Stanzas: Monthly Chapbooks May 2015: Equality | Page 22

Prometheus
Andrew Moore

I

am an Angel of the Lord. I fulfil the function I was created to fulfil. I was made the
Angel of the Beginning.
There was cold, impersonal nothingness. It surrounded everything, inhibited
everything. Inhibited nothing, actually. I had no sense of consciousness, no concept
of existence. Just a sudden urge to be, as strongly as I could. I was aware of a shape
forming, not of flesh, or of matter, but of pure intent and will. I revelled in my
existence, for the shortest of beats. And then I willed the nothingness to break. And
it broke. Nothingness split, as cracks soared, cracks as large as galaxies and as deep as
a kiss, through which heat and light bled through, and the warmth of the universe
surrounded me. I was complete with corporealness – I occupied a fixed position And
my creator was pleased with me and that filled me with bliss, and pure satisfaction
– I had fulfilled my function. The other angels went forth, and executed their duty –
Michael provided the energy necessary to illuminate a cosmos. Lucifer shaped that raw
power into forms, and built the universe, atom by atom, and Gabriel told them what
they were to do, clued them in on the master plan as together, they constructed the
universe. A multitude, the heavenly host, each one burdened with holy duty but all the
more at peace for it. They would stream past, as I hovered motionless from where the
first crack had spread outwards. Such beautiful creatures, each one an incomparable
work of art, their faces serene and noble – they knew who they were, and what they
were to do, and I wept, because any creator who cared enough to make us this noble
and elegant and graceful was a creator who loved us. There would be too many tears
spilled over the course of this universe, but if I can provide any small comfort, it’s that
the first were tears of joy.
I reclined in space and relished my existence. Time moved. I watched the City
form, watched the construction of Earth, saw the cruel manipulation of Lucifer
and the fall, oh that fall. Silver feathers shining in the radiance of the citadel, its
graceful spires ruined by angel-fire and anger, the look of pure wrath on Michael
face as he spiralled downwards under the Silver City, crashing against the polished
stone, oblivious to anything but the clash of flaming sword on light, oblivious to the
irreparable destruction left in his wake, which could be obscured, but never made
whole again. Oh, I cried more, and even then, the worst hadn’t come. For of the host
who rebelled, no angel fell further than Lucifer, no angel lost more, no other angel
was made to stand before his Father and still Lucifer would not bend, would not sway,
would not bow. I wanted to beg him not to take Hell, to reject our Father’s offer and
repent, but Lucifer, pride always his undoing, took charge of the Pit, and in doing so,
set his fate. Time moved faster and I hadn’t left my starting point. I asked for guidance
on what to do. I received a gentle reproach from my Father – I would be called on
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