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Title: The Trumpet Player
Author: Renata Lord (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
snowlight)
Pairing: Gabriel/Michael (a la Dominion)
Note: Post Dominion 1x03. Oh and I borrowed stuff from The Songs of Solomon.
The Trumpet Player
(Gabriel/Michael)
She lies there on the vermilion carpet, her scarlet dress stained by crimson death.
Gabriel stares at her body, though in truth he sees nothing beyond that dark pool of blood slowly forming underneath his makeshift throne. Human forms are hideous constructs: they bleed, they weaken, and they cease. Yet his soldiers have embraced this fragile monstrosity, giving themselves over to the calls of the malformed flesh. None of them seems to recall that this body is only a cheaply made suit, caging their true angelic grace.
Such is why Furiad suffers the delusion that a lowly Power might end his brother—Furiad, who has fought by their side against the Serpent, and who has witnessed all of his brother's warlike splendor. Every day this form corrupts, and every day Gabriel's rage grows.
The trumpet feels cold in his hand. A dirge, then, for the fallen. The archangel closes his eyes and searches for the aching vibration of memories, which are now swelling up within him like the parting Red Sea. If his expression softens, it's because even in this accursed form, he would always remember—
—My brother shines forth like the breaking dawn. He is fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners.
And so in that smoky-aired church the lonely trumpet plays on, calling for the end of the world.
*
End
Author: Renata Lord (
snowlight)Pairing: Gabriel/Michael (a la Dominion)
Note: Post Dominion 1x03. Oh and I borrowed stuff from The Songs of Solomon.
The Trumpet Player
(Gabriel/Michael)
She lies there on the vermilion carpet, her scarlet dress stained by crimson death.
Gabriel stares at her body, though in truth he sees nothing beyond that dark pool of blood slowly forming underneath his makeshift throne. Human forms are hideous constructs: they bleed, they weaken, and they cease. Yet his soldiers have embraced this fragile monstrosity, giving themselves over to the calls of the malformed flesh. None of them seems to recall that this body is only a cheaply made suit, caging their true angelic grace.
Such is why Furiad suffers the delusion that a lowly Power might end his brother—Furiad, who has fought by their side against the Serpent, and who has witnessed all of his brother's warlike splendor. Every day this form corrupts, and every day Gabriel's rage grows.
The trumpet feels cold in his hand. A dirge, then, for the fallen. The archangel closes his eyes and searches for the aching vibration of memories, which are now swelling up within him like the parting Red Sea. If his expression softens, it's because even in this accursed form, he would always remember—
—My brother shines forth like the breaking dawn. He is fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners.
And so in that smoky-aired church the lonely trumpet plays on, calling for the end of the world.
*
End
