FIC: Not The Fall That Kills (Supernatural)
Title: Not The Fall That Kills
Author: Jewels (bjewelled)
Fandom: Supernatural
Disclaimer: SPN belongs to other people, not me.
Summary: If anyone were to ask Gabriel exactly how he had come to take a Vessel, he might have told the story this way...
Word Count: 5,500
**
It's not the fall that kills you, it's the sudden stop at the end...
**
The sounds of children playing in the summer sunshine faded as the old man moved further into the woods, following the faint sound of trickling water, trusting his ears to lead him in the right direction. He moved slowly, awkwardly, feeling out the ground ahead of him with a walking staff. He did so out of habit more than anything. He came here so often that he had the path, and its pitfalls, perfectly memorised.
His destination was a pool of water, fed by a mountain stream and so blissfully cool and clear all year around. He would have expected it to be filled with children escaping parents and chores, but whenever he came here, he was alone. He didn't object to the peace, as it was what he sought.
He knew when he had reached the pool by the sound of water rippling over rocks, and the dampness in the air. He settled on a low flat rock, the same one he sat on every time he came here, slipped off his boots and carefully lowered his feet into the water. The chill temperature was a mild shock, but not an unpleasant one. He wriggled he toes before carefully setting the stave down within arms reach and opening his carrysack. He pulled out the half knotted net he was working on, running his fingers across the strands of rope until he found where he had last left off, and continued knotting. His fingers knew what they were doing better than he did, and worked almost without him willing it.
He wasn't sure how long he sat there before he realised he wasn't alone, but he could feel the sun strongly on his face and knew that it was somewhere in the early afternoon.
"Not polite to spy on a blind man," he chastised, loudly.
He expected to hear the sound of stifled gasps and giggles, and then the crashing sound of foliage as the spooked children ran away, back to the village. But he heard nothing, not a single footstep or the sound of breath. He thought perhaps he was mistaken, and there was no one there, but the feeling of weight, of presence remained strong.
He lowered the net into his lap, reaching out for his stave. Bandits hadn't been seen this way in months, but that was no guarantee that they would stay away forever. He had no idea what he could do against young and probably well-armed men, but damned if he was going to go down without a fight.
Finally he heard something, like shifting cloth rubbing together, and a voice said, "Be not afraid." It didn't sound too close, some distance away and more like a whisper than speech.
He snorted, wrapping a hand around his stave. "I ain't afraid. Not of any kid anyway."
Laughter then, louder than the words and impossibly beautiful. The old man felt like he should be weeping, but he'd shed every tear he cared to many years ago, and had none left to shed. "I am not a child," the stranger assured, then, sounding genuinely curious said, "You truly cannot see me?"
"What part of 'blind man' do you not understand?"
"My apologies."
He grunted, and set down his stave. If the stranger hadn't attacked him by now, then likely he wasn't going to, and his daughter would kill him if he didn't finish the net. "Who are you, some traveller? I don't know your voice, and I know all the voices of the village."
Except there was a sense that the stranger's voice was utterly and totally familiar. It sounded as well known to him as his wife's voice, his brother's or any of his daughters.
"A traveller," the stranger mused, "Yes, I suppose I am a traveller, if a traveller is one who has turned his back on home and walked away. My name is Gabriel."
"Gabriel," he repeated, turning the name over in his mouth. It had a solid feel to it. "And are you an idiot, Gabriel?"
There was a sharp silence, and then, sounding affronted, Gabriel said, "I beg your pardon?"
He snorted, picked up the net in his hands, fingers finding the knots and weaving new ones. "For turning your back on your home and family. Stupid thing to do. Home's the only place where they have to take you in. Never want to turn your back on shelter like that."
Gabriel sighed, and he guessed, by the noise, that Gabriel had settled on a rock near to him. "My brothers were... fighting. Always fighting. It is eternal. I couldn't take it anymore. Home is a warzone, as is much of Earth. Here is far enough away not to have felt the effects, and for that you should feel fortunate."
He wrinkled his nose. "That's me. Lucky and fortunate. Your home sounds a lot like mine growing up. My brothers and I, we fought like mad dogs. Felt bad about it later, when most of them died."
"I don't want them dead," Gabriel said, hastily, "I just can't stand being in the middle of the fighting any more."
"So now you're travelling, no roof over your head." He counted knots in the rope, working out how many more were needed. "Bright."
"Travelling in as far as I can't... really go anywhere." Gabriel sounded slightly embarrassed. "I broke the rules. I went out without a coat on. This place... it is blessed. It hides me from my brother's sight, perhaps they think I'm dead or lost. That I should meet you, of all people, here is remarkable."
The tone of the conversation was distinctly unnerving, and he found he no longer cared for it. He stuffed his net back into his carrysack, reached for his staff. "I'm leaving now," he said, firmly, "And if I don't return, my daughter's husbands will search for me, find you and kill you." If they cared enough to search, of course. Occasionally he thought that they would be grateful to be free of the burden of an old blind man who could not help feed the family. He said nothing of this to Gabriel.
"Go then," said Gabriel, apparently amused, "I have no desire to keep you from your family."
He harrumphed. "Maybe you're not as stupid as you appear then."
Gabriel laughed that wonderful and heart-breaking laugh again, and he tried desperately to forget it as he walked away, lest it haunt his dreams.
**
He was reasonably certain that Gabriel, the traveller, would not have stayed around the pool for very long, and so it was nearly two weeks later that he judged that a sufficient length of time had passed, and he made his awkward and halting way back to the pool in the woods, intending only to get some peace away from the village, and to cease being a burden to his daughter by letting her get on with her errands without having to worry about her father getting underfoot.
He had expected to be alone, and so, when he had seated himself and Gabriel had spoken up in greeting, he irritably grumbled, "Oh, still here are you?"
"I can't leave," Gabriel said, "No coat."
"It's not that cold," he said, fingers twitching. It was a long summer this year, and the air was still warm and sweetly perfumed with flowers.
"It's a metaphor."
"A what?"
"A..." Gabriel broke off with a sigh. "Never mind. Linguistic tricks are beyond your comprehension."
He scowled. "You calling me stupid?"
"No, merely ill-educated."
His scowl deepened. "Maybe this attitude is why you didn't get on with your brothers."
There was deathly silence for a moment, and he was briefly convinced that the barb had stung deeply enough to make Gabriel leave him alone. Then another sigh sounded, which gave him the rather peculiar mental image of a languid summer breeze stirring the grass into life.
"Perhaps so," Gabriel admitted, finally. "Once I brought the Word to the ignorant. I suppose speaking with authority is ingrained at this point."
"So you were a teacher?" he asked, briefly succumbing to curiosity.
"Of sorts," Gabriel said, "But more of a soldier. It has been a very long time since I was without orders. I'm finding myself somewhat at a loss as to what to I should do, even if I did have a coat."
"Your metaphor coat." He thought about that for a moment. "Are metaphors very furry and make for warm clothes?"
Gabriel chuckled. "Not really. Or at least this particular metaphor isn't."
"Then why do you need a coat made out of one?"
Gabriel paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was so close that he almost seemed to be right next to him. But there was no warmth of another person, nor smell of skin or clothes. "I am in appearance hideous, terrible," he said, "Men have tried and failed to describe my kind in words. I need my... coat... to hide my nature from those in this world who could not behold me without going mad, their eyes burning from their very skulls."
He sniffed. "Pure fancy. Dramatism. There are no such beasts of this earth."
"Of this Earth," Gabriel agreed, "I come not from Earth, but Heaven."
He thought about this, wracked his brains for traveller's tales or shaman's stories of such a place. Finally, he asked, "Where is Heaven? I have not heard of this land."
Gabriel made a sound of annoyance. "This would be much easier if Christianity would get a move on," he muttered.
"You speak in meaningless riddles," he said, feeling disgruntled. "I think you are mocking me."
"I am doing no such thing," Gabriel assured, sounding amused. "But perhaps you should be glad that you are blind, my friend."
"Praise be to the Allfather," he said, dryly, "That the sickness that took my wife, three of my daughters and two of their husbands should have also taken my sight that we might converse."
He had thought that the pain of their loss had diminished with the passage of time, but his eyes still welled up, an echo of that old pain clutching at his chest.
"Do not weep," Gabriel gently urged, and, inexplicably, it helped.
He wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. "Ignore a sentimental old man," he said, roughly.
"You are not old," Gabriel chided, "In a few thousand years, your age will be considered to be the prime of life. May I touch you?"
The unexpected question threw him. "I'm sorry?"
"Please," Gabriel didn't sound particularly demanding, or pleading, and there was no real reason to agree but...
"Very well," he said cautiously, and waited to see exactly what Gabriel was planning.
The touch, when it came, was not recognisable as fingers or a hand. In fact, he at first thought that Gabriel was toying with him, not laying a hand on him at all. Finally he realised that the gentle warmth on his face, so easily mistaken for a sunbeam, had a definite pressure behind it, one that moved over his forehead, his cheeks and, when he closed his eyes, over his eyelids.
"True full blindness is rare," Gabriel said, as his touch moved away from the eyelids, to the cheeks, down to the neck. "You have been unlucky there, as with so many things in your life. Damaged bones, ill-healed. Teeth lost through poor nutrition or injury. You have been sorely tried. And yet you endure. Of course, it would all be fixable if I were to-"
And there he broke off.
"If you were to what?" he prompted, curiously.
"Nothing," Gabriel said, awkwardly, and the touch vanished. He felt bereft. "Forget I spoke."
He felt more than heard Gabriel sit beside him, and he realised from the weight on his arm that Gabriel had put a hand there. It was comforting, and so he did not object. "I have never seen my grandchildren," he said, thoughtfully. "I have heard them, touched them, but never seen them. I do not tell you this looking for pity," he hastily said, "But the thought occurs to me."
Gabriel said nothing and his silence seemed to create a void that seemed necessary to fill, and so he found himself continuing to speak even though he had not intended to do any such thing. "I fear I am more a burden to my daughters than anything. I am blind, body broken and half crippled from a life hunting, fighting. I cannot look after the children, or cook or hunt or do much more than make the occasional fishing net or take up a space about the fire."
He sighed. "Perhaps I would be better dead."
Gabriel's hand tightened on his arm briefly. "I would not see you dead," he said, sounding determined, "I would catch your soul and mend your body and put you back together again."
He laughed, harshly. "You barely even know me, yet you say such romantic things. I think you are mocking me."
Gabriel sighed, sounding sad. "Do you truly believe you are so worthless?"
"I know so," he said, bitterly.
"You are special," Gabriel said, firmly. "I know that better than anyone. Trust me."
"I do," he said, and the surprising thing was that, honestly, he did.
**
The next time he made his way to the hidden and supposedly blessed pool tucked away in the woods, he went at a hurried and almost frantic pace that had him stumbling over roots and stray branches as he went. He would pick himself back up, swearing to himself, and continue on his way with renewed fervour.
The moment he heard the sound of water running over rocks, he called out, "Gabriel! Are you there?"
"Of course," came the smooth voice, from somewhere to his left, very close by. He never heard Gabriel's footsteps. The man was bewilderingly excellent at stealth.
He fumbled with his carrysack. He carried no walking stave this time, having been in too much of a hurry, and it unaccustomed loss had meant that the carrysack had pulled him oddly to one side. "Here," he said, "Take this."
He found what he had brought and held it out in the direction Gabriel's voice was coming from.
"A stick," Gabriel sounded like he was trying desperately not to laugh, "Why, thank you. You shouldn't have."
"It's a stake and you need it," he snapped, waving it in Gabriel's direction urgently. "There is word of a trickster in these woods."
"A trickster?" Gabriel said, intrigued, rather than the terrified he should have been, "Is that so? How do you know?"
The memory of the women of the village shrieking in panic swam through his mind, making him feel ill. "A man with the habit of... well... rumours say he enjoyed himself with the women a bit more than is appropriate. Women and goats."
"Really?" There was definitely laughter in Gabriel's voice now, only barely smothered.
"Yes. He was found this morning, dead, all signs having pointed to him having been buggered by a goat before being gored."
"How dreadful," Gabriel said, "And yet somehow sounds like it was a deserved punishment for a man with such... diverse tastes."
"Which is why we think there is a trickster in the woods. The Shaman threw bones that showed the Raven was close by. It is one of the omens of the trickster. Such creatures are not easily killed, and are dangerous. They can only be killed with the stake to the heart so since you will not leave this place, will you just take it."
The weight of the stake left his hand. "You're concerned for me," Gabriel said, "I'm touched, truly. It's unnecessary, but I appreciate the thought."
"You're foolish if you think you alone can take a trickster. They are wicked creatures, who enjoy tormenting and devising horrific punishments for those they think are deserving."
"I am more powerful than any mere trickster," Gabriel said, "In fact, if there is such a being on the loose, you would be better to stay here. I can protect you as you cannot be protected in the village."
He stiffened. "I will not leave my family to the trickster's deprivations. I cannot do much for them, but I will do whatever I can."
"I respect that," Gabriel said, "Stay safe, my friend."
He grunted, and left again, fumbling his way through the forest until he finally reached the village bounds, where he was soundly chastised by his daughter for having strayed when there were dangerous creatures about. The young men of the village returned that evening, but there was no sign of the trickster, and none in the days that followed.
When he mentioned such a thing to Gabriel, he was told that the creature had made the mistake of coming too close to the pool.
"I wasn't about to let it go free to threaten you and the village," Gabriel told him, "It is nought but ash now."
"I don't know whether to be terrified, grateful or disbelieving."
"Why not try all three?" Gabriel said, brightly. "Worked for Mary."
**
He returned to the pool, and Gabriel, more often after that. He would take himself, whatever bit of work he had to occupy his hands, and sit at the side of the pool and talk to Gabriel who was a patient conversationalist, even if he got the impression that Gabriel was always subtly amused. He wondered aloud several times why Gabriel still camped at the pool, why he hadn't just moved on, and if he was so intent on staying, why did he not come to the village. It could always use another strong hand.
"I think not," Gabriel replied, when he raised the question, "My dwelling there would be short lived when I burnt out the eyes of the villagers, or caused them to bleed from the ears with my voice."
It had been a long time since he had used his eyes to see, but he could still roll them to express exasperation. "You can't be that ugly," he said, "And your voice is not so terrible. I could not speak to your singing, but your speech doesn't cause me to bleed."
"You're special," Gabriel said, warmly, his voice leaving a feeling like the softest fleece crawling over the skin in its wake. "We have a connection I do not share with any of the others. Well," he paused, thinking, "I would perhaps share it with your offspring, but without meeting them, I wouldn't know. It's in the blood, but it doesn't always pass down directly."
"Are we related?" he wondered, frowning. Gabriel seemed to know too much about him, sometimes. He wondered if perhaps Gabriel was from some offshoot of his family gone to a far off village, or had met one of his daughters or daughter's husbands.
"No," Gabriel answered. "But we are connected."
"Only in stubbornness," he muttered, to laughter from Gabriel.
"I have a very good singing voice," Gabriel said, after a long silence. He sounded wistful, and briefly, utterly lonely. "Once upon a time my voice led the host in song and deed. But I find that I no longer have the heart to offer music in praise."
"Music's overrated," he said.
"I suppose so," Gabriel said sadly. "If my Father were to ask, I would raise my voice in song once again. But he is long gone, and most of my brothers don't even realise it."
He reached out, holding his hand out in the direction of Gabriel's voice. He wouldn't be undignified enough to flail around looking for Gabriel's shoulder, but the gesture was obvious enough. Warm sunlight wrapped around his fingers as Gabriel took his hand and accepted the gesture in the spirit it was offered.
**
Winter was harsh that year. The ground was frozen solid and the temperature dipped so low that the water in the streams stayed solid ice, and could only be made drinkable by heating it over the fire until it melted. They had a good stockpile of food from the summer, though, and might even have survived the disastrous weather, if the sickness hadn't chosen then to return.
There was a worry that perhaps a traveller passing through might have brought it, or that they had displeased the Allfather in some way and were paying penance, but all he knew was that he had to sit by his granddaughter's bedside, listening to her small chest grow more and more heavy with fluid, coughing and spluttering, until she breathed her last, and the air was filled with the wailing of her mother.
The ground was too hard to dig up to bury their dead, and so they burned them, using up the last of their dry wood to prevent the sickness from spreading from the dead to the living.
Wracked with despair, and surrounded by grief, he couldn't bring himself to leave and see Gabriel. When he started dreaming of him, though, he thought that perhaps there was something addled about his mind.
In his dreams, he was in vast fields that spread out as far as the eyes could see. He could see as well as the day before that on which he lost his sight forever. There were wildflowers and grasses springing all the way up to knee height, and the day was bright and clear, though he had no idea where the sun was, and could see no shadows cast to help him work it out.
In the distance was a great tree, reaching towards the sky. He stared at it.
"It's not the tree," Gabriel said, "But it's close."
He turned quickly, eager to see what Gabriel looked like to his dreaming mind, but he found that he couldn't quite settle his eyes on his friend. He was always just slightly too far away from the corner of his eye. He thought he saw a flicker of movement, of light, but no matter how much he twisted, he couldn't quite see.
Eventually, he gave up, and looked back at the tree.
"On which branch do my family lie?" he asked, pained.
"They do not lie in state, they live happily, dwelling forever in the fields of my Father." Gabriel moved slightly, though he had no idea what gesture Gabriel might have made. "This much I know."
"I want to join them," he said, "But I am not worthy of that honour." And then buried his face in his hands and wept.
In the dream, Gabriel wrapped his arms around him, and held him until he ran out of tears.
**
The winter was harsh for everyone. They were still reeling from the losses they had suffered from the sickness, and those who had survived, mainly the young men who hunted and protected the village, were still recovering. They had dared to believe that they had escaped the worst of what the Allfather had sent them, but then he awoke to the sound of swords and axes clanging, and he knew that their troubles were far from over.
Local nomads, bandits and vagabonds, would not have been as prepared for a harsh winter as the villages, and other villages might not have provisioned themselves as well as his own. With nowhere to go, and slim pickings in the less defended villages, attackers had finally come here.
He could hear screams, and knew they meant to spare no one. No survivors meant no one to warn any other villages, and no one to object to them taking all the food. He shouted for his daughter, any of his surviving daughters, or their husbands, but the smell of fire reached his nose, and heat wafted over him. The little house that he slept in with his family was burning. He stumbled out of bed, shouting for anyone who could hear him.
He tripped over one body, still warm, and his heart broke as he knelt down, and felt his daughter's features, and felt the blood that pooled from a gash on her throat. Through the growing roar of fire, the sound of men fighting and women screaming, he heart his grandson calling out. He was too young to fight, and didn't know to run, but he knew something was happening.
Through touch and memory he found his way to the child's crib, picked him up and set him on the floor. "We have to flee," he told the child. There was no way either of them could fight. The best they could hope for was to flee and hope to return later, to hope there would be survivors.
"You have to help your grandfather," he said, "Tell me if you see any strangers when we run. We can't be caught."
The child was tearful, terrified, but he sobbed his agreement, and tried his best to stifle his crying. They crept to the door, cracking it open. The moment the door opened, the sound of fighting grew louder, made the world a confusing jumble of noise.
"Which way to the woods?" he asked the child, who had swallowed his fear and now was silent. His grandson tugged at his hand, leading them in the right direction.
They had to get to the woods. He had no idea what gave him certainty, but he knew, just knew, that if they could get to Gabriel's pool, they would be safe.
The thin 'thwp' of arrows being loosed startled him into running. They were picking off anyone trying to run away. He abandoned the idea of sneaking, grabbed the child's hand tightly enough to drag him along with no resistance, and started hurrying, the other hand held in front of him, sweeping in front of him. He couldn't run, he might send them into a tree, but he moved as fast as he could.
He kept coughing, the lingering smoke in his lungs irritating him. His breath rasped harshly in his ears, his heart pounded, and panic was all that drove him. Panic, and the need to get the child to safety.
Behind him, he could hear the sound of footsteps crashing through the dead branches and bushes. They were being chased.
Suddenly, the child was dead weight. He stumbled, pulled back by the unexpected heaviness, and kept running, using his grip on the child's wrist to keep them going. He had to reach Gabriel. They'd be safe there.
He felt the arrow pierce his back, felt the impact, felt the pain, but it seemed somehow unreal. He started running, though it was suddenly hard to breath, he could feel warm liquid on his lips and then he knew without checking that he'd reached the pool.
Gabriel's cry was one of inarticulate distress, but he had no way of answering it, his knees giving out and sending him tumbling to the damp ground.
"What-" Gabriel had no chance to ask, as then the men who had been chasing caught up with them.
He had no way to know what happened next. The men who had been chasing, two or three of them by the sounds of it, just started screaming. Gabriel made a sound that didn't sound even remotely Human, a noise of pure rage and fury. He could have sworn he heard lightning, and fire, and then the screaming abruptly stopped, and he found himself being cradled by Gabriel, a soft and comforting presence that made the pain seem unimportant somehow.
"Bandits..." he said, and his voice was far weaker than he expected it to be.
"Dead," Gabriel said harshly.
His hand was still around his grandson's wrist, he tugged at him, "The child..."
Gabriel gently loosened his grip. "I'm sorry," he said, "He has long since departed the mortal plane. He is at peace now."
"Oh," he sagged in Gabriel's arms. "I've failed. My family, my village... I wonder if they're dead..."
Silence, then Gabriel said, "I will check."
A frown creased his brow, though he couldn't divert much energy to the expression. "I thought you couldn't leave."
"I'll check," Gabriel said, his tone brooking no argument. Gabriel laid him gently on his side, avoiding driving the arrow in further, then he heard a noise like a bird's wings flapping.
He wondered if his friend had been a shapeshifter or other supernatural creature all this time. Gabriel was gone barely a moment when he had returned, raising him back into his arms and the comfort they provided.
"Most of the village are already dead," he said, "Though some have escaped. I... I will make sure the bandits see justice."
"You can do that? I thought you couldn't leave... without your coat..."
Gabriel held him a little tighter. "You are my coat. Take a deep breath."
Confused, he did as he was told. In one smooth gesture, Gabriel pulled the arrow from his back. It didn't hurt, for some reason. "I don't understand..." he said, or tried to. His voice was barely a whisper, though Gabriel seemed to understand him.
"It's the rules," Gabriel said, "My kind cannot walk the Earth without being clothed in Human flesh. The rules my Father laid down, long before your race first drew breath."
He stiffened, suddenly frightened. "You are a demon!"
"I am nothing of the sort!" Gabriel snapped, then calmed down quickly. "I cannot possess a vessel against their will. I am... you would know me as a vanguard of the Allfather. I am an instrument of His will. Or... I was."
"You ran away," he said, remembering.
"Yes," Gabriel said. He sounded like his heart was breaking. He wanted to tell Gabriel not to sound so sad. It wasn't a good sound for him. "I am a weapon of Heaven, a creature of terrible power. Not many people could host me. You... you are one of them. I just didn't expect... didn't expect to find you here."
He turned his head towards Gabriel, and gasped, or tried to. "I think I can see you," he said. And he could, after a fashion. It wasn't like when he could see with his eyes. This was more like knowing something was there, and how it looked.
"It is because you are close to the veil, soon to pass over. You are dying, my friend."
"You don't look so terrible," he said, gazing upwards. The image of Gabriel remained even when he blinked. "I don't know why you're embarrassed."
"Only beautiful to you," Gabriel said, with a sad smile in his voice.
"Would you stay with me? Forever?"
Gabriel froze, his arms going tight around him. "You don't know what you're asking."
"I think I do. My family are gone, I am a broken wreck, and when I die, you will be trapped here, unable to leave for fear of your brothers finding you."
"It will be painful," Gabriel told him, "A hundred years, a thousand, a million maybe, to the death of this planet and beyond, to the destruction of galaxies, and to entropy's end. You will burn in the fire of a thousand suns for eternity."
"That's what you are?"
"In part." Gabriel stroked fingers across his forehead, though he could have sworn both Gabriel's hands were occupied. "I can take you as a vessel, and heal every wound you have ever suffered. You will be whole in body, but your soul will be tied to mine."
He closed his eyes, and only realised that he was weeping when he felt tears falling down his face. "I cannot face my family in the next life. I have failed them. Too many have died while I lived. I cannot face them knowing that I should have died long before them."
"You will live forever if you say yes," Gabriel said.
"I am not worthy of joining them," he said, "And this way, at least, I will be with a friend forever. Is that so terrible?" He drew a breath, and felt how weak it was. "I don't think I have much time left. Please ask me."
Gabriel took a deep breath. "Do you consent to be my Vessel, now and for all eternity?"
"Yes," he whispered.
Gabriel shifted, and he felt what seemed to be lips press against his forehead, though he couldn't be certain. "Open your eyes, dear friend."
He opened his eyes, and in an instant before he was consumed with a vast and all-encompassing bright white light that would be all he knew for the rest of his existence, he saw the Archangel Gabriel in all his radiance and knew, without a shadow of doubt, that he would never be afraid.
**
Several thousand years later, when a newly restored-to-Grace Anna Milton found Gabriel and requested a favour of a new body from him, in the process accidentally implying that he had no respect or affection for his vessel and the Human soul still trapped within, Gabriel took the time out from his very busy schedule to put her through a wall.
Author: Jewels (bjewelled)
Fandom: Supernatural
Disclaimer: SPN belongs to other people, not me.
Summary: If anyone were to ask Gabriel exactly how he had come to take a Vessel, he might have told the story this way...
Word Count: 5,500
**
It's not the fall that kills you, it's the sudden stop at the end...
**
The sounds of children playing in the summer sunshine faded as the old man moved further into the woods, following the faint sound of trickling water, trusting his ears to lead him in the right direction. He moved slowly, awkwardly, feeling out the ground ahead of him with a walking staff. He did so out of habit more than anything. He came here so often that he had the path, and its pitfalls, perfectly memorised.
His destination was a pool of water, fed by a mountain stream and so blissfully cool and clear all year around. He would have expected it to be filled with children escaping parents and chores, but whenever he came here, he was alone. He didn't object to the peace, as it was what he sought.
He knew when he had reached the pool by the sound of water rippling over rocks, and the dampness in the air. He settled on a low flat rock, the same one he sat on every time he came here, slipped off his boots and carefully lowered his feet into the water. The chill temperature was a mild shock, but not an unpleasant one. He wriggled he toes before carefully setting the stave down within arms reach and opening his carrysack. He pulled out the half knotted net he was working on, running his fingers across the strands of rope until he found where he had last left off, and continued knotting. His fingers knew what they were doing better than he did, and worked almost without him willing it.
He wasn't sure how long he sat there before he realised he wasn't alone, but he could feel the sun strongly on his face and knew that it was somewhere in the early afternoon.
"Not polite to spy on a blind man," he chastised, loudly.
He expected to hear the sound of stifled gasps and giggles, and then the crashing sound of foliage as the spooked children ran away, back to the village. But he heard nothing, not a single footstep or the sound of breath. He thought perhaps he was mistaken, and there was no one there, but the feeling of weight, of presence remained strong.
He lowered the net into his lap, reaching out for his stave. Bandits hadn't been seen this way in months, but that was no guarantee that they would stay away forever. He had no idea what he could do against young and probably well-armed men, but damned if he was going to go down without a fight.
Finally he heard something, like shifting cloth rubbing together, and a voice said, "Be not afraid." It didn't sound too close, some distance away and more like a whisper than speech.
He snorted, wrapping a hand around his stave. "I ain't afraid. Not of any kid anyway."
Laughter then, louder than the words and impossibly beautiful. The old man felt like he should be weeping, but he'd shed every tear he cared to many years ago, and had none left to shed. "I am not a child," the stranger assured, then, sounding genuinely curious said, "You truly cannot see me?"
"What part of 'blind man' do you not understand?"
"My apologies."
He grunted, and set down his stave. If the stranger hadn't attacked him by now, then likely he wasn't going to, and his daughter would kill him if he didn't finish the net. "Who are you, some traveller? I don't know your voice, and I know all the voices of the village."
Except there was a sense that the stranger's voice was utterly and totally familiar. It sounded as well known to him as his wife's voice, his brother's or any of his daughters.
"A traveller," the stranger mused, "Yes, I suppose I am a traveller, if a traveller is one who has turned his back on home and walked away. My name is Gabriel."
"Gabriel," he repeated, turning the name over in his mouth. It had a solid feel to it. "And are you an idiot, Gabriel?"
There was a sharp silence, and then, sounding affronted, Gabriel said, "I beg your pardon?"
He snorted, picked up the net in his hands, fingers finding the knots and weaving new ones. "For turning your back on your home and family. Stupid thing to do. Home's the only place where they have to take you in. Never want to turn your back on shelter like that."
Gabriel sighed, and he guessed, by the noise, that Gabriel had settled on a rock near to him. "My brothers were... fighting. Always fighting. It is eternal. I couldn't take it anymore. Home is a warzone, as is much of Earth. Here is far enough away not to have felt the effects, and for that you should feel fortunate."
He wrinkled his nose. "That's me. Lucky and fortunate. Your home sounds a lot like mine growing up. My brothers and I, we fought like mad dogs. Felt bad about it later, when most of them died."
"I don't want them dead," Gabriel said, hastily, "I just can't stand being in the middle of the fighting any more."
"So now you're travelling, no roof over your head." He counted knots in the rope, working out how many more were needed. "Bright."
"Travelling in as far as I can't... really go anywhere." Gabriel sounded slightly embarrassed. "I broke the rules. I went out without a coat on. This place... it is blessed. It hides me from my brother's sight, perhaps they think I'm dead or lost. That I should meet you, of all people, here is remarkable."
The tone of the conversation was distinctly unnerving, and he found he no longer cared for it. He stuffed his net back into his carrysack, reached for his staff. "I'm leaving now," he said, firmly, "And if I don't return, my daughter's husbands will search for me, find you and kill you." If they cared enough to search, of course. Occasionally he thought that they would be grateful to be free of the burden of an old blind man who could not help feed the family. He said nothing of this to Gabriel.
"Go then," said Gabriel, apparently amused, "I have no desire to keep you from your family."
He harrumphed. "Maybe you're not as stupid as you appear then."
Gabriel laughed that wonderful and heart-breaking laugh again, and he tried desperately to forget it as he walked away, lest it haunt his dreams.
**
He was reasonably certain that Gabriel, the traveller, would not have stayed around the pool for very long, and so it was nearly two weeks later that he judged that a sufficient length of time had passed, and he made his awkward and halting way back to the pool in the woods, intending only to get some peace away from the village, and to cease being a burden to his daughter by letting her get on with her errands without having to worry about her father getting underfoot.
He had expected to be alone, and so, when he had seated himself and Gabriel had spoken up in greeting, he irritably grumbled, "Oh, still here are you?"
"I can't leave," Gabriel said, "No coat."
"It's not that cold," he said, fingers twitching. It was a long summer this year, and the air was still warm and sweetly perfumed with flowers.
"It's a metaphor."
"A what?"
"A..." Gabriel broke off with a sigh. "Never mind. Linguistic tricks are beyond your comprehension."
He scowled. "You calling me stupid?"
"No, merely ill-educated."
His scowl deepened. "Maybe this attitude is why you didn't get on with your brothers."
There was deathly silence for a moment, and he was briefly convinced that the barb had stung deeply enough to make Gabriel leave him alone. Then another sigh sounded, which gave him the rather peculiar mental image of a languid summer breeze stirring the grass into life.
"Perhaps so," Gabriel admitted, finally. "Once I brought the Word to the ignorant. I suppose speaking with authority is ingrained at this point."
"So you were a teacher?" he asked, briefly succumbing to curiosity.
"Of sorts," Gabriel said, "But more of a soldier. It has been a very long time since I was without orders. I'm finding myself somewhat at a loss as to what to I should do, even if I did have a coat."
"Your metaphor coat." He thought about that for a moment. "Are metaphors very furry and make for warm clothes?"
Gabriel chuckled. "Not really. Or at least this particular metaphor isn't."
"Then why do you need a coat made out of one?"
Gabriel paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was so close that he almost seemed to be right next to him. But there was no warmth of another person, nor smell of skin or clothes. "I am in appearance hideous, terrible," he said, "Men have tried and failed to describe my kind in words. I need my... coat... to hide my nature from those in this world who could not behold me without going mad, their eyes burning from their very skulls."
He sniffed. "Pure fancy. Dramatism. There are no such beasts of this earth."
"Of this Earth," Gabriel agreed, "I come not from Earth, but Heaven."
He thought about this, wracked his brains for traveller's tales or shaman's stories of such a place. Finally, he asked, "Where is Heaven? I have not heard of this land."
Gabriel made a sound of annoyance. "This would be much easier if Christianity would get a move on," he muttered.
"You speak in meaningless riddles," he said, feeling disgruntled. "I think you are mocking me."
"I am doing no such thing," Gabriel assured, sounding amused. "But perhaps you should be glad that you are blind, my friend."
"Praise be to the Allfather," he said, dryly, "That the sickness that took my wife, three of my daughters and two of their husbands should have also taken my sight that we might converse."
He had thought that the pain of their loss had diminished with the passage of time, but his eyes still welled up, an echo of that old pain clutching at his chest.
"Do not weep," Gabriel gently urged, and, inexplicably, it helped.
He wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. "Ignore a sentimental old man," he said, roughly.
"You are not old," Gabriel chided, "In a few thousand years, your age will be considered to be the prime of life. May I touch you?"
The unexpected question threw him. "I'm sorry?"
"Please," Gabriel didn't sound particularly demanding, or pleading, and there was no real reason to agree but...
"Very well," he said cautiously, and waited to see exactly what Gabriel was planning.
The touch, when it came, was not recognisable as fingers or a hand. In fact, he at first thought that Gabriel was toying with him, not laying a hand on him at all. Finally he realised that the gentle warmth on his face, so easily mistaken for a sunbeam, had a definite pressure behind it, one that moved over his forehead, his cheeks and, when he closed his eyes, over his eyelids.
"True full blindness is rare," Gabriel said, as his touch moved away from the eyelids, to the cheeks, down to the neck. "You have been unlucky there, as with so many things in your life. Damaged bones, ill-healed. Teeth lost through poor nutrition or injury. You have been sorely tried. And yet you endure. Of course, it would all be fixable if I were to-"
And there he broke off.
"If you were to what?" he prompted, curiously.
"Nothing," Gabriel said, awkwardly, and the touch vanished. He felt bereft. "Forget I spoke."
He felt more than heard Gabriel sit beside him, and he realised from the weight on his arm that Gabriel had put a hand there. It was comforting, and so he did not object. "I have never seen my grandchildren," he said, thoughtfully. "I have heard them, touched them, but never seen them. I do not tell you this looking for pity," he hastily said, "But the thought occurs to me."
Gabriel said nothing and his silence seemed to create a void that seemed necessary to fill, and so he found himself continuing to speak even though he had not intended to do any such thing. "I fear I am more a burden to my daughters than anything. I am blind, body broken and half crippled from a life hunting, fighting. I cannot look after the children, or cook or hunt or do much more than make the occasional fishing net or take up a space about the fire."
He sighed. "Perhaps I would be better dead."
Gabriel's hand tightened on his arm briefly. "I would not see you dead," he said, sounding determined, "I would catch your soul and mend your body and put you back together again."
He laughed, harshly. "You barely even know me, yet you say such romantic things. I think you are mocking me."
Gabriel sighed, sounding sad. "Do you truly believe you are so worthless?"
"I know so," he said, bitterly.
"You are special," Gabriel said, firmly. "I know that better than anyone. Trust me."
"I do," he said, and the surprising thing was that, honestly, he did.
**
The next time he made his way to the hidden and supposedly blessed pool tucked away in the woods, he went at a hurried and almost frantic pace that had him stumbling over roots and stray branches as he went. He would pick himself back up, swearing to himself, and continue on his way with renewed fervour.
The moment he heard the sound of water running over rocks, he called out, "Gabriel! Are you there?"
"Of course," came the smooth voice, from somewhere to his left, very close by. He never heard Gabriel's footsteps. The man was bewilderingly excellent at stealth.
He fumbled with his carrysack. He carried no walking stave this time, having been in too much of a hurry, and it unaccustomed loss had meant that the carrysack had pulled him oddly to one side. "Here," he said, "Take this."
He found what he had brought and held it out in the direction Gabriel's voice was coming from.
"A stick," Gabriel sounded like he was trying desperately not to laugh, "Why, thank you. You shouldn't have."
"It's a stake and you need it," he snapped, waving it in Gabriel's direction urgently. "There is word of a trickster in these woods."
"A trickster?" Gabriel said, intrigued, rather than the terrified he should have been, "Is that so? How do you know?"
The memory of the women of the village shrieking in panic swam through his mind, making him feel ill. "A man with the habit of... well... rumours say he enjoyed himself with the women a bit more than is appropriate. Women and goats."
"Really?" There was definitely laughter in Gabriel's voice now, only barely smothered.
"Yes. He was found this morning, dead, all signs having pointed to him having been buggered by a goat before being gored."
"How dreadful," Gabriel said, "And yet somehow sounds like it was a deserved punishment for a man with such... diverse tastes."
"Which is why we think there is a trickster in the woods. The Shaman threw bones that showed the Raven was close by. It is one of the omens of the trickster. Such creatures are not easily killed, and are dangerous. They can only be killed with the stake to the heart so since you will not leave this place, will you just take it."
The weight of the stake left his hand. "You're concerned for me," Gabriel said, "I'm touched, truly. It's unnecessary, but I appreciate the thought."
"You're foolish if you think you alone can take a trickster. They are wicked creatures, who enjoy tormenting and devising horrific punishments for those they think are deserving."
"I am more powerful than any mere trickster," Gabriel said, "In fact, if there is such a being on the loose, you would be better to stay here. I can protect you as you cannot be protected in the village."
He stiffened. "I will not leave my family to the trickster's deprivations. I cannot do much for them, but I will do whatever I can."
"I respect that," Gabriel said, "Stay safe, my friend."
He grunted, and left again, fumbling his way through the forest until he finally reached the village bounds, where he was soundly chastised by his daughter for having strayed when there were dangerous creatures about. The young men of the village returned that evening, but there was no sign of the trickster, and none in the days that followed.
When he mentioned such a thing to Gabriel, he was told that the creature had made the mistake of coming too close to the pool.
"I wasn't about to let it go free to threaten you and the village," Gabriel told him, "It is nought but ash now."
"I don't know whether to be terrified, grateful or disbelieving."
"Why not try all three?" Gabriel said, brightly. "Worked for Mary."
**
He returned to the pool, and Gabriel, more often after that. He would take himself, whatever bit of work he had to occupy his hands, and sit at the side of the pool and talk to Gabriel who was a patient conversationalist, even if he got the impression that Gabriel was always subtly amused. He wondered aloud several times why Gabriel still camped at the pool, why he hadn't just moved on, and if he was so intent on staying, why did he not come to the village. It could always use another strong hand.
"I think not," Gabriel replied, when he raised the question, "My dwelling there would be short lived when I burnt out the eyes of the villagers, or caused them to bleed from the ears with my voice."
It had been a long time since he had used his eyes to see, but he could still roll them to express exasperation. "You can't be that ugly," he said, "And your voice is not so terrible. I could not speak to your singing, but your speech doesn't cause me to bleed."
"You're special," Gabriel said, warmly, his voice leaving a feeling like the softest fleece crawling over the skin in its wake. "We have a connection I do not share with any of the others. Well," he paused, thinking, "I would perhaps share it with your offspring, but without meeting them, I wouldn't know. It's in the blood, but it doesn't always pass down directly."
"Are we related?" he wondered, frowning. Gabriel seemed to know too much about him, sometimes. He wondered if perhaps Gabriel was from some offshoot of his family gone to a far off village, or had met one of his daughters or daughter's husbands.
"No," Gabriel answered. "But we are connected."
"Only in stubbornness," he muttered, to laughter from Gabriel.
"I have a very good singing voice," Gabriel said, after a long silence. He sounded wistful, and briefly, utterly lonely. "Once upon a time my voice led the host in song and deed. But I find that I no longer have the heart to offer music in praise."
"Music's overrated," he said.
"I suppose so," Gabriel said sadly. "If my Father were to ask, I would raise my voice in song once again. But he is long gone, and most of my brothers don't even realise it."
He reached out, holding his hand out in the direction of Gabriel's voice. He wouldn't be undignified enough to flail around looking for Gabriel's shoulder, but the gesture was obvious enough. Warm sunlight wrapped around his fingers as Gabriel took his hand and accepted the gesture in the spirit it was offered.
**
Winter was harsh that year. The ground was frozen solid and the temperature dipped so low that the water in the streams stayed solid ice, and could only be made drinkable by heating it over the fire until it melted. They had a good stockpile of food from the summer, though, and might even have survived the disastrous weather, if the sickness hadn't chosen then to return.
There was a worry that perhaps a traveller passing through might have brought it, or that they had displeased the Allfather in some way and were paying penance, but all he knew was that he had to sit by his granddaughter's bedside, listening to her small chest grow more and more heavy with fluid, coughing and spluttering, until she breathed her last, and the air was filled with the wailing of her mother.
The ground was too hard to dig up to bury their dead, and so they burned them, using up the last of their dry wood to prevent the sickness from spreading from the dead to the living.
Wracked with despair, and surrounded by grief, he couldn't bring himself to leave and see Gabriel. When he started dreaming of him, though, he thought that perhaps there was something addled about his mind.
In his dreams, he was in vast fields that spread out as far as the eyes could see. He could see as well as the day before that on which he lost his sight forever. There were wildflowers and grasses springing all the way up to knee height, and the day was bright and clear, though he had no idea where the sun was, and could see no shadows cast to help him work it out.
In the distance was a great tree, reaching towards the sky. He stared at it.
"It's not the tree," Gabriel said, "But it's close."
He turned quickly, eager to see what Gabriel looked like to his dreaming mind, but he found that he couldn't quite settle his eyes on his friend. He was always just slightly too far away from the corner of his eye. He thought he saw a flicker of movement, of light, but no matter how much he twisted, he couldn't quite see.
Eventually, he gave up, and looked back at the tree.
"On which branch do my family lie?" he asked, pained.
"They do not lie in state, they live happily, dwelling forever in the fields of my Father." Gabriel moved slightly, though he had no idea what gesture Gabriel might have made. "This much I know."
"I want to join them," he said, "But I am not worthy of that honour." And then buried his face in his hands and wept.
In the dream, Gabriel wrapped his arms around him, and held him until he ran out of tears.
**
The winter was harsh for everyone. They were still reeling from the losses they had suffered from the sickness, and those who had survived, mainly the young men who hunted and protected the village, were still recovering. They had dared to believe that they had escaped the worst of what the Allfather had sent them, but then he awoke to the sound of swords and axes clanging, and he knew that their troubles were far from over.
Local nomads, bandits and vagabonds, would not have been as prepared for a harsh winter as the villages, and other villages might not have provisioned themselves as well as his own. With nowhere to go, and slim pickings in the less defended villages, attackers had finally come here.
He could hear screams, and knew they meant to spare no one. No survivors meant no one to warn any other villages, and no one to object to them taking all the food. He shouted for his daughter, any of his surviving daughters, or their husbands, but the smell of fire reached his nose, and heat wafted over him. The little house that he slept in with his family was burning. He stumbled out of bed, shouting for anyone who could hear him.
He tripped over one body, still warm, and his heart broke as he knelt down, and felt his daughter's features, and felt the blood that pooled from a gash on her throat. Through the growing roar of fire, the sound of men fighting and women screaming, he heart his grandson calling out. He was too young to fight, and didn't know to run, but he knew something was happening.
Through touch and memory he found his way to the child's crib, picked him up and set him on the floor. "We have to flee," he told the child. There was no way either of them could fight. The best they could hope for was to flee and hope to return later, to hope there would be survivors.
"You have to help your grandfather," he said, "Tell me if you see any strangers when we run. We can't be caught."
The child was tearful, terrified, but he sobbed his agreement, and tried his best to stifle his crying. They crept to the door, cracking it open. The moment the door opened, the sound of fighting grew louder, made the world a confusing jumble of noise.
"Which way to the woods?" he asked the child, who had swallowed his fear and now was silent. His grandson tugged at his hand, leading them in the right direction.
They had to get to the woods. He had no idea what gave him certainty, but he knew, just knew, that if they could get to Gabriel's pool, they would be safe.
The thin 'thwp' of arrows being loosed startled him into running. They were picking off anyone trying to run away. He abandoned the idea of sneaking, grabbed the child's hand tightly enough to drag him along with no resistance, and started hurrying, the other hand held in front of him, sweeping in front of him. He couldn't run, he might send them into a tree, but he moved as fast as he could.
He kept coughing, the lingering smoke in his lungs irritating him. His breath rasped harshly in his ears, his heart pounded, and panic was all that drove him. Panic, and the need to get the child to safety.
Behind him, he could hear the sound of footsteps crashing through the dead branches and bushes. They were being chased.
Suddenly, the child was dead weight. He stumbled, pulled back by the unexpected heaviness, and kept running, using his grip on the child's wrist to keep them going. He had to reach Gabriel. They'd be safe there.
He felt the arrow pierce his back, felt the impact, felt the pain, but it seemed somehow unreal. He started running, though it was suddenly hard to breath, he could feel warm liquid on his lips and then he knew without checking that he'd reached the pool.
Gabriel's cry was one of inarticulate distress, but he had no way of answering it, his knees giving out and sending him tumbling to the damp ground.
"What-" Gabriel had no chance to ask, as then the men who had been chasing caught up with them.
He had no way to know what happened next. The men who had been chasing, two or three of them by the sounds of it, just started screaming. Gabriel made a sound that didn't sound even remotely Human, a noise of pure rage and fury. He could have sworn he heard lightning, and fire, and then the screaming abruptly stopped, and he found himself being cradled by Gabriel, a soft and comforting presence that made the pain seem unimportant somehow.
"Bandits..." he said, and his voice was far weaker than he expected it to be.
"Dead," Gabriel said harshly.
His hand was still around his grandson's wrist, he tugged at him, "The child..."
Gabriel gently loosened his grip. "I'm sorry," he said, "He has long since departed the mortal plane. He is at peace now."
"Oh," he sagged in Gabriel's arms. "I've failed. My family, my village... I wonder if they're dead..."
Silence, then Gabriel said, "I will check."
A frown creased his brow, though he couldn't divert much energy to the expression. "I thought you couldn't leave."
"I'll check," Gabriel said, his tone brooking no argument. Gabriel laid him gently on his side, avoiding driving the arrow in further, then he heard a noise like a bird's wings flapping.
He wondered if his friend had been a shapeshifter or other supernatural creature all this time. Gabriel was gone barely a moment when he had returned, raising him back into his arms and the comfort they provided.
"Most of the village are already dead," he said, "Though some have escaped. I... I will make sure the bandits see justice."
"You can do that? I thought you couldn't leave... without your coat..."
Gabriel held him a little tighter. "You are my coat. Take a deep breath."
Confused, he did as he was told. In one smooth gesture, Gabriel pulled the arrow from his back. It didn't hurt, for some reason. "I don't understand..." he said, or tried to. His voice was barely a whisper, though Gabriel seemed to understand him.
"It's the rules," Gabriel said, "My kind cannot walk the Earth without being clothed in Human flesh. The rules my Father laid down, long before your race first drew breath."
He stiffened, suddenly frightened. "You are a demon!"
"I am nothing of the sort!" Gabriel snapped, then calmed down quickly. "I cannot possess a vessel against their will. I am... you would know me as a vanguard of the Allfather. I am an instrument of His will. Or... I was."
"You ran away," he said, remembering.
"Yes," Gabriel said. He sounded like his heart was breaking. He wanted to tell Gabriel not to sound so sad. It wasn't a good sound for him. "I am a weapon of Heaven, a creature of terrible power. Not many people could host me. You... you are one of them. I just didn't expect... didn't expect to find you here."
He turned his head towards Gabriel, and gasped, or tried to. "I think I can see you," he said. And he could, after a fashion. It wasn't like when he could see with his eyes. This was more like knowing something was there, and how it looked.
"It is because you are close to the veil, soon to pass over. You are dying, my friend."
"You don't look so terrible," he said, gazing upwards. The image of Gabriel remained even when he blinked. "I don't know why you're embarrassed."
"Only beautiful to you," Gabriel said, with a sad smile in his voice.
"Would you stay with me? Forever?"
Gabriel froze, his arms going tight around him. "You don't know what you're asking."
"I think I do. My family are gone, I am a broken wreck, and when I die, you will be trapped here, unable to leave for fear of your brothers finding you."
"It will be painful," Gabriel told him, "A hundred years, a thousand, a million maybe, to the death of this planet and beyond, to the destruction of galaxies, and to entropy's end. You will burn in the fire of a thousand suns for eternity."
"That's what you are?"
"In part." Gabriel stroked fingers across his forehead, though he could have sworn both Gabriel's hands were occupied. "I can take you as a vessel, and heal every wound you have ever suffered. You will be whole in body, but your soul will be tied to mine."
He closed his eyes, and only realised that he was weeping when he felt tears falling down his face. "I cannot face my family in the next life. I have failed them. Too many have died while I lived. I cannot face them knowing that I should have died long before them."
"You will live forever if you say yes," Gabriel said.
"I am not worthy of joining them," he said, "And this way, at least, I will be with a friend forever. Is that so terrible?" He drew a breath, and felt how weak it was. "I don't think I have much time left. Please ask me."
Gabriel took a deep breath. "Do you consent to be my Vessel, now and for all eternity?"
"Yes," he whispered.
Gabriel shifted, and he felt what seemed to be lips press against his forehead, though he couldn't be certain. "Open your eyes, dear friend."
He opened his eyes, and in an instant before he was consumed with a vast and all-encompassing bright white light that would be all he knew for the rest of his existence, he saw the Archangel Gabriel in all his radiance and knew, without a shadow of doubt, that he would never be afraid.
**
Several thousand years later, when a newly restored-to-Grace Anna Milton found Gabriel and requested a favour of a new body from him, in the process accidentally implying that he had no respect or affection for his vessel and the Human soul still trapped within, Gabriel took the time out from his very busy schedule to put her through a wall.