A/N:
I'M SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY! the last few weeks have been a desperate rush of work/stress and I'm afraid I just had too much going on to get any kind of update done sooner, let alone a decent quality one.
Some notes about the upcoming chapter: (IMPORTANT)
- It's not from Dean/Cas's POV so I'm sorry but you have to wait until next chapter (hopefully the 26th to make up for the delay) for more DeanCas fluff
- IT'S A TOTAL MINDFUCK AT PARTS BUT I PROMISE YOU IT'S SO IMPORTANT FOR THE ACTUAL PLOT I CANNOT EMPHASISE THIS ENOUGH like okay please read it and read into it as much as you like because this is laying a whole buttload of groundwork for future plot twists so like, fucking look out.
- Some parts will seem to contradict earlier parts of the story if you've been paying close attention... but it's meant to. Again, it's part of the plot. All loose ends will be tied together. Many of these things are plot catalysts. I did say earlier this fic would get complicated.
Anyway, I hope you all enjoy!
weedom - yeah he does! But I can't give anything away on that front, only promise that there's a happy ending ;) Anyway, glad you enjoyed, and thanks for commenting!
Kassie - Awh, thank you so much! That's very sweet. And Cas's problems are definitely going to come through in later chapters (stubbornness, rebelliousness, rejecting any kind of role of leadership that is thrust upon him) but again, I can't give to much away, because, y'know, spoilers! Thanks for commenting, hope you enjoy the rest of the fic :)
Nicole - Thanks! Here it is!
Chapter 10 - The Children
"And like everyone, I took, I was taken
I dreamed
I was betrayed:
Earth was given to me in a dream
In a dream I possessed it"
—Louise Glück, from "The Seven Ages
Michael
"I shall lie there in Hades apart from you" – Euripides, Hekabe tr. Anne Carson
Little Castiel bounded up to Michael as he approached the gates to the city. The child nearly tripped on almost every enormous paving stone he crossed over, hardly recovering himself each time before continuing. At little older than three summers, he was learning quickly that he was an awkward, clumsy creature, and navigated through this trait of awkwardness with a surprising amount of grace. Like now, when he jumped clean into Michael's arms from ground level and buried his face in his brother's neck.
"Michael!" He exclaimed happily, squeezing his brother tight. "You're home!"
Michael smiled despite himself. It was rare that he smiled; he was much like little Castiel in this respect—but his youngest brother somehow always wrung these otherwise reluctant beams and grins from Michael's lips.
"I am," He laughed softly. "Pray, little bird, would you go tell my youngest brother of my return? I've heard he's quite beside himself with worry, and he never likes it when I'm gone."
Castiel giggled in Michael's arms as he made his way through the white gates of the city, nodding to the Angels who stood watch over them. They nodded humbly back from their respective posts.
"I'm not a bird," Castiel pulled back and wrinkled his nose at Michael.
"Truly?" Michael asked, raising his eyebrows at Castiel. "But I had been so convinced—" He pretended to falter. "Well, if you aren't a bird, what are you? I had been convinced you'd mistaken me for a tree and were taking rest in my branches!"
"No, Michael." The little boy shook his head. He giggled musically, nose still wrinkled in delight at his brother's silliness. "I'm your brother."
"You're my little brother Castiel?!" Michael asked, feigning incredulity. "But last time I saw him, he was so much smaller! How long have I been gone for?"
Castiel twittered again and pressed his tiny palms to Michael's cheeks. Something softened in Michael's heart, a tenderness which, for over two centuries, he had been certain he would never be able to feel again—and but for Castiel, he wouldn't have.
"Four moons, brother." Castiel answered. "Father says that I've been growing."
"He does, does he?" Michael asked. Castiel nodded in confirmation. "And where is father now?"
Castiel turned in Michael's arms and pointed back towards the citadel, up the uneven, gleaming white road that led straight to the palace itself. Approaching them in the distance, Michael could indeed make out the figure of their father; his hollow, tired eyes trained on Michael and Castiel—Michael straightened up on instinct—he noted how their father's beard had grown longer, how it appeared slightly unkempt, how today, like so many other days, he had chosen to wear black and gold, to mourn the loss of his wife.
Only his cloak fastenings were blue.
These were a bright, clear blue, that matched so perfectly with Castiel's eyes—the eyes that were unearthly even by Angelic standards.
Michael bent his head low and grazed his nose against the dark hairs of Castiel's head; he smelled of youth and infancy, of the rue and rosemary that the vestals had used to clean Castiel since his birth; the smell clouded his vision and he hugged Castiel close to his chest, thanking Abra that she had sent the little Angel in his arms to fill the hole in his heart that had been two centuries in the making.
By the stars themselves, Michael had thought all love and tenderness had left him for good after all that transpired those many years ago.
Castiel had grown to be more than a blessing to Michael, and was now his only true joy.
Their father came near, Michael anticipated him wanting to take Castiel into his own arms, and offered the boy to the High King.
Their father's face softened.
The years of hurt behind his eyes, for a moment, seemed less bitter. Love flickered across his expression.
He pulled Michael close and embraced him, Castiel still in Michael's arms so that he could not return the gesture, only hook his chin over his father's shoulder and breathe, thinking of all the sorrow in the world and how much of it he and the High King had seen.
He prayed Castiel would see none of it.
He prayed Castiel would find real and perfect happiness, and that he would live a life untouched by the horrors of war and anguish and death and loss.
If the writings of the prophets of old were anything to go by, this would not be the case.
"Your youngest brother has missed you," The King smiled softly, pulling back. He grazed the back of his forefinger against one of Castiel's tiny feathers, the feathers that promised so much hope to Michael; the feathers that were a gift from Abra to promise hope to all Her people. Castiel turned to look at their father and held out one of his arms. Michael dutifully handed the little boy over to the High King. "I have missed you, too." He added, glancing at Michael's troubled expression. Michael feigned a smile.
"Thank you, father." He nodded his head, humbly. The High King placed Castiel softly onto the ground and began to walk slowly so that the little Angel could keep up with them, tiny hand clinging at the edge of their father's dark cloak. The King looked down at Castel with affection.
"Did you visit Eofor?" Their father asked, looking intently at his oldest son. He spoke in Edian, the language of Hera and Eofor, so that Castiel would not be able to understand. The little boy had only just begun to learn Ceol, as it was the easiest of the Human languages to grasp—although the child was becoming more than proficient in it. Castiel, Michael had noted, saw in Humanity something fantastical and not alien, but delightfully familiar.
Michael glanced away at his father's question; he began to feel as though he were drowning, which is exactly how he felt two centuries ago, on the most fateful day of his life, when all the stars had seemed to flicker out and the world had grown too dark and too sad and too hopeless for him to carry on.
He forged ahead, nonetheless—as he did now, in attempting to answer his father's question.
"I did," Michael answered. He swore, he wasn't trying to be stiff or withdrawn, but this sort of thing just… happened, when his father wanted to broach this subject with him.
"And?"
The High King was raising his eyebrows expectantly at Michael.
"And, what?"
"What are you speaking of?" Castiel asked from where he stood beneath them, craning his neck up to look at Michael and his father.
"Nothing important, little brother," Michael attempted to answer, smiling gently at his sibling, but the High King interrupted him.
"Castiel, have you seen how many flowers they are selling, today?" He asked, bending a little to speak to Castiel. "Look at these tiny purple ones," He gestured to a stand, at which an old Vestal with violet eyes stood.
Something about her seemed unearthly, in the same way as Castiel seemed so often otherworldly to Michael.
The Vestal smiled sweetly and nodded to the High King as he passed. He returned the gesture, placing half a Zahav, a piece of gold, on her table and taking a sprig, handing it to Castiel. The half Zahav he paid for it was more than a hundred times this tiny plant's worth, and was probably more than what the woman would earn in the rest of the day.
She stared at the High King with an awed gratitude and reverence.
"This is wild mountain thyme—it was one of your mother's favourite herbs." His expression turned sad as they continued walking. Castiel held the sprig tightly in his hand and stared at it, as though he were wishing back the mother he had never known, wishing her back with all of his heart. "It is associated with magic and courage. She also liked that plant," He pointed to vervain, on a healer's table, "We call it vervain; the hill tribes in Eofor and Hera name it 'ferfaen'. They think it has magic in its essence. It is renowned for its healing properties. I wonder, how many other purple flowers can you spot in the market?"
Castiel's eyes lit up at the game, their father's lips twitched upwards and he tossed a coin to the healer at the table with vervain, taking another sprig of it and tucking it behind Castiel's ear. The vibrant purple set the blue of Castiel's eyes alight in a cold, bright fire. Michael had never known his heart to be so tender as it was in that moment. Well, not since—
"Well?" The High King turned back to Michael and raised his eyebrows expectantly. Michael scowled and looked away. "Son," The King frowned softly. His hand slipped onto Michael's shoulder, but Michael's heart was still hurting from his visit to Eofor.
"What would you have me tell you?" Michael asked, hopelessly.
"What did you do there?"
"What I always do," Michael sighed.
"You spoke to no one?"
"I saw no one." Michael replied. "The Angels have not spoken to Humanity since Lucifer—" He cut himself off, looked at the ground, swallowed around the lump that had risen in his throat so suddenly. Sadness curled around his heart. "All I'm saying is, I'm not about to start speaking with them, again."
"And you expect all of us to respect that? To do the same? You expect Anna to do the same?"
"You have no desire to visit the Realms of Men." Michael scowled. "And Anna… Well, she ought to know her duty."
Michael's father shook his head.
"Sometimes I fear what losing him did to you, my son."
Michael wanted to scowl at his father's words, something bitter and resentful coiling around his chest. Who was he to speak of being changed by the loss of a loved one? Following the rebellion of Lucifer, the High King had retreated so far into himself that even the love for his own children could not find him; he paid hardly any attention to Gabriel, only a young boy; and Anna, a babe in arms at the time, only seemed to exist to him on better days—which were few and far between. The task of raising, of caring for both of them, had fallen on Michael's shoulders. It was a weight he had no choice in bearing.
And following the death of Ahava? Michael had feared the High King would never recover, and knew that the only reason that he had not turned into a hollow shell of an Angel was because of little Castiel; because of how the infant burned with purity, his bright blue eyes like the stars that watched over their descendants on earth, of how innocently it was that the little boy's feelings turned over hurricanes in his heart and how Castiel felt everything with a fiercer passion than any Angel Michael had encountered—just as his mother had—of how Castiel was the mirror of Ahava, if not entirely in appearance, granted, then in spirit and action and soul.
"You resent what I have said?" The High King raised his eyebrows at his son. Michael licked his lips and looked down.
"It hardly matters whether I resent it or not…" Michael said slowly. "You are my father."
"My being your father does not mean that I am right," The High King pointed out. What did he want from Michael, what did he desire for Michael to say?
"No," Michael frowned. "I suppose it does not."
The High King sighed.
"What would you have me say, father?" Michael bit. He looked out at the city, despondent. "And what would you allow me to say, that wasn't out of turn?"
"Sometimes I fear your heart bore too much, when you were too young, Michael," The High King shook his head. "You have turned in on yourself, and not in the way our people would respect. You've become introspective; you've buried your soul inside your chest. And all because of what you lost."
Again, Michael scowled; the King was being a hypocrite; pointing out Michael's faults when his own were so obvious and so staggering.
But what the High King said was true, and it burned Michael's heart to think on it.
"I loved him." Michael said, voice small. He stared down at the ground. Two centuries, and tears still scorched at his eyes, white-hot pinpricks of pain. Two centuries, and his heart still broke.
"I know," The King said. His hand came to rest on Michael's shoulder.
"I loved both of them," Michael corrected himself, ashamed of the way his voice trembled. "Why did I have to choose? And why did I end up with neither?"
"Abra knows, my son," The King looked sad, too; the kind of despondency for which Michael knew there was no cure. "Just as she knows your sorrow, and feels it with you. And when she calls you home, you will find perfect happiness and rest—just as all of us will. Let that be your hope, and your guiding star. No matter what you've lost."
Michael looked down to Castiel. Merchants and shopkeepers working at the stalls had given him still more flowers to tuck behind his ear and loop through his hair. His heart felt raw with how he loved his youngest brother. The High King looked down to Castiel, too, and a rare, genuine smile flickered at his features. Michael knew his father's heart. He knew that Castiel held joint first place in it above all other creatures—no matter what it was his entering the world had cost, and no matter how Gabriel joked that Lucifer had been the most beloved son.
He wondered just how beautiful Abra's plans for the little boy would be.
Mary
"… this is the world.
I'm not in it.
It is beautiful."
— Mary Oliver, from "October," Blue Iris: Poems and Essays
Down beside the stream again, trailing her fingers delicately through the waters, Mary hoped beyond hope that the doe and her fawn would return to drink. Thinking about it last night, she had decided that deer were, by far, the most wonderful creatures in all the universe: gentle and timid to a fault; embodying everything that she believed about being kind and tender toward everything one encountered. Perhaps, if she studied them hard enough, for long enough, she would become as soft and compassionate as they were. Already she was not unkind; and indeed had a headstart over many in the four kingdoms of the Earthly Realms—but her encounter with the Heran the night before had proven beyond a doubt that she certainly had a long way to go.
Something sad and bitter curled in her heart at the memory of the Heran boy who had been so incredibly unkind to her—and, the thought making her sadder by the minute as she reflected on it further—that she had been so incredibly unkind to in return.
Why return cruelty with cruelty? It was as useless and futile as pouring oil onto a fire in an attempt to put it out.
She knew how important it was to treat guests with respect; the vitality of hospitality and generosity—but never before last night had reminding herself of these truths seemed so difficult.
Perhaps it was because of the differences in their socialisation—perhaps Mary was doomed to be unable to stand any Heran, not just the one she encountered last night. They were a people so different to her; their values stood so staunchly in opposition to one another. Could she be blamed for lashing out in panic and surprised when she had encountered someone so different to herself?
In any case, his comments about the state of her dress had so upset her that she had burst into tears the moment that her mother had chosen to chastise her for her muddy appearance as she entered into her family's quarters, emotions still grated raw from the argument. Normally she was awfully resilient to both her parent's criticisms—yet once again, last night had proven to be an exception.
But really, what did it matter how she looked? What difference did it make if her dress was caked in earth or in starlight after a day's wandering through the woods? All that mattered to Mary was that she felt happy—and that she did others no harm—and considering the fact that she both washed and made most of her clothing herself, it seemed innocent enough that she be the one to make it dirty through hours and hours of ambling through the forest. Speaking of which, Mary thought as she looked down at her dress, the hem of which was once again coated in damp earth; she would have to change quickly when she arrived back at the castle for fear of her mother rebuking her for her grubby appearance yet again.
But who could care? Mary wasn't looking to impress anyone, much as it grated her father to think of, much as it caused her poor, restless mother sleepless night after sleepless night to know. She had no need to look pretty and tidy; had no one to look pretty and tidy for—and in any case, as she had pointed out on numerous occasions, if she ever were to marry—which was unlikely, at best—she would want whoever it was she married to like all aspects of her character—including the part of her that adored wandering through the trees just after it had rained and kicking up the muddy ground. She would also want them to find her beautiful at any and every given moment, for the content of her heart and soul—not just if her clothing was immaculate and face free of dirt smudged over it.
A rustle in the thicket dragged Mary from her thoughts—perhaps it was the deer and her fawn!—She peered about, her eyes wide and desperate, excited; scanning, scanning, scanning—
"Hello again."
The voice nearly made her jump out of her skin.
Mary gasped and turned around only to see the rude boy from yesterday grinning at her. Her jaw clenched.
"Woah," He raised his hands in surrender, laughing. "If looks could kill, I'd be lying on the muddy ground right now." He should have left it at that. He didn't. "A bit like you already are," He smirked down at Mary from where he stood, on the raised tree roots above Mary's head. He probably thought it some wonderful symbolism that he was higher up than Mary was, considering the air of superiority he radiated with every second he stood beside the stream that Mary loved so dearly and had always kept so secret.
Bitterness and melancholy wound themselves across Mary's heart at the thought of this arrogant young man coming and invading her sanctuary in the forest, kept to herself for so long.
She glanced around the clearing, paying close attention to the place the deer had both emerged from and disappeared behind the day before. No sign of either the deer or her fawn. Mary turned to glare back at the boy—what had he said his name was again?—
"John," The boy smirked, as if reading her mind. "My name is John. And you seem a little lost for words, today. Is there any reason for that?"
"None at all, John," Mary glared, still trying to balance patience with letting the Heran know that he was very much unwelcome here. "Only that that's twice now that I've been trying to gain some peace beside this stream; and twice that you've interrupted it and scared away the surrounding wildlife."
"Twice?" The boy—John—raised his eyebrows at Mary. "Granted I did just now, but when was the other time?"
Mary ground her teeth together at the fact that the boy still had not apologised for any of his actions towards her, let alone for his disturbing her and possibly scaring off her deer.
"Yes, twice." Mary confirmed, making her tone firm enough to let her intruder know that there was no room for debate here. "First, when you and all your comrades came storming into the citadel so loud that you could be heard a thousand leagues away, I'm sure, and then just now, with you sneaking up on me so rudely."
"Comrades?" The boy repeated, raising his eyebrows even further, if that could be possible. "You call them my comrades?"
"Well, what else ought I call them?"
The boy chuckled and shook his head. The sunlight dappled over his tanned face and made his eyes shimmer strangely in the forest.
"It is a fair enough title, I suppose. They're certainly comrades of mine, though few people would think to call them that."
Mary squinted at him, uncomprehending.
"Are you quite done, now? I'd like to be alone again, if it please you."
The boy bent down to crouch on the roots he had been standing on. Though Mary still sat far below him, in a hollow in the ground beside the stream, it did at least mean making eye contact was less of a strain.
"You like being alone, then?" He asked. His voice was quiet, now.
"Very much so." Mary answered dully, hoping the Heran would catch the hint she dropped so clearly and leave her in peace.
"Me too," The boy nodded.
"You don't seem like the type to be an introvert." Mary wrinkled her nose.
"And I'm not," The Heran laughed honestly. "But then again, you don't seem the type to enjoy sitting in earth, watching out for animals. Yet here you are."
"You don't know me." Mary protested. "You don't know what I do and don't do, and you don't know which of those things are unexpected. You know nothing."
"I suppose I ought to do my best to remember that to avoid offending you again," The Heran rubbed the back of his neck, looking down.
"Do." Mary replied shortly.
"I didn't catch your name, last night." The boy smiled.
"I didn't give it." Mary answered. She made a point of not looking at him.
"I thought so," The boy chuckled. "But could I get it now?"
"I doubt it."
"Have I done something else to offend you, good lady? You seem to be behaving awfully cold towards me, yet I sense that it's not normally in your character to do so."
Mary looked up at him, finding herself more upset than ever.
He chose now to speak to her with respect?!
"It's more a question of what you haven't done to offend me," She retorted. "And honestly, the only respectful thing I can think of you saying to me was your referring to me as a lady, just now. In contrast, the first word you said to me was a curse; the first sentence you spoke in my direction was one of chastisement, when I had done nothing worthy of scorn or derision, least of all yours—when I rejected your advances, you treated me with contempt—so I ask you, John, what did I do to merit being treated with so little respect? Who are you in your own universe, that you consider it so acceptable to enter mine uninvited and bring with you so much cruelty?"
The Heran—John—looked down, apparently ashamed.
"I am John Wi—" He coughed once into a closed fist. He shook his head, thinking better of whatever it was he was about to say. "It hardly matters. I'm sorry." He laughed again—he seemed to do this rather a lot, Mary observed. "Sorry. That's who I am—I'm sorry."
It was a terrible joke. At least it wasn't a belittling one.
"So what is your name?" He asked after a long silence.
"I honestly believe that it's absolutely none of your business." Mary replied sincerely. "If you'll excuse me." She stood, brushing herself off, more for effect than because she actually cared for the soil covering her skirt.
"You're going?" The boy asked.
"Why are you so concerned?" Mary frowned. Then she stopped short, a terrible thought occurring to her. "Did you follow me here?" She asked, horrified.
"What?" The boy asked, wrinkling his nose. "No." He shook his head. Mary pulled an unconvinced face. "Okay," He admitted. "But only because I saw you—and I wanted to apologise for how I behaved last night. I was very rude—and I'm a guest, and—"
"I'm afraid that I can't forgive you." Mary shook her head.
"What?" He frowned, taken aback. Clearly, the Heran had not been expecting this response. "Why?"
"I just can't." She shrugged. "I meant what I said about me having no respect for you. I appreciate the fact that you said sorry, but I don't doubt that part of you apologising was very much for your own benefit, not mine. And I can't help but resent that. I also can't help but resent certain aspects of your character."
"What aspects?" The boy frowned.
"Your rudeness, for one." Mary replied, matter-of-factly.
"You know," John glared, scrambling up after Mary as she made her way back to the castle, "you're very stuck up."
Mary ignored him.
"And stubborn." He added, as though this ought to hurt Mary's feelings quite awfully. "And self-righteous and turgid and pretentious—"
"You know that those last three are all essentially synonyms."
"They are not," John bit. "And stop correcting me! You're just proving me right—God, you're a nightmare!"
"And you," Mary stopped short, turning to the Heran, "are a pompous, unkind, impolite, loud, arrogant, lewd, vainglorious lout—"
"And you're a hypocritical, insincere, anti-social—"
"Anti-social?!"
"Yes, antisocial!" John shouted back at Mary louder than she had at him. Vision blurry, she spun back around and began stomping back to Castle Eofor. "Who the hell takes issue with sharing their name?!" He shouted after her.
"I pray, 'Sorry' John of Hera," Mary called over her shoulder. "Next time you see me walking to the forest, minding my own business, won't you mind yours, also, and leave me the fuck alone?!"
If John bellowed back a response, Mary didn't catch it over the blood whistling through her ears and the undergrowth crunching beneath her stomping feet.
Ellen
"Hello, beautiful boy," Ellen beamed, lifting a silent Dean onto her lap. He barely fit, now, considering his size combined with the baby in her belly. Ellen rubbed the bump distractedly, thinking of the world she was bringing her child into and whether it ought to be considered a sin to bear a babe into a place where pain and suffering seemed so constant. And the suffering in this world was constant. No child seemed to know this truth better than the quiet little boy sat on her lap.
Ellen had easily come to love him and his brother as her own.
He was getting big, now, quick and determined, but still silent. He had not spoken since the death of his mother, and the King took it as personal offence that he could not summon so much as a sound from his son's lips.
"Would you like a story? How are you feeling today?"
Dean pressed his small lips together and nodded, not looking into Ellen's eyes. He tugged at her hair softly a moment before sliding off he lap and trotting towards the little set of drawers beside his bed. He slid a book off the top of them, on his very tiptoes to reach it, before glancing over to his brother's ridiculous four-poster crib and poking his finger through the wooden bars. A ghost of a smile etched at his features at the childish laughter of Sammy, still an infant, still unknowing of all the sadness and horror his older brother had endured.
Then, Dean reached into the crib and picked his baby brother up, stroking at the top of his head and gazing earnestly into the infant's eyes. He struggled over to Ellen again, careful to be as tender as anyone could be with Sam, before sliding the book onto Ellen's lap and sitting at her feet.
Ellen sighed and smiled, getting up off her chair and sliding it back, struggling down to the floor to sit beside Dean.
He was so like his mother.
And how she missed Mary, missed her every day, missed her humility and friendliness and was only further reminded of it by King John's arrogance and distance.
She glanced down at the book Dean had handed to her and smiled knowingly at the sight. It was no surprise that Dean should want this story to be told to him; he never wanted any tale to stray outside its topic. Angels.
The little boy was not old enough, nor corrupted enough, to know how strange a thing it was that Ellen knew how to read. Nor did he know the kindness it was his mother had given to Ellen when teaching her.
Now, reading to Mary's son, Ellen returned that kindness, in this and in every other way she raised Dean as one of her own.
Of course, it was hardly a chore, even if Dean never spoke and would cry if asked to remove himself from his brother's crib at night, even if Dean stole knives from the kitchen, to protect him and his brother at night, even if Dean scowled at strangers whom he seemed to suspect, inexplicably, were linked to the death of his mother.
This story was a good one, several centuries old, about an Angel who fell in love with a Human. It fascinated Dean, and the stars upon its cover, and the drawings of wings that marked each chapter enchanted his little green eyes so clearly that it made love blossom in Ellen's heart and made her all but forget how troublesome a child he could be, and made her think only of all that the little boy felt, had felt, would continue to feel as he fought for the safety of his brother.
Stories, it seemed, were Dean's only sanctuary.
And if he found solace in the thought of Angels protecting him, then Ellen wasn't about to take it away from him.
Dean deserved any kind of solace he could find.
She turned the cover of the book.
"All sorrows can be borne if you put them in a story," She began, reading the line she had read so many times before aloud to Dean. She looked up at the little boy, still holding his brother in his arms, little Sammy resting on his lap. Dean gazed up at her, but seemed to somehow stare through Ellen, and into something else. "Tragedy is woven into us, and so are words, and so is love. Pour all three together and stories grow from the ashes of our pain. This is how we redeem ourselves. This is how I have forgiven you."
An Angel in love with a Human. Ellen snorts softly—half snorts, half sighs. Now there was a thought. A thought that, she had no doubt, enchanted Dean beyond belief. It was in his blood to love the fantastical, not to dream of a life better for himself but for those he loved; and so he told no stories to himself. Ellen had to tell them for him.
John
The party was leaving today, ready to return to Hera.
It was the end of what had been an almost year-long tour around the Earthly Kingdoms, visiting each of the capital cities and wishing their rulers well, forming trade links and alliances with each kingdom and ruling families, following their kindness at his crowning a year earlier. It ended in Eofor, and John was glad for it.
He would be home in Hera in no time at all; would be able to do what kings were actually meant to do: rule—and he would be able to forget all the awkward, forced cordialities of his interactions with royalty from far more sensitive kingdoms than his own.
What was their obsession with politeness and tradition and ceremony? What purpose did it serve? John hated it—sure, he loved the pomp and vigour of royal celebrations, loved the feasting and the rowdy sound of drunken men's laughter, he loved tourneys and duels and the roar of excited crowds at these events; their cheers as he and his men stormed into their kingdom on horseback, waving banners as pretty girls from windows and balconies above their heads threw confetti made of everything from flowers to silk down upon them.
He also loved travelling to new cities with new brothels and new whores, meeting new mistresses or courtesans or whatever the fuck it was they wanted to call themselves, loved the way he could fuck any woman in any city in the world because of how they threw themselves at him for his looks, his build, his title, his riches.
All of that admitted, John still hated the stale interactions he had been forced to have with the nobility from all the Earthly Realms. He hated how fake and insincere it all seemed; wished he could be out hunting or sparring with his men, wished he could be drinking golden ales while pretty women danced around him in tattered dresses in a tavern in the citadel, wished he could be anywhere but trapped in awkward, staged conversation with the king-or-queen-of-wherever-the-fuck-it-was he stood in at that particular moment.
He also hated how everyone who greeted him pretended to be overjoyed to be stood in the same fucking city as him; hated the insincerity of their well-wishing, of their beamed greetings, of their tight-lipped smiles. All of it was fake, he loathed all who greeted him outside of his own men, and liked them only because he had reason to, because they were loyal and boisterous and hardly cared for his rank, only how well he could wield a sword and shoot a bow and arrow and command an army.
But there were two exceptions to these rules, in Eofor: the rule about all girls of his age under the sun wanting to fuck him, and the rule about all the people John met in these kingdoms pretending to adore him while he, in turn, silently hated them.
These two exceptions came in the form of one girl, a girl who seemed about his age; a girl who liked to sit in the damp soil beside streams and wait for animals to pass her by; a girl with mud on her dress who couldn't seem to give a shit about it but who still somehow found the time, and need, to weave flowers into her golden hair; a girl with eyes the colour of lavender, who glared at John with all the contempt in the world, who seemed gloriously unaware of his rank and title which meant that she had been paying absolutely no attention to the proceedings at Eofor, or to the affairs of the Earthly Kingdoms; a girl who hated John with the flames of a thousand furnaces and who he found himself… Fuck, well, honestly—he found himself adoring her.
Hell, she hadn't even realised who John was when he had finally introduced himself, hadn't worked out that he was John Winchester, the boy King of Hera, even when he'd practically spelled his birthname out for her.
She wasn't stupid, she just didn't care.
Which, naturally, and much to his own contempt, translated into John caring about her, and for her, a great fucking deal. Despite the fact that he'd interacted with her all of fucking twice during his stay.
And today, on the last day of his time in Eofor, John stood awkwardly on the steps of the palace, surrounded by his closest men, the whole city gathered below him. His eyes scanned the crowd, searching for a trace of golden hair, perhaps with wildflowers laced through it as it had been the first time he saw it.
King Victor gave the usual speech; about it being such an honour to host the Heran King and his men, about how glad he was that the pre-established trade-routes would continue under the new Heran King's rule, how fortunate the earthly kingdoms were to bear witness to such a young and valiant king of the most powerful kingdom in all the Earthly Realms; he reminded John of their kingdoms' shared heritage and language, and then prayed out to the 'Mother and Father Gods'—whoever the fuck they were—that the years of John's rule would be kind and peaceful and that all the lands around Hera would be blessed also…
John groaned internally.
Then he stepped forward and thanked the kingdom for its hospitality, flashing his charming smile to the younger, prettier girls in the crowd, promising to visit, and often—giggles, from the girls, who all beamed at him, and a bark of laughter from Victor sounded at this gesture.
But then John's eyes fell on a figure away in the distance. She stood under a still-blossoming peach tree, the late-summer sun high behind her. Her hair looked a more beautiful and pure gold than the crown that was placed upon John's head one year before.
He couldn't make out her expression, and he just about managed to stammer over the last of his speech, distracting himself from the beautiful girl under the tree by winking down at a few of the young noblewomen close to him, who beamed and giggled and swooned in the usual, half-sincere manner. King Victor laughed again.
Then John and his men descended the steps—the crowd parted for them without even needing to be commanded, it was almost eerie and mythical—and John hoisted himself up on his red stallion, ready waiting for him. He was now only a matter of yards away from her, the girl from the forest—it seemed as though she had not expected him to come so close, she took a stumbled step back—but why, now, was she not making her loathing towards him perfectly clear?
He kicked at his horse. He stared at the girl. She stared back at him, obviously mortified, and—he couldn't help it, though she probably ended up hating him even more—he burst into a fit of laughter at the terrified, embarrassed expression on her face.
Had she really had no idea?
And did the idea of John being a king really scare the girl so very much? What did she think he would do in response to her rudeness? He laughed again at the thought, still staring at her, kicked his horse again and broke out into a gallop. His men followed after him in a thunder of horseshoes. The crowds of Eofor cheered behind him. All of them, he was sure, except for the girl with golden hair and eyes the colour of wildflowers.
Mary
King John.
She gaped at the horses, retreating into the distance, knowing that leading the party was a rude, loud, cocky young man whom days earlier, she had literally told to fuck off. And she never normally cursed.
And this boy was King of Hera, the largest and most powerful of all the Earthly Kingdoms.
Shit.
She was going to be executed, she knew it—she had seen how poor the boy's temper could be, and that boy sat upon a throne, a throne that commanded hordes of men, and she had insulted him, and his kingdom, multiple times, all upon their first meeting.
But worse than all of that; and the boy probably did this out of deliberate cruelty, an act of at least initial revenge for Mary's rudeness to him, he had laughed at her. Cruelly, voice filled with mirth. He had laughed at her, laughed in front of everyone, and now everyone with half a brain stared at her, wondering what exactly it was she could have done to earn such derision from the King of Hera.
'Everyone' here included her parents, who glared at her with a new kind of distaste.
Mary wanted nothing more than the ground to swallow her up.
She hated King John, hated him for embarrassing her so, for thinking this an appropriate act of revenge for her actions towards him. She would rather be punished physically, be beaten, be exiled, than be left to face this kind of emotional turmoil brought about by his mockery of her. His mockery of her in front of the entire citadel.
"Well," A warm, familiar voice laughed behind her, the sound melodious as one who knows a language foreign and strange and enchanting, as well as a familiar one. "If I didn't know any better, Lady Campbell, I'd say the Boy King just laughed at you."
Mary turned to see Cai and wrinkled her nose at him.
"I wasn't aware the two of you had met?" He asked, raising his eyebrows with cool amusement as he leant against the tree Mary stood under. Mary bristled under the gaze of half the citadel, even if many of them slowly began to turn away and talk of the affairs of the day. Many of them continued to stare and speak in hushed tones of what it is the Polymath's daughter could have done to earn the derision of the new King of Hera.
"Only twice," Mary frowned, resisting the urge to frown, "and very briefly."
"I see."
"And honestly, I rather wish I hadn't."
"Why's that?" Cai asked, chuckling. "Because he laughed at you?"
"Because he's an ass," Mary bit, "and because I didn't realise he was a King."
"Oh," Cai smirked. "Well. That'll do it."
"It did it," Mary agreed distractedly, glancing about her to the eyes still trained on her blushing form, not quite knowing what the 'it' Cai referred to here meant.
"Hey, ignore them," Cai's hand brushed across her shoulder. "Half the girls are jealous that it wasn't them the king was paying attention to, and half the boys wish it was them you were paying attention to."
Mary giggled, despite herself.
"There's such thing as the wrong kind of attention, Cai," She pointed out. A smile settled on her friend's features.
"I'm sure there is," He agreed. "But I wouldn't know about it."
"And I suppose you always get the good kind of attention?" Mary raised her eyebrows. Cai grinned.
"Have you seen me, Campbell?" Cai asked incredulously. "Of course I only get good attention. All the men and women in this city are in love with me." He grinned. "All but you. How is that?"
"I'm naturally averse to arrogance," Mary answered matter-of-factly. Cai chuckled again, deep and low and genuine.
"Of course you are. Which is why King John's advances were so sorely rejected, I expect."
"He didn't make any advances—" Mary attempts to protest, quickly, but cuts herself off, blushing.
"So he did make advances?" Cai asked, eyebrows raised in shock. "How did you respond?"
Mary pressed her lips together.
"Destroyed all his dreams of marrying a pretty girl from Eofor, I expect?" Cai tittered. Mary rolled her eyes. "And now you've gone quiet on me?" He asked. "Really, Campbell, I thought you were more mature than that." Mary twitched a reluctant smile. Cai grinned happily. "Or should I call you Winchester?" He asked, suddenly feigning seriousness.
Mary huffed.
"Only if you want your tongue cut out."
"Mary Winchester," Cai teased. "Now that has a nice ring to it."
"I'd beg to differ."
"Would you?" Cai asked. "And why's that?"
"Because he's an ass, and there's a reason I spurned him."
"So a royal wedding is off the table?"
"Entirely," Mary deadpanned. "Entirely off the table."
Cai's expression softened into something relieved.
"I'm glad to hear it."
Gabriel
"Bitter the waters of memory,
bitter their teeth and cold lips."
— Charles Wright, from Scar Tissue; "Inland Sea"
Shouting, and the clatter of blunted swords. Gabriel followed the sound until he reached his brothers' quarters.
Michael, tanned, with jet hair cut short, and with feminine, elegant features, piercing blue eyes and a charming smile, sparred with pale, sandy-haired, gray-eyed Lucifer; features heavier and less delicate than those of his twin's. With lower cheekbones, fast where Michael was strong, strong where Michael was fast, bold where Michael was reserved, and reserved where Michael was bold, the pair were such stark opposites that they matched one another perfectly; Michael's body lithe where Lucifer's was unyielding, Lucifer's actions calculated where Michael's were instinctive.
Both of them laughed, and so Gabriel did as well, the sound he made hardly breaking against the waves of noise the older pair emitted, swords thudding dully against each other, feet echoing in the Prince's chambers against the alabaster stone, window opened, wind whipping through the room, laughter tumbling around it.
It was all so natural and such a flurry of sound, sight, noise, feeling, that Gabriel was carried away completely, caught up in the flashes of Lucifer's glittering white and red wings, the shimmers of Michael's silver and gold feathers, their grinning expressions, their shouts and laughter, so guileless and sincere and happy.
He stepped towards them—perhaps they had a spare sword for Gabriel, so that he may join, too? He hoped so.
"Your footwork is all wrong, Michael," Lucifer laughed. "Are you making it up? What is that you're doing?"
"Beating you," Michael countered, returning his brother's cocky grin. "Where did you learn those moves, Luc? Gabriel's vestals?"
Gabriel beamed at the mention of his name, not quite understanding the meaning of the insult. He stepped between them, grinning up at Michael.
"Do you have a sword for me?" He asked, eyes trained on Michael's face, his high cheekbones, his delicate, sharp features, the soft twist of his smile.
"A sword for you?" Michael repeated, crouching down to be at eye level with his little brother. "But if I gave you a sword, neither Lucifer nor I would stand a chance!"
Gabriel giggled, pushing Michael playfully. Michael feigned shock, gasping and frowning theatrically at his brother.
"Did you just strike the son of the High King, little Angel?" He rose, pulling a disgraced face, shaking his head solemnly. Gabriel could not contain his laughter.
"I am son of the High King, too!" Gabriel exclaimed. Michael only allowed a smile to twitch at his face for a second before he was playing the fierce, sombre role he had taken on, again.
"Enough, Gabriel," Lucifer sighed behind him. "Michael and I were practicing, and there's a snowstorm outside, so we can hardly train there. Leave us."
"But I want to—" Gabriel faltered, put out. Michael didn't allow it, just as he never allowed Gabriel's sadness. He crouched down to Gabriel's level again.
"How old are you, little Angel?"
"I have seen four Autumns."
"Four Autumns?" Michael repeated, acting incredulous. Gabriel smiled reluctantly again. "And you say you are son of the High King, also?"
"Michael, enough playing," Lucifer rejoined, no playfulness nor teasing in his tone.
"Are you son of the High King?" Michael asked, ignoring his twin with no more than glance upwards in Lucifer's direction, communicating something that Gabriel didn't understand, though he recognised the look Lucifer was shot as a reprimanding one.
"I am," Gabriel confirmed. Michael smiled softly.
"Well then," He sighed, standing, "I suppose it is a little too much to have you executed for your impudence," Gabriel giggled again at Michael's words. "So instead," Michael turned away, picking something up of his bed and turning back to Gabriel—it was a wooden sword!—"We must duel for our honour!" He declared dramatically, handing Gabriel the wooden sword. "At your ready, warrior!"
Gabriel burst into a fit of laughter, mimicking Michael's stance, even as Lucifer protested behind him.
"Michael, is this really wise—"
"He wants to play, Luc."
"And I want to practice. Which are you going to prioritise?"
Michael only shot Lucifer a grin before lunging forward slowly, providing more than enough time for Gabriel to hit the blunt metal sword away and swing at Michael with his own wooden blade.
He thumped it onto Michael's leg, pretending to cut it off, and Michael doubled over melodramatically with a cry of pretend agony, shouting loudly.
"Oh, you have wounded me!" He exclaimed, clutching at his leg. "You've robbed me of a limb and of my honour!" His shouts echoed around the castle chamber. "Defeated by a child of only four Autumns!" Gabriel could not contain his laughter. "You shall pay for this, little Angel!" Michael knelt on the ground, raising his blunt sword again, slowly. Gabriel beamed and lifted his wooden blade again.
An angry shout sounded from the door and made both Michael and Gabriel jump near enough out of their skin.
"Michael!" Their mother bellowed, face alive with fury. "You dare raise a blade to your brother's head?!"
"Mother," Michael stood up quickly, face falling, "it was a game—"
Their mother paced lividly over to Gabriel and pulled him up into her arms, despite Gabriel's protestations, arms an iron grip of protectiveness around him, as if she honestly believed Michael could ever hurt Gabriel.
"A game?!" She repeated, as if even the notion were a ridiculous one.
"Mama," Gabriel protested, "he's telling the truth—"
"And he, of sixteen years, nearly a man, duelled a child of four years, giving him nothing but a wooden sword?!" She spat. "While Michael wielded a real blade?!"
"My blade is dull, mother," Michael objected hopelessly, eyes filled with sadness, as though he already knows his disputes at this injustice to be futile. "It's blunt, look," He raised it to show her, but their mother cried out in offense.
"And now you raise it to me?!"
"He was showing you, mama," Gabriel squirmed again in his mother's arms, but she would not relinquish him.
"Gabriel is too young for a metal blade," Michael continued. "He would not be able to carry it, so I gave him a wooden one instead—it was only play—"
"I did tell you to stop, Michael," Lucifer pointed out, shaking his head at Michael. Gabriel let out a broken, upset noise at the injustice of the situation.
"You only wanted to duel!" He accused his older brother. "Michael was just playing with me!"
"Lucifer was being responsible!" Their mother exclaimed. Gabriel pushed at her shoulders, attempting to force her to put him down. "Gabriel, you are my darling baby boy and he nearly hurt you—"
"He is four, mama—"
"And you are nearly a man! How could you think to duel an infant!"
"He's not a man!" Gabriel frowned. "He's sixteen, mama, and I am not an infant!"
Their mother brushed a strand of red-blonde hair back from her face.
"Gabriel, I consider your safety in all of this—the only other person who seems to do so is Lucifer—honestly," She turned back to Michael. "I pray you never come to rule a kingdom. You have no sense of duty. You would do better to abandon your title altogether than continue along this vein—"
Michael hung his head; Gabriel could recognise tears burning at his older brother's eyes as he dropped the blunt sword in his hand with a clatter on the floor.
"I am sorry, mother—"
"Pick that up," Was all the response he got, that and a dry roll of removed brown eyes from their mother.
Michael's face seemed to catch alight.
"Mama," Gabriel frowned in his mother's arms, but she wouldn't let him move. "That isn't fair—"
"He dropped it, so he ought to pick it up," Lucifer pointed out, but still bent down to pick up the sword and hand it to his brother. "It's fair enough."
"Why is it that you have so much trouble following my instructions, yet Lucifer has none?"
"Mama," Gabriel protested again, and finally, she put him down—but only, it seemed, because the High King, their father, had entered.
As usual, he seemed to gaze right through his wife and stare only at his three children.
"Boys," He paced forward, resting a palm on Michael's shoulder. Michael straightened up at the touch. "What's all this commotion?"
"Michael tried to attack our younger son," Gabriel's mother stated, voice filled with hardly-repressed anger. Their father turned to look at her. His eyes glazed over.
"Our son tried to attack his brother?" He asked.
"I didn't—" Michael seemed terrified, gazing pleadingly up at his father's gray eyes with his own beseeching ones watery and brighter than ever.
"I'm sure of it," Their father replied simply, casting a tired look over to his wife.
"Really, father—" Michael appeared to sense a distance in his father's response, and implored him further.
"I believe you, Michael."
Michael seeped with relief so thoroughly it seemed almost as though he trembled with it.
Their father quietened his wife's indignant protests with a look, before turning back to his children.
"Now you'll remember that we visit Eofor, tomorrow?" He asked them. Lucifer rolled his eyes.
"Yes," He sighed. Their father's gaze flickered with amusement.
"Lucifer," He chuckled, "it won't be such a chore. You've never met Humans before—who knows, you may like them."
"I doubt it," Lucifer played with his sword, spinning it in his hand. "Their lives are short, their actions are brutish—"
"I'm excited, father," Michael interjected. "I think I should like to meet a Human—"
"You'll be meeting a great many of them," Their father smiled. Michael nodded, smile dimmed by the presence of their mother, who took this moment to bristle her white and yellow wings. Gabriel glanced up to her pale face, to see eyes so distant as they fixed themselves on Michael that Gabriel could hardly believe she loved Michael like a son at all. "In any case, I thought I ought to remind you that we will be flying tomorrow morning, at dawn. Do not be late."
"But father," Gabriel frowned, "I cannot fly."
"No," Their father agreed, turning to look at Gabriel. "Your mother will carry you." He glanced up at his wife. She nodded curtly, and seemed to think to say something, but then decided not to. She left the room.
"Dawn, Michael," Their father repeated. "And Lucifer," He said. "Both of you must be packed—"
"We have servants for a reason, father—"
Lucifer's comment earned him a hard look. Then their father chuckled and clapped both his oldest sons on the shoulders, before leaving, also.
"Well, tomorrow ought to be pleasantly shit," Lucifer commented drolly, sighing and kicking at the floor. Michael frowned thoughtfully.
"What makes you say that? I can't wait to meet a Human for the first time."
"I think I'd rather feed myself to vultures."
Michael gazed, clearly troubled, at Lucifer as he left after their father, before glancing down at Gabriel, who tried to smile warmly at his older brother.
"I thought you fought very valiantly, Michael," Gabriel stated. Michael's lips twitched reluctantly upward into a warm smile.
"Thank you, little Angel," He nodded, kneeling down to Gabriel's level. "Though you robbed me of my leg, I must compliment you on your technique. You're a fearsome warrior."
"Yes," Gabriel agreed matter-of-factly. "I pride myself on it."
Michael burst into a fit of laughter.
"Whatever else you are, Gabriel, you're the funniest Angel I've ever met," He grinned. "If you decide not to rule a kingdom, join a troupe of actors. There are too many Tragedies being performed, I think we need a few Comedies, and need you to act in them."
Gabriel beamed at his brother's words.
"So you think I'm funny?"
"I think you're hilarious."
And strangely, Gabriel thought, it meant the world that light-hearted, merry, kind Michael should say so. He didn't confess this. Only told Michael he was sure he was right, which earned another bout of sincere laughter from the older Angel.
He hoped that Michael would enjoy the visit to the Human Kingdom. He deserved to, Gabriel thought: deserved to find comfort there when he seemed so estranged from his own home.
Gabriel thought better than to say this to Michael's face.
...
A/N: If you're thinking "wtf", it's cool, that's sort of what I was going for.
Next chapter will be from Dean's POV. Lots of fluff and hurt/comfort. You're all welcome.
Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it, happy Hanukkah, happy New Year, happy holidays, and thanks for reading! Please comment with any feedback, and big love :)