A mighty, triumphant roar echoed as the storm rolled over the cityscape. The sound was unlike the occasional thunderclap that rattled throughout the sky. Nevertheless, it boomed of nature's calling. The sound was noisy, clamorous, and vocal, the sound of an elated holler.

The voice of an angel.

Stretched upwards, revelling in the glory of his physical form, the angel basked in his surroundings. There had been other moments when his spirit had become material -- in this body and in other forms and times -- but each time the rush of sensation was the same. He let it wash over him, intoxicating and filling his soul.

He felt the wetness of the rain slapping against his flesh. The wind brought an added chill to the rain as he gloried in the small bumps forming along his arms. The rain mixed with the earthly dirt and brought into existence subtle and succulent smells. He raised his mouth skyward and drank in the raindrops greedily. Not pure, for nothing could be called pure in this form, the water held within it the imperfections that tickled the taste buds and allowed taste to exist. He tasted the water. And the cacophony of sounds! The pitter-patter of the rain, the vroom of the cars below, even the slish-slosh of wet shoes walking on the moistened streets. The sensual experience was temptation itself.

Then the angel levelled his gaze. He took in his dark, forbidding surroundings. This world was nothing compared to that from which he came. This world was corruption, decay, and so much filth. Measured against his realm, all of this was but a shadow on the wall.

And yet, the Creator deemed it good. The Sustainer watched over the course of time, while the Destroyer waited in meditation. For whatever unfathomable reason, That Which Is seemed entranced by the goings-on of these pathetic flesh-and-blood creatures. It guided them like a parent, sending his angels, devas, asparas, and a host of others to aid and help these mortal beings.

And to purify through the blood of destruction, the angel reminded itself. That, too, was a holy duty for certain angels.

He laughed now, a deep-throated sound echoing from his mouth. That piteous man that had shared this body had corrupted his thoughts with ideas of sorrow, mercy, and remorse, making him almost forget who he was. But now, the man’s control was fading, a distant pin prick of light within the angel’s spiritual vastness. This form and body was his. And it was very good.

Suddenly, the angel whirled around. An intruder had joined him on the church’s rooftop, seemingly oblivious to the wind, the rain, and the human ostacles of gravity and vertigo. The figure seemed familiar, though dissimilar from the image his memory provided. The figure was a middle-aged man of average build. His skin color denoted him as what this world called ‘black.’ The man smoked a pipe. Even in the wind and the rain, he smoked a pipe, its soft grey clouds distinct through the storm. His eyes did not burn with a human fire.

“Greetings Simkiel,” the man said softly and steadily.

“What dost thou wish of me, Herald?” the angel nearly spat back.

“Nothing, now.” The man paused for a moment, then he smiled. “And please, call me Delroy.”

“Then why art thou present?” Simkiel replied, tension and suspicion competing in his voice. “Thou travels are not idly begotten.”

The man named Delroy continued puffing on his pipe as he stepped off the roof of the church. His body hovered in place, his material weight held by the thin air he walked on. “I go where my path takes me. I don’t need your approval, and certainly not your support, for that.”

“And now... Delroy?” the angel questioned.

“Now?” Delroy said as he walked past Simkiel and continued on. “Now, I‘m just a traveller on a journey who doesn‘t know the destination.”

The angel’s head flew back as his voice roared and mixed with the rain, “Then I am free! This body is mine and woe to the wicked! I will do God’s work; I will rain down destruction on the wicked, pointing them towards the Divine liberation. And if they refuse to see, then I will hasten them on their journey to Hell!”

“...I’m just a traveller on a journey who doesn’t know the destination.”

The voice seemed to come from impossibly far away and yet it reached another audience from that of the angel bellowing on the outside. An average-looking young man with brown hair and eyes looked up. Where was he? Who was he? What was he?

He could remember... the burning light. It was as if a moment had been burned into time from outside time itself. It had been Beauty itself. But that was not where he was. He paused for a moment, a beginning forming in his mind. He was at least a he, or at least he simply was. He had found a starting point from which to explore. But what was it that he was?

He looked around at the vast, crowded emptiness that surrounded him and set off on the journey.
 

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