The angel Descends
In Heaven the call went out: “Who will go to Earth and remind mortals of God’s glory?
Silence. Angels shifted, whistled, stared at their sandals.
The Archangels looked around, expectant. Michael excused himself to “polish his sword.” Gabriel suddenly had “important trumpet practice.” Raphael developed an urgent interest in reorganizing the library.
Finally, every pair of eyes turned to the corner, where Lucian sat upside down on a chair, humming off-key and braiding his own halo into knots.
“Send him,” someone muttered.
“Yes, send Lucian,” agreed another.
“Wait, what? Me?” Lucian sat upright, halo springing loose with a twang. “No-no-no, you don’t mean me. I’m— I’m more of a… background kind of angel.”
But it was too late. Papers were signed, wings were checked, and before Lucian could protest properly, he was shoved off the edge of Heaven with a blessing and a pat on the back.
The reason was simple: Earth no longer believed. The people had traded faith for glittering skyscrapers, prayer for glowing screens, eternity for instant gratification. Churches stood empty, temples echoed with silence, and the very air of the world was heavy with disbelief.
Thus, Lucian the lowest-ranking, least-prepared angel in all of Paradise descended to Earth to save humanity—whether humanity liked it or not.
He wasn’t particularly strong, nor was he especially wise. He wasn’t gifted in combat like Michael or radiant like Gabriel. His wings weren’t as white, and his voice wasn’t as commanding. In fact, most angels forgot his name when they weren’t looking at him.
But Heaven, in its infinite irony, chose Lucian to descend to Earth.
Lucian arrived not with trumpets nor with blinding light, but with a stumble. His landing was awkward — he fell through the roof of a television studio right in the middle of a live talk show. Cameras spun to capture him: a man in tattered robes, feathers molting from tired wings, eyes wide with panic.
“I… I bring you the Word of God!” he cried, his voice cracking.
The audience roared with laughter. The host smirked. “Another performance artist, huh? Nice costume, buddy. Who’s your agent?”
Security dragged him off the stage before he could say more.
Lucian found himself sprawled on the cold pavement outside the television studio, the security guard’s voice still echoing in his ears:
“Go preach somewhere else, weirdo!”
The heavy glass doors slammed shut behind him.
A car horn blared, startling him. He turned to see metal beasts with glowing eyes roaring down the street. They screeched to a stop at red lights, then surged forward when the colors changed. Lucian blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of it. “…Chariots?” he whispered. “Chariots without horses?”
A pair of teenagers brushed past him, laughing into glowing rectangles in their hands. Lucian squinted at the screens. “Scribes?” he asked hopefully. “Messengers?”
They ignored him.
Lucian sat there a moment, blinking at the bustle of cars, flashing screens, and the honking horns that filled the city like a chaotic orchestra.
After the humiliating ejection from the television studio, Lucian stood in the middle of the street, feathers drifting around his feet. He muttered to himself, “Alright, Lucian. If the people won’t come to the word of God, then surely God’s own house will welcome you.”
He brightened up at the sight of a tall, old church at the corner. The bells chimed softly, he dusted off his robe—already smudged with grime after only a few hours on Earth and hurried up the steps, clutching his robe so he wouldn’t trip.
Lucian pushed open the heavy doors of the church, his bare feet slapping against the cool marble floor. The air smelled faintly of wax and incense, familiar enough to bring a flicker of relief. Finally—sanctuary.
A priest was lighting candles near the altar when Lucian strode down the aisle, robes swaying, silver hair glowing under the dim lamps. “Brother!” Lucian called, his voice echoing off the high ceiling. “At last, I have found you. I am an angel of the Lord, sent to save mankind.”
The priest froze, candle still in hand. He turned slowly, narrowing his eyes. “…Pardon?”
Lucian spread his arms wide, feathers slipping loose and drifting to the floor. “Do not fear. The world teeters on the edge of ruin, but I carry His word. Let me guide your flock.”
A woman kneeling nearby gasped, then snorted. “Another one,” she muttered, clutching her handbag and hurrying out.
The priest’s expression hardened. He crossed himself quickly and shook his head. “I don’t know what drugs you’re on, but you won’t find an audience here.”
“I speak the truth,” Lucian insisted, his voice ringing. “I am an angel—Lucian of the Fifth Choir. Do you not see the light upon me?”
The priest slammed the candle down, his patience gone. “You lunatics come in every month claiming to be messiahs. Out.”
When Lucian didn’t move, two church staff appeared from the back. “Sir, we’re going to have to escort you—”
“Escort? I need no escort,” Lucian protested as they grabbed his arms. “Listen to me! The heavens weep, the earth cries—”
The heavy doors groaned shut behind him, cutting him off mid-sentence.
Lucian stood outside on the steps, feathers scattered around his feet, staring at the closed church in disbelief. “…Even the house of God has grown deaf,” he whispered.
Lucian lingered on the church steps, shoulders sagging beneath the weight of rejection. The feathers that had slipped from his wings clung to the damp stone like fallen snow. He bent to gather them, cradling them against his chest, then gave up halfway. The wind carried them into the gutter as if to mock him.
“Even priests no longer recognize heaven,” he muttered. “How far has mankind fallen?”
