[1] Gunther and Lala

Jericho, Washington.

It's a difficult task, describing the town of Jericho. Not because of anything peculiar or complicated within it, but rather because of the lack of anything to describe. Jericho was ordinary. In every way, shape and form.

There were four distinct seasons that traded off in a consistent pattern every year. The preferred of which, among the local residents, being both the spring and fall for lack of heavy snowfall or wildfire smoke and heavy heat that would accompany the more extreme parts of the year. The mountains surrounding the area did a reasonable job at maintaining the local region's unremarkable climate. So there were never any interesting weather events beyond the common climate change that was affecting the entire planet. Geographically speaking, it was very stable and boring.

The town itself was about as average western-United-States as it gets. It had a main street, which was it's economic hub in terms of retail and food service. There were a few parks littered around, as well as a few churches of various denominations left over from a time where they meant more to people. The town's actual main sources of income were the soybean farms about a mile south, but the ten thousand some-odd residents of Jericho preferred to believe it was their thriving downtown. It was just one of many soybean towns occupying the western state. How exciting.

Everything about it was average, but diverse in it's own way. Each of the houses in the residential neighbourhoods were unique, but not enough to stand out in any particular way. They were unique in the sense that each house was a home to somebody, filled with memories and personal decorations of love and subjective beauty. This was the same case for each person living in the houses. All the residents, whatever animal they might be, dog, person or backyard hen, each had their own histories, opinions, and voices. But few were extraordinary enough to change the world.

But like every single place in the world, there was something in Jericho that made it just a little bit special. Something no other town had.

And the thing —in this little town's case— was it's resident angel. Living casually among the people as though he were one of them.

In a little white house on Trinity Street.

Atticus' fingers slid carefully up and down the neck of the cello, tracing a pattern on the strings that, in turn, traced a pattern of music into the air. No other creature would dare disrupt him at such a time. Completely immersed. An angel perfecting his already perfect craft.

He was alone, but if there happened to be anyone around to see him at such a time, they would definitely think him to be some sort of ethereal being of the heavens. Even without his white wings visible to the naked eye. The morning sunlight streaming in from the window gave him a natural golden halo without the use of any magic at all. And the music drifting from the instrument he played was enough to sound like all of Heaven had been packed into the one little room of his house. When he was alone, Atticus pash de Ophaniel was truly a sight to behold.

After the death of his arch-rival, there wasn't much left for Atticus to do. Heaven was all stirred up, recognizing him as a hero and celebrating his victory in the fight with Bentley, but even with all the praise and admiration there really wasn't anything left for him in Heaven. The war was off for the time-being, and the citizens of Earth were too busy recovering from a war of their own to be in need of any serious help from the divine. So when the higher-ups in the angelic status quo asked him what he wished for as a reward for killing Bentley, his answer was only one word: Rest.

That was all.

Nobody was quite sure why he would ask for such a thing, especially with all the attention he was getting at the time. Never once in his many years of life had he ever considered backing away from the works of Heaven, but once Bentley was dead he practically disappeared from the presence of his fellow angels all together. Perhaps he felt his job was done. Perhaps he just couldn't stand the attention. Perhaps there was another reason. But whatever it was, his wish was granted and he was allowed to live among humanity for however long he pleased.

Now he was spending his days in a little white house on Trinity Street in Jericho Washington, performing casual miracles, volunteering at one of the local churches, and playing a whole collection of instruments to pass the time. Even though he was quite young for an angel, it was his retirement. Or something to that effect, he wasn't sure really.

Whatever this state of being was for him, he had no intention of changing it.

After eighty-five years of this, he still hadn't even considered going back to Heaven. He wasn't exactly happy most of the time, but he knew he would feel worse if he were to return to the ranks of his own kind. Especially because the peace agreement was about to be lifted. The whole place would be a downright holy mess when that happened, so unless they desperately needed him up there, Atticus had every intention to remain among the beings of planet earth. He figured it would be better to let the fire of his remaining popularity in heaven die out slowly than to keep restocking it out of egotistical desperation. There would be no more involvement in the war on his part.

He was done fighting.

And the cello music continued.

Until it was interrupted by the only type of sound powerful enough to cease the music of an angel.

The meow of a cat.

Atticus' fingers released and the vibrations of the strings came to an abrupt stop. His golden eyes, practically glowing in the sunshine, opened.

At the window sat a hulking grey tomcat. Atticus sighed. With the wave of his fingers, the cello and it's accompanying bow climbed back into their case.

"What is it?" He asked the cat.

The cat, who's full name was Gunther, replied with another loud meow, this one sounded more urgent.

"Alright, alright I'm coming,"

He cracked the window open and held out his hand. As though by some miracle, pieces of cat kibble materialized in his palm, piling up on top of each other until they had created something of a little mound. Immediately, Gunther begin chowing down as though his very life depended on it. Atticus just smiled and held his hand steady, watching him eat.

"Where's everybody else, then?" He asked the cat.

Hearing this, Gunther stuck his tail in the air. As if to answer the angel's question, another cat's face emerged from a hedge in the garden, her ears squished flat against the shrubbery. Despite seeing Atticus and the food, she did not come any closer.

"Oh, good morning, Lala," He greeted her.

She still didn't move, but instead let out a pitiful mewl.

"Ah, okay." Atticus looked back at Gunther. "Are you okay if I check on her?"

Gunther nodded —or gave the feline equivalent of a nod. Atticus climbed out the window and into the garden below. He knelt down by where the smaller kitty was cowering and gently scooped her up in his arms, allowing her to dig her claws into his shirt. He flipped her over, looking for the injury she had just described to him. Sure enough, there was a deep gash in her leg, leaking blood onto the surrounding fur. Atticus looked at it, his face impassive.

"Who did this?" He asked Lala.

She let out a nearly inaudible mumble.

"I see,"

Then he placed his fingers over the wound and it began to heal itself over. Lala squirmed and tried to press her face into the angel's side, but he held her steady until there was no trace of the injury. Then he released her. Immediately, she started bounding around the garden, testing out her new freshly healed leg.

"Do either of you know if Moufette coming by today? Shall I leave a bowl for her on the steps again?"

Again, Gunther put his butt in the air, but gave no vocal answer. Lala continued celebrating by prancing around the garden. After a moment of watching them, Atticus sat down in the grass and smiled at the pair of them.

He had been looking after the stray cats in the area since he had settled in this particular town. They kept him company, and he found he could relate to them much more than he could his human neighbours. Of course, this had raised some eyebrows amidst the nosier and more observant bipedal citizens of Jericho. But human standards are often so small a thing when compared to the rigid structures of the divine, that Atticus cared little of any opinions anyone had of him. He related more to the quiet felines of the streets than of any other worldly creature he had so far found.

"Have either of you ever considered letting me take you into the shelter?" He asked. "There are people out there who can take care of you the same way I do. You don't have to come all the way to my house in order to get food or medical attention,"

Gunther's tail flicked as he continued to chow on the pile of food at the windowsill. A clear 'No' from him.

"It was just a proposition."

From somewhere inside the house came the metallic ringing of a cell phone. Sighing, Atticus climbed back into the little room to answer it. He checked the caller, then picked up.

"Hello?"

The panicked tone of the person on the other end told Atticus he probably would not be allowed to finish his conversation with the cats in his garden.

"Of course, where are you?" As he asked this, a nearby jacket lifted itself off the chair it was resting on and gracefully floated into his outstretched hand. He shrugged it on, continuing to listen to the person on the other end.

Atticus left the room.

Despite his attachment to the cats, Atticus had actually encountered a few humans who's company he enjoyed in moderation. Of course as mortals, their relatability was somewhat limited. But they were present in his life, and they considered him a friend as well. And maybe that would change if they knew he wasn't even the same class of being as them, but that was on them and not Atticus. So regardless of this potential reality, it was the first time Atticus had enjoyed the company of anybody in a very long time.

Being an angel, surprisingly, had a lot of drawbacks. On top of the rigid status quo, they weren't a particularly gregarious bunch like their demonic counterparts. Friendship and companionship amidst heavenly choirs were accepted, but not expected. Atticus, of course, being the unremarkable being that he was, had never taken the time to bother getting attached to anyone of his own kind, and perhaps this could be one of the reasons behind his leaving Heaven after the war.

He had nothing to stay for.

Only once had he ever thought of someone as more than an ally, foe or authority figure. But that was ancient history. And it was a history he tried not to think about.

But now he had friends. The local street cats, and some human companions with which he could talk and associate. And though their troubles were often simple and never concerned the balance of the four realms, he was still happy to help. If anything, it was another learning experience. And a second chance to find connection after everything back in his realm of origin had flipped itself over thanks to the death of Bentley and the peace agreement that soon followed after.

He wasn't happy. But he was as close as he ever thought he could be.

The life of an angel can sometimes be a lonely one. But to Atticus, that was alright.

Or so he thought.

...