IV
New York City's Seraphim Monument was a remarkable form to behold, arching far above even the city's other respectable skyscrapers in a solid blaze of glass and bronze. The remarkable feat of modern architecture had been erected quite recently considering its archaic purpose, and the more seasoned city-goers were still unused to its magnificence, to the way that it dwarfed its surroundings and rendered those on the ground as small and unremarkable as fleas. It was mighty, unbelievable, even terrifying. It was tens of stories high, a spectacle for all to behold and an immediate target for the flocks of tourists that clogged the streets of the raging metropolis. It was grand. It was breathtaking.
It was also, incidentally, the chosen residence of the archangel Gabriel.
Humans, of course, had no idea he housed there, save the Holy Shield priests with whom he would occasionally associate. Though his name was carved into the base of the monument, amidst a swarm of curvy Latin inscription, it would never cross any of their minds that the being himself had made his home in the hollow shell of the magnificent building, whiling away the hours with his dark brown gaze directed over the city below. He certainly didn't have a small ego, which was understandable enough, given his history and reputation, and he wasn't in the least afraid to demonstrate as much. And so rumors circled, despite Holy Shield's insistence that he keep his head down; stories of red and gold wings, of an ebony stare and a glittering grin, of heavy, source-less shadows that coalesced around the base of the massive structure. Some called the Monument haunted, while others declared it to be blessed. Neither were precisely right, as the angels and Holy Shield were aware of, but it was certainly a remarkable place either way, whether or not it was regarded with the knowledge of all that it contained.
It was outside of the Seraphim Monument that Associate Pastor Philip Coulson found himself on this particular day. Mistiness held suspended in the air, striking the glittering metallic curves into even more definite brilliance, so that they shone with a subtle glow rather than being utterly blinding. Coulson's sunglasses sat perched on his nose, and his priest's robe was switched out for a less obtrusive suit, rendering him passable in the eyes of any onlookers. He had to appear unnoticeable and uninteresting, slip beneath the notice of any potential viewers, in order to properly execute the mission that Fury had sent him here for.
He took a deep breath of the fresh foggy air, then started towards the base of the Monument. There was no clear entryway; understandable, he reflected a bit sourly, considering that it really wasn't meant to be stepped inside of. Gabriel probably did so through his own angelic powers, and Coulson's attempts to enter it himself were sure to require far more effort than the archangel released on a daily basis.
He paced carefully around the structure, extending a hand and tracing the metal. Damp with condensation as it was, he expected a chill, but the bronze instead sparked a purr of warmth through his fingers. It was the distinct signature, he recognized with a delighted shiver, of supernatural activity. Gabriel was here.
Keeping that in mind, he ducked his head briefly, lifting his other palm to settle it beside the first. His experience with Raziel had confirmed that communications via prayer weren't his strongest point, but he had no other choice in this scenario, seeing as there was clearly no other way to enter the Monument other than Gabriel's own welcoming. Fog soaked the collar of his suit, nearly dense enough to be called a drizzle, and the contrast between the heated metal and icy air caused an odd shudder in his very core, a strangeness which he hoped would heighten the intensity of his prayers rather than decrease it.
Gabriel, he greeted without words, bracing himself. I have come to speak with you on behalf of the Holy Shield Church. Danger has arisen, and we need your help once more.
That seemed sufficient. He paused, awaiting any sort of response with his jaw tense. Raziel's words had been booming, overwhelming, sounded as if through a thousand shrieks rather than the lone female murmur that her vessel possessed, and he was sure that Gabriel's voice would be at least as powerful. Yet his tension remained un-shattered as the seconds crept onwards, and he felt a slight doubtful scowl creep onto his face, uncertainty filling him. The archangel was here, of that much there was no question; nothing else could cause the strange resonating warmth that purred through the metal structure. Then the only logical conclusion was that Gabriel was ignoring him.
Odd. Fury had mentioned the archangel's irritable tendencies, but this seemed ridiculous. Lucifer's return surely outweighed any antisocial behavior. Keeping this in mind, Coulson went so far as to actually hammer against the metal with one hand, feeling rather ridiculous and hoping that no one was watching him. He invested in a swift glance over his shoulder, attempting to ensure as much, and was nearly knocked to the ground with the blinding force of the noise that suddenly exploded from within his skull.
And is there any particular reason that you're bothering to disturb me?
If Raziel was thunder, than this was an absolute earthquake, hammering through him with a ferocity so intense that he couldn't help but clap his hands over his ears, an effort rendered pointless by the fact that the sound was emerging from within his brain itself. The words were layered, simultaneously trembling in a high shriek and thrumming in a scrape of a growl, and encompassing every note in-between. Coulson gasped in air, backing himself up against the Monument in an attempt to hold himself together.
I—yes, of course there's a reason, please, I just wish to talk briefly—I'm here for Holy Shield—
He could barely hear his own thoughts over the resonating pound that felt as though it was shaking his skull clean off his neck, but it was evidently all too easy for Gabriel.
So you said. Holy Shield annoys me; I need a reason.
Lucifer is back!
The overwhelming voice pulled away all at once and left Coulson swaying, one arm thrust out to seek purchase on the smooth surface of the metal beside him. He barely had an instant to catch his breath, however, before the warm solidity beneath him melted away, causing him to nearly fall over in surprise. He blinked, amazed as the sight before him. The bronze had receded into darkness, leaving what closer resembled the entrance to some abandoned cave than the interior of one of the most respected structures in New York City. He glanced over his shoulder briefly, and was greeted by the sight of the rest of the populace drifting by in an entirely unperturbed manner, apparently unaware of the yawning gap that had been drawn from strong metal mere feet before them.
On with it, then, Gabriel bellowed, and Coulson half-stumbled, half-fell into the chasm. He was swathed in darkness for only the barest instant, before the threshold was left behind and a blaze of light immediately struck through his surroundings.
He squinted in astonishment, buffeted by the whitish golden illumination even from underneath the scarce protection of his sunglasses. Despite its vividness, it was far from warm, unlike the Monument's exterior, and he found himself wrapping his arms instinctively around himself. After a few seconds passed, he managed to bring together some semblance of focus—the inside of the huge structure, he recognized immediately, was the perfect opposite of what he had been expecting. The dismal appearance of the entrance that Gabriel had forged led him to expect a dank, musty nest of a place, thick with dripping beams and frothy-toothed rats.
What he instead received was a hideout beyond befitting of an archangel. It was magnificent, full of crystal and silk, almost entirely gold and cream and resembling the paintings of Heaven that Coulson's mother always had lining their home's hallways. A much more admirable place than Holy Shield's narrow hallways, and he found himself breathless, amazed at the luxury that surrounded him. Despite the extravagance, it was vastly bare of furniture, housing only a few long tables upon which perched a variety of strange glassy instruments, giving the impression of a supernatural tinker's workshop. The room was cone-shaped like the Monument itself, but pale, gauzy drapes obscured the higher reaches, so that Coulson, tipping his head back in unadulterated wonder, was only able to observe ten or so feet into the crystalline air.
"Alright, so Lucifer's back. Speak up," a low voice commanded. It carried nothing near the tormenting resonance of Gabriel's psychic communication, but instead sounded almost normal, if a bit stern with what was presumably worry. Coulson turned, and found that the speaker was standing directly behind him, as though he'd followed him through the now-invisible doorway.
Gabriel had chosen a handsome vessel; a bit short, perhaps, not above Coulson's own height, but respectable nonetheless. He had dark hair, cropped relatively short and complemented by a neat beard, and his eyes were wide chocolate brown, easily his most prominent feature, currently narrowed under strong brows. He donned a casual suit, the white collar loose where there was no tie, and his hands were shoved deep into his pockets, bunching the fabric around them. Coulson's eyes instinctively drifted towards his shoulders, seeking wings, but he was rewarded by nothing. Of course, they'd be kept invisible when not in use, but it was a bit deflating nonetheless.
"He returned last night," Coulson began, trying to keep his voice steady. It was difficult not to fall to his knees in the presence of such a respected being, or at the very least to voice his honor at the meeting, but it would seem that Gabriel wanted facts, and Coulson was no one to deny him of what he'd made clear were his desires. "The Tesseract, our Hell key, began acting up, and it was as if... he used it, somehow, from his side. Opened a portal into this reality, and incapacitated Uriel in the process. I've contacted Raziel, and she's retrieving Ezekiel. You're the third that we've approached."
Gabriel's eyes sharpened, but he said nothing. Coulson took his silence as cue to continue, and did so, his voice beginning to shake from the pressure of the silence around them. "If he's back, and in power, then it means that the Apocalypse is coming. And if the Apocalypse is coming, then we need your help, Gabriel. We need all the angels' help."
"I seem to recall Holy Shield asking that I leave them alone," he murmured, and Coulson strained to tell whether his thoughtful tone was sarcastic as he began to pace across the marble flooring, his fingers trailing along the tiny glass structures scattered about as he reached their tables. Even those smallest movements were immensely delicate, and Coulson found himself holding his breath, unable to make his lungs work properly in the presence of such fragile power. "Apparently they found me... disagreeable, was the word? Overly aggressive, in any chance. Full of my own power. Prone to... taking control."
"None of that matters anymore," Coulson got out, unable to help but feel embarrassed, responsible for the comments that had never come from him in the first place. "This is the Apocalypse itself, sir. We really can't afford to be picky."
"Apparently not." Gabriel paused with his back still turned to Coulson, then laughed slightly, the sound low and eerily powerful despite its being an indicator of humor. "Holy Shield is at it once again, then. Lucifer... I can barely remember Lucifer; it's been ages. Very well, then." He nodded to himself, and Coulson's gut twisted at the motion, leaping and sinking both at once as Gabriel turned back to fully face him, chin up and eyes bright with enthusiastic intensity. "Where do I start?"
Pastor Fury, in the northern area of the city, was lashed far more violently by the assault of the rain. It beat down so venomously that even his heavy black coat did little to detract his power, and he found himself growling in frustration as he sloshed his way through the streets, vivid with red lights and indignantly honking cars. None of them were aware of his mission, of just how essential it was that he reach his destination.
He was headed for one of New York's largest and oldest churches, the best place he had after Holy Shield's destruction to perform the summoning that now remained as his only hope. He knew it was a foolish thing to imagine, that he might be able to retrieve the greatest of the archangels, especially since he was still recovering from his brief period of isolation; after a massively taxing demon battle some centuries ago, Michael had been frozen in metaphysical ice in an attempt to preserve what little life still endured within him. It had been successful, keeping him chained into life, but he had only recently pulled himself out of the unfeeling state, and the return of reality—hundreds of years after what he imagined, at that, immersed in a stunningly progressive culture that he had no time to adjust to—had been hugely taxing on the still-archaic angel. Yet there was no way Fury could delve into the Apocalypse without Michael at his side. He knew it was a gargantuan request, to ask for assistance, but knew equally that Earth had no chance of survival without the mightiest of the angels.
So it was that he was landed here now, fighting his way through the whips of rain and towards the marble structure of the ancient church parked in the recesses of the winding city. It was illuminated even in the late evening, golden light dancing down its cream-colored walls, and the image conveyed such soothing sanctuary that Fury found himself breathing more easily even as he ascended the steps. It would be a bit crowded, most likely, but it was a multifaceted structure, with several different rooms for various services and ceremonies; surely he'd be able to find space to isolate himself and pray properly.
Sure enough, he pushed open the massive double doors in front only to be greeted by a swarm of people. Some were clearly dressed to attend a scheduled service, while others, decked in rags, were clearly here in hope that it might offer some protection from the raging elements outside. It really was disastrous weather, Fury reflected with a glance towards the nearly floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows lining the entrance hall, currently awash in the dark air's flood, and perhaps even harbored some connection to the very Apocalypse that had landed him here. If this was only the start of Lucifer's stirrings, then they had no end of horrific tempests ahead of them.
The thought was enough to prompt him to move faster, and his dark attire and stern expression were enough cause for the people around him to part and allow him through as he made his way to the nearest narrow hallway. Once he was away from the thickest swarms of the noisy populace, he was able to detect low organ music echoing through the emptiness, presumably from one of the rooms in which a session was currently being held. It was almost eerie, though not in a way that disturbed him, and heightened the pace of his footsteps yet further, until he was practically dashing through the unfamiliar area. Small oil paintings were positioned on the narrowing walls, depicting all matter of varied Biblical scenes, images ranging from the innocence of a shepherd with his flock to a bloody battle between an expanse of demons and a single glistening angel—presumably the very one whom he was seeking out now.
It was at this final image, in fact, that he paused, his single eye narrowing. It was exquisitely done, the contours of Michael's muscular torso and long golden hair painstakingly detailed, the wavering, poisonous demons' forms seeming to reach out of the canvas and strike doubt even into his own icy, resolute heart. And yet it was not the intricacy of the art that caught him up now, but rather the legend it depicts. Surely there was no better place to pray for Michael's help than before an image of the archangel himself. Taking a deep breath and brushing a shower of light raindrops off of his heavy coat, Fury hastened into a kneeling position, bringing his hands to his forehead and forcing his eye shut as he carefully redirected his energy into prayer, a skill which he had long honed. It took mastery, and Coulson and Hill were still learning, but Fury was confident in his ability to summon the angels, as practiced as he was, and that confidence helped to boost the power of his plea as he broadcast it into the mind-space of the angels' communicative levels, his strong words echoed by the soft thrum of the organ still echoing through the empty hallway.
Michael. It is mandated by fate that I speak with you. In the name of your father and for the good of my people, allow me the blessing of your presence.
He needed nothing more. Instants later, a low whoosh stirred the air, and Fury's eye sprung open once more as he pulled himself to his feet, turning with a slight bow to face the fine-cut figure that had appeared behind him in the half-second space.
Michael didn't perfectly resemble the powerful feminine figure that the painting portrayed, but his form was remarkable enough regardless, even decked out as it was in the dull normality of what looked like any casual New Yorker's day clothes. His hair was cropped but still golden, a smooth swoop curving over his unmarred forehead, gem-blue eyes gazed out from beneath heavy, light-toned brows, and his mouth was soft over a firm jaw. A powerful torso narrowed to equally muscular legs; nothing obtrusive, but rather a lean sort of strength, something that would surely leave no doubt in anyone's mind that this was the vessel of the very angel that the Bible revered above all others.
"It is an honor," Fury greeted, dipping his head. Michael lifted a hand, indicating that he hold himself upright, and Fury was quick to obey, keeping his chin at a level that was steady without appearing arrogant.
"Speak swiftly," the angel implored. Unlike the others', his vessel didn't completely disguise the heavy prestige of his own natural tones. Running below the human words like an underground brook was the sonority of the archangel's true voice, humming in a similar subtlety to the organ music that still seeped through the floor and walls, and imbuing each of his murmured phrases with a heavy respectability. "You would not call without ample cause."
"I would not," Fury confirmed grimly, rather unhappy to be conveying the dark news. "We have a problem, one which you might have heard about. I can't say, as I know nothing of your whereabouts when you aren't in the association of Holy Shield."
"Naturally. I am unaware. Go on, then; what troubles your church?"
"The church is gone. Burned." He paused for a moment, watching Michael's face in the hope that it might show at least some whisper of horror or amazement at his dark news, but the steady planes don't so much as twitch. Immediately, he continues. "It was destroyed last night, with the sudden explosion of the Tesseract. Lucifer used it as a gateway—he is back on Earth, backed by all number of demons as well as the possessed support of one of our own numbers."
Michael exhaled, then, and his eyes drifted briefly shut, fine lashes settling over his cheeks. For a moment, he looked almost innocent, peaceful, but Fury wasn't fooled by the physical relaxation, and, sure enough, the angel's forehead tensed and knotted moments later, his mouth twisting downwards. "Uriel," he sighed, and, this time, loss was very vivid in the way he spoke. His pale eyes fell open again, and there was a boundless sort of sorrow encompassed in their depths. Michael, in Fury's own experience as well as all he had learned, was one of the angels that felt the strongest sense of fraternity, and that brotherly love was clearly turned on him now, tormenting him in its trembling passion.
"Yes. Lucifer overtook him instantly, poisoned him with a sort of golden glow—I've never seen anything like it."
"Of course not. I scarcely have, and I've walked this Earth for many more years than yourself." He ducked his face briefly, apparently in an attempt to regain his composure, and the sight was perhaps the most troubling thing Fury had seen since he first received news of the church's fire the previous night. He had only encountered Michael once before, over a decade earlier, but the memory that had burned through him ever since was one of imperturbable iciness; not unfriendliness, necessarily, but a cold demeanor that had to come with such utter power, the only alternative surely being to explode in the sort of raging fire that caused Lucifer to be the demented menace that he was, that had set the two of them here now. And to see that shattered—or even cracked, for Michael still remained much more stoic than any human would surely appear upon receiving news of his brother's destruction and his planet's quite nearly inevitable doom—was nothing short of terrifying "Very well. Lucifer has returned, then."
"Lucifer has returned," Fury confirmed. "I've got a priest rounding up some others, one of my best—he should have contacted Raziel and Gabriel by now, and I believe he sent Raziel to Purgatory, to retrieve Ezekiel." Michael's expression was once more unmoved, but Fury needed no visual indicator to show how amazed he clearly was at the desperate extent to which Fury had so clearly gone. "I know it's dangerous, and I know it's extreme. But it's our only hope. We need every one of you if we expect to fight this battle—"
"Of course." Michael's tone was soft, but it cut him off quite efficiently, and he lapsed into silence as the angel folded his hands behind his back and began to steadily pace before him, chin sunken nearly to his collarbone. "It is only in numbers that we have any hope at all of overcoming our fallen brother and saving Uriel. I hope... I do hope that Gabriel will be sufficiently powerful to hold some sort of dominance over the group as a whole. Though I do rather harbor a distaste for his attitudes myself, the fact remains that I am... weakened, and our victory necessitates his taking control of at least some of the power."
"Gabriel?" Fury echoed. "You expect him to lead?"
"Not necessarily lead, but at least work as a point for the rest to properly gather around. He's strong, bright. One of my oldest siblings, of course, and dearest, though I often despise him in a superficial sense. It's been many years... many, since I've last spoken to him. Millennia, perhaps. A reunion will be... interesting."
"And are you prepared for it?"
"I have no choice." Steadily, Michael turned to face him again. His features were sketched in solemnity, but the light raging behind the blue shade of his eyes was momentous, dark with absolute determination. "I thank you, Nicholas Fury, for bringing me news of Lucifer's return. It is time, then... time for us to gather once more. I will meet with Gabriel as swiftly as I dare, and perhaps the two of us will be capable of clipping Lucifer's power before it extends into something yet more vicious. I expect you will come with, Pastor—you are too definitely ingrained in the workings of this Apocalypse already to be able to withdraw."
"I had no intention to withdraw," Fury confirmed.
Michael did not smile, but his eyes sharpened; for an instant, the angel of the painting behind them shone through his skin like sun through stained glass, and Fury had no doubt that, in a fight for the future, he could not possibly have an ally more powerful.