Sometimes talking to your family isn't an option. Sometimes your relatives just suck. My brothers are the literal devil and are no good for advice. So, who do you turn to? Your distant cousins? What if you're not on speaking terms? What if the last time you spoke was when you were kicked out of the house as the black sheep?

Not all of my brothers have the option of speaking to the good-brothers (my distant cousins I guess we could call them.) But I do-- well, I can speak to some of them. I'm sure you've heard of the stories where Saint Michael the Archangel kicked my ass. Needless to say, I avoid speaking to him whenever possible. Very few of us fallen angels even have the ability to speak to a high frequency beings. They literally cannot see or hear us, even if we are beside them.

For the record, he didn't just hurt me. I consider Michael a bully. He's beaten a few of us. The only “good” angel whose advice seemed relevant and was able to hear me was Sandalphon. Sandalphon was good to speak to since he was closest related to Metatron, the direct voice of god. (God only speaks to me when she wishes to-- and never upon my request.) I felt that reaching out to Sandalphon would perhaps give me the best wisdom. No fallen brother was good to turn to turn to in a crisis, and the reachable “good” brothers were limited. According to my watch, I only had a small window where I could connect with him.

My watch found that Sandalphon's signature was lowest in the spring of 1864, Rome. Knowing Sandalphon wasn't expecting me as I set the clockworks, stars, planets and resonance to the correct coordinates, I just decided to drop in. I hate talking to the “good” angels. My cousins. For me, their presence isn't just infuriating. It is something else.

The first thing that came into clarity was the smell. The hotter days of Rome baked sewage into the old aqueducts and masonry. The foul odor wafted through the air and was swiftly curtailed by the winds from the sea. It was not quite yet summertime. There was a lightness and greenness in the air. The second thing that came into view was the skyline. There were white domes and arches, long windows and a pale sky.

I hung in the air, invisible to humans. I have been to Rome so many times and it almost always looks the same, no matter the timeline or dimension. It was a stable place in the universe, there were deep, dark grooves of energy in the streets and countryside. I found Sandalphon and his signature vibration in a small art studio. It seemed easy to guess what he was doing based on the vibrational prints-- which was considered a good deed most of the time among angels. He was inspiring an artist to sculpt.

It seemed rude to just burst in with my needs, so I sent him an invitation to speak to me. Being the literal devil (and some cousins even consider us enemies) I don't feel entitled to an acceptance or even an answer. However, Sandalphon has never, ever denied a request to speak to me in the past. As I expected, he accepted instantly.

“Of course my brother,” he said in my mind in a kind, soft voice. “Come and see me.”

I used my powers to zoom closer, like pulling plastic sheeting through a narrow tube, I yanked myself closer through the fabric of space and time. Everything looked like it was pulled very taut until it snapped back into place. It could be described as a black hole, but in truth it is simpler than that. I was in a small room covered in broken chips of broken marble.

“I was expecting you,” Sandalphon said as I peered around. It was a small artist's studio, and the broken bits of stone was the result of hours of labor. In 1864, there was no modern plumbing or lighting, and the studio was a mix between contemporary for the time and ancient. There was an American rocking chair in the corner and stacks of books in Italian and English. There was a bookcase and a small cot. The artist was in the doorway speaking to someone. Sandalphon sat in the rocking chair, invisible to the humans. Stale yellow afternoon sunlight slid through the slats of the window. He looked regal in the chair, choosing a very human looking avatar. I immediately saw what the artist was doing-- beside the rocking chair and the angel Sandalphon was a marble bust that looked strikingly like his human avatar.

The bust of Sandalphon looked like an androgynous man, curly haired and perfectly symmetrical. I had to walk around it to admire the artist's handiwork. The bottom of the bust was decorated in stone roses. I was taken aback by the talent and the painstaking details. The face of the marble statue was both serene and sad.

“Oh yeah?” I finally asked after observing the artists work. I listened to what Sandalphon had said-- that he was expecting me. I was nonplussed since I came looking for him-- but did not want for him to see. It isn't usually good news when the other “voice of god” says he was expecting to speak to you.

“Well, not you, exactly, Azazel, though I am not surprised it was you I reached first. I have to lower my vibration to speak to you or your kind.”

Though we are all brothers, we are all related, I knew what he meant. I also knew he meant no offense in calling me 'your kind,' since the fallen are considered 'othered' by non-fallen angels. We are still angels, but there is no real word for us. Demons are a different species entirely.

“I thought to lower my vibration by indulging in...”

“Vanity?” I asked, amused, because vanity is considered my thing. It is very bad to be vain I guess. I couldn't take my eyes off of the bust. The artist, still speaking to a visitor at her door, only heard and saw the wind as we spoke to one another.

“Well, a little vanity...” said Sandalphon sheepishly. “Flori is an amazing and talented lady. I absolutely adore her and wanted... well, I wanted a woman to do my portrait. I inspired her and... well, you see the result,” Sandalphon went on. I could hear the pride in his tone. “Lowering myself a little is the only way you-- er, any of you can hear or see me,” he unnecessarily explained.

“I know, I know that. I know that only you... and your brother-- well, Metatron isn't speaking to us, not since I--”

“It isn't personal, and has nothing to do with your little song about his name. That's not why Metatron isn't speaking to the fallen. But yes, it is my duty and not his to communicate with the fallen brothers. Metatron deals with mortals. It is just the orders, whether you agree or understand or not.”

“So what's the message?” I asked impatiently, wanting to change the subject. I love making fun of my non-fallen brethren. They never fought back and often had stupid sounding names to the modern age. Why, I was the one who started the trend of calling Sandalphon “sandal phones.”

“It's not really a message,” Sandalphon said as he stood up from the rocking chair. I love to scrutinize and compare human forms. Sandalphon's avatar looked excellent. He looked almost human, from his curly blonde hair to his flawless skin. His robes were plain and white. He was without feet, though, I noted, hidden by his flowing robes. He didn't walk as so much glide across the room. He was too tall, too. Rarely did human stand nearly seven feet in height. “It was more... more something I noticed, rather we noticed. As a collective.”

“Oh yeah and what's that?” I wondered while wandering around and eavesdropping on the artist and her friends. I couldn't imagine (or care) what the 'good guys' noticed and wanted to talk about.

“Well, there is a small group within your... group. That is acting differently.”

“That... tells me nothing,” I answered impatiently. “You lowered yourself to my level to tell me that??”

“No, no no... this is important. I'm not explaining it well. It could be that you couldn't notice or couldn't see. There is a group, I think only two at this time, that are... committed to doing good deeds.”

“Isn't Gabriel available? He's always fun to talk to. Remember when he impregnated that woman? That was fun.” My tone took a nasty spin just to see how Sandalphon would react.

Sandalphon never reacted and never seemed bothered. He only smiled as if he hadn't heard and continued on as if nothing was amiss.

“Raum? I think he goes by Raum. He was named Haborym by the Lord. He is quiet, if I remember him well enough. He has another with him. They decided to only influence humans for good, despite being in a negative Hell dimension. They want God to see them-- to hear them again. So, to raise their vibrational level they are only doing good deeds.”

“How's that working out for them?” I bit back with heavy eye-rolling in my tone.

“Uh... not... not very good. But enough that they have my attention?”

“So-- your attention. Not THE LORD'S attention?” I asked, bored. This wasn't the first time a fallen angel had the crazy idea to redeem himself. It just couldn't be done. Hell, I try every chance I get.

“No, the Lord can't see them yet,” Sandalphon answered loftily. He looked uncomfortable, which made me more interested. Clearly, he saw this as important information, simply Earth shattering knowledge. I saw this as nothing. It was just maybe old Sandal Phone wanted an excuse to get his portrait done. I can't fault him because I myself love inspiring artists to channel me and make me in some way. I know I have thousands, perhaps millions of portraits, pictures, statues, and songs made about me. Sandals looked a little defeated, maybe even a little embarrassed for making me come this way.

“That it? That's all? Jesus, Sandal Phone, you could have told me this without meeting me in person. You know I was looking to get your opinion on something? Unrelated to Raum and whomever and his joining the Girl Scouts.”

Sandalphon sighed and walked around the marble bust. I could hear Flori leave the art studio, laughing and joining her friends. I watched as Sandalphon, the twin to the angel Metatron and the voice of God, took a moment to truly savor the love and care the artist put into her work. The bust was almost finished, flawless and smooth. It captured his inhuman expression, thoughtful and far away.

I like Sandalphon because he is a sensitive entity. He has been called the angel of tears and the angel of flowers. Many poets, writers, and artists have had encounters or written about Sandalphon. He often lowered himself to human level vibrations.

“She intends to give it to a poet named Henry Longfellow. Longfellow said of me, 'captured the sounds of prayers as they were wafted upward from earth and converted them into flowers that perfumed the heavens.' I thought that was so beautiful, that I wanted it molded into reality... as this art.”

“That guy, Longfellow, has written a lot about us,” I mentioned, but was attempting to stop the talk about poets and poetry. “I was looking for a 'good guy' point of view on something.”

Sandalphon glanced up. I could see how he could have been mistaken as human, but I also saw how he absolutely was not. His eyes were too large. They were not a natural shade of homosapien blue. They were a sad blue. They were the blue of a passing squall. They were the blue just after sunset, a color no person with flesh could have. He was reading my energy with concern and interest.

“It's... my brother,” I said, starting off stupidly. “Meresin.”

Sandalphon visibly shifted. He went from care and engrossment to guarded. He detached a little. Sandalphon was no fan of Meresin. Very few of my brothers are. Meresin was known as the plague.

The literal plague. The force behind what killed most of Europe and Asia in the middle ages. He was not a devil to be trifled with. He wasn't a devil with friends. Mostly just me. However, he's been largely inactive for hundreds of years-- not plaguing anything. I'd mostly catch him repairing holes in the Veil.

“He told me he's quitting,” I said, gossipy. “And I've never heard him talk like that! What do you think he means by that-- he's quitting?”

“Well, he... hasn't really talked to me much, to be frank. So, I am not sure of that. But, you've quit. Publicly. We know that. You aren't doing much of anything bad. I've seen you help people. Why, we wouldn't be talking right now if you weren't of high vibrations at times, Azazel. We just meet in the middle here. Earth. 1864. Or whatever time suits you. I just wanted to meet Florence here,” Sandalphon said, gesturing to the artist-- who went to have dinner with her friends.

It was refreshing to talk to a peer on the other side of Hell. Although Sandal Phones is a big dork, he is likable. His taste in art and humans is usually spot on. The bust of him looked good, at least. I approved of his portrait.

“But—But Meresin,” I pushed. “He's been working on something and I'm not sure what. If it's another plague, or ...something like that, we'd all need to know ahead of time. But, I don't think it's that. It certainly doesn't seem plague-y...”

Sandal Phone's energy seemed genuinely concerned. No one could forget the Black Death. He really did a number on the humans. Even God was upset. His features turned solemn.

“If my brother were to do something like that, I would most certainly tattle-tale on him. However, I have yet to see any evidence of that.”

“What... has he been working on,” Sandalphon asked cautiously. “no one else knows. Not even Raziel, the keeper of secrets.”

The truth was, I didn't know. I didn't know what Meresin was working on and it bothered me greatly. It just didn't have the same feeling as his other projects did.

“I know he's been... he's been fixing the Veil,” I said, unhelpfully. I picked up a piece of marble from the floor and examined it. I could feel O'l Phones watching me from across the room. Outside, the sun was beginning to set and I knew Sandalphon would have to leave before the shadows touch the ground. I could tell that he wasn't satisfied with my answer. We both knew he didn't have the time to dwell.

“Tell me if you hear of anything significant,” my brother said lightly. Fixing the Veil was grunt work that usually fell to my fallen brothers and I. We have complained to the Lord and questioned why it had to be us that fixed it, but we have no recourse. The good angels never do necessary work to keep the dimensions in order. All of it falls to the fallen angels.

We had to depart, neither one of us satisfied. I wanted to stay longer in a higher vibrational place, just for a moment or two more. I couldn't. I knew I didn't have the energy to sustain it. I had to say goodbye to Rome in the 1860's, though looking at it, it could be of any time period. The skyline looked much the same from the 1100's to the 1900's. It was an unchanging place. I just wanted to hang on as long as I could before I had to drop myself back down to Hell. One last breath, one last look, and I was gone.