Apathy and hate are equal parts burdens and blessings. Burdens, because they hurt like Hell (not that Gabriel, unlike his eldest brother, knows Hell at all). Yet blessings, because they make it far more easy to watch in indifference as humanity is wrecked, or, more often than not, wrecks itself.
Like being able to find someone to blame. Fear and confusion can be directed, transformed into anger and hate, and it makes it so much easier to bear the burden of standing by apathetically. But the former - when humanity is wrecked, beyond their control? That is what Gabriel ponders now.
Mankind calls him Vulcan, because they don't know who else to attribute this fiery wrath to. For certain, Father's worldly creations are resided over by his own subordinates and demigods. but this is nought but a disgorging of nature's brute power.
And punishment, of course. Always, a keen and violent punishment for humanity's arrogance and sacrilege. Gabriel is more than certain, these days, that this is what such disasters are for. To bring humanity into check. When there's infighting, it's because some hate more than others. But when nature wreaks impartial havoc, well, that's a collective punishment if ever there was one. The people of this Empire - so keen to claim supremacy - may as well be shown how powerless and fragile and minuscule they truly are in the face of God's wonders and their structured chaos.
Father has briefed them:
Do nothing.
Assist no-one.
Allow my machinations in nature to select victims and survivors. Just preside over it, please. Just bear witness. It's part of the plan.
It's always part of the plan, isn't it? That's what Michael would tell him. It used to be to stay his hand, now it is to get him to do anything Michael needs - or wants - him to do.
He is standing next to Gabriel, along with their siblings the lot of them at a safe distance, swirling the air with their open wings now and then to redirect the occasional fireball.
Michael is a stone. His stance is stoic, his hands over the hilt of his sword, stuck into the dirt. The fire, the pure, natural fire that humanity has always been so sure it could harness, dances in eyes that have seen every star of every universe, and everything before those stars even caught flame. True enough, all the archangels carry the universe in their eyes.
But under the skin, Gabriel can feel Michael's silent torment, buried deep, deep within, known only to him because he feels it pumping through the roar of blood in his own ears. Michael is a soldier - he will follow Father's orders, no matter how cruel. It's just that he knows better now than to revel in it.
Ought he to, though?, thinks Gabriel, his eyes fixed on the screaming citizens beneath them, crumpling beneath the weight of ash, stumbling from the shockwaves.
Oughtn't he be glad that hateful, blasphemous, egotistical individuals be purged by natural law?
Maybe once, when Gabriel did not understand humanity, he would have said, "No, spare them, have mercy." But he was a fool to ever believe that. To ever believe that the desire for perfection lived in all God's creatures, that their capacity to love was ever more than hate. He knows now the depth of humanity's perversions. He watches from a high place, knowing that once they stood somewhere like this, looking down onto rushing crowd as they threw his David onto the stones. So yes - he, and Michael, and their brothers and sisters, ought to be glad of this. He turns to observe them.
Uriel marvels. Nature is the fiercest and most pure and most perfect work of art to exist in Creation. No artist, previously or to ever exist, had or would equal its splendour. The fiery reds, illumined by god and orange and deep brown, soar across dirt and choked plants, filling her eyes.
"Glory to Father's light," she whispers. "It's magnificent."
Raphael, next to her, has small, silent tears. Where they come from, Gabriel can't tell. Perhaps simply pity. But he can tell by the curiosity in her gaze that she is equally fascinated, by the choices - selfish, and sometimes, surprisingly thoughtful - that the besieged people make.
And Azrael - well, Azrael is extremely busy at present, so he is not with them.
The plan can be tampered with. That's the point of free will. It shouldn't be, but it could be. And maybe they should assist. They could probably avert or lessen the effect of the disaster if they tried. But is there really a need to? They're doing fine ruining themselves (the angels, and humanity). Why stop torment if it's necessary? There's just no point, no reason to care. All of this disaster and torment seems a blink of an eye to them. Volcanic eruptions tend to last much longer in the human eye. Gabriel has seen nature disgorge her fury before. He saw her flood Santorini with fire. He saw her slaughter people and animals with sulphur and poisonous gas and earthquakes. And now, he watches as she buries Herculaneum in magma and ash.
His only regret is that he is not pouring out the molten rock himself.