Remains of the Feast
damaged wings
On the day the world celebrates the Host, the abandoned ones fall to Earth instead.
Content Notes: religious trauma, themes of abandonment by divine authority, non‑graphic violence, exile.
They fall through the sky on the Feast of All Angels, the day every church on Earth lifts hymns to the Host that cast them out. Stripped of rank and radiance, the exiles arrive bewildered and burning, carrying only the memory of a Heaven that devoured its own. As they navigate a world celebrating the very beings who abandoned them, they must decide what remains of holiness when the divine has turned its face away — and whether anything sacred can be rebuilt from the scraps left behind.
They leaned against the alley wall, breathing hard and grinning. It had been years since they’d had to run this far or this fast. The other three looked at him. Dogs bayed somewhere in the distance, and a few suburban porch lights winked on a few streets over.
Gabe drifted down from where he’d kept overwatch, flicking a negligent wing to adjust his altitude in the late summer rain. His expression was one of amused indulgence.
Uriel dabbed at the black blood on his tee-shirt. He gave up after a moment and looked heavenward. He shook his head, but even in the dark of the alley Mike could see his teeth flash in a smile.
Raf murmured, “You are incorrigible, you know that?”
“You said, ‘Bait the hellhound.’”
“I said, ‘Don’t bait the hellhound,’ Mike.” Raf shook his head, though his dark eyes flickered with amusement. Then he frowned. “What is a hellhound doing out in the middle of a suburban neighborhood at seven at night?”
“What are kids doing out?”
“What are jumped up junior thrones doing kicking their seniors out of Heaven because we fought in the War and ‘besmirched the honor of the Maker by staining our hands with blood’?” Uri sighed and started braiding his hair. “I’m going to need a haircut if Mike’s going to go picking fights with every denizen of Hell he meets.”
“It was stalking those kids in the park,” Gabe said softly from his overwatch by the fire escape rail.
“Yeah,” Uri said, looking up. “Not saying this one didn’t need killing. It was definitely not obeying the truce. Gabe, you’re dripping.”
“What?” Gabe looked down. “Not mine.”
Raf swiped at the blood on Uri’s cheek and sniffed it. “And not angelic. Human, mostly.”
“Define mostly.” Mike spread his wings, leaping to Gabe’s side and then pushing past him. Raf and Uri followed a second later.
“Might be part neph or cambion, but the angelic or demonic ancestor isn’t their parent. A couple of generations back.”
“There’s more over here,” Uri said after a moment of searching the roof. “Not fresh.”
“And here,” Gabe muttered. “This isn’t either. It’s faint. Just a bit on the tar.”
Raf joined them and handed over a scrap of fabric—maybe part of a skateboarder’s glove. “Looks like the kid caught themselves on a sharp edge of the fire escape.”
They shrugged as one. It hadn’t been much of a mystery after all. Just something to keep from thinking about the pain echoing in each of their minds. Uri crowded up close against Mike, his wings folding into his back. Mike drew him close and wrapped his wing around him. It wasn’t the rain that bothered them. September in Northern California wasn’t all that cold.
It was the cold in their hearts that hurt. How had the throne done it? Mike wanted to weep, or scream, or curl up and die. Not that the last was really an option. Angels—especially archangels—were damn hard to kill, and self-harm was impossible. He could see the same agony on each of the other three’s faces. For all of eternity they had revolved around one center, and somehow, suddenly, the throne had jerked it away from them. They were left fumbling in a dark and stormy night on the edge of autumn in some town somewhere in northern California, they thought. The asshole needed to read better books, at the very least.
The throne had torn away their sense of the Maker in the same moment he tore away their ability to touch each other. The two things that had mattered most in their world were left in tatters on the floor of the grand hall. Even wrapped in his wings, Mike felt cold. He pulled Uri closer. Raf and then Gabe slipped beneath the shelter of his wings, and he held them tight.
“What are we going to do?”
He wasn’t sure who said it. And he wasn’t sure if it was a prayer or something he was meant to answer. “Our job.”
He wasn’t sure how. How did you put together an identity in the modern world when you were an immortal being suddenly banished to Earth? How did you hold body and soul together? Most of the time they came to Earth for extremely short-term assignments. Guardians might be assigned longer-term, but the four of them were in and out, so while they might know how to drive a car, what the internet was, and the like, they were going to screw up horribly.
At least they were still together. They could figure it out. They didn’t have a choice. Hopefully they would have access to HR for at least an identity insertion. If they had to figure that out through human channels, they were truly screwed. It would mean finding criminals—or worse, Fallen—to get help from.
Raf laughed softly and pointed toward the old movie theater. “Exactly how many is that? Eight?”
“Just six, I think.” Uri leaned his head against Mike’s shoulder. “Unless you count the internet shorts.”
“Hurts,” Gabe whimpered.
“I know.” Mike tangled his fingers in Gabe’s hair.
“I’m so cold.” Raf’s arms tightened around Uri.
“Me too,” one of them—maybe all of them—said.
“Let’s find a place to sleep for the night. It will be easier to figure this out in the morning.” Mike spread his wings and swept them back, watching as the other three spread theirs. Four golden spans nearly as wide as small planes beat the air as they leapt for the sky. They flew close to the ground, searching for a place to rest.
Uriel spotted the church first. The parishioners were just leaving—odd for so late on a weeknight. Maybe a meeting, maybe a dinner. Still, it was easy enough to slip inside the sanctuary as they were slipping out. The Episcopal priest waved to the last of her flock and laughed as the organist blew her a kiss. “Behave, you.”
“It was a surprisingly good Michaelmas crowd.”
Michael shrugged as they exchanged a look. How had they missed that it was the Feast of All Angels? Someone liked irony. It tasted bitter in Michael’s mouth.
“Oh.” She gasped as she crossed the nave. “I didn’t see you there.”
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He hadn’t meant to be seen at all. Mike sighed. He hadn’t been shielding very strongly, and some clergy were sensitive enough to pick up on angelic presences. Four archangels in one place would be impossible to miss. “It’s been a day, and we heard the singing, Rector.”
At least he assumed there had been singing. They would have used evensong or compline at this time of day, and both were almost exclusively sung.
“You do look a little worse for wear.” She smiled. “Have the four of you eaten?”
He would have diverted her, but one look at Uri’s face told him they needed to eat. “No, ma’am.”
“So polite,” the organist said softly. “Well, come on. We’ve got some fixin’s left from tonight. It’s not quite traditional, but turkey, roast carrots, cream and bread pudding, fresh bread, and blackberry pie will help fill up some of those hollow places.”
“Thank you.” Uri kept his eyes down.
“I’m Freddie.” The organist danced past them, clearly hearing music no one else could. Mike had to smile. He truly loved people like that. He saw the smile tugging at even Uri’s lips. “And tonight, that is short for Frederick.”
“On Friday, it is short for Frederica,” the priest grinned. “They’re probably the best singer at Willy’s, if you’re looking for some evening entertainment.”
“So, which do you prefer—Freddie, Frederick, or Frederica?” Gabe asked, stopping him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “And don’t give me the answer you think you have to give because you’re in a church. It’s obvious your priest doesn’t care, and I’m certain your Maker doesn’t either.”
“Freddie’s okay, but I’d rather be Frederica full time.” They looked surprised to have said it aloud.
“Nice to meet you, Frederica.” Gabe held out his hand. “I’m Gabe. This is Mike, Raf, and Uri, and yes, those are short for exactly what they sound like, and yes, we’ve heard all the jokes from day one of training.” He didn’t mention that they were the source of the jokes.
“And yet you still show up at a church on the Feast of Michaelmas.” The rector tilted her head as if seeing straight through the diversion Gabe was pushing. “I’m Cathy Johnson.”
“So, what brings you to Santa Rosa?”
“Work,” Raf said softly, playing up the Chicano accent to match both his name and appearance. “We hope. It’s been a rough day.”
“The car broke down,” Uri added, seeming to collect himself. “And then our apartment isn’t available after all. It’s been a day.”
It was a little more specific than they normally offered on an assignment, but given their appearance and the fact they were going to need to establish identities in this town, some sort of concrete explanation had to be given. A car with an unexpectedly terminal condition and a supposed landlord who decided he didn’t want to rent to the polyamorous queer family would explain why their finances were tight. It was the tone that bothered Mike. Uri was fighting to hold onto hope.
Mike caught his hand and pulled him close. Uri refused to look up.
“Look at me, little sun. Look at me.”
“Mike.” Uri met his eyes. “I’m just…” Scared. He didn’t say the word. He didn’t have to. It was written into every quivering line of his body. His wings would be rustling if they were out. It was written in Gabe’s face, and in the way Raf kept washing his hands.
“So am I.” Mike pressed their foreheads together, sharing breath.
They ate quietly and quickly. These people no doubt wanted to go home. Mike gathered their plates and utensils. Gabe followed him into the kitchen. They washed and dried in silence. Raf and Uri held hands in the fellowship hall.
“Mike.” Gabe squeezed his elbow. “We need to find someplace to curl up together. Uri and Raf aren’t the only ones holding themselves together with bailing twine.”
“I’m open to suggestions, Gabe.” Mike leaned his forehead against Gabe’s shoulder.
“I have a suggestion about that.” The rector stood in the doorway. “One of our members has a small motel. I just got off the phone with her. They have a room available until Saturday night. It just has one king bed, but I don’t think that will bother you. She’ll send the bill to the church if you cannot pay, and right now I suspect that’s going to be difficult.”
“It is,” Mike admitted.
Mike let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The four of them were not running, not fighting, not falling. As they said farewell to Father Cathy and Frederica, they held scraps from the Feast of All Angels in their hands, and Gabe was humming.
