#archangel verse

[cuppanova]

brainstorming cassie's archangel form...

He's bigger which means he did make those glasses for himself (hes gotta stand out when everyone else in the council is so out of touch)

[samuel-eder]

Hello!!! I'm back! Now I want to start being more active in this account... and also tell you that my team and I are creating a graphic novel. Well, I don’t know yet where we will post it, but I’ll tell you about everything! Wish us time and a lot of effort :D

[gabrielshair]

⭐️🪽

[fellthemarvelous]

Surrender the angle

Let's about a talk about "SURRENDER THE ANGLE", okay?!? Do I enjoy writing meta that comes across as bonkers? Yes. Yes, I do!

I can't help but wonder about this (and we all know Neil Gaiman is a fan of double meanings).

It doesn't say "Surrender Gabriel", and it makes me think of this scene from The Wizard of Oz in which the Wicked Witch of the West is making it perfectly clear what she wants from the merry old Land of Oz (which is strikingly similar in sound of the Land of Uz, which I don't think is an accident, but that's not for this post).

There are two angels in the bookshop, Jimbriel and Aziraphale, and a third angel standing outside just taking notes while the demons hassle Aziraphale, Crowley, Gabriel and all the humans.

Aziraphale actually helps Gabriel and Beelzebub escape, which goes against what Heaven and Hell both wanted to do to them.

And then Aziraphale goes back to Heaven after a chinwag with The Metatron.

And I'm sure many people would like to disagree with me because Aziraphale is easy to scapegoat as the bad guy by many people in this fandom, but we did not see the entire conversation between Aziraphale and the Metatron.

"Surrender the angle" assuming that angle is simply a misspelling of "angel".

Again, Aziraphale plainly stated that he did not want to go back to Heaven. I don't think he agreed to go back because he thought it was a good idea.

I think he fucking surrendered himself to Heaven. I've touched on this briefly in this post about Aziraphale's conversation with The Metatron and this semi-crack post about the portal to Heaven in the bookshop.

But there is also another angle (see what I did there?) to consider!!

Because looky-looky here!!

Not only is angle used in the Bible, but takes us back to A Companion to Owls!

Lo and behold, this verse from Job is about the Leviathan!!

The Second Coming has already been set in motion (remember the zombies Furfur unleashed on Earth and "the dead shall leave their graves and walk the Earth once more").

Remember Shax looking for demons who are doing good deeds?

Remember that Crowley was pulled into Hell in Edinburgh after doing a good deed in the presence of Gabriel's statue, which furthers the idea that Aziraphale and Crowley are never not being watched (see my post about Goldstone's)?

Remember when Michael found evidence of Aziraphale and Crowley working together in season one and presented it to Gabriel?

Am I making sense to y'all? Do you understand what I'm putting down here?

Which leads me to wonder...

Are Aziraphale and Crowley "not talking" because of the fact that they've been caught and have to play it safe? They have to communicate through other means? Which is what has lead me to my thoughts about Saraqael and why I can see Crowley becoming a Duke of Hell.

What's the angle of it all???

[fallentheatre]

What would Lucifer do if he founds out Adam have been flirting with Michael?

He wouldn't like, act on anything. He'd be concerned and listen to Michael rant about how he has to put up with Adam.

He'd outright ask Adam what he's trying to do. Since. He knows Michael's taste in men and it is Blatantly Not Adam. And call out that genuinely the two would ruin one another if something ever genuinely occurred.

As soon as Lucifer learns that this is Adam trying to one up Lilith and also have a relationship with an Archangel, he would rant about how what he and Lilith are is nothing like this, and that his brother has absolutely no interest in doing anything like it.

And, as we all know, Adam wouldn't listen <3

[ladylilithprime]

Day 29: Blue

(Set in the Phoenix and Dragon 'verse, with established SaMichael and burgeoning CaSaMichael.)

SAM HAD NEVER seen Castiel's wings before the Apocalypse. To be fair, he had also never seen Michael's wings before then, either, but he had also had multiple occasions to see Michael's wings in the Cage as well as seeing them after their reunion and reconnection as mates. He had seen the scarlet and gold of healthy feathers turn dull, the blackened and damaged pinions from the hellfire that infused the Cage, the brittle brass and old blood of feathers caught up in Lucifer's ice, and the softer, sunset orange plumes that grew in when the dead and damaged feathers were gently plucked away.

Sam's own feathers weren't actually damaged, much to his private dismay. The seed grace from Michael, their bond and the extra that had been needed to patch his soul together in the Cage, had been hidden away when Death pulled him out, first by Death's wall, and then by Sam's own powerful will. The black tips and striping of the primaries were an entirely natural part of the feathers' coloration, an accent to the burgundy and crimson much the way Michael's feathers were edged in gold. It was also, Michael had assured him, the complete opposite of Lucifer's wings which, at their healthiest and most brilliant, had been a glittering crystalline white that slowly darkened into a deep pink, much like a flamingo. The striping, Michael said, was similar to Earth birds of prey, particularly owls, which suited Sam's nature as hunter and scholar with ties as strong to Earth as to Heaven.

Michael also confided that he found the clear markings of a predator in Sam's wings to be something of a turn-on, which made Sam feel a bit better about them.

Dean had taken the news that his brother had wings better than Sam had feared he would. He had definitely taken it better than he had the initial revelation that the reason Sam had been so skittish and standoffish around the newly-restored but depowered Michael had been because he was suddenly having to confront eons of suppressed memories of his and Michael's courtship amid their captivity with a petulant and vengeful Lucifer. Apparently being told that Michael had "quickly come to regret his initial harshness" was still a far cry from "became thoroughly enamored and spent several centuries attempting to woo Sam as a mate which was eventually accepted a good four centuries before Death came" and Dean felt unfairly blindsided. Compared to learning that his little brother who was already famous for having questionable taste in nonhuman lovers ("Thanks, Dean, really want to be reminded of my bad decisions during my self-destructive period.") was apparently shacking up with the Archangel who'd wanted to kill him ("I never wanted to kill Sam, I had simply resigned myself to his death being inevitable collateral to my having to kill Lucifer!") then finding out that the whole Archangel mate thing came with a shiny set of wings was about par for the course of weirdness in their lives.

"You're not gonna just fuck off to Heaven and the Angels and forget about hunting, right?"

"No, of course not!"

"Then just don't make me clean up shed feathers anywhere in the kitchen or communal spaces or the Impala and we're good."

"Um, about that...."

It had taken some hemming and hawing before Sam finally just reached behind his back and tugged a feather free, shoving the black-tipped crimson and burgundy feather at Dean with a disgruntled look and a direction not to ask uncomfortable questions, just... stash it in the glovebox of the Impala or something. Dean's incredulous and slightly suspicious question of if this was like Castiel sneaking a couple of black feathers into their duffle bags back during the Apocalypse had been met with surprise from Sam - he hadn't realized the feather was from Castiel, though knowing that made him glad that he'd stashed it in his laptop bag when he'd found it - and dismay from Michael because, "What do you mean 'black'?"

Michael, it turned out, hadn't properly seen Castiel's wings since before sending him and his garrison to harrow Hell for Dean's soul. He wouldn't say what color Castiel's wings had been other than "not black" and while Dean had pouted he'd chosen not to press, especially when Castiel had arrived and both Sam and Michael had clammed up in shock. Even repaired through the touch of Michael's restored Grace, whatever color Castiel's wings had been, they were most certainly black now. The bone structure was intact, but Sam could still see all the places where they had been broken or mangled in the way the feathers were bent, broken, ripped out and scarred... They had promptly folded close against his back when Castiel noticed both Sam and Michael standing there with their wings unbound and staring at him.

"The situation has been resolved, then?" he had asked politely. "Good. Michael, please understand that while I respect you as an Archangel and my commander, if you bring harm to Sam Winchester the likes of which you were visiting upon him when I first sought to free him from the Cage, I still have access to holy oil. Sam... I know that you are at least somewhat aware of what Michael suffered when he lost the last being that was nearly as close to him as you have become, so please be gentle with my brother and have patience with his inevitable missteps."

"Cas? Did... did you just give both our brothers the shovel talk?" Dean had demanded indignantly.

"I don't know what you mean," Castiel had deadpanned while a very touched and impressed Sam and Michael fought against giggles. "I said nothing at all about shovels."

THEY LEFT THE subject alone for weeks, as much out of respect for Castiel's personal boundaries as for the sheer amount of work they had to do. Ousting Lucifer from Heaven and taking control. Starting up the process required to create new Angels. Discovering that Gabriel was still alive and mounting a rescue against Asmodeus juiced up on stolen Archangel Grace. Helping Gabriel to recover from his ordeal, and then helping him hunt down Loki and his children in vengeance for selling him to the demon Prince as completely overblown "payback" for the Apocalypse. Tracking and capturing Lucifer.

The conversation had quickly turned to their next steps now that they had Michael back up to snuff and Sam's Grace reawakened, and the subject of Castiel's damaged wings had been left to lie for the time.

The eve before they were due to open the portal to the Apocalypse world where Lucifer had taken Mary and where Jack was currently trapped, Sam and Michael took a moment away from the dungeons where Lucifer was bound with warding glyphs that only Dean could bypass and went hunting for Castiel. They found him up on the roof of the Bunker, struggling to reach the back of one wing to get at a clump of tangled feathers.

"Castiel?" Michael called softly in a tone Sam usually only heard when they were alone. It helped firm his resolve when Castiel went still and seemed to hunch in on himself.

"Cas," he murmured, stepping up beside his mate and stretching out a hand. "If you don't want us, we'll understand, but... we're here and offering. Let us help?"

"I..." Castiel paused, his wings trembling. "You are a pair bond, one of the strongest I have ever seen. I do not wish to disrupt that for my own selfish desires...."

"And if your desires align with ours?" Michael asked, stretching out one of his hands in mirror to Sam. "You would not be able to come between us unless we put you there."

"And we do want you there, Cas," Sam added, meeting Castiel's eyes when the seraph turned hesitantly towards them. "We are willing to accept 'no' for an answer if you truly don't want this, but if your objection has anything to do with not feeling worthy, we're going to argue. I should warn you, Michael's had a lot of practice with arguing down my feelings of unworthiness, and you know how stubborn I can be."

"Winchester stubbornness is quite legendary, yes," Castiel said dryly, lips twitching when Sam and Michael both chuckled. The smile dropped as he lowered his eyes, carefully unfurling his wings and spreading them wide, angling the bent and broken tips of his primaries towards Sam and Michael and exposing the undersides to them in deference and supplication. "I will likely require further convincing and assurance that my presence with you both is truly welcome, but I am willing to allow your efforts to convince me... and I do need help with my wings rather badly."

"We would be honored to assist," Michael replied for them both, spreading his own wings in mimic of Castiel, and Sam hastened to copy him.

Barely a glance and gesture was needed before they converged on Castiel, Michael going to the rightmost wing while Sam took the left. Castiel ended up directly between them with one wing each from Sam and Michael folded together in front of him to let him lean forward and rest in their wings' embrace while they tended to his damaged feathers. Sam flexed his own Grace carefully with wiping away lingering traces of sulfur and soot as he stroked his fingers through the feathers, coaxing the dead and broken ones still clinging to release and come free. Michael passed him a small jar of salve to carefully spread over the scarring, easing the tightness there where the wing had bunched itself up and prevented new growth.

"You've some new feathers coming in already," Michael murmured after a while, shifting to point at the base of Castiel's wings when Sam craned his neck to see.

His breath caught.

No wonder Michael was so dismayed to hear these wings described as black, he thought, staring in wonder and the tiny, new-grown, bright sapphire blue feathers peaking through the darkness. He couldn't wait to see how amazing Castiel's wings were going to look when fully groomed and healed.

[octtinkk]

👀✨ Me when Pretty Boi✍️

Cassie belongs to @cuppanova

[brokendreamscreation]

@lettherebemonsters for a Lil Lucid Verse thread)

Anxious hands pick up the wailing cherub from the cradle, the angel shushing him. As one of the staff members that serves the high council and archangels, she is tasked to take on any request from her superiors. But to babysit a baby angel is not something she imagined ever doing. It’s not like they’re a common sight in Heaven, let alone with any instruction. And to her shock, the superiors appear to be equally as clueless.

“Please stop crying, little one. You’re giving me quite the headache.” The angels plea goes answered with another hiccup and wail, shimmering starry tears rolling down his apple mark cheeks. Even with the doors closed, the babies cries can be heard in the hall of the citadel.

[immanuelillustrative]

"...For nothing will be impossible with God." - Archangel Angel Gabriel, Luke 1:37 Archangel Gabriel depicted outside the Tomb of Jesus, Mileseva Monastery, Republic of Serbia.

[cuppanova]

Archangel Castiel, the seventh heirarch!

Originally I planned for archangels to be a variant of actual angels, but I've changed the lore so that archangel is an inherited position only one has while six other angels inherit higher positions (principality, throne, etc). As Archangel, Cassie is the lowest of the bunch, but being an archangel still gives him a cool new form for official council business. He doesn't turn into it that much though

variants!

[samuel-eder]

My love ❤️

[wherethedeadneversleep]

Miracles and Targets

Buffy zipped up the last duffel bag and surveyed the now-empty apartment. A month of silence from Dean had made her decision clear. She couldn't wait any longer, couldn't risk staying exposed. Her hand drifted to her still-flat stomach. The child growing inside her was a miracle — and a target. Michael's offspring would be hunted by every demon, angel, and monster out there. She had to protect her baby at all costs.

With a deep breath, Buffy shouldered her bags and took one last look around. So many memories here, good and bad. But it was time to go. She'd left no forwarding address, no hints of her destination. As far as the world was concerned, Buffy Summers had vanished without a trace.

She pulled the door closed behind her with a soft click. There was no turning back now. The stairs creaked under her feet as Buffy descended, each step taking her further from the life she'd known. Outside, the night air was crisp, carrying the scent of fallen leaves. She paused on the sidewalk, scanning the quiet street. No sign of Dean's Impala, no familiar rumble of its engine.

Buffy's fingers tightened on her bag straps as she strode towards the battered pickup truck she'd bought with cash three days ago. It wasn't much to look at, but it would get her where she needed to go — wherever that was. As she tossed her bags into the truck bed, Buffy's mind raced with possibilities. Where could she go that was safe ? Where could she possibly communicate with an archangel trapped between realms ?

She climbed into the driver's seat, the old springs creaking beneath her weight. Her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as she took a deep breath. She had to think clearly, strategically. This wasn't just about her anymore.

The engine sputtered to life, and Buffy pulled away from the curb. As she drove through the quiet streets of the town she'd called home, her resolve strengthened. She'd faced apocalypses, hell gods, and the First Evil. She could handle this. The highway stretched out before her, a ribbon of asphalt disappearing into the darkness. Buffy's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, watching the town's lights fade into the distance. No one following her. Yet.

As she drove, a plan began to form in her mind. There was a place, a sanctuary she'd heard whispers of during her years as a Slayer. A hidden monastery in the mountains, where the veil between worlds was thin. If anywhere on Earth could provide protection and a connection to Michael, it would be there. Buffy pressed down on the accelerator, her mind made up. The miles flew by as she drove through the night, stopping only for gas and to grab a few hours of restless sleep at out-of-the-way motels. She paid cash, used fake names, and kept her head down. Old habits die hard, and right now those habits might just save her life — and her child's.

Three days later, Buffy found herself winding up a narrow mountain road. The air grew thinner, the vegetation sparser. Her truck groaned with the effort of the climb, but she urged it onward. According to the cryptic directions she'd pieced together, the monastery should be just ahead.

As she rounded a sharp bend, Buffy gasped. There, nestled against the mountainside, stood an ancient stone structure. Its weathered walls seemed to blend into the rocky terrain, making it nearly invisible from a distance. This had to be it. Buffy parked the truck and approached on foot, her Slayer senses on high alert. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the whisper of the wind. As she neared the monastery's weathered wooden gates, a prickle ran down her spine. Something was off.

The gates stood slightly ajar, creaking softly in the mountain breeze. Buffy's hand instinctively went to the stake concealed in her jacket. Slowly, she pushed the gate open wider, wincing at the groan of rusted hinges. The courtyard beyond was empty, save for a few scraggly weeds pushing through cracks in the stone. No monks tending gardens or going about their daily routines. No sounds of chanting or prayer. Just eerie silence.

Buffy's unease grew as she cautiously made her way across the courtyard. The windows of the monastery were dark, some with shattered panes. This place had been abandoned - and not recently. As she reached the main entrance, Buffy noticed claw marks gouged into the heavy wooden door. Whatever had happened here, it hadn't been peaceful. She pushed the door open, stake at the ready.

The musty smell of decay and abandonment hit Buffy as she entered the monastery. Dust motes danced in the dim light filtering through the broken windows. Her footsteps echoed in the cavernous entry hall, disturbing years of silence. Buffy's eyes adjusted to the gloom, taking in overturned furniture and scattered debris. Signs of a violent struggle were evident everywhere she looked. Deep gouges marred the stone walls, and dark stains - old blood, she realized with a shudder - marked the floor in places.

" Hello ? " She called out hesitantly, her voice sounding small in the vast space. No answer came, save for the whisper of the wind through broken windows. Stake still gripped tightly, Buffy made her way deeper into the monastery. Each room she explored told the same story — a brutal attack, a desperate fight, and then... nothing. No bodies, no survivors. Just emptiness and decay.

As she climbed a winding staircase to the upper levels, a flicker of movement caught her eye. Buffy froze, every muscle tensed for action. But it was just a tattered curtain stirring in the breeze. She let out a shaky breath, trying to calm her racing heart. The silence and emptiness of this place were getting to her. At the top of the stairs, Buffy found herself in a long corridor lined with small, cell-like rooms. Monk's quarters, she guessed. Most of the doors hung open, revealing sparse furnishings coated in dust. But one door at the far end of the hall was closed.

Buffy approached cautiously, her footsteps muffled by the threadbare carpet runner. As she neared the door, a faint humming sound reached her ears. It wasn't mechanical — more like the resonance of a tuning fork, barely on the edge of hearing. Her hand hesitated on the door handle. Whatever was on the other side of this door, it was the first sign of... something... she'd encountered in this dead place. Taking a deep breath, Buffy turned the handle and pushed the door open.

The room beyond was small and circular, with a domed ceiling. Pale light filtered through a round window high above, illuminating swirling dust motes. But what drew Buffy's attention was the object in the center of the room. It was a mirror, standing about seven feet tall and framed in intricately carved wood. The glass was cloudy and warped with age, reflecting distorted images of the room around it. But as Buffy stepped closer, she realized it wasn't just reflecting — there was movement within the glass itself.

The humming grew louder as she approached, vibrating through her bones. Buffy's skin prickled with goosebumps. This was no ordinary mirror. She could sense the power radiating from it, ancient and otherworldly. As she stood before it, the swirling patterns in the glass began to coalesce. Buffy gasped as a familiar face took shape — Dean. He looked haggard, unshaven, with dark circles under his eyes. His lips were moving, but she couldn't hear what he was saying.

" Dean ? " Buffy whispered, reaching out to touch the glass. Her fingers met cold resistance, unable to pass through.

The image shifted, fragmenting into a kaleidoscope of colors before reforming. Now she saw flashes of other scenes — a dark cavern lit by hellfire, a pristine white room that could only be Heaven, a familiar suburban street that looked eerily like Revello Drive in Sunnydale. The images flickered and changed rapidly, as if the mirror was cycling through different realms or dimensions.

Buffy's heart raced as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing. Was this how the monks had communicated with other planes of existence ? Could this be her link to Michael ? As if in response to her thoughts, the swirling images in the mirror suddenly stilled. The glass cleared, revealing a familiar figure bathed in soft golden light. Buffy's breath caught in her throat.

" Michael, " She whispered.

The archangel's form was hazy, like looking at him through frosted glass, but his piercing blue eyes were unmistakable. He seemed to be looking right at her, his expression a mixture of concern and determination. " You promised to be my guardian angel. I’m in danger and so is our child. Where are you ? You’re the only thing I have left ! " She pleaded for answers but the archangel’s form remained still and unmoving.

[heavenly--knight]

Adam was supposed to be baking a cake, but here he was nibbling the dough, raw eggs and all. (demon!Mikey)

Watches, drooling, growling a little like a wild animal, still having a difficult time controlling self, smelling the food

[alteregozowie]

Michael and Alastor are still very new at their relationship, especially considering it wasn't that long ago that the simple three little words were exchanged. Words that they don't actually say that often to each other, more just a silent reminder in the touches they share and the things that they do together. And despite how things seem sometimes, the silly little fights they have and the way they can bicker back and forth, they really do end up spending most of their time together.

Time that is very much well spent.

After the work Alastor did to make a space for Michael in his bedroom, that quickly wasn't made use of, they now pretty much share a room together. Sleep in the same bed, use the same supplies, eat at the same time. Michael still lives out of his suitcase, but Alastor isn't the most well kept person either. Not even tending to his own basic body needs like a hairbrush through his fur and showering regularly. A work in progress.

Michael isn't the best at eating his own meals on time, especially when he's working and doing paperwork. He tends to lose himself in the work to the point he loses track of _days and even hours_. When he's working he tends to have headphones on or more recently, Alastor's little radio on that he gave him, that sits in the corner of the desk, a few of his favorite bird plushies sitting with it. Ones he hasn't given Alastor but the radio demon has all but claimed as his own.

The radio surprisingly helps him keep more track of time when working himself. He can tell the hour based on when Alastor broadcasts but also how long he's been working based on how long that goes on for. It helps pull him from the fog of working, if Alastor himself isn't doing that begging for attention and pulling Michael away from the desk. A duel effort, keeping track of each other and trying to help the other where their faults scream through. Michael enjoy's coaxing Alastor into the bathroom, taking a shower or a bath with him, helping him groom the places he can't reach on his own. With how gluttonous Alastor is, he's often the one reminding Michael to eat or bringing food. Cooking and trying to match the taste of things to both of their needs.

When it comes to sleeping it's more a joint thing. Whenever one of them was more exhausted than the other, desperately wanting to sleep and unable to sleep alone anymore. Michael can tend to be the first to cave, wanting just a few minutes to shut his head off. But when Alastor has a headache, it's the other way around. Michael trying to comfort him, healing his headache, pushing his fingers through Alastor's hair and trying to help him. He likes taking care of Alastor, but he also likes having the other's attention on him. A give and take relationship, one where Michael does tend to be the one on "top".

Sex isn't something Michael holds a lot of interest in, something he knows Alastor doesn't either. They've engaged in it a few times, started by Michael himself when the mood strikes. He doesn't pressure Alastor ever, just some light flirting and a bit of teasing. Little words that he knows can work the Radio Demon up like asking him if he's a good boy. The words that get the quickest reaction out of him. Michael would never pressure Alastor into anything and when he doesn't show any interest, Michael is quick to drop the subject and simply give him attention. He's more than capable of taking care of the rare urge in the bathroom on his own.

But if Alastor does show an interest it's a lovely day spent in bed. Michael teasing the life out of Alastor and slowly breaking him apart. He enjoys listening to the sounds that Alastor makes, the way he wiggles around and squirms on the bed, the way he can beg. He finds him quite reactive, quite craving of touch, almost to the point of being a bit touch starved and wanting badly Michael's touch.

Alastor is definitely more the receiver, slowly learning, while Michael is a very happy giver.

Cute Headcanons:

Goodness golly, Michael knows him well. Especially the more intimate things.

[heaven-saidx]

Wen on the moon, Gabriel will find a neat little scroll tucked near his accustomed crying spot.

"Gabi,

Too long I left thee alone. I heard thy weeping, even in the depths of mine own sorrow, and told myself: Ah, but what comfort can I give? I, a thing more than half made up of blood and tears myself? And I knew not whether I meant tears of the eye or tears torn in spirit, and lost myself in dark linguistic pondering, the vanity of my vanities.

I say once more, I heard thy weeping. I did nought for thee, and in that I sinned. Still do I sin, still a thing of tears and tears. And still am I vain, and wonder how my voice in thy mind will sound those words. I am not a healer, nor a bringer of forgiveness. Know, then, that vain as I am, as strangely made and lacking that grace to give thee solace, I remain thy brother. I remain deep in that fraternal love which I cannot with any true art express.

I will pollute not thy solitude with my presence. Yet I hope I may give some semblance of comfort with knowledge of my love for thee. And if it doth please thee... one day may our weeping join, our anguish to be halved.

--Metatron.

✞ He came here because he did not want to be seen. That's what he thought, at least. He was not acting on clear, conscious decision, but some instinctive need-- like gasping for air. It started only recently, in the long eternity of his life, this feeling of being pressed down upon. This slow, quiet suffocating.

He knew he could not ever really 'escape', not really, every star above was the gaze of unrelenting eyes, and their opinion of him meant infinitely too much to him. But yet to come here, he at least felt he was escaping. So it was not simply being seen he wanted escape from. It was responsibility.

He comes upon his chosen spot, a crater beside a mound with a particular, peculiar shape. The moon was a comfort in itself, in so many ways, in how little it changed across centuries, no matter how much he did. Except... it has been tampered with, now. He finds their parchment with a jolt of panic-- near irrationally, he assumes somehow it was a warning. That coming here, without good reason, was some kind of violation he was to be reprimanded for. Forcing stern an already heavy heart, he tiredly opens the scroll and reads it.

... And his immediately wings flutter for a beat. There was only one brother who really addressed him by that nickname, and even after all this time he recognized their writing. It was a bittersweet fondness, he wishes they would not be so distant, but with the Council and how he's grown so apart from his brethren, to have one speak so caring to him as though little has changed... he finds himself still embarrassed by how the sentiment drives him to tears.

He looks up, watering eyes of sapphire open wide and unmasked, pressing the scroll to his chest. He believed those stars gazing back to be the cold, disapproving eyes of a Father that refused to speak to him. But they were not. They were his brother's. Perhaps he is never alone, yes but... he is, indeed never alone. If nothing else.

" I am... okay, brother. " He assures the stars, curling in as he sits against the rocks, still unable to stop the tears tumbling like rain from a myriad of eyes, brushing them again and again before he curls his head's wings back tight. " I will... be okay. I will be okay. " He assures himself.

[gabrielshair]

Talk, and open your heart. Pour out your worries and thoughts. God is listening