Chapter Text
❖ ── ✦ ──『✙』── ✦ ── ❖
“What does it mean to be human, Rue?” Gabriel asks casually from where he is lazing atop the much larger bed he has teleported into the manor in Limbo.
You stop composing and set your quill down.
“Well, if certain philosophers of my time are to be believed, a human, or rather, a ‘man’, is a featherless biped.” You tell him while slipping out of your chair to approach the bed, which takes up half the space of your bedroom due to its size, which makes it feel cramped, and slightly annoying to navigate, but you are pleased to see how much more comfortable your angel is when he spends his time with you. “When gifted that rather dim answer, another philosopher presented the very definition of humanity: a plucked chicken. It was quite exciting hearing the following exchanges afterwards. It quaked my city for many weeks.”
Gabriel huffs a laugh and does not move a muscle as you take a seat beside him, settling just near his hip. He is on his stomach, wings tucked primly against his back, and you reach out and gently straighten a few of his feathers. He sighs, and you are rewarded with the sight of him sinking further into the mattress.
“Another philosopher once said that humans are ‘rational animals’, and that our rationality and ability to scrutinize the world around us is all that separates us from beastliness. To a certain shade, I agree, since animals are both intelligent and capable of feeling emotion, although limited. Yet, it feels insulting to water down humanity to just our rationality.” You muse, plucking a few loose, damaged feathers out of his plumage, which makes Gabriel shiver, before running your palm flat across to smoothen it out to near perfection.
“Perhaps it is a human’s rationality and their ability to express in creative outlets that defines them. Animals can create, but they are limited to building out of survival; nests and dens. While there is beauty in a creatures natural handiwork, there is no further meaning behind it. When an animal is cold, it burrows. When a human is cold, it bundles up, and if irritated enough, will make a song about how much they detest the snow.” Gabriel replies, voice deeper from relaxation.
“Hmmm, yes I think so. The music and arts have always been humanity’s greatest accomplishment and defining trait in my eyes. I will always be fascinated in those that create, rather than those that destroy. So, perhaps, it is accurate to say that humans are rational animals with a penchant to sing and dance. That still sounds a tad insulting, but, well, the human experience has never been all that dignifying. We are born screaming and covered in blood, and we typically perish the same way.” You reply.
Gabriel hums, utterly relaxed, and you lean over and press a kiss to the middle of his back.
“Falling asleep are we? And whom am I meant to continue this discussion with angel? I suppose I am used to talking to myself. I am rather good at it.” You tease, but you notice something as you rise back up.
Between his shoulder blades, right where both of his wings jut out of his flesh, you see thick, lattice scarring. All of Gabriel’s scars are opaque, almost white, and the contrast against his obsidian skin is intense. You trace the thick scarring with your fingers, a frown on your face and your heart heavy.
“How did this scar come to be? I befriended many former slaves, and so I am familiar with the lashes caused by whips, however the scarring here is far too centralized and…neat.” You ask.
Gabriel stiffens, and you even hear him swallow hard.
“It is not a wound caused by a standard whip. It is from a cat-o-nine tails.” Gabriel explains in a rigid, hands-off sort of fashion. “They are typically used for self-flagellation.”
Your blood runs cold and your heart promptly drops into your gut.
“…Am I to believe that you inflicted this wound yourself?” You ask carefully, wishing that you are terribly misunderstanding him and he will be upset with you for even suggesting such a thing, but your angel’s subsequent silence confirms everything you fear.
“Gabriel.” You say, emotions rising, and he sits up in bed and turns from you, unable to take the expression in your eyes.
“It was necessary!” He argues breathlessly. “It was my punishment for that shameful day I forced myself upon you like an animal. I prayed, and flagellated my sinful body for hours to absolve myself of that misdeed. I am…sorry to remind you of the occurrence once again, just as I am sorry that you must now gaze upon my atonement when I am without my armor. If you would prefer, I can put my armor back on.”
You have been frozen solid the entire time he has replied.
But, when he turns to face you once more, something about seeing his guilt-laden shoulders and the dimness of his halo snaps you back into the present moment. You begin to shake hard, eyes brimming with furious, heart-broken tears.
“Rue?” He gasps, concerned and so, so guilty, and he reaches out to you with both hands.
You take his hands and bring them to your face.
You lay a gentle kiss across each knuckle, tears spilling from your eyes. You bow your face, resting your forehead against his hands.
“You must never do something like that again.” You tell him very seriously.
“I deserved it.”
“You did not!” You protest furiously, lifting your face once more to fix him with a challenging look. “If you have done wrong to someone, you apologize and change your ways. You do not…” And you choke, unable to even repeat the horridness of his action. “It is not right. There is never a need to do such a thing, angel.”
“…I have done many terrible things.” Gabriel confesses solemnly. “I have hurt and failed many. A punishment like this is nothing.”
“’Is nothing’, he says, while breaking my heart.” You huff cynically, “You harming yourself will not do away with your past mistakes. I have met so many who lived controlled by their guilt—their shame. What a stifling, lonely existence, in thinking you are uniquely terrible and deserving of no reprieve or mercy. That self-hatred and guilt will get you nowhere. You must ask for forgiveness, but you must forgive yourself as well. You must move on.”
Gabriel is silent.
His helmet lowers to his lap.
“I forgive you.” You tell him once more. “I will always forgive you if you are sincere and make amends. You must promise me that you will not harm yourself in such a way again. Not for me, not for your brethren, not for your Father.”
“I-I cannot promise that.”
“You must.” You say, standing on your knees so that you can press a kiss to his helmet, still holding both of his hands, which you squeeze encouragingly. “None should expect or demand such a thing from you. It is like the conversation we had previously about Hell and the fact that despite suffering eternal punishment, most, if not all, are unrepentant—myself included. There is nothing learned or gained from torture that cannot also be done with mercy and understanding. Guilt and shame are natural parts of life, we will all meet these terrible actors in this play of life, but we need not invite them to our dining tables and have them live with us once the show is done.”
He falls silent again, but you are relieved that he does not turn away.
With a great, shuddering breath, Gabriel presses his helmet firmly against you, his way of kissing you back.
“…I swear to you that I will no longer engage in such a practice.” Gabriel says at last, and he says it so, so quietly, as if frightened that his Father is listening.
You almost faint from the relief that rushes over you.
You wrap your arms tightly around him in an embrace and he returns the gesture fiercely, even wrapping his wings around you.
“Thank you.” You tell your angel, kissing the place directly over his heart, like you have made a habit of doing so.
He begins to lay back down, and you want nothing more than to lay atop your angel and kiss every scar on his body and soothe him to sleep, but Gabriel flinches hard, wings spreading out, and he stands up at once.
“I am being summoned. I must take my leave at once.” Gabriel tells you, putting his armor back on with frightening quickness, and you assist by handing over his swords. “…I am sorry this visit was short and cut so abruptly. I—I would have liked to continue this conversation. And to lay beside you, if only a moment more.” He says, fully dressed now, and he cups your cheek, stroking it with his thumb.
“I have no doubt of that, my angel. Be safe, and I will await your return.” You tell him, kissing his palm, and with a nod, he lets his hand begrudgingly from your face before he teleports.
❖ ── ✦ ──『✙』── ✦ ── ❖
The only source of water in Limbo is the shallow pools here and there tucked away and the trickling fountain that sits right in front of the red double-doors leading into the layer, which you have not once seen open since your time living here.
You trust circulating water over the stagnating pools, and so it is the fountain that you use to clean yourself. You are in the middle of doing so now, naked as you stand in the fountain. Your ivory chiton has already been washed, and it lays on the lip of the fountain to dry beside your leather strap sandals.
You are singing as usual—what better time for it then now, when cleansing one’s body?
The coolness of the waters feels refreshing against your bare skin and the rough stone making up the floor of the basin of the fountain smoothens out your feet as you continually shift from foot to foot.
You are so lost in your singing and relaxation that you do not at all notice that for the first time in however long, the red double-doors slide open with a mechanical hiss, the noise of which is drowned out by your voice.
Something is watching you.
You finish washing and take a seat on the rim of the fountain to allow yourself to air dry. Oh how you wish there truly was a breeze that could roll through Limbo. You long for the feel of it. Sometimes, when you miss something terribly, your brain conjures up a very convincing facsimile of it—like when you are repeating conversations you had held with friends, and you swear with certainty that you heard their voice, or their laughter, instead of your own.
The sudden brush of air against your naked back feels far too real for that however.
Startling, you turn around quickly and with horror, you find that the double-doors behind you are slowly closing once more.
When had it opened???
Feeling eyes all over you now, you take your damp clothes and sandals and race back to the manor. You calm eventually, having checked every room in the manor and in Limbo itself and found it empty as usual, only yourself occupying this layer of Hell for whatever reason. You have never been one for paranoia or worrying in excess, so you hazard that the doors had simply had a hiccup of some kind.
It is not like you understand ‘technology’ as Gabriel had called it, in any degree.
You forget about the occurrence almost immediately, because later that day Gabriel returns after almost a week—you think?—and you concern yourself wholly with making up for lost time and expressing just how sorely you have missed your angel.
More and more he returns to you caked in blood and exhausted.
Whatever it is that is happening in Heaven and on Earth, it must be truly grisly.
You wonder if another war has started.
You yourself were born at the tail end of one. Perhaps that is why you had waged your own ‘war’ against the oppressive ministry of your city.
“I must leave again soon, Rue. I am deeply sorry.” Gabriel tells you sadly as dances his fingers across the curve of your stomach and hips.
“Do not apologize for things out of your control. I know that you will return when you are able to, love.”
“You are sweet beyond compare.” He says, leaning closer to press his helmet against you. “I have brought you a gift. I thought that it might soothe my absence.”
“There is not a thing in existence that could replace satisfaction of having you here with me—” You begin, kissing him again, and he is reaching with one arm beneath the bed for something, something he hid earlier when you were too focused on making him drunk with pleasure. “Is that a lyre???” You gasp sharply with delight, sitting up to get a better look at the instrument he is offering to you.
The lyre is…perfect.
You do not think that out of kindness either—it truly is perfect. It is the perfect size to be handled, and it is crafted from a wood that seems ethereal in its sturdiness and the beauty of its varnish. The soundboard and frame are lacquered, or perhaps even fully made of solid gold. The strings even seem to twinkle illustriously at you, begging to be strummed.
You do so at once.
The loveliest of notes play from that briefest of touch.
“Is it to your liking?” Gabriel asks with no shortness of nervousness. “I was unable to find one on Earth. I searched the wrecked music stores, the museums that preserved your people’s time—everywhere. I was losing hope, until I realized that all I simply had to do was request for one to be built for myself in Heaven.”
“There are mortals that would sell their souls for what you have just freely given me.” You tell him quite seriously. “Yes—a thousand times yes, I love it. Oh, Gabriel, how I have missed this. I cannot even begin to express myself.”
“A musician unable to express themselves? Surely that is a first.”
You laugh, so fond of this angel.
“Even chatterboxes such as myself find ourselves tongue-tied here and there. Come, angel, allow me to play the song I have created for you on this heavenly gift you have so graciously bestowed upon me.” You say, sitting up with your legs crossed to give your lyre a place to rest.
It is tantalizing to lay your sinful hands across the body of something divine.
That thought inspires another song about Gabriel, your angel, but you will commit it fully to paper before you make him blush and flutter his wings at the performance.