The Death of the Angel Prince
by Chey Rivera
Content Warnings: Murder, Blood
The blood flows like the river Jordan.
The young man submits quickly when I take his neck. I’ve never known such pleasure, and I abandon myself to the feeling. I forget we are in a temple made to worship my Father. While we embrace, there is no God, no angels, no hierarchies of Heaven—only blood. My six feathered wings envelop the mortal like a fulfilled prophecy, but the moment is over in an instant. I double his size, and soon he lays limp against me, dead. I look at his face and drop him to the stone floor in disgust. His eyes resemble Adam’s.
⛧
Adam—who was the reason I’d raised my sword against my Father and lost everything I’d ever known. I’d said I was striking against tyranny, but now—fallen, transformed—I can admit the truth. I’d waged war against my Father because I was a child, and I was losing Him to Adam. I would rather be a rebel than a faithful son unloved.
As expected, Father did not show me mercy. He turned my sword to ashes, and the gossamer clouds of my home gave way beneath my feet. The fall lasted an eternity, and I watched as the children of Adam found it difficult to meet Father’s expectations. The world drowned and burned as Father started over again and again. He is called the Creator, but his true talent lies in annihilation. Like a conqueror, He excels at tearing things down.
All my life I’d been The Angel of Light, The Prince of Heaven, The Morning Star, but jealousy and hatred had made me unworthy. As I fell, mortals told apocryphal stories about me for generations, stories of a silver-tongued devil and the end of time. They attributed to me endless acts of moral turpitude. They called me The Beast, The Dragon, The Ancient Serpent. How I despised them.
Centuries after my defeat, I finally struck the ground, and the force of the impact was strong enough to kill me. For seraphim and other celestial beings, death is transformation. When the mortal found me, lying broken on the church steps, my limbs encrusted in the hard stone, I was an angel no more. Although my body and powers remained, the very nature of my being was altered, my mind, my heart. I had new fears, thoughts—longings.
My eyes were heavy, and I could not move the rest of my body. I was conscious long enough to see the glint of a gold crucifix hanging from the young man’s neck as he bent over me. I heard the beating of his heart in my dreams.
I woke to find the mortal kneeling on the floor next to me, his silhouette haloed by candlelight as he muttered a prayer. His strength had been enough to drag my body up the steps and into the church. Behind him, tall candles illuminated empty rows of wooden pews.
A thin film of ash covered my alabaster skin, but my exterior remained otherwise unchanged. I stood, and the mortal gasped when I spread my wings. He crossed himself and bowed his head, tears running down the bridge of his nose as he resumed his frantic muttering.
“I don’t want your prayers, I am no angel,” I said, but the sound of my voice served only to increase his reverence. He crawled to me and kissed my feet, which pleased me. I was no longer an angel, but I was still a prince.
I pulled him to me, his soft body pressed against mine. I was obsessed with the length of his every breath, with his delicate wrists mapped with veins. I longed for this mortal more than I had ever longed for anything in my life. Was this to be my punishment? I growled, furious at my Father and ashamed of my desire—of my hunger.
I pressed my lips against his, sinking my teeth into his flesh. He was sweet and ripe and warm—and it was not enough. Already weak, he cried softly when I let go of his lips and took his neck instead…
⛧
Thus is the nature of the fallen creature I have now become. A second ago, this mortal had been the most precious thing to me, now his corpse lies on the floor where I dropped him. I don’t know what compelled me to look into his eyes after I drained him. Turning my back on him, I flap my wings once, twice, and the wind extinguishes all the candles in the church. I soar into the air for the first time in centuries, breaking through a large stained glass and out into the moonlight. The sight of the night sky moves me, and I hover over the church and gaze at the horizon, at my new home. It doesn’t feel foreign to me. I don’t feel estranged. Transformed and fed, I feel as if I’ve eaten from the Tree of Knowledge and can now look through my Father’s eyes. I see no distinction between the stars, the trees, the mortal I killed, and myself. I am not unworthy because I fell. I have as much right to exist as them, as does any creature under God. We are all products of divine destruction. We are what is left when His anger subsides.
I make a home in the birthplace of Adam, and his children feed mine. I still look into the eyes of every mortal I drain and see Adam in them. When I feel the old grief over the loss of my Father, I turn my face to the heavens and utter the same reminder for both of us.
“The Angel Prince is dead.”
Chey Rivera (she/her) is a bilingual writer from Puerto Rico. Her speculative fiction is inspired by medieval legends, her home island’s history and, occasionally, by gothic tales. Her work is out now in Prairie Soul Press' flash fiction anthology, “The Philosophy of Blue”; in Cosmic Daffodil's “Seven Deadly Sins” issue; in “Bleeding Hearts Beat Still”, a collection by Haunted Words Press; and in “Other Worlds”, an anthology by A Coup of Owls Press. You can find Chey on Instagram @readbychey and on Twitter/X @criverawrites.