Angel of Music- in Islamic lore, the angel of music is identified with as Israfel (Israfil), who is often equated with Uriel.

Uriel ("fire of God") - one of the leading angels of noncanonical lore, and ranked variously as a seraph, cherub, regent of the sun, flame of God, angel of the Presence, presider over Tartarus (Hades), archangel of salvation . . . In Enoch I, he is the angel who "watches over thunder and terror." . . . Uriel is also the angel of the month of September and may be invoked ritually by those born in that month. The Magus claims that alchemy "which is of divine origin" was brought down to earth by Uriel, and that it was Uriel who gave the cabala to man, although this "key to the mystical interpretation of scripture" is also said to have been the gift of Metatron. Milton describes Uriel as "Regent of the Sun" and the "sharpest sighted spirit of all in Heaven" (Paradise Lost III). . . Despite his eminence, Uriel was reprobated at a Church Council in Rome, 745 C.E. Now, however, he is Saint Uriel, and his symbol is an open hand holding a flame. . .The most recent appraisal of Uriel is the one offered by Walter Clyde Curry in Milton's Ontology Cosmology and Physics, where, on p. 93, Professor Curry says of Uriel that he "seems to be largely a pious but not too perceptive physicist with inclinations towards atomistic philosophy." To illustrate in what high esteem Uriel was held, we find him described in the 2nd book of the Sibylline Oracles as one of the "immortal angels of the undying God" who, on the day of judgement, will "Break the monstrous bars framed of unyielding and unbroken adamant of the brazen gates of Hades, and cast them down straightaway, and bring forth to judgement all the sorrowful forms, yea, of the ghosts of the ancient Titans and of the giants, and all whom the flood overtook. . . and all these shall he bring to the judgment seat. . .and set before God's seat."

- Excerpted from Gustav Davidson's A Dictionary of Angels; Including the Fallen Angels

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Often identified with . . . the angel "who watches over thunder and terror," Uriel appears to be a pretty heavy dude, and as such his Presidency of Hell seems most appropriate.

-From Malcolm Godwin's Angels; An Endangered Species

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Uriel was my first teacher. He is the definition of "gravitas". While it all depends on the system used, under the approach I learned, Uriel was the Guardian of the North, and associated with elemental Earth- with rich, deep soil and growing things. Also, therefore, with death, midnight, and winter. He is a hard-ass, like any dedicated musician, but he is also patient, so long as effort is true.

- The Author

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The sudden feeling of banishment compounded the irritation Uriel had been experiencing as a part of working with Castiel. How in creation that angel had flown through Hell and back and maintained his naivete was beyond his ken. Even after the Samhain debacle, that angel still tried to defend the two mud-mokeys. Ridiculous!

He frowned as he re-established himself, not where he expected to be. Usually, he either re-established back in Heaven, or on the western shore of Lake Meelva in Estonia. Someone or something had managed to divert him, as this was neither of those places. By the sound and smell, he was somewhere near San Francisco. His eyes, however, did not look up to the sight of the bay only a few hundred yards away. Instead, they were arrested by the sight of a djembe, the chalice shaped ebony supporting the stretched goat skin. His eyes narrowed- not just any drum, this was the first of its kind. The very one he'd crafted when teaching the first generations of humans about time. . . They'd thought the carvings to be mystical incantations. In a way, they were right. The mystical, at least, from their point of view. What it really said, in Enochian, was:

This Drum is the Property of Uriel. Hands off, morons- this includes you, Gabriel!

His lips curved in a small smile. How long since he had last seen this drum? He cast his mind back over the ages, growing slightly alarmed as it seemed that large chunks of his memory were missing. He remembered teaching the humans, remembered that young blind Roman girl who was able to see him and hear his voice. . .and then, suddenly, nothing but cold, unyielding discipline.

The sound of approaching human voices pulled him from his memories.

"-I don't know. He said his flight was canceled due to some freak storm. Said he'd called a guy he knew that could sub, Uri or something. How's that supposed to work, though? New drummer, show in an hour. . ."

Hn. He considered the drum, the continuing conversation around the corner of the building. He wasn't some narrow-minded human, to hold by that superstition called "Coincidence". No . . . Someone was clearly trying to send him a message. Very well, he'd play along. For now.

It was easy to convince the dancers that he was the "Uri" in question, despite their natural wariness. Females who danced learned quickly to be suspicious of strange men, but it was nothing a light skimming of their minds couldn't remedy. The one for whom he was to play - Rachel- had located a "crappy recording of a recent practice with Ricky. It's just on the phone, but it's what we have. . .". He watched the small screen once, learning not just the patterns of the "song", but also noting her small cues- glances and shifts and little signals with the hands and eyes. Her improvisational style reminded him of. . .someone. The memory slipped away before he could fully grasp it. Interesting.

She was skeptical, of course, but that melted away as he began to play the solo he'd just heard, beat for beat, figure for figure. Midway, she jumped up from her seat on the floor and picked up her dance, spine rolling and hips swaying in precise, controlled movements. He noticed she wasn't fully dancing- her control was too precise, a slight hesitation to her movements as she still didn't entirely trust his playing. Still, when he had finished up, she turned with relief in her eyes. "Well, damn," she said with a small grin. "This might work out after all. You're freaking amazing!"

The performance hall was small, but filled with an audience that ranged from well-bred businesswomen, to homeless men off the streets, to university students awash in their own brilliance. He watched Rachel as she took the stage, watched as her soul almost immediately shifted, as though the eyes of the audience had awoken it from slumber. Then they began.

He kept his eyes locked on her form as his fingers and hands moved of their own accord. He saw the exact moment when she forgot that he wasn't her normal drummer, forgot her own self and lost herself to the symbiotic interplay of rhythm and flow, of cue between hand and sound. He watched, amazed, as her soul surged to the confines of the fragile shell that rippled and twisted, watched as the souls in the audience rose in answer, felt his own grace leech out into the rhythms he played.

The mix of Soul and Grace suddenly resounded in a perfect chord, and he became aware of a Presence he hadn't felt since- then memory! A cascade of image and sound . . .

Almost back at The Beginning, the little one his student, learning to dance at Anael's side as he played. She had a voice like her fathers', and their impeccable rhythm, but seemed to lack the manual dexterity needed for psalter or trump. But when she danced, laughed, and sang, their family would sing back Io! Io! Io! . . .

Later then, along the Great River, helping her to teach a young Miriam to sing and to dance in the days before her brother found the Way. . .

The first time she flew the full extent of her range, watching from afar as she flew and danced along the Hell-gales with ease that outstripped even the oldest demons. Watched as her dance gained a fierceness, her fingers finally finding their use as she picked up her Papa's knives, as she danced with her Daddy's spear. Watched as she came back for such a brief time, to deliver a single kiss. . .

He saw her in the mountains of Japan, the Carolina Swamps in the late 18th Century, the French Resistance of the 20th . . .

The wave ebbed, in time to see Rachel's finger flick to bring it to a close. He watched, stunned, starting to understand just what might make these humans so very special, as she panted and bowed, sweat dripping off her nose onto the stage. But she was grinning, and the audience was on their feet, clear to all that something very special had just occurred.

He followed her offstage, content to quietly take his leave now that she had no more use for him, but she caught his elbow before he could walk away.

She collapsed against the wall, untying one of her hip scarves to wipe her face. "Hey," she started, between deep breaths. "I don't know who- I don't know what you are-" she met his eyes, and he was startled to see tears. "But thank you. I will never forget the gift you have given me." She reached up to the back of her neck. "It may be crazy, but . . ." she sighed. "I was given this years ago, told that I was to pass it on, that I would know who when the time came. . ." She held out the chain that held a thin, black pendant. "A gift for a gift."

He held out his hand- for the pendant was a small flake of obsidian shaped like a feather. Razor sharp along the edges, no human - no human female, especially- should have been able to wear it without injury. And yet Rachel was unharmed. Most miracles were so small they were easily missed.

He fastened the chain around his neck, thumbs brushing the chain that was already there, holding Anna's Grace. Ah, Understanding.

He bowed to the dancer. "The honor was mine"

Time to change the rhythm of this dance.

Next: Anael or Balthazar. I intend the former, but the latter is so very insistent and bossy. After then, finally, Castiel. Let's be honest-SPN fics without Castiel are like Champagne without the bubbles, or margaritas without the Tequila. . ..Or tomatoes without vodka. . .

You will note the change in genre. There will be humor, but. . . not until the Winchester's (Dean especially) show up, and that's not for a couple more chapters.