Swift Was The Fall

By D. Berry

Lucifer will fall. He will drag a third of his brothers down with him. He will find himself a hideous caricature of his purpose, stooped and horned when he dips his hands in creation. Such is his fate.

But first, he will stumble. He will gaze at his own reflection and find himself tempted. He will wrestle with ambition and envy, battle aspiration for a crown meant to bless another.

Then he will make war. War against harmony and perfection. War against the Archangel and the Maker Himself.

Heaven will tremble in his wake.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9798885403795

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Swift Was The Fall

D. Berry

ISBN 979-8-88540-378-8 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88540-379-5 (digital)

Copyright © 2022 by D. Berry

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XI

Author's Note

About the Author

And he said unto them,

I saw Satan fall like lightning from heaven.

—Luke 10:18 NKJV

Chapter I

Lucifer looked at himself only as much as the others looked at him. He knelt down, bent knees dragging his folded frame toward his reflection in the silver pool. And the shimmering image glared back at him with infinitely more scrutiny than his fellow angels had ever spared him, yet never more than the burden that he gave himself.

Even in that flat, sharpened surface that gave no leeway to his imagination, he was beautiful, far more beautiful than any other creation that had dared to lay eyes on him. That was what his reflection whispered beneath the babbling of the stream, though it said nothing Lucifer had not heard before. And in the empty expanse of heaven where Lucifer gave his time to the lonely, passionate praise of his own creation, that babble was a roar, a hiss that coaxed him into a reality that he had yet to acknowledge, that the harmony of his spirit had yet to understand. And the pinch of emotion that was as of yet undiscovered, unnamed in heaven's boundaries, that plagued him as he drew nearer to the silver abyss, was a warning he did not heed.

He tore himself away from the familiar twang of agony as he sensed the presence of another alighting behind him. Lucifer saw the flicker of his transformation in the pool as he elongated the spine that gladly stooped in admiration. He saw the intricacies of his perfection deepen, the intensity of his beauty heightening through his attentiveness.

What brings you here, Lucifer? That voice was the least elegant of them all, cradling a longing for purpose.

And though he recognized the presence and the voice, Lucifer turned with his wings outstretched, the rushing whisper of his reflection luring him further. What brings you to ask? he countered.

Rhadamanthus shrunk from the outburst, hand straight to the hilt of his sword. Lucifer faltered, wings lowering in a moment's pause. Suddenly, he could not bring himself to look at Rhadamanthus. Rhadamanthus the weak, the small, the plain. Rhadamanthus, the least of them all, stood an undaunted tower until Lucifer felt that warm rush through his limbs.

He stood in complete silence, missing even the call of his reflection. He believed he would have refused to look if it had beckoned him, that he was stronger than the delusions and the temptations of the silver pool, convinced that he would have seen nothing.

It ails you again, Rhadamanthus grimaced. Rhadamanthus, his friend, looked over with pity and the faintest trace of interest as his grip relaxed from the hilt. Perhaps if you speak to the Maker of it, He will strip it from you.

Lucifer drew his own sword, cleaning the edge that would never dull from where he had dragged it along the ground. What could He take from me? The sickness of feeling and urges? Would He not see how I bestowed this on myself?

Rhadamanthus glanced at the silver pool, then back toward the heavenly host, the gathering that could neither contain nor match Lucifer in any way. And though he never wished it, he answered, The Maker will take your beauty, if you ask.

The words fell heavy between them, louder than the booming voice of the reflection, louder than the blow of a warrior angel.

Lucifer's wings fluttered restlessly as he forgot to be elegant. Surely you do not mean it.

Rhadamanthus pulled his eyes from the direction of choir sounds and angels that knew nothing of their brother's reality. It plagues you, he whispered. You and I.

Lucifer turned his back, sheathing his sword. I will not risk everything that I have for an ailment that does not affect me. He turned again before Rhadamanthus could retort, his eyes wide and hands outstretched.

My friend, beauty was God's gift to me, he insisted. I will not squander it, sacrifice it to your imagination. He calmed himself beneath Rhadamanthus's bewilderment. I will not ask Him that I become nothing.

Rhadamanthus squirmed, fiddling with the end of his wing. What are you now? What is it to be the only one carrying a burden this heavy when it could be lifted?

Lucifer gritted his teeth, wishing that Rhadamanthus had never come, that he never spoke. Imagine what I might become with this gift.

There is nothing to imagine, Rhadamanthus interrupted. If it were truly a gift, you would see that He made you all that He ever intended.

Lucifer bridled. Maybe I want more than what the Maker has planned for me.

Rhadamanthus frowned. Surely you do not mean it, he echoed.

Lucifer composed himself, veiling what was willing to be forgotten. Of course not, my friend. I spoke too rashly. How his blood boiled at his brother's relief. However, he amended, it is both my gift and my ailment. I will decide, and you will say nothing.

Rhadamanthus blinked impatiently. But you will say something to your Maker and have this resolved?

Lucifer's attention drifted back to the silver pool, to the notion of diving in and becoming one with his reflection, though he resisted it. I will seek the necessity, he promised, and I will praise away this ailment.

Satisfied, Rhadamanthus spread his wings, bearing himself from the ground without warning. Lucifer watched for an instant before taking pursuit. He caught him quickly, though Rhadamanthus barely noticed.

Heaven did not have a sky. There were no such boundaries to limit them yet. There was no such thing as darkness, neither night nor shadow. So as they flew away from the silver pool, one of many, they were practically floating in the light.

Rhadamanthus embraced the sensation, hovering as far as possible from the ground before swooping into a dive Lucifer could only watch. Where Lucifer was stiff and stoic, Rhadamanthus was swift and free, unburdened by a gift of any kind.

The lack of a gift had once plagued Rhadamanthus the way beauty haunted Lucifer. When the Maker listened to such a lurking truth, He offered Rhadamanthus a word of destiny. The Maker gave him an oath that in a span far shorter than eternity, he would fulfill it. And in cherishing that promise, swearing himself to patience, Rhadamanthus had long forgotten the sad ominousness that came with it.

Never concerned with the endless expanse of light, Lucifer looked down at the heavenly host. There were a few that lingered beneath the Canopy of Wisdom or humbly walked the golden path leading to their Maker. The majority, an infinite number from God's own hands, gathered outside of the Throne Court to praise with their talents.

Musicians created notes they had never heard themselves, and others lifted their voices in intricate harmony. Together they made music that could not be described then or later for the sake of its purity. The only one to hear the depths of the tones or understand the lyrics in tongues not yet spoken was God Himself.

The Principalities came together to prepare their melodious offering. They each had a gift of their own, but together they were tasked with divine commandments brought to them from the mouth of the Maker. Their slender, taut frames pulsed with the praise decreed of them until their presence became sound.

They were orchestrated by the Dominions, marked by their quiet voices and stern instruction as they guided the Principalities. The rumors of other choirs believed that Dominions had the deepest souls because God had given them the greatest knowledge. They praised most often beneath the Canopy of Wisdom, far from the others who would never be able to understand.

As Lucifer and Rhadamanthus alighted on the outskirts of the great song, they were saluted by the Thrones in waiting. Lucifer was reluctant to greet them with the same enthusiasm. The Thrones were the choir of the largest build, though there were fewest of them, one to every thousands of their brothers. They bore down from double the height of any other kind, so magnificent that they rarely carried weapons.

Lucifer could scarcely bring himself to make contact with their glory lest the unnamed ailment befall him suddenly. But to be a Throne, a thought he entertained only in the company of the silver pool, to bear messages from God's mouth to the lower choirs…

Hail, Rhadamanthus greeted.

Lucifer strode ahead of him, wings fluttering, expanding to their full length. There is no need to hail the lower choirs.

There is no reason not to, Rhadamanthus protested. He turned away from the Throne's puzzled expressions. You forget that they are the voice of the Maker, summoned to His court.

I forget nothing, Lucifer replied. Not even my place. The lower choirs are exactly that, despite where they are summoned.

What strange words to hear you speak, Lucifer. As if you were an Archangel, to know another's place, a voice quipped.

Lucifer flinched, shrinking back down into the rustling of his own thoughts. He looked up, speechless.

A pleasure, Rhadamanthus greeted, to hail you again, Gabriel.

Gabriel dipped his head in open humility. He was not the largest of his choir, but he was by far the strongest. All of the others, regardless of their choir or their gift, recognized him as the most dignified, the most favored of all the Maker's angels.

Gabriel smoothed the seam of his tunic, marking Lucifer's twisted posture. You tremble as if you heard the Maker's voice, he said. What frightens you so as not to hail me?

Lucifer flattened his wings to his back. Hail to you, Gabriel, he mumbled. Yet is it not God's voice you bring us?

Gabriel narrowed his eyes, hands folded behind him. Only His words, he corrected. If your heart wishes to hear them.

Rhadamanthus nodded to Gabriel. Of course, that is our wish. Our purpose is to glorify Him.

Lucifer reached for his blade beneath Gabriel's penetrating stare as the Throne searched for a message Lucifer refused to share with his Maker.

And your heart, Lucifer? Gabriel waited patiently, curiously.

I listen, Lucifer replied.

Gabriel smiled. Your Maker summons you to the court. He turned to Rhadamanthus's drooped expression. Only Lucifer. For now.

What for? Lucifer asked.

Gabriel rose suddenly. "Do you dare make demands of me? Or do you question