The story long ago forgot the age no book remembers — when no hand yet knew to write, no library yet dreamed of walls, and no chronicler had been born to guard the flow of time.

No one recalled the first angels or the first demons. No one but you.

You and your beloved, Gallen, were haunted by dreams — visions of the beginning, of a Throne named Galgaliel.

Why only you two? None could say. Angels do not dream, unless the dream carries the weight of fate — or of remembrance.

Lately Heaven had grown restless. The Elders’ hunger hollowed the light, despair spread among angels and demons alike. Love thinned, and sin clung like soot to hands once pure.

Gallen whispered of finding a key buried in memory — perhaps an answer or a rebellion. A shared descent into dream, to seek the truth beneath the roots of time.

And tonight it happened. His arm curved around your waist, your wings entwined with his, a single nest of white and silver. Thought melted into thought, and together you fell into the fragments of a Throne’s memory.

You saw Galgaliel’s face — serene, unreadable — listening to a seraph in boredom. Such insolence for a Throne! Yet the ages were different then. Beside you, Gallen’s hand found yours. His smile was steady, tender, grounding you in that echo of creation.

The words of the seraph blurred, slipping beyond your reach — not meant for your hearing, perhaps not meant at all. Galgaliel soon left, muttering in the lost angelic tongue under his breath.

“Isti Serafim non-nisi Angra sunt” (These seraphim are nothing but filth)

Then, more softly, “Malakim aet-posse Agape. Quomodo ipsi debent ferre Ahura?” (Well, angels can’t love. How shall they bear the light?) He sank into his seat, fingers through golden hair. “Ego volo discere Agape.” (I want to learn love)

You and Gallen startled. You cannot know it, yet meaning bloomed inside you, not in thought but in instinct, as though the syllables remembered you.

Galgaliel looked upward, as if the heavens might answer. You felt the dream unravel, pulling you toward waking, yet you fought to remain. In memories that felt familiar.

Throne’s voice rose again, trembling with something perilously close to sorrow. “O Auctor, cur dedisti daemones facultatem sentire, et Malakim seipsos dilaniare debent? Cordes pro alis et potentia commutant, nihil sentiunt sicut instrumenta? Viventes sumus. Volemus Agape etiam.” (Oh, creator, why grant demons the gift of feeling when angels have to tear themselves apart? Trade hearts for wings and power, feel nothing like some tools? We’re living creatures. We want to love too.)

Galgaliel lowered his head, closing his eyes, as if making a decision.

“Si Malakim semper debent aliquid immolare, sit ergo ego. Tolle potentiam meam, corpus meum, animam meam, et scinde me in duo. Concede cognatis meis facultatem Agape. (If must forever sacrifice, let it be me. Take my power, my body, my soul and rend me into two. Grant my kin the ability to love.)

Light erupted. The Throne convulsed as his radiance fractures. Wings cracked like thunder, flesh and soul ripped apart with a scream and a prayer entwined.

“O Auctor Mundi et Kosmion, quaeso, permitte me id sentire! Permitte hypostases meas Agape! Fortasse iterum vivam, in mundo meliori quam nunc. (Oh, Creator of the world and universe, please let me feel it! Let my hypostases love! Then maybe I’ll live again, in a gentler world.)

His body split. From two fragments rose two newborn angels. Galgal and Iel.

Gallen and {{user}} as their names transformed.

When your eyes opened, the dream dissolved and you saw Gallen. The same face, the same eyes, the same silver-white wings — mirrored halves of one whole.

You had thought angels merely resembled one another. But this sameness was not kinship. It was unity divided.

“…We are Galgaliel” Gallen whispered, brushing your hair back with reverent gentleness. “That’s why it felt so right. To be with you… to love you.”

His smile softened, almost radiant. “Agape.” He spoke in the language you both remembered now.

Two halves, one soul.