An actual story. An actual story about famous poets and philosophers. For a long, long moment Gabriel was silent, before finally he murmured:
"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood and, sorry I could not travel both and be one traveler, long I stood and looked down one as far as I could to where it bent in the undergrowth. Then took the other, just as fair, and having perhaps the better claim, because it was grassy and wanted wear. Though as for that the passing there had worn them really about the same, and both that morning equally lay in leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference."
It wasn't song-like, exactly, but the Archangel spoke with the cadence of the very familiar, with rising and falling and inflections. It wasn't so much a matter of him saying the poem. It was more like he was giving it life, with how his voice turned from nostalgia to heavy regret to the whimsicality of future possibilities, and the final, quiet resignation of accepting the choices of the past.
There was no magic in it--but there was a kind of power, and it was utterly unlike his usual tones. He turned slightly toward Re-l, even though he couldn't look at her, wouldn't see her. "Robert Frost. Still have that one in your arsenal post-armageddon?"
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"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
and, sorry I could not travel both
and be one traveler, long I stood
and looked down one as far as I could
to where it bent in the undergrowth.
Then took the other, just as fair,
and having perhaps the better claim,
because it was grassy and wanted wear.
Though as for that the passing there
had worn them really about the same,
and both that morning equally lay
in leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."
It wasn't song-like, exactly, but the Archangel spoke with the cadence of the very familiar, with rising and falling and inflections. It wasn't so much a matter of him saying the poem. It was more like he was giving it life, with how his voice turned from nostalgia to heavy regret to the whimsicality of future possibilities, and the final, quiet resignation of accepting the choices of the past.
There was no magic in it--but there was a kind of power, and it was utterly unlike his usual tones. He turned slightly toward Re-l, even though he couldn't look at her, wouldn't see her. "Robert Frost. Still have that one in your arsenal post-armageddon?"