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 XXXVII: Prodigal
…While he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.
Luke 15: 20
One thing God has spoken, two things I have heard:
that you, O God, are strong, and that you, O Lord, are loving.
Psalm 62: 11-12
It was hours—if Heaven measured such a thing—before he could bring himself to leave Joy's side. Still, their shared time was too short. Only the knowledge of Bethany waiting for him—only the realization that he could assure her, now, of her sister's newness and wholeness—encouraged him to leave Joy and rush to the floor before his Father's throne.
For a moment, he simply savored the warmth of Heaven, letting the sensation of praise and fervent joy wash over his skin. It was a physical sensation: fierce, sweet, and stronger for his long absence. He'd missed it.
And yet part of him recognized that it was stronger for other reasons as well. He thought perhaps he had not fully appreciated the brightness of it, the ardor of true devotion, for millennia. Only now, experienced in the wake of human mercy and human grief, could he remember—
"Father," Gabriel said quietly, when he finally opened his eyes. "I seek an audience."
You are welcome here, My son, his Father responded gently. You are always welcome here.
Gabriel felt a tremor of warmth, of solemn adoration. He was certain his eyes shone with it. Of course his Father would send Joy to greet him—would send her with elated embraces and freedom in her eyes, because He would know what it would mean to his lost son. It was a gesture of simplicity, of love, of mercy.
I see there has been a change in you.
"Yes, Father." The angel paused and breathed deeply. "I wish—to abide on earth for a while."
There was a pause. The ongoing praise of the heavenly host broke apart briefly, rippling like a stream around a stone before reconvening in hallelujahs once more.
Ah, My son, the Lord sighed. Gabriel could not decipher the tone in his voice. What has wrought this in you?
"There is a human girl. She has become…" he groped for words. Friend was too careless a word; even family did not seem to encompass the brightness of it. "…holy to me. Sacrosanct. I have—much to learn from her."
Even yet? Father asked lightly. It seems you have already learned more than some might have expected.
Humility burned Gabriel's cheeks, but he did not lower his head. He knew that Father saw everything already, clearly—including his innermost heart—and his only hesitation came from baring it before the rest of the angelic host around them. Besides, the Father who considered himself a bridegroom to His people surely would not shy away from a term like lovers.
"Father," he said, "she is precious to me. Beloved."
There was a sense of doubt—no; a sense of being tested. You do not find her disfigurement unsettling?
"She is wholly lovely to me,"Gabriel answered without hesitation.
Though the words came readily to his lips, unbidden, he found himself surprised nonetheless. It was the truth, but when had it become so? He remembered: once, he had found her hideous, and then had decided it was the scar alone that was hideous. Later, he had found her lovely in spite of it. But now—now he thought her lovely because of it, too.
Father remained silent, and Gabriel's wings rippled just enough to send the sound of chiming daggers and whispering feathers through the air. Uncomfortably, the archangel said abruptly: "While I have learned some share of"—here he stumbled over the word—"of compassion from her, I know there is more I have yet to understand."
You have learned compassion, Gabriel? Father said, and Gabriel was relieved to hear him speak again. And if I asked you tomorrow to lead the host once more in Armageddon—?
He shook his head. "Father, I would beg you to spare them, if only for her." Those words spilled forth easily, and he lowered his eyes. And yet, there was more to it than this. You are made to be worthy, he had told Bethany once, and afterward had wondered if it were not so of all mankind.
I am reminded of Sodom and Gomorrah, the Father said, and once more Gabriel struggled to decipher his tone. Did I not send you with your brother, to find for me even ten righteous men?
"You did, Father." He hesitated. He remembered clearly: Lot and his wide-eyed daughters, the faces of the men who had thought, in their foolishness, to harm the angels of God themselves. There had only been one righteous man in that city, and while Michael had pleaded for the population's security, Gabriel had only dispatched Lot's family to safety, conveying them coldly to the borders of town before turning to help his melancholic brother mete out God's fiery wrath. Michael might have been impressed by the man's willingness to sacrifice his own offspring, but Gabriel had only felt cold disdain. And the woman, he remembered, had looked back; had seen the glory of angels in the way that human eyes were never meant to perceive, and it had burnt her up from the inside out. He had glimpsed her, later: a crumbling and fragile statue made of dried tears.
"I realize"—Gabriel hesitated once more—"that Bethany would not be happy without others with whom to share her life." He thought of Joy, her eyes bright and eager; he thought of wishing he had been able to call her back from the edge of death—and then he thought of the girl who locked her arms around him on Christmas, who sacrificed herself for the safety of a holy Child. "And—where there is one worth saving, perhaps there are more."
Father scrutinized him. I see, He said. You have learned other things as well, My son. Things I had feared were lost.
Gabriel closed his eyes, humbled. "Father," he acknowledged, "I have learned—family. What you intended for it to mean, or some small piece of it. I had thought that I understood—filial piety, and the bond of brothers, that in Your presence…" He trailed away for a moment, then continued, "But I was wrong. I no longer recognized it—I could not even see it. I allowed my desire to save You from heartbreak and my ardor to win a place as Your favored son—"
Gabriel, Father interrupted, and His voice was vaguely disappointed, but also—fierce. After all this time, you still think I favor one son over another?
The archangel bowed his head, ashamed of his own frailty, his own inability to comprehend the true scope of his Father's boundless grace.
Gabriel, God said, and then repeated Himself. Gabriel. I have called you by name—and you alone. There are none like you. You are My precious, precious son, and the love I bear you is entirely different from the love I bear Michael, or Uriel, or any of your brothers. You are unique among angels, Gabriel, as My love for you is unique. I will move the heavens for any one of My children—I will fight for you, and against you, however it might better you. I will risk it all for you, Gabriel.
For you, Gabriel.
There was a long moment, and for a moment Gabriel allowed the words to seep into his skin. He could feel that they meant something more than he could immediately place—and then he sucked in a breath, and it was stark and sweet with realization. What miracle of genetics had resulted in a lineage from Eve to Bethany, to Joy? What miracle of circumstances had isolated each of them, then led them to each other in the desert—that they might bring comfort and strength to each other, that they might set about healing each others' wounds?
"This is what You meant to happen," Gabriel said slowly. "When You closed the gates of heaven to me—and even from The Beginning—Father—"
He fell silent for a moment, overwhelmed by the depth and precision of his Father's love. When he had thought himself abandoned, God had only been crafting a way to bring him home.
His eyes stung and his mouth tightened, but he lifted his head, unashamed of his tears. They cut streams down the angled planes of his face.
My ways are mysterious, Father said, and He sounded both very satisfied and very amused.
Sometimes you have to tear a thing apart in order to put it back together the way it was meant to be, Bethany had said once, and: Perhaps He turns us away so that we will turn to each other. A thought unfurled inside him, and his throat clenched with the ruthless bittersweetness of it. In a low voice, Gabriel asked, "Was the whole of the apocalypse merely leading up to this moment?"
For a moment, Father was silent. No, he said at last, and yes. It was the prerogative of God to be so contrary, Gabriel knew—only He could say both words and mean them each entirely. With sudden gentleness, He asked, in a tender and almost-beseeching tone:
Gabriel—does not the Shepherd leave his ninety-nine sheep in search of the one who is lost?
And Gabriel saw Bethany's penny-colored eyes, full of honey and light and awe, and the way she reassured herself: Oh. Oh. As though each utterance brought with it a new wave of revelation. His throat closed completely for a moment; he swallowed around the tightness there.
Gabriel, Father said, and there was something fiery and pleased in His eyes. You tell me you choose to stay with her. I see what this means to you: that you will trust the heart I placed inside you, and delight in her, and be her companion and champion. And so I am certain there is something else you have learned in your time on earth, something of which you have not yet spoken.
"Yes," Gabriel rasped out, overcome. "Yes." And he thought of Michael, holding him desperately in the darkness of the diner; he thought of Father, holding on to hope for His children, needing it, needing them. He thought of the girl who held him desperately on the night of the apocalypse, trying to save a Child. He thought of Bethany holding Joy in the darkness and blood, and he thought of himself holding Bethany while she struggled—too late—to save her dead sister.
What is it, My son?
"We must not give up on the things we love," Gabriel said quietly, holding his Father's eyes with great solemnity and an achingly full heart. "Nothing is more certain to destroy us."
Word Count: 1,770
Completed: June 5th, 2011
So, turns out, WRITING GOD'S VOICE IS HARD.
This chapter went something like this: write, edit, struggle; write, struggle, struggle, struggle; edit, struggle, edit.
I am hoping you are pleased with this exchange. It was where the story was always heading, so I hope it brings some measure of satisfaction and comfort.
XXXVIII: Joseph, Reuben. Another reunion.
XXXIX: The Stone is Rolled Away. Gabriel comes home.
Epilogue: Seventh Day. A couple enjoys each others' company in a Garden.
****This title is probably pretty well-known, but I will explain anyway. Itrefers to the parable of the prodigal son, who decided to leave his father in search of his own fortune and ended up returning home, humbled, to beg forgiveness and ask for work in his father's home. Instead, his father is overjoyed at the sight of him, welcomes him in, and calls everyone to celebrate his son's return with joyful feasting and merriment. [c. Luke 15]