No More Crises

"How did this get here? You? You put this here?"

The seraphim glares at the cherubim accusingly, its being flaring its six pinions of star-fire. The cherubim doesn't even flinch. The leonine eyes stare back, calmly, like dead pools of light. 

"Yes, I did."

The seraphim glances out into the sea of stars. It was there when the sea was created, flung forth in an immense explosion that also created a multitude of souls. Stars, like sand, scattered across the dark void, each of them stars: red dwarfs, white dwarfs, giants, dying ones. All of them singing their own songs, loud and courageous, illuminating the dark, always the dark. With a sigh, the seraphim lowers its wings, dimming its fire. The black orb spins in front of them, silent. 

Why does it give the impression that it is judging them?

"You are going to kill all of us!" 

Anger re-surfaces, rippling through the seraphim's form like the burning of hot magma. It grips its sceptre tightly, inhales sharply and shakes its head. Another crisis again. 

"We are dying anyway," the cherubim shrugs its immense shoulders. Its mane catches the rays of the setting sun further away from them. It is fast turning into night. The planet still spins blue after all these millennia. It too has seen its birth, nursed it, watched it like a protective parent, and - when the inhabitants grew too unruly - became disappointed, its sun-heart crushed by years of lies and betrayal. How much longer? How many more crises? How much more can it take?

"You are breaking the Law," the seraphim growls. "You of all people."

"Oh, my dear dear friend, I am not all people," the lion's face breaks into a fanged smile. "You should know that."

The black orb seems to wait for an answer.


With a phoenix's song, the seraphim enters into the dreams of the inhabitants, wailing of the great disaster about to hit the planet. The dreams multiply and screams emerge from lips. Adults sit up from their beds, shaking wildly. Children cry for their mothers and fathers. 

It plants seeds in minds, the seeds of leaving, of saving their own skins.


With a banshee's screech, the cherubim soars above the cities, its wings cloaking the skyscrapers in black. Cars skid. There is the sound of glass shattering, thousands of windows breaking, showering the streets with sharpened crystal. 

It plants thoughts of hope elsewhere. 


The black orb waits for an answer.


"Do they have time to leave?" 

The seraphim and the cherubim hang suspended above the blue planet. The black orb have grown larger. 

As they watch, the stars begin to wink out, one by one. The echoes of their songs linger, screaming, hissing, roaring - and become silent. 

"Look. The ark-ships are going. Finally."

The cherubim watches the ships engage their huge thrusters like stars being born. So bright, so wondrously bold. The ships move like a shoal of silver fish. One by one, they wink out: they have entered hyperspace. 

"We have waited long enough. They shouldn't be punished like that."

"You are always the kind one."

The seraphim smiles at the compliment, the first and therefore, the rarest. With its own song, it burns bright, its six wings flaring like phoenix wings beating free. The cherubim takes the cue, finally putting its own plan into motion. The black orb moves towards the planet inexorably, inevitably. 

When the black orb has consumed the planet, it turns towards the seraphim and the cherubim hungrily. The seraphim reaches out a hand and to its surprise, the cherubim holds it with its own. Hand in hand, they let the black orb take them in. No more crises. No more.

Two more stars die that night.