Revelation
It’s been a week now. Seven days of splitting heads and shooting hearts.
Dana’s gotten used to the new room, although his side of it is barren as ever. In
contrast to the ruffled posters and vacant crosses and autographed baseballs on Kevin’s side of it all,
Dana still has nothing but an untouched space for himself.
The day is seconds away from starting. The glow behind the windows’ blinds is still faint and blue,
waiting for the sun to cast its rays. Somehow Dana managed to open his eyes before dawn could crack the sky.
“Oh,” Kevin says from his bed, “I think today’s your first review.”
“Is it?” asks Dana. He’s gotten comfortable with Kevin giving the morning report, even if it feels a bit irresponsible putting that in someone else’s hands.
“Yeah,” Kevin sits up and swings his feet over the edge of his bed, “After your first week, Samael has a meet-up to see how you’re getting used to things.”
Dana rolls his head to look at Kevin. Through the mist of darkness, he can make out his roommate’s thin yet broad-shouldered figure. Kevin splays his wings and locks his fingers together as he reaches forward, then up above his head. Above his white boxers, the hem of his undershirt floats up and pushes Dana’s eyes away. Not that he doesn’t want to see; more that he really shouldn’t be looking.
“When’s it gonna be?” Dana asks.
“I’m not sure, death always shows up unannounced,” Kevin drops his hands, folds his wings, and stands up, “The two of us do get the day off for it, though. Or just me, depending on how you look at it.”
Dana winces.
“No, you’ll be fine,” Kevin assures him, “Samael cares a lot, it’s why he does these.”
“All right,” says Dana.
Kevin looks over at his dresser, not saying anything. His eyes shift over to Dana, who pays no mind to the gaze. Then, Kevin kneels down and reaches under his bed. He rummages about for a moment, pushing something aside before making a grunt. Something else slides against the smooth floor, causing Dana to turn his head to see what’s happening.
A footlocker now lies before Kevin’s bed, with the would-be veteran hunched over it. One click is heard, then two. Kevin takes hold of the lid, its open latches dangling as he opens the box. He shuffles to the side, letting Dana take a good look at the locker’s contents. An empty M16 takes up most of the space, its muzzle and buttstock coming just short of their respective ends of the box. In front of the rifle are three magazines lying side-by-side, each one sporting a jacketed round at the top. Kevin’s pistol rests below all of them, loaded beside two magazines full of their own rounds.
Kevin picks up his rifle with one hand and grabs its magazines with his left. He moves them all to the floor, then does the same with his pistol and its own magazines. A pressed coat is slowly revealed as he does so, its badges standing out against green fabric. On one side is a thin, horizontal bar with various colors mishmashed within. Above it is a silver medal which Dana can’t quite get a good look at, but seems to have two snakes embracing beneath an even cross. Kevin scoops up the coat with both hands, careful to keep it folded as-is while he stands and places it on his bed. Now, with the shoulders exposed, Dana can see the insignia at the top of each sleeve. It’s not the upwards-pointing chevron he was expecting, but rather a drab kite with its top rounded and bottom lines curved inward. At its center is a familiar figure: An eagle with wings outstretched; arrows in one talon and an olive branch in the other.
“Samael gave these to me when I was made part of the program,” Kevin explains while he gets up to sit on the bed, “It’s some of the stuff I was issued for the war. My rifle, my sidearm, and my dress greens.”
Kevin chuckles, but no smile or amusement crosses his face.
“Everything but the medical equipment,” he muses.
Dana purses his lips, staying silent for a good few seconds. Kevin crosses his arms, feeling a wing with one hand.
“You really didn’t want to hurt anyone, did you?” Dana asks.
“Never,” says Kevin, “I knew that if I hurt someone – if I hurt anyone – it’d be the gravest sin. I’d be cast into that river of blood and fire, stripped of flesh and soaked in anguish. The last thing I wanted was to be sent there after betraying God’s love.”
“So you were just afraid of Hell,” Dana blurts. He almost regrets saying it.
“No, no,” Kevin insists, “It’s not about God’s love for me. It’s about His love for all of us. If I let myself fight in that war, I’d be provoking my fellow man to betray that love. My allies and enemies alike would be Hellbound thanks to me.”
Kevin’s fingers curl together. His lower lip retreats.
“I wanted so badly to be a chaplain,” he continues, “To bless those around me, no matter who they fought for. But that meant a degree in theology, and since I’d just gotten out of high school… Well, God had other plans. My conscientious objector status was declined, so I pointed to ‘medic’ and trained for that.”
Dana sits up, hugging his blanket. Kevin blows out a sigh, his chest collapsing. He nods once. Then twice. Then he clears his throat.
“Who did you kill?” asks Dana.
Kevin pauses, clearly lingering on something. Eventually, he turns his head up.
“Who did you?” asks Kevin.
Dana’s heart grips itself. A wince is brought about by a sudden cramp in his chest, his body only able to shiver in response. Wind moves through his throat, forcing the reply.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Dana says.
Kevin sighs again and rises to his feet.
“Later, then,” he says, “I know I usually make breakfast, but I’m going to Sunday mass. If you want to join-”
Dana’s head flips left and right the moment “if” escapes Kevin’s mouth. A look of disappointment crosses the veteran’s face, followed by a hum and a shrug.
“Nothing for it, I guess,” Kevin walks to his dresser, “There’s not really a point in going if our fates are locked where they are.”
“Why go, then?” Dana turns, his gaze following his roommate.
“Worship,” Kevin opens a drawer, “To thank God for the blessings He gave in life and for his generosity in sparing us from Hell.”
“Wait, wait,” Dana perks up, “I thought you told me that God isn’t with us anymore. It’s not even him who put us in the program, it was Death.”
“Eh-heh,” Kevin chuckles in spite of himself, “It’s- it’s complicated, OK?”
“I mean, I get that,” says Dana, “But if God’s not going to hear you, then going to church and praying and all that just seems pointless.”
“Dana!” Kevin’s voice rises, and his hand flies up, “I’m not gonna interrogate you to figure out who you killed. Could you do the same for why I still go to mass?”
Dana braces for a shot to the teeth. His eyes screw shut, but he doesn’t reel back to run from punishment. He grips the blanket surrounding him, anticipating the strike across his face and the fall to the hardwood floor. He hears Kevin’s hand in motion, whirling forth to clash and rattle his skull.
But nothing happens.
Dana’s face softens, his eyelids parting. He’s waiting for the fake-out to end, to have the rug pulled out from beneath as Kevin’s fist flies into his face. But as the slit in his vision widens, all he sees is his roommate facing away, slipping an arm through a white button-up sleeve. As Kevin’s hands work their way from top to bottom, Dana lets his own tension dissolve.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Dana’s mouth says out of habit, “I’ll do better next time.”
Kevin pauses. His head turns back to look at Dana, whose grip on the sheets still remains.
“You’re all right, Dana,” Kevin opens another drawer, “Stay frosty.”
“Mm-hm,” Dana hums.
There’s silence in the room as Kevin grabs a rolled-up pair of white slacks and unfurls the fabric. Dana looks away, affording his roommate some privacy to step into his pants. Soon enough Kevin walks fully clothed through Dana’s sight, opening the bedroom door before lingering for a moment.
“Go easy on yourself, Dana,” Kevin murmurs. Then, without another word, he leaves for Church.
Once again, Dana is left to do little more than gaze around the room.
Fed up with this new hobby, Dana pushes himself out of bed and beelines for the dressers. He pulls the top drawer open, glances at the array of tee shirts, and picks one out at random. It’s an off-day, after all; there’s no need for form over function.
Dana’s mind slips into autopilot while he shrugs into his shirt and fetches a pair of grey jeans from the lower drawer. His wings still have some trouble getting through the back, but for the most part he doesn’t have to put any more active thinking into the process of getting dressed. And thank God for that. If he’d have to consider his pert chest and broad hips–
He shakes his head and pushes the thoughts away. What matters is that he’s dressed. And as he heads for the door, he wonders what he’ll eat. Even a week into his tenure, Dana never bothered to open the fridge and see what there is in stock. Kevin always cooked enough food to satisfy the two meals Dana eats daily, and of course snacking would make Dana fat. And nobody, as his parents were always too eager to remind him, would ever want to see a fatass onstage.
Maybe I should just skip breakfast, he thinks. And as he pushes his way out of the room, a familiar voice locks his decision for him.
“Brikha d’shukhta, Dana,” the voice of Samael rings out.
Dana looks to his left, down the hallway and at the front door. There, a black-hooded figure stands with a dark glove around its scythe. It leans against the tool almost casually, juxtaposing the brilliant halo over its head and the marble wings behind its back.
“Huh?” Dana cocks his head.
“Brikha d’shukhta,” Samael repeats, “It means ‘good morning’ in Aramaic.”
“Oh,” Dana closes the door behind him, “Why Aramaic?”
“When God the Father declared his New Covenant, there was a sort of restructuring in Heaven,” Death explains, “In the past we all spoke Hebrew, but with salvation extending to all of mankind we adopted the lingua franca of the time.”
“Not Latin?” Dana asks.
“No, that was a later development,” says Samael. Then, as Dana approaches the Archangel, Samael opens the door to the hallway.
“I’d love to exposit here, but Malik’s a light sleeper.” says Death, “Let’s head to my office.”
Dana nods, stepping past Samael to leave the apartment. It’s the same trip Dana’s made six times by now, and he’s getting just as used to it as he is getting sick of it. He expects Samael to talk on as they leave, but it seems the Archangel wants to give Dana’s ears a break. They pass through the hallway, enter the elevator, and come out to the lobby without saying anything. It’s a welcome reprieve from Kevin giving the daily briefing; one which Samael seems content to let Dana have until they reach the front doors to the complex.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Death starts, “How has crossing the interstice been treating you?”
“Eh,” Dana shrugs, “I guess I’m used to it. I’ve been thinking of it as a subway ride, which really helps.”
“Good,” Samael nods, “You’re adjusting quickly.”
And with that, the doors open. The light blinds Dana ‒ per usual ‒ and a distant siren comes forth from the abyss. A howling semi truck appears from the distance, careening towards the angels and splitting open just before it can make contact. Dana sees the stock of guts and organs on either side, displayed like the pages of a medical textbook. Flesh reels past from either side, going on for miles upon miles within a few seconds. Then, as their tires squeal and the flesh grinds to a crawl, a light bursts from ahead to swallow him.
And then it dies.
Dana stands beside the Archangel of Death, brewing in a soup of stagnant air. An ebony desk lies ahead with a familiar armchair resting behind. Dana looks down to see the very office chair he’d sat in for his interview last week. Its leather surface is in perfect shape, smoothed over an unworn padding as though it was never used. For a moment he wonders if was sitting in some other chair that’s now stowed away. In any case, he doesn’t feel like sitting down in this room again.
“I agree, this is too drab,” Samael comments, “Let’s go somewhere else.”
Samael turns to his right, Dana following suit to see a black panelled door embedded into the pale wall. Death leads the way, twisting the door’s knob and guiding Dana into a vast white expanse. Dana is greeted by the cawing of a dozen crows, all scattered across the branches of a leafless porcelain tree. The tree sits amidst a blank floor, rock solid and devoid of any blemish. Dana looks beyond the fake topiary, straining his eyes to peer at what lies in the distance, only to see a milky haze consume far-off ground.
“Woah,” Dana murmurs.
Death steps forward, approaching a park bench which, of course, is all-white itself. As he walks, one crow jumps down from its branch, excitedly flying to Samael. The archangel gives a pleased chuckle, reaching out for the bird to perch itself on his hand.
“There’s a good man,” Death muses. He stays the course to the bench beneath the tree, but as he rests his scythe on the bench and takes his seat, Dana hesitates to sit beside him. Instead, the young valkyrie eyes the crow preening itself on Samael’s hand.
“Oh, he won’t hurt,” Samael says, reaching into his robe, “He’s just a dove.”
“A dove?” Dana asks.
“I can’t create, but I can destroy,” Samael retrieves a blank cigarette packet, “I’ve chipped away at some features that doves have. Raphael ‒ the Archangel of Healing, peace be with him ‒ stepped in to fill a few gaps where I couldn’t, but just in terms of appearance. Under the hood, their design is all mine.”
“What’d you do to them?”
“It was trial and error, mostly,” Death answers, “In the end, it came down to reducing their temperance. I wanted their diligence intact, so I didn’t touch that. Wouldn’t you know, making them less temperate also made them more curious, so in an off-handed way I made some rather clever birds.”
Dana looks between Samael and the crow. Death moves his pack of cigarettes beneath his hood, seeming to draw one out with his teeth. The end half of it sticks out from the hood as Samael extends his arm to offer another to Dana. Dana’s shoulders drop a bit, his body losing tension as he pulls one for himself and finally sits beside Death. Samael stows the pack, then sets his thumb ablaze to light Dana’s cigarette, followed by his own.
“So,” Samael reaches back into his robe, “You’ve been working for a week. How does it feel?”
Dana takes a drag on his cigarette, gazing up at the white abyss in the sky. Samael pulls a loaf of bread from his robe, holding it up to his crow. The corvid takes one peck, then another before a few more birds drop down to beg at the archangel’s feet.
“I’m not sure,” says Dana.
The crow on Samael’s hand hops off, fluttering to the smooth ground where its companions stand in waiting. The archangel tears off a piece of bread, tossing it into the crowd.
“You’re confused,” Samael says bluntly, “So you haven’t gotten used to things yet.”
“I guess you could say that, yeah,” Dana sighs.
“And you still don’t trust your companions,” says Death.
Dana cringes from the truth being spelled out for him. But then he can’t be too careful around others, least of all around the very people he’ll be spending the rest of time with.
“I understand that they’re hard to get a read on,” Death says, “Which is why I put you with them.”
“Really?” Dana furrows a brow, “What, you think I need to get a better read on people? Figure out what motives they have?”
“The opposite,” Samael tears another piece from his loaf, “Don’t worry about reading them. Don’t mind their motives. Let them look out for you, and in turn you’ll learn to look out for them, too.”
“And when they–?”
“They won’t,” Samael assures.
The silent part ‒ the part where every trusted person snatches Dana by the mouth and cuts his throat when he least expects ‒ is left as the unsaid irrationality it needs to be. Dana huffs, his eyes shifting among the crows. As he watches each earnest peck for food, he wonders what it is about the Archangel that pacifies him. Samael is an exception to every mentor he had. Not in the fact that he won’t take advantage of Dana or molest him for pleasure, but in the fact that Dana knows he’d never do such things.
The valkyrie turns to face the void. He wonders if it’s made of anything, be it light or air or an absence of any matter. And then his thoughts linger on the thought of absence. Not only of matter, but also…
“There’s something you’ve been wanting to ask me,” Death says. Dana feels his muscles tighten.
“Well…” Dana starts, covering his mouth with his fist. Words swell in his throat as he’s unsure of how to ask. It takes a moment of gathered thoughts and mustered courage for him to finally spit it out.
“Why isn’t God with us?” Dana says.
A chill sweeps between the two angels. A hundred caws erupt from Samael’s crows, who suddenly lift themselves into the void above. Wind blows against Dana, putting his hands up to shield his eyes from the ascending black flurry. The crows multiply while they rise, their cawing and screeching following suit. All Samael does is sigh, waiting for the cloud to pass through and reach its peak above the white tree beside him. Only then does he speak.
“Do you remember hearing about Christ – glory be to Him – ascending to Heaven to meet our Father?” Samael muses.
“Yeah,” Dana nods.
“And His resurrection?”
“Yeah, I… I celebrated Easter.”
“Wishful thinking,” Death says dismissively.
“Huh?” Dana cocks his head.
“Wishful thinking,” Death repeats, “Tell me, why did the Son die on the cross?”
“For our sins,” Dana answers, almost automatically.
“Yes, but why did he have to die specifically? Isn’t forgiving your sins something that our all-powerful Father – glory be to Him – could have done on a whim?”
Dana pauses, thinking back to the God-speak he’d always hear in passing.
“It was a sacrifice,” he answers.
“Right,” Samael nods, watching the flurry of crows slow their flight, “Every Christian on Earth will tell you that Jesus Christ reigns in Heaven beside our Father. But if that were true, then what has our Father sacrificed? He gave no only-begotten son because here He is now, at the right hand of the Almighty. Nothing lost, yet somehow, something gained in return.”
Dana nods, following along. One by one, crows begin to separate from the crowd. These stragglers drop calmly to the white branches beneath them, and the rest of the murder descends slowly.
“The notion of Christ in Heaven is wishful thinking,” says Death, “ A myth. Something invented by mankind to reject the fact that something ‘eternal’ could come to an end. Instead of coming to terms with it, they chose to ignore it. Instead of Christ’s destruction, they wrote about His ascension to Heaven and His later resurrection. That’s not to say that they were lying – they weren’t, believe me – but that they were speculating. Surmising what could have happened to Christ after he was sent away from Earth, not questioning the possibility that something eternal might not be eternal after all.”
“A different kind of death sentence,” Dana murmurs. Samael nods.
“Shattering,” Death replies, “That’s what we call it.”
“So when He ‘shattered…’” Dana’s voice falters. He thinks he knows what comes next, but he’s not sure if he wants to consider the implications.
“He was done away with for good,” Samael finishes, “A part of God, the almighty creator of all things, had been erased from existence. A part of the Trinity forever missing.”
The cawing picks up again, but the crows still make their way to land one-by-one on their branches below.
“Nonbelievers are right to note the pointlessness of sacrificing yourself unto yourself, whereupon you’ve lost nothing,” Samael remarks, “And in regards to the lack of existence that lies beyond that– well, that makes two things they get right. It’s just that you need to take some more steps to get to that point.”
“So I can still die again,” Dana cuts in. Samael nods and extends his hand, beckoning the crows. Only two make their way down to him.
“It’s possible,” Samael answers. One crow perches on his finger and another on his forearm, “No Heavenly body has seen it happen, but it’s assumed human souls are much more fragile than our own.”
A crow takes interest in Dana, looking down at his lap, then up to his face. Dana squirms uncomfortably for a moment, but the crow answers for itself. With a hop, its talons take hold of his thigh and the bird’s weight presses into him. Dana tenses for a moment ‒ just a moment ‒ before his nerves are eased by the feeling of another moving creature being with him. He moves a placid hand to the crow’s head and gently strokes its feathers.
“…Christ was the first and only soul to shatter,” Samael finally says. He brings the crow in his hand to his hooded face. He nuzzles against the corvid’s beak, it closing its eyes and rubbing back against him.
“You say that like there’ll be more,” Dana says, a slight waver in his voice.
Samael hums, a grim tone entering his voice.
“That’s because there will be.”
