Title: Tongues of Men and Angels
Rating: TA for implied?romance.
Summary: Glimpses of grace: the story of one brother and two sisters. Through the grace of God, all things are made new.A series of drabbles. Ish. Gabriel/OC. Ish.
Disclaimer: *obligatory insert*
Chapter XIII: Promised Land
Oh Lord my God, I cried out to You, and You healed me.
Psalm 30: 2
He spent his days with the younger sister, and his nights in the company of the elder. While they drove, he flew high overhead, keeping watch; when they stopped he would land beside them and sit with Joy while Bethany raided grocery stores and houses.
One day, while he stood at Joy's side just inside the convenience store, she was staring out the dust-streaked window into the hot, harsh light of the sun, and she said:
"Don't worry. She leaves money, you know. Not always enough, but it's more than most people do."
He did not look at her. "Sin is not relative," he said at last, and was pleased with the mildness of his tone.
Joy didn't seem to find his restraint so laudable. A furrow creased her brow and he was disappointed in spite of himself. He preferred her to be happy, or at least content. He was growing to enjoy their companionable silences: the words left unsaid, which lay between them like a thick, folded blanket.
"Did you ever wonder where we're going?" she suddenly shifted, and he paused to gather his thoughts. He tried to discern whether or not the question was philosophical in nature—the kind of question that her older sister was prone to asking—but Joy seemed to be more attuned to logic and fact than wonderment and awe. In either case, he supposed his answer was the same.
"No."
She snorted and leaned against the window, her palms and nose and forehead pressed against the dirty glass, her eyes still wide and staring sightlessly. "We're going to the Grand Canyon. I always wanted to go. When we were kids, I used to do research on it." A faint grin curved her mouth: real mirth. It was a rare but sweet thing to see on her face, and he grudgingly admitted that he treasured these moments. They were some of the few, too-brief times when he felt close to his Father once more. "I thought it was amazing, a powerful testament to the forces of nature and science. Beth—I don't think she cared too much. She was—well, you know how she is. She was always that way—she'd find such amazement in things no matter how simple or surprising they really were. Leaf-veins and river-rocks and sugar cubes, for crying out loud. She used to tell me, Joy, don't you know? Everything in this world is a prayer."
The words rang true for him in his core. For the first time, he wondered who had wounded Bethany so brutally, who had marked her face. It seemed unjust, that a soul who was likely one of God's most perceptive—at least among mankind—should be trapped in a limited physical body that had been scarred by man.
"Anyway," said Joy, "I don't think she cared, really—if it was up to her, the one place she'd always wanted to visit was Alaska—but the night that the…that the angels came? She promised me she would take me there. And Bethany always keeps her promises."
He was vaguely surprised—more at himself than the story. He realized he had never really wondered about their circumstances this past Christmas, or how they ended up on the road, or why. Most survivors seemed to have banded together in enclaves and urban clusters, but not these two sisters: they had set out alone into unforgiving terrain. He narrowed his eyes at her, searching her profile as it smudged the glass.
"You have a story to tell," he said simply, and Joy's unblinking stare broke for a moment, her glazed eyes focusing on him. "A story you want to tell. Or you would not be saying this now."
She smiled, and he realized how much like her sister she looked: darker-eyed, scarless. "You must be right," she said lightly. "I don't know what it is though." Her eyes turned sad, and he thought how strange these two girls were, what a mystifying and strangely beautiful combination of laughter and sorrow, strength and frailty. For a moment, he could almost grasp it: what Father loved in them, what Michael admired.
"I'll tell you this, though," she said. "That whole night, she just held me. So tight. She told me stories. All her favorite memories of the two of us. I remember every word, Gabe. Every word of it. Around the blood and the bruises and the tears. And she promised that we would get through it, and when it was over, we'd go to the Grand Canyon. She gave me so much to hope for, Gabriel." She closed her eyes for the first time since she'd taken up her post at the window. "She kept me safe."
He could picture it: two girls, curled together in the darkness of a cellar, or beneath the stairs. The sounds of a dying city around them: screams, and sirens, and gunshots and laughter. And Bethany—whose voice reached out to him in the dark every night, to tell him stories of human beings, to try to explain how their hearts worked—her voice reaching out again, as she soothed her trembling and terrified sister with stories of their childhood, with bright dreams and meteors, with sweetness and fierce protection.
He thought of himself and his own brother—archangels of the Lord, justice and mercy personified—and how they had taken turns cutting each other down.
Humans are complicated, Bethany had told him only a few nights before. We're so many kinds of bitter and beautiful, and you can never predict which thing will manifest, and maybe that's part of what makes us precious. When you think all hope is lost, Gabriel—
Oh, how we'll surprise you.
He could well see how Bethany's words would form a shield around her sister's heart, and keep her strong and safe in the deepest shadows on the darkest night at the farthest end of the world.
Word Count: 974
Completed: April 26, 2011
Oh my goodness, children. I think I just finished this story.
No, not here! It looks like there will be 39 chapters, including some interludes and an epilogue (I was hoping to pull for an even 40, 'cause well, Lent, but it wasn't meant to be). I think it might be harder for me to wait and post them than it is for you to wait and read them, but I want them all to be perfect (or as close as possible), so you can continue to count on getting one or two updates every one or two days. It is amazing how dear this has grown to my heart in the last few brief days.
In other news, some of you might have expressed some concern over my reputation as a writer of miseries. Well…I am giving you my solemn word that I will end this fanfiction on A Note of Hope. To me—perhaps weirdly—Legion was always about hope.
I hope you continue to enjoy, and I thank you all again for such lovely-wonderful reviews.