07: Perfection, Of Course: Angelfic
By meteorspark, for thelessonoftime
Perfection, Of Course
Most people, when they picture Heaven, picture fields of marshmallow-soft clouds, molded into aesthetically pleasing shapes and populated by clusters of white-robed angels, dangling their feet into the wild blue yonder and plucking at silver-stringed harps with elegant fingers. They picture everything that might be Heaven to them - rolling fields of dazzling green and gold, high marble arches reaching into infinity (there really are arches, but they're silver). Perfection (of course).
What these people don't know, what no one knows but the angels, and they'll never tell, is that Heaven is so much better than that. Heaven is more than what you wanted it to be, it's everything you never knew you needed it to be until you arrived there. That's Paradise.
What these people don't know is that Heaven is not perfect. Nothing is. Nothing can be.
What no one knows, no one but the angels, and they don't want to tell, is that Heaven isn't Heaven because it's the most beautiful place you can conceive of, or because of the excellent food (it isn't that good, really, rather bland, even), or because of the music (although it is undeniably the best anyone has ever been granted the privilege of hearing). Heaven is Heaven because He is there. The angels are there. They make it what it is, goodness emanating from them in veritable waves, like light, quickly and sharply or sound, more gentle, more pliable.
The archangel Raphael had to wonder, though - sometimes, in his darkest moments, those times when even an angel couldn't summon the strength for sufficient hope, he had to wonder, like no angel was ever supposed to (and like most angels do, at one time or another, regardless of what the rest of them may think). He wondered about - Falling. Not himself Falling; he wouldn't.
***
He knew he wouldn't Fall, and that made it all the worse when the worst conceivable - he could hardly bring himself to think on it, but there was no way around it. No way to forget the stunned faces of every angel he saw for days and days afterwards, no way to ignore the pain so harsh it became physical, a stabbing in his gut, his eyes, his heart. Something was missing, something about which no one dared to speak, as if the very name were a curse, as if he had never existed. Michael. He was an archangel, wasn't he? The leader of the heavenly host? Whatever happened to him?
Maybe the worst of it was being so utterly ineffectual, sitting with his knees to his chest, unable to stop the tears, the messy, ugly, heart-wrenching sobs, starting again every time he forced himself to remember. It hurt, it hurt, but worse than to remember was to forget.
Something had to ...
Something had to give.
It had to.
"Gabriel, are you - what happened?"
And his Gabriel, his best friend, unfurled wings again, wings - there was a moment during which he nearly smiled before ... the small, bitter smile Gabriel gave him was like a slap to the face. It stung. "They're -"
"Black. I know, Raphael. I'm ... I'm sorry."
"Don't," he began. "It isn't - it's not - you'll -" None of the usual empty reassurances worked. None of them were true, and he wouldn't lie to Gabriel, not now. Not about this.
It's impossible to describe the sort of emptiness that comes with the two most important people in your life leaving you. Melodrama be damned, it hurts, more than anyone can put into words, like someone's stabbed you in the back, all the way through to your heart, and you can't possibly blame him for it. He's the one who needs you, as much as it may feel like a betrayal to you.
There's an icy feeling, starts right about stomach level, creeps up to the chest, shoots to the tips of the fingers, curls back, wraps itself around the heart and squeezes. That feeling reminded Raphael constantly of what he was going without.
It was the tipping point, he would decide later, when the Metatron fell. The Voice of God tried to be cheerful about. He smiled, and perhaps the most heartbreaking part was the loss of innocence in that forcedly bright smile.
"I'll be all right," he said. "Don't worry about me, please. It's perfectly all right."
And Raphael agreed to try, to pretend that he didn't feel sick just looking at the Metatron, at the scars around his wrists and ankles, at the aching wistfulness of his expression.
"You still have Him," they said, encouragingly, offering him a handful of dice. "It will be all right, don't you realize that? You have Him."
What no one knows, no one but the angels, and they don't want to tell, is that Heaven isn't Heaven because it's the most beautiful place you can conceive of. Heaven is Heaven because He is there. The angels are there.
He is there. The God who let the angels leave Him, without so much as a how-do-you-do, the God who allowed this to happen - how could He allow this to happen? The thoughts Raphael had never allowed himself, the doubts, the anger, the fear, emerged, clearer than ever before, telling him that this wasn't right. This wasn't how it was supposed to be.
The angels - what do you do when the angels aren't there?
Raphael slid his hand along the final, most perfect arch of the City, watching the light reflect from it, watching the cobblestones fade into the darkness outside. Music drifted from inside, perfect, gorgeous music.
He thought of the Metatron. The sort of angel who would do anything to make the world better for everyone, and he had Fallen?
He thought of Michael. Words had failed him time and time again when it came to Michael. Love.
He thought of Gabriel. The one person, the one being, he had always trusted, completely and with everything.
He almost coaxed a smile from himself as he stepped deliberately off the edge.
Perfection, Of Course
Most people, when they picture Heaven, picture fields of marshmallow-soft clouds, molded into aesthetically pleasing shapes and populated by clusters of white-robed angels, dangling their feet into the wild blue yonder and plucking at silver-stringed harps with elegant fingers. They picture everything that might be Heaven to them - rolling fields of dazzling green and gold, high marble arches reaching into infinity (there really are arches, but they're silver). Perfection (of course).
What these people don't know, what no one knows but the angels, and they'll never tell, is that Heaven is so much better than that. Heaven is more than what you wanted it to be, it's everything you never knew you needed it to be until you arrived there. That's Paradise.
What these people don't know is that Heaven is not perfect. Nothing is. Nothing can be.
What no one knows, no one but the angels, and they don't want to tell, is that Heaven isn't Heaven because it's the most beautiful place you can conceive of, or because of the excellent food (it isn't that good, really, rather bland, even), or because of the music (although it is undeniably the best anyone has ever been granted the privilege of hearing). Heaven is Heaven because He is there. The angels are there. They make it what it is, goodness emanating from them in veritable waves, like light, quickly and sharply or sound, more gentle, more pliable.
The archangel Raphael had to wonder, though - sometimes, in his darkest moments, those times when even an angel couldn't summon the strength for sufficient hope, he had to wonder, like no angel was ever supposed to (and like most angels do, at one time or another, regardless of what the rest of them may think). He wondered about - Falling. Not himself Falling; he wouldn't.
***
He knew he wouldn't Fall, and that made it all the worse when the worst conceivable - he could hardly bring himself to think on it, but there was no way around it. No way to forget the stunned faces of every angel he saw for days and days afterwards, no way to ignore the pain so harsh it became physical, a stabbing in his gut, his eyes, his heart. Something was missing, something about which no one dared to speak, as if the very name were a curse, as if he had never existed. Michael. He was an archangel, wasn't he? The leader of the heavenly host? Whatever happened to him?
Maybe the worst of it was being so utterly ineffectual, sitting with his knees to his chest, unable to stop the tears, the messy, ugly, heart-wrenching sobs, starting again every time he forced himself to remember. It hurt, it hurt, but worse than to remember was to forget.
Something had to ...
Something had to give.
It had to.
"Gabriel, are you - what happened?"
And his Gabriel, his best friend, unfurled wings again, wings - there was a moment during which he nearly smiled before ... the small, bitter smile Gabriel gave him was like a slap to the face. It stung. "They're -"
"Black. I know, Raphael. I'm ... I'm sorry."
"Don't," he began. "It isn't - it's not - you'll -" None of the usual empty reassurances worked. None of them were true, and he wouldn't lie to Gabriel, not now. Not about this.
It's impossible to describe the sort of emptiness that comes with the two most important people in your life leaving you. Melodrama be damned, it hurts, more than anyone can put into words, like someone's stabbed you in the back, all the way through to your heart, and you can't possibly blame him for it. He's the one who needs you, as much as it may feel like a betrayal to you.
There's an icy feeling, starts right about stomach level, creeps up to the chest, shoots to the tips of the fingers, curls back, wraps itself around the heart and squeezes. That feeling reminded Raphael constantly of what he was going without.
It was the tipping point, he would decide later, when the Metatron fell. The Voice of God tried to be cheerful about. He smiled, and perhaps the most heartbreaking part was the loss of innocence in that forcedly bright smile.
"I'll be all right," he said. "Don't worry about me, please. It's perfectly all right."
And Raphael agreed to try, to pretend that he didn't feel sick just looking at the Metatron, at the scars around his wrists and ankles, at the aching wistfulness of his expression.
"You still have Him," they said, encouragingly, offering him a handful of dice. "It will be all right, don't you realize that? You have Him."
What no one knows, no one but the angels, and they don't want to tell, is that Heaven isn't Heaven because it's the most beautiful place you can conceive of. Heaven is Heaven because He is there. The angels are there.
He is there. The God who let the angels leave Him, without so much as a how-do-you-do, the God who allowed this to happen - how could He allow this to happen? The thoughts Raphael had never allowed himself, the doubts, the anger, the fear, emerged, clearer than ever before, telling him that this wasn't right. This wasn't how it was supposed to be.
The angels - what do you do when the angels aren't there?
Raphael slid his hand along the final, most perfect arch of the City, watching the light reflect from it, watching the cobblestones fade into the darkness outside. Music drifted from inside, perfect, gorgeous music.
He thought of the Metatron. The sort of angel who would do anything to make the world better for everyone, and he had Fallen?
He thought of Michael. Words had failed him time and time again when it came to Michael. Love.
He thought of Gabriel. The one person, the one being, he had always trusted, completely and with everything.
He almost coaxed a smile from himself as he stepped deliberately off the edge.