C.A. Pettit's Blog

The Fallen

Chapter Four: Choices

Draven sat on a bed of pillows in the candlelit tent at the edge of the city. Nashti’s hips swayed as she took slow steps toward him and let her thin veil fall from her face and shoulders. The light from the small fire at her back flickered on the tent walls. When she was close enough, she knelt before him. Draven’s heart was beating so rapidly he thought it might explode out of his chest. Nashti put her hands on his thighs and batted her dark eyelashes.

“Stop.” He pushed her hands away and got to his feet. He walked to the center of the tent and turned to face her.

Nashti had turned and was leaning against the pillows. She looked at him, then around the tent. “I do not please you, lord?”

Draven laughed and shook his head. “That, that’s not it.”

Nashti stood. “Then, the tent is not to your liking. Tell me what you desire, and I shall change it, lord.”

Draven winced. “Lord? Rearrange everything to meet my desires?” 

Nashti was silent. She opened her mouth but quickly closed it.

“Is this really the way?” Draven asked. “A caravan of strangers comes to your home, and the men of your city give away their daughters as if they were cattle?” He took a step toward her. “You just do whatever some man says, and that’s supposed to be normal?”

“Everyone has a place in a civilized society,” Nashti said. She took a step toward him.

“Doesn’t seem very civilized to me.” He took another step. You spent the day serving strangers, and now you’re willing to throw your body at the mercy of someone you don’t know.”

Nashti took another step. “Someone I want to know.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. 

She closed the gap between them and reached for Draven’s hand. Her touch sent a shiver throughout his body. His breath came out in a shudder. He turned his head and pulled his hand back. “No.”

Nashti stroked his cheek. “Is it the custom of the lords of the far north to resist their desires?”

Draven gently grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand away. He gazed into her grey-green eyes and imagined getting lost in them. She tried to put her other hand on his chest, but he turned his back to her and walked toward the fire. A tall shadow crossed in front of the tent. Draven turned and hunched down. He motioned for Nashti to be silent and lie on the pillows. She did, and he crept toward the back flap of the tent. As silent as he could manage, he pushed the flap aside and sprang out into the darkness.

He slammed into someone. They both grunted, and Draven fell on his back. He looked up into the pale face of Morane. The big watcher reached down and helped him to his feet. Draven brushed himself off and then glared at his friend.

“Why are you sneaking around my tent, Morane?” The pale watcher was silent, looking back and forth between Draven and the tent. Draven held up his hands. “Well?”

Morane stroked his chin. “You didn’t eat anything at the banquet tonight.”

Draven felt his heart drop. “What?”

“The servants took your trays while they were still full. You hadn’t touched them, and you didn’t drink anything either.”

“And you were so worried about it that you decided to sneak up on me in the middle of the night?”

“Where were you when we took the oath, Draven?”

Draven tried his best to make his eye roll authentic, but his mind was racing and panic was setting in. “At the back. You know I don’t like being that close to Semyaza.” He chuckled. 

“I looked,” Morane said. “I didn’t see you.”

Draven smiled and held up his hands. “Okay, you caught me. I was having a little too much fun with my new invisibility power.”

Morane nodded. “Hmm. Tell me again why you were granted that ability?”

Draven shrugged. “I told you. One day the watchers will observe man from down here, not just from the Astral Plane.” Draven was careful not to say anything else. He knew his words were true, but he didn’t want to answer any more questions and be in a compromising situation where he would be forced to choose between the truth and a lie.”

“So all of the watchers will be granted this?”

Draven laughed. “Well, maybe if we hadn’t left Mount Hermon.” He slapped Morane’s shoulder. “Guess we’ll just have to go without that ability when we take it back by force.”

“So you’re still up for the task?”

Draven could not answer that question without lying. It had only been a day, and he had ruined his cover. He decided to play this game in a new way and folded his arms. “Why are you questioning me? When have I ever done anything to make you not trust me? What if I come sneaking around your tent with a bunch of accusations? Huh?”

Morane smiled. “You’re right.” He looked at the tent once more and back to Draven. “That’s a beautiful woman in there. Have a good night, Draven.” He started to walk away but turned back. “One thing, though. I didn’t make any accusations. I only asked you questions, the last of which you didn’t answer.”

Draven was silent as Morane walked into the night. 

✦  ✦  ✦The Astral Plane, 986 A.A.

Enoch stepped back from the ledge and took a deep breath. He waved his hand as Michael had shown him, and the scene outside Draven’s tent vanished, replaced with Angor forest. He scratched a summary of the scene into his book and then sat in the tall-backed chair one of the watchers had brought him. He set the book on the table next to the chair and scooped up the small, half-eaten cake he’d been nibbling on for the better part of the day. The watchers told him the cake was made of something called manna. It tasted like honey and was surprisingly filling. He finished the cake and sighed.

“I cannot imagine anyone ever getting tired of eating that,” he said to himself.

“I am glad you enjoy it,” Michael said as he approached. Enoch was mesmerized by the confident stride of the archangel. He started to rise, but Michael motioned for him to stay seated. “Do you need anything?”

Enoch shook his head. “No, thank you. But I am curious about something.”

“Draven?”

Enoch nodded. “From what I’ve seen so far, it seems he stayed true to the task you gave him. Even when confronted by Morane.”

“So far being the key to what you have just said, Enoch.”

“You seem upset when his name comes up.”

Michael’s shoulders slumped slightly. “They were all my brothers, Enoch. Their actions indeed upset me. And more. Their betrayal is an ever-open wound in my heart.”

“But not as painful as Draven’s?”

Michael was silent for a moment, staring out over the horizon. Finally, he looked at Enoch with a grim expression. “You have much to record. I will not disturb you any longer.”

“But you are not—”

“Uriel will provide whatever you need,” Michael said, interrupting. He turned to leave but called out one last time to Enoch. “Write what you see, Son of Jared. Not what you feel or wish to see.”

Enoch stared after the archangel until he had disappeared into the temple at the edge of what Enoch could see. He clutched his book in one hand and the quill in the other as he stood and walked back to the ledge. He waved his hand, expecting to see the village of Ubel again. To his surprise, the scene before him transformed from Angor Forest to the Astral Plane. It was disorienting, to say the least, but Enoch found himself standing between the wraiths of Michael and Draven over three hundred years in the past. He scrambled back, gasping, then calmed himself and began to write.

“You are troubled,” Michael said. “I did not expect to see you so soon, Draven.”

Draven lowered his head and then nodded.

“Come, rest.” Michael put his arm around Draven’s shoulders and led him to an outcropping of large boulders that had been carved into chairs and decorated with red cushions and gold pillows. They sat across from one another. 

“They are fallen,” Draven said. He sat at the edge of the seat with his elbows on his thighs and his fingers laced together. 

Michael leaned back and flopped his head into a pillow. “So soon?”

“The people of the city were completely enchanted by Semyaza’s displays of power and knowledge,” Draven said. “We looked like fools. They should’ve seen right through us, but they hung on every word.”

“What do you mean by his displays?”

Draven looked up, and his eyes were glazed with tears. “There was a lot of argument over whether gifts should be given to the leaders of the city. Semyaza and Ezeqiel finally agreed to share hidden knowledge with them, and they impressed the people of Ubel with feats of strength and speed.” He laughed, although it came out like a wounded sob. “They even made a shimeera fly.”

Michael sat forward. “What! Are you telling me the truth, Draven?”

Draven sprang to his feet. “Are you going to accuse me of lying, too?”

Michael held his palms out toward him. “Draven, please. What has happened to disturb you so?”

Draven sat and pushed his locks back. “Semyaza has begun teaching the people of Ubel to extract the stronger ore from the mines and, once they do, he will teach them to craft it into weapons and machinery.”

“They seek to make themselves gods on Earth,” Michael said. 

Draven nodded.

“And the citizens have accepted the watchers?”

Draven snorted. “A lot more than just accepting. They welcomed us with open arms, fed us, and then the men of the city offered their daughters up like pottery. They treat their women as objects. Like cattle.”

“Were you tempted?”

“Yes, but I did not give in. To maintain appearances I went into the tent of a woman.” He held up a hand when Michael raised his eyebrows. “Nothing happened. She is asleep, but Morane suspects something.”

“Ah,” Michael said. “So he is the one who accused you.”

“Yes, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Perhaps you should not go back.”

“What about gathering as much information as possible?”

Michael shrugged. “I never thought they would sink this low in one day, and you have already given us a great deal of information. The next gathering before the Most High is soon. We can observe what happens between now and then from here.”

“What if they teach the people more of the hidden knowledge?” Draven asked. “We need to know what they’re doing.”

“The risk is great now that Morane is suspicious. We cannot put you in a position in which you would be forced to choose between revealing your mission or lying, Draven.”

“Just give me a little more time. I might be able to persuade them to come back.”

“Come back?”

“Yes. Michael, don’t you want to see them repent? To come home?”

Michael stood. “They are forbidden from returning to this holy mountain. For their sins, they will be banished to darkness for eternity.”

Draven stood. “You are not the Most High.”

“No, but I do know that He will not grant them a pardon for what they have done or what they will do.”

“How can you be so sure? Does He not delight in mercy?”

“Indeed,” Michael said, nodding. “He granted mercy to Adam when he transgressed. He granted mercy to Cain after he slew his own brother. And what did Cain do? He taught his children the ways of evil, and Ubel’s wickedness is the result. Do you not realize what abominations will come from the joining of the Malakim to the daughters of men?” Michael sighed. “I fear there may come a time when the Creator regrets His creation.” 

“That’s a terrifying thought,” Draven said.

“It should be. For what they have done, our brothers will not be granted mercy. They were given the space and freedom to repent before they committed this sin. Now they will learn that the Most High will not abide by the transgression of his commands.”

“Then let me try to persuade them to stop before they make things worse.”

Michael walked a few paces away and looked out over the horizon. “Do you not think I know of your affinity for the humans?” 

“That’s not what this is.”

“Perhaps you must learn this on your own.” He turned and faced Draven. “Go then, but know that if you succumb to the temptations of the world you are entering, you will be banished from this place.” 

“Maybe you’re the one who needs to learn about mercy,” Draven said.

“Return before the gathering, or do not return at all.”

Draven laughed and shook his head. “When did Michael become so cold?”

Michael didn’t respond. He stood in silence for a few moments and then stomped away.

Enoch waved his hand, and the scene disappeared. He slumped into his chair and let his book close in his lap. He stayed that way for a long time, staring silently into a lightning storm in the distance. The last words Michael had spoken to him looped through his mind.

Write what you see, Son of Jared. Not what you feel or wish to see.

*Please note this is a work in progress. The final story might be extremely different. All feedback is welcome!

The Fallen

Chapter Three: Ubel

Draven sighed and folded his hands in his lap. Sitting on a pillow in the large, rectangular banquet hall of Ubel, he was restless. He had been trying to avoid the impulse to make himself invisible since being led into the hall by Nashti, his servant for the night. Nashti knelt before him and handed him a warm cup. The scent of spices from the tea mingled with the subtle but alluring oils she wore.

She bowed her head as she offered him the cup, and Draven thanked her. He held it but didn’t drink the tea but watched as Nashti stood and traversed her way through the crowded hall. She was a contrast of images and emotions that overwhelmed Draven, who had never been so close to the sons of Cain. Her skin was dark, but her eyes were bright. She was short and petite, but her hair was long with thick braids rolled together. She had all the right words to say, but Draven was speechless in her presence. He closed his eyes and remembered Michael’s warning. He was no Shimmara, but Draven wanted to grow wings and fly back to the Astral Plane.

“She is beautiful, my friend.”

Draven glanced over at Morane, seated on a pillow next to him and smiling. He craned his neck and held a hand to his ear.

Morane laughed and then spoke louder. “I thought you had super hearing.”

Draven shrugged. “When I need it.”

Morane leaned toward him. “I said she is beautiful.” 

“Mesmerizing is more like it,” Draven said. He waved his hand and looked around the room. “Impressive they can comfortably seat so many in this place, isn’t it?”

“Not as impressive as that change of subject but yes,” Morane said. He slapped Draven’s shoulder, and they laughed.

“It’s just all very new, and different.” He paused. “And. And it’s. I don’t know. It’s—”

“Too fast?”

Draven nodded. “Exactly. Morane, we were approaching this city only a few hours ago with no way of knowing what would happen, and now we’re in the banquet hall as honored guests of Methusael.”

“I know,” Morane said. Semyaza stumbled initially but seems to have recovered quite well.”

Draven nodded. “I can’t blame him. Being with them is much different than watching them.” 

“Do you remember all those years ago, the day we watched Mehujael come out of his house, holding the newborn Methusael in the air like the heart of a fresh kill?”

Draven laughed. “He was so proud.”

“And now that baby’s servant has just served you tea.”

“I still can’t get over Semyaza’s bumbling introduction.”

“You and me both.” Morane lowered his voice. “How many times did he nod his head? And what was with that horrible name for the city we supposedly came from?”

Draven shrugged. “I think he was trying to say summer.”

Morane wagged a finger at Draven. “Mark my words. Someday, an entire culture will be raised somewhere, and they will call it Sumer.”

Draven rolled his eyes. “That is never going to happen.”

It was Morane’s turn to shrug. “Alright. But when it does, remember who said it first. Are you going to drink that tea or hold it like a child’s toy?”

Draven passed the cup to Morane. “Go ahead.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“What? Nothing.”

Morane was staring at him with his eyes narrowed. “You’ve been acting strange. Not like your normal, confident self.”

“How could I be confident right now?” Draven asked. “Look at this.”

Draven waved a hand at the bustling hall. Servants wove in and out of the crowd balancing precarious stacks of cups and bowls. The watchers were either seated in the large oval around the room or dancing with the women the city had presented to them. A servant hurried past a group of watchers who were imbibing horns of ale and bumped into them. One of the watchers, Kidar, spilled his horn on his chest. The servant, a thin woman with braided hair past her waist, launched into a stream of apologies. Kidar was stunned for a moment, tucking his chin to his chest to assess the damage, but then he and the others laughed. He grabbed the servant by the waist and pulled her to himself. Morane elbowed Draven, who looked back and saw the pale watcher grinning. Draven rolled his eyes and pointed to the back of the banquet hall. 

Semyaza and Ezeqiel were at the head of the hall, sitting on a raised dais in chairs behind a redwood table with Methusael and his wife. The patriarch was listening to Semyaza with undivided attention as he explained something. Draven listened in and was shocked to hear Semyaza explaining how to mine the hills surrounding Ubel in order to extract the secret metal ore that would make for stronger weapons and how to craft them through a forge. Michael was not going to be happy to hear about this development.

“Draven?” Morane asked.

Draven focused his attention back to his friend. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Why are you eavesdropping on Semyaza?”

Draven froze and felt his heart beating faster. “What?”

Morane cocked his head to the side. “You were listening to what Semyaza was saying to Methusael. Why?”

Draven opened his mouth and let out an awkward noise at first, but then he forced himself to gain his composure. “I was just curious, but you’re right. I shouldn’t do that.”

“No, you shouldn’t.”

He nodded. “Of course not.”

They were silent for a few moments, and then Morane whispered out of the side of his mouth. “What were they talking about?”

Draven couldn’t contain his laughter.

✦  ✦  ✦

Hours later, Draven was still in the same spot, but the banquet hall was nearly empty. A few of the watchers remained, lounging in corners with the women of Ubel or dancing with them. Not a few had passed out on the floor and in the corners. Draven shook his head at one in particular. It was Kidar lying on his back with his legs draped over the other three he’d been drinking with. Morane was among the dancers. He had chosen one of the tallest women presented to them that day. Draven watched them groping one another for as long as he could stand and then turned away in disgust. Masking his anger had become almost impossible but not as difficult as it was becoming to turn Nashti away. 

He circled his finger around the rim of the chalice she’d set on the floor for him. The tepid liquid was even less appealing than it had been when it was still steaming hot. He sighed and shook his head, thinking about his brethren all scattered about the city in houses and tents. It had all been too easy. A few tricks from Semyaza and Methusael had become clay in the leader of the watcher’s hands. There was no turning back now, and though Draven was still determined not to divulge in their transgression, the resolve to his duty was wavering. He glanced around the room. The leader’s table was empty. A handful of servants with scrunched up faces were busy clearing platters of half-eaten food and spilled wine cups. The last of the leaders, Azazel—who was going by Utu to the humans—was exiting the side door with one of Methusael’s daughters. Draven clenched his jaw and nearly smashed his chalice.

“If hard to get was your plan, I think it worked.”

Draven looked up. Morane was standing over him with his hands on his hips. He shook his head and looked back down. “No. No plan.”

“You do not want her?” Morane asked as he squatted down. 

Draven played dumb, shrugging his shoulders high and holding them up.

Morane shot him a condescending glare.

“Nashti. A servant, yes, but she is beautiful, isn’t she?”   

“Magnificent,” Draven whispered. 

“Then why are you sulking on the floor while such a splendid creature waits in the shadow of this hall to make your every dream come true?”

Draven stood. “Suddenly Morane is a poet.”

Morane stood, towering over Draven but with a smile. “I’ve always been a poet. You just never appreciated it until the object of my art became the object of your desires.”

“What if we’ve made a terrible mistake, Morane?” 

Morane’s eyes narrowed and his smile was erased. “This mistake was made by the Most High when He excluded us from all of this and confined us to the wasteland of the Astral Plane.”

“Mount Hermon is not without its pleasures.”

Morane shoved a finger into Draven’s chest. “You left Mount Hermon for the same reason as the rest of us, Draven. It is without its pleasures.” He shoved Draven. “And you took an oath with the rest of us, so don’t think you can simply change your mind.”

“Or?” Draven asked, regaining his footing. He had never been nervous around Morane, but he was not sure how to read his friend at that moment.

Morane smiled again, flashing his white teeth. “The watcher who goes back on his oath will live to regret it.”

Draven nodded. “I’m worried we’ll all live to regret many things.” He looked at his feet and almost laughed at his pointed shoes. “Is this what we came for? These simple pleasures?”

“Of course not,” Morane said. “It took less than a day to be accepted by the people of Ubel. Imagine what we will do in a few weeks. This world will be ours soon enough, but why not enjoy the spoils.”

Draven looked up. “Are you not nervous that what we’re doing is spoiling this place?”

Morane grabbed his shoulder. “Is this the same Draven? You have been worried all day, and that’s far out of your character, my friend.”

“I know.” He mentally scolded himself. You’re giving yourself away, Draven. Maintain your role. He allowed his body to relax. “It’s just strange trying to adjust is all.” 

“Then stop trying to adjust.” Morane turned them both so that they could see Nashti in a dark corner of the hall. “Start trying to enjoy.”

Draven was silent. Nashti averted her eyes, but Draven thought it made her look even more beautiful. He longed to go to her, to breathe in her scent and feel her breath on his skin. He swallowed and looked at the floor. He knew he had to leave. Michael was right. To throw oneself into this temptation without realizing the dangers was foolish. He could not allow himself to give in to his desires, but he also could not afford to raise any more of Morane’s suspicions. Without Morane on his side, the others would grow suspicious. 

“It is just nerves, my friend,” Morane whispered. “Go to her. There will be a season of regret. Now is a season of pleasure. Don’t let it pass you by.”

Draven turned and forced a smile. “I guess I’ll see you in the morning?”

Morane patted him on the back. “Maybe the afternoon. Don’t wake me.” He laughed and walked away. 

Draven looked back to the corner. Nashti was standing and looking at him.

*Please note this is a work in progress. The final story might be extremely different. All feedback is welcome!

The Fallen

Chapter Two: Lords of the Far North

Morane tugged at the golden sash around his waist, trying to decide if it should be loose or tight. His gaze remained on the bronze skin of his hand and he grunted. He ground his teeth and adjusted the satin scarf wrapped around his head as he walked behind the other watchers. They were all in human form, dressed as kings from the north. The leaders rode Shimeeras, a dwarf race of the chameleon dragons. They were less powerful but still possessed short-range flight and less-impressive but still formidable fire-breathing.

“The sash is to be loose, and the scarf is worn tightly, an inch above the eyebrows,” Draven said.

Morane jumped and yelped at his friend’s voice. He stopped and looked at Draven. He was wearing purple robes with a golden sash and scarf just like him, but Morane was genuinely impressed at how well Draven adorned it. His locks, now black, were braided together and resting on his back.

“Where have you been?” he asked as they started walking again.

“A few feet back, amusing myself by watching you squirm in your imperial clothes.”

Morane snorted. “Would that I could be back in my armor.”

“Do you plan to woo the women or slay the men?” Draven asked.

Morane glanced over and grinned. “Perhaps both.”

Draven narrowed his eyebrows. “We are not here to harm anyone, Morane.”

Morane waved a dismissive hand and pointed to the front of their procession. Semyaza sat perfectly erect on his Shimeera with his head angled upward. “Already thinks he is a king. And the others are making a spectacle of themselves. I can’t decide if they are hoping to impress the people of Ubel or Semyaza.”

He shared a laugh with Draven, and then his friend nudged his elbow. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Morane. It’s almost as bad as that skin color you chose.”

“Says the one who chose to be the darkest skinned among us.”

Draven straightened his robes and winked up at Morane. “I look good, don’t I?”

“We’re supposed to be from the north. Northerners are pale-skinned. You look like Methusael’s child.”

Draven pointed. Before them, the city of Ubel had come into view. The sprawling city, built by Irad of Cain, sat strategically in the valley of Hinnom. At the southernmost edge of the Angor Forest, it was a thriving city with access to pure water, abundant hunting, and miles of fertile crops.

“When you go to see a king as a suitor to the women of his court, it pays to look like you belong,” Draven said. Especially when you look better than the local farmers and hunters.”

Morane rolled his eyes. “Jealousy may not look good on me, Draven, but pride is positively horrid on you.”

“All jokes, my friend,” Draven said. “Honestly, I’m nervous. Aren’t you?”

Morane scanned the flat rooftops of the brick buildings and the thatched roofs of the houses built into the surrounding hills of the valley and nodded. “Nervous? I’ve just condemned myself to eternal damnation, and I’m about to speak to the people I’ve observed from a distance for hundreds of years with no way of knowing how they will react. No, I’m not nervous. I’m terrified.”

A horn sounded from the edge of the valley, and the shimeera riders stopped. Semyaza held up his hand. They waited, none of the watchers moving or speaking. After several minutes, an entourage of soldiers clad in leather armor riding horcal lizards emerged from the city gates. They rode out in a wedge, nine in all. Semyaza and Ezeqiel nudged their shimeeras forward and went out to meet them.

“Yeah,” Draven said. “Terrified is a good word.”

✦  ✦ ✦

Semyaza did his best to maintain his posture as his shimeera padded its way down the hill toward the soldiers. He glanced over at Ezeqiel, who was much more casual in his saddle. Slumped forward with his wrists draped on top of the saddle horn, he looked almost human. When Semyaza looked back to the point man of the wedge, he realized Ezeqiel was mimicking the pose of the soldiers’ leader. 

The leader—at least Semyaza assumed he was the leader because he was in front—was tall and thin. His skin was dark brown, and his thick beard was silver. This was a man who had seen several centuries. He was, indeed, leaning over his own saddle with his hands propped on the horn. A sword, likely made of crudely beaten brass, was mounted on his hip within easy reach. Semyaza eyed Ezeqiel, then slouched slightly in his own saddle. 

The leader held up his hand. “Halt.”

Semyaza pulled back on the reins of his shimeera, and the dragon stopped. It snorted and shook its head.

“State your business,” the leader said, lowering his hand. His voice was gruff but confident. He looked bored.

“Greetings, Soldier of Ubel,” Semyaza said. He hoped he was saying the correct words. He and the other leaders had debated this for the better part of the trip through Angor Forest. They had decided, after much disagreement, that demanding to be let into the city was not the human thing to do. Azazel had argued for force, citing the fact that the watchers could wipe out the male population of Ubel easily and simply take the women. Semyaza, supported by Ezeqiel, had been adamant about using diplomacy and gaining the favor of all the people.

“State your business,” the leader repeated.

Semyaza cleared his throat and straightened his back. “We are emissaries far from the north. I am An.” This he pronounced like “on.” He pointed at Ezeqiel. This is Enlil.” He smiled.

The leader was expressionless. “How far north? What city?”

Semyaza held his smile and blinked several times. “What city?” He and the others hadn’t discussed this.

The leader nodded. “Yes, unless the name of your home is ‘Far from the North.’”

Semyaza sensed that the leader was mocking him. He smiled wider and laughed awkwardly. He looked at Ezeqiel and flared his eyes wide. Ezeqiel shrugged, then made an “oh” motion with his mouth. He smiled widely and laughed awkwardly, making it a point to open his mouth and throw his head back. 

“Of course that is not the name of our home,” Semyaza said. We are from a small city, one you probably never heard of. It is called...Sumer.” This he thought of as he glanced around and felt the heat of the day. He only hoped he was pronouncing the hot season of the year correctly.

“Sumer?” 

Semyaza smiled and nodded. “Far north.”

“And you say it is a small city?”

Semyaza nodded again, wondering if he should stop doing so. “Virtually unknown.”

The leader straightened in his saddle and surveyed the watchers. “Perhaps they define small differently in the north. How small is a city that sends an envoy of two hundred men? And why are there no women with you?”

Semyaza was speechless. He heard something between a wheezing and laughter come out of his mouth, and he looked at Ezeqiel with desperation. Ezeqiel took the cue and straightened in his saddle, again mimicking the posture of the leader.

“My lord, surely you understand our fear of bringing the women of a city to strange lands,” Ezeqiel said. “We do not know your customs or the potential dangers of the road.”

We surely do not know their customs, Semyaza thought.

“And do you normally travel through forests in regal robes, dressed for ceremony?” the leader asked without hesitation. Semyaza’s shoulders slumped.

“We have very different customs in the north,” Ezeqiel said. “The far north, that is. For us, it is considered crude to approach someone’s home in traveling attire.” 

Semyaza fought to keep his jaw from dropping at Ezeqiel’s insane logic.

The leader shook his head and began to laugh. It was low at first, but then he turned to his soldiers and pointed at Semyaza and Ezeqiel. The other soldiers joined in his laughter, and it grew louder. The two dumbfounded watchers also laughed, awkwardly.

After what felt to Semyaza like forever, the leader stopped and wiped his eyes. “These men are no threat to Ubel. Check them for weapons and let them in.” He laughed again. “Welcome to Ubel, lords of the far north.” He kicked his heels into the sides of his horcal and pulled on the leather strap around its neck. As he rode away, he began to laugh hysterically.

Semyaza nodded.

*Please note this is a work in progress. The final story might be extremely different. All feedback is welcome!

The Fallen

Chapter One: The Pact

366 Years Prior: Recorded in 986 by Enoch

Draven inhaled the air of the world he’d only seen for nearly a thousand years and smiled. He’d feared it might burn his lungs, but it was fresh. Almost sweet. He opened his eyes and looked out across the redwood forest encompassing Mount Hermon. Black smoke rose in lazy, twisting wisps from rooftops at the forest’s edge. Though the city was miles away, Draven could smell the smoke mixed with the scent of cedar and morning dew.

“We are not here to sightsee, Draven.”

His shoulders slumped, and Draven turned to the source of the voice. Semyaza stood with his arms folded over his massive chest. He was head and shoulders above most of the other watchers that stood in a half-circle behind him. 

“I thought we liked this place. That’s why we’re here, right?”

Semyaza shook his head, sending his golden hair into waves around his chiseled jaw. “There will be plenty of time to enjoy this world. First, we must reach an agreement.”

Draven nodded and walked over to join the others but stood apart, not quite with the nearly two-hundred who he’d followed from the astral plane. A smaller group, nearly twenty Malakim, stood closest to Semyaza. Draven avoided eye contact with them.

“What are you doing,” whispered Morane. Draven looked up at his friend. As tall as Semyaza and physically stronger than any of the watchers, Morane was formidable, and just then, he was glaring at Draven. 

Draven smiled. “You know I don’t like being part of the crowd.”

Morane snorted. “But here you are.”

Draven shrugged. “Well, I do like a party, and it’s not like Michael or Gabriel were going to let us bring the women to the astral plane.”

Morane bit back a laugh and wiped his face. His skin was so white that it nearly glowed in the sunlight. 

“Are the two of you quite done?” Semyaza asked. 

Draven cleared his throat. “Sorry, Semyaza. Totally done here.” Beside him, Morane was trembling, and out of the corner of his eye, Draven saw him biting his fist. He nudged him.

Morane also cleared his throat. “Yes, of course. Quite done, Semyaza.”

“Quite,” Draven said, nodding.

“Who allowed these two?” said one of the leaders. Ezeqiel. He was shorter than most and had scaly, olive-colored skin.

Semyaza held up a hand. “Enough.” Everyone fell silent, and he lowered his hand. “We have been denied the pleasures afforded to these mortals for too long. Are we all in agreement?”

All of the watchers nodded, and murmurs of “yes” or some variant made its way through the crowd.

Semyaza nodded. “We have been forced to observe these ungrateful humans being afforded comforts we could never begin to enjoy in our celestial home.” He surveyed the crowd as he spoke. “I think we all agree there is much to desire in this place. More than enough for man and Malakim to share the riches.” The crowd cheered, and Semyaza held up his hands to calm them. “Of all the things The Most High created, I desire to meet the daughters of men, and I sense by your eager faces you long for the same. To know them. For their—” He paused and smiled. “—companionship.”

They all laughed. Draven forced himself to join them and hid his look of disgust. He kept his face lowered to avoid Morane’s stare.

“But we will forever forfeit our place among the stars,” Ezeqiel said.

“Indeed,” Semyaza said. “The Most High will learn of our deeds and send the others to imprison us.”

“The risk is too great,” said another of the leaders, thin and as white as Morane. 

Semyaza turned to him. “Then why did you come, Asael?”

Asael lowered his eyes. “I only say what is true, Semyaza.”

“Getting intense,” Morane mumbled under his breath.

Draven smiled. “Uh huh. Testy.”

The leaders went back and forth for several minutes, weighing the risks of leaving the astral plane and taking human wives. Draven listened in to several side conversations that had begun in whispers. No one but Morane knew he possessed this ability. Though all of the watchers could see and hear from great distances, hearing multiple conversations at once with clarity was not among their gifts. The Most High had granted him this power, so he felt no guilt for using it on his brothers.

“What are they saying?” Morane asked.

Draven shook his head. “Nothing I care to repeat. Lewd, to say the least.”

Morane chuckled. “I think they desire the companionship of the women more than their place in the stars.”

“You’re not wrong,” Draven said as he turned his head toward the leaders. 

They were quiet now, and Semyaza spoke. “We will make a pact. I will not pay for this transgression alone. All of us will agree. Here. Now. We are bound one to another. We will take the daughters of men. We will rise to power among the races of Earth, and when we are strong enough, we will conquer the others before they can descend with punishment.”

There was silence on Mount Hermon for a long time after Semyaza spoke. The watchers shifted on their feet and looked around. Some sat and weighed this decision with their heads in their hands. Others moved away from the group and looked back and forth between the forest below and the astral plane above. Draven stayed where he was while Morane mingled and spoke to several of the others. He never took his attention off the leaders, and he mentally recorded every word they said.

After nearly half an hour of Earth time, the watchers came back together. They closed their circle, and Draven sneaked his way to the rear. He slipped silently among them until he was behind the full circle that had formed. He remained silent as they all swore to uphold the oath, pronouncing curses to anyone who betrayed them or did not follow through with their transgression. He could see Morane looking around, so Draven slid to the right and activated the other power granted to him by The Most High. 

He let his skin shift and blend into the environment. After a few seconds, he looked at his arms. The colors changed as he moved them, so closely matching the colors of his surroundings that he almost could not tell where his appendages were. He felt his skin tingling and knew the transformation was complete. He had never used this new ability before, but he smiled and thought, I could get used to this.     

✦  ✦ ✦

Michael felt something brush his shoulder and looked up. He stepped back from the ledge and turned in every direction. He caught a shimmer out of the corner of his eye, a ripple in the air in front of him. It was gone before he could focus on it. He gripped the pommel of the sword sheathed at his hip and spread his feet.

“Is that how you say hello to a friend?”

Michael gasped. “Draven?” He moved his hand away from his sword and narrowed his eyes, peering into the shifting light before him. “It worked? This new power granted to you by the Most High is indeed impressive.”

Draven appeared, smiling. His skin shifted colors. “They didn’t suspect a thing.”

Michael laughed, disbelieving. This power, granted to Draven to perfectly blend in with his environment had sounded fantastical, but seeing it in person was mesmerizing. “You are just like the Shimmara dragons in the north.”

Draven shrugged. “Not quite. I don’t breathe fire or destroy villages in order to eat the ashes and horde treasure.”

“Are you ever serious?”

Draven rolled his eyes and his skin shifted to one solid tone. “I’m pretty sure my winning personality is the reason I was picked for this task.”

Michael motioned for Draven to follow him as he walked to the ledge. They sat and let their legs hang over the chasm between the Astral Plane and Earth. Below him, the watchers were already reaching the edge of the forest. Michael waved his hand, and the scenery shifted, bringing the city of Babylon into closer view.

“They are set on their course, then?” He looked at Draven, who was staring out over the chasm. He nodded without looking at Michael. There were tears in his eyes.

“This is the time for strength,” Draven said. “You are still needed.”

Draven clenched his jaw. Licked his lips. Then he closed his eyes and lowered his head.

“Why must there be a spy, Michael?” Draven asked. “We can observe everything from the Astral Plane.”

Michael shook his head. “No, we can see much with the eye, but we are not The Most High, Draven. We can see the forest, but can we truly see the trees? Can we feel what man feels? Can we see the intentions of the heart?”

“No.”

“Then we cannot see everything, and we cannot know everything, but if we are to petition The Most High, we must see and know as much as is possible.”

Draven nodded and wiped his eyes.

“Gather your emotions, my good Shimmara. Then go fulfill your task.” He patted Draven’s back and then stood. He left him at the ledge but stopped when he was about ten feet away and turned back. “And Draven?”

Draven looked over his shoulder, letting his snow-white locks fall over his ebony skin.

“The temptations will be great. You are going alone into the den of the fallen. We are mightier than the humans but not above their reproach.” Michael walked away, not waiting for a response. After losing the trust of two-hundred of his brothers that day, the archangel could not bear to see if there had been even a moment of wavering resolve on Draven’s face.

The Fallen

Prologue

986 Years After the Fall

The mist drew Enoch to the forest, but the light led him to the mountain. It called to him now, willing him through the day-stealing darkness. The sweat on his forehead and arms cooled to a chill in the howling breeze as he crept through the mist.  

He paused and tugged the leather reins wrapped around his fist. His lizard mount stalked over the pine needles fallen from the massive redwoods and came beside him. Enoch reached up and patted Arfax’s thick neck. The Horcal purred and relaxed. Moments before, she had been trembling and chuffing. It had been half a mile since she became too anxious for Enoch to ride. 

“Easy, Arfax,” Enoch said, stroking the Horcal’s neck. “You do not have to go any farther into this haunted place.” He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and Arfax lowered her face to his. Enoch hugged her, then removed the strap. Arfax didn’t wear a saddle. The curved back of Horcals and their cooperative nature made them perfect for riding. 

“Go home, Arfax.” Enoch wrapped the strap around his waist several times and knotted it. “Leave this mist and darkness.”

Ever obedient yet fiercely loyal, Arfax hesitated at first but then walked away. After a few steps, she stopped and looked back. Enoch smiled and nodded. “It’s all right, girl. This is my burden, not yours.” Arfax lowered her head and started away, disappearing into the mist. Enoch sighed. 

“That was a difficult decision,” someone behind him said. 

Enoch would have jumped had he not both expected and recognized the voice of Michael, the archangel. “Knowing that I will not see her again made it a nearly impossible decision.” He turned and saw Michael leaning against the wide trunk of a giant redwood. The angel, chief among the watchers, was tall and lean. His white hair fell over golden eyes that shone in the darkness. The mist dissipated around him.

“Then you understand that this calling is different from the others?” Michael folded his arms and clenched his jaw.

Enoch took a deep breath and then nodded, blinking tears away. 

Michael smiled. “Then come Enoch, son of Jared. You are about to see what no man has since your father, Adam.” The archangel headed toward the foot of the mountain where a brilliant light chased the darkness away. With each step Michael took, the mist faded around him. 

“That blind fool hasn’t seen anything in a hundred years,” Enoch said as he came up beside Michael.

Michael chuckled. “Blind maybe, but Adam is far from a fool.”

Enoch snorted. “If getting all of us expelled from the garden was not bad enough, trying to sneak past the cherubims was surely a fool’s errand.”

“One that cost him dearly,” Michael said. “But without his repentance and guidance, your fathers would not know the ways of The Most High, and you would not be entering the light of this holy mountain.”

Enoch nodded. Michael was right, of course, and Enoch loved his grandfather. As they approached the edge of the light, he realized he would not see Adam again. Groaning, he stopped and grabbed Michael’s shoulder. Michael turned and looked down with a knowing smile.

“Forgiveness is divine, Enoch. Wrath is in the power of The Most High, but He delights in mercy.” He stepped into the light. 

Enoch followed, and the chill of the mist dissolved into enveloping warmth.

✦  ✦ ✦

Enoch emerged from the light and found himself in a place like none he had ever seen before. He was on the mountain peak, standing at the edge of the sky. It was the only way his mind could describe it. He could see for hundreds of miles in every direction, and the peak seemed to stretch nearly that far. It was more like a flat plane or an impossibly large plateau than a mountain top. 

There were gaps of black clouds in the distance, rain, light, storms, and mountains all painted together in a tapestry woven between Heaven and Earth. Enoch held his breath and turned about in wide-eyed wonder. It was as if a thousand storms were clashing together yet never touching. They appeared to be nearly within reach yet hundreds of miles apart. Above him were stars, but he could see them with a clarity and brilliance of which no man or woman on earth could even dream. 

Next to him, Michael had transformed into a pillar of fire. Enoch stumbled backward and almost fell. Michael spoke, and his voice echoed with the power of rushing waters. “This is the home of the Watchers. The Malakim. Do not be afraid, Enoch son of Jared.” 

Enoch, however, had looked beyond Michael and seen several hundred other pillars of fire, all with arms, legs, and heads. He stumbled and fell. He saw Michael moving toward him and shielded his face with his hands. Enoch closed his eyes and yelled, but then Michael’s normal, steady voice spoke to him.

“Do not be afraid.”

Enoch opened his eyes and lowered his arms.

Standing before him with his hand extended to Enoch was the archangel, back in human form. He smiled and his eyes sparkled. They were blue, which he found strange since they had always appeared golden when he had seen them before. He took Michael’s hand and let him help him to his feet.

“As I said, this is the home of the Watchers. We are in a place between Heaven and Earth.”

“Your eyes,” Enoch said. “And the fire.”

Michael held up his hand. “You will see far greater wonders in this place, Enoch, and there is much you must hear. Come.”

They walked over to the other pillars of fire, which he realized were the other watchers. They transformed as Enoch and Michael approached and made themselves appear to be human. They all had white or golden hair, but their skin tones and sizes were as diverse as the men and women of Earth. They were gathered in a large semicircle, and they welcomed Enoch with open arms and laughter. He calmed in their embrace and felt tears welling. 

“I am Raphael,” said a watcher only slightly taller than Enoch. He smiled and gripped Enoch’s shoulders. “This is Gabriel, keeper of secrets and master gardener.”

A tall, olive-skinned watcher shoved Raphael playfully and then hugged Enoch. “I keep watch over the serpents and the Great Garden.”

Enoch’s eyes widened and he gasped. “In Eden?”

“None greater,” Gabriel said. His smile disappeared. “It pained me to see Adam’s failed attempt to return. I feel somewhat responsible for his wounds.”

“Nonsense,” said a heavier set watcher as he pushed his way in between Raphael and Gabriel. “It was Adam’s choice. You observe, nothing more.” He stuck his hand out and grasped Enoch by the wrist. “I am Saraquael, and if anyone is at fault for your Fathers’ sins, it is me.”

Enoch stuttered. “I. I do not understand.” 

 “Neither does Saraquael,” Michael said. He put an arm around Enoch’s shoulders and led him from the crowd. Saraquael watches over the spirits which led Adam to sin.”

“My grandfather was possessed by spirits?”

Michael laughed. “Not exactly, no. That is a complicated subject, and not relevant to your purpose here.” He swept an arm out over the horizon. “What do you think of our home?”

“This place is wonderful,” Enoch asked. “But why have I been brought here?” 

Michael’s face was somber. “A time of great trouble is coming to the Earth. Soon, many will rebel against The Most High, more than ever and with far worse transgressions. Earth will become a wretched place. You are here to observe all. What was, what is, and what shall come to pass.”

Michael and Enoch walked to the edge of the mountain top—which by Enoch’s estimation had to be the widest and longest plateau he had ever seen—and pointed down. Enoch inched forward and craned his neck to follow Michael’s finger. He sucked in a breath and hurried away from the ledge. Michael laughed and placed a hand on Enoch’s back. He urged Enoch forward, and he peered over the ledge.

Below them, Enoch saw the whole of Mount Hermon, from peak to foot. Stretching in every direction was the vast and thick canopy of Angor Forest. Enoch could see the light of the path leading up to the mountain peak and the shadow and fog of the area closest to the mountain. He furrowed his brow, bewildered by the fact that he could see the top of the mountain because, as far as he could tell, he was standing on the top of the mountain. He blinked several times and looked again. Sure enough, there was the flattened tip of Mount Hermon, below him.  

He turned to Michael. “This is not Mount Hermon?”

Michael shook his head. “No. This place is hidden to mortal sight unless it needs to be seen. The mist and darkness keep people away from this forest. The light you walked through kept you from noticing the path, for if that were revealed to man, there would be no stopping him from reaching the Astral Plane.”

Enoch laughed unintentionally. “That is truly incredible, but it is difficult to believe.”

“And yet here you stand, Enoch son of Jared.”

Enoch simply shook his head and smiled, but then something caught his attention behind Michael. He pointed, and the archangel looked over his shoulder.

“Are those Watchers as well?” Enoch asked. A group was huddled at the edge of the mountain, looking down and talking.

“They were,” Michael said.

“But they are not now?”

“They are not here at all.”

Enoch stared at Michael, puzzled. “I am looking at them.”

“You are looking at wraiths. A vision and no more.” Michael sighed. “You will understand in due time. For now, you must write what you see.” Michael turned to the other watchers and waved one of them over. “Uriel. Bring the parchment.”

A tall, very muscular angel with snow-white hair walked over and handed Enoch a book of parchment and a writing tool. “Use this to write what you see, son of Jared,” Uriel said. 

Enoch took the items and gave his thanks. He studied them briefly once the other angel had walked away and then looked up again. His attention was immediately drawn to the group of watchers that were separated from the others. One of them, dark-skinned with sinewy arms, turned and looked directly at Enoch. Even from such a distance, Enoch could see the golden flecks in his blue eyes. This angel’s hair was not like the others. It was white like theirs, but it was twisted into corded locks. 

Enoch trembled. The angel did not look away. His expression intensified as if he was trying to stare through Enoch, and the angel’s massive shoulders and chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. Enoch finally forced himself to turn away, but he could still feel the angel’s eyes boring through him. He told himself it was not possible. A vision of the past could not see him in the present.

“Who was that watcher?” he asked.

Michael waited, as if he did not want to answer, but then he spoke in a whisper. “Draven. He was one of our greatest warriors and one you must watch closely.”

“Why?” Enoch asked. “And how is it that he is looking at me right now if he is not there?”

Michael shook his head. “I will say no more on this.” He pointed to Enoch’s book. “Write what you see, son of Jared.” When he was done speaking, Michael walked away, leaving Enoch at the edge of the mountain.

Enoch looked back to the wraiths, but they were gone. He looked out across the expansive plane of Earth and began writing.

Unresolved resolutions

Learning to Make True Change

Ah New Year’s. What a wonderful time. The lull between Christmas and New Year’s Eve comes to an end. The cabin fever is dispelled by finally stepping out of the house. You wear real clothes instead of pajamas all day. It’s a new year filled with new opportunities. It’s time to get started on all of those resolutions!

Okay, maybe not. Some people don’t get a Christmas break. Some people are super active on their Christmas break. And…not everyone buys into the resolution fad.

Why call it a fad? Because it is. I’m a regular in the gym. Every January, the same thing happens. You can’t find a parking space, no matter what time you go. The machines, free weights, and treadmills are packed. The place is filled from wall to wall with people who just spent their entire Christmas bonus on new shoes, water bottles, workout clothes, headbands, wrist wraps, those Gatorade chewy packet things, and the latest fitness app. Every April, the same thing happens. Spring cleaning happens, and there are Saturday yard sales where you can get practically brand new workout equipment for next to nothing.

Look, resolutions are for people with resolve, not for people who are actually very comfortable with who they are and how they live but feel guilty every few months because the commercials get to them or because they have friends who seem to be living it up. Diets crash. The house stays clean for like two weeks. You’re motivated to wake up early for a few days, but then life sets in.

It’s the same thing in your relationships, especially your relationship with God. Do you know why people don’t have good communication with their spouses, children, relatives, or coworkers? It’s because they don’t talk, or they don’t listen, or they don’t really say the things that matter. Do you know why people feel guilty for not reading the Bible, witnessing, praying, or serving the Lord? Simple. People don’t read the Bible, witness, pray, or serve the Lord.

Life is far less complicated than we want to make it seem. It really comes down to one thing: resolve. Everything in life comes with a choice, but no one sticks to a choice without resolve. So here’s a thought: Don’t decide to do something unless you’re going to stick with it. Don’t make commitments you know you’re not going to keep. If you know you’re lazy, don’t commit to being hard working. If you know you’re a workaholic, don’t commit to spending less time at work and being home more.

Don’t commit to anything…until you’re resolved. But you can’t be resolved until you take care of some things.

Learn to stop regretting every mistake. It’s time to learn from your mistakes and move on. If you’ve done people wrong, try to make amends. If that’s not possible, confess it to the Lord and do your best to now make that same mistake again. Trust me, you’ll have plenty of opportunities to drop that football again.

Own who you are. Take a long look in the mirror, but then reflect on the choices you’ve made and the motivations behind them. Yes, people can change, but they don’t change just because they get older. Listen, older does not equal more mature. If you’re overweight, ask yourself why. If you have an addiction, ask yourself why. If you’re angry all the time, ask yourself why. If you’re forgetful, ask yourself why. If you’re passive, ask yourself why.

Talk to someone. So you’ve taken stock of where you are in your life. Now you need to talk to someone to make sure it’s not all in your head. Yes, I mean what I said. You could be imagining that things are worse or better than they really are. Talk to someone you can trust that will be real with you. Get professional help if you need it. There’s no shame in it, and it’s time this society accepts the truth that mental health is a national crisis. You can’t “man up” your way out of mental disorders, nor can you just make your past go away.

Decide what you want, but don’t get caught up in the self-love trap. Face the facts. After years of so-called “experts” advocating for everyone to love themselves and selfishly spend inordinate amounts of time on self-love, anxiety disorders, suicide rates, and mass shootings are on the rise. This humanistic view of the world is a lie. Accept yourself as you are, but then be honest about the things that you need to change. Here are some examples:

If you’re the type of person who just speaks his or her mind and pays no attention to whom it hurts, you’re wrong. Don’t sit there on your seat of hubris repeating your callous mantra of, “That’s just who I am.” Stop being a jerk!

If you’re the type of person who lets people walk all over him or her, that’s not okay. I’ll say that again: IT’S NOT OKAY! Stop being a doormat, and quit bottling all of that up before you mess around and snap at the wrong time. Stand up for yourself!

If you’re the type of person who cuts corners, you’re lazy and a cheat. Stop it. It’s not cool.

If you’re the type of person who has no room for error for yourself or others, you will be a lonely person, eventually. No one’s perfect, and no one wants to be held to perfect standards. Hello, God’s son had to die in our place because we can’t attain perfection on our own. Relax!

So, once you’ve taken a long, hard look at yourself, pick just ONE thing that you’d like to do better. Now ask yourself why. Once you know why, solidify it in your mind. Write it down if you need to. Make it your mantra. Knowing why you’re doing something will give you the resolve you need in order to make real change. The kind of change that sticks and makes a difference. Anything short of that will be a wasted resolution.

Honestly, I don’t do New Year’s resolutions. The guilt of not sticking to them is unhealthy and 100% a self-inflicted wound. I’m tired of damaging myself needlessly. However, this cycle of failed resolutions has taught me how to make real changes in my life. I’m also sick of living for other people.

I’m getting ready to start a body transformation challenge. Do I need to? No, but it bothers me that I’ve never reached the fitness goals I’ve worked for. It bothers me that I’ve been in the gym for years but look and feel the same. It bothers me that I have knee, neck, and stomach problems. I know those problems are permanent, and I’ve accepted that as a fact, but I also know it wouldn’t be so bad if I was in better shape. So, I’m doing this challenge to set my fitness on a better path. I have no disillusions of being a fitness model or becoming a super athlete at 40. I just want to be healthier. It doesn’t hurt that this challenge has a cash reward for the winner, and I’m doing this with my wife because she inspires me and I think it will be amazing for us to do this together.

I give that as an example of how resolve will make a difference. Do I think it’s wrong for you to make a list of resolutions? No. I do, however, think it’s a waste of your time if you haven’t done some soul searching. I also think it’s going to hurt you if you don’t stick to that list.

You might be wondering why I’m posting this now and not a few days ago. Well, I don’t have a specific reason, but I bet someone reading this is already beating themselves up for falling off, and we’re only in the first week of the new year. Stop beating yourself up.

On Being a Christian Artist

Finding the Freedom to Create

We love to title people. Don’t we? Even when we have good intentions, we just can’t help but slap labels on ourselves and others.

We do this with our kids. The good kid. The wild kid. The dreamer, the lazy one, the troublemaker, and on and on. We do it with people around us, and we even prefer it that way. You have a pastor, but the pastor’s name isn’t “Pastor.” I’m an English teacher. My name to students and most of my colleagues is Mr. Pettit. I’d be upset if my students started calling me Chad (trust me, they try it all the time, and I have to remind them that it’s disrespectful).

This is the way our society is set up, especially when it comes to our careers. For the most part, I’m fine with that. But have you ever heard of a Christian mail carrier? A Christian doctor? A Christian flight attendant? Christian plumber? How about a Christian mechanic?

If you have, I’m curious: Does the Christian mail carrier only deliver Christian mail? Does the Christian doctor only operate on Christians? How about the Christian flight attendant? Does he or she only fly on Christian planes or only serve Christian passengers? And I guess it goes without asking, but I will. Does the Christian plumber only fix plumbing in churches or in the homes of church members? And does the Christian mechanic use tools, or is he or she required to fix cars with only the word of God and prayer?

Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? Of course it does because you’ve never heard of those things, nor would anyone expect such things. We all have to make a living, right? Sure. So if a Christian is making a living as a doctor, lawyer, plumber, mechanic, tailor, flight attendant, firefighter, police officer, soldier, or any other profession it’s understood that those things are just careers and trades. It’s implied that all of us live our lives in such a way that attempts to glorify God and honor His word, but no one puts unnecessary restrictions on anyone when it comes to work.

That is, of course, unless a Christian is an artist. That’s somehow different. If you want to be a writer, singer, actor, musician, painter, poet, or sculptor you’d better learn the rules and learn them quickly. Here are the rules:

Your talents are only to be used for God.

If you create any art that isn’t Christian in nature, you’re wicked and must repent. There are two forms of “Christian content.”

Works of art meant to encourage or edify the church

Works of art meant to reach the lost

Your artwork must adhere to Christian guidelines, which are defined by individuals or churches who may or may not get their standards from the Bible

If you use your talents for any other purposes, you have disappointed your Savior, fallen from grace, and now serve mammon.

If that’s not the most ridiculous list, I don’t know what is. I do know this: I didn’t make that list up, and I’m only giving you the broad overview of the real list. Can you imagine carrying that to work with you as you drive a bus filled with 5-10 year old kids? Can you imagine having that hanging over your head while working a 10-12 hour shift on an assembly line? Of course not, and if someone told you that was your standard, you’d disregard that person in a heartbeat and get on with your life.

Well, Christians who happen to be artists don’t have that luxury. Not even a little. Let’s just set aside the niceties and get down to it.

Who came up with this garbage, and at what point did these artists who also love Jesus buy into it? Jesus came to set us free, and then He blessed us with gifts and talents, but people have laid such a heavy burden on us that our artwork suffers. It suffers a lot.

Oh, you wrote a song? Is it about Jesus? It better be because God created music to glorify Him, and it should only be used to worship Him. Oh, you wrote a poem? It better be about Calvary. You wrote a fictional novel? It better have proper doctrine. You painted something? It better be either a picture of God’s creation or His grace. And don’t forget: Your artwork cannot depict violence or sexual content. Your lyrics and prose must be “clean” and Christ-honoring. Your characters better not sin, or if they do, they better be punished accordingly. No foul language, no dark depictions, no secular anything. Also, you better not be making money off your art. In fact, give it away for free, and if you don’t have the money to create and produce it, you either lack faith or God never wanted you to do it in the first place.

This is a tiny taste of the burden artists who love Jesus carry. Just imagine that stressful burden on you as you get ready to build a table or a computer. Imagine wearing that at a checkout counter all day or all night. Imagine that weighing you down as you bake cakes or serve food in a crowded restaurant. And if you don’t think I’m telling the truth, just be honest with yourself the next time you watch a Christian movie. I promise you’ll be witnessing restrained art created on a nickel and dime budget because no one takes Christian artists seriously anymore.

No one but an artist is expected to uphold these standards. Wait, sorry. That’s not true. Extreme fundamentalists and cultists expect everyone to live up to those standards. So if you expect Christians who create artwork to uphold some extreme standards that no one other than Jesus Himself can live up to, and fundamentalists and cultists expect people to live up to impossible standards…

Yeah. You fill in the blanks.

Well, guess what: I’m done with fundamentalism. I was about as close to a cult as a person can get without moving into a compound, but thank God I was delivered from that. I’m not going back, and I’m not about to let anyone trap me in that with my writing. No one. My God hasn’t put that burden on me, so there’s no way I’m going to allow a man or woman to do it. Jesus said we would know the truth and the truth would make us free. I’m not listening to the voices of anyone but God when it comes to my artwork, and do you know why? Because Jesus said His sheep know His voice. Anyone trying to call me away from His voice is a thief, and He told me that the thief only comes to steal, kill, and destroy.

So here’s my battle cry for all artists who know the Lord Jesus Christ:

Be yourself. Be the artist God created you to be. Love the Lord with all your heart, soul, mind, body, and strength. Give Him everything you’ve got with total abandon of earthly restraints. When the winds and waves created by Pharisees and Sadducees are contrary to you and keeping you from the place the Lord told you to go, look up. He’s watching and praying over you, and when the way seems darkest, He’ll be there, walking on the water to where you are. Don’t be afraid; step out of the boat and run to Him, nothing doubting. You might fall, and your faith might waver, but when it does just cry out to Him and He’ll be there. Create. Create. Create. Write your own story. Paint, sculpt, draw, sing, or dance the way the muse leads.

I should take a moment to say that I know some will say I have an angry spirit. Some will say that I’m encouraging sin and worldliness. Some will say that I’m abusing and encouraging the abuse of spiritual gifts. Some will say a lot of things. Sorry, but I’m not responding to those statements, especially the vitriolic ones. Their bitterness is theirs. My joy is mine. I offer them an escape from their bitterness and not a taste but the fullness of my joy if they’re willing to see past the motes in their eyes.

To the artists, to the church, and to the world I say that we need more diversity, not less. To all, I say that we should be and are free to release the pain inside of us and express it through our artwork, whatever medium that may be. To the church, I say that we must be vulnerable and honest with the world because they are hurting, broken, and desperate for something real. In a day when everyone is attempting to live their own truths, millions are in search of absolute truth, and we alone know where to find it.

So you don’t have to choose. It’s not a matter of being an artist or being a Christian, and the weird stuff in your head that you’re dying to express isn’t wrong; it’s your art, and it may be exactly the peculiar thing that once again turns the world upside down.

Listen to me. You’re free. Now go create something.

Author’s Notes

Thank you for reading this not-so-short story. It has been incredibly fun to write. Before I address the cliffhanger ending that might have some of you upset with me, let me give some background and context for the story.

When I finished writing Fate of the Redeemed, I was a bit tapped creatively. I tried to plow through, but I started hitting walls of not knowing what comes next and the trouble of continuity that comes with a complex story world spanning multiple books and stories.

So I decided to take a break and write some independent stories. For the first story, I had this idea of a guy having a cup of coffee with a demon, sort of in a Twilight Zone style setting that would have a basically happy ending. I also thought it would be fun to post the rough draft and let people give me input on what was working or not working and what should happen next. I didn’t get a lot of direct input, but I saw that people were reading and enjoying it, so that made it worth it.

After the second part was posted, I realized this story had some twists to it, and I decided to just let it happen in the way that comes most naturally. So the main character has some secrets, but I didn’t know what those were as I was writing. I don’t do the whole discovery writing thing, normally. I usually let a story idea bounce around and brew in my imagination for a long time, and then I sit down and plot it out in a very meticulous way before I start drafting. That didn’t happen with this story. 

I was continuously surprised by the way things were unfolding, and I just allowed myself to get into it and enjoy the journey. Imagine my surprise when I realized that the battle between the angels and demons in the spirit realm connected to the Journey of Fate series. I had on purpose written this story separate from that universe, but God has a way of connecting things we can’t see. I put the Lord in the driver’s seat, praying before my fingers touched the keys on my laptop, and I watched this story come to life along with readers. When the timing felt right, I changed the name of the story to “Keys of Fate” to further solidify its place in the Fate series. I actually have a lot of fun trying to figure out how to use the word “fate” in the titles, and there is a very specific method to these titles that I’m not sure anyone has picked up on, yet. Let me know in the comments if you’ve figured out the naming convention.

So, who is the “Shadow Man” mentioned in the last scene? I can’t give that away just yet. I do know that part, but how it all comes together is beyond me at the moment. I’m just as anxious as you to find out, but I’ve learned that this journey is just like walking with God: It takes patience, and we’re supposed to appreciate the journey more than the destination. I can only say that this story comes after Fate of the Redeemed, and the next book in the Journey of Fate series will connect these. In order to understand the context of the war that is stretching the heavenly host thin, you’ll probably want to read “Angel of Fate,” the short story prequel to Fate of the Watchman. 

And, for fans with an eye for detail, there is an Easter egg in Part Twelve of “Keys of Fate.” 

So where does the series go from here? 

For one, I need to emphasize that “Keys of Fate” is a rough draft. The revised draft will probably be a little longer, but I intend to keep it as a serial story on the blog. There are some things I need to revise in order to remove plot gaps, and I want to touch up the writing itself. 

Two, I want to do more short stories in the series because I have a couple of ideas that don’t mesh as parts of the books, and there’s not enough content to them to make them into novellas or novels. I also want to experiment with the mediums. Obviously I’ll have to get approval from the publisher for certain things because there are contractual obligations involved. One of the things I’d really like is for one of the short stories I have in mind to make it on the Untold Podcast to be dramatized. It’s a great show if you like audio and you’re into edgier stories.

Three, I’ve really discovered myself as a supernatural writer who likes to blend genres. The ending of “Keys of Fate” skirts the horror genre, but I don’t have a desire to write full-blown horror. If you’ve ever read “The Dark Tower” series by Stephen King (read at your own risk; it is not Christian fiction, and there is a lot of disturbing content), you get what I mean by blending genres. 

Fourth, I can say that I do know the titles and basic plots of the next two novels in the series, and I want to get to work on those soon. I don’t, however, want them to be released individually. Although they won’t bring the series to a close, I think they should be read back-to-back. The reason for that is that one picks up right after Fate of the Redeemed, and one is actually a parallel novel to Fate of the Redeemed. There’s no other way for me to tell the larger story without doing it this way. There’s just so much to the story! The titles for those books are Shadow of Fate and Fate of the Fallen. They are going to be an absolute thrill ride, and new elements such as psychological warfare will be introduced. 

Recommended reading order so far:

Angel of Fate - short story prequel to Fate of the Watchman

Fate of the Watchman - novella

Time of Fate - the next short story I plan on writing. I’m posting it here to make myself accountable for getting it written.

Fate of the Redeemed - full-length novel

Keys of Fate - novelette in serial

I’ll leave you with my thanks for taking the journey of fate with me! In the words of Draven, “Be seeing you.”

Keys of Fate

A Story in Serial - Conclusion

This is the conclusion of the serial story I’m currently writing. If you have not read the story from the beginning, you might want to go check out part one first. Click here to read it now. Conclusion:

Odessa

The drive turned out to be more than an hour, and during that time Lisa had called every hospital and clinic that her phone’s AI assistant brought up in voice search. Viggo had indeed been transported immediately to Odessa’s Medical Center Hospital, but the operator could not provide any specific information over the phone. Lisa had managed to get his room number at the front desk after showing her identification.

Walking down the sterile hallway toward room number 311, she tried to ignore the moans and sobs from the other rooms. She kept her head and eyes straight ahead, not wanting to see the source of those miserable cries. She was exhausted, and every step felt slower than the last. She began to feel heavy as she got closer to the room and wondered if it was just fatigue she was feeling. She smiled at a man and a woman in scrubs behind a counter, but when they stopped in mid-conversation to regard her and follow her with their slowly turning heads, she picked up her pace.

Something had been off since she had driven away from the scene of the accident. The peaceful feeling and the trust she had been reassured by while talking to Dan had left her only moments after driving away. She’d glanced in her rearview mirror multiple times, knowing something had happened but unable to see it. She was hungry and tired. Her eyelids felt heavy, and there was a sense that she was being followed. She paused and turned to look behind her, but there was no one. The man and the woman were staring at her, but they quickly looked away and pretended to sort through stacks of papers and files. 

Lisa told herself she was just dealing with the trauma of the circumstances and resumed her forced march to room 311. When she finally arrived at the room, Lisa felt panic like she had never known before. Something was in the room, something unseen but immensely powerful and evil. She couldn’t force herself to go in, even when she saw Viggo on the lone bed in the tiny room. 

He was bandaged in several places, including one that was wrapped around his head. He was groaning and talking to himself. His hands and legs jerked, and she noticed that they were strapped to the bed. She heard whispering and turned in every direction to try and locate the sources of the sounds. There were many voices, but they made no sense. It was a rush of whispers, like colliding breezes through falling leaves when a storm picks up momentum.

“This isn’t right,” she said to herself. “Something is wrong.” 

Viggo turned his head and he saw her. “Lisa?” His voice cracked, and she could tell he’d been crying.

She swallowed hard and took a cautious step into the doorway. “I’m here, Babe.”

Viggo smiled, a motion that seemed to cause him pain. “They said you’d come.”

Lisa’s heart nearly skipped a beat and immediately started beating hard and fast. “Who said I’d come?”

The smile was erased, replaced by confusion. He looked around the room and then back to her, then shook his head. He waited as if the answer should be self-explanatory. 

“Them.”

She heard the whispers again, louder this time and high-pitched. She raised her hand and put her fingers to her lips. After a moment she made herself reply. “Baby, there’s no one there.”

Viggo grimaced and clenched his teeth. “Listen to me,” he pleaded. “Don’t believe anything anyone tells you, Lisa. They were just using us to get the keys.”

Lisa took a step back and shook her head. “What keys, Viggo? What are you talking about?”

Viggo yelled at this time. “Listen!” He pulled so hard against his wrist restraints that the veins on his forehead and neck stood out as if they would pop. He gave up and laid flat again with a grunt. “You have to get out of here. They’ve got what they wanted, but we can’t let them win.”

Lisa rushed into the room and ran to his side. She gently placed her shaking hands on Viggo’s shoulders. “Viggo stop. You’re not making any sense. You were in an accident, and you’re probably just in shock.”

Viggo pressed his lips together and shook his head. “You shouldn’t have come in.” He lunged upward and strained against the straps holding him down. He growled, and something in his voice changed. It was suddenly deep, unnaturally deep. When he spoke again, it sounded like someone else’s voice, something ancient and pure evil.

“Now you will suffer his fate.” 

Lisa gasped and then screamed when she felt hands grabbing her from behind. She jerked around and smacked the hands away. She made eye contact with the man and woman who had been at the counter, and for a moment, they were shocked enough to release their grip. She stepped back and batted at the man’s hands. The woman lunged at her, but Lisa pushed hard and fast with both hands. The woman fell to the floor.

“Run, Lisa!” Viggo’s real voice this time, frantic but sane. The whispers rose in volume and intensity like a roar. She backhand swung her purse into the man and hit him square in the eyes. He shouted and clutched at them. “Don’t look back. Run.”

But she did look back. When she reached the doorway, she turned, tears in her eyes. Viggo was strangely calm, no longer straining, and he sounded like himself. 

“Go,” he said. “Find the Shadow Man.”

She shook her head in confusion. He shook his as well. “No time. You have to go, Lisa.” He took a deep breath that made his chest rise and fall. “I never cheated on you. I promise. I came here to—”

“Say you’re sorry in person. I know.”

The man and the woman were running toward her then. She gave Viggo one last look. He nodded, and she ran from the room. She pulled an IV stand down as she sprinted down the hallway. She heard a crash and shouting as the man and woman tripped over it. She swung her purse into the face of a young doctor who had posted himself in the middle of the hallway like a linebacker. His head turned to the side and spit flew from his mouth. She punched him in the stomach and he hunched over. She heard footsteps behind her and acted on instinct, grabbing the doctor by the shoulders and shoving him behind her. She watched him collide with the man and woman, and all three of them tumbled to the shiny floor. 

She ran to the end of the hallway, ignoring shouts from patients and staff alike. She pressed the down button on the elevator and then pulled the fire alarm, which was to the right of the button panel. The alarm went off instantly with a piercing sound. She cupped her hands over her ears and rushed into the opening elevator. Wasting no time, she tapped the close door button multiple times and then hit the first-floor button as she looked up and saw her three assailants running toward her. The doctor was the fastest and nearly made it to the elevator, but somehow the doors closed in time. She heard him slam into them with a thud. 

*  * *

A few moments later the elevator was opening and she stepped onto the first floor in the midst of chaos. People were running in every direction, many of them toward the exit. She hurried to join the crowd and exited the hospital with tears streaming down her face. She had never been so confused or scared, and now there was guilt. What had she just left her husband to deal with? As she ran to the car, she was overwhelmed by an endless stream of questions. 

The two dominant ones were, “Would we even be here if I’d noticed what my husband was dealing with?” and her mother’s voice asking if she believed in God now. She could not answer either to any level of satisfaction, but as she got into her car and then sped out of the parking lot, she prayed. She prayed to the God she hadn’t called on since childhood, begging him for help.

Several minutes later, when Odessa was in her rearview mirror, there was only one question in her mind.

Who was the Shadow Man?

This story continues in The Journey of Fate series. Don’t miss out on any updates; join the mailing list now! If you’re already a subscriber, be sure to read the other books in the series, available here.

Please keep in mind that this is the unedited, rough draft of Keys of Fate.

Keys of Fate

A Story in Serial - Part Thirteen

This is part thirteen of the serial story I’m currently writing. If you have not read the story from the beginning, you might want to go check out part one first. Click here to read it now. This is a story you get to help me write by providing your feedback in the comments or by sending me a message through my Contact page . If I like your ideas, they might just end up in the story, or I might name one of the characters after you!Part Thirteen:

The Choice

Lisa sat with her hands in her lap, the engine of the rental car idling on the side of the road. Her heart was beating rapidly without explanation, and she was desperately trying to understand what had made her pull over. Ahead, the asphalt was scorched with tire marks and littered with debris. There had clearly been a wreck here and apparently recent, but she couldn’t make sense as to why that was concerning her. 

It was as if a voice was telling her to end her quest then and there. Going on was a mistake. She glanced down at the GPS display on her phone. Fifteen minutes to the woman’s house. The destination marker sat on the edge of a town, but Lisa’s mind was racing too quickly to figure out the name of the town despite it being plainly displayed on the screen.

She shook her head, yelled, and then slammed the palms of her hands on the steering wheel. She was about to hit it again when a knock on the driver’s side window startled her so badly that she screamed and threw herself into the middle console. Outside the car stood a tall, bearded man with a Justin hat propped halfway up his forehead. He spoke to her through the window.

“Ma’am, are you alright?”

She tried to calm herself enough to respond, but her words still came out in a stammering quiver. “Who, who are you?”

“Sorry to scare you, ma’am. I’m Dan Thibedeau. I’m with the county. They sent me out here to clean up the debris from the wreck that happened here a few hours ago.”

Lisa sat up straighter but kept herself leaned into the console. “I have mace.”

Dan smiled and nodded. “That’s smart, and I understand if you keep this window up. Lord knows I wouldn’t want my wife talking to some stranger all the way out here.” He took a half step back and looked at his wristwatch.

“Why did you knock on my window?”

Dan shrugged. “Out here we look after folks. That’s all. Saw you on the side of the road, and looks like you were a bit troubled, if you don’t mind me saying it. Just wanted to check on you and see if you need any help.”

She took a deep breath, paused, and then pointed at the scorch marks. “How bad was it?”

Dan turned his head to survey the debris and sniffled. After a moment he looked back with a somber expression. “Pretty bad. Friend of mine was involved. His truck got tore up pretty good, but the rental car he hit was wiped clean out. Flipped and rolled from what he said.”

Lisa caught the words “rental car” and felt her heart drop. “Who else was involved?”

Dan shrugged. “D’know. Some guy from out of town, like yourself I guess.”

Lisa furrowed her brow. “How do you know I’m from out of town?”

Dan laughed and shook his head, putting his hands on his hips. “Lady, this is Little Springs. It’s so small, I went to high school with the mayor, who also happens to be my pastor.” He nodded. “You’re from out of town.”

“Fair enough.” Lisa sighed. “Did they take the man to the hospital? Was he hurt bad?”

Dan frowned. “Your guess is as good as mine, but if he was hurt bad enough, they probably took him to Odessa.” After that he paused and folded his arms. “Ma’am, can I ask what you’re doing here? Don’t nobody come to Little Springs, not even passing through.”

Lisa’s first reaction was to tell him that was none of his business, but she stopped herself. Or, maybe something else stopped her. There was that voice again. It was calm and reassuring. She suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of trust, as if the man on the other side of the window was truly there to help her. The thought was insane, but she found herself accepting it. 

“Do you know a woman named Darlene Abbado?”

Dan’s expression soured and he unfolded his arms. “Pete’s widow?”

Lisa’s jaw nearly dropped. “Sergeant Peter Abaddo’s wife. Yes.”

Dan looked troubled, and tears swelled in his eyes. He took a deep breath before responding. “Ain’t heard much from her since Pete didn’t—” His words were caught in a sob that he fought back. A strange expression crossed his face, one that told Lisa they were sharing the same thought: Why are two strangers sharing this information on the side of the road?

“My husband served with Sergeant Abbado,” she said after a moment. She sighed and rolled the window down, despite her reservations. 

Dan looked down and nodded. “Sorry.”

“Why?”

Dan looked up suddenly, his mouth open. “Didn’t he?” The question trailed off, and Lisa shook her head. 

“No. He was the only survivor.”

Dan blinked several times. He looked back to the debris, then to Lisa. Back to the debris, back to Lisa. Understanding registered. “He was the one in the wreck.” Almost a question but definitely an exclamation.

Lisa nodded. “I think so.”

Dan wiped his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, then squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know why I’m saying this,” he said as he lowered his hand, “but you don’t need to go to Darlene’s place.”

Lisa started to reply to this, but Dan held his palm out toward her.

“Ma’am, something strange is happening here. I can’t come near to explaining it, but I think you know it too, else you wouldn’t have rolled that window down.” He nodded. “Wouldn’t have been stopped on the side of the road like this in the first place. Trust me when I tell you ain’t nothing good gonna come from you going to that house.”

Lisa opened her mouth. Closed it. She groaned. “This is crazy.”

“Mm hmm.”

“How far to Odessa?”

Dan looked up at the sun and thought, as if navigating by it. “Oh, bout an hour.”

“What if they didn’t take him there? What if he’s still close?”

Dan kept his face to the sky. “But he’s not.”

Lisa looked straight ahead and nodded. “No, he’s not.”

Arbon’s sword fell from his trembling hand, and he sunk to his knees on the hot asphalt as he watched the rental car drive away. Before him, two much larger demons lay with their chests open, neither of them moving. A third, smaller demon was down on one knee. Arbon hated the imp, Corsis, but he’d learned to respect his cunning in the last few minutes.

Though visibly weak, with his shoulder drooping, Corsis stood. “You’ve lost.”

Arbon coughed and shook his head. “No matter what you think you’ve accomplished, a great evil was thwarted this day. Your master thinks he has won, but he has simply played into the hand of the Holy One.”

Corsis raised his tiny sword with the hand that still retained strength and smiled. “Your master is in chains along with your army. You are about to fall, and you think because the woman now drives toward her husband, you’ve gained the victory?”

“You mistake whom I serve. The one you errantly call my master is but another servant, and our master will not be defeated.”

Corsis grinned. “But you will be.”

He struck, and Arbon knew no more.

To be continued…

This is the unedited, rough draft of a story in the Journey of Fate universe. All feedback is welcome!

If you enjoyed this rough draft, you might also enjoy my finished works in the Journey of Fate series. Check out the prequel short story now, for free, by signing up for the mailing list!