Michael awoke with the worst migraine he had ever experienced, but that wasn't the most devastating part of his situation.
God choking him? The punishment he endured? The overwhelming sense of embarrassment? None of those were as terrible as the fact that all of his siblings had come to witness his torture. Their Father had granted them permission to do as they pleased as long as he remained alive. Slowly lifting his head, he surveyed their expressions. Most of them stood on Father's side, but the real question lingered—would they inflict further harm upon him?
Azrael noticed the handprints on his neck, a bruise forming in the center, his eyes droopy, and the dried blood on his forehead. It had been a week since the trial. How long was I unconscious? Michael wondered.
As he looked up, the sunlight pierced his eyes, intensifying his headache. He promptly rested his head back down, mustering the strength to speak.
"W-why are you guys here?" his voice raspy, his body weak from lack of food and water. He considered cracking a joke to mask his true feelings, but decided against it.
"Well... to give you what you deserve, of course," Amenadiel replied.
Why is he here? Was he present during my trial? Michael wondered, until Amenadiel delivered a punch to his already battered body.
Soon, all of them joined in, utilizing their powers to strike, kick, slap, and even stab his wrists with dull nails, rendering him trapped. Another sibling unfurled their wings, generating a gust of wind that hurled dirt, grass, and rocks at him.
One of them forcefully opened his mouth and administered a drug. Michael recognized it immediately—Anectine.
Azrael, Gabriel, and two others stood back, unwilling to participate. They winced and shielded their faces whenever he was struck too hard or let out a scream.
With weary eyes, he silently conveyed a simple "thank you" to them whenever they glanced his way.
Just as the drug took effect, Castiel shot him in the leg. They resorted to using anything within their reach, both earthly and heavenly, now that he was reduced to a vulnerable human, thanks to the cross and ropes.
Immobile but fully conscious, he attempted to move. His arms ached as he strained, muscles tensed but unresponsive. His mind raced, struggling to keep up with the torment inflicted by his siblings.
Finally, they retreated, leaving Raziel at the forefront. "Don't think this is over," Raziel declared, spitting at his shoes before departing with the others, except for the four who remained.
Each of them appeared traumatized in their own way, their gazes alternating between his disfigured form and the unrecognizable Michael before them. Bruises, contusions, and blood covered his body. His shirt was torn in unpredictable places, and his left leg bled from the bullet wound.
The effects of the drug gradually wore off, allowing him to move his mouth and speak.
"I-I'm okay. I deserve t-this. You should go b-back to your j-jobs. Don't worry about me... please," Michael managed to say, already feeling the weight of this experience changing him in just one week. He coughed up blood, which trickled from his mouth and landed on the gray grass beneath him. Azrael approached with a rag in hand, crouching down to clean the blood from his face.
"I'm sorry," Azrael murmured, her heels hitting the ground as she turned to walk away with the others.
"Thank you," Michael whispered, ensuring his voice carried enough for them to hear. It was the only expression of gratitude he could muster. However, they didn't pause or acknowledge his words. None of them wanted to confront his broken body or endure the sound of his feeble, rasping voice.
He held onto a glimmer of hope, praying that he wouldn't remain suspended on that cross indefinitely, but perhaps only for a few years, or better yet, even less.