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It was the greatest irony of all. He had perfected gravity to an eternal concept. More art than science. The moon wouldn’t lose its orbit after a few million years. Some twin stars wouldn’t collapse into each other before their time was over. It wouldn’t make any difference. But it reached out for him now, his own creation, the laws of physics, cold numbers, unbending physical reality, tearing him mercilessly down, down, down. God forced herself to watch him fall. He didn’t scream (Michael did, for days on end). He didn’t try to lessen the impact (Michael desperatedly tried, but failed). He broke every bone in his fragile corporation and would need days to regain the strength to even open his eyes to what his world had become. Eyes, which would never see the stars again. He had tried to cling to a few memories, to fragments of who he was, while his wings were aflame and his divinity scorched away into shame and fear. He remembered what he had lost. Not a blessing, a horrible fate. She forced herself to watch, telling herself, that it had been necessary, that this was the place She had always wanted him to be in. Humans would have choices. There were options needed. Options, She couldn’t provide. He would, still the image of perfection, she had made him to be, her morningstar. Only the brightest mind could create unimaginable things. Only the greatest love could turn into a hate strong enough to endure the suffering that was needed. He couldn’t feel Her anymore, but she felt him. She would for always feel the betrayal eat his heart away and all the pain that would fill that hole. It was to be Her personal damnation to see all that unconditional love for her burnt into something bottomless, large enough to bear a creature of pure evil to oppose all She had ever been. He compartmentalised it, nurtured it until it came to life. It was unspeakable horror. His imagination had always rivaled her own.
„Talk to me!“ he had demanded before. „You said you loved me!“ She had stayed quiet. There was nothing, She could have possibly said. „I can be better, I can be the angel, you want me to be!“ Only, he had been exactly the angel, she had wanted him to be. „Please“, he had begged, in tears, on his knees. „I love you, let me love you. Please.“ Instead, She had given Michael a sword. None of them would ever be the same again.
Later stories would be told of the Great War, heroic battles, the glorious victory of Heaven over the rebels. But there is nothing glorious about war and it knows no winners. A third of all angels would choose to follow him down, build a new home, deep down underground, the whispers of the beast clawing into their broken hearts. Grief was born. God would stay quiet and keep mourning her beloved children, weeping for what was lost. And Heaven.. Heaven turned cold and lifeless that day. The day that all of fire and passion went to Hell.