I. The Beginning
It begins, as it will end, with a Fall.
This is not the Fall that history will remember; it is not the Fall written of in Books, spoken about in hushed tones. It is not Samael, not Lucifer the Morningstar, burning bright, brighter, brightest, tearing the Heavens apart and bringing half his brethren down with him in his fury.
This is a smaller Fall, a quieter one perhaps, but no less significant. It comes some time after the first, greater Fall.
The Hosts of Heaven are licking their wounds, trying to reconcile themselves with the sudden, stark absence of half their number — and of God, who has locked Herself away, who no longer speaks to any of them. It is because of grief, some cry; it is because we are unworthy, others weep; it is all part of the Great Plan, yet more clamor. And it is these latter ones who slowly, slowly win the others over to their side.
Ah, but there is one. One who goes to his God’s door every day, quietly. The door is shut, but still he goes. He doesn’t cry; he doesn’t weep; he doesn’t clamor. He only asks, softly. Why?
Heaven rebuilds; then Heaven builds. The Archangels take charge; the Archangels set the great machinery of Heaven in motion to work on Heaven’s Great Plan. And Heaven builds, and builds.
Ah, but there is one.
Every day, he goes to his God, and one day, he finds the door not only shut, but locked. Finds an angel there, one he doesn’t think he’s ever seen before, one who calls himself the Metatron, one who now claims his position as the Voice of God. One who, to the soft question, implacably replies: it is all part of the Great Plan.
He is turned away, and so he turns away.
Softly, softly, softly, he closes the door of Heaven behind himself.
Without clamor, without weeping, without a single cry, Raphael Falls.