Life, like the rise and fall of history and all things, is a wheel in constant motion. Whether basking in glory at the summit or trudging through darkness and mire in the valley, the wheel spins on, relentlessly, impartially, over and over again.
Many possess intelligence and insight, able to see through the laws of the universe at a glance, yet fail to see through the arc of their own life.
Like Ruthfel. Whenever he loses something, he’s always in a hurry to seek compensation elsewhere. But he never stops to consider: what price must be paid for such pursuit?
It has been over a hundred Berduth since he last left Snowmoon Forest. He truly never returned, nor did he ever again cast a lingering glance at me. Through that long stretch of time, he poured his power into revitalizing Heaven’s military, politics, and culture—but he never once let go of wine and women. And to be fair, women adored him. Of all those he set his eyes on, there was almost none he couldn’t win.
There was once a female angel renowned for her valor in battle. She had grown up in the desert of the Fifth Heaven, with broad shoulders and large eyes, a rugged temperament like a boy’s. She loved riding and archery, and kept company with gryphons. When she first heard of Ruthfel and his likeness, she scoffed. But they met one night at a harp dance beyond the city. By evening’s end, everyone saw her leave with her body pressed close to Ruthfel’s chest, swaying like a tide beneath the music’s rhythm. Later, when others teased her about how sharply she’d changed her tune, she laughed it off and said, “The Archangel’s eyes—once they look at you, you can forget about sleeping.”
Her name was Tinas. She was a classic tale of rising from a lowly angel to the rank of Seraph, a model of ambition and triumph. But only her closest friend and I knew that all her striving had been for Ruthfel. She bore the pride of all great warriors. And after that harp night, she only ever spoke to Ruthfel one more time—over a hundred Berduth later, just before battle, when he gave her a few words of encouragement and she responded: “For Heaven. For Your Highness.” She died in the Second War of Light and Darkness. Her cold name was carved into history books and the Pillar of Heroes. It wasn’t until then that Ruthfel remembered her—though he no longer recalled the glimmering eyes that had once looked up at him that night beneath the strings.
Angels like Tinas were countless in Heaven. So, at times, even I couldn’t fault someone like Evangeline for loving recklessly. After all, to Ruthfel—she truly was different. She treated my words like passing wind, not only refusing to stop Ruthfel’s chaotic personal life, but even indulging it—clinging to him, day and night, as if nothing else existed.
He is someone I have never fully understood. And because of that, I cannot say what he will ultimately lose. But I can faintly sense it: the path he walks will one day cost him far more than he ever imagined.
Starting from Berduth 4855, Raphael solidified his place in the hearts of all the divine race and firmly secured his position as an archangel. He then took a break from his duties in the First Heaven and returned to the Divine Law Academy district in Shima to resume his studies. Among the archangels, he was undoubtedly the most gentle, always smiling, with no trace of arrogance among his peers. He often played the role of the peacemaker, the agreeable one everyone turned to.
The Divine Law Academy had long harbored class distinctions, but a mild-mannered, golden-haired Archangel like him naturally became one of the most beloved figures on campus. He made many friends—Amor, Tinas, Osel, all six-wings from the Academy; Alice, who excelled at divination magic; Gabriel, now serving as a teaching assistant; and even Reynor, the charismatic fire war angel from the Academy of the Seventh.
Naturally, when it came to Light magic, reserved only for upper-year students, he studied with special dedication. Not simply because light was symbolic of angels, but more importantly, because his instructor was Evangeline. Attending her classes diligently meant his chances of running into Metatron significantly increased.
Metatron had long since graduated from Divine Law and showed no intention of returning—until Evangeline arrived. After that, he started visiting the school every few days. At first, perhaps it was just for her. But over time, it seemed he also began to long for the simplicity of student life.
When someone so playful suddenly acts serious, it gives others the illusion that it must be treasured. Raphael had never seen Metatron truly serious before. Sadly, the first time he did was also the moment he finally ended his 2,800-Berduth-long, one-sided love.
Early in the new term, the floating marble bridge of the Divine Law bustled with new students. Upper-year angels flitted overhead, their wings forming a swarm of light that looked from a distance like tiny insects dancing over a massive coconut cake.
As usual, Metatron was heading to find Evangeline, who had just begun teaching. But as he flew onto campus, he noticed a cluster of new students hovering midair around a pair of dazzling golden wings. Curious, he pushed through the crowd and found Raphael selling secondhand books. The glow of Metatron’s wings caught Raphael’s attention as well. His snowy-white face turned toward him, surprised.
“Lord Metatron,” Raphael greeted him with his signature angelic smile. “First day, and you’re already here?”
“Hard to believe that even an Archangel could fall so low as to sell used books. Then again, if Sainta Faylia falls, I can die in Evangeline’s arms. That’s what they call ‘love unto death,’ right? Aha.”
Metatron’s own, one-sided love for Evangeline had long since ceased to be a secret. The others shivered slightly, then bowed to him in unison.
With Metatron’s arrival, Raphael lost all motivation to keep selling. He quickly offloaded the remaining books and descended with him onto the bridge, the two strolling side by side.
“These books, I won’t be reading them anymore. Selling them just prevents waste. If anything, it’s exactly because I’m an archangel that I should set an example, don’t you think?” Raphael turned with a soft laugh, eyes curving into crescents.
It was daylight, and Raphael wore the white robes of the Academy. His hair shimmered like spun gold. Yet in his expression, there was an unexpected trace of allure.
Metatron blinked and quickly turned away, shrugging. “You really are the textbook definition of an angel. Top grades, a heart too kind for your own good, and not a crooked thought in your head. Next to you, our famously lustful and beautiful Lord Ruthfel looks like a bitter red apple.”
Raphael’s eyes dimmed. He lowered his head, golden locks veiling his face, though a faint, dignified smile still lingered on his lips. “Of course I can’t compare with Lord Ruthfel. He’s not just the Archangel Commander, but also the Vice Regent of Heaven. Whatever he does…”
He trailed off, unsure even of what he was trying to say.
Metatron had claimed Raphael didn’t entertain crooked thoughts. But perhaps it was more accurate to say Raphael didn’t even understand his own. Was he too subtle? Every move he made was an attempt to draw Metatron’s attention—yet those smiles, glances, and strides that drove others wild, became mere gestures of friendliness in Metatron’s eyes.
“Yes, no one can compare with Lord Ruthfel. He may not be much older than us, but the things he has—God’s favor, Evangeline’s dependence—are far beyond reach.” Metatron, for once, let out a rare sigh. But moments later, he ruffled Raphael’s hair and chuckled. “Why is it that whenever I talk to you, I end up sounding so pessimistic? Must be your face. Just looking at it makes people want to vent.”
Raphael didn’t say a word. He let Metatron muss up his soft, silky hair without resistance.
One could only say—he really loved that woman too much.
And more pathetically, when he looked up again, he saw Evangeline standing right behind Metatron.
“Can’t believe I ran into you both right away.”
Evangeline was holding a stack of new textbooks and waved at them. Metatron immediately hurried forward, eager to help carry her books, fussing over her with such concern he nearly gave her a public shoulder massage right there in the crowded square.
She smiled brightly, appearing calm and composed, but her slightly swollen eyes betrayed the fact she’d cried the night before. The Evangeline who always liked to leave her long neck bare was, on this day, wearing a silk scarf. Her clothing covered every inch of her body except her hands.
Metatron wasn’t the most perceptive sort. He might notice a kiss mark on a woman, but he wouldn’t immediately realize which outfits were chosen to hide them.
Raphael, however, saw through it.
He quietly cast a minor wind spell that lifted the scarf at the back of her neck—and unsurprisingly, he saw a few faint red marks beneath it.
So… where exactly did she spend the night? And how had things gotten that out of hand? Ever since word got out she’d lost her virginity, the woman once hailed as the Holy Mother had grown more and more uninhibited.
Raphael narrowed his eyes, and his thoughts turned involuntarily toward a far pettier direction.
“Miss Evangeline showing up on the first day of term with such diligence; now that’s what I truly admire,” Metatron said with a flourish, placing one hand to his chest and giving her a courtly bow. “Though I do wonder when Miss Evangeline might finally consider granting me a date. A little love, perhaps…”
Raphael held his breath, unable to watch them anymore. Judging by how Metatron looked now, even if someone told him how messy she really was, he probably wouldn’t care.
Beneath his golden hair, Raphael’s eyes dimmed, full of distant sorrow, as he gazed down from the bridge.
The clouds below shifted in vast clusters, sometimes merging, sometimes parting, blanketing the towers of the Fifth Heaven and the gryphons patrolling alongside angels.
Then, faintly, he heard her voice drift in on the wind:
“Tonight, then.”
Raphael’s eyes widened.
After a long pause, Metatron finally stammered, “W-What? Tonight? You mean… a date, or…?”
“Both,” she answered simply and firmly.
Both Metatron and Raphael were stunned.
Of course, neither of them knew what had happened the day before. In truth, it wasn’t the first time, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. But the resentment Evangeline had been suppressing for millennia had finally erupted the previous night.
And now, it was happening again.
Back at the Hall of Splendor, with Heaven not yet cloaked in night, Ruthfel had just finished dismissing a certain female angel after their “post-dinner activity.” He now sat at his desk, holding a cup of black tea and unrolling a scroll.
He had barely read two lines when Evangeline walked straight in and threw a huge bouquet of gold roses down onto the table.
“Do you see this? These are all from Metatron.” Her voice was icy.
Ruthfel’s hand paused midair, then he slowly lowered the teacup. “Isn’t that a good thing? I’m happy for you.”
Evangeline clenched her fists. Her tears returned, spilling freely across her cheeks. “You don’t care at all, do you?”
“Of course I care,” Ruthfel replied calmly, still smiling. “I want you for myself. But I’m not someone who can stay exclusive with just one person, so I won’t be cruel to you either. If you think Metatron is a good choice, you should give him a chance. He loves you deeply.”
He finished speaking in that gentle, distant way, then sipped his tea again.
Evangeline could no longer contain herself. Covering her eyes, she burst into sobs.
“You’re lying! The one you love is the Father. I know—you love Him… Why… Why does it have to be Him…”
She cried so bitterly, like those rain-drenched golden roses on the desk.
“Nonsense. Come here,” Ruthfel beckoned with a wave of his hand.
She instantly became a red-eyed, obedient little bunny, quietly walking over to his side. When she saw him pat his lap, she sat down without hesitation. His fingers brushed through her hair, down her neck, along the layered tulle of her gown. Her slender legs were tightly wrapped in sheer stockings. The cold of the marble seat seeped through the white silk, sending a chill through her body, and like a moth diving into flame, she burrowed into the warmth of his embrace.
This scene had played out countless times before.
Each time I saw Evangeline spending the night at the Hall of Splendor, waking up beside him, exchanging sweet morning kisses, lingering affection, him dressing her, then pushing her back into bed with that meaningful smile…
I always had to summon immense willpower just to keep Heaven from collapsing.
To stand at the axis of history’s wheel, one must anchor oneself in its center, without gain or loss, without sorrow or joy. Only then can the world be held steady.
Toward the end of Berduth 4930, the radical archangel Baras, “moved by pity” for the wing-blackened guardian angels stationed at the Demon Realm’s border, took it upon himself to bring low-class demons—those doing hard labor in the First Hell—to the angelic base outside the village of Ibuhaz. There, he attempted to cleanse them of their darkness with holy water.
More than forty thousand low-level demons were subjected to inhumane treatment. Some lost their limbs and eyes, others had their skin rot away to the bone. The vast majority died on the spot.
In a single night, the First Hell became more than vast mines, sprawling plains, and the drifting notes of gypsy flutes—it became a burial ground, where demon bones gleamed under moonlight, gnawed by beasts and half-buried in the sand.
From above, Heaven’s prosperity seemed to rest on the foundation of a giant grave.
The incident ignited fierce debate in the Sanctum: radicals like Baras considered demons inferior lifeforms and this matter hardly worth discussing; moderates like Raphael and Randekiel believed the divine race was at fault but wanted to handle it discreetly, offering quiet reparations without issuing a public apology; while only a small group led by Gabriel and Metatron insisted on a formal apology, the surrender of Baras, and allowing the Demon Realm to dictate compensation.
Ruthfel expressed no opinion. He merely followed my instructions: severed Baras’s six wings and cast him from the summit of the Mountain of Creation into the Demon Realm.
After that, the radicals fell silent, though most angels came to support the middle path championed by Raphael and the others.
This infamous incident, later known as the “Baras’ Holy Water Baptism,” left Heaven no time to hesitate. The demon king and his nobles, cowed by Heaven’s might, chose silence. But in Laim, their capital, a new painting by a renowned demon artist—“Screaming”—drew over 400,000 visitors. The mournful tango “Elegy of Ibuhai” echoed through all Seven Hells. The theatrical production “Holy Water Rain”, staged by a cast of one hundred, became an overnight sensation.
In time, a million demons marched along the Solor River. Countless once-weary eyes turned blood-red, like the eyes of wolves ready to devour the night.
War broke out.
In the first year of the Berduth 4931, the archdevil Elinom rose in rebellion, leading a demonic legion from the First Hell, breaking through Heavenly defenses, and storming into the First Heaven.
Nearly five thousand Berduth of humiliation and oppression condensed into a towering fury that razed the First Heaven to near-ruin.
The statues of archangels at Heaven’s Gates were smeared with blood and spit. The demon army, far more brutal than the divine race, killed everything in their path with merciless rage.
Outside the Sanctum, angels sat uneasily as the situation worsened by the hour. With each new report, all eyes turned to Ruthfel.
He sat quietly, waiting as one lower-ranked angel legion after another was crushed. Then, as the demons drew near Parnor, he raised a hand and pointed to two high-ranking angels in the chamber—Raphael and Gabriel.
“You two. Lead the front line,” he said, glancing at the time. “I’ll coordinate reinforcements.”
Just as the two moved to rally the troops, Evangeline stepped forward. “I’ve prepared for this war. Please allow me to fight as well.”
Ruthfel paused in thought, then nodded. “Alright.”
But no one expected that the dark horse of this war would be Reynor, who outshone even Ruthfel and Raphael.
Reynor, a Seraph I personally created in Berduth 4775, had brown hair and eyes, a broad chest, and strong, muscular arms. Born for battle. His jaw had once been shattered, and his body bore over a hundred scars. His frame was hard and cold, a monument weathered by storm.
He had majored in fire magic, swordsmanship, and supreme command at the Academy. Though he’d participated in small internal wars before, he never mingled with soldiers in taverns afterward—one of the rare abstinent warriors.
In this war, he fought with astonishing valor, driving back seventy percent of the demon forces and raising the banner of Sancta Faylia once again over the Gates of Heaven.
As for Evangeline, she had never been a fighter. Charging at the front lines could only ever end in one of two outcomes: failure or death.
She did have a choice. But unlike Gabriel, who burned hot with passion and strength, she was a woman made of water. Her romance with Metatron was public, yet her ongoing physical entanglement of the flesh with Ruthfel cast a long, degrading shadow over her soul. This time, she marched to battle with a plan—and she chose death.
The morning sky was an enormous canvas, stained with murky water spilled from a knocked-over paint bucket. Boundless, formless, and gray.
A spear as thick as an arm pierced Evangeline’s heart, past the point of healing even through magic.
When Ruthfel arrived with his troops, he rushed to her side without a thought, holding her body close.
“Why didn’t you protect yourself?” Ruthfel’s pale lashes fell low, veiling the grief in his eyes.
“Lord Ruthfel…” Evangeline’s gaze was already clouding with mist.
“You can’t die.” Ruthfel cupped her face. “I won’t let you die. You must live.”
“Your Highness… I’m about to enter the Cycle. When I’m reborn, it will be 1,500 Berduth from now. I won’t remember you—and you surely will have forgotten me. But still… I still wish…” She coughed blood in agony. “I wish that my death… might earn me a next life as your lover.”
“I’ll wait for you,” he whispered, stroking her golden hair, his voice trembling.
She looked at him for a long, long time. In the end, she only breathed out one final sentence: “I love you.”
There was a look of peace in her eyes—one that outshone even the ecstasy she used to show in his arms.
Evangeline’s death, though sorrowful, was not without hope. Her soul, like all angels, would enter the Cycle of the Tree of Life, to be reborn after a thousand-some Berduth.
What I never expected was that the ones who would wait painfully for her return… were not only Metatron, but Ruthfel as well.
Her death—and the betrayal it revealed—devastated Metatron.
He purchased a small residence in the Town of Oha on First Heaven and lived there for the seventeen years following the war’s end.
He kept only one servant and a carriage. He never stayed in the living room for more than a minute, nor did he allow the servant into his bedroom. His garden, lush with hyacinths and ferns, glowed with tender shoots.
But walking from the garden into his bedroom was like descending from heaven into hell: the air reeked of mildew; expired newspapers and dog-eared demon novels were scattered across the bed, nightstand, and floor. The golden fruit bowl from Sancta Faylia held not only rotting candied peaches but also waterlogged, twisted cigarette butts. He didn’t smoke; they were left behind by the women he brought home from taverns.
It took Raphael ten years to track down where he lived. For the next seven, he visited Metatron every weekend to clean the room. But even after a week, the place would somehow become worse. Metatron always slept in or under the pile of garbage, his glasses hanging from his jaw. His drinking had dulled his mind to the point of near collapse. Even when awake, he would only grin foolishly at Raphael and mutter crude jokes he’d learned from lower angels.
Raphael never said much. He’d simply tidy up in silence. When everything was in order, Metatron would usually be asleep again. Then Raphael would pull a blanket over him, take off his glasses, smooth the red marks on his nose bridge, fetch water to wash his face, massage his tense fingers, and finally slip out quietly, closing the door behind him.
Metatron never wore his glasses when he left the house, nor did he ever unfold his wings. He often drank alone in backwater taverns, ordering watered-down Kyria white wine.
First Heaven was the broadest region in all of Heaven. Its scattered taverns were like beacons on boats adrift in an open sea, visible only when their faint red light pierced the night clouds.
Inside, the patrons were rough and unrefined men, hunched over cheap spirits that begged for trouble. They barked out crude jokes about Seraphim and bragged about stealing serpent-veined ore from demons they’d slain. Unlike educated six-winged angels, these men had no instinct for decorum. To them, Metatron—glasses off, posture refined, with the sharp nose of a Jerusalem noble—was simply another stuck-up outsider.
And in places like this, creatures of civility were not welcome.
That day, Metatron was once again dead drunk in a tavern. Not even the boisterous singing of the street performer in the corner could wake him. A few convicts who had just escaped from the angelic prison surrounded him, stripping him of everything of value, down to his shoes. They were about to pull down their pants to urinate on him when a melodic but indignant voice rang out:
“Stop right there!”
The thugs turned to see Raphael standing in the doorway of the tavern. They looked at one another for a moment, then burst out laughing.
“Did you hear that? He said ‘Stop right there’!”
“Hahaha, that’s killing me! ‘Stop right there’! What is he, flown in straight from Jerusalem? Talking like one of those six-winged pansies!”
They mimicked Raphael’s tone, smugly assuming he was a Jerusalemite—a safe guess, since most of them had never seen a true six-winged angel. To their eyes, anyone from Jerusalem was already the pinnacle of existence.
“Come to think of it, aren’t the high angels supposed to be genderless? They screw around without caring if it’s a man or a woman. This pretty boy might just be this useless drunk’s little lover…”
The skinny one reached to shove Metatron’s head, but Raphael darted forward and knocked his hand aside with a spell. He hadn’t used a strong one—anything too forceful would be accused of abusing authority. Still, the movement was enough to enrage the convicts—and to jolt Metatron awake, his magic-sensitivity flaring.
Metatron blinked blearily at the scene just as the thugs advanced, shoving Raphael onto him.
“Looks like we’ll be sending this disgusting pair of queers straight to hell tonight!”
Raphael stumbled right into Metatron’s lap, nearly spilling a mug of beer off the table. He tried to get up and protest, but an arm suddenly wrapped around his waist and held him fast.
Stunned, he turned to look at Metatron, who silently pointed at the floor.
A pillar of fire erupted beneath them, incinerating the chair between them in a flash. The convicts recoiled in terror; two fell over themselves trying to back away, their faces pale with fear.
“Get the hell out,” Metatron growled, his tousled bangs casting a shadow over one eye. “Or I’ll kill you.”
Maybe they didn’t understand magic, but the speed of his casting was beyond even most four-winged angels. Not only the convicts, but even the rest of the tavern’s patrons scrambled to flee in a panic.
Soon, only chaos remained, broken tables, spilled drinks, and the two of them, along with a stunned bartender.
Raphael looked up at him in a fluster, unsure if it was worry or nervousness that made him ask, “Are you all right? They didn’t hurt you, did they?”
Metatron smiled a lopsided smile. “Don’t you think even spiders are better than me?”
“Huh?” Raphael blinked.
“Even spiders know how to spin webs. I don’t even know how to weave one.”
Raphael reached out and brushed aside the hair falling over Metatron’s eyes, staring into those dazed, light brown irises. Then he waved a hand in front of his face. “You’re still drunk, aren’t you?”
“Mmm… the woman I loved is gone. But my good friend came back. That’s no reason to stay drunk, right?” Metatron tightened his hold around him and smiled, a little helpless. “…Rafe.”
Raphael’s eyes widened. Metatron was clearly still intoxicated, reeking of fresh alcohol.
Raphael could hear his own heart pounding, his eyelashes fluttering like frantic bee wings. He struggled to pull away. “Don’t talk nonsense. Look closely, I’m Raphael, not this ‘Rafe’ of yours. You’re definitely just drunk and confused…”
But Metatron wasn’t listening to a word. Staring at those soft, chattering lips, he leaned in, cupped the back of Raphael’s head, and, breathing heavily, pressed his lips against them to silence him.
The next day, Metatron had forgotten everything that happened the night before.
But he gave away his house in Oha to a local farmer, and moved back to Sancta Faylia.
Berduth 6710, Reynor was married.
His wife was named Alice, a diviner who loved azaleas, a blue-black bird always circling above her head. She was unable to bear children, but from the moment he stood atop the Shima watchtower chatting with soldiers and saw her crouched down, gently wiping a child’s tears with a pure white handkerchief, whether she could have children no longer mattered.
Thanks to the honors earned during the Second War, their wedding was officiated by my Son Himself. As the Creator, I was not permitted to favor any one angelic being over another, so I couldn’t attend their wedding. Yet, perhaps because I had never attended any wedding in all of time, I found myself curious.
I descended from the Throne, veiled my divinity, and turned my hair golden.
I stood over the reflecting pool of the Sanctum, watching the silver shimmer curl around me. A new reflection appeared in the rippling surface, but blond hair looked far too dull. Lucifer, Raphael, Gabriel, Evangeline… so many Seraphim already had blond hair. I tried brown, then black. Neither suited me—black in particular made me look too much like a demon.
And speaking of demons, I remembered that many of them had dark red hair, while angels rarely did. So I changed the color again. The reflection now showed a pomegranate-red head of hair, vibrant and now wavy and therefore shorter than before. My eyes remained ocean blue, but the vivid hair softened their coldness, transforming them into the brilliant blue of summer seas under a summer sun.
This version of me even looked younger than Ruthfel. If I grew wings and claimed to be a newly appointed Archangel, others would probably believe it.
On a sudden whim, I let six golden wings unfurl behind my back.
It was the first time I’d ever tried having wings. Sadly, the ceremony was about to begin and I didn’t have time to fly there, so I donned a white robe and teleported directly to the cathedral doors.
I followed the crowd inside and took a seat in the last empty row, waiting for the bride and groom to walk the red carpet.
I kept my hood low, not wanting anyone to strike up conversation or remember my face. But before long, someone sat beside me.
I lowered my head even more—then heard a voice say, “Hiding here all by yourself, are you?”
The moment I heard it, I immediately looked up.
Ruthfel had just returned from the military drill. He was still in his white uniform. Gazing forward, he said softly, “You look beautiful with red hair too.”
Even here, I run into him.
Feeling a bit guilty, I blinked and slouched into the chair, as if all the strength had drained from me.
Not long after, Reynor entered the church first, waiting at the altar below my Son.
Marble columns supported a high, broad ceiling. Light streamed through the domed skylight above, spilling across the floor. On either side of the chapel stood statues of the archangels, solemn and pale, now also bathed in holy light. The murmuring voices beneath the vaulted roof gradually faded as Alice entered, accompanied by her father, wearing a long white gown and holding a bouquet of azaleas.
Ruthfel looked up at her and smiled faintly. “I always think, when two people with different hair colors marry, the most interesting question is what color their child’s hair will be.”
“Unfortunately, Alice can’t bear children.”
Ruthfel didn’t seem surprised. He simply turned to me with a small smile. “That doesn’t matter. Life always comes with regrets. Compared to the regrets between us… they’re already very fortunate.”
My body stiffened a little.
I almost wanted to say, What regrets could there be between us? But I was afraid of how he might respond. Looking at my Son above the altar, I said offhandedly, “There are no regrets between us.”
My Son’s voice was calm as He offered prayers and blessings for the couple.
In the hush of that sanctified moment, Ruthfel’s voice moved as lightly as breath across his lips:
“Don’t be afraid. I meant what I said back then. Once Evangeline is reborn, I’ll marry her, and continue serving by your side as Vice Regent.”
My heart seized in pain from the shock. All I could do was lower my head in silence to hide the flood of emotion.
“So relax a little today,” Lucifer said softly.
He shifted slightly closer to me. Then, slipping off his glove, he quietly took my hand from beneath the folds of my robe. I instinctively tried to pull away, but he held on tighter, enclosing my entire hand in his.
He stared calmly ahead, without a trace of guilt on his face. “We’ve known each other for over six thousand Berduth. Today is the only day we can do this. I’m not like you, with endless life. Even when the universe ends, you’ll still remain. But I… someday, I will die.”
My eyes widened. Yet my head sank even lower.
Outside the church, unicorns galloped past the windows, their manes billowing like drifting clouds. Their hooves struck the earth in time with the church bells.
The light cast a soft golden edge across Lucifer’s profile. It was a breathtaking sight, and yet it only filled me with more fear. I tried again to pull my hand away, but he held on more forcefully.
“Don’t run,” he said, his voice lowered, not wanting to disturb the ceremony. “If you flee again… who knows when the next time will be.”
Like the hard shell of a seashell had finally cracked, revealing the soft, helpless creature within, exposed to air, with nowhere left to hide.
And yet… I stopped resisting.
Suddenly, it was as though a thousand nerves had grown from my fingertips, all connecting to my heart. I could feel, with painful clarity, the moment he slowly released his hold on the back of my hand, then slid his fingers gently across my palm, interlacing them with mine.
That single moment—his fingers threading between mine—was a net of a thousand nerves pulling tight, gripping my heart, numbing my thoughts.
I could feel the slight increase of pressure as his fingers curled more firmly around mine, as though he himself had slipped inside my chest and won’t ever leave again. Yet now that I had let my guard down, I no longer knew how to defend myself.
After a long struggle, I could only sit there in stunned silence, letting him hold my hand.
It wasn’t a joyful moment.
Because it wasn’t just me who felt no joy—Ruthfel didn’t, either. Ever since our fingers laced together, his brow had been furrowed. That calm confidence from earlier was gone.
“Isar,” he said hoarsely, like the words had been trapped in his throat for an eternity, “I know… you love me. Just as I love you.”
I smiled lightly. I didn’t even know if it was mocking him, or myself. “I don’t love you.”
“You don’t need to say it. I already know.”
“No, I really don’t—”
“Shush.” He cut me off, wrapped an arm around my shoulders, and pulled me, with my hood and all, into his chest.
My view was now filled entirely by the fabric of his uniform. All I could hear was the powerful thud of his heartbeat.
When the hood slipped down, he quickly pulled it back over my head, as though afraid someone might see, sealing me up tight and hidden in his arms.
My hand, braced against his chest, slowly curled into a fist. My Son’s blessing was drowned beneath the sound of Ruthfel’s heavy breathing.
Beneath the hard shell of a seashell lies a spineless creature that panics before dominance, unsure how to fight back, let alone flee. Once its shell is taken and it’s trapped inside a steel cage, I suppose… it never escapes again.
For that single moment, we weren’t the center of the world. We weren’t the leaders of Heaven’s long history. We were just two guests, sitting in the last row of a wedding. Two unremarkable silhouettes behind a pair of joyful newlyweds.
Even if someone turned around and saw us, they’d likely assume I was simply one of Ruthfel’s passing lovers.
Maybe that wasn’t so bad.
Because… since a long time ago, I’ve secretly dreamed of the impossible.
Just one fleeting moment where we could cast off our burdens—forgotten by the divine race, forgotten by time, by duty—left behind in a quiet, little corner of the world.
Author: Tav Tav
Translating
The Right Wing of God, the one seated at the right hand of the Most High.
