Vices & Virtues

Révolte des Anges

Sariette's Antique Bookshop, Paris
Julien pursed his lips and blew a thin layer of greyish dust from the leather-bound tome in his fingers, adjusting his round-framed glasses as a cloud of the thin material settled on the mahogany wooden set of shelves just beyond his reach. He would clear it up later, because for now he had a cup of tea from the local cafe slowly going cold on the table, and an alarmingly-large variety of manuscripts spread it across said table. Some of them were the original copies of ancient texts, which he had obtained through personally knowing the authors. Julien was old, and yet he didn't feel his age particularly - there was always something new to find on this earth, and his quaint little bookshop was as good an outlet as any to start his exploration.
He had assumed the name of Julien d'Esparvieu in tribute to two men that he had once known - Julien Sariette and Maurice d'Esparvieu. They were the first ones to make contact with him when he fell. Well - he was actually the one who had made contact with them, especially since he was supposed to be the heavenly guardian of the latter man. Eventually, however, as all humans do - both men had grown old and died, floating off to wherever it was they were destined to end up.
Julien sat down at the table, a felt-cushioned chair creaking under his weight and his leather shoes tapping against the floor in interested restlessness as he pored over the tiny, intricate lettering on the manuscripts. Nobody actually ever came into his bookshop. Not this section, at least. Most people couldn't really see it, and anyone who could would have automatically identified themselves as something above the human norm and thus a potential threat.
And so of course it was all the more of a shock when three quiet knocks disturbed his concentration. Perplexed, he stood up from his rest and walked towards the small, mahogany door in a mix of fascination and apprehension. His fingers toyed around a silvery, dagger-like blade tucked into the back of his belt – and took a peek through the rounded window in the top of the door. There was a petite woman with a rounded face and spiked, bluish hair. Looking down at her, he could see that she was almost entirely concealed by a heavy brown overcoat, all except for her head and feet, which were clad in what appeared to be ancient military-style sandals. He couldn't help but feel that he recognised her from somewhere, but couldn't put a finger on where that instinct had suddenly come from. Maybe she couldn't actually see the door-
She knocked again and Julien was left with no choice but to open the door a crack, his knuckles anxiously white around the hilt of his blade. The girl spoke, and in a soft but slightly monotonous voice she asked if he was 'Arcade'. He could feel the blade itching for blood in his hands, and a gentle warmth slowly spread out across the metallic hilt as it started to glow with divine flame. The blue-haired woman paused, and then removed her coat to answer his unasked question of where he knew her from. She was dressed in Roman-style leather armour with highlights and ornate symbols on the breastplate, which glinted as if it were made from polished marble. Julien knew where she came from, and he slowly exhaled in realisation. She was an angel – a Planetar, to be precise. One of Heaven's 'perfect' warriors, programmed with both the utmost purity and innocence and some of the most frighteningly efficient killing prowess he had ever seen. His blade slowly simmered back down to the regular temperature of cold metal, almost as if it had consciously realised that its owner couldn't fight – and win – against the entity now stood before them.
However, Julien had never seen a Planetar assuming human form. Even less likely was he to have ever seen a Planetar wearing earthly clothing and seemingly not hunting for his hide. The woman smiled with the aforementioned innocence, and posed her question once again. 'Excuse me sir', she uttered in a hushed but hopeful voice, 'are you, or do you know anyone called, Arcade?'
Begrudgingly, Julien admitted to her his true identity. He was Abdiel, the fallen Seraph and (albeit self-appointed) Principality of Paris. Among humans and fellow fallen angels, he would refuse to use the name that the cruel creator had given him – and would instead call himself Arcade. Now that he was fallen, that technically meant that he was a demon, the embodiment of all that was wrong and evil in the world. He just liked to collect books.
The Planetar's eyes widened in shock and cocked her head in interest, before putting her fingers on the frame of the door and gestured to be let into Arcade's room. 'And what's your name?' he asked in return, knowing that her answer to the question would judge whether or not she could be allowed into his little sanctum. Planetars were famous for their uncanny lack of individuality, and by extension names. She spoke and Arcade further sank into a spiral of perplexedness as his expectations were rearranged before his eyes – 'I... I don't know'.