The angel shuddered and drew himself, gently away, from the cliff. His mind was sunken in a deep, heavy subconscious frame of mind, buried in thoughts. He almost didn’t notice it when he rested before the open gates of the Lord’s Realm, His glittering, starry, moon-laced stairs curling up into the clouds. The stairs had been repaired, with great difficulty, but yet, they now rested where they had always been, seemingly untouched by events, events which had stained the Realm of the Lord, events which had nearly corrupted heaven, and events which God wished had never happened. Beneath the stairs, a wondrous garden, filled with every creature possible, untouched and hidden from the rest of the world, lay lush against the land which God had arisen from the sea. The vibrant green of healthy, glorious plants seemed to glow and pulse. Fruits, perfect and free from decay, maggots, or worms, grew from drooping branches, where they hung, never rotting, never falling, and never withering under the clean, crisp blue sky. Flowers and even weeds grew in harmony with each other, their colors heavily inked against their detailed skeletons, skeletons which God had adjusted and modified from his angel’s attempts.

The angel turned his head away from the stairs and continued on, his gait heavy and slow on the swirling ground. The angel no longer wore a robe, and he didn’t see his legs kicking it forward each time he pushed another leg forward. His legs were now clad in pants, white jeans that had been bleached by the sun, his upper portion fitted with a white shirt which clung to his sculpted form, and a white jacket, much like a leather one, was hung around his shoulders, his hands shoved deep into the pockets. His black hair was short, and it fell around his face, a few strands dangling before his bright, crystalline eyes, eyes which had seen Lucifer fall, eyes which had watched the stairs shatter, and eyes which had been the first to glimpse the pit drilled deep into the Earth. The pit called Hell.

The angel returned to the cliff, not thinking about what he was doing, and he sat, there on the ground, and dangled his legs over the side. A slight breeze blew by his face, and his glistening black hair waved before his eyes, like the strange green plant that covered nearly half of the Earth, growing tall in some places. He brushed it aside and rested his jaw in the palm of his left hand. He wondered, since he had been ordered to hide the garden, since mankind had sinned, and since the garden could no longer bee seen by anyone but God, he wondered if anyone would return to it. God didn’t seem to be using it, and he wondered if it was still there because God wished it to be the hope of Redemption. The angel knew that mankind had searched for the garden for centuries, but had failed time after time, only coming so close as to finding clues, but staying so far as to never discovering it. Humans had walked through the very area many times, but it was hidden from those who sinned, and all of mankind had sinned. All of mankind, excepting one figure in history, an ancient, holy being that would return any day now. It was a small portion of God’s Soul, and His name was legendary: Jesus.

The voice of no one and everyone spoke, and the angel heard it as he gazed over the cliffs, into the Garden of Eden. The angel heard the voice as it bade him to the Realm. The angel sighed, his mind awash in sad, longing memories. He was reminded of the horse, which he had created so long ago, the horse which was now many, roaming across the Earth, living in a variety of habitats. The angel missed that one true horse, the one that had descended to Earth, flying through the clouds and becoming entirely white, but the horses’ eyes had stayed the same, crystalline blue, a fading, yet vibrant blue. That one horse that could never be tamed by mankind. The angel had always been so pleased with his own work, and he was even more pleased that the horse had retained its violent, beautiful nature. Of course, they were still like that, but they seemed watered-down, more behaved and proper. Some horses enjoyed being pampered, but others always longed to run loose, longed for freedom in the wide and wonderful world, longed for their spirits to be set free, and the angel had done what he could to ensure that to some horses.

The voice rang again in his ears, and the angel stood up, taking one last glance at the Earth below the cliff. A wind blew through the grass, and, for a moment, just a moment, he saw the sea as it rolled around, throwing around its own weight, and he saw the wind as it spread the waves out, pushing the dark waters as they rose to meet the challenge. He saw them spread like his own wings, like the clouds when the wind pushed it from all angles, and like his hand when he had nearly saved Lucifer from his own damnation. The angel turned, and trudged back to the Realm, the thought of Lucifer, forever lost Lucifer, on his mind, and he could barely discern the sound of the waves lapping the edges of his memory.

The stairs passed beneath the angel, unnoticed as he ascended, step after step, trudging upwards, step after step. He only noticed that he had even come when the gold and blue floor suddenly appeared beneath his feet, and the light of God cast his white shadow behind him. It fell upon the steps, creating a glowing effect that much disturbed the angel, he could not bring himself to be happy at the moment.

The angel sighed, and looked up at the immense figure, bright as the sun.

“It seems that memories plague my mind, Lord.”

“Why did he do it, though? That is what I do not understand.”

The angel knew it was somewhat true, but he was still sure that Lucifer could have done good if he had tried.

The angel, Michael, seemed astonished. How could he possibly carry out such a cruel deed. Lucifer had been his friend, no matter how different they were. He had constantly tried to prevent Lucifer from damning himself, but Michael could not succeed in doing so for very long, and, in the end, Lucifer had shunted Michael, and walked away to face God.

A warm, glowing feeling began to seep into Michael as God sought to raise his spirits.

Michael began to feel a bit lighter, but the thoughts of Lucifer, his long lost friend and companion, still burned at his mind like the fires of Hell.

Then God spoke again, and his voice seemed heavy and laden with a sadness.

He left off, and Michael dreaded what He would say, for he knew quite well what would happen to the lost souls. He knew very well what would happen to them, and he knew, as did God, that Satan would re-open his gates to bring them in. God simply needed Michael to show them the right path, so that they might be saved before Satan could pull them down into Hell.

God waved His hand, and Michael was swallowed by a terrifying tempest. Michael had seen these many times, but to see one like this was something of a violent beauty. It entranced him, yet terrified him. They clouds were much like the white ones on which Heaven dwelled, but these were a deep, dark, swirling purple, that reminded him of the purple he had found for the hooves of his beloved horse. Lights, much more bizarre and extraordinary than the lights which he always saw in Heaven, snaked and curved through the clouds, veining them. They were gone in an instant, and Michael was amazed by what this creation was. Surely it was God’s, but the character of it much resembled Lucifer’s own design. The clouds swirled in a puffy cyclone, and, as Michael watched, the walls became smooth and misted, the lights snaking out less frequently. Michael could feel a great gust of wind as it blew up from the bottom. The wind was a dark, black color, and his immaculately white jacket and white shirt turned black instantly. Another wind, a dark navy color, much like the sky on Earth when it darkened, hit him suddenly, and his jeans were inked with the color. Another blast curled up: it was white, glittering and sparkling as it swirled and twisted and carved its way through the air. It brushed his shirt, and left the word: GODSMACK in the middle of his now black shirt. His Angel’s Pendant melted and drew away from his neck, molding into a new form: a silver chain on which a peculiar pendant hung. The shape of a wing, or at least Michael thought it to be a wing, and orange and blue shapes billowing from around it. The whole pendant was outlined in silver, and colored between the silver. Silver letters were written across it, an F, accented by the wing, and the letters a, l, l, e, n, beside it, written neatly in cursive. A blue jewel was embedded in the middle of a swirling pattern on the wing, and a blue ring slipped onto Michael’s finger. It was plain and smooth.