by Neil Gaiman
“In the centre of the room was a large chair, and Zephkiel sat there, his eyes closed, his head back.
“As I approached him he opened his eyes.
“They burned no brighter than the eyes of any of the other angels I had seen, but somehow, they seemed to have seen more. It was something about the way he looked. I’m not sure I can explain it. And he had no wings.
“‘Welcome, Raguel,’ he said. He sounded tired.
‘“You are Zephkiel?’ I don’t know why I asked him that. I mean, I knew who people were. It’s part of my function, I guess. Recognition. I know who you are.
‘“Indeed. You are staring, Raguel. I have no wings, it is true, but then, my function does not call for me to leave this cell. I remain here, and I ponder. Phanuel reports back to me, brings me the new things, for my opinion. He brings me the problems, and I think about them, and occasionally I make myself useful by making some small suggestions. That is my function. As yours is vengeance.’
“‘Yes.’
“‘You are here about the death of the angel Carasel?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘I did not kill him.’
“When he said it, I knew it was true.
‘“Do you know who did?’
“‘That is your function, is it not? To discover who killed the poor thing, and to take the Vengeance of the Name upon him.’
“‘Yes.’
“He nodded.
‘“What do you want to know?’
“I paused, reflecting on what I had heard that day. ‘Do you know what Lucifer was doing in that part of the City, before the body was found?’
“The old angel stared at me. ‘I can hazard a guess.’
“‘Yes?’
‘“He was walking in the Dark.’
“‘I nodded. I had a shape in my mind, now. Something I could almost grasp. I asked the last question:
“‘What can you tell me about Love?’
“And he told me. And I thought I had it all.
“I returned to the place where Carasel’s body had been. The remains had been removed, the blood had been cleaned away, the stray feathers collected and disposed of. There was nothing on the silver sidewalk to indicate it had ever been there. But I knew where it had been.
“I ascended on my wings, flew upward until I neared the top of the spire of the Hall of Being. There was a window there, and I entered.
“Saraquael was working there, putting a wingless mannikin into a small box. On one side of the box was a representation of a small brown creature, with eight legs. On the other was a representation of a white blossom.
“‘Saraquael?’
“‘Hm? Oh, it’s you. Hello. Look at this: if you were to die, and to be, let us say, put into the earth in a box, which would you want laid on top of you—a spider, here, or a lily, here?’
“‘The lily, I suppose.’
“‘Yes, that’s what I think, too. But why? I wish . . .” He raised a hand to his chin, stared down at the two models, put first one on top of the box then the other, experimentally ‘There’s so much to do, Raguel. So much to get right. And we only get one chance at it, you know. There’ll just be one universe—we can’t keep trying until we get it right. I wish I understood why all this was so important to Him . . .’
“‘Do you know where Zephkiel’s cell is?’ I asked him.
‘“Yes. I mean, I’ve never been there. But I know where it is.’
“‘Good. Go there. He’ll be expecting you. I will meet you there.’
“He shook his head. ‘I have work to do. I can’t just . . .’
“I felt my function come upon me. I looked down at him, and I said, ‘You will be there. Go now.’
“He said nothing. He backed away from me, toward the window, staring at me; then he turned, and flapped his wings, and I was alone.
“I walked to the central well of the Hall, and let myself fall, tumbling down through the model of the universe: it glittered around me, unfamiliar colours and shapes seething and writhing without meaning.
“As I approached the bottom, I beat my wings, slowing my descent, and stepped lightly onto the silver floor. Phanuel stood between two angels, who were both trying to claim his attention.
“‘I don’t care how aesthetically pleasing it would be,’ he was explaining to one of them. ‘We simply cannot put it in the centre. Background radiation would prevent any possible life-forms from even getting a foothold; and anyway, it’s too unstable.’
“He turned to the other. ‘Okay, let’s see it. Hmm. So that’s Green, is it? It’s not exactly how I’d imagined it, but. Mm. Leave it with me. I’ll get back to you.’ He took a paper from the angel, folded it over decisively.
“He turned to me. His manner was brusque, and dismissive. ‘Yes?’
“‘I need to talk to you.’
“‘Mm? Well, make it quick. I have much to do. If this is about Carasel’s death, I have told you all I know.’
‘“It is about Carasel’s death. But I will not speak to you now. Not here. Go to Zephkiel’s cell: he is expecting you. I will meet you there.’
“He seemed about to say something, but he only nodded, walked toward the door.
“I turned to go, when something occurred to me. I stopped the angel who had the Green. ‘Tell me something.’
“‘If I can, sir.’
“‘That thing.’ I pointed to the Universe. ‘What’s it going to be for?’
“‘For? Why, it is the Universe.’
“‘I know what it’s called. But what purpose will it serve?’
“He frowned. ‘It is part of the plan. The Name wishes it; He requires such and such, to these dimensions, and having such and such properties and ingredients. It is our function to bring it into existence, according to His wishes. I am sure He knows its function, but He has not revealed it to me.’ His tone was one of gentle rebuke.
“I nodded, and left that place.
“High above the City a phalanx of angels wheeled and circled and dove. Each held a flaming sword which trailed a streak of burning brightness behind it, dazzling the eye. They moved in unison through the salmon-pink sky. They were very beautiful. It was—you know on summer evenings, when you get whole flocks of birds performing their dances in the sky? Weaving and circling and clustering and breaking apart again, so just as you think you understand the pattern, you realise you don’t, and you never will? It was like that, only better.
“Above me was the sky. Below me, the shining City. My home. And outside the City, the Dark.
“Lucifer hovered a little below the Host, watching their maneuvers.
“‘Lucifer?’
“‘Yes, Raguel? Have you discovered your malefactor?’
“‘I think so. Will you accompany me to Zephkiel’s cell? There are others waiting for us there, and I will explain everything.’
“He paused. Then, ‘Certainly.’
“He raised his perfect face to the angels, now performing a slow revolution in the sky, each moving through the air keeping perfect pace with the next, none of them ever touching. ‘Azazel!’
“An angel broke from the circle; the others adjusted almost imperceptibly to his disappearance, filling the space, so you could no longer see where he had been.
“‘I have to leave. You are in command, Azazel. Keep them drilling. They still have much to perfect.’
“‘Yes, sir.’
“Azazel hovered where Lucifer had been, staring up at the flock of angels, and Lucifer and I descended toward the city.
“‘He’s my second-in-command,’ said Lucifer. ‘Bright. Enthusiastic. Azazel would follow you anywhere.’
“‘What are you training them for?’
“‘War.’
“‘With whom?’ ‘“How do you mean?’
‘“Who are they going to fight? Who else is there?’
“He looked at me; his eyes were clear, and honest. ‘I do not know. But He has Named us to be His army. So we will be perfect
. For Him. The Name is infallible and all-just, and all-wise, Raguel. It cannot be otherwise, no matter what—’ He broke off, and looked away.
‘“You were going to say?’
“‘It is of no importance.’
“‘Ah.’
“We did not talk for the rest of the descent to Zephkiel’s cell.”
I looked at my watch: it was almost three. A chill breeze had begun to blow down the LA street, and I shivered. The man noticed, and he paused in his story. “You okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine. Please carry on. I’m fascinated.”
He nodded.
“They were waiting for us in Zephkiel’s cell: Phanuel, Saraquael, and Zephkiel. Zephkiel was sitting in his chair. Lucifer took up a position beside the window.
“I walked to centre of the room, and I began.
“‘I thank you all for coming here. You know who I am; you know my function. I am the Vengeance of the Name: the arm of the Lord. I am Raguel.
“‘The angel Carasel is dead. It was given to me to find out why he died, who killed him. This I have done. Now, the angel Carasel was a designer in the Hall of Being. He was very good, or so I am told . . .
“‘Lucifer. Tell me what you were doing, before you came upon Phanuel, and the body’
“‘I have told you already. I was walking.’
‘“Where were you walking?’
“‘I do not see what business that is of yours.’
‘“Tell me.’
“He paused. He was taller than any of us; tall, and proud. ‘Very well. I was walking in the Dark. I have been walking in the Darkness for some time now. It helps me to gain a perspective on the City—being outside it. I see how fair it is, how perfect. There is nothing more enchanting than our home. Nothing more complete. Nowhere else that anyone would want to be.’
‘“And what do you do in the Dark, Lucifer?’
“He stared at me. ‘I walk. And. . . . there are voices, in the Dark. I listen to the voices. They promise me things, ask me questions, whisper and plead. And I ignore them. I steel myself and I gaze at the City. It is the only way I have of testing myself—putting myself to any kind of trial. I am the Captain of the Host; I am the first among the Angels, and I must prove myself.’
“I nodded. ‘Why did you not tell me this before?’
“He looked down. ‘Because I am the only angel who walks in the Dark. Because I do not want others to walk in the Dark: I am strong enough to challenge the voices, to test myself. Others are not so strong. Others might stumble, or fall.’
“‘Thank you, Lucifer. That is all, for now.’ I turned to the next angel. ‘Phanuel. How long have you been taking credit for Carasel’s work?’
“His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“‘Well?’
“‘I . . . I would not take credit for another’s work.’
‘“But you did take credit for Love?’
“He blinked. ‘Yes. I did.’
“‘Would you care to explain to us all what Love is?’ I asked.
“He glanced around uncomfortably. ‘It’s a feeling of deep affection and attraction for another being, often combined with passion or desire—a need to be with another.’ He spoke dryly, didactically, as if he were reciting a mathematical formula. ‘The feeling that we have for the Name, for our Creator—that is Love . . . amongst other things. Love will be an impulse which will inspire and ruin in equal measure. We are . . .” He paused, then began once more. ‘We are very proud of it.’
“He was mouthing the words. He no longer seemed to hold any hope that we would believe them.
‘“Who did the majority of the work on Love? No, don’t answer. Let me ask the others first. Zephkiel? When Phanuel passed the details on Love to you for approval, who did he tell you was responsible for it?’
“The wingless angel smiled gently. ‘He told me it was his project.’
“‘Thank you, sir. Now, Saraquael: whose was Love?’
“‘Mine. Mine and Carasel’s. Perhaps more his than mine, but we worked on it together.’
‘“You knew that Phanuel was claiming the credit for it?’
“‘. . . Yes.’
“‘And you permitted this?’
‘“He—he promised us that he would give us a good project of our own to follow. He promised that if we said nothing we would be given more big projects—and he was true to his word. He gave us Death.’
“I turned back to Phanuel. ‘Well?’
“‘It is true that I claimed that Love was mine.’
“‘But it was Carasel’s. And Saraquael’s.’
“‘Yes.’
‘“Their last project—before Death?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘That is all.’
“I walked over to the window, looked out at the silver spires, looked at the Dark. And I began to speak.
“‘Carasel was a remarkable designer. If he had one failing, it was that he threw himself too deeply into his work.’ I turned back to them. The angel Saraquael was shivering, and lights were flickering beneath his skin. ‘Saraquael? Who did Carasel love? Who was his lover?’
“He stared at the floor. Then he stared up, proudly, aggressively. And he smiled.
“‘I was.’
“‘Do you want to tell me about it?”
“‘No.’ A shrug. ‘But I suppose I must. Very well, then.
‘“We worked together. And when we began to work on Love . . . we became lovers. It was his idea. We would go back to his cell, whenever we could snatch the time. There we touched each other, held each other, whispered endearments and protestations of eternal devotion. His welfare mattered more to me than my own. I existed for him. When I was alone I would repeat his name to myself, and think of nothing but him.
“‘When I was with him . . .’ He paused. He looked down. ‘. . . Nothing else mattered.’
“I walked to where Saraquael stood; lifted his chin with my hand, stared into his grey eyes. ‘Then why did you kill him?’
“‘Because he would no longer love me. When we started to work on Death he—he lost interest. He was no longer mine. He belonged to Death. And if I could not have him, then his new lover was welcome to him. I could not bear his presence—I could not endure to have him near me and to know that he felt nothing for me. That was what hurt the most. I thought . . . I hoped . . . that if he was gone then I would no longer care for him—that the pain would stop.
“‘So I killed him; I stabbed him, and I threw his body from our window in the Hall of Being. But the pain has not stopped.’ It was almost a wail.
“Saraquael reached up, removed my hand from his chin. ‘Now what?’
“I felt my aspect begin to come upon me; felt my function possess me. I was no longer an individual—I was the Vengeance of the Lord.
“I moved close to Saraquael, and embraced him. I pressed my lips to his, forced my tongue into his mouth. We kissed. He closed his eyes.
“I felt it well up within me then: a burning, a brightness. From the corner of my eyes, I could see Lucifer and Phanuel averting their faces from my light; I could feel Zephkiel’s stare. And my light became brighter and brighter, until it erupted—from my eyes, from my chest, from my fingers, from my lips: a white, searing fire.
“The white flames consumed Saraquael slowly, and he clung to me as he burned.
“Soon there was nothing left of him. Nothing at all.
“I felt the flame leave me. I returned to myself once more.
“Phanuel was sobbing. Lucifer was pale. Zephkiel sat in his chair, quietly watching me.
“I turned to Phanuel and Lucifer. ‘You have seen the Vengeance of the Lord,’ I told them. ‘Let it act as a warning to you both.’
“Phanuel nodded. ‘It has. Oh it has. I, I will be on my way, sir. I will return to my appointed post. If that is all right with you?’
“‘Go.’
“He stumbled to the window, and plunged into the light, his wings beating furiously.
“Lucifer walked over to the place on the silver floor where Saraquael had once stood. He knelt, stared desperately at the floor as if he were trying to find some remnant of the angel I had destroyed: a fragment of ash, or bone, or charred feather; but there was nothing to find. Then he looked up at me.
“‘That was not right,’ he said. ‘That was not just.’ He was crying; wet tears ran down his face. Perhaps Saraquael was the first to love, but Lucifer was the first to shed tears. I will never forget that.
“I stared at him, impassively. ‘It was justice. He killed another. He was killed in his turn. You called me to my function, and I performed it.’
“‘But . . . he loved. He should have been forgiven. He should have been helped. He should not have been destroyed like that. That was wrong.’
“‘It was His will.’
“Lucifer stood. ‘Then perhaps His will is unjust. Perhaps the voices in the Darkness speak truly after all. How can this be right?’
“‘It is right. It is His will. I merely performed my function.’
“He wiped away the tears, with the back of his hand. ‘No,’ he said, flatly. He shook his head, slowly, from side to side. Then he said, ‘I must think on this. I will go now.’
“He walked to the window, stepped into the sky, and he was gone.
“Zephkiel and I were alone in his cell. I went over to his chair. He nodded at me. ‘You have performed your function well, Raguel. Shouldn’t you return to your cell, to wait until you are next needed?’”
The man on the bench turned towards me: his eyes sought mine. Until now it had seemed—for most of his narrative—that he was scarcely aware of me; he had stared ahead of himself, whispered his tale in little better than a monotone. Now it felt as if he had discovered me, and that he spoke to me alone, rather than to the air, or the City of Los Angeles. And he said:
“I knew that he was right. But I couldn’t have left then—not even if I had wanted to. My aspect had not entirely left me; my function was not completely fulfilled. And then it fell into place; I saw the whole picture. And like Lucifer, I knelt. I touched my forehead to the silver floor. ‘No, Lord,’ I said. ‘Not yet.’
