ourxinsurgentxapollo - Tumblr blog

[ourxinsurgentxapollo]

Won't you come and wait for me at the gate With your wooden toy sword in your hand? It is then I will come with the beat of the drum From defending my king and my land

[ourxinsurgentxapollo]

bryant-lowe:

Bryant sat idly as Apollo rambled on about Alexandria, and several thoughts crossed his mind. First of which, who was this guy really and what did he do? Secondly, he remembered the fire? Does that mean he could remember everything from the past as well? And even so, if that were the case he was sure that fire would have happened long before any of them arrived in Purgatory. Since he claimed he’d never read much, only one thought came to his mind. Narrowing his gaze, he looked the man over once more. A few more times, actually. Trying to piece everything together. Fixing his mouth to say something, but not exactly sure how to word it. Bring it up. The last time he’d done so resulted in a very difficult situation with a young tattooed woman by the name of Sariel. He’d accused her of being an angel, and with that he realized he was right. 

Then he’d brought up that Bryant was being kept by someone. A Fall, prince, or a pet. He had a good eye, but if only he knew who he was really being kept by. “I am. By which I am not at liberty to say, because I’m not exactly sure what is there… but,” He allowed himself to pause a moment, figuring out exactly what he should say. He didn’t want to offend the man, or give him an incorrect title. “Your clothing is a bit tattered and not in high quality like Ast-like, the princes that I’ve come across. You know too much to be a regular human, and you speak as though you’re from another time at different points… If I didn’t know any better I’d say I was in the presence of an angel… or maybe something more than that?” 

He wasn’t sure at all, but he slowly allowed himself to come to a stand. Making sure to look Apollo into his eyes. “Recklessness is a quality that we both seem to share, as well as knowing more than we let on… Just who are you really, Apollo?” His tone wasn’t meant to accuse him of anything or of suspicion, but pure curiosity. It echoed around the room, “I’ll come clean if you do, but only if what’s shared in this room stays here… You seem trustworthy enough, so I’ll go out on a limb…”

-----------

The Archangel studied him carefully as he spoke, and he nodded, once, holding no judgement in him, but perhaps a tinge of concern. Like anyone he understood completely the potential hazards of becoming close to the particular ranks of his siblings, but at the same time, he couldn’t help but be touched with a fair amount of curiosity. Was it the difficulties of a life in Purgatory without a benefactor that drew him in that direction, or was it a deeper, ideological concern? Was it the idea that there might perhaps be something worth finding behind the perfectly lacquered masks that most of the Princes presented? “Well, it’s none of my business,” he said quietly. “I don’t expect you to tell me, and I’m certain that people have told you to be careful so many times that the words have lost all meaning. They’re not monsters, Bryant, they’re my siblings. They may have taken different paths, but that doesn’t mean that they are not positive sides to each of them. I hope he---or she---brings you happiness while they can. I hope they treat you well. And I know, you being an intelligent young man, will not allow them to treat you badly if it ever comes to that.”

He chuckled. “I’m not going to warn you away,” he said softly. “How can I when I love them as well? And you know to be careful.” His dark eyes turned to his, amused and removed as two stars, listening to his analysis. “You’re quite good at this. And yes, quite close.” His head tilted. “And if I am, Bryant, are you going to tell your Prince or Fallen that you’ve met an angel today? I doubt that would pique much interest, depending on who they are, I might have met them before. But you are correct---I’m not human, and I’m not a Fallen. For the purposes of this conversation---”

He watched him stand, and his eyes lingered upon his, and for a moment curiosity and his own recklessness overshadowed his caution. “What is said in this room stays here----you’ve stumbled upon the answer yourself. I am an Archangel, one of the Seven,  but which one, I’m afraid, I’ll keep to myself. Not that it matters in the grand scheme of things,  but some things, like my true name, I prefer not to disclose. Just my preference.” Gabriel smiled, slight, studying him. “Now you----boy who fraternizes with the Fallen----what will you come clean about?”

French Fried Conversations.

[ourxinsurgentxapollo]

voxpurgatorium:

☽ - —

Gages head tilted at the words.  No, — - apparently there hadn’t been a misunderstanding.  Yes, people did need help.  No, being on orders or of someone’s own free will didn’t count if they still somehow saw themselves as set aside.   As uninvolved.   A observer or someone with ‘duty’ to uphold….

I’m here to try to give you the chance you need. This is not my fight, you see.

He bristled at that.  Even though the words were said with a smile from Apollo, it wasn’t reflected on the face of the repairman as the t-shirt he’d picked up was sacrificed and torn into thin strips.

"Then d-don’t.  F-fff-fight.”

He didn’t need anyone to ‘give him a chance’.  Didn’t need the sympathy of someone who didn’t KNOW what it was like.  Someone who’d had a taste, an inhale of Purgatory and this — angel — apparently knew what needed to be done, and for what reasons — yaddah.  Decide what’s best.  On their behalf.  And maybe not even bother to - ask.                         What do you want.  What do you need.  How can I help… Y-eah.  No, as far as Gage was concerned, that was bullshit.   Live it, until your stomach rumbles with starvation, until the winds and the dirt of the wasteland has rasped your skin raw and brittled the bone beneath. Until the rain had soaked through to your skin from countless nights on the streets seeping in and under flesh, diluting blood down to it’s thinnest variant.   Weak. And then find the strength to pick yourself up. To not place blame, but take control. Not to raise hands against the vicious and the violent and return the same in kind, but to hold them out in offering to others who were still drowning of buried beneath the blackened soot — falling ashes — a fire in their hearts and a will to be more - do more - give more…. Just needing sight of something simple.

Not a ‘fight’. Just a smile…

Not a ‘battle’. Just a helping hand…

Not a ‘war’. Maybe - understanding, an open mind — an open heart…

He didn’t know about angelic perception of humans, but the words were not reassuring. —‘A spark’.  So fine.  Incite rebellion and then watch as people are slaughtered.  Disperate, desperate and scattered, hungry or crazy or lonely or… Well any number of things.

Perhaps I didn’t express myself in the right way.

No shit Sherlock.  But Gage’s tongue was tempered.  He could see that the intent was there, it was only a little bit of roughness around the edges.  There was kindness and gentleness and something genuine — perhaps just not getting things across the way he desired to — and at least with that, Gage could sympathise, empathise… He knew what it was to have words trapped on your tongue, saying no just the ‘wrong’ thing, but sometimes nothing at all when the words just got lost along the way.  So he did give a nod, a small one — something that loosened some of the tension from his shoulders, tried to shake it out of mind and body. No, the angel might not have been here long and he might not have lived all of those things.  But he could, at least see them. And however falteringly it came across - there was still the innate desire or will to help make things better - even if the reasons were different to his own.

So his eyes followed the hand as it met his, and he did manage to subdue the wince — giving a small sigh of concession.  Then a careful movement to peel his hand away, take Apollos wrist between his fingers and turn the arm slowly so his palm was facing up.

"This mm-might sting a bit."  

A small strip of cloth, dampened in the water, carefully cleaning the blood away while looking out for any shards of glass that might be embedded.  Not wanting to push them deeper or make any of the cuts worse than they already needed to be.

"I d-don’t think it h-has to bb-be a ff-fight."  

Just letting his thoughts out now, as easily as they would come.

"The P-princes took the City b-by ff-force, b-but they h-hold it ww-with ff-fear.  The Arena.  The militia that Ba’al rr-runs.  The r-restricted supplies.  If you w-want to h-help, then that’s the p-place to start.  P-people are afraid.  Of saying the w-wrong thing.  Of d-doing the ww-rong thing.  Of b-being cut d-down w-where they stand or t-thrown into a cage w-waiting f-for a f-fight ww-which they mm-might survive… If they’re lucky…”

Setting aside the stained cloth and looking carefully at the clean skin beneath.  A small ‘hm’ and furrowed brow, then he was picking up the nylon thread and needle, rummaging around for an old zippo lighter in one of the boxes to sterilise the metal as best he could.

"M’gonna p-put a couple of stitches in that one, or it won’t h-heal.  At least, nn-not so quickly and it could get infected."

"It’s… N-not a good idea to use your grace.  You’re in a b-body nn-now, and it mm-might be a b-bit sore and inconvenient, b-but it you give it a little time then it ww-will h-heal on it’s own.  They tend to d-do that.  If you r-remember to r-rest.  And sleep.  And eat…"

"You got the h-hang of those things yet?"

----------------

He had not suffered the full repercussions of existence in Purgatory, but he was learning, quickly, even, haltingly in some parts, piecing things organically together with not much information available save experience. To learn what it was to heal, fully and completely, it had taken a near plunge into death, to learn what it was to be hungry, it had taken weeks of scrounging and scamming and at times, when there was nothing, going without. To learn what loneliness was, it was to be not only effectively cut off from Heaven, but from his siblings. It was the aching weight of being a being of light and air compressed into a living form and then left to draw its own conclusions.

He was the last Arc to touch ground in the city, and as such, he did carry a belief that he was there to contribute, both out of genuine kindness and out of the understanding that he would not have been sent to Purgatory for no reason. His suffering as of yet, merely one severe beating and a couple nights desperately hungry, several weeks homeless in the rain and the cold with no sight of it coming to an end, did not compare next to the lives of many in this city, and as such, it was why he was taking the time to learn, and to understand the best he could.

Where his knowledge stood was that eventually, although steps can be taken to lighten that darkness through kindness and through understanding, things that he himself was attempting to do the best he was able, there still needed to be effected change. 

Where his viewpoint differed dramatically from most humans was in his experience with a situation different from this but similar, and it had found its conclusion in war. Everything in him sought to compromise, everything in him sought to lessen the wounds between himself and his siblings, but there also was the instinctive understanding that there would have to a turning point. Perhaps without any blood spilled, which was what comforted him when the nightmares raged and kept him in their twilight clutches. But there would have to be something sure, and something slow, and whether or not he desired to help---he did---this was what he felt he had to do. Help as best as he could, at the very least. Learn as much as he was able. He didn’t know exactly what had to be done, he was still spectacularly ignorant, but more time in Purgatory would change that. Would shape his view, but like all young things, would need to be guided, to grow. 

Perhaps he was alien, and his understanding would often clash with the humanity that he was trying to protect, and in a sense, fresh from Heaven, was utterly alien, but he was trying and it would take time. It would take patience, and it would take further exposure to humanity for his understanding to be complete, and in the meantime, he would try to assist in any way possible, and try to avoid violence for as long as he was able. But the martial soul in him that still occasionally fluttered in him whispered that in order for something to alter, in order for something better to be reached, they could not continue on in the way that they have, and he was figuring out the current situation, and could only come to terms with it more, but something had to change.

Whether that was in the minds of the people, whether it was a further outstretching of kindness, whether it was, as he believed, some way to unseat those in power, something would have to change, and he was willing to consider things in a different way, but also, was willing to contribute as much as he was able without getting that turned away as well.

He could be valuable in his basic knowledge of those in power, in his knowledge of certain personalities, in his knowledge of what had come before, and in his understanding, a desperate hope to avoid the furthest outstretch of war. He could be valuable in his open-mindedness, could be valuable in many different ways, and perhaps his path was different from this human, or perhaps it was similar, he did not know, but he was willing to listen.

His own body tensed at the obvious waves of aloofness coming off the other man, and he suddenly felt tired, exhausted. “I don’t want to have to fight,” he said quietly, “and if there’s a way to avoid it, I hope that we can. All of us. I have been through war before against my kin, and it was nothing that I want to repeat. I may be new here, and I may still be learning, but I’ve gone through enough to begin to understand that things can’t continue in the way they have with an idea that they are going to be different. Maybe in time the path of where to go will become clear. Maybe it’s a manner of ceasing to group anyone together.” 

His eyes met his briefly. “Humans---” His eyes averted. “And Angels. Maybe it’s dealing with the individual rather than the collective in getting this done.” His chin lifted slightly. “I get that you’ve been here longer. I do. But I am not ignorant in all things---and if I learn from you about  your individual humanity, at least in a small sense, maybe you can learn from me. Learn from each other---there’s a great deal about angels that even I don’t understand yet, and I am one.” He didn’t smile, but his eyes had softened. “Maybe we both still have gaps in our knowledge, and there’s a way to improve things here without violence, I don’t know. All I do know is that I was sent here just as you were, and I have a tendency to think that most things have a reason. If anything, change can’t happen until people are willing to listen to each other, and see different points of view.”

Gabriel heard the sigh and tensed again, understanding that maybe the contact was something that was not wanted. He let him tend to his hand, his shoulders relaxing slightly. If he was a bird, his feathers would have gently settled back, biting his lip slightly at the pain that resulted, but letting it out in a slow breath, his manner stoic, controlled. “So we combat fear,” he answered quietly, without judgement, genuinely curious, “and in your opinion then, what would be the best way to do that? Without removing the infrastructures that cause that fear? Because with removal of infrastructures, comes chaos, comes confusion, comes violence. If we want to avoid all violence, the infrastructures have to remain, at least for the time being.”

He thought for a moment. “What options would you suggest? I do want to point out that I’m not intending to rush into any situation blindly, but what has been happening so far hasn’t freed the city. Maybe we need better, newer tactics. I’ve been working on talking to the Princes individually, to the Fallen---if there is a way to do this with words, I want to find it.”

“Thank you,” he said, keeping his hand still. “For all this. For helping me.” He looked at him with tired dark eyes. “I figured them out eventually,” he said with a small smile. “They are strange. Uncomfortable. But as I’ve found, needed.  And you’re right, using Grace---” He remembered having to heal, the white hot agony that boiled through his veins. “---shouldn’t be taken lightly. I found that out the hard way. It’s just----first reaction.”

sp·ar·ks || Gage and Gabriel

[ourxinsurgentxapollo]

sariel-darktides:

“You are too nice,” she said again, her usually pale cheeks igniting to a light pink as he complimented her. For all her cockiness, being told that she was ‘beautiful’ or ‘pretty’, always struck her in a way that made her both grateful and uncomfortable with the emotions those words evoked deep within her chest. She knew she was talented, she knew what kind of skill she had within her ink covered hands but being told that those hands themselves were lovely on their own? Seemed…odd to her. Why would anyone look at her when she wanted them to look at her art? She was secondary to whatever she might create. That was what demanded the compliments and the admiration…Not her.

There was something in the way that Gabriel specifically complimented her that made the blush deepen. Perhaps it was because his words were so…honest and pure. He wasn’t telling her that she was beautiful because he wanted something from her…he was telling her because he meant it. And it was that kind of honesty that made him too nice, too good for this place. For her. “Too nice for this stupid city, too kind and honest and— -“ she cut herself off and laughed softly, looking down at the line of spray paints, distracting herself so that she didn’t need to look at him, “I should thank you I guess. For the compliment. And for being too nice. We need more of that in this place. It just throws me off a little bit I guess, because I’m so used to every one being rude and rough and…having their own twisted agenda. You are a nice change compared to that, Gabe.”

Her dark eyes flicked upwards and found his, holding the arcs gaze for a few moments to make sure that he fully understood how serious she was, despite the lightness that lingered between them. She appreciated his honesty and the light that shone in his eyes despite the pain that she knew he must be in. Or perhaps the poison was moving slower than she had thought? In this moment, she hoped that it was. She hoped that she could give him a few light hearted and carefree moments in this dingy alley that he could hold onto later. When the pain was too much. When everything grew dark and he wanted nothing more than to give up. She wanted to craft a little dream for him here, with bricks and spray paint.

“I-I uhm, I know you aren’t flirting with me,” she mumbled, her cheeks still flushed as she adjusted her bandana as it hung against her chin, “I actually like that compliment even more because you aren’t,” she added with a short laugh, “Means more because I know you don’t have any other motives…” Sariel looked up at him with a smirk before she knelt and rested her arms on the tops of her knees as he spoke of flowers and kindness and smiles. Did those things even exist in her life any more? “You are just you and that’s what I like. I thought that would be obvious?” the angel added as she strummed her fingers against her knees, trying to make a decision.

“You have more than flair, man,” she corrected, looking up at him, “You have talent and I am curious to see just how deep that talent runs and if I can push you over into artistic genius status. Who knows, maybe you just a little more practice…” she picked up a red can of paint with a nod as she rose, “So, we are painting dreams.” Sariel murmured softly, a kind of hush settling over her as she already instantly knew what she would paint. Even if explaining why she chose the image that was already forming in her head would cause her chest to ache and her voice to quiver…It would be worth it. It would feel like laying down a burden, and she felt like Gabriel would respect that pain and the happiness in equal measure, and maybe just maybe he would admire the art work and not question the meaning behind it.

“I have had a dream like that,” I’ve lived a dream like that, those words lingered on her lips but she pushed them down into a hidden place, taking a step away from Gabriel, towards the blank expanse of wall, shaking the paint can enjoying the rattle, “They are almost worse than a nightmare in a way. Because they are so much better than reality. At least a nightmare you wake up from and you are happy its over…But a beautiful dream? That only points out how shitty your real life is and that leaves a bitter taste— -worse than fear,” she said, the truth in that statement causing her voice to quiver as she considered the beautiful dream she was still recovering from, the one that left finger print shaped bruises on her thighs and heart. Falling quiet for a moment Sariel considered how to start. studying the wall as the silence pooled between them. She cleared her throat and looked towards Gabriel as she lifted her spray can, “At least for me…”

Sariel took a final breath of air before she pulled the bandana up over her mouth and nose, lifting the can and pressing down onto the nozzle, the hiss of paint hitting the wall filling the alley as red stained the brick, “Let’s paint something beautiful…”

-----------------

He smiled as she blushed, his dark eyes bright with happiness but also with a fair shade of confusion. Compliments occurred only because of his honesty, there was nothing he was trying to barter or gain from her, nor was he attempting to twist the truth, to bring her a moment of pleasure at the expense of a lie. His expression was full of mischief and chaste admiration, and he missed the implicit warning in her words, the insidious undertone and understanding that lay just beyond his comprehension. He thought that love was endless, free, open as a summer sky, inexhaustible and ubiquitous as air, but then again, air is never so precious or so valuable as to a man who is drowning from lack of it. He had seen his family rent to pieces, had put on the gleaming mantle of a warrior to face that which could never be his enemy, but he had never been entirely and utterly without love. He had never had his love used against him the way that the rough-hewn stories lamented of old, but he knew in some small sense that love was pain. That it burrowed deep within a heart, barbed and entrenched. What he did not yet understand was that if forcibly removed by circumstance, that love could leave him bleeding.

“Shh,” he said, and he reached out to touch her hand, only to watch her turn away. His eyes were averted beneath dark lashes, his jaw tight. “Hey, don’t speak like that,” he said softly “We all are. And this is where I belong now, Sariel. This is where I am most needed, and there are worse places to be, honestly. I have my closest siblings here. I have something here that I can do to make things better, I’m not helpless. I have you.” His smile was brilliant in the half-shadows, instinctive and fragile and yet all the more becoming for that fragility, the smile of a man who knew that happiness was often fleeting and had tasted the beginning of what was waiting for him, and found it bitter. There was trust in him, a wild thing coaxed out of the chill and the cold, willingly receiving what affection and friendship she would offer him. So vulnerable in his trust, so vulnerable that he was not even aware of his vulnerability. 

“People here are as good as this city allows them to be,” he answered quietly. “The Princes and the Fallen make the argument that this is what they are---their true selves, but for most, I don’t believe that’s true. It’s difficult to be kind when you’re frightened and starving and uncertain. It’s difficult to exist in a world that seems to be without love or light. But maybe...maybe that makes it nobler to strive for it, because it’s easy to be kind when you are out of the darkness. Being kind when you are still entrenched in it---” He sighed softly. “I once told you that there’s no such thing as heroes and that I still believe. There’s no magical fix to this problem, not even with seven Archangels sent from Heaven. In the end, if the people don’t want freedom from what they have---and freedom is terrifying, not even Michael, and not even God, could force them. Free will. True free will. Humans have a luxury that we never can have, not to the same extent.” He smiled slightly, but his expression was pained, his breathing labored. “There are no heroes, but maybe, if we pretend for long enough, do the best we can---maybe we can make a difference. Set an example, show that change is possible. A chance for something better.”

His body posture was a little stiff, and every so often a phantom wince would show in his expression, as though suffering from some stimulus that couldn’t be seen. “I don’t feel so great lately,” he stated with a small laugh, but his eyes were troubled.  “Think I’m getting sick --- horrible luck, right?” His smile was less than convincing. “And don’t get me wrong, Sariel, you are a beautiful woman. But you don’t want me. No one ever wants me.” His words were honest and calm and devoid of heartbreak. They were simple truths, truths that he knew, and that he held to. For every time he was told that he was important, he watched as the march of progress left him far behind. Too gentle, too restrained, too much of a child. “And that’s a good thing,” he said, with another faint smile that was less than genuine. “It makes me...able to see things clearly. Unbiased. I have the two qualities needed  to see me through what I need to do. I am intelligent, and I am alone.”

He glanced to her, and his gaze softened. “Perhaps less alone than I was before.  I’ve never---never really had a friend,” he confessed softly, and it was true. The other Arcs had been commanding officers, rivals, brothers, sisters, caretakers, companions, but never only friends. Just friends. He had never had a contact without the touch of duty to it. It was nice. “Practice,” he said, and his eyes sparkled again, faint. “Right. Need to get more practice.”  He sorted through the other paint cans, finding colors in blue and white and tumultuous grey, thinking through what he wanted to paint. “You know,” he said softly, as he started on his section of wall, arching colors and dizzying heights, “I never thought of dreams like that. Sure, it’s difficult when they are over, the good ones, but...they...they give me hope. That there’s something past this, perhaps. Something past the horrors that are coming, to, if not make them worth it, to make them bearable.”

“Nightmares on the other hand---”

His hand, shaking a little bit, dropped the can, and he sighed, bending slowly, painstakingly to retrieve it.

“Sorry.”

I've Got A Dark Alley And A Bad Idea That Says || Sariel & Gabriel

[ourxinsurgentxapollo]

[ourxinsurgentxapollo]

uniquelyxgeorgia:

Sometimes if Georgia thought hard enough she could push the cold out from her bones, or at least trick her brain into thinking she had. It wasn’t easy to do when the noise and sounds from the streets reminded her of the hellhole she was in though. Her eyes closed anyway and she curled up into the tightest ball she could possibly do without straining herself. The building was quieter than the truck she lived in but it felt lonely. Georgia liked to be surrounded by familiar things—her mosaics, her blankets, and her windchimes. It gave her a sense of comfort like she was enveloped in a security that was difficult to find anywhere else. She had seen humans who had formed connections—intimate ones and Georgia could only assume that was the only other time feeling safe would apply.

 She didn’t sleep. It wasn’t like it was expected but she thought it was always worth a try. Georgia found it rare to ever fully relax, her mind doing overtime when it should be conserving energy. So instead she sat up and brought her knees to her chest, small arms wrapping around herself as thoughtful hues looked up. Of course she only could view the roof of the building, but the blonde was actually looking beyond that. She didn’t pray although for a moment or two she had contemplated it, though the idea quickly passed. Had God really walked away or was it something else. She thought about Gabriels words and how they had spoken to one another that night and were people judging the big guy up there too harshly? Maybe the world was in such a state that he was indeed helping some, it’s just those in purgatory couldn’t see it—Maybe some were in dire need more than her? Georgia reflected on this for a minute. She wasn’t a selfish person and not once had she expected the world to revolve around her, so it could be true and there could indeed be people in worse situations. The blonde decided in the future, answers to many things could come her way, but for now she would just go with her beliefs and nothing was certain or set in concrete.

 Georgia stood up and her body doesn’t move, apart from her green hues which look around at the emptiness of the building that she has been residing in for a short while. In a funny way, it is quite peaceful if not a little solitary. Her brow furrowed at some distant voice and there’s a thought which comes to her, wondering if she is hearing things. It’s not like it hasn’t happened before. Often she thinks she has heard voices or her name whispered softly, yet she finds herself alone as she always is. This feels a little different though and her feet slowly pad forwards, stealth in movement just in case there is someone nearby who could be a threat to her.

 She must’ve moved in the right direction for the volume of the voice was still pretty difficult to hear but did get picked up more by her sense of hearing and Georgia knew exactly who it was.

 "Gabriel?"

 Her own voice was nothing but a husky whisper, though her expression was lit up just by knowing he was there. She rushed closer and to the right of a stack of boxes, the twinkle in her eyes was unmistakable. Georgia wouldn’t have been able to hide her joy even if she tried and the very thought of how obviously happy she was to see him again, had her blushing in a reserved way.

 "I…"

It suddenly hit her that he said he’d missed her. Nobody missed her—well nobody said they did. She was like one of those who blended into the background, a female that wouldn’t be noticed if she wasn’t seen again. It scared her to think that anybody could cease to exist and not one person would mourn their loss. As much as Georgia didn’t like being the centre of attention, she still wanted to be worth enough for someone to say, ‘Hey, I haven’t seen that crazy blonde around in a few days, hope she’s okay.’

 "You did?—you missed me?…I mean..I missed you…" Even though she was a shy woman, she felt like they had got a good connection the last time they met and she felt comfortable around him. This was even more evident when the blonde moved closer and gave him a hug, her arms reaching up and not quite connecting over his shoulders. Georgia hardly ever hugged and she even surprised herself.

 Stepping back, she kept her visual upon his face and her brow furrowed. “You look like you are weary…tired..” Her hand reached out and fingers touched his jawline, her caring attitude taking over before she realised what she was doing.

"Sorry…"

 ------------------------

He was leaning up against the wall, his eyes half closed, relaxing, letting his aching muscles have a break from supporting him, from keeping himself from toppling over. His lips tilted upwards in a soft, tentative curve, as though he was relearning the expression, like an infant, learning what expression was appropriate for what situation. His emotions were fragile, seemly solid, but like an outstretch of black ice over treacherous waters, one wrong move or step would shatter him and send them plunging deep into his turmoil with him. His eyes were open enough to watch her, not going towards her, groggy but echoing back that small sense of amusement that she always brought, that small ray of sunlight into the darkness that had consumed him. And yet, he was afraid, afraid of his care for her, afraid of what the consequences of that were. Were those sparkling eyes bright only to distract from a dagger? Did her soft words cover a deceit that he only could guess at? He was not near the weakness he was when he had been found those few weeks ago, regular water had at least flushed out most of the poison from his system, brought back some alertness. He was still half-starved, and all too aware that if she had some kind of hidden machinations forming as to take his life, there was not much he could do to stop her.

He desperately wanted to trust her, and in the extremity of his need, he had to trust her, had to accept his weakness, had to accept that if she could not protect him, she might at least not offer him harm. The soft light in her eyes seemed genuine, but he had seen that light before, had trusted it, and how he loathed his hesitation now. He wanted to reach out to her, and he was afraid. Afraid of this slip of a girl with the bright green eyes, and what had it come to, that he might fear her? He will not allow me to be killed, he thought in his silent, agonized way. But he had let him be betrayed. Would his care of her only cause him further pain? She was blushing, and he did not understand, but the look of it was familiar and sweet as the memory he held within him, and despite his trepidation, it pulled another soft, weary smile to his lips. 

“Of course I missed you,” he replied quietly, because it was true, and his voice was a soft, hollow rasp, and he was suddenly ashamed of it, ashamed of his appearance, of the rattling weariness that exhaled with every breath. “You’re my friend.” Please, let that be true. Please. Please, don’t hurt me. Just a few moments without pain, please. His smile was exhausted and genuine, but halted around the edges, pulled again from memory. The man he had become, although wearing the name of the boy he had been, was not as accustomed to smiles. There was not as much to smile about as he had remembered, but he tried for her, even if the effect was far from noteworthy. “I’m sorry I wasn’t around as much, there were some...extenuating circumstances, had....had to take a bit of a vacation. But I’m...I’m back now. Back to work, once I get on my feet. I wanted to see you, I---” 

His words cut off suddenly as she threw her arms around him, instinctively flinching at first, the impact aching against his bony frame, but it was also strangely comforting, and he embraced her back, barely, at first, like a man touching the edge of a pool to test the temperature, and then all at once. She smelt like wool, like sodden clothing, like smoke, and he rested his forehead gently against her shoulder, his eyes slipping briefly shut, his mind extending, searching for any sign that he should pull away. He sensed only warmth, happiness, and comfort. A lump formed, hard, in his throat. Paradoxically, in the face of genuine kindness, he was uncertain how to accept it, and he could feel his eyes burning, tears forming behind tightly closed lids. 

This time, unlike the last, she was the one to pull back first.

His eyes opened slowly, as if waking from a dream, reddened, bright with blinked-back tears, his chest tight. He was holding himself together for her, holding himself back from the emotions that were cascading through him, waning fear and waxing heartbreak. He felt cold without her close, the emptiness that had formed inside him deepening again. Dark eyes met hers, exhausted, as she spoke, and he felt another breath catch in his throat, another disbelieving instant that she cared enough to comment, to notice. She touched him, and it was like being touched by fire. He remained stock still for the first second, before he unconsciously leaned into it, with the kind of longing that said that he had not been touched in anything approaching kindness for a very long time. Without thinking, he turned his head, pressing a soft kiss like a promise in the hollow of her palm. 

Acceptance.

“I’m---” He wanted to say fine, the lie rising effortless to his lips, but he held it back, another fragile, rueful smile touching his lips. “I’m hurt,” he whispered, “I was very, very sick, but I’m getting better. I’m happy to see you.” His voice trembled softly, and there was a hint of pleading in it. “Please don’t go,” he whispered softly. “I can’t stop you but...please stay.”

“Just for a little while?”

Outside show or inner worth || Georgia & Gabriel

[ourxinsurgentxapollo]

Character Transitions -Child//Dreamer//Knight

Good men don't need rules. Today is not the day you find out why I have so many. - The Doctor

[ourxinsurgentxapollo]

[ourxinsurgentxapollo]

twistedxsolitude:

There were many thoughts running through the bartenders head right now and not one of them was positive. She wondered if he had just fallen sick with some illness, this was a better scenario than thinking about the alternative. If someone had done this to him—Beth knew she could possibly be involving herself in something dangerous.  Now even though she was no stranger to trouble—quite the opposite actually, Beth would sooner know what kind before she decided to proceed anyway.

She knew he was wary about her and rightly so too.  With the state he was in it didn’t look like he was capable of defending himself at all. Though Beth would never be foolish enough to just presume that.  Always expect the unexpected was a phrase she usually went with and applied it to everyday life. There was always a chance someone could turn the tables no matter how impossible it seemed and was part of the reason Beth had survived so long. She had been in some pretty dodgy situations before she’d met Lilith and to a certain extent; she still was a magnet for damn trouble. So even though her gut instinct told her this guy was really quite sick at the moment, her guard was still very much up.

She listened to his words carefully, his sentences weren’t fragmented properly and it was a little difficult to understand at times but the brunette got what he was saying.  She let a small smirk appear on her lips.

"Well I aint a criminal mastermind, sweetheart I can assure you of that right now, so it looks like I aint half bad." There was a slight quirk in her eyebrows, not quite a wiggle and yet not quite a raise either. "Though would a criminal mastermind actually just come out and say they were, anyway?" She gave a shrug and let her dark hues rest on him. "Looks like you are just going to have to take my fuckin’ word for it huh?"

Bethany Adams wasn’t the most trustworthy female in purgatory, not to strangers anyway. Anyone who had managed to get close to her would know how loyal she was to those she cared about. There wasn’t anything she wouldn’t stick her neck out for when it meant helping someone she was close to. Though strangers, well they were a different kettle of fish altogether.  It all depended how the conversation progressed with someone she didn’t know, as to how Beth reacted.  Sometimes she became a royal pain in the ass, other times, she was very pleasant. At the moment, this guy seemed pretty reasonable.

“——-Poisoned.”

Okay, now she wasn’t expecting that.  Beth pulled her head back slightly so she could look him straight in the eye.

"What kind of poisoning?…food?…no..You mean deliberately poisoned?" There was a part of her which wanted him to say he had chowed down on something decidedly dodgy, but the whole scene—everything about him, just didn’t scream food poisoning. She wasn’t medically trained, but the way his lips had a blue-ish tint with a sort of white sheen—that was a different kind of poisoning.  Beth didn’t push with the question; instead she let him drink down the water and remained silent while he did so.  It was a relief he didn’t shove it away, because she didn’t fancy arguing with him how it was best to drink plenty.

He smiled and it was weak, but Beth wasn’t the cold heartless bitch that most took her to be and she shot him a smile back.  In all honesty, the reason quite a few thought that was because it was what she wanted them to think.  Keeping people at arms length was something that Beth excelled in and in most cases she purposely pissed them off.

"Gabriel, yeah?" Her brow furrowed as his voice was so low that she could barely hear him. It was only when he repeated his name again that she knew she had heard correct. "Well Gabriel…quite the freakin’ predicament you have found yourself in eh?" Beth took the bottle from him, making sure he was still propped up. "Least you have found it in yourself somewhere to rustle up a chuckle—though be steady now.." Beth got to her feet and shot him a wink before refilling the beer bottle with water and returning to him. "Take some more okay?" She turned and picked up a small cushion that was burgundy in colour and threadbare on one side, using it to place between the back of his head and the cold hard wall.  "You still feel like shit?..cause you’re better off drinking as much as you can..flush it through…"

------------------

He leaned back against the wall, feeling every outline of brick press against his spine, his eyes half closed and drowsy. The water had shocked him into a brief sort of consciousness, making speech, movement easier. There was still a harsh buzzing in his head, distant, and a sensation of disorientation, and he knew how monstrous he must have appeared, how ugly he was with his skin stretched tight over bones and his hands thick with scarring. His lips moved briefly, as if to apologize, but something stronger, hard as iron, kept his words back. It was not his fault that he had found himself here, this was not something that he could have anticipated. He had given his heart freely and effortlessly, only to see it torn to pieces before his eyes. There was a part of him that balked at showing the same kind of weakness, a part of him, new, that wanted to protect himself as well as others, wanted to avoid suffering. When the chips went down and the clock ran out, the Archangel would always be willing to sacrifice himself if there was no other option, but he had never seen his death as having near-come to this. This was not a clean death. 

This was a fading into nothing, his flame dampening and then flaring defiantly, before subsiding into a sullen, slow-burn, churning within him like the heart of a planet. There was no honor in betrayal, and perhaps that revealed his naivety. He had thought that when he faced death, he would be facing them. There would be no dishonor in it for either his opponent or him. He had thought, in truth, only of putting off that idea until the very last moment, not for fear of losing his own life, but to have a repetition of the war that had nearly shattered him. He did not know how to take a life, not in the space between the efficacy of the learned motions and the actual killing blow, had trailed in the wake of a juggernaut in the thick of the fighting, had injured, but had never killed. He had learned a long time ago, had torn the lie of forever into pieces and scattered them to the wind, how an angel dies, and they do not die easily. Perhaps, there would have been a chance to die well.

His heart was full of an aching emptiness, deep as snow in winter, spreading through his body. He did not feel anger, not of yet, nor even fear, not truly. Like any thing, if borne for long enough his suffering had become his new reality, his new normality, his entire knowledge tied within the span of several weeks. He had forgotten what it felt like to wake without agony, or sleep without pain. He had forgotten what it felt to have his crushing loneliness lifted. He had forgotten what happiness was, save that the closest thing he knew was oblivion. He was taxed completely, brought sobbing forth from the darkness, and still, was not relieved of what he had to do.

His burden sat, ever-heavy on his shoulders, for now he understood in every cell in his body that he was not saved from destruction for himself. He lingered upon the edge of death, but would not yet be allowed to cross over. God’s love did not protect him. God’s need of him did. He wondered what that meant, that he was pulled forth and shaped violently into this new, amorphous thing. Whether the steel in his spine and the clean-edged precision of his mind towards his understanding was all part of some greater plan, a knight once toppled, now placed back on the chessboard. He wondered what would be waiting for him on the other side, and part of him yearned. 

Home.

To be welcomed back at the end of it, to return to the only thing that he had ever known, but between that and himself lay a field of his own kin. For there is an old saying, often repeated, that freedom is a riddled whore that must be bedded on a mattress of corpses, and he feared the truth that he sensed. Both sides did not want a war, for only mad men want a war, but a war would come. The Arcs have come too far and were too bound in their duty and their knowledge of what was right to surrender, and even if they surrendered, they would not be allowed to come home. The Princes, with the sacrifices that they had made, and the conviction of hellfire in their veins, would never lay down their arms when the Pit would surely be waiting for them.

Both sides were desperate.

Both sides would be afraid.

Within his own ranks, his own brothers and sisters upon his same side, there was exhaustion, and some uncertainty. He could not allow himself to become exhausted, could not allow himself to falter. Preserve life where he could, and use his sword as a shield, but know that the edge of it was raw and sharp. He would be God’s answer in this darkness. He would carry his Message, and do what in his heart he knew was right.

“Someone... I thought.... was my friend,” he answered Beth softly, and there was, yes, an echo of heartbreak, whispered around the edges of his words, but still, aching, numbed, buried. He could not allow himself to feel the full repercussions of that. He took the water again, drinking gratefully, coughing when it was pulled away, his breathing ragged and uneven, leaning against the pillow. 

“Look,” he said softly, “I appreciate....everything that.... you are doing, but what you are... doing is.... dangerous to you.” If she abandoned him, there would be another way. He would not be abandoned now in totality. Not until his course was run.  What he was doing was not so much trust, as a warning. “I am.... the Seventh Son of.... God,” he whispered. “I am..... the Messenger that....is carrying a Message now..... to help...set the city afire, and by.... helping me, you are..... getting yourself..... into something very.... risky indeed. I would not blame....you if you got up.....and left....me.”

He smiled faint, and his eyelids flickered. “I.....I am not...going....to let you...risk something without....knowing.....all the variables. But...if....you....you....do stay, do...me a favor.” His voice was very faint. “And.....keep.....this.....to.....yourself.”

His eyes met hers, and there was a soft fire in them. “I....am not...going to die....behind....a pile....of boxes....”

“But....if you....want.....want to leave....me....I understand. I do.”  He shook his head slowly. “Go. And...if....someone..asks....if you have seen Apollo....tell them he....he’s dead. It’s....not....a lie.”

"That’s n....not my name. It...n...never was.”

They had thought that they destroyed him.

They were wrong.

They had only killed a man.

Curiosity killed the cat,but satisfaction brought it back || Beth & Gabriel

[ourxinsurgentxapollo]

uniquelyxgeorgia:

Georgia was glad he was still there; she was pretty sure that when she slipped out of sleep and into consciousness he would be gone. There would be no blame placed on him for that. He didn’t owe her anything, in fact he had more than shown compassion, understanding and now as she looked over at him—protection. For all those who had ridiculed and threatened her in the past, he seemed to make up for every last one of them. He gave her hope, though not just in the obvious way. He also let her see that Purgatory still held some damn good people—maybe he was the only one—but she dared to hoped for more.

 "That’s okay..I prefer it this way around…me thinking you will not be here when I wake, rather than taking it for granted you will and then you aren’t." Georgia always believed it was better not to expect too much from life and then when it hit you with something good—the feeling which filled your body was nothing short of a burst of happiness.

 It was hard not to thank him; the words just seemed to slip from her mouth. If only he knew how bad the last few weeks had really been—but he never would, not from her anyway. The blonde thought it was wrong of her to talk about doom and gloom when so many others were suffering around her too. Admittedly there were days when she wanted to just spill out all her fears and what made her want to curl up and hibernate from the world. What she wanted didn’t always manifest into what she actually did though. There weren’t many in purgatory that didn’t have some form of cross to bear and Georgia realised this and chose to try and not inject more darkness into the place.

 "I’m glad you’re fine." Her smile was full of warmth as she tilted her head a little. She knew the word ‘fine’ covered alot of different emotions and moods and not always positive ones. She had used it herself so many times before even when she wasn’t alright. Though she didn’t push him to say any more, even if she wasn’t that certain he was really ‘fine’.

 Just as she was thinking about letting him know she should really be heading back, he had already suggested it. “I’d like that…” She stood up and held her hand out to him, green hues giving off a brighter twinkle than they did yesterday and she stood directly in from of him. “Mmm..a dream…” Georgia’s eyes closed and she inhaled deeply, letting her imagination take over—now this was one thing she was good at. “I can smell citrus and salted breeze…there’s sand under our feet and I can curl my toes and feel the sunkissed beach..” One eye cheekily opened and looked at him as she tugged him to walk with her before the other opened too. “I can hear laughing from people further up who are playing some beach game..with a ball and net. The waves lap gently onto the shore and the noise they make fills my ears and it’s peaceful.” She knows her dreams are just that…nothing more than a vivid imagination, but it’s like he says…if you don’t believe in the potential of them..Then how do they become real? 

She looks to her left and her chin goes higher so that her gaze may meet his. “And then the icing on the cake…the final piece in the jigsaw is that you’re walking with me.” Georgia suddenly feels a flush of red hit her cheeks when it occurs to her that she has spoken so openly about something some would be quick to shoot her down for. Her hues divert from his face and to the street ahead, glancing quickly to him if only briefly. “As you can probably tell, I dream alot.”

 ----------------

She smiled at him and his heart for a moment stopped beating, incredulous, his eyes widening slightly, an echo of the same expression, like ripples from an earthquake, touching the edges of his lips. He was still unused to kindness, any kindness he was granted was a fragile, flimsy thing, often tied up in heavy emotion and touches of remembered responsibility. Kindness came with traded words and touches that were mere facsimiles of what they were, the distance that bodies created between siblings when before all they had to do was brush intent and know all of their infinities. He was a caged bird, fluttering restlessly, and now that the cage had cracked open, and a sliver of light penetrated the darkness, he did not respond as he expected. He hovered at the door, letting the cold wind from outside, the potentiality of it, freeze his heart and make him indecisive. He was used to gratefulness, in a sense, used to a casual nod as he did what he had been created to do, used to crash-and-burn acquaintances that were infinitely complex and infinitely wonderful, perhaps the bare, burgeoning beginnings of friendships, but he had been alone, and lonely, for long enough that when he was granted a genuine expression of kindness, he still was filled with a wonder, bathed in it like water after a seven-year drought.

Would she have smiled at him if she had seen what he was? In truth, there was a contradiction in the heart of the thing he was, nothing of particular majesty and gravitas compared to the shining ranks of the rest of the Seven. He was certainly no Michael, certainly nothing of anciency compared to the ones that came before him, but compared with her, he felt a weight, and a heaviness, and a first, settling, realization. He was a old man, basking in his relative youth, but an old man all the same, but not even an old man. An old man intimated at a physical sex, a physical age, a chronology, and all of those conceptions were in truth, human conceptions. He transcended what they would call him, pronouns matched now to a physical body that he was beginning to get used to, breaking in like a pair of new shoes.

Would she think him monstrous, to see the flickers of a thousand forms that he was, the starlight slivers of eventuality, forever-bound, terrible and unbearable, the true self that was dampened under dark skin and gentle eyes? Would she shrink back and would she run? For he walks with her now as if he is St. George striding to slay the dragon, but the dragon is his kin and is far more like him then he ever likes to think about when the nights get cold and dark.

The words and the skin and the smiles are a thin veneer over the charred and gleaming bones of a beautiful monster, collared and chained, and collared willingly, his wings undipped in blood. He wonders how long it will be before that catches up with him. He wonders how much doing what he has been charged to do will eat his heart. But she likes him because he is sweet, in a way that is genuine and perhaps a little apologetic. A wiser thing would be afraid of him, but she is not a wiser thing, and he knows that he will keep his word as long and as utterly as he is able.

He does not promise lightly, if he promises at all, does not add heavier chains to the ones that already bind him without counting the cost. But she had asked if he was all right, and had meant it, and that both startled him, and gentled him. He was used to taking on far more burdens that he could carry, used to having few if any ask after him directly. Used to the emptiness that had crept into his chest as he forged onwards, but the warmth in her smile was real, and timidly, he crept closer to it. Skittish, waiting, uncertain, but always with that soft, terrible hope. 

Little by little, if she was kind to him, he might move closer, might allow her to care about him in the open and effortless way that he cared for others. Little by little, the tension might bleed out of him, and he might share more than the risk of his name.

His eyes danced with a quiet mischief at her words, his head tilted, kicking at a bit of debris with the toe of his scuffed shoe. For a moment, he allowed himself to fall into the rhythm of her words---and there was bitingly hot sand at his feet, between his toes and the sound of people laughing, and at the water’s edge the water was cold and the sun was like caged fire on the back of his neck. He walked with her easily, slowing his long strides to match pace, a slight smile on his face as she spoke, half in and half out of the bleak world that surrounded them. Her last words jolted him into wakefulness, and he gently nudged her with one shoulder, not breaking his stride, the curve of his lips amused and soft at the blush. “See,” he said with a small laugh. “If we do not dream about things being possible---how can they become?” 

“Hmmm----now, where should we go,” he whispered, remembering, something half-waking, some good dream, evaporative, sweet, lingering. “Shall I take you with me to meet the stars,” he murmured, already far away. “They used to be friends of mine, but I think they have forgotten me. I can’t imagine what it is like to never remember flying---” His voice was a soothing, distant hum. “The wind pulls at your wings and lifts you up and you are afraid at first because you are tumbling, and the air is not stagnant as it is here, but alive, a living, wild thing, it pulls in a thousand shifting directions and you think that you are falling---”

He smiled, his stride steady. “You think that you are falling for a moment, because falling feels a great deal like flying, but then all of a sudden, the wind catches and you are soaring, and the Earth is far away.” His eyes were soft, dreamy, the eyes of a man in love with his own creation. “The continents and oceans are like a child’s marble and the sky is dark and cold. You fly through the frost that bites on your wings, and you bank and flit at the furthest edge of the sun. And you are not afraid of the starlight, for you are of it, and in it, and they are no longer a cold, remote light, lost and far away. They are burning. And so are we.”

He gently took her hand again. “And you want to know the best part,” he asked, glancing to her, amused. 

“You are flying with me.”

Desperate measures || Georgia and Gabriel

[ourxinsurgentxapollo]

[ourxinsurgentxapollo]

UNHOLY STATE| [listen here] [download here] | (a mix for a cities blinking before the ghost of apocalypse, for burning buildings and dry bone prayers, for the final unravelling of the human condition)

i. babylon (feat. kendrick lamar) - SZA | ii. same old song (feat. juicy j)- the weeknd| iii. lurk - the neighbourhood | iv. love & pain (ta-ku remix) - JMSN | v. dark doo wop (chet faker remix) - MS MR | vi. what else is there - royksopp | vii. flickers - son lux | viii. pie ix - suuns | ix. turn blue - the black keys | x. sweet spot - wild beasts | xi. surrender - the antlers | xii. adelma - grizz;y bear | xiii. moon -  foals | xiv. salvage - MTNS | xv. voyeur - baths | xvi. lifeforms - daughter | xii. endless days - aloonaluna | xiii. saturn boy - dream koala | xix. infinity - the xx | xx. if you wait - london grammar | xxi. fly  - ludovico einaudi | xxii. some other place - arcade fire

[ourxinsurgentxapollo]

------------

It is like a weight within him that settles deep, crushing the breath from his lungs and leaving him gasping. His eyes fall to details, the way his hands look in the artificial light that streams in soft from the windows, settling patterns across the floor.

He has carved a facsimile of a home but it is silent, oppressively so, and he breathes out and he breathes in. The dust settles and the voices of strangers echo like the soft rustle of glass and the pallid shifting of leaves under a dead autumnal sky. The pain in him is sharp enough to feel pure, sharp enough to elevate him. He wonders if anyone will hear him if he prays. He knows, somewhere in the depths of himself that he is watched, even then, when he wakes with tears on his cheeks that he blames from the leaks in a roof - his- roof, although it is not truly his. He has not built it, burned his hands, splintered them on wood. He merely occupies what was already there, like a hermit crab moving into a larger shell. Maybe it is temporary. He doesn’t know.

God is a whisper and God is faith and God is full of glory and strength but also pettiness and rage and retribution. Humanity truly was made in His image, and he loves them as he loves God, with a strange half-fervent bewilderedness. Never completely understanding, but always wanting to. Always patient, waiting for some kind of answer. He wants to cling to this meaning, this chance, but he fears the nights alone. Every night, he swears and smiles and tells some stranger that they are not alone, that he is with them. Sows pieces of light into the darkness, not with war words or with fury but with kindness, placing seeds in the hope they take root. He doesn’t ask for anything in return. Doesn’t know what he would ask, because everything seems so much. He tries to fill his waking moments with the purity and the strength of the path set before him so he will not be so afraid of the dark.

But in the end, the dark is always there, and it is waiting for him, and when he wakes in the dark, he wakes alone.

He wonders if he prayed for it, that God would hear him. He would tell Him that he is sorry. That he is trying to be a good and a worthy son, but that he is only one man, and he is frightened. That his fear does not take away from his conviction, but it does not mean that he is not afraid. He wants to pray for the pain that has taken root in him to lessen, he wants to pray for contentment and for peace, but he is tired. He is tired of hearing his own voice echo back to him in the night, and he is tired of feeling as a weapon does, tired of elegant purpose without the pedestrian nature of a heart. 

He wishes God would do what Fathers do. 

He wishes He would hold him. Take him into His arms and tell him that he was going to be okay. That He was proud of him, and that he was loved. The only touch he has is the fleeting touches he gets by the hands of a stranger, an hand to arm clasp of fealty, of shared strength. They see him if they know him, as an Arc, one of the great ones of Heaven, but they do not see him as anything more than that. He wished God was something that he would touch. Throw his arms around, and cover His face with kisses. What it would sound like if He laughed. If the voice of I love you wasn’t only in his own head. He knows what he is meant to do, but he wants to be a son as well as a means to an end. He wants to know that He was sorry that He hurt him. That He allowed him to be hurt.

But faith does not answer, and he sits alone. He does not know what it would feel like to be held any more. He is light and he is purity, and he doesn’t want to remember. He doesn’t want to remember what doesn’t exist for him at this place and time. There is no one that he can speak to when he desires it, no one that does not come with built-in instructions, timings, when and where. There is nothing that is simple. Nowhere he can go. Nowhere to call home. His home is broken into a million souls spread out across the city, in as many hearts, and he knows that as many as would help him if he called, an equal number would turn their faces away. He is stronger now, and he can bear it, but he wishes he didn’t have to. He wishes for the first time in his long existence that he could stop feeling, stop being a raw nerve of the universe, sensitive to every agony, because he has enough of his own. 

He touches the window, misty with early-morning frost, and it echoes through his heart. He wants to numb it. He knows that’s wrong. That what he’s needed for requires him alive and feeling. It requires him to love even when love is the thing that is destroying him. God loves, and he does not doubt His love, but he wishes He could hold him. He wishes that He would speak with him, and touch his cheek, and with perfect understanding, hold him close, for this human part of him needs touch and he is starving for it, without knowing how to ask. He wishes that his smiles were real, and the whispers of ‘you’re okay, you’re fine, I’m with you’ came from a throat that wasn’t his own. He recovers in his silence, and listens to the world around him that he knows that he has come to help, and it used to be enough to love them, used to be enough to expect nothing in the return, but it’s cold, and he’s alone, and he wants someone to answer, anyone. He wants someone to run to when the world comes crashing down, because the world is such a heavy thing to try to shoulder, and it is bowing his back a little more every day. 

He turns himself from porcelain to steel. He becomes as flawless as a flawed thing can be. He tells himself that he is light, and light does not fear the dangerous. Light does not bleed, does not cry in the night, does not feel lonely. He stops telling himself the things that are driving him forward, because he is tired of hearing his own voice echo back to him. He loves, and for the first time, that doesn’t feel like enough. He wants to know that he has somewhere to come back to, somewhere safe, somewhere where he belongs. He wants to know why this happened, what the purpose of this pain was, in the greater scheme. He wants to know that it is worth it, or perhaps it never will matter for him. Just another thing cast by the wayside after the conclusion is reached, for although he loves God, he knows that he is an easy sacrifice for Him to make in the pursuit of something greater. 

The world turns without knowing that he listens and that he guards it in his own, silent, ineffectual way. He listens for an answer to his own words, that tells the world that it is loved, completely, and without reservation, loved. Unconditionally. 

He wants to hear it back.

He wants to know that he is forgiven for whatever he has done, for he has tried. 

He dons the mask of the soldier gazing across a wasteland, and the sinewed power of the holy man. For the first time in his existence, he will carry groundshaking conviction like a shield and like a weapon. But who will smile at him when the war was done? Who would chase away the nightmares that nipped at his heels and twisted in his heart? Who would tell him that it was all right that he was afraid, that he wasn’t alone?

“Father.”

The word is dusty, covered, shaken off, like a book from childhood not read since, but read so much before that he knew every page. He falls into the rhythm where he had left off what felt like centuries ago. 

“I’m scared.”

The two words are small. His head is bowed. His eyes are open, his tears a slow trail down his cheeks. “I know that I shouldn’t be, but I am. I never was the best of Your sons, and I know that, Father, I always have known that, but I always tried. Tried to be the best I could, tried to be obedient. Tried to face the fighting with honor and loyalty and grace, but I was scared then, and I’m scared now. “

“I know what You want from me, why You’ve sent me, but I don’t understand. I get the others. Great and mighty warriors, but You know what I am. You know that I don’t want to do this.  I never wanted to do this, but I’m scared and I’m alone, and I need You. I know You can hear me. I know that You love me, but that doesn’t feel like enough, and I feel like shit that it doesn’t.”

His voice breaks slightly.

“I’m supposed to be a good son. I’m supposed to love. I’m not supposed to need anything back. But I’m small, and I’m broken and I’m lonely, Father. I can’t do this on my own. I need to know You’re with me.”

There is silence and he shakes his head. “I know You’re not going to answer me. I know this isn’t how this works. And I know I’m just a speck in the void and that You are so much greater. But—-I need to have something. Some way of making this through this. I want to be touched,” he whispered. “I want to be held. I want to belong somewhere and to know I belong. And for once, I want to feel whole, and for it to be okay that I’m a fuck up because I’m a fuck up that’s trying. And it’s not okay for me to give up everything without a question, because I’m not perfect. And I’m not a hero. I’m here.”

“And I’m afraid.”

He touches the window again, chases the light that hesitated on the dirty floor. “I wish You would tell me that you love me,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “Because if I’m going to fight, if I’m going to maybe not make it out of this, I want to do more than feel. I want to hear it.” 

“I need something for the pain, now, because it hurts so much, Father. And maybe it’s wrong. Maybe it’s human, but I’ve given up so much.”

“I want something back.”

No answer comes, but he understands, ignoring the hot tears that spill down his cheeks. He curls up on the floor and watches the patterns the motes of dust make in the subtle beams of light, and he is gentle with himself, angling himself in, keeping himself warm, the silence settling like a promise into his chest.

“I should have been better—-”

But he isn’t, for he is so much less than perfect. He is awake, and he is alive, and he is alone. He wants to say that he understands, to let the lazy sounds of resignation leave his lips, but he bites them back like the warrior he can sense burning within his blood.

When his sleep comes, it is empty and black and soothing, the first without dreams in a very long time, and when he wakes in the darkness later, if there is wetness on his cheeks, the roof has always let in the rain. 

There is a footstep upon old wood, a soft scraping that is recognizable in his deepest of dreams, and his lips shift, as though remembering a smile. Even her presence lightens the deep oppressiveness that weighs down his chest, and he looks up, skeletal, weary, aching, weak, looks up and tries to find her. 

Perhaps he is not as alone as he thought.

Perhaps she still remembers him.

“I missed you, kiddo,” he whispers softly, and his eyes half close in a silent unanswered question. Did you miss me?

“Please don’t go.”

Outside show or inner worth || Georgia & Gabriel

 Georgia felt the familiar flush in her cheeks as the irritation showed on the guys face. She hadn’t meant to knock the cup out of his hands, it was an accident. Yet as she learned along the way, people weren’t always patient when it came to her clumsiness.  She got angry at the way he was intimidating her and apparently over dramatising the situation in front of everyone.  These were the days when she wished she didn’t yearn for the company of others. The only reason she didn’t really have hardly any friends was because Georgia Collins was socially awkward when she tried so hard not to be. If anyone really chose to get to know her they would see a totally different side to the blonde—a side which was bubbly, loving and warm, but not many could see past the accident prone exterior.

"That was your fault!…you banged into me—not the other way around!"

It was the only answer she could come up with—deflect the blame onto him.  She knew it was her fault, but constantly apologising day in day out, only for it to fall on deaf ears—it sometimes got too much. So her way of defending herself in a verbally aggressive situation was to deny responsibility.

"You’re a crazy bitch!"

Georgia backed up that statement by pulling a slightly freakish expression before quickly retreating and running off down one of the many alleyways.  If others wanted to call her weird and crazy then so be it. She didn’t mind at all though she often wondered whether she should be more offended by it than she was.

Once the adrenaline had subsided, the blonde was back to walking the city alone.  She might’ve looked like a freak or acted like occasionally, but the woman was just eccentric in some of her actions and mannerisms sometimes, that’s all.  She was different. Yeah, that’s how she liked to see it and this made her smile.

Filling her lungs full of oxygen, Georgia gave a loud sigh as she emerged onto another street from the opposite end of the alley. It was still the same view though, shells of buildings or broken windows—litter trampled with the dirt on the ground while others pieces just  flitted aimlessly in no particular direction.  It was quieter here and her green hues looked around.

She’d met someone a few days ago now. Someone who was willing to see past what everyone else couldn’t.

Gabriel.

He made her feel safe—he was a friend—he was someone special, but he wasn’t there right now. Georgia let her finger trace the letters of his name on the cold brick building, her head cocking and it was then she realised, just by thinking about him, she held a warmth and found herself smiling.

"Gabriel…."

She spoke his name so low that nobody around her would be able to hear, most of the little volume it held anyway was taken away by a brisk cool breeze. She let her imagination wander and pretended his name was like some leaf caught up in a heavy wind—spinning—turning—rising—weightless and drifting for miles until it reached the edge of the city—then bursting forth across the  barren and dangerous wastelands that formed the city boundaries—free and wild.

The noise which infiltrated her ears brought her back to reality with a bump and her heart skipped a beat as she spun around to see who it was. There was a scuffle on the far side of the street and Georgia diverted her eyes knowing better than to make herself known. In the past she had tried to help someone—the caring side of her making it impossible to always turn a blind eye, but they were all men this time and she wasn’t stupid—well not entirely anyway. She knew they hadn’t seen her so remaining in the shadows; the blonde picked up a small rock and waited. Once she had determined who was the underdog that was going to get beat on by the other two thugs, Georgia launched the rock with as much strength as she could muster.

Perfect shot.

It hit one of them hard to the side of the head. She didn’t hang around to see the damage, knowing that if she did that, the other would be running across the street to see who was responsible. So Georgia quickly scarpered, taking advantage of how quickly she was on her feet—when she wasn’t tripping over—and only stopped when she was a good four blocks over.  It was a dangerous scenario to be in, but once she knew nobody was in the immediate vicinity, Georgia couldn’t help but let a small smirk form—in her head it was a flicker of self achievement. Though just to be on the safe side, she decided to get off of the streets for a short while. Experience had shown her that some were quite persistent when it came to searching and the last thing she wanted was to be caught.

She quietly entered what looked like an abandoned building. There were plenty of them in purgatory, but you still had to be careful because the homeless could hide in any shadow or dark corner—curling up to become oblivious behind old crates or decrepit furniture. Which was exactly what Georgia was going to do right now.

Buttoning her coat right up to her chin and pulling her hat down well over her ears, the blonde settled in for the next hour or so.

[ourxinsurgentxapollo]

20/? archetypes - Knight in Shining Armor

In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women… [x]

[ourxinsurgentxapollo]

http://www.pa.msu.edu/~aaronson/alitest/aintro.html

Took an alignment test as Gabe!

[ourxinsurgentxapollo]

"A good man doesn't have rules. Today is not the day to find out why I have so many." - the Eleventh Doctor, Doctor Who

[ourxinsurgentxapollo]

darktidesapadiel:

"But you will pull the pin from the grenade," she reassures him, not without her own sort of cool kindness. She needs him to know that they are enemies, that no matter what else he may tell her or claim to feel for her, they will one day stand against each other.

"Your very presence here, your coming to Purgatory at all, is a spark. We have worked too long and too hard to see it ruined by you."

Apadiel does not want a war, but she is not afraid to fight in one again. Real, pure peace is something she will never know again, but she can make herself powerful enough to have time, luxury, and calm around her, and that will have to be close enough. She will do battle to keep what she has made, but it would not wound her pride or ruin her plans if Apollo and all those like him were to simply take wing and leave Purgatory, return home and say what they would.

Say that the city is lost to Lucifer and that those souls that are trapped there will never be recovered.

Say that they were bested in battle, lost too many to be able to declare a victory, and must retreat in order to regroup and return at some distant, future time.

Say that they loved too much, were too weak to raise their weapons against their brothers and sisters, those angels that are already once wounded.

But that will never happen. These Arcs, those angels that are here, they have been sent to fulfill a purpose, and will not be allowed to return until it is completed. And if they die here, they will never see their home again.

Apadiel wants to snap at him when he asks how she is. It’s a foolish, naive question. Does he expect her to roll over for him, expose her underbelly, tell him of her misery?

But she knows he doesn’t. Apollo is still so new, so horribly honest that she wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he sees. Do not believe in people so completely! Do not trust everyone! It will kill you faster than this sickness that eats at you.

"I am not happy." Quiet, lowered eyes, he gets this one confession from her, because she will not stoop to lying. "I have not been happy in a long time. I will be happy when you all leave."

She is not pleased to hear that he is afraid, but there is a relief that she feels, to know that he is learning, that he is at least beginning to see the reality of the city, of the conflict, of what their Father has sent him to do. Again. Cut down those rebels angels, free humanity, betray your brethren in deference to those lesser souls that He loves more.

But then Apollo continues to speak, and this time he goes too far with his soft words.

"…how much I love you.”

The sound of the words roars in her ears, and for a moment she thinks that she will lose her balance again, but this time she does not know if she will pitch backwards, away from Apollo, his glassy eyes and incredulous claims, or towards him and what end may come from believing him.

She can not - will not believe him when he tells her that he loves her. Apadiel searches his face for any sign of deception. She needs to read it in his expression, his stiff posture, the trembling of his hands and the shine of sweat on his skin, because she can not see far enough ahead to understand on her own. She can calculate, predict moves, see actions and consequences stretching far beyond this encounter, but none of them can account for his words.

Apadiel shakes her head and pulls her hand towards her body, afraid he will reach out and touch her. But contagion is no longer her greatest fear. Apollo is right; if he is infected with something doomed to kill them all, then it is already too late for her.

His words are something more insidious than a virus. He speaks without reason, with no motivation other than wanting her to know. He doesn’t even tell her what he would have her do with this information. So he loves her, but expects nothing in return?

No one expects nothing in return.

"If my returning it means so little, then why tell me of your love at all? So arrogant, even in death, that you think that this should matter to me.”

She shakes her head, lips pressed together to a thin line. Her anger is not flames, bright and brilliant, easily shifted, but instead she feels it like molten rock, her core turning slowly, shifting and glowing inside her. Apollo has touched on the oldest of her furies, this persistent, irrational idea that love is strength, that his telling her of his love is somehow something to be proud of.

Love will kill you, you fool.

"Just like all the others." She scolds him, because she had expected better of him, that he would be a proper tactician, not weighed down and moved by these emotions that will only blind him in the end. ”Why must you all persist in this deception that you are better than us? That your love is greater, that your blind obedience is a deeper display of loyalty than the sacrifices we made?”

Apadiel steps closer to him, leaning in and speaking in a harsh whisper. There is no comfort in this proximity; she has not moved towards him because she feels a pull, but because her words are meant for him and him alone. The physical distance may be lessened, but there is a wall between them now, and she must keep it in place.

"So you love me. I hope your sake that you are lying, because it will only prove to be your greatest weakness."

-----------------------

But you will pull the pin from the grenade, she says, and there is no anger, no hate, no hardness. It is breathlessly self evident, drifting on the tip of her tongue and exhaling without resistance, and he hesitates because it is true, but the tense is wrong. By his very arrival here, the last of the players in this game with only two conclusions, he has not set something in motion, that was already begun, but he has fanned the small sparks that had already smoldered and added his own light to their number. He is not ashamed in this, for he believes in himself and in his mission, but the words strike a blow all the same. It is not cruel, that she says it, but a reminder that there is a valley between them, and that they stand on opposite sides of the river, and that neither may cross over completely, for the waters that rage between them are treacherous and deep. 

He daydreams in a way that they might have had something in Heaven to fall back upon, some easy rhythm, some familiarity to use as a touch stone, here, when everything is different, but she does not stand out in his memories of home. They might have caught flashes of each others’ lives, the messenger reluctantly but loyally training in rank, but he had been a different kind of thing, with different duties and different connections, not designed for the harsh eventualities of war. No, that was learned, through painful steps where each motion flared a vivid picture in his mind. It was a bad trait of a soldier, to feel too much of the opposition’s pain, and it was a bad trait of a soldier to think overmuch in the heat of battle. He had had to set those things aside as far as he was able, like a child’s playthings that had no relevance in this new and troubling life. He had been a beautiful soldier, righteous and pure, but he had been a deeply unhappy one. He wonders, looking at her, if he had glimpsed her on the battlefield in that time long ago. He does not remember.

Perhaps that was the greatest tragedy of all.

“Me,” he said softly, and his head tilted. “I think you overestimate the Arcs’ power. There’s merely seven of us, Apadiel, and one of them is like your leader. No one has seen Michael since we’ve gotten here, not that it matters. Seven. All we have the ability to do, is light a spark, as you said. It’s the humans that will choose whether they will rise against the Princes, or whether they will keep their lives here as they have them now. If they will not choose what we offer, there is nothing that we do. And you know that.” A smile touched his lips, but he was obviously in pain, his dark eyes full of it as he looked at her from those hollowed sockets. There was a far away light in their pupils, like mirrored reflection of starlight over still, black water. 

“I think you’re counting on it.”

Her answer is truthful, and he wasn’t expecting that, taking it into him and letting it settle into silence. “I’m not happy too,” he says softly. “And I also won’t be happy until we leave. But we can’t. If we somehow get out of this alive and breathing, it’s not going to be for a long, long time.” His voice is quiet. “I didn’t want to come here, Apadiel. This wasn’t my decision. Nor am I blindly following orders. Now that I am here, I am going to do my best to give the humans here at least that first glimpse at what might be possible, if they want it. That’s all. And I won’t leave until one of your number shoots me, or we succeed.”

He shook his head slowly. “I don’t think it matters to you, “ he said quietly. “But it doesn’t hurt to say it anyway.” He smiled, tired. “Maybe it reminds me.” A soft laugh escaped him, shaking his head again. “Apadiel---really? When did I ever say that we were better? When did I ever think that we were better? Arcs. Princes. We’re all still angels. Same power. Same Grace. That’s the thing about love, is that it doesn’t have to be measured. Just because I’m here, doesn’t mean that I don’t think you had valid reasons or that there isn’t another side to this story. But I have to stay true to what I think is right.” He shrugged, and winced, the motion hurting him. “I almost think you think those things, that our love is greater, since you keep bringing it up, over and over again. I’ve never said it.”

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink when she steps towards him, his eyes on her, his expression perhaps removed, a little sad, but devoid of anger, and devoid of fear. “If you do not have love,” he says softly. “What’s the point? Of all this?” His eyes move to Kelly, as if including him in the conversation. “Wealth? Safety? Security?”

He meets Apadiel’s eyes again. “I would rather be....weak...as you say, than without allowing myself to feel. And no matter what you do, you cannot make me hate you, don’t you understand?” His voice is a whisper. “There is nothing that you can do or could do to me, that would effect me or make me despair. If one day, we meet on a battlefield, and you manage to win, you will have my dead body but you will not have my obedience. Your victory will taste like ashes in your mouth, and even if it doesn’t, it doesn’t matter. You have not forced me to revoke the fact that I care about you, and you never will. I will have held onto that, even if you tear my heart from my chest. ”

“You. Have. No. Power. Over. Me.”

“None.”

Fruit of the Tree // Apadiel (Kelly) & Gabriel