The ending -- it's a start.
Jul. 13th, 2004 03:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
butterflydreamingeven given it a read through (except for typing from the handwritten, I
haven't), but still, I think it's good to just do it sometimes.
Heavy editing & revision will occur. Again, thank you to
those who have given me feedback -- I can now read the comments on part
2, which I was afraid to lest I be influenced before I finished.
It is deeply appreciated, and I will give consideration to everything
said.
(parts 1 and 2 on previous posts)
Gabriel was with Peter this time. “They want to see you,” he said. He guided the
angel with a touch of hand to shoulder, and as easily as that, she was in the
realm of heaven. A sound, a perfect sound, was everywhere.
Take the words “I love you”, spoken into your ear for the first time; the soothing tether of your mother’s voice when your fever dangled you on the sweaty precipice of terror; fireworks bursting in a holiday sky; and the near silence of a calm vacation day – take
all of those things, all of the wonderful, powerful things that you have ever
heard, and multiply them seven-sevenfold.
That was the sound of heaven.
And woven through the joy of souls that were content to be done with
mortal life, and the complex melodies and harmonies of the angelic host, was a
full-throated, engaging laughter. It was like new honey, poured in the sunshine onto elemental gold.
God was laughing.
It pulled a smile to the angel’s face; she could not keep it from happening. Gabriel was, of course, beaming, almost dancing, all his wings fluttering like freshly bleached sheets on a laundry line. When he opened his mouth to join in the Song, she caught herself on her own deep inhalation just before her own lips opened; she stopped herself hard by thinking of Diego’s life. She followed that thought with memories of other lives, before. At the sight of
the dark pool that those thoughts formed around her, Gabriel’s voice faltered.
“But why is it so difficult for you?” the senor angel asked, with what would have seemed a non-sequiter had the angel not understood the timelessness of heaven. “I don’t see how you can doubt where you belong. You belong here.”
“It’s not about where I belong,” the angel, anguished, tried to explain all over again. “But to pick one, I will lose the other.”
Gabriel shook his head. He would never be able to understand. He himself had cleaved more than a few sets of wings during Lucifer’s rebellion, and he had never been
especially fond of the Morning Star.
“Pick the wrong one, and we lose you. Don’t be so distant,” he appealed. “We miss your harmony.”
If her heart had not already been divided, it would have broken then at Gabriel’s plaintive sincerity. “Then,” she answered hopelessly, “you should understand.”
Silent afterward, Gabriel led the other angel the rest of the way to the Presence.
Michael was there, as it was to be expected. Michael was always there. She focused on the archangel so that she could keep her eyes averted from Him. If Lucifer was the sun, then the Almighty was All Light, and she was less than a match flame: a blurred shimmer, twice reflected.
“You called for my Intercession,” said a mild female voice. The angel’s attention shifted
from Michael’s severe face and disapproving look; she was draped in a gentle smile. “Thank you,” the Queen of Angels added.
“It wasn’t exactly me,” the angel replied to the Mother of God. About to say more, she was stopped short when the Trinity called her by name. She had free will as a birthright, but to say that she could refuse to answer when her Lord beckoned would be a lie of idealism. Nevertheless, she did not cower, or even kneel in genuflection, though in the moment she was glad not to be in a body. Her heart did not beat wildly, nor did her palms sweat, and her knees did not give way with weakness.
She wasn’t quite ready to hear his voice again. “Lift up your eyes,” He said, the tones of his speech so lovingly gentle that Mary’s would have seemed harsh by comparision. He smiled when the angel obeyed.
“I am sorry for what happened,” she said. “I didn’t have control of myself yet.”
“And I didn’t call you to me to scold you,” said her Lord. “You have been doing well, living with compassion and mercy. I know the difficulty,” He added authoritively.
She knew what he meant: a life of a little more than three decades, two millenia past in the human time scale. She knew that he did understand, as much as any king could understand his subjects after living among them. Her Lord had glimpsed the mortal condition in his life as a man, a measure of life that would seem like a fraction of a day against the span of eternity. In that life He had had a loving mother and earthly father, had
known the certainty of His value and his place in a greater Plan. Though He had suffered temptation, loss, betrayal, and torture, He had never swallowed tears, had never made Himself small, afraid to make a sound that would attract notice. He had loved, but He had also been loved.
He knew all things, but He didn’t know anything, she thought. If the Trinity heard her thoughts, He did not comment on them. He looked at her with solemn contemplation, instead.
“You are of my First,” He said. “Why do you persist in your stubbornness? Your indecision is an unnecessary descant line. Come back to Me,” he invited.
“And what if I choose otherwise?” asked the angel, sorrowed.
“You won’t,” said the Lord.
The War in Heaven had never ended; it continued its battles in the space of the angel’s
heart. “Whose life,” she asked softly, “do I continue next?”
. . .
Summer had melted the ice in the river, and the warm, clear day beckoned people out of their houses and into the sunshine. The crowds were mostly on the banks and in the adjoining park, but Lydia wasn’t alone on the bridge. No one paid too much attention to one more babushka out for a walk on a fine day, except to return her smile when their paths crossed.
She was happy to be able to take this walk, having a good day from the cancer that was
turning her guts into a useless soup. It was forever amazing to her that a body could continue through so many kinds of slow cataclysm. Everyone had been amazed at her recovery from the “accident”, as well; the doctors at the public hospital claimed that hypothermia had saved her. Lydia’s granddaughters attributed the old woman’s return to the world to prayer and a miracle.
She paused periodically on the bridge, to rest and to take in the surrounding scenery, and that is why she noticed him before he noticed her. Even at a distance, his grey eyes glittered like mica in stone. He actually seemed lightly surprised to see her.
“You’re a mess,” he said, looking her over.
“I wasn’t planning on important company,” she snipped. “Are you going to be taking a special interest in me now?”
Lucifer’s lips thinned and his smile evaporated. “I always have a special interest in you,” he admitted reluctantly. “But I wasn’t looking for you, today,” he added, his hurt feelings apparent. He made a vague gesture in an eastward direction. “I have another appointment.” Hands on his hips, he sat against the bridge’s stone railing. “A date to keep, as a matter of fact,” he tacked on smugly.
Lydia frowned. “Is it really necessary,” she asked flatly.
“No,” said Lucifer lightly. “They usually come to me on their own without encouragement.” His smile returned. “Well, I’m off,” he said, and pushed himself upright.
He paused, looking her over again. “Are you going to keep this up?” he asked, seriously.
“Yes. For now,” said the angel.
“Then maybe you’ll meet your brown-eyed boy again,” the Lord of Lies said, but she could hear that he spoke truthfully. “Out here somewhere. Maybe you’ll even recognize him.”
“What?” she asked with surprise.
“You left him with hope,” Lucifer said. He gave her a backward wave as he continued walking to the other side of the bridge. “He found his own way out.”
Lydia watched the brash figure walking away until he merged into the crowds, and then she turned to rest her elbows on the guardrail and looked at the reflections on the river below. She looked at herself – rheumy eyes and withered hair, papery skin – the mark of her poor health evident in her appearance. Still, there had been smiles for her today. Smiles are born in the soul.
Lydia had been sorry, when the angel came to ask for her life; the soul had been relieved that someone would watch over her granddaughters, and feed the feral cats that lived in the alley behind Lydia’s house. The old woman had left things unfinished, and she was sad that her loved ones would be marked by her suicide. The angel had made Lydia promises, just as she had made promises to every soul before.
None of the promises would be easy. She wasn’t immune to pain, or to any of the hardships that a human life could know, but it was her choice. On earth, she stood between Heaven and Hell, not on a fine line but on the broad spectrum that was one person’s life, with all of its rotting places as well as its pure, perfect notes. She had made choices… just not the one that certain parties wanted.
. . . fin . . .
Think about it or go with your
first response; don't be afraid to be cruel. Honestly, I take
criticism on this kind of thing really well. I'm aware that God's
characterization is a little odd... I fear that He might seems
something of a buffoon. I'll be working on that. I'm still
trying to feel it out, not quite sure entirely what I want except that
I know what I want it to not be.
Thanks, all who read!