Also reposting the ((rest of the)) latest long ask re what would happen if Gabriel died (wiped from existence) underneath the more details to help with people who don’t want to/can’t make it over to Tumblr. Had to split it into a second post because it was so long, so just ignore the double post >.>
Summary
Leo stirs from the gravestone, eyes flashing open to see Tadea approaching. “What is it?” he asks, struggling to his feet, leaning against the heavy marble.
“We need our alpha,” Tadea says, dipping her head, eyes darting to the engraving, her mouth pulling down in a frown. She could understand his grief, but they didn’t have the luxury for it. They never had.
“An alpha who can’t even protect the person they love?” Leo asks, fingers tracing the letters forming Gabriel’s human name.
“You can’t blame yourself,” Tadea starts, shaking her head, her fingers tracing over the new tattoo on her arm—a single bloody feather, emerging from the mouth of a skull. “Gabriel was an archangel. What could we have done that an archangel couldn’t?”
“I don’t know!” Leo snaps, tugging on the tail of his braid, wrapping his arms around his lanky frame. He hadn’t been eating, and it shows, his clothes hanging loose, his formerly fit form looking gaunt.
“Then do something you do know!” Tadea snaps back, hands going to her hips. “You are the alpha; you have a responsibility to your pack!”
“You do it then!”
Tadea flinches at his words, her hands dropping to her side. “They would never accept another governing in the place of their proper alpha while you still live,” she tells him, anger running through her words. “Are you asking me to kill you and take over?”
Leo’s shoulders sag. “If I was, would you?”
The motion catches him off-guard, and he spits out a mouthful of blood as he gingerly touches his jaw, feeling the impression left by Tadea’s left hook.
“It’s a good thing Gabriel’s dead,” she snarls, eyes flashing yellow. “Because if they could see you now, you would be nothing but a disappointment to them!”
Another visitor further off in the cemetery turns to face them, and Tadea makes a sharp, dismissive gesture with her hand, her squared shoulders and shoulder-width spread legs radiating an aura of danger.
Leo wipes the blood from his lips, straightening back up. “I’ll take that as a no,” he states, massaging his jaw. She had pulled her punch, but it had been effective in its intent. “You’re right, that wasn’t fair of me to ask.” He takes a step forward, reluctantly parting from the cool marble marker. “I do have a responsibility, and Gabriel wouldn’t want me to shirk it.” He casts one last, lingering glance at the gravestone, eyes shadowed. “But one day, Tadea, we are going to kill the bastard that did this.”
Tadea cracks a small smile. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Arm-in-arm, the pair leave the cemetery behind, Tadea catching the alpha up on what he had missed.
Tadea stirs, raising her yellow eyes to the approaching figure, letting out a low grumble of disapproval.
Leo doesn’t say a word, plopping down on the floor beside her head, reaching out and scratching the fur between her ears. Grumbling, Tadea allows the touch, butting her head against his thigh when he pauses.
The two sit in silence, Leo’s hand coming to just rest on her hand. The scent of her alpha soothes some of the agitation in her chest, but even the familiar scent that she had often fallen asleep wrapped around when they were younger did nothing to alleviate the cavernous hole in her chest. She shuffles her paws, moving the sweatshirt back in front of her nose, inhaling deeply of the scent. A low whine escapes her as she realizes that the scent is growing fainter, nearly impossible to discern over the stronger scent of Leo. Her tail lashes, and she jerks away from Leo, trying to get enough distance that she can once more submerse herself in her lover’s scent, trying to preserve the memory of her Gabriel.
Leo lets her go, remaining in his place against the wall, watching as Tadea gets up, circling agitatedly around the sweatshirt, pawing at it and letting out a few noises of distress.
“C’mon Tee,” Leo calls, his voice low and soothing. “Why don’t you shift back and take a shower. I made some pozole de frijol. I can heat it up on the stove and we can talk.”
Tadea growls, making her opinion of this idea known.
Leo purses his lips, fixing his dark eyes on her. “Tadea, I know how much pain you’re in, but I need you too. I’ve been trying to give you space, but you aren’t taking care of yourself, and I won’t stand for that.” He takes a deep breath, remaining calm as Tadea stops trying to make a nest out of the sweatshirt, her head dropping down as the growling ratchets up a notch.
“Tadea, don’t make me force you,” he says softly. She slinks forward, her posture that of a hunter.
Leo licks his lips. “Forgive me,” he says. “Tadea, shift.”
She shudders, trying to refuse the command, trying to stay in this form that isn’t so vulnerable. It’s no use, and with a cracking of bones Tadea returns to her human form. She rises silently to her feet, staring balefully at Leo.
Her alpha remains on the floor, not meeting her gaze. “I’m sorry, but you weren’t the only one in love with her,” he says, arms loosely wrapped around one knee. “We lost her, and I can’t lose you too. I have a responsibility as your alpha, but also as your family. So please, just take a shower. I’ll get dinner ready.”
Tadea clenches her hands at her side, but this time she follows his directive without him using his alpha voice. Only when the bathroom door slams can Leo breathe, getting shakily to his feet, glancing once at the sweatshirt still on the floor. The pain in his chest aches, but he pushes it aside. Right now he has to focus on the living; then he can focus on getting justice for the dead. At least that endeavor might spark some life back into Tadea, if she ever forgave him for doing this.
Sabriel paces with her hands behind her back, scrutinizing the recruits. “Again,” she orders. The guardians exchange a glance, but do as she asks, engaging once more in a practice duel.
“Stop.” The pair immediately halt, sweating profusely. “You two are holding back,” she comments, hand flexing around her wrist. “How do you expect to survive a real fight if you do not give your all in practice?” she demands, the scent of citrus filling the room.
“All due respect, Custos,” the more senior of her guardians starts, using her formal title, “using Grace, as exhausted as we are, could lead to permanent damage.”
Sabriel stops, her back rigid, standing at parade rest. Her eyes bore into the angel, and he struggles to not flinch under the intensity of her gaze. “Do you not trust me to ensure your safety?”
The question seems simple enough, but the angel swallows and exchanges a glance with his partner. The partner shakes her head, eyes darting to Sabriel. “O-of course—” he starts to reply, stuttering on the response.
Sabriel’s hands tighten. “Dismissed.” The single order has the two exchanging another glance, trying to decide on the best course of action.“I said dismissed,” she snaps.
The two angels hastily bow and retreat from the practice grounds. As soon as the echo from the door fades, Sabriel allows herself a moment of weakness. She sinks to the mats, taking a shaky breath. “How am I supposed to keep my guardians alive if I couldn’t keep a bloody archangel alive?” she asks the shadows of the room, blinking back tears.
She flops onto her back, staring up at the exposed rafters above her. “Damn you, Gabriel,” she whispers, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth. It had been a stupid decision to get involved with another angel, much less an archangel. She knows how dangerous the job can be, but she had this silly idea that Gabriel was immortal. Archangels are supposed to be some of the toughest creatures in existence. The thought that they can be snuffed out so easily—
Well, she remembers all too well the feeling of disbelief as she answered Daniel’s phone call. She remembers telling him that it wasn’t possible, that maybe the shell was destroyed but that Gabriel would still be around somewhere.
She remembers scouring the city and finding nothing. She remembers calling in everyone of her available guardians in. She remembers calling Auriel and Israfel, explaining in a level voice that they had to find Gabriel’s soul.
She remembers seeing Israfel approach her, shaking his head, his eyes telling her before he spoke the words.
She had cursed him, cursed Heaven, shut herself in her office, put up the wards, and screamed at Gabriel until her voice was raw, cursing herself and her own stupidity.
The tears roll down her cheeks, her sobs stifled behind her hand. God, she misses Gabriel so much. Slowly the tears dry up, and she sits up. She had to make sure that this couldn’t happen again. And when she was sure that she had a good replacement, she would give up her title. Then she could get the revenge she needed, Heaven and their orders be damned.
Michael trembles, his hand shaking. He sets the quill down, resting his forehead on his other hand. Pull it together, he thinks viciously, trying to stop the involuntary vibrations from spreading throughout his body. Focus. You just need to focus.
“You need rest.”
Now he is hallucinating. Michael lifts his head to stare at the bleary form across the table. Gabriel sits there, resting their cheek on one hand, looking at him with a soft smile.
“I can’t,” Michael tells his delusion, drinking in the sight even knowing that it isn’t real.
“You can, but you won’t,” Gabriel clarifies, lifting their head and peering over the mess of scrolls on the table. “Trying to find my murderer, I see,” they muse, lightly touching the ramblings on a large scroll, squinting to read the haphazard writings.
“I have to. I can’t—I can’t rest knowing that your murderer is still out there.” Michael gets to his feet, pacing, his hands trembling violently.
“But I’m dead, Michael. What’s the rush?” Gabriel asks the question with a serene smile.
Michael clutches at the robes over his heart, sinking to his knees. “I can’t breathe, Gabriel,” he sobs, watching as a pair of sandal covered feet come into his view. “You are gone, and I am still here. I have to do this.” His eyes flutter closed. “Then I can join you again.”
“Oh Michael.”
Michael frowns; his delusion is cracking, the voice isn’t right. Opening his eyes he rises to his feet, gaze never leaving the feet before him, afraid to see the fractures in his haunting. He wants to remember Gabriel as they were, not some macabre vision of their death.
A hand touches his shoulder, the weight feeling more real than it ought to. Once more he closes his eyes, relishing in the contact, the sensation grounding him even though it is imaginary.
“Sleep now,” the voice says.
Michael’s eyes fly open, a protest on his lips before the wave of butterscotch-scented Grace sweeps over him, dragging him into sleep.
Israfel turns to the mess on the table, debating burning the lot. Unfortunately, Michael would just start over. At this point, there isn’t much Israfel can do except watch Michael’s destructive spiral. He had already been retired as an archangel, leaving two vacancies in the roster. Soon there wouldn’t be much of anything left to the grieving angel.
Israfel takes a deep breath, burying his own pain beneath the empathetic façade. Bending over, he scoops up Michael’s form with ease and lays him on the cot. Rather than leave, the archangel finds a spot at the foot of the cot, leaning back against the wall. The least he could do is make sure Michael doesn’t do this alone. After that… well, after that they would see.
Ramiel startles awake to the door opening. “What time is it?” he asks, staring at the fuzzy hands of his watch, the human timepiece not making any sense to him at the moment.
“Just after eleven,” Daniel replies, closing the door behind him.
“Shit,” Ramiel cusses, swinging his legs off the arm of the chair and to the ground. He rubs at his eyes, trying to clear the sleep out of them. “I was supposed to pick you up after the gallery show was over,” he says, voice rough with sleep.
“Josie and Tom dropped me off,” Daniel says, moving over to the coffee table and grabbing the empty bottles.
“You don’t have to clean up after me,” Ramiel comments, looking up at the clink of glass on glass.
“You don’t seem to be capable of doing it yourself,” Daniel responds, disappearing into the kitchen where Ramiel can hear the sound of the bottles hitting the others in the recycling.
“I’m supposed to be taking care of you,” the Fallen grumbles, rising to his feet, taking a moment to steady himself on the arm of the chair. Daniel comes back and leans on the wall into the living room.
“While I appreciate the sentiment, you’ve been doing a crap job if that’s been your intent,” he states, fingering the necklace he wears. A sharp pang goes through Ramiel; he knows that beneath Daniel’s silk black shirt lies one of Gabriel’s feathers.
Ramiel runs a hand through his hair. He wants to argue, but he can’t. “I couldn’t go to the show tonight. I’m not ready to…” His words trail off, and he shrugs one shoulder helplessly.
“It was in Gabriel’s honor. It hurt, but I wanted people to see Gabriel the way I did.” Daniel’s voice is soft, lurking with unshed tears. Ramiel feels worse, and he tugs on the ends of his hair.
“Daniel, I’m so sorry. I lost… I lost the person I loved, but you lost another parent.”
Daniel sniffles, and both are glad that the lights in the penthouse are still off, letting them pretend that Daniel isn’t crying. “I know what I lost, but with the way you’re acting, it’s like I lost two,” he says.
The Fallen blinks, mouth opening and closing several times without words emerging.
“I don’t need you to take Gabriel’s place, Ramiel. I just need you to be yourself, and be here.” Daniel takes a deep breath. “It sucks that Gabriel is dead. It really, really sucks. But we can’t change that.”
“You’re right.” Ramiel walks forward towards the boy, and when they’re close enough, he pulls Daniel against him. “I’m sorry. I got so wrapped up in my own hurt that I wasn’t paying attention to what you really needed.” He feels his own tears start to fall. “I’ll try to be better.”
“It’s okay to miss them,” Daniel mutters into his shirt.
“But we still have to live,” Ramiel finishes, stroking over the boy’s hair as the two cry in the dark.
Iro studies her nails as her office doors open, feigning obliviousness.
“Don’t you care?” The succubus looks up, arching one carefully painted eyebrow.
“Care about what?” she asks, sitting forward so she offers a view of her cleavage.
“Why the fuck my partner wanted to be with you is beyond me,” Alice snarls, slamming her hands on the desk and not even sparing a glance to the assets Iro had put on display.
Iro pouts and leans back, crossing her legs and folding her arms, purposefully pushing up her breasts as she does so. “Darling, I’m fabulous. What isn’t there to like about me?” she asks, batting her eyes at the incensed Detective.
“Gabriel was murdered! You don’t show up for the funeral, and you deliberately hinder the investigation!”
Iro tries to keep a straight face, but she can’t pull it off. She breaks into laughter, leaning back in her chair, propping her stilettos up on the desk. “I am not Gabriel’s keeper. If an archangel is stupid enough to get killed, it’s hardly my problem.”
The office door opens just in time for Iain to grab Alice as she lunges forward.
You let your bulldog off leash. Careful that she doesn’t bite the wrong person,” Iro says to the red-head, ignoring Alice’s arms reaching for her.
Iain wrestles Alice to the door, pushing her out before turning back to Iro. “I may not agree with her methods, but the way you act makes you a pretty damn good suspect in my book.”
Iro scowls, leaning forward. “Trust my own self-interest, white-knight. Gabriel was going to be my ticket to more. I’m not pleased they went and died, but if they died to something like this, then they weren’t of much use to me after all.”
Iain shakes his head. “You are cold,” he says, and leaves.
Iro rolls her eyes. “Humans.”
Aelius stirs the straw around his glass, the ice having long-melted into the liquid. The door opens, and he scowls as his employee enters.
The rakshasha folds his arms, scrutinizing the maudlin incubus. “When was the last time you ate?” the rakshasha demands.
Aelius grimaces, pushing the glass of lukewarm alcohol to the edge of his desk. “Not hungry,” he mutters churlishly.
“Bullshit.” The rakshasha fumbles around his pants pocket, producing a cell-phone. With a concentrated effort, he turns the camera on and shows Aelius his own form in the screen.
The incubus narrows his eyes. “And what am I supposed to be seeing?” he asks, just to be stubborn.
Vibhishana bares his fangs, not in the mood for indulging Aelius.
The incubus chuckles. “You are nothing like your namesake,” he says, trying to annoy the rakshasha enough that his employee leaves him alone.
“You aren’t even trying to maintain your illusion,” Vibhishana says, turning his phone off and slipping it back into his pocket.
“So what?” Aelius needles, folding his hands together and resting his chin on them. He assumes a bored expression, eyelids half lowered.
“So if you want to waste away, do it on your own time and in your own place. Luckily Tandi can do the books, or none of us would have been paid and The Menagerie would be shut down. We need our boss to start acting like a boss. Go out there and feed. There’s a bachelorette party over in the Atlantis section with more than enough lust and other emotions to feed on,” Vibhishana growls.
“No.”The rakshasha throws his hands up and wheels around, slamming the office door on his way out. Aelius blinks, surprised that it took so little effort to get rid of his employee. He sags back into his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. He can feel his energy waning, feel the infernal contract burning into him, consuming his own life-force when he refuses to feed it. He doesn’t care, anymore. Gabriel is gone. The one person who dared to love a sinful creature like himself had been killed.
Aelius should have expected it. Monsters like him didn’t get happy endings.
The door slams open and Tandi strides in, throwing a framed picture on his desk. The rakshashi jabs a clawed finger at the photo. “Look at it,” she snaps, his bookkeeper glowering at him.
Aelius glances over at the photo and stops, his heart breaking all over again. He reaches out, picking up the frame woodenly. Gabriel looks back at him, along with a brighter version of himself. The two in the photo look so happy; he wants to tear them apart, tell them that it won’t last. Instead he sets the photo back on the desk. “What do you want from me?”
“You found love once, you miserable bastard. Quit wallowing, go feed yourself, and find it again.”
Aelius laughs. “It’s not so easy—”
“Nothing worthwhile in life ever is. But if Gabriel were here right now, they’d be kicking your ass. They aren’t, but I am, and I’ll do it for them. So get up and start living again.” Tandi rounds his desk and forcefully propels him out of the chair.
The incubus starts to protest but is whisked out of his office and deposited in a booth by a siren who is busy charming one of the bridesmaids while a merman tempts the bride-to-be. The wash of emotions ease the gnawing hunger, and he breathes out a sigh of relief. A drink is deposited in front of him, cool and topped with a cheerful umbrella. It isn’t happiness, far from it, but maybe he will survive this after all.
Ryder enters the house to a high-pitched scream. Nate is standing over the casket, pointing a finger at the corpse the warlock had put in stasis.
“Why is there a body in our living room?” the necromancer demands, turning to his older brother. Ryder rolls his eyes and sheds his gloves, placing them on the entry table as he shucks off his trench coat, the assortment of various potions rattling as he hangs it on the hook.
“It’s hardly the first time,” he mutters, bending over to undo the straps on his boots.
“But I didn’t put it there!” Nate runs a hand through his short-cropped blond hair, looking at the body in confusion. “At least, I don’t think I did? It’s in a casket, and usually zombies don’t carry around caskets with them.”
Ryder tucks his boots in by the wall and strides into the living room, casting a scathing glance at his brother. “No, Nate, you didn’t bring this body here. I did.”
Nate’s brows go from drawn low to arching in understanding. “Oh, that’s good.” He rummages around behind his ear, frowning. Turning about, he pats down his clothing before turning to face Ryder. “You haven’t seen my joint, have you?”
Ryder closes his eyes, counting to ten slowly. He opens them, and shakes his head. “No. And I need you to quit.”
Nate shakes his head. “Dude, no. You know it’s the only thing that takes an edge off. You can’t seriously be—”
“I am!” Ryder snarls, stepping up to the casket and looking in at the body. Reverently he reaches out a hand and strokes over the cheek of the figure within. “For once in your Loki cursed life I need you to be responsible!” He whirls on his brother, and even without the dramatic twirl of his coat, there’s a kind of elegance in the motion.
Nate raises his hands, having never seen his brother direct such anger at him before “Chill dude.” He walks over to the casket again, blinking at the corpse. “Hey, isn’t this your lover?” he asks, poking Gabriel’s cheek, the stasis spell preventing him from actually touching the skin.
“Yes,” Ryder grits out from between clenched teeth. He slaps Nate’s hand as his brother goes to poke the corpse again.
“Dude, don’t you think me making a zombie of your lover is kind of messed up?”
Ryder grabs the front of Nate’s shirt, dragging his slightly taller brother down to his level. “That’s why I need you to be sober. You aren’t going to make a zombie out of Gabriel. You are going to resurrect them.”
Nate guffaws, slapping Ryder’s shoulder. “That’s a good one, bro,” he says, wiping imaginary tears away from his eyes.
Ryder narrows his gaze. “For once in your existence, Nafarr, I need you to do me a favor. I have never asked you for anything else, and you owe me.”
Nate sobers up, shaking his head. “It’s not that I don’t want to, Eljas, but I don’t think I can.”
Ryder releases him, stepping back. “That’s why Gabriel is in stasis. I don’t care how long it takes; we are going to bring them back.”
Daniel stands in front of the centerpiece of his show, staring at the painting without really seeing it.
“You sure I can’t put a price on this one?” The gallery owner approaches him from behind, and Daniel stirs from his reverie.
“It’s not for sale.” The gallery owner huffs, giving him a side-eye.
“You’re lucky I like you kid. And your art,” she says, pulling off a black dot and placing it next to the label. Black for not for sale, red for sold, green for available.
“You mean I’m lucky you owe Lucifer a favor,” Daniel responds, his gaze passing over the large painting, remembering the moment as if it were yesterday.
“Shh!” The owner shushes him, scowling. “I like to think I would have done it even without his prompting,” she continues, giving him that fake smile of hers. “Especially given the theme of this show: The Angels in our Midst. Can’t understand why the devil he would want that kind of show, but far be it from me to complain about clearing my debt.”
Daniel turns away from the painting, winding his way through the collection of pieces, pausing before the last one he had done. His hand trembles, and he closes his eyes.
Painting was his outlet, his way of expressing himself, of working through everything that had happened to him. It wasn’t until Gabriel’s prompting that he had even thought of showing off any of his pieces. It was Gabriel’s doing that this show is even happening.
The irony of it sits heavy in his gut. This was supposed to be a celebration of all Gabriel had done for him, telling the truth the only way he could without being called a crackpot. Instead it was a tribute to his fallen parent, one that he had never expected to make. He was the human—well, satanspawn technically—he should have been the one being buried by Gabriel. Not the other way around.
“The Last Flight. A bit more fantastical than my liking, but after losing your parent like that… well, it’s fitting. I would have expected you to hold onto this one, though. That other one, with the kid staring at the angel wings from behind seems far less personal.” The gallery owner makes the comment from behind him.
“They’re all personal,” he says. He glances at the owner. “You believe in Lucifer—who is a demon, not a devil, by the way—but you still think that all these are an allegory.”
The owner blinks at him, and he notes the way the mascara has clumped on one of her eyes. “Wha—you mean?” She gestures as the painting behind them, a mixture of intense realism and chiaroscuro with abstract impressionistic backgrounds.
“Origins is true to its source material,” Daniel confirms. He looks away. “May I have a moment before the show begins?” he asks.
The gallery owner opens her red lips to speak, but stops herself. She takes in the boy’s expression and bobs her head, remembering that as mature as he is, he is still a kid who lost his whole world. The click of her heels fades and Daniel presses the heel of his palms into his eyes.
“I miss you,” he says to the single subjects of all his works here tonight. He removes his hand, staring into Gabriel’s face, resisting the urge to reach out and touch the image. It wasn’t real. The reality is that Gabriel is dead, and his memories and these paintings were all that he had left.
Israfel sits on the edge of his bed, hands folded tight in his lap. The knuckles are white from the pressure he’s exerting, and he forces his hands to relax.
Not even a day had passed and the Council wants to know if he has any recommendations for Gabriel’s replacement. As if someone could just replace his little sibling. As if Gabriel was just another drone, just like any other angel.
He stands, feeling his anger wash through him. He had told the Council he would think on it, like a good little soldier.
He had no intentions of doing so. If they wanted a replacement, they could find one themselves. He refused to find a replacement for his little sibling.
The notion still incenses him.
With a calmness that belies his inner turmoil, Israfel slips into some of his human clothing, tucking away his wings. He opens his door, surprised to see a seraph stationed outside.
“Legati Israfel!” They greet him and snap to attention.
Israfel blinks. “Why are you here?” he asks calmly.
“The Council is awaiting your input,” the seraph answers, still holding their salute.
Israfel scowls, and the seraph’s eyes widen.
“The Council wants my thoughts?”
“Yes, Legati,” the seraph states nervously.
“Then tell them this: if they had been doing their jobs, we wouldn’t have a vacancy to fill in the first place. If they hadn’t been so quick to judge every little thing Gabriel does, then my little sibling wouldn’t be dead!”
The seraph gapes at Israfel, never having heard the archangel raise his voice. “Did, Legati,” they manage to squeak out.
“What?” Israfel demands, eyes flashing.
“Did, Legati. Since Legati Gabriel is dead, everything they did—” Their voice vanishes into a squeak as Israfel sweeps an arm out.
“Leave my sight. Now.” There’s no softness to him now, his lanky figure drawn up to his full imposing height. His wings might be tucked away, but for the first time, the seraph understands why Israfel holds the position of archangel. Terrified, the seraph flees.
Wasting no more time, Israfel strides to the nearest portal, angels scattering out of his path. His normally sweet melted butterscotch Grace precedes him in a wake of burnt bitterness, turning the stomachs of those who encounter it.
Only when his feet touch Earth does Israfel breathe, sagging against the nearest building, causing people to stare at him.
Listlessly he wanders, letting the mindlessness of human daily life distract him, burying his grief once more.
Lucifer wanders through the grey world, searching for the trace he had been doggedly following since his child’s funeral.
“Come on out, you coward!” he calls.
Nothing.
Anger rushes through him, and he rips at his necklace, tossing the feather in a fit of fury. Almost instantly he regrets the motion, hastening to find the token of his friend, fingers wrapping around the feather in a surge of relief.
He falls back onto his knees, head bowed, almost crushing the feather in his hand.
“You take everything from me, and I still persist. I still serve you! I punish the wicked, I live in a continuous nightmare but yet I still had some hope because my child was uplifted! They were all that I could not be!”
His voice echoes strangely in this world, and part of him cautions against making so much noise. No one ever knew what lurked in these places-between, these limbo worlds that were leftovers from forgotten ages or dying dimensions.
Another part of him begs for something to try to attack him. The idea of unleashing his anguish on something, on fighting with tooth, nail, and wing appeals to him more than he likes to admit.
Slake his pain with the blood of others. Seems like he might as well.
“Gabriel was to be protected! That’s all I ever wanted from you, and you couldn’t even do that!”
Still, nothing. Not sure what he had expected. God might not even be here. Likely wasn’t. Dragging himself to his feet, he turns around, disappointed to see that not even the beasts in this wretched place wanted to tangle with him.
“I’m going to find you, God. And when I do, we will see if you are truly as immortal as they say,” the King of Hell declares.
“I will bring my armies against you, and I will not rest until Gabriel’s death has been avenged.”