The Guardian gods

The angel looked around at the corrupted landscape of the planet. It closed its eyes and dissolved into a cascade of light. A moment later, a human form stood in its place: a fair-skinned man with golden hair, dressed in a spotless white garment.

Ikenga did the same, returning to his human form. The angel waved a hand, and a golden sea of flames spread across the planet. This time, Ikenga didn't react, allowing the flames to burn everything to ash. Once the fire subsided, new life emerged from the ash. Ikenga began to reform the planet with his will, restoring it to its pristine state. The planet responded to his will, and a tea table made of polished stone rose from the ground, offering them a place to sit.

The angel, now a man, sat down across from Ikenga. The ground beneath them responded to Ikenga's will, forming a polished stone table, two teacups, and a kettle. Roots snaked up from the earth, delicately placing the cups and kettle on the table. From the open air, water poured itself into the kettle, and a small fire sparked beneath it, heating the water.

Once the water was hot, the roots lifted the kettle and poured the steaming liquid into their cups. A gentle breeze carried tea leaves, which settled into the hot water, instantly dissolving and causing the liquid to glow with a soft light. A sweet, earthy scent spread through the air.

Ikenga picked up his cup, blew on the surface, and took a slow sip. The angel watched him, then followed suit. As the warm, fragrant liquid touched its lips, a genuine smile spread across the angel's face, replacing the cold fury that had defined it for centuries.

"You asked what they could offer you?" Ikenga said, his voice soft as he watched the angel gaze into the glowing tea, or perhaps at his own reflection.

The angel gently set down his cup and looked at Ikenga, waiting for him to continue.

"They already gave you something more significant than themselves or their race," Ikenga stated.

"I have gotten nothing from those lowly mortals," the angel rebuked, a cold fury returning to his tone.

Ikenga shook his head. "You not only got something from them, but you have experienced it." Seeing he now had the angel's full attention, Ikenga continued, "The mortal gift to you are the wizards."

Hearing the word "Wizards," the angel's eyes began to glow with a righteous fire. "How dare you refer to them as gifts?"

Ikenga took a slow sip of his tea, his gaze steady on the seething angel. "How could I not dare? You are just blinded by anger and hatred. You can't see it clearly as I do."

"I would rather you be calm with me as I am making an effort to get you to see things clearly, maybe even gain redemption," Ikenga said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

At the mention of "redemption," the angel stood abruptly, the tea table trembling under the sudden shift in energy.

"How can you speak of redemption when that is something lost to me?" the angel snarled as its six wings sprouted from its back, no longer a pristine white but a deep, foreboding gray. It brought the wings closer for Ikenga to see, the feathers now a testament to its fall.

"My wings are no longer white. My identity as an Angel is lost because of the hate and anger I have towards all mortals not just these lowly creatures who betrayed me, but all mortals that are and will be. I have lost that pureness Angels hold in seeing the best out of wrong. Now, all I see is wrong when gazing at mortals."

The angel took a menacing step closer, its voice low and dangerous. "How dare you, after all this, speak of redemption to me?"

Ikenga met the angel's fury with a calm, unblinking gaze. He didn't flinch at the sight of the gray wings or the words of bitterness. He simply set his teacup back on the table.

"You're right," Ikenga said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Redemption isn't something I can give you. It's something you have to find for yourself."

He gestured to the table between them. "I'm not here to talk to an angel. I'm here to talk to Zadkiel. The being who, answered a weak mortal cry for help against demons to save a people. The being who, even when betrayed, didn't immediately destroy the very mortals who wronged him."

"You have all this time, not attempted to fight back or fly back to that world to destory it. Instead you hope that you are stopped or even yet convinced by me"

"If you had lost your purity, your wings would be black, not gray," Ikenga continued, his eyes meeting the angel's. "You see your hate and rage as a weakness. I see it as a mark of the struggle. A mark that shows you fought to hold on to your ideals, even when they were stripped from you."

He took a deep breath, the scent of the newly formed world filling his lungs. "You ask what those mortals gave you. They gave you a new perspective. They gave you the ability to feel anger, hatred, and betrayal. These are not weaknesses. They are tools. Tools you can use to understand the universe and the beings within it in a way no other angel can. It is a gift of understanding, a perspective that no other angelic being may chance on having."

"Use your anger to your advantage," Ikenga said, his voice now a low rumble. "Don't let it consume you. Let it guide you. The righteous anger you feel can be a powerful tool for a greater purpose. Let me help you find it. Let me help you find a new kind of righteousness."

The angel stood wide-eyed, golden tears streaming from its multiple eyes. Ikenga's hands clenched at the sight. When he heard the angel's words, he wanted to defend mortal creatures. He himself was once mortal, and he had a mother who believed in God and his angels.

Ikenga's inner turmoil was a storm of conflicting emotions. On one hand, he saw the angel's pain the raw, unfiltered shock of a celestial being witnessing mortal treachery. He understood why it would see all of humanity/mortality as a disappointment. To a being of pure light, the shadows of mortal sin must seem all-encompassing.

Yet, this perspective was a betrayal to his memories. His mother was a testament to humanity's potential for goodness. She was a woman who prayed with a faith so strong it could move mountains, a woman whose kindness was a balm to all who knew her. Her belief in God and his angels wasn't just a habit; it was the very core of her being. How could this angel, a representative of the very God his mother adored, not see the reflection of that love and goodness?

Ikenga's heart ached with the injustice of it. He wanted to scream, to defend the countless mortals who lived lives of quiet decency and unwavering faith. He wanted to hold up the memory of his mother like a shield against the angel's despair. But the words died in his throat. He, of all beings, knew the truth: for every one like his mother, there were a hundred others who would break a heart, who would betray a trust. He had seen it in his mortal life, and he saw it still.

His figure, turning to petals as he comforted the angel, were a silent confession. They were a bridge between the celestial and the mortal, a symbol of his own duality. He was both once a son of a loving mortal and a being who understood the harsh reality of human nature. He couldn't deny the angel's pain, because he, too, carried the weight of mortal shortcomings. And so, he chose silence, allowing the angel its moment to grieve a shattered ideal, an ideal he knew, in his own heart, was both a beautiful truth and a painful lie.

The petals from Ikenga's figure drifted in the air, a silent offering of solace. Zadkiel stood alone, the golden tears still streaking down his face, his gray wings trembling with a mixture of sorrow and rage. Ikenga's words had struck him in a way no physical attack ever could, piercing the shell of his righteous anger and exposing the raw pain beneath.

For centuries, his identity had been all wrong. He was an angel, a being of pure light and divine purpose. But the betrayal had corrupted him, filling him with a hatred that he couldn't reconcile with his own nature. He had told himself that his rage was righteous, a just punishment for the mortals who had wronged him. But Ikenga's words had shattered that illusion. His anger was not a tool for justice; it was a prison.