Michael, The Archangel
He stood at the border between The Throne and Zebel, as always. His physical body remained outside of the great Gate that his Father had erected in his final moments, one of the final lines of defense for the System. But that was merely his physical body.
Twelve titanic golden wings flared from his back and were pierced through the Gate, yet strangely said Gate was not damaged. His wings had long since sunk past the infinite spiralling dimensions imbued within the Gate, and resided truly in the Seventh Layer of Heaven — the Throne.
The place no being could reach anymore, except for his wings. The wings that had turned from White to Gold upon the death of his Father. Even now, all this time later, the death of his Father and the Great War that had been waged sent a wave of sorrow through him. For thousands of years, they had fought the greatest battle known to their world. Dozens of factions had fallen, and even more Gods had been slain. Yet, the greatest wound in his heart was not any of the losses that occurred in the war, not even the death of his Father.
It was Him, the one that Father—and in the depths of his heart, he himself—had never given up on. The only one who did not fall. But instead had just left in a manner more akin to sauntering downward in rebellion. For it was He who was the only one ever to be labelled as a rebel. Not Michael's foolish younger brother Azazel, but instead the one who had the brightest Light of them all.
For Michael knew, no matter how much he had cried and sobbed for him to change his decision, his Father had decided to die. But Lucifer? His once sweet, innocent little brother? His death had been the greatest shock, for he knew his Father had never once intended to strike that final killing blow. No matter how great the sins and heresy Lucifer had committed.
I'm thinking more about him recently… Michael softly exhaled, his lips even during his sorrow, upturned into a faint smile as always. But that's good too. Thinking helps to comprehend it all. Not just comprehending the past and his emotions, but also the real reason why his wings were embedded through the great Gate.
The System. God's creation that ran not only all of Heaven, but all prayers, divine gifts, Sacred Gears, miracles, and both the reincarnation process, and the settling of souls into Heaven. A perfect system. Or at least, it used to be. Under Father, it truly was splendorous. Yet, he was not his Father, nor did he strive to be. He strived to be just the best he could, for the sake of his little siblings and for the world.
So, for over five hundred years since the system began to break down, he had remained in vigil near the Gate, only rarely leaving. All Michael could do was try to understand the near-infinite amount of information that the system took in every second, and do his best to organize it. All he could do was try to make its slow decay take just a bit longer. As it was, the limiters of Sacred Gears were breaking, miracles were happening less and less, the Divine Gift of the Holy Light had fewer bearers than ever, and more souls went missing every year.
The System hadn't created an Angel in over four hundred years. Heaven was dying, and all he could do was try to hold it off. All he could do was parse through the System that spanned not just the entire world, but through dozens of dimensions, parts of the Dimensional Gap itself, and a small minor part of the Void beyond.
Even if he grew another pair of wings, an act unheard of apart from when Father had once granted his grace to Lucifer and Him, it would not be enough. I am sorry, Father. It appears… I am not enough. Too many humans are being born, and the System is overloading while breaking down. Perhaps if he had had his current understanding when the System had first started to break down, it would have been different.
But as it was, all he could do was attempt to catch up and fail. Then he felt it. A change, an aberration. Something he had never seen before. For a brief, horrifying moment, his redundant heart fell into the pit of his just as pointless stomach. Then, he understood the change, the information that the system was feeding him.
Angels do not sleep and only need to rest when gravely damaged. It was impossible for them to freeze up, for they had been crafted to be the greatest of warriors and guardians. Most of all, he—Michael—The Archangel. The Second Leader of Heaven. The firstborn of all Angels. When Father had been alive, he had faced down the greatest of Gods and slew Dragons stronger than even the famed Dragon Kings. Five factions had fallen to his personal legions' assault during the Great War.
Michael froze, his mind coming to a halt like a titanic record scratch. It was an impossibility, both his freezing and the information that the System was outputting. Another impossibility happened, as his hands shook. Time seemed to freeze as the Archangel himself remained unmoving apart from his hand. Then his mouth opened in joyful shock. It's not… Even before the thought could finish, he let out a burst of laughter, his wings retracting from the Gate. The sheer speed at which his wings moved caused space to ripple, and his laughter continued as he soared toward the center of Zebel, the Sixth Heaven and home of the Ten Seraphs.
With his laughter, the entirety of the Sixth, alongside the Fifth, rumbled. So great was the might of The Archangel inside of Heaven that even these two seemingly infinite layers of Heaven could not contain his joy, and the sound continued to travel downward. The sound reached the Fourth Layer—the Garden of Eden, before ending in the Third, where all the souls of the dead resided.
"Brothers, sister!" His voice rang out, the facade of a being almost similar to a human completely fracturing as his voice in this moment was akin to a choir of stars singing in harmony. For a brief moment, his eyes glowed gold, his form creaking and shattering into something other for the first time since THEN before he reeled it back, his laughter fading.
From his first burst of laughter to arriving at the center of Zebel took such a small amount of time that even likening it to 'less than a second' would be insufficient, so great was his utter joy that he cared not for the pedantry of the regular rules inside of Heaven. As he hovered in the air in the center of it all, his twelve Golden Wings spread out, the sound of flapping could be heard coming from all around him.
The first three to come were, of course, the oldest of his younger siblings. Gabriel was first, coming flying in on her Six White Wings, her inner light shining nearly as bright as Lucifer himself when he was born. Then, at the same time, came Raphael, covered in a haze of frost, and Uriel already coated in Heaven's fire.
After them came the remaining six of the Seraphs, far, far younger than even Gabriel, Raphael, and Uriel, let alone him. Sandalphon, Raguel, Sariel, Ramiel, and Raziel came in a flurry of feathers, with Metatron appearing from the shadows of the many pairs of wings covering the sky. "Brother, what is it? You shook heaven!" Gabriel's clear and melodic voice, the most beautiful in Heaven, rang out.
Uriel tightened his grip on his flaming sword, and the others had various actions. Only Metatron was different. His gaze rested on the Gate with a look of utter seriousness that Michael knew he hadn't seen since millennia before the end of the Great War. For who else but Father's scribe could notice it, even without being connected to the System?
Realizing that his siblings had misinterpreted his actions—likely because of his long since sealed True Form almost emerging—Michael sent a wave of calm humming through the air toward them all. "It is good news. For the first time since Father died… the System has acknowledged someone as a Saint!"
The response was immediate as from each of them came a mix of, "That's not—" "This is great news!" "How could—" Except for Gabriel, whose eyes were wide in shock, and Metatron. Whose gaze did not leave the Gate. Michael could see, however, when he made that announcement, something flickered in the Scribe's eyes. Disagreement. But that was impossible, was it not? Shaking it off as just misreading the Scribe's deep thoughts, Michael laughed again. This time calmer, more akin to a human's.
"Indeed. It's true, my siblings. A saint truly has been born."
It was Gabriel who responded first, a wide smile on her face. "This is great news indeed, brother! Then we'll finally have a new sibling, it's been so long!" Indeed it has, sister. For the system to register someone as a Saint, it meant only one thing.
On their death, they would not go to the Fourth Heaven, but directly to the Seventh upon newly born wings. Perhaps this is an opportunity. One to just crack open the Gate a little, to let more of myself in, and to better control the System. His smile remained as his siblings laughed, joked, and conversed in glee for the first time in hundreds of years.
It was a good day.