Gabriel pulls the sash tight round his robes, stifling his breathing; pulls the leather straps taut around the flaps of his boots, cutting off circulation. It feels good, it feels real. Reminds him of the skin and muscle in this body that is, for now, so like that of a human. And such discomfort, it'll check his stride - he'll carry himself like a man, not an archangel.
He looks at himself - himself? - in the tall mirror leaning-to against the wall.. Simple, non threatening. A farmer from some unspecified spit of barren land in Judea. He's been this way before, and it stings to don this garb again, to remember the time he looked alike to this, lived like this. And so unlike an archangel.
But what is an archangel, he wonders? Is it the being that walked in the Garden of Eden, that saw the great seas and stones and civilisations of the world rise and fall, aided or no by his hand? Is it God's greatest messenger? Is it a vessel of perfection, made imperfect by the sins of humanity? A guardian - a harbinger of death? Or simply a lowly Judean farmer brought down to spread the good news?
Oh, the good news.
He casts his eye around his rooms, searching for the thin scroll Father had given him, recognises the place, goes to it. He knows where it is, but a stranger would see nothing but what looks to be the aftermath of a hurricane, a maelstrom, a flood. Odd knickknacks from all the corner of Creation. Spare bits and memories of existences and incarnations.
These rooms used to be sparse, frugal. Then he stopped putting things away and getting rid of things he didn't need, because what if he ever did need them? He often had need of things that he had already lost. He would not again give away anything that was even little bit a part of him.
There it is, atop the chest housing his trumpets. He takes the scroll, slips it through the loop on his belt, passes into the common area, praying none of his siblings are around. No; the room, rich with carved golden wood and velvet of royal purple and noble red, is empty. Good. Thank Father, he can depart undisturbed -
"Gabriel." He stiffens at the voice. "Where are you going?"
Damn it all. Damn everything.
He could have handled Uriel, mad as she is. Raphael would have been sage enough to offer a simple farewell.
But it had to be Michael. It always has to be Michael.
He controls the muscles twitching into a scowl on his face, his flash of anger, of malcontent, of not wanting to do this right now, and turns. His better half had been sitting behind an ornate pillar, near the hearth of holy fire, hidden. The flame glints in Michael's eyes for a second as he stands and turns. Golden, filled with concern, and a warning. Of course - much as his tact prevents him from saying it aloud, he suspects Gabriel is off to slaughter another conglomerate of sinners.
"Don't worry brother, my sword is staying here." He indicates the scroll on his belt. "I'm just going to deliver a message. It's happy news - a baby to be born." Now please, let me go, before you say something and I snap and we both get upset.
Michael's eyes grow bright as the anxiety disappears. He smiles, understanding. Pure adoration. "Father made flesh."
"…Yes."
He points to the scroll. "His name?"
"Yes, but I've not read it yet, so I couldn't tell you."
"Then how can you be sure you'll pronounce it correctly?"
The corners of Gabriel's mouth tug up; he restrains it. Only Michael can make him smile amid his lingering melancholia. But it lingers too heavy to allow Gabriel to embrace his brother's light. Gabriel doesn't want to give it a chance right now, either. "Divine intervention, I suppose," he says, feigning nonchalance.
Michael laughs softly. Good. They're comfortable with each other then, maybe he can move away now -
"This child while shine bright. It's a great honour."
Oh. That is exactly what Gabriel did not want to hear.
And he feels the iron rod that his held him upright all these centuries bending, bending, cracking. Couldn't Michael feel it? Couldn't he feel the apprehension in Gabriel's heart, the anger, the bitter memory? Was he misinterpreting Gabriel's reticence as coming from the burden of honour? Did he perceive so little?
Gabriel tastes something sour in his mouth - bile, or hate made manifest. It pulls at the back of his throat. He can't control his tongue, he has to disgorge the foul stuff. "Oh yes, a great honour indeed," he spits. "Another chosen child to be primed for the slaughter."
He tries to control his vocal chords but he's bottled it up for so long that it comes out like a flood and Michael can see it happening and knows instinctively why Gabriel is so upset, yet he can hardly stop it.
"How shall they kill him this time, I wonder?" snarls Gabriel. "The hate of humanity has such immense creativity to put to use, surely they won't settle for a hanging. A beheading? Fed to a wild animal? Perhaps they'll nail him to a cross. A great honour."
Michael has always been decisive. He never lost his stern streak, but since Sodom and Gomorrah he has tried to temper it with love. It works, often - the reprimand is clear, yet pleasant to hear. Still, when he walks forwards, his stride purposeful, his eyes fierce, Gabriel feels not just the pulse of his brother but the pulse of an archangel - ah, this is an archangel - and checks himself - unconsciously of course.
His brother grasps his upper arm and shakes him. He stumbles on his tightly bound feet.
"Gabriel, control yourself," Michael says, quiet but insistent. "Your loss is no longer raw. What you bear now is not grief but a grudge. You're better than that. Don't hate like humanity."
"What have I left to do?" says Gabriel, pushing his brother away, pointing at him, ashamed that he was wrong about Michael's perception. He perceives, he understands, he isn't a distanced, unknowing other, like he used to be. When the boy had…lost his life, it was as much a loss to him as to Michael. He had felt the sadness, seen the tears, in amidst his own anguish. He was stupid to think Michael saw nothing. But he was determined not to concede to wise counsel. The egotism of humanity had long since seeped into his soul.
He grasps at speech. "It's…festering within me - like a hundred year wound, and it's beyond cure now. It's…gone into my blood."
"And you're at liberty to flush it out." Michael is both emotion and reason when he speaks, why can Gabriel never be both?
"I could have lanced it with a swift sword to that impostor straight away but you begged me stay my hand, Michael."
"You're blaming this on me?"
Once upon a time, when the glass had begun to crack, Gabriel had only seen anger and blame. Now, as it shatters, sorrow and revenge are all that are left to him. No, please don't put words into my mouth and ideas into my head, he begs through his heart. Don't make me draw all the wrong conclusions.
He stammers as he speaks. "Wounds ought to be stitched before they can fester."
"Swords don't sew, they cut," retorts Michael. "You didn't give yourself time enough to heal, to reason your anger. You acted on instinct and emotion. Revenge brings you nothing Gabriel, it just slips more poison into the wound.
His sorrow boils over, manifesting as angry tears."Next time you have somebody you love ripped from you, come back and let me know, won't you?"
"Gabriel -"
"Perhaps I'll slit my own throat and then you'll understand."
Michael flinches as if he's been cut. The pain flashes in his eyes, his mouth hangs open, and Gabriel instantly feels guilty, sorry, horrible, scum of the earth, isn't he?
"Do you have a death wish, brother?" Michael's voice shakes. Holding back his own flood. Gabriel's heart hits the floor. "Are you so bereaved that you'd wipe yourself from existence? And to what end?"
And Gabriel hears the unspoken question in Michael's voice - To hurt me? If he ripped open his throat he'd be ripping open Michael's throat. If he strains against the confines of existence he presses Michael unto the same fate. Did he want that? Did he really? Not in all the world. Then to what end, indeed?
"To rid my heart of the burden," he says quietly. "There's a shadow over my soul and we archangels shine too bright to cast it away." If he could even call himself alike to an archangel.
"But don't just slip into the darkness and let it become a part of you. Let me help you, Gabriel. You're my brother, and I love you, and I'm not going to leave you to be swallowed up by this.
Gabriel refuses to acknowledge that his cheeks are suddenly wet. He sets his brow and fixes his eyes to the floor while his vision blurs, sets his lips in a line and presses his jaw together so no sobs will slip out. Michael puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezes firmly. Gabriel lets the spasm subside. Holds it inside. Allows himself to swallow the anger, cap the rush of sadness and madness and fury as if he is bottling up one of the wraths of God. He can feels Michael's disappointment, that Gabriel reveals nought else, imparts no thought or feeling except an unbending desire to regain control. And he can feel Michael's resigned acceptance of that, which makes him feel all the more hollow.
He finally shrugs his brother's arm off. Michael turns aside as Gabriel sniffs and wipes at his eyes. He adjusts his clothing. Every movement is tense. Michael doesn't meet his eyes, he doesn't meet Michael's. He walks him wordlessly to the doorway. Michael tries to ease the ice. He has become good at making his voice like the gentle stroke of a hand, calming instead of jarring
"Who will be his guardian, until it is time?"
"Her name is Mary," Gabriel mumbles, hand on the dark, tough wood. "She's to be his mother. I…pity her, already."
While Michael's eyes are sharp, his voice is not - it trembles, though he doesn't seem to be aware of it. "The boy may not die violently."
Michael may not be sure, but Gabriel is. He shakes his head, walking away. "I highly doubt it. Chosen children always do."