Under the gleam of the midnight sun, angels grumbled. Then there was the shaking, the bouncing legs, the saliva being gulped back down their throats—echoing throughout the Academy. The souls in their chests burned particularly hot that day, their thoughts screeching like a kettle at the assignments in their hands. The assignment which decided if they would receive their diploma; a near impossible task designed to individually challenge each angel’s specific academic weakness. If this could stump them now, what awaited them once they ascended higher? If each layer of the Upper-Plane brought them closer to the sun; to the gaze of their god—just how much would the expectations placed onto them surge?
On this night, only one angel waited without an expression of silent panic. In fact, hers remained flat; with eyes that appeared dead despite being filled with holy light. It was an expression so lacking that it seemed soulless. Something a spirit couldn’t be.
A classmate crouched down beside her, hugging his knees, “There’s no way. . ., absolutely none—I’m done—I’m done for,” his voice squeaked, “I’m going to be stuck in this damn academy for eternity.”
Lux merely glanced in his direction as he shook over his assignment, thinking, must not have studied hard enough.
“The Headmistress stuck me with another two decades of language classes. . .,” another classmate covered her face with her palms, grumbling to a friend, “maybe I should transfer houses. . ., give up on evangelizing,” she sniffled, “I’ll never be able to speak every mortal tongue.”
Lux rolled her eyes, should’ve transferred houses fifty years ago.
The time struck 23:00 o’clock, chiming quietly. She shut her small planner, dropping it in her satchel as her name was called over intercom.
“Lux of Lea-Bethel; Headmistress Claudia will see you now.”
She grabbed her satchel and went towards the Headmistress’s office, passing by the crowd of mediocrity gathered in the lounge. For an academy built into the clouds, following the Mortal-Plane’s orbit and always facing the sun; its ’esteemed’ students were far from prestigious. They carried spirit bodies fueled by holy flame, with skin that glimmered like jewelry, dawning halos whenever the sun stood behind them. Yet, they lazed around as if their blessed forms were gifts, rather than privileges.
In other words, Lux had been grouped in with a comically pathetic generation; sat with them in gold-gilded classrooms for two centuries—realizing the only reason that they hadn’t been sent back to introductory classes was because she had been the one tutoring them.
Before she could push open the door, it swung back and a dejected angel walked out with his head hung low. He cursed under his breath as he passed, “‘unsatisfactory mathematics’ my ass. . ., I don’t even need those damn numbers where I’m heading.”
Should’ve taken on more extra supplementary classes, she thought as the door swung shut behind her. She felt no sympathy, knowing their fates were their responsibilities alone; and that she wouldn’t be receiving one of these torturous assignments.
She had spent two centuries devoting herself to her studies—received near-perfect scores on every exam. Gave speeches that were better researched than even her instructors' own lessons, cited and referenced only to scholarly sources within. She completed extra-curricular work that covered every basis of angelic society. She had even ensured that her handwriting was uniquely hers, so that no one could ever take credit for her work.
With no textbook left unread, no gaps in knowledge, and no mistakes uncorrected; graduation was just one written reflection away. She would be guaranteed an easy, benefit-filled life amongst the scholars of the Lea-Bethel house. Exactly as all other scholars of her stature had received. The house’s founder, Maleah herself, had told her this. She even promised Lux an open position in the house’s classified archive. Now all she needed was her diploma.
Headmistress Claudia’s office was as exquisite as the rest of the academy; adorned with delicate gold carvings, lined from floor to ceiling with spotless bookshelves, and an equally elegant grandfather clock. Finally, the glaring eye patterned on the large stained-glass window illuminated the entire office. The Haq-Galilee eye. The Headmistress sat right in front of it, with the same eye carved into the ring on her finger.
When conversing in front of the Haq-Galilee eye; nothing went untold. It saw only only the pure, unfiltered soul, stripped down to its rawest form; and heard every thought welling up inside it. Then, it retold exactly what it observed to its holder. A marvelously invasive power that Lux hated dealing with.
Silently, Lux sat down in the chair across from the Headmistress. She didn’t greet Lux, eyes glued to the grade books piled atop her desk; but the eye on her ring didn’t look away from Lux for even a second.
The clock ticked on, and on, and still the Headmistress didn’t greet her; merely tapping the back of her pen against the desk.
Lux glanced up at the clock again. It’s already been five minutes of silence. Can’t you go a bit faster? She knew her impatience was as obvious as the eye reading her. She nearly ‘tsk’d’ aloud. Haven’t you already decided my assignment?
After a bit more waiting, Lux inhaled, “Headmis—.”
Suddenly, the Headmistress leaned back and pulled the clip from her hair. “So, Lux, heaven’s youngest scholar;” she re-twisted her hair above her head and fastened it, “your classmates say you are a. . ., ‘peculiar’ person?”
Peculiar?
Headmistress Claudia nodded at Lux’s thoughts.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
What a vague description. Lux tilted her head, “am I?”
“You are,” the Headmistress said, “I have always known that.” She clasped hands together, sitting her chin on her knuckles, leaning forward. She eyed Lux; this now made four eyes, all pointed at her. “I’m asking if you think both they, and I, are in the right to call you that.”
She finally felt that ‘tsk’ escape her. “Perhaps,” she said. But none of you ever said that to my face.
The Headmistress nodded again. “You are a peculiar person, there’s no denying that,” she thought for a moment, “but would you consider that to be a good thing?”
Does this question have anything to do with graduation? Lux thought, then answered honestly, though she knew the Haq-Galilee eye had already told the Headmistress her answer. “Yes, Headmistress.”
The Headmistress smiled; entertained, “Why is that?”
“Because I have completed every task ever laid before me, while excelling far beyond the expectations of each one.” Lux said, “and I have never wronged anyone.”
“Good, good,” The Headmistress mumbled in quiet consensus. “On the other side of the scale. . ., would you say you have done right by anyone?”
Why under Solstice’s gaze, am I being interrogated?
The Headmistress continued, “Anyone specific? Any specific occasions?”
“Headmistress,” her words were dry, flat, “I’ve taken thirty-nine extracurricular internships; thirteen of which were based in community management and assistance programs. I have never slacked during my time in these programs; I have gone further—higher, to ensure that the work I completed was better than my higher-ups could’ve ever envisioned—.”
The Headmistress shook her head, making Lux shut her mouth in an instant. “All programs in which you excelled. . ., but quit the moment you couldn’t claim anymore credit from?” she sighed. “I already know all that you’ve accomplished, scholar—I want to know why you did it.”
Why?
“Headmistress, if you could be more specific—.”
“Lux, why were we angels created in this world?”
Lux answered in an instant, “to aid the living, help mortal-kind move forward.”
“And why do we do that for them?”
Lux grew oddly quiet. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know the answer; it was that she didn’t understand why it mattered. She swallowed her bewilderment, “Because of the God of Solstice’s doctrine—.”
“Because we love even a world filled with pain; because we love even a flawed populous that holds hate and inflicts the world’s pain further onto one another!”
Those four eyes had backed her into a corner. Why? For this day she’d worked with no sleep for two centuries. She had taken no days off, never once celebrated her accomplishments, surrounded herself with nothing but her studies—cutting off any relationship that disrupted them.
Haven’t I done more than any student you’ve ever had?
Isn’t this supposed to be my reward?
“Now Lux, I want you to tell me; what do you love about the world? The work you do? The house whose legacy you carry on?”
Lux watched the Haq-Galilee eye’s pupil sharpen as it dragged her thoughts out of her with far more vigor than it had before, “the benefits, Headmistress.”
“And I take it this is why you’ve chosen the solitary path of an archivist?” The Headmistress said, brows furrowed, “to live comfortably in a lavish house, never seeing those who you judge; nor the histories you archive?”
“I’m. . .” Lux’s voice slowly faded, she sighed, “not a very. . ., cordial person, Headmistress. You know this.”
“Oh, believe me scholar, I know,” The Headmistress stood, walking out from behind her desk, hand trailing along its edge. “I have watched over you since the day you were reborn a small, curious thing, with little clue what it meant to live, to die, let alone ascend,” she approached the bookshelves lining the distant wall, “You have been a peculiar—and excellent student to me. So, you must know that I am not doing this to punish you.”
Lux was left to wonder if that was some sick lie, told by the angels of Haq-Galilee that saw through all others. The Haq-Galilee were nothing more than a house of snakes hiding in paradise.
She dragged her finger over the folders squeezed together on the shelf—dipping back the corner of one. “I only want to see you further excel, and there is one thing I have yet to see you excel in. . ., that is connection.” The folder fell backwards into her hand, “the connection that drives us to understand, move beyond sin; and to give to the mortal world, while expecting nothing in return.”
The Headmistress stepped behind Lux’s chair, towering over Lux’s spirit; holding the folder directly in front of her, “that is why I’ve saved this assignment specifically for you,” she nodded down at Lux, urging her to open it.
The folder was surprisingly thin; at odds with the speech she’d just been given. She took the folder into her hands, robotically as she had always done. No matter how pissed she might be—or how insulting it was for a scholar of her stature to be told her work was not sufficient. Not enough to warrant graduation on its own. She flipped the folder open, brought it closer, skimmed its lines with an expression that could only be described as lacking. When she went to turn the page; she found the other side was blank; realizing there wasn’t even a single other page in the entire folder. Then, she went to read it properly. Intently.
This isn’t an assignment. This is a letter.
The letter hadn’t been addressed to either of them—but to the entire Upper-Plane; written by a sorrowful mother begging for an angel to save her daughter’s soul. A leftover request that must’ve been sent up and down the angelic ladder; finding no savior with the drive to take it on. Three words read louder than the entire letter—undead, cannibal, cursed.
Finally, she tilted her head up to face the Headmistress, “Headmistress—are you sure this is the right folder?”
The Headmistress nodded, pride plastered across her face. “What I want to see from you is not an objective dissertation—but a personal recount,” she squeezed Lux’s shoulders “one filled with the connecting, understanding, and feeling needed to save the soul of that, poor cursed woman. I want you to get to know the mortal world—and I want to see you return to the Upper-Plane with a love for it unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.”
“Only then—once you truly understand what it means to be an angel; will I hand you your graduation cape.” The Headmistress paused, her smile vanishing in an instant. Now, she wore the face of a strict, unforgiving professor. “Fail—and you can wish farewell to that diploma of yours. A student that does not feel the very fibers that build our afterlife cannot rise higher. And I will see you in my office again, to spend the next two-centuries redoing your curriculum under my watch.”
“I trust that you won’t disappoint me, Lux—my most stellar student.”
