The light pushed through the colorful glasses and translated into reds and blues within the cathedral. The building rose to astronomical heights, in parallel lines topped with imposing arches of white and orange marble. Row after row, angels stood, chanting melodies of Gregorian times, vibrating through the holy images and altars. In the kingdom of heavens, the life of an angel had a beginning and an end, situated between centuries of duty. Today, another of these cycles ended, with the passing of Angel Aryael. He stood by the footsteps of the heavenly cathedral’s door, clenching his stick, made old by time and duty. He wore a white and golden robe, his wings tired but proud. On the main altar, the High Priest approached, as the chants echoed, strong. A golden flame was lit, mid altar. The ritual had begun.
Aryael looked to the cathedral and his fellow companions, each face serene but stern. He looked to his own robes, running his fingers through the soft silk one last time. Light came through all the windows, touching his face and shining through the holy place. As centuries went by, Aryael had protected men from evil and danger and now it was time to rest. He felt ready.
He stood in his own two feet, tossing the stick to the side. In a last effort of pride, he straightened his tired and bent body, standing as the guard of men he had been for centuries. “One step first, another to follow”, he said to himself as he walked in the Cathedral. The rows of angels turned to him in support, and kept on chanting. As he passed through them, Aryael smiled from friends, who had broken smiles, to enemies, who showed respect for his journey. He gave each of the sacred images a lengthy look, thinking of all the prayers he had given and heard through the prophets of God.
Coming closer to the main altar, a new light brushed his face, as a caring touch of a mother to her son. Aryael faced the High Priest, in long red vests and a soft expression. The old man opened his arms and let his long wings spread, tall and large. Aryael faced the golden flame, stretching his right arm over it, feeling it. It was not hot or painful, but warm and caring. The flame gave him joy and strength, renewing years from his face.
The High priest rose his left arm, halting the chanting of the angelical choir and making the flame vanish. The soft light dimmed down, raising shadows over the cathedral and the men in there. Aryael turned to the crowd, and felt warming sensation coming from within. A tickling but painless burn, ran through his veins elevating his body from the floor. As he floated over the main altar, the High Priest gave holy prayers, followed by a strong choir from all the voices present.
Each feather slowly disintegrated into golden dust, creating a floating mist around his body. As dust in the wind, one could see scenes of great battles and victories of this warrior-angel. Faces in the crowd could recognize themselves as protagonists of this life and realize their own mortality and struggle for the good of men.
Aryael felt his skin tingling and spreading in dust, as he gently floated in the middle of the cathedral. He knew that was it. His eyes focused on the dome of the cathedral at a final glimpse of the beauty of the world. As golden dust mounted and floated around him, he shut his lids, disappearing into memory.
The voices dimmed, as the remaining of Aryael stood floating in a sphere of light. The High Priest stood underneath of it, touching the sphere softly, as it compressed itself in a small tornado, shaping a winged baby, touching down on the High Priest’s arms. A new angel was born, named Theryael. The ritual was finished.
By Raphael Dias
The Bell 