow orders regardless of how little he likes them. Execution is his purpose. Knowing these immutable laws of nature, Belial still chooses to ease Sariel"s discomfort.
Why?
“Do I have that kind of heart? The... figurative one?”
Sariel gazes trustingly at Belial, head tilting slightly to one side. Perhaps that is the problem with his construct. His purpose and his heart do not match. If his heart is removed, then he could swing his scythe without contradictions.
It would be easier if he did not have to feel.
Belial, who has all the answers, says nothing at first. He busies himself wiping and sterilizing his tools, washing his hands, then – moves closer to the exam table, looming over Sariel.
Sariel does not make a sound as Belial presses his palm flat against the plane of Sariel"s bare chest. His touch radiates warmth. His sculpted face is so close Sariel can feel the heat of his breath, the intensity of his crimson stare burning more fiercely than Michael"s flames.
Something in Sariel"s chest pounds hard enough for him to feel it. His core pulses in response. Ah. Sariel straightens, eyes widening in understanding.
“You tell me,” Belial says, smile as sharp as his scalpel.
Supreme Primarch Sandalphon remains suspicious of Sariel, but still lets him go. Without a purpose to guide him, without orders or destination, Sariel drifts.
He tries his hand at odd jobs here and there: shelling peanuts, carrying luggage, wearing costumes, doing detective work. The answers he seeks are not there. He befriends Old Bruce on the shores of the Auguste Isles, and encounters mortals like Martin, Falsch, and Barawa, who share their experiences and advice. He still does not know if there is a place for him in these skies. They cannot tell him.
Sariel does not know why he has outlived his purpose. He can only watch as the archangels find new purpose, one by one.
The tetra-elements who ceded their roles to nature adapt quickly. Rafael tends a modest vegetable farm in the country, sharing his carrots with Uriel"s new restaurant, the two of them living in humble harmony with the skydwellers. Gabriel and Michael take to the arts, expressing themselves through painting and theatre, remaining close in each other"s orbit. Even Gabriel"s dear disciple, Europa, joins them from time to time, learning how to connect with mortals from their esteemed example.
This place, this happiness, is not for Sariel. He does not belong with them, and it helps no one to pretend otherwise.
A wistful ache stirs in Sariel"s core when he witnesses Halluel and Malluel embrace the being that is simultaneously Azrael and Israfel. The former archangels of instruction found new purpose in each other – spending peaceful days making bean buns in the kitchen, tending the eggplants in the garden, sharing their quiet cabin in the forest – and thus, they have nothing left to long for. The quartet are inseparable. They seem content to stay where they are.
Perhaps they harbor unanswered questions about life and purpose that Sariel is simply too dull to perceive, but the way they hold each other... Sariel has never been held in such a way.
Like someone"s treasure. Like Barawa"s rainbow stag beetle, Sariel corrects.
Sariel cannot articulate the grief and yearning that makes his chest ache so, like a wound he cannot heal from, fragments of something long-broken embedded under the skin. It hurts to be around the others for long. This figurative heart he was given feels too much, all of the time, even if he cannot identify the colors of the emotions that overwhelm him so.
He is defective. It would be easier to be an ant, unfeeling and obedient. But perhaps even an ant feels lost if it has no colony to return to.
Sariel peeks at the secret black feather he cradles so protectively in his cupped hands. It is his only connection to the dreams, to the rainbow. Sariel is sensitive to elemental resonance, to the aura of primal beasts. He knows not how it left the dimensional rift, but he does know who it belongs to. Sariel pockets the feather, keeping it safe once more.
He will continue his search in no grand hurry. He will drift endlessly, eternally, until the day he finally finds the answer – the person – he"s looking for.
“Sorry I"m late, deputy head,” Sariel apologizes with a humble bow. “There was a trail of ants. They led me to the garden instead.”
“The research lab garden?” Belial"s intelligent eyes gleam with sudden interest. “Did you meet Sandy, by any chance?”
Sariel blinks, processing the nickname. “Sandalphon,” he clarifies, in case he misunderstood. “He gave me directions to the building. He did not leave the restricted area.”
Belial"s sharp smile widens into something devious, the cunning side of him that Sariel does not have the context to comprehend. Sometimes Belial smiles like that around the head researcher, when he thinks no one else is looking. He wears many different faces, one for every social situation, charismatic and clever and designed to be everything that Sariel is not.
Belial saves his gentlest, kindest smiles for Sariel alone.
“Poor trusting Sandy, locked up in his pretty little birdcage,” Belial remarks. His amused tone, in contrast to his honeyed words, is pitiless. “What do you think, Sarry? Should he get to spread his innocent wings outside every once in a while? Or would it be better to lock him in that garden forever, never knowing what he"s missing out on?”
Sariel gazes down at the white tiles beneath his boots. The laboratory is sterile and spotless, setting Sariel"s nerves on edge. His feathers ruffle as he readjusts his wings. He does not like to be inside this building, even if the fallen angels welcome him as one of them. He would rather be outside, surrounded by dirt and growing things and open sky.
“I don"t know what you mean,” Sariel answers truthfully. “Whatever his purpose is, Sandalphon was created to fulfill it. He is following his orders. That is all anyone is meant for.”
“Spoken like a good little soldier ant,” Belial laughs, delighted for some reason with Sariel"s honest answer. “It would be more cruel to create someone and then give them no purpose at all... right?”
His warm hand lands on Sariel"s head, ruffling his dark hair affectionately. Sariel"s wings flutter, flustered and not understanding, but pleased all the same that Belial is happy with him. He likes these moments of Belial"s undivided attention, even if he doesn"t deserve them.
“Every primal beast has a purpose,” Sariel says with confidence. “That is why we exist.”
“So if you lost your purpose, would you cease to exist?” Belial asks, still smiling in that odd, knowing way, like there"s a punchline to some joke that Sariel is missing. “You don"t like to be the executioner, but that"s what you were made to be. You wouldn"t change that, if you could?”
“I... am a weapon,” Sariel says haltingly. He does not understand Belial"s queries. He was not designed to be quick-witted or good with his words. He was only programmed to swing a scythe and deliver death to mortals. “That cannot change. Without orders or limiters, I...”
Sariel does not even know how to finish the statement. There will always be orders.
“What if your creator made a mistake?” Belial asks, the serpent"s voice low and soft as velvet. “Your purpose doesn"t suit you. What if you chose a purpose you did want? An existence defined by you, instead of the Astrals or anyone else... What would that make you?”
Sariel"s eyes are round with shock. Sedition. He mutely shakes his head, unable to conceive of such an identity.
Belial takes pity on him then, slinging a friendly arm around Sariel"s shoulders and pulling him close. “C"mon, Sarry, let"s get you out of this place,” he says lightly, as though they were discussing nothing more serious than the weather. “You want me to feed the ants with you this afternoon? I can spare an hour or two away from Cilius, if you want my company.”
Sariel"s tensed shoulders relax as he looses his wings in a flurry of feathers. Back to familiar ground. He nods at Belial eagerly, not daring to ask for more of his time, but grateful for every moment offered freely. Belial is charitable to indulge him in his interests.
A flawed weapon like Sariel does not have much to give the fallen angels and the head researcher. He cannot change what he is or how he was constructed. No primal beast can.
Sariel only hopes that Belial can make good use of these wings of his, someday.