caveofsapphires | hurt myself again today

Entry tags:

hurt myself again today

WHO: Gabriel (Sylvester Wilton), [OPEN]
WHAT: Power discovery goes very, very wrong.
WHERE: Syl's caravan, the Cave, anywhere else it's conceivable to him to be
WHEN: 2 June - 9 June 2012
WARNINGS: None yet
NOTES: Looking for nummy new CR, or call-backs to earlier CR he hasn't spoken to for a while, especially for the initial helping-hand thread, please. :3 Multiple threads with the same character throughout the week are welcome. Also, Gabe will not be able to see peoples' souls for the duration.

Actionspam also welcome if that's better for people!

It was the conversation with the Doctor which had planted the thought in Gabriel's head. Well, the conversation with the Doctor and that little hole Re-l had discovered in the back of the wardrobe. The fact was that his constructs were, technically, a reality-warp. They used the fabric of reality to create something out of nothing ... well, nothing that could be seen, anyway.

And if he could do that, then maybe he could take things a step further into doing something else. Like actual reality manipulation.

Which was why he was staring contemplatively at the wall of Syl's caravan, ratta-tapping the counter. A small pocket to start with, he decided. A little safe in the wall. He could cover it with a painting, or something. It wasn't like anyone would assume there would be anything behind it, given the tininess of the caravan.

In the past he'd found that as long as he kept a detailed image of an object in mind, he shouldn't think too hard about the creation in order for it to work. As long as he knew how it was built, that seemed to be all he needed. Well, he knew how these reality manipulations went. So once he had a structured image of the little hidey-hole in mind, he lifted his hand and snapped his fingers.

The ensuing flash of light and shockwave which rattled the caravan was visible from blocks away. Gabriel pushed himself up onto his elbows, his head ringing and back aching as if he'd just been thrown against the far wall--which he had. He moved gingerly, pushing himself up against the wall that opened, breathing hard and blinking, and trying not to be sick. The nauseous feeling passed after a few minutes and the ringing in his head dulled to a slight throb.

His vision faded from the white turn of dizziness into steady blackness, and the archangel's stomach flipped over with dread. "Oh, no."

* * *

The next week was ... well, it was something close to Hell. Gabriel couldn't tell whether his screw-up had permenantly messed with his sight or not, and every time he opened his eyes and saw nothing it twisted his gut to such a degree that he felt sick.

Blind. Not just blind the way his brothers were still blind, but completely. He couldn't even move the caravan far, because he couldn't see the streets; there was an autopilot installed on the driver's booth, because Syl had referenced it in his notes, but the archangel couldn't see to program it in the first place. The archangel was forced to walk if he ever wanted to go anywhere, one hand planted firmly on a wall just so he could make sure he was going the right way.

And no angel radar meant he got lost. Frequently. There were few things as terrifying as having no wall, no concept as to where the wall was, and no idea if he was on the right street.

He managed to find his way to the train back to the Cave, once, on the 7th, with some intention of seeing the doctors there. Then some part of him had spoken up, told him he couldn't very well just give in like that, and he hadn't wound up going to see them at all. Instead he'd wandered, lost, through the Cave until he'd found his way back to the metro and returned to the City with his pride intact and his sanity shot.

The day he woke up to find his sight had returned, blurry at first, he was about ready to weep with relief.

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Her movement dragged his hand down past her shoulder, down her side. That and the sudden loss of purring weight in his lap made panic flutter in his gut and and reflexively the Archangel's fingers tightened on her coat.

"I didn't say I wanted to be left alone," he said, and some part of him cursed at the plea in his voice.

His voice made her stop, and she looked back at him. Sitting alone on his stool, clinging to her coat, he was alarmingly vulnerable. It was an attitude she hated in others as much as she hated it in herself. But it wasn't his fault. And she knew well enough how often she'd been helped without realising it. She couldn't leave him.

"If you don't want me to help and you don't want me to go, what do you want?" she said, offering her hand to him in place of his grip on her coat.

The Archangel took her hand, and even though there was a part of him that shouted echoed Re-l's own thoughts--that he was getting too close, showing too much--he couldn't help it. He didn't want to be alone. He couldn't tell Aziraphale or Balthazar.

"How about just some company?" he suggested, striving for casual playfulness with the almost-suggestive lift-lower of his eyebrows.

Company? Re-l didn't know whether to feel flattered or uncomfortable, and settled for feeling wary. But there was no point in running away now. And it was only a relationship of convenience for both of them.

"Let's go outside, then," she said. Somehow his blindness seemed less claustrophobic outside. In here it was too obvious how limited he was by his lack of vision.

She tugged on his arm and pulled him to his feet. There was a moment, as she moved, when his weight caught on her arm, and the pain in her ribs blazed sharply. Re-l smothered her grimace, but a gasp escaped her.

The sudden tug upward made Gabriel grope for the counter at his back, and he steadied the both of them. He was blind, but not deaf, and not unaware of Re-l's presence next to him.

"What's wrong?" he asked, alerted by the instinctive cringe in her body and the sound of her gasp.

"It's nothing serious," Re-l said firmly. "I fractured a couple of ribs, that's all."

She kept hold of his hand and headed out the door and down the steps.

"Nothing serious, she says," Gabriel squawked, submitting to the direction only because he couldn't do anything else; he couldn't see to pull away. One hand patted the air, searching for the doorjamb so he didn't walk into it, and then he slowed on the steps, feeling with each foot as he moved down them. "How'd that happen, pray tell?"

Re-l waited until he was down the steps and then dropped his hand, sitting down slowly on the grass.

"I fell over the edge of a waterfall," she said. "It was only about ten feet. I had just found the kitten, and its family were chasing me, so I swam out to a log in the middle of the river. I was hoping it would hide my scent. Which it did."

"It's a good thing they can't sue you for kidnapping," Gabriel told her with a snort of semi-amusement, sinking carefully to the ground and finding the steps behind him so he could lean back on them. He patted the air, found her arm, the furry body of the cat around her shoulders and finally its head. "Good thing it likes you. What's he-she called, anyways?"

"Even if they were capable of conscious thought, they have lots of kittens. They won't miss one."

She shrugged, and the kitten mewed in protest.

"It's female, as far as I can tell. I didn't give it a name." It hadn't seemed necessary, out in the wild. It occurred to her that Gabriel had no idea what the kitten looked like, and she added, "It's spotted black on brown, and it has a heavy crest of fur down its back. Its ears are tufted, and its tail is rounded at the tip."

"The fact that they chased you kinda says otherwise," said the Archangel dryly, stroking down the ruff around the kitten's neck, tracing her head up to her ears. Her tail was too far to feel without leaning across Re-l, and Gabriel opted not to do that because he was likely to fall into her.

Right now, that was not a thing that he was comfortable having happen.

"Don't name her after a goddess," Gabriel said at once, with a wave of his hand. "That's just boring, everyone does that." He grinned suddenly and wickedly. "I know. Bombalurina! It's perfect!" If only because she'd been a kitty sexpot in the versions of the Cats musical he'd seen--the sort that were maybe less-than-fit for public viewing.

"I think that a territorial instinct," Re-l said, but more for the sake of an argument than because she disagreed.

The kitten was purring stormily on her shoulder, and she could feel the vibrations deep inside her own chest. Gabriel's hand, stroking the kitten's head was on the edge of her awareness. The sun was heavy and warm, and the air was heavy with the scent of flowers.

"My lack of a name for the kitten is not an invitation for you to start thinking of one," she said, peaceably. "But if you insist, it's going to have to be short and simple. Nothing extravagant."

"So call her Bomb for short, then," Gabriel said with a shrug, still grinning. "Can't imagine that's something you'd object to. I mean, weapons and violence? Psh. Perfect name for a vicious giant kitty."

His fingers found the knots in the cat's back and neck, massaged the area around her ears. He couldn't see, but he didn't need to see. It wasn't as if he was an animal person, exactly, but he did like to indulge them on occasion, because at least they were uncomplicated. That meant, after two thousand years, that he knew where all their spots were.

"She's not large yet," Re-l said, feeling the cat's claws sink into her skin as Gabriel rubbed its head. "But do whatever you like. It's just a name." Privately, she couldn't help thinking that Bomb did kind of suit the kitten, especially when it was purring against her neck, the vibrations shivering through her chest like the tick of a clock.

Gabriel was looking happier, which was good. She hadn't stopped worrying about what he would do if she left him on his own again, but she would deal with that later. For now, she just wanted to enjoy the sunshine.

"You've lived a long time," she said, without any preamble. "Tell me a story."

"She's bigger than any housecat kitten has a right to be," Gabriel pointed out, and then grinned. "Oh, I will. Hey there, Bombalurina!" He scratched her behind the ears again, pointedly, an acknowledgement of her new christening.

He had been happier. Distracted. Until then.

The Archangel's expression faltered. The fact was that he was a talker, which wasn't something he'd ever denied. The problem was that he talked, constantly, as a cover for everything else that he'd rather be doing and couldn't because it was just too painful. Like instead of using words as a ward, using them in a song, or using them in a story. (A story for his little brothers as he made up things that his older brothers had never actually ... well, mostly ... done.)

And the fact was that she was right. He'd lived for a long time. And lot of it had been horrible.

The Archangel forced a smile up. "Sure, whatever. Any preferences, or am I just going to snap one up out of the ether like everything else?"

"She's just the right size," Re-l said, rolling her eyes at the name. Not that it mattered, since the kitten had no access to language, and couldn't possibly care what she was called.

Re-l's ribs were aching again. The pain came and went in waves, and there was nothing to do when it was there but breathe through it. In a way, though, Re-l was grateful for the sensation. Sometimes this world, with its beautiful parks and lack of people, seemed like a very strange dream. The pain made it real.

"Tell me something true," she said. "Did you ever meet any of the philosophers or poets? What were they like?"

It wasn't obvious, but Gabriel did feel it. The way her shoulders curled in his the slightest, the hitch in her breathing as she rode it out. If he only had his full powers, he could have healed her in a moment.

Since he didn't, a distraction was about all he could offer.

"A few," he said offhandedly. "Most of 'em were pretty crazy in their own ways." He laughed. "You shoulda seen Luke! Swear to Dad that guy was high half the time."

"That doesn't really surprise me," Re-l said, shrugging. "But it's also not a story. I want details." She reached up and rubbed one of Bomb's paws. "If you tell me an actual story I'll tell you what I found in the ruins."

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?"

It was a nice poem, a little sentimental for Re-l's taste, but she found that Gabriel's voice gave it in strength what she thought it lacked in substance. Some part of her added that Vincent would probably appreciate it more than he did.

"Thank you," she said at last. "I never heard that poem before. I must have been lost a long time ago. Though we did have Yeats. And Keats. For many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death. I always liked that image, even if its not, in my experience, particularly true."

"Death," Gabriel said with a snorting, humourless laugh. "Met him a few times. He's not so bad, really. He's got class. Just doing his job, not out to make peoples' deaths as painful as possible. Can't say the same for the other Horsemen. So!"

He turned suddenly toward her again, a smile on his lips which was sardonic and nostalgic all at once. "Who else d'you have, then?"

"I don't think your metaphysical friends were the point of that quote," Re-l said, "fascinating though I'm sure they are."

Her mind was turning back even as she spoke, thinking of the long summer days of her childhood, when she'd read poetry to herself on the grass and laughed, before she'd realised what the world was really like.

"We had a lot of fragments," she said, half answering Gabriel's question and half thinking out loud. "About a third of The Wasteland, I think, though that's really nothing but a guess. I would have loved to read more of that poem. We had most of Bishop, she was good. Most of Plath, though I found her very tedious. A little of Kavanagh, he was awful. Some ee cummings, who was just unfathomable. I liked Byron, and Tennyson when he was writing about war. The Lady of Shalott, now that was dull. My favourite was always William Carlos Williams."

"The Wasteland, eh?" Gabriel's lips quirked humourlessly, and then he chanted the epitaph in a deep rumble that lent weight to the heaviness of the Latin, a light curiosity for the first of the Greek, and a crushing weariness with the second. He followed it with the quote:

"I have seen with my own eyes the Sibyl hanging in a jar, and when the boys asked her 'What do you want?' she answered, 'I want to die.' Yeah, I can see how you'd enjoy that." The last was said in his normal voice, starkly different to the voice of the poet. More sardonic, for one. In this case, it was ironic, too, and just a lityle tired.

"Is that the opening? How fascinating. Our text begins at "I had not thought death had undone so many", and ends with "Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits". I wonder why he began it in another language."

Re-l drew her knees up to her chest and rested her head on them, turning it sideways to look at Gabriel. The memories of the poem brought something back to her quite fondly.

"When I was a little girl," she said, "I used to imagine that one day I would go out into the wastes and find a full copy of The Wasteland, and bring it back to the city. I thought if I could do that, I would understand everything there was to know about humanity."

And then it turned out that she wasn't allowed to leave, and that there was almost no one else in the whole world who even cared about TS Eliot. Just another delusion to be washed away by her later cynicism. She almost forgotten that she ever even cared.

"Two others," Gabriel corrected, and shrugged. "Latin was big, in those days." Despite himself his lips twitched at her words. Not in amusement. Okay, a little in amusement. More in sympathy, in sad resignation, at the hopes and dreams of a child.

"I wouldn't call it the pinnacle," he said. "Poetry's too subjective for that.
April is the cruelest month; breeding
lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
memory and desire, stirring
dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
earth in forgetful snow, feeding
a little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee ..."

As before, the way Gabriel spoke was nothing like his usual voice. The rhythm, the intonation, the way he used his words, were all the tools of a master orator. Sometime into the poem his eyes drifted shut almost unaware, and he leaned a bit forward, as if captured on the words himself. His chin tilted upward, his face to the sky, and his hands traced unseen lines and patterns in the air, rising and falling in accompaniment to the poem's emotion. Lost. Spellbound, almost--or perhaps weaving a spell of his own.

"... I sat upon the shore
fishing, with the arid plain behind me.
Shall I at least set my lands in order?

London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down

Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina
Quando fiam ceu chelidon—O swallow swallow
Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe.
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.

Shantih shantih shantih."

The last words he murmured, and yet they seemed to imbue the air around them, one after the last; and when he stopped the sounds lingered, heavy and notable for their absence. All of a sudden Gabriel felt drained, and he let the step behind him take his weight. It had been ... a long time since he'd done anything like that. Empowered or not, it didn't matter. He wouldn't have done it at all, except there was something so friggin' tragic about how much Re-l's world lacked of the things that made humanity so ... human. So worthy of admiration.

But it was too close to his old job for his liking, and Re-l probably wouldn't get the significance, and he was already pulling away in mind if not body.

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I feel that at this point I should make it clear that Re-l's taste and mine don't always coincide

and yet both are very interesting to me.

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