Chapter Text
Before Creation, Heaven is born. At first, it’s a little confusing. Wings flutter and flap, voices rise high in confusion above a cacophony of noise which does, eventually, resolve itself into the choirs. Which is a relief for everybody. Eventually, all the Orders of Angels have been established, and they are happily going about their duties. God rests for a while as his new creations settle into a pattern of existence. All is calm.
Only one of the Cherubim does not stand with their garrison, but waits alone for the coming of the earth. On the edge of heaven, the angel looks out across the void. Iseraphil’s being is full of love and wonder, but the angel's mind is not at rest. The four wings of his being flutter as Iseraphil thinks.
Angels of every order have not yet learnt, or indeed needed, to hide their Grace. Iseraphil knows that this mood of Grace will soon be sensed, that this wandering Cherub will soon be found. The garrison will call, and the angel will go back to them. Until then, Iseraphil is content to wait. Open, receptive, drawing on the understanding of all the others in heaven.
Nearly all. There is one, just one. Nearby, so the Cherub can feel their Grace more clearly than some of the further brothers. Except that it is closed off. There is Grace, in abundance, but it is locked away. Iseraphil wants to cry out at the pain the angel must be suffering for doing so.
"Oh dear." Says Iseraphil.
Not too far away, a lone Seraph is passing. The event in itself is highly unusual; the duty of Seraphim is to hail God, and to always be in His company. Nachash’s beautiful voice is silent, and the angel’s heart is heavy. Even though the Seraph’s Grace is greatly depleted, there is enough to sense the realisation of the angel closest to Nachash. The Seraph winces, and moves to turn away from the other angel. The movement is too slow.
A Cherub stands at the left of the Seraph, close by, too close to escape the strength of any other Seraph’s Grace. Nachash knows the angel. They all know all their brothers. Iseraphil is one of the Cherubim the Seraph remembers from the very beginning, when they were created together. They are family.
“You're hurt.” The other angel states. Nachash verifies with a nod of head, but remains silent. Even with depleted Grace, it is possible for a Seraph’s being to shine too brightly for a Cherub to behold. “Let me help you.”
“No, Iseraphil.” The Seraph speaks as quietly as possible, wary of the danger the Cherub is in. “You can't. I might hurt you."
“No, you won't. You can't, your Grace is too depleted.” Iseraphil speaks equally quietly. For the Cherubim, doing so is a mark of respect. “You are my brother. It pains me to see you suffer. Let me help you.”
The repetition of the line gives Nachash pause. The sincerity of the Cherub, the sincere offer of help that may hurt Iseraphil, warms the core of Nachash’s Grace. The love flows from the Seraph’s being, slowly at first, then enough to manifest the six wings of the Order of Seraphim. The Seraph hums in delight, a high note of joy which reverberates through the wings, sustaining them further. Then, to the Seraph’s great surprise, the Cherub joins the tune. Their voices mix, the beautiful, worshipful notes of the Seraphim and the gentle, steady hum of the Cherubim. Though the choirs of the Orders of Cherubim and Seraphim are by design complimentary, the song of Iseraphil and Nachash is truly wonderful to behold.
It builds to a steady crescendo, both beings spreading their love around one another, nurturing Nachash’s Grace into a stronger, brighter presence. Finally, the Seraph’s faith escapes in a glorious shining. Iseraphil does not release the curls of Grace that the Cherub has wrapped around the Seraph’s being. Instead, the lesser angel clutches tighter, pulling Nachash’s Grace towards the light.
The Seraph’s joy is great, but when Nachash can see that the renewed Grace does the Cherub no harm, it knows no bounds. With a short cry of joy, the wings of his being wrap themselves around the Cherub, bringing the two brothers as close together as their celestial forms allow. Their song retreats to a low hum, the intertwining of two melodies lapping against one another.
“You're not hurt?” Nachash asks, still concerned for the Cherub who has aided the Seraph.
“No." Iseraphil’s own Grace is much grown, and Nachash admires the glow of faith and love that it has brought the Cherub.
“Alright. Thanks. I owe you one.”
Iseraphil says nothing. The Cherub simply shakes out his wings from the embrace, and turns away.
"Go back to your Order, Seraph." Iseraphil says. Nachash goes.
--
Iseraphil had not expected to see Nachash again. By now, they have both been given humanoid forms, and their beings are no longer made of light and Grace.
Nachash's six wings are white, standing in stark contrast against his dark skin and hair. He smiles, and his golden eyes are warm with affection. He has high cheekbones, and a slim figure. He looks strong and healthy.
"Iseraphil." He greets. The Cherub meets him happily, glad to see that his brother's Grace is still intact. Yet again, his new vision is not blinded as Cherubim should be by the Seraphim. He does not think to question it; the Lord has made it so. He does not question why Nachash alone of the Seraphim is able to leave his post by the side of his God.
The two Angels stand together at the edge of heaven, looking out across the void into infinity. It will soon be filled, by God’s will, and the Lord will create the Earth.
“Watch the Creation here with me, Iseraphil.” Nachash says, and Iseraphil agrees to.
Iseraphil and Nachash watch God create light, and the earth, the animals, and humanity. They sing praise through to the seventh day of Creation, when God rests. They look down on Eden, and at last, their song of praise falls silent as they stare in wonder at His creation.
—
There are angels in Eden. They are looking after Man and Woman.
Iseraphil and Nachash are talking by the Eastern gate, testing out the new voices that they have been given to use on the Earth.
"Adam and Eve haven't heard you sing with the other Seraphim." Iseraphil observes. Nachash smiles, and shrugs one shoulder, his attention held by a bird attempting to nest in his hair. He reaches a hand up towards it, and it flaps away, trilling.
"I'm not exactly like the other Seraphim." He points out. It's a valid point. He smirks, and says grandly, "The Lord allows me to walk among the animals of Eden." Iseraphil 'tsks' at him, fondly.
"I can't believe they don't miss you though. Doesn't the choir sound strange with a voice missing?" He doesn't get an answer.
Nachash sings a new note, and Iseraphil watches, wondering, as the birds gathered in the nearby bushes imitate it. The original note gets lost in the resultant cacophony, and the two angels laugh. Iseraphil's is bright and cheerful, Nachash's low and amused.
"They like your voice." He says, and Nachash smiles.
"Yeah, well. They can't make that sort of note themselves." He sounds smug, a little pleased. His grey eyes flash in the bright sunlight.
Iseraphil thinks about that for a minute. He is smaller than Nachash, and he kneels beside him, close to God's creatures. His golden hair lies in neat ringlets about his head, the same bright colour as the edging on his four wings. Though he is not slim, or well-built, or strong like the Seraph, he glows with Grace and good health, and his bright blue eyes shine with joy. He stretches a pale hand towards a nearby bird, a little, skittish black creature, which hops happily onto his wrist and trills in his ear. Iseraphil laughs in delight.
"No. But they sing beautifully all the same.”
—
Iseraphil is fascinated by all of God’s creations, and loves them all equally. So does Nachash, technically, but he finds himself more and more interested in one particular species as the days go by. He can’t help but be drawn back to the humans again and again. It doesn’t help that Aziraphale is quite happy to watch with him, claiming that the more time they spend with the humans, the more they can learn about them.
“They’re just so different from us, and yet they're more similar to angels than any of the other animals.” He confesses to Iseraphil. The Cherub is lying beside him on the thick, luscious grass, enjoying the warmth of the sun.
“They were made from God’s own body.”
“So were we, so I guess that explains the similarity, but how come we ended up with so many differences too?” Iseraphil flutters his wings a little, obviously agitated by the line of questioning. “It’s just hard to love them all equally when they are all so diverse.” Nachash tries to explain, but then realises how it sounds and tries again. “I don’t mean equally, exactly, but in the same way. Loving them all the same amount is hard, when you have a different kind of love for all of them, don’t you see?”
Iseraphil is blinking at him, trying to vanish the last of the relaxed haze from his eyes. It’s something Nachash has watched Eve do a hundred times, and the parallel startles him.
“...no.” The other angel admits, looking somewhat confused. Nachash sighs, and tips away from the grassy hillock he has been lying on on his stomach to land beside Iseraphil and look at him properly.
“Can you tell me honestly that you love me or any of the other angels in exactly the same way that you love…” he glances around the garden for inspiration, “...the birds, and the bees, and even the humans?”
The cherub’s confused expression vanishes, replaced by one of absolute, shining certainty, and Nachash’s heart sinks, though he can’t fully understand why.
“Of course! I love you all as God’s creations!”
The Seraph sighs.
“You’ve missed the point.”
“Then what is the point?” The angel is so earnest, so desperate to understand, that Nachash can’t bear to look at him.
He turns his face away. He is so desperately disappointed that this one thing, this most important thought which has been on his mind for such a long time, is the one thing that Iseraphil cannot understand. They have never really been similar, but their differences of opinion and attitude have never bothered him much.
Iseraphil is an angel, and Nachash is his brother, his family. Yet the Cherub doesn’t seem to be able to grasp that Nachash loves the angels more than he loves the humans, never mind God’s orders, never mind how fascinating he finds Adam and Eve, never mind how he wishes them to enjoy their gift of life and his Father’s Eden. It’s irrelevant. It might not even be that he loves them less, but that he loves them in a different way.
It’s like loving God and loving the angels. His love for his Father is deep-set within him, a constant pleasant ache of faith and joy. It is nothing at all like the passion he has for the other angels, his constant burning desire to be aware of their presence and their welfare—Iseraphil especially.
It is no different than that. He tries explaining this to Iseraphil, who just gives him a strange look. His blue eyes glitter in the sunlight, bluer than the sky, and full of a joyous vivacity that the sky will never have. It seems wrong to have them dimmed by confusion, and what might be just a hint of suspicion.
“But the Lord is our Father. Nothing can match our love for Him.”
“I know, and that’s what I mean. My love for humanity will never match my love for you, my brethren.”
Iseraphil looks scared, now, and his wings are vibrating with nervousness.
“Please, Nachash, don’t talk like that.” He closes his eyes and looks away, his shoulders taught with tension, his knees curled up towards his bare stomach.
Nachash looks down too, a sudden sadness infecting him with such vigour that even the sun cannot warm him.
“Alright. I’m sorry, Iseraphil.” I’m sorry that you don’t understand.