Fic: Rogue (Gabriel/M, Gabriel/F, PG-13) 3/36
For full notes and other chapters, please see the Masterpost.
Notes: This is the third part of the Missing an Angel series. It is recommended that you read the first two before reading this one.
Chapter Rating: PG-13
Chapter word count: 2,738
Chapter Summary: Gabriel’s getting ready to move on, and Fergus finds a new friend
CHAPTER 3:
Thorn
Canisbay could have been the edge of the world, for all its isolation. Stuck far out on the most north-eastern tip of Scotland, the next nearest village was over sixteen miles away. The land plunged dramatically into the sea, with huge, jagged cliff faces claiming the lives of several sheep and at least one child a year. Winds whipped over the flat moors from the North Sea (which actually lay to their south), drumming up dramatic weather with icy storms and horizontal rain.
This was the land Fergus grew up in, racing across the grassy moors and climbing over the cliffs as fearlessly as any goat. Gabriel was always close behind, ready to catch the child if he fell. His wings were constantly arced around Fergus, sheltering and protecting the fragile human body that housed a fallen angel.
With a little magical help from Gabriel, the land around Canisbay morphed into a wonderland for Fergus. The moors became sites of huge battles, with hordes of raging barbarians charging toward the lone defenders. Sticks turned into swords and brooms into child-sized horses. Everything Fergus could imagine, Gabriel would make real. It no longer mattered that the other Canisbay children scorned Fergus for his mother’s witchcraft and his own obvious illegitimacy. Gabriel made sure he was never lonely.
Winter stole Fergus away from his adventures with Gabriel, as snowstorms covered the land in many feet of snow. Like most of the children of Canisbay, Fergus retreated indoors during the coldest months of the year, huddled in the one room schoolhouse and learning his letters. Gabriel crouched beside the boy, invisible, one warm wing a constant living blanket as his classmates fought for the best positions near the classroom’s stove. “Fergy the Freak” was never invited to join them, but he also never asked. Glowering at the other kids from his corner, Fergus devoted himself to his lessons and was regularly the best student in his class, beating even the older children.
It helped that Fergus’ mother encouraged the boy at home. Issobell MacLeod was a feisty redhead with more freckles than feminine mannerisms. Gabriel had been shocked to recognize himself in her when they first met-Issobell was one of his vessels, a direct descendant of Vindonnus. He had stopped paying attention to his bloodline when he left Heaven, always afraid that Raphael was watching for him. Somehow, Cariel had managed to direct his fall into Gabriel’s bloodline. Perhaps he had hoped Gabriel would be able to find him like this.
Issobell did not put much faith in angels, or in God, though she attended church regularly, as did every other citizen of Canisbay. She had never seen an angel, she had informed Gabriel, but she had seen plenty of demons, skinwalkers, werefolk, faeries, and ghosts to know that the supernatural world existed. While Fergus learned his letters and numbers at school, he learned Latin chants and ancient magic at home, sounding out words from a black grimoire almost as big as he was, his finger skidding along the page beneath the black letter text.
Brody, Issobell’s older brother, was much more willing to believe angels existed. If the bad is real, why not the good? He was the one who welcomed the god Loki into their shared cottage, past the protective wards that decorated the door and all the windows, and into their lives. Gabriel spent much of his winters seated on the floor by the MacLeod’s fire, with Fergus leaning against his side and asking for help with the occasional difficult word between stolen sips of his uncle’s whisky.
Gabriel told himself that every month he spent with the MacLeods would be his last. He never stayed in one place for long. Two years was his absolute record. The longer he stayed still, the more his grace seeped out, staining the area around him and reflecting his presence back to Raphael in Heaven. If he stayed, he risked calling down the angels.
Two years after meeting Fergus, Gabriel promised himself that he would leave. Tomorrow.
Four years after meeting Fergus, Gabriel promised himself that he really would leave tomorrow.
Six years after meeting Fergus, Gabriel swore that this time, tomorrow would be the day he left.
Fergus lay on his back at the edge of a cliff, legs dangling over the side, staring up at the blue sky above them. He was chewing on the end of a piece of heather, his fingers lightly brushing against Gabriel’s as his head was unknowingly pillowed on one of Gabriel’s extended wings. The angel was lying beside him, all of his invisible wings spread to bask in the summer sun. He felt at peace here, warm and loved in the presence of Fergus’ bright soul. Cariel’s spirit still shone too strongly in Fergus’ to be corrupted by the witchcraft his family practiced, even with the winter lessons. A few shadows were starting to creep in, but for a boy of eleven, Fergus was still remarkably good.
“Mam says I need to start working.”
“Hmm?” Gabriel cracked his eyes open, turning his head to the side to look over at Fergus. The boy had one arm tucked beneath his head, and he was rolling the heather from one side of his mouth to the other.
“Working. Mam says I need to. She says I’m too big to play pretend with gods anymore.”
“Technically, it’s not really pretend,” Gabriel pointed out. “I make it very real.”
Fergus grinned, the heather clamped between his teeth. “Yeah you do. You’re pretty awesome.”
“I’m a god. Awesome is in the job description.” Gabriel rolled onto his side and propped his head up in one hand, watching Fergus. “She does have a point, though. You’re going to need a job when you’re an adult.”
Most of the children of Canisbay helped their parents during the summer with farming or fishing. Just about everyone turned out to bring in the harvest in the fall, and to help with planting in the summer. Issobell and her son rarely participated. The whole village knew she was a witch, and they did not want her anywhere near their food supplies (though that confused Gabriel, as the witch still needed to eat like all the rest of them, so logically, she would put blessings on the farms, not curses). She was allowed to come by when they needed medical attention or during calving season, because the village had no doctor and no one could deliver a baby like Issobell MacLeod, but on the whole, she was denied access to Canisbay “polite society.” As her son, Fergus was similarly scorned. The children were the most outspoken in their rejection of Fergus, but even the adults would cross themselves and step aside when they saw him coming.
Brody MacLeod was better accepted, because surely a man couldn’t be a witch. He was a tailor, and most of the town went to him for their clothing needs. No bride dreamed of getting married without a dress made by MacLeod, and no baby got baptized without one of his christening gowns. People ignored his relation to the town witch at worst, or at best, declared him a good man for keeping Issobell fed and sheltered. Gabriel knew his good name was just a farce. Brody MacLeod was the originator of witchcraft in Canisbay. He had gone to Edinburgh for an education and came back with a demon mistress he refused to name. Issobell had followed her big brother eagerly into witchcraft, but Brody was definitely the darker of the two, his soul eroded and pitted. Issobell maybe could house Gabriel if he asked, but Brody was too far gone to hold the purity of an angel’s spirit within him, even a rogue angel like Gabriel.
“That wasn’t what you were supposed to say,” Fergus grumbled, squeezing his eyes shut before flinging his arm over them.
“What was I supposed to say?” Gabriel plucked Fergus’ arm off his face, smiling down at those familiar dark eyes. Fergus didn’t remember his life in Heaven, but something in his soul had responded to Gabriel from the day they first met. Gabriel loved watching Fergus’ soul slosh toward him whenever their eyes met. It almost felt like Cariel standing at his side all over again.
“You were supposed to say that I didn’t need a job, that you’d take care of everything. You’re a god, and I’m your favorite. I shouldn’t have to work.”
“What, make you my kept woman?” Gabriel laughed, trailing his fingers down Fergus’ arm and leaning closer to the boy. “Like Katharine is for Hutchson Bowar?”
“Shut up! Not like that!” Fergus jerked away from Gabriel, sitting up abruptly and turning his back on the angel. He frowned over his shoulder, his lower lip protruding in an all-too-familiar pout. “Not like lovers. I’m a man-”
“Boy,” Gabriel coughed into his hand, earning him another scowl and a shove from Fergus. He shoved back with only a fraction of his strength, and Fergus tackled him. The two tussled in the warm grass, rolling over and over, with Gabriel using his wings to push them away from the edge of the cliff.
“Man!” Fergus insisted, pinning Gabriel beneath his knees, holding the angel’s wrists against the field. They were both laughing, and they both knew that Gabriel could shove Fergus off easily if he wanted. Still, Gabriel let Fergus have his victory.
“Right, you’re right, you’re a man! Almost! Practically!”
“I’m going to be twelve in two months,” Fergus pointed out, sitting over the angel. “Maybe I should start thinking of a wife.”
“You have plenty of time,” Gabriel assured him, tamping down on a curl of jealousy within his spirit. He hated the thought of anyone else staking a claim on Fergus’ time or heart. “Don’t grow up too fast, Fergus.”
Fergus was growing up. The chubby-cheeked child who had found Gabriel in the tree all those years ago had lengthened and thinned into a boy on the cusp of manhood. With Gabriel’s help, he would very likely live into his seventies or eighties, unhampered by disease or hardship. Though a long life for a human, it would be barely the blink of an eye for an angel. When Fergus died, he would die. His soul would be taken up to Heaven, and Gabriel would be unable to see him again.
Is this punishment? Gabriel wondered, watching the boy above him. Is this Raphael trying to tempt me back into reach? Had his brothers forced Cariel to fall so Gabriel would try to follow him back home?
It wouldn’t work. Gabriel was already making plans to extract himself from Fergus’ life. He’d leave tomorrow and return only for visits, frequent but short. He had lived without Cariel for a thousand years. He could do it again. This was a gift, a chance to mend his broken relationship with his lieutenant before losing him forever, and Gabriel would not look at it in any other light.
“Gavin’s thinking of a wife,” Fergus said. “Gavin wants to ask… listen!” The boy looked away from Gabriel, his head cocked to the side as he focused on a soft whimpering. “Do you hear that?”
“Sounds like an animal.” Gabriel eased his wrists out from Fergus’ hold and sat up, looping his arms loosely around the boy to keep him from falling over. “Young one. Over that way.” He nodded off to his right.
Fergus scrambled off Gabriel’s lap and loped off through the field, scanning the ground for what could be making the pathetic little noises. Gabriel followed more slowly, watching Fergus. The sounds were coming from a puppy caught in some thistles, but he didn’t tell Fergus that. He’d let the boy find it on his own.
“Loki, come see!” Fergus came upon the puppy and dropped to his knees. “It’s a dog! He’s stuck-ouch!” Fergus had tried to pull the thistles apart and gotten a spine in his finger as a reward. He scowled at the plant, sucking on the spot of blood that welled up on his skin. “He’s stuck, Loki.”
“Probably was too adventurous for his own good.” Gabriel crouched down beside Fergus, looking at the puppy. He was a skinny mongrel with floppy ears and dirty white fur with a few black patches here and there. The thistles had ensnared him thoroughly, and the poor little pup was stabbed and scratched by the sharp plant. “Here, stop that. You’ll only hurt yourself again.” Gabriel batted Fergus’ hands away as Fergus reached for the thistles to free the puppy again.
“We can’t just let him stay trapped!”
“God,” Gabriel reminded Fergus with a gesture toward himself. “Watch and be amazed.”
The thistles couldn’t cut Gabriel’s skin if he didn’t want them to. A bit of grace hardened around his hands was more effective than leather gloves, and he was easily able to reach into the heart of the plant, pulling apart the thorny branches. The puppy whined and squirmed, and Fergus reached in to the opening to hold him steady as Gabriel gently extracted the spines from his fur and flesh.
Eventually, Fergus was able to lift the puppy free. He sat down, cradling the pitiful creature in his lap. Gabriel let the thistle spring back into shape and sat beside Fergus, watching them both. “He’s hurt, Loki. Can you heal him?”
Technically, the answer was yes. Healing the puppy wouldn’t take more than a snap of Gabriel’s fingers and a dollop of his grace. But Gabriel had already spent six years at Fergus’ side, his grace soaking into this land and infusing it with his signature. He glanced around, as if an angel could drop out of the sky on top of him just by thinking about it. Even the small burst of grace that healing the puppy would require could be enough to light up the entire tip of Scotland bright enough to catch Raphael’s eye. “I can keep him from getting infected,” Gabriel conceded, reaching out to stroke his hand over the puppy’s mangy fur. He could burn away impurities with his touch, as long as he kept his grace on his person. That was the best he could offer.
“I’m going to keep him,” Fergus declared. “I’ve always wanted a dog.”
“Your mother is going to throw a fit,” Gabriel pointed out. “Her cats won’t be happy.”
“Doesn’t matter. Cats are stupid.” Fergus rubbed the puppy’s ears and smiled. “He needs a name. Don’t you have a son who’s a wolf?”
“Fenrir?” Gabriel laughed, shaking his head. “That mutt’s no Fenrir!” The puppy wasn’t going to be very big, and Gabriel could already tell he had strong terrier lines in him. Fenrir would be more insulted than honored at a mongrel rabbit-hunter being named after him.
“I guess not...” Fergus picked up the puppy carefully and held him in front of his face, frowning. “What about a different god? Which one is runty? Thor?”
“Thor?” The god of thunder did not care for Loki one bit, and Gabriel loved needling him. He tended to roar and throw his hammer around when he was upset. It was always good for a laugh. Thor could hardly be defined as ‘runty,’ but Gabriel could already imagine the Norse god’s face when he found out. “Definitely much more of a Thor than a Fenrir, but if he hears about it, he might try to hit you with his hammer!”
“What about Thorn?” Fergus suggested, turning to Gabriel with a grin. “Because we found him in the thorns! You and I can know the truth, but Thor’s too stupid to realize, right?”
“Right,” Gabriel agreed, grinning back at Fergus. He touched two fingers to the puppy’s forehead, adopting a solemn expression. “Puppy, I dub thee Thorn, not-god of thunder. Rest with us, heal with us, and grow strong in our family. Protect us, guard us, and serve us, and we will always have a home for you.”
The puppy tipped his head back and licked at Gabriel’s fingers with his pink tongue, tail wagging. Fergus grinned, leaning over against Gabriel’s side. Gabriel sighed to himself. He couldn’t leave now. The puppy needed him to stay near until it healed. He wouldn’t leave Fergus tomorrow. He’d leave when Thorn was definitely all better. Probably a couple months from now. Maybe another year. But not tomorrow. Not yet.
Next...
Notes: This is the third part of the Missing an Angel series. It is recommended that you read the first two before reading this one.
Chapter Rating: PG-13
Chapter word count: 2,738
Chapter Summary: Gabriel’s getting ready to move on, and Fergus finds a new friend
CHAPTER 3:
Thorn
Canisbay could have been the edge of the world, for all its isolation. Stuck far out on the most north-eastern tip of Scotland, the next nearest village was over sixteen miles away. The land plunged dramatically into the sea, with huge, jagged cliff faces claiming the lives of several sheep and at least one child a year. Winds whipped over the flat moors from the North Sea (which actually lay to their south), drumming up dramatic weather with icy storms and horizontal rain.
This was the land Fergus grew up in, racing across the grassy moors and climbing over the cliffs as fearlessly as any goat. Gabriel was always close behind, ready to catch the child if he fell. His wings were constantly arced around Fergus, sheltering and protecting the fragile human body that housed a fallen angel.
With a little magical help from Gabriel, the land around Canisbay morphed into a wonderland for Fergus. The moors became sites of huge battles, with hordes of raging barbarians charging toward the lone defenders. Sticks turned into swords and brooms into child-sized horses. Everything Fergus could imagine, Gabriel would make real. It no longer mattered that the other Canisbay children scorned Fergus for his mother’s witchcraft and his own obvious illegitimacy. Gabriel made sure he was never lonely.
Winter stole Fergus away from his adventures with Gabriel, as snowstorms covered the land in many feet of snow. Like most of the children of Canisbay, Fergus retreated indoors during the coldest months of the year, huddled in the one room schoolhouse and learning his letters. Gabriel crouched beside the boy, invisible, one warm wing a constant living blanket as his classmates fought for the best positions near the classroom’s stove. “Fergy the Freak” was never invited to join them, but he also never asked. Glowering at the other kids from his corner, Fergus devoted himself to his lessons and was regularly the best student in his class, beating even the older children.
It helped that Fergus’ mother encouraged the boy at home. Issobell MacLeod was a feisty redhead with more freckles than feminine mannerisms. Gabriel had been shocked to recognize himself in her when they first met-Issobell was one of his vessels, a direct descendant of Vindonnus. He had stopped paying attention to his bloodline when he left Heaven, always afraid that Raphael was watching for him. Somehow, Cariel had managed to direct his fall into Gabriel’s bloodline. Perhaps he had hoped Gabriel would be able to find him like this.
Issobell did not put much faith in angels, or in God, though she attended church regularly, as did every other citizen of Canisbay. She had never seen an angel, she had informed Gabriel, but she had seen plenty of demons, skinwalkers, werefolk, faeries, and ghosts to know that the supernatural world existed. While Fergus learned his letters and numbers at school, he learned Latin chants and ancient magic at home, sounding out words from a black grimoire almost as big as he was, his finger skidding along the page beneath the black letter text.
Brody, Issobell’s older brother, was much more willing to believe angels existed. If the bad is real, why not the good? He was the one who welcomed the god Loki into their shared cottage, past the protective wards that decorated the door and all the windows, and into their lives. Gabriel spent much of his winters seated on the floor by the MacLeod’s fire, with Fergus leaning against his side and asking for help with the occasional difficult word between stolen sips of his uncle’s whisky.
Gabriel told himself that every month he spent with the MacLeods would be his last. He never stayed in one place for long. Two years was his absolute record. The longer he stayed still, the more his grace seeped out, staining the area around him and reflecting his presence back to Raphael in Heaven. If he stayed, he risked calling down the angels.
Two years after meeting Fergus, Gabriel promised himself that he would leave. Tomorrow.
Four years after meeting Fergus, Gabriel promised himself that he really would leave tomorrow.
Six years after meeting Fergus, Gabriel swore that this time, tomorrow would be the day he left.
Fergus lay on his back at the edge of a cliff, legs dangling over the side, staring up at the blue sky above them. He was chewing on the end of a piece of heather, his fingers lightly brushing against Gabriel’s as his head was unknowingly pillowed on one of Gabriel’s extended wings. The angel was lying beside him, all of his invisible wings spread to bask in the summer sun. He felt at peace here, warm and loved in the presence of Fergus’ bright soul. Cariel’s spirit still shone too strongly in Fergus’ to be corrupted by the witchcraft his family practiced, even with the winter lessons. A few shadows were starting to creep in, but for a boy of eleven, Fergus was still remarkably good.
“Mam says I need to start working.”
“Hmm?” Gabriel cracked his eyes open, turning his head to the side to look over at Fergus. The boy had one arm tucked beneath his head, and he was rolling the heather from one side of his mouth to the other.
“Working. Mam says I need to. She says I’m too big to play pretend with gods anymore.”
“Technically, it’s not really pretend,” Gabriel pointed out. “I make it very real.”
Fergus grinned, the heather clamped between his teeth. “Yeah you do. You’re pretty awesome.”
“I’m a god. Awesome is in the job description.” Gabriel rolled onto his side and propped his head up in one hand, watching Fergus. “She does have a point, though. You’re going to need a job when you’re an adult.”
Most of the children of Canisbay helped their parents during the summer with farming or fishing. Just about everyone turned out to bring in the harvest in the fall, and to help with planting in the summer. Issobell and her son rarely participated. The whole village knew she was a witch, and they did not want her anywhere near their food supplies (though that confused Gabriel, as the witch still needed to eat like all the rest of them, so logically, she would put blessings on the farms, not curses). She was allowed to come by when they needed medical attention or during calving season, because the village had no doctor and no one could deliver a baby like Issobell MacLeod, but on the whole, she was denied access to Canisbay “polite society.” As her son, Fergus was similarly scorned. The children were the most outspoken in their rejection of Fergus, but even the adults would cross themselves and step aside when they saw him coming.
Brody MacLeod was better accepted, because surely a man couldn’t be a witch. He was a tailor, and most of the town went to him for their clothing needs. No bride dreamed of getting married without a dress made by MacLeod, and no baby got baptized without one of his christening gowns. People ignored his relation to the town witch at worst, or at best, declared him a good man for keeping Issobell fed and sheltered. Gabriel knew his good name was just a farce. Brody MacLeod was the originator of witchcraft in Canisbay. He had gone to Edinburgh for an education and came back with a demon mistress he refused to name. Issobell had followed her big brother eagerly into witchcraft, but Brody was definitely the darker of the two, his soul eroded and pitted. Issobell maybe could house Gabriel if he asked, but Brody was too far gone to hold the purity of an angel’s spirit within him, even a rogue angel like Gabriel.
“That wasn’t what you were supposed to say,” Fergus grumbled, squeezing his eyes shut before flinging his arm over them.
“What was I supposed to say?” Gabriel plucked Fergus’ arm off his face, smiling down at those familiar dark eyes. Fergus didn’t remember his life in Heaven, but something in his soul had responded to Gabriel from the day they first met. Gabriel loved watching Fergus’ soul slosh toward him whenever their eyes met. It almost felt like Cariel standing at his side all over again.
“You were supposed to say that I didn’t need a job, that you’d take care of everything. You’re a god, and I’m your favorite. I shouldn’t have to work.”
“What, make you my kept woman?” Gabriel laughed, trailing his fingers down Fergus’ arm and leaning closer to the boy. “Like Katharine is for Hutchson Bowar?”
“Shut up! Not like that!” Fergus jerked away from Gabriel, sitting up abruptly and turning his back on the angel. He frowned over his shoulder, his lower lip protruding in an all-too-familiar pout. “Not like lovers. I’m a man-”
“Boy,” Gabriel coughed into his hand, earning him another scowl and a shove from Fergus. He shoved back with only a fraction of his strength, and Fergus tackled him. The two tussled in the warm grass, rolling over and over, with Gabriel using his wings to push them away from the edge of the cliff.
“Man!” Fergus insisted, pinning Gabriel beneath his knees, holding the angel’s wrists against the field. They were both laughing, and they both knew that Gabriel could shove Fergus off easily if he wanted. Still, Gabriel let Fergus have his victory.
“Right, you’re right, you’re a man! Almost! Practically!”
“I’m going to be twelve in two months,” Fergus pointed out, sitting over the angel. “Maybe I should start thinking of a wife.”
“You have plenty of time,” Gabriel assured him, tamping down on a curl of jealousy within his spirit. He hated the thought of anyone else staking a claim on Fergus’ time or heart. “Don’t grow up too fast, Fergus.”
Fergus was growing up. The chubby-cheeked child who had found Gabriel in the tree all those years ago had lengthened and thinned into a boy on the cusp of manhood. With Gabriel’s help, he would very likely live into his seventies or eighties, unhampered by disease or hardship. Though a long life for a human, it would be barely the blink of an eye for an angel. When Fergus died, he would die. His soul would be taken up to Heaven, and Gabriel would be unable to see him again.
Is this punishment? Gabriel wondered, watching the boy above him. Is this Raphael trying to tempt me back into reach? Had his brothers forced Cariel to fall so Gabriel would try to follow him back home?
It wouldn’t work. Gabriel was already making plans to extract himself from Fergus’ life. He’d leave tomorrow and return only for visits, frequent but short. He had lived without Cariel for a thousand years. He could do it again. This was a gift, a chance to mend his broken relationship with his lieutenant before losing him forever, and Gabriel would not look at it in any other light.
“Gavin’s thinking of a wife,” Fergus said. “Gavin wants to ask… listen!” The boy looked away from Gabriel, his head cocked to the side as he focused on a soft whimpering. “Do you hear that?”
“Sounds like an animal.” Gabriel eased his wrists out from Fergus’ hold and sat up, looping his arms loosely around the boy to keep him from falling over. “Young one. Over that way.” He nodded off to his right.
Fergus scrambled off Gabriel’s lap and loped off through the field, scanning the ground for what could be making the pathetic little noises. Gabriel followed more slowly, watching Fergus. The sounds were coming from a puppy caught in some thistles, but he didn’t tell Fergus that. He’d let the boy find it on his own.
“Loki, come see!” Fergus came upon the puppy and dropped to his knees. “It’s a dog! He’s stuck-ouch!” Fergus had tried to pull the thistles apart and gotten a spine in his finger as a reward. He scowled at the plant, sucking on the spot of blood that welled up on his skin. “He’s stuck, Loki.”
“Probably was too adventurous for his own good.” Gabriel crouched down beside Fergus, looking at the puppy. He was a skinny mongrel with floppy ears and dirty white fur with a few black patches here and there. The thistles had ensnared him thoroughly, and the poor little pup was stabbed and scratched by the sharp plant. “Here, stop that. You’ll only hurt yourself again.” Gabriel batted Fergus’ hands away as Fergus reached for the thistles to free the puppy again.
“We can’t just let him stay trapped!”
“God,” Gabriel reminded Fergus with a gesture toward himself. “Watch and be amazed.”
The thistles couldn’t cut Gabriel’s skin if he didn’t want them to. A bit of grace hardened around his hands was more effective than leather gloves, and he was easily able to reach into the heart of the plant, pulling apart the thorny branches. The puppy whined and squirmed, and Fergus reached in to the opening to hold him steady as Gabriel gently extracted the spines from his fur and flesh.
Eventually, Fergus was able to lift the puppy free. He sat down, cradling the pitiful creature in his lap. Gabriel let the thistle spring back into shape and sat beside Fergus, watching them both. “He’s hurt, Loki. Can you heal him?”
Technically, the answer was yes. Healing the puppy wouldn’t take more than a snap of Gabriel’s fingers and a dollop of his grace. But Gabriel had already spent six years at Fergus’ side, his grace soaking into this land and infusing it with his signature. He glanced around, as if an angel could drop out of the sky on top of him just by thinking about it. Even the small burst of grace that healing the puppy would require could be enough to light up the entire tip of Scotland bright enough to catch Raphael’s eye. “I can keep him from getting infected,” Gabriel conceded, reaching out to stroke his hand over the puppy’s mangy fur. He could burn away impurities with his touch, as long as he kept his grace on his person. That was the best he could offer.
“I’m going to keep him,” Fergus declared. “I’ve always wanted a dog.”
“Your mother is going to throw a fit,” Gabriel pointed out. “Her cats won’t be happy.”
“Doesn’t matter. Cats are stupid.” Fergus rubbed the puppy’s ears and smiled. “He needs a name. Don’t you have a son who’s a wolf?”
“Fenrir?” Gabriel laughed, shaking his head. “That mutt’s no Fenrir!” The puppy wasn’t going to be very big, and Gabriel could already tell he had strong terrier lines in him. Fenrir would be more insulted than honored at a mongrel rabbit-hunter being named after him.
“I guess not...” Fergus picked up the puppy carefully and held him in front of his face, frowning. “What about a different god? Which one is runty? Thor?”
“Thor?” The god of thunder did not care for Loki one bit, and Gabriel loved needling him. He tended to roar and throw his hammer around when he was upset. It was always good for a laugh. Thor could hardly be defined as ‘runty,’ but Gabriel could already imagine the Norse god’s face when he found out. “Definitely much more of a Thor than a Fenrir, but if he hears about it, he might try to hit you with his hammer!”
“What about Thorn?” Fergus suggested, turning to Gabriel with a grin. “Because we found him in the thorns! You and I can know the truth, but Thor’s too stupid to realize, right?”
“Right,” Gabriel agreed, grinning back at Fergus. He touched two fingers to the puppy’s forehead, adopting a solemn expression. “Puppy, I dub thee Thorn, not-god of thunder. Rest with us, heal with us, and grow strong in our family. Protect us, guard us, and serve us, and we will always have a home for you.”
The puppy tipped his head back and licked at Gabriel’s fingers with his pink tongue, tail wagging. Fergus grinned, leaning over against Gabriel’s side. Gabriel sighed to himself. He couldn’t leave now. The puppy needed him to stay near until it healed. He wouldn’t leave Fergus tomorrow. He’d leave when Thorn was definitely all better. Probably a couple months from now. Maybe another year. But not tomorrow. Not yet.
Next...