Thou art my father, thou art my author, thou my being gavest me;
whom should I obey but thee, whom follow?
of Chaos and Eternal Night
There was naught but confusion when it happened. There was no provocation, no warning, no surge of power to indicate what was to come. There was only a brief tingling of borrowed Earthly flesh, a tug of Grace and a subtle push, and then he was falling - cast out alongside his brethren and plummeting toward the mortal plane of Earth.
Never before in his long existence had he truly experienced fear and pain as he now did; all-encompassing and urgent as he felt his essence burn, the stench of hot ozone choking his senses and stinging his eyes. He could feel the wind tickling the fine hairs on the exposed flesh of his vessel, twisting across his scalp and knotting dark blonde locks.
Father, give me strength, he cried into the void as he became dangerously aware of his vessel's heart beating in its chest, the rush of blood in its ears and the dry ache in its throat. He stretched his wings and found that he had not the strength to fly; neither muscle nor sinew would respond to his command, tingling and atrophied as though from disuse.
His ears rang with the pained and panicked cries of his brothers. Chancing to open his eyes, he saw them; brilliant streamers of Heavenly light streaking out of the sky and washing out the very light of the stars, igniting Grace and turning night into day. In vain he reached out, though none were close enough to touch; he would find no comfort there, were there even any to be had.
Instinctively he pulled his battered wings about himself as the ground rushed up to meet him, taking solace this small accord, that he could at least do this. The comfort was short lived, however, as moments later he felt the last of his Grace ripped away, wings torn from him and scattered to the wind as he neared the surface of his Father's creation.
After a brief eternity, he felt himself immersed in cold, liquid darkness, divine senses failing him as he slipped into the black.
Awake; Arise or be Forever Fallen
The air was sweet in contrast with the bitter bile that poured in wretched gasps from his vessel's mouth as he crawled his way up the muddy ground at the edge of the pond. Slime coated his vessel's skin and garb, throat and sinuses clogged with the stuff and he feared that he had gone blind; he could feel, smell, taste his surroundings, sharp and bold and more clearly defined than he had ever felt. What was of him ached in tandem with the pains of his vessel, which he found odd and unsettling. Never before had he felt his vessel's discomfort so acutely, nor sympathised - resonated with that mortal pain in such a way. No angel bar few had done so before.
Lucifer, Gabriel, Metatron, Anael, Castiel; a list so short of those who had come so close to humanity, those who had tasted the fall and become shunned and reviled by their brethren, their stories told to deter dissent.
Question not thy Father's will, they would sing, lest thee come to Lucifer's fate.
Take thou care and not hasten thyself to sin, lest thee fall as Anael.
Bind thyself not to thy Father's creation, lest thee be cast into the mortal coil as Castiel.
They were as fables to mortal children; stories of wonton disregard to the will of Heaven and the consequences that followed, stories of horror meant to frighten away the tendrils of independent thoughts and actions that went against the divine will of the Host.
His vessel wretched once more before finally drawing in the breath that it so desperately craved, muscles becoming weak as he felt exhaustion roll over him like a cold fog. He turned over, laying back against the mud and the wet grass, spent and wounded and confused as he turned his blind eyes skyward. He was filled with relief to find that his eyes registered the milky swirl of stars - he wasn't blind, after all - but this darkness that covered him, muting his senses... he could find no cause for it.
It wasn't until he saw the brilliant streaks of flame shoot across the horizon that the events of the last several minutes became clear, accounting for the cold he felt and the ache in his vessel's bones that spoke so clearly to him now; Heaven was falling.
A thousand alien feelings rose to war within his chest, his mind reeling with a thousand unbidden thoughts. What had happened? Was their Father angry? Who had done this? WHY?
Again his eyes burned, his throat clenching in a way that frightened him. Desperation, hopelessness, anger, fear; base chemical reactions that should have been suppressed by his Grace. He reached within himself, desperately clutching for any remaining tendril of the divine light within himself, only to draw back empty. He shut his eyes to Listen, but the voices of his brothers were now closed to him.
For the first time in his long existence, he was cold, in pain and so frightfully alone.
Into This Wild Abyss
Move, his mind insisted. He felt exposed, vulnerable, like a raw nerve. He wondered fretfully if any of his brothers had fallen near. He wondered, blasphemously, if Lucifer had been afraid when Michael had cast him down from the precipice. He wondered shamefully if Anael had felt this pain when she tore out her own Grace. He wondered sympathetically if Castiel had felt this alone and bereft when Michael and Raphael had shut him out from Heaven.
He wondered bitterly if the surface of the Earth, unbuffered by his Grace, was always so damned cold.
In all honesty, he knew little of Earth and the ways of its inhabitants. He had not been stationed here before Heaven had withdrawn over two-thousand years ago, and had only recently taken his first vessel at Hester's request when his garrison had been assigned to collect and instruct the newest prophet, Kevin Tran. He had seen battle, but he was no soldier; he was merely a messenger, a guardian and sometimes a teacher. Gabriel would have been his superior, had the archangel not taken his leave of the Host all those centuries ago.
His mind kept circling these thoughts, these memories as he placed one foot in front of the other on the tarmac, arms wrapped about himself in a vain attempt to quell the shivering of his flesh - it was his flesh now, he realised. The thought that his gracious and pius host was no more brought the stinging to his eyes again, blurring his vision of the road ahead. Remorse and anguish coursed through him at the realization, nearly faltering his step as a choked sob escaped his lips. The sound surprised him and he stopped, head canted to the side, both curious and horrified at the lack of control he had over his emotions.
Panic gripped his soul as reality ebbed in around him, quickening his breath and causing his blood to turn cold; he was mortal, human, cast out from Heaven and devoid of his Grace. He had never spent time in the company of humans, didn't know how to survive as one. He stopped short of grieving for himself, suddenly ashamed of his ego and broken pride. It was unbecoming to mourn his own loss so; it was selfish and against the nature of his being, so very human to feel pity for himself.
He cast his eyes to the Heavens, searching the stars. No longer did he see his brothers fall burning from the skies, and that came as some relief. It was heartbreaking to witness everything he had ever known fall in ruin.
"What might Castiel do," he wondered aloud in Enochian, the words falling from his lips wrapped in a heavy sigh. Castiel would make do, he supposed. Always since pulling the Righteous Man from Hell he had been close to humanity, immersed in their ways and fighting for them, even when it went against the will of the Host. He would likely have his human charges - his friends - to catch him as he fell. "I have no 'friends'," he muttered to himself, picking himself up.
A part of him admired Castiel's bravery and devotion to their Father's greatest creation. He himself revered the intricate design, though he did not understand it half so well. Many tried to vilify Castiel, to liken him to Lucifer, but no. Castiel loved humankind, just as their father had intended, and he protected it with his life.
With a sigh, already feeling the pains of mortality, he set upon the road again with composure, following the faint light that hovered over the horizon. He didn't know where he was going, nor to what end, but his thoughts urged him on. Move. You cannot remain here. You must seek assistance. Castiel has faith in humans. He has sacrificed himself for humanity many times, they may help you.
And so he would seek the assistance of mortal men.
What Hath Night to Do With Sleep?
His limbs felt leaden, feet dragging across the concrete as he trudged past houses and lawns and vehicles. The lanterns lining the streets had flickered off, the sun's rays beginning to spill over the horizon to the East, painting the canvas of Earth and sky in hues of pink and gold.
It had seemed hours that he had walked along the darkened road, his wet, grimed covered clothing becoming more and more uncomfortable as the chill seeped into his flesh. The sun was a welcome comfort, warming the Earth and his soul after the long, dark night. He was no longer a stranger to misery, this ordeal bringing him close to breaking his spirit, but he followed the advice of the voice at the back of his consciousness to keep going, keep moving, keep walking; find help, find people, find shelter and safety.
His head hung low, scarcely able to hold it upright any longer. He felt his strength waning, muscles burning and his eyes felt sticky and strained. To add to his discomfort, a new pain had begun to gnaw at his insides, growing more and more incessant as the light grew brighter and brighter.
By the time the sun had climbed into the sky in its full glory, he felt a curious and terrifying sensation fall over him; as he trod onward, his eyes fell closed and consciousness briefly fled from him, snapping back as he stumbled to his knees in the soft, dew-covered grass in front of a small brown house. He became instantly alert, terror welling within him as he scrambled back to his feet, nearly falling over backwards in his panic.
What was that, his mind worried, the beating of his heart quickening his mind, his senses sharpening to his surroundings. He had never felt such weariness, had never before met with any lapse in his awareness. The experience was new and terrifying.
Mortality will drive me mad, he mused to the lightening blue sky, we are not made to withstand such discomforts.
His legs began to shake as the panic faded, the ache and weariness returning to his limbs. He sat down on the plush lawn to gather his thoughts as a darkness crept across his soul, hopelessness eating its way into his heart. For a moment, he closed his eyes, and the darkness surged up to swallow him whole.
This Horror Will Grow Mild, This Darkness Light
When awareness rejoined him, he was laying on something soft and conforming, a comfortable weight resting over him, leaching away the cold from his flesh. His clothes were dry, no longer clinging to him and chaffing his skin. Though disconcerted by this turn, he felt far too comfortable to panic, too tired to question it. His jacket, tie and shoes had been removed - an odd sensation he had never considered when he had merely worn his vessel; it felt rather liberating. His muscles still ached, but he found that it was dull and distant, a soreness that was bearable against the burning ache and weariness he had felt when walking along the dark road.
He remained still, allowing wide eyes to roam around the room he'd woken to; it was simple, modest, adorned in pleasing tones of earthen hues and gilt. He had never been inside a human dwelling, having only visited places of commerce and business in his dealings in the past. The closest he had come had been when he and Hester had been sent to collect the prophet of the Word of God, having found Castiel sequestered in a place of sickness and again in the hunters' cabin. Neither place had been a home, nor had they a hearth. He could no longer see the bindings of home and family as once he may have, but he could sense its power nonetheless. Above all, he felt no fear here; he felt safe.
Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, drawing in the intoxicating scent of something sweet and light that pleased his senses but caused the gnawing ache in his stomach to make itself known ever more sharply.
I must be feeling hunger, he mused to himself, both frightened and intrigued by the thought. Human needs and customs had long intrigued him, though he had always been too timid to attempt to partake in any of it. Others of his brethren had attempted to blend with the world they had been assigned to, taking great pleasure in interacting with different cultures and peoples the world around. He had only watched from afar, preferring to observe though the desire to immerse himself, to taste and touch and learn, had no doubt lurked at the back of his thoughts.
He startled and shot upright, muscles tensed defensively as someone came into view; a human woman, stately and sturdy with thick coils of black hair nestled tight, peppered with points of starlit silver and wrapped in a colourful scarf about the crown of her head. Her age was indeterminate, mature yet not old, youthful but not young. Her large, reumy brown eyes regarded him thoughtfully from a round, coffee-complected face as she set down a little tray on the table beside him, bearing a plate upon which sat some type of bread topped with thick white cream and a cup filled with dark, steaming liquid, the combined scents of which bombarded him with sugary sweetness and rich herbal undertones.
"I figured you might be hungry when you woke," she drawled in a lilting Southern accent. "You been out better'n a day."
Unsure of how to respond, he merely sat coiled at the end of the sofa, watching her warily as she moved around the little table to collect the discarded pillow and blanket. She watched him as she folded the blanket, dark eyes seeming to pierce into him.
"Mm," she exclaimed, shaking her head, "you sure done had it rough, didn't you. Found you sprawled out on my lawn yes'day mornin', sound asleep. Woulda called you an ambulance, but there's somethin' different 'bout you, isn't there..."
She set the bundle of comforter and down on top of a wooden chest beneath the white-curtained window, moving to settle into a comfortable looking green wing-back chair opposite the stunned fallen angel. He nearly held his breath as she picked up a brown ceramic cup from the table beside her chair, taking a sip and humming her appreciation before setting it back down.
"My name's Missouri. Guess you could say I got a soft spot for hard-luck cases such as yourself. I seen what happened the other night. Lived out here under the stars long enough to know that weren't no meteor shower."
He glanced around the room, finally mustering the courage to break eye contact with the woman - Missouri - and relax somewhat. She meant him no harm, obviously, and had cared for him when he had been vulnerable. The tray on the table caught his eye again, curiosity urging his hand as he reached out for the cup, holding it in both hands she had done.
"Careful," she warned, not looking up as she unfolded a newspaper in her lap, "water's a bit hot. Don't wanna burn yourself."
His eyes moved warily to the dark contents of the cup, watching in mild fascination as tendrils of steam rose from the surface. The warmth through the thick ceramic felt soothing to his hands, the aroma tantalising. Experimentally, he brought it to his lips and took a tentative sip; it was hot, but pleasant, the warmth sliding into him and easing his parched throat. He closed his eyes, a contented hum rising from his chest as he savoured the taste; earthy with a hint of spice. His vessel remembered these things for him, cataloguing them as one might find described in a text. Experiencing it, however, was something new and exciting, and he wondered to himself why he had abstained for so long.
"Glad to see you like tea," she smiled gently at him over the top of the newspaper, "thought you would. Didn't peg you for a coffee drinker."
He glanced up at her, setting the cup down and turning his attention to the plate. Gingerly, he picked up the pastry, picking at it experimentally. The sweet scent struck him again, eliciting the dull ache inside him that he was beginning to associate with hunger. He tore off a small piece delicately from the end, the pastry pulling apart in a sticky coil. He glanced up at Missouri questioningly, but she just smiled briefly at him and continued to read, leaving him to his own devices.
Undeterred and with an instinctively basic idea of how this was supposed to work, he brought the bit of pastry to his mouth, eyes widening as he was overwhelmed by its sweetness, again with just a hint of spice. Cinnamon, his mind supplied from the reservoir of knowledge acquired through the eons and his vessel's own physical memory, finding the taste more than agreeable.
Missouri chuckled softly to herself, shaking her head. "You are somethin'," she spoke to the room; whether to herself or to him was unclear.
"Inias," he murmured softly, as though intimidated by the sound of his own voice. "Thank you."
Missouri smiled at him, folding the paper and holding it in her lap as she held his gaze. "The Lord abides, Inias," she told him. "I believe He watches out for his flock. We're all his children, I think he'd want us to look after each other in times of darkness, wouldn't you say?"
Inias felt himself smile, his soul feeling lighter than he thought possible since his plummet to Earth. He found himself liking this woman; she was kind, wise and seemed possessed of a sixth sense, one of God's gifted. She was selfless, not questioning him or pressing him, and he found her mere presence a comfort. Through his brief encounters with humans in the past, he had found most to be wound tight, coiled and even volatile. Missouri was quite different, seeming relaxed almost to the point of indifference, seeming to know that he was not of her flock and yet accepting him despite the fact.
"I think that He would, yes," he quietly agreed as a pulled off another layer of sweet pastry, a faint smile curling the corners of his mouth at the way the sticky, sugary goo inside stretched between the two pieces before breaking apart , tendrils snapping back as he studied them before devouring it, quickly becoming enamoured with the sweetness and the soft, buttery texture.
He felt Missouri's eyes on him as he devoured the last bits of the pastry, licking the sugary remnants from his fingers with relish. Despite the inherent awfulness of finding himself lost and fallen, perhaps not all of being mortal was so terrible. He glanced up to catch his host's smile as she levered herself up from the chair.
"Come on," she urged him to follow as she made her way out of the room, "now you're rested and fed, let's get you cleaned up and in some clean clothes. Mayhap I got somethin' you can put on you. My late husband was a twig, skinny little white boy like you should fit his things fine."
Inias rose from his seat, eyebrows drawn together, deep in thought. He hadn't considered his attire any more than he had his shoes or jacket, though since she had mentioned it he had become aware of the fact that he was still filthy with dried pond scum from when he had crashed to Earth.
"I do not wish to burden you," he informed her, "already you have done much for me."
A mirthful chuckle greeted him in response. "Oh, honey. He's gone on nigh fifteen years now, gone home to his final rest. He won't be missin' em, and I think they'd do you better than sitting in some musty old closet."
Something clenched painfully in Inias' chest and he stopped, clutching at his shirt over his vessel's- his heart. Home. He had been abruptly expelled from his home, everything he knew torn away from him in a senseless instant. He had no answers, no way to return, no way to find his brothers in this wide human world. He was Graceless, hopeless, homeless.
He felt his knees shudder beneath his weight as his strength gave out, his eyes burning as he felt tears gathering there, something hot and barbed lodging itself in his throat.
Missouri stopped and turned toward him, seeming to sense his pain. Inias found it strange and yet comforting when the woman put her arms around him, pulling his head down against her shoulder. Uncertain of how to respond, he let his arms hang limp at his sides, allowing this human who had cared for him to soothe him.
"Shh, hush now, it's ain't all that bad," she cooed to him, "the Lord works in mysterious ways. He brought you to me, after all. Ain't no fall you walk away from gonna kill you. Right now you're lost and you're hurt, but you stay here as long as you need, child, and I'll see to it you're get on your feet."
Tentatively, he returned her embrace, grateful in ways he had never imagined for the mercy and kindness of his Father's greatest creation. Perhaps He had spoken to Inias, led him here, urged him to move onward despite his pain and confusion and sorrow.
(A/N: Okay, so this is totally random. Not really sure where this hit me from, but I wanted to get the perspective of an angel who was not Castiel dealing with the aftermath of Metatron expelling everyone from Heaven. Despite his like two minutes of screen time, I've always kind of liked Inias, right up there with Samandriel, and though it pains me to put the poor guy through all this crap, he was ideal for a bit of angst and naivety without the explosive drama of one of the higher-and-mightier types.
Missouri seemed like a decent choice at the time; caring but no-nonsense and tough as well as 'intuitive'. I've always loved her character, and I really, really hope that I portrayed her okay... and that I didn't make her speech patterns too cliché ._. I really didn't want to use an OC for the role, and I wanted to do something with Missouri anyway.
If there's an interest in this, I may continue it :) review and let me know.
Title, quotes and headers borrowed from John Milton's Paradise Lost)