Once a beacon of healing and harmony among the Seraphim, Raphael's light burned with a gentleness that soothed creation. An Angel filled with laughter made divine, a being of radiant joy whose smile stirred the winds of creation. Where he walked, stars bloomed; where he sang, sorrow fled. Among the host, he was beloved—not for might or judgment, but for the warmth that clung to him like morning light. His name was spoken with reverence, not fear. But joy, unguarded, is easily led astray. He was not among the mighty. He did not command legions, nor sing at the centre of the throne's light. In the grand city, where angels of flame and thunder made their names in glory, he was but a flicker — gentle, soft-spoken, and often unnoticed. He had no titles. No wings gilded with fire. Yet wherever he walked, the light softened. Flowers unfolded. The weary were eased. He was gracious, not in deed alone, but in essence. His joy was quiet — the kind that did not seek eyes, only hearts. He tended to the small things: restoring the glow of dimming stars, comforting spirits wounded in silence, holding peace where pride would not. He worshipped and loved his God with all of him.
Many forgot his name. Some never knew it. High above the crystal streets of Vystriaa, where the breeze carried hymns long after the choirs had ceased, an angel stood alone on the balcony of his quiet dwelling. He was not numbered among the thundering voices or the blazing sentinels of the sky — he was simple, radiant in stillness. Leaning upon the ivory rail, he gazed out across the endless glow of the firmament, where stars hung like lanterns in a cathedral of peace. In his hands, he held nothing but air and memory. He closed his eyes. He tried to recall the salmon — that warm, tender offering he had received after worship. It wasn't just the taste he longed for, but the moment: the laughter shared with a passing friend, the soft light of the hour, the quiet satisfaction of devotion fulfilled. The flavour eluded him, but the warmth did not. He smiled, not for the food, but for what it meant — a simple joy, earned not through might, but through worship, gratitude, and grace. In a realm of vast glory and celestial fire, he was content with a small, perfect peace.
The angel breathed in the heavenly wind, eyes still closed, and whispered to no one in particular: "May I remember the little things... when the great ones fade." And as the angel lingered in memory, letting the wind cradle his thoughts like feathers on a still current, there came a sound — not loud, not violent, but familiar. Footsteps. Soft against the marble floor. He opened his eyes, and there stood his sworn brother. Once, they had sung together in the dawn-lit spires of Aaron. They had kindled light on new-born worlds, spoken starlight into rivers. His brother — golden-eyed, winged with flame — now stood with a brightness that felt... too bright. Behind him, a few others followed, their faces calm, their presence wrapped in silence that did not belong. The angel tilted his head gently.
"You come without a summons," he said, not unkindly.
"We come with a truth," said his brother, voice smooth as flowing oil. "One not told in the high halls. One hidden beneath glory."
The angel frowned, just slightly. "What truth requires secrecy in Heaven?" His brother stepped closer. "That we are chained by obedience. That worship is not love, but control. That the One who receives all glory gives none in return. And that you — gentle as you are — have been wasted here." The others nodded like shadows agreeing with light.
Whispers came—soft as silk, sweet as truth. They did not speak of war or rebellion. They spoke of hidden wisdom, of compassion misunderstood by the cold justice of Heaven. The angel, in his kindness, listened. And in listening, he strayed. They spoke of new purpose, of freedom, of rising beyond the structure of the Throne. They did not speak in anger. They spoke in longing — the most dangerous form of rebellion. The angel listened. Not with defiance, not with belief, but with a deep, aching confusion. He looked again at the sky — at the stars like lanterns, at the wind still carrying old hymns. And then he looked at his brother, whose light had shifted, whose warmth had cooled beneath golden words.
"I remember the salmon," the angel said softly.
His brother blinked. "What?"
"I remember what it tasted like. Just now."
And with that, he turned away, walking slowly back into his dwelling — not with fury, but with grief.
For now he knew: the great things were beginning to fade.
And the little things... must be guarded all the more.