There was darkness amidst the rocks and rough terrain of the road just outside the walls of Jerusalem. Nothing stirred in the night air. Little noises of nocturnal animals going about their business barely ruffled the silence.
And then there was light.
A single, brilliant shaft of sunlight shot down from some indeterminate source in the heavens. It did not illuminate the night, but merely served as a checkpoint, a marker in the darkness.
Gradually, so slowly that one might not have noticed it, had anyone been watching, a shadow appeared in the bright spot of light shining directly on the road. It darkened slowly, and the eye of the narrative drew back to reveal, developing in the shaft of light, a human figure. It was little more than a translucent outline, but, as time passed, detail and colour shaded it, filling it in and darkening the shadow.
The figure slowly became clear enough to distinguish features. It was male, with broad shoulders and chest, long, dark hair falling loosely curled around the face, an inquisitive and intelligent brow and a strong chin. His eyes were tightly closed, as if in intense concentration. As his image became more solid, more real, the narrative eye could see long, dark lashes laid across his tanned skin.
The last layer of translucency was stripped from the man's figure, and the light snapped off as abruptly as it had appeared. The man fell bodily to the ground. He lay there for a time, not moving, the slow rise and fall of his muscular chest the only sign that he was alive.
Slowly, Gabriel opened his eyes.
So this was what it felt like to have a body – to be human. It was strange. He felt horribly cut off and alone, and yet connected to the whole of Creation in a way he hadn't been before.
Laboriously, he pushed himself up into a sitting position. His left hand struck something half-buried in the dust of the roadside, and he raised the hand to his eyes almost without thinking. He was feeling pain for the first time, he realised blankly, staring at the small wound the object had left on his ring finger. He was bleeding.
That realization drove it home. After nearly a decade of preparation, he was really here, walking the earth as a human, his power and consciousness cloaked in a body. And he had a job to do. He was here for a purpose. But what was it?
Thinking back, he found that he could not remember. His mind was already hazy on the topic of what had come before. This was only to be expected, he knew. He had been told before he had left, in order to prepare him. A human brain, an organ of meat and fat and electricity, could not hold the full and insubstantial glory of Heaven. Already he had almost forgotten how it had been before he had had a body, before he had had a contained self.
He brushed away some of the dirt beside him, looking for the object that had injured him. He found it quickly – it wasn't very deeply buried. The blade of a sword, rusted and pitted, glinted dully at him. He dug a little more, and found the hilt. The sword was an ugly, ungainly thing without grace or beauty, but, he realised, it had been made to serve a purpose and had obviously served it well. The same purpose, in fact, that had brought him here.
He clutched the hilt of the sword with both hands, and used it as a sort of crutch to lever himself to his feet. The feel of the hilt between his hands brought back and echo of a memory, a ghost that gently reminded him of his previously forgotten intent.
I am here to smite the wicked, he thought, wondering at the way the words formed inside his head, giving shape to a vague idea. To slay the unrighteous revenants unleashed on this innocent world.
"But first," he said aloud, savouring the taste of words on his tongue, "I'm going to need some clothes."