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What is Denys’s purpose, if not to serve the Lord? If not to worship Him?
There is little else a seraph would rather do than bow down before God’s throne, forehead pressed to floors of marble, back turned to pillars of gold. Past the entrance to Heaven, where lush fields bleed into sprawling palace grounds, intimacy is carved into every pathway, into every statue. And now that Denys has been denied such intimacy, such comfort, his heart beats quietly in his chest, heavy as stone. Weighed down with consequence, with love that is declared an abomination.
What is he to do with himself now that he has been made into a man? Now that he is estranged?
Heaven always had a haze to everything. Soft. Halos, looping around objects and angels alike.
Kneeling before God was as close to glory as Denys had ever reached. Never quite touching, never rising high enough to meet God’s eyes, to find power there. Just hands outstretched, lips to feet, wings tucked back. And yet, it was bliss, pure and unfiltered. Hushed whispers among seraphim, murmurs in marble halls. The quietest that Heaven would get.
God liked for things to be loud, joyous. A celebration of creation, of companionship, of faith. So when things would go silent, reverent in the way you see in synagogues, in sanctuaries, it was almost startling. But the euphoria that followed it, that shadowed everything around it, had yet to be matched.
Hours stretched by like taffy, sweet and syrupy, foggy with blessings and prayer. With excitement, with thanksgiving.
Worship of Creator. Love of Creation.
God loved His angels, and they loved Him. Disobedience was not even a consideration.
And Denys did not think love to be disobedience. He kissed Ephraim with the belief that this was an extension of Heaven, that if affection came so easily to seraphim, it was meant to be shared. But in that moment, holy wrath had shaken the palace grounds, and Ephraim was dead. Smote where he stood.
And because God was merciful, He let Denys go.
Thrust him into the mortal realm, alone and aching. How is he to pick himself back up?
The spiritual realm has been well and truly veiled off. He pushes, tries to see past molecules and light particles, and is always met with resistance. A wall, blocking him in. Hindering his sight.
Where voices once echoed, only static remains. A ringing in his ears that tells him he is not tuned to the right frequency. Tells him he will never dwell amongst the angels again.
It is suffocation of the highest order.
Seraphim are not suited for humanity.
—
It is the December after he is found that Denys dares to utter the question out loud. “What is my purpose here?”
Robby is smoking a cigar, fat blunt squeezed between large fingers, slouched against the living room couch. Jack is nursing a beer, dozing in the recliner by the window. And Denys…
Denys is on the floor, legs criss-crossed, with a book in his lap—Theology 101.
It was collecting dust on one of Robby’s bookshelves, and naturally, Denys’s curiosity had gotten the better of him. Now, the pages feel brittle in his hands, ink printed in neat, typed letters. He almost expects them to crumble beneath his touch. Or maybe that is his soul, reduced to ash as his eyes flicker over the title of a subsection.
Agape—The Definition of Love and God’s History of It.
He feels sick to his stomach.
Robby looks at him, soft edges hardening a little, and huffs smoke when he speaks, “To live. Your purpose is to live.” He says it with the sort of finality that leaves no room for argument. And yet, Denys argues anyway.
“But what does that entail?” he asks, looking between them, searching, like perhaps he’ll find answers in the edges of their shoulders, in the lamp light that outlines them as only something holy would. “What is it to live?”
Jack sits up, blinking away drowsiness, and sets his beer on the coffee table. He hesitates, smooths his hands over his sweatpants. In the furrow of his brow, there is sadness. “It’s whatever you want it to be,” he begins, softly. “There’s no one way to live. People tend to do it however they see fit.”
And Denys hates that answer. Finds himself getting angry about it. Finds himself reaching for God and coming up empty-handed. “No,” he says. “That can’t be right.” Before this, Denys’s path had been clear. Delicious eternity in rejoicement, days passed by worshipping. Now, there is only grief.
Robby shares a look with Jack, something like concern flickering between them, and that makes Denys even angrier. From where they’re folded behind him, Denys’s wings stiffen, feathers ruffling in displeasure.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t know how to be,” he admits, throat thick. Frustration manifests itself as tears behind his eyes. “I don’t like it.”
Robby lifts his cigar to his mouth, pauses, lowers it again. “Living is…” he thinks for a moment. “Y’know the other day, when we went for a walk in the snow? And you said you had never seen it up close before. Said you had never experienced cold before.”
Jack hums, leans forward, braces his forearms on his thighs. “And last week, when you fell asleep in a ray of sun? You woke up warm and went right back to sleep. Didn’t even get up for lunch.”
Denys doesn’t know why they’re saying these things. He brings his hands up to his head, grabs at the curls there, tugs. Confusion takes root in his gut, grows branches and leaves, curls around his organs like it was made to be there. “Speak plainly,” he cries.
Jack immediately stands, crutch in hand, and eases Denys’s fingers away from his head, guides them down to rest at his sides. When Denys meets his eyes, they are full of sorrow. “That’s what it is to live. To live is to experience. To try things. To figure out what feels good and what doesn’t.”
Denys watches him for a moment, then pulls back, tucking his hands into his lap. His wings droop, frustration bleeding out of them at Jack’s words. “That is not what I know it to be.” He swallows, feels the tears start to retreat. “Before, my life was worship. My purpose was adoration. If I am cut off from Shamayim, how am I to fulfill that? How am I to go forth, if not with the intention of devotion?”
Robby regards him with a warmth that Denys is just starting to get used to. But there is something else mixed with it, something troubled. Melancholy, perhaps. Denys can’t begin to understand why. “Give it time, kid. Give it time.”
But Robby forgets; the lifespan of a human being is finite.
Time is not something Denys has anymore.