Fic: Speak No Evil (SPN)
Title: Speak No Evil.
Characters: Castiel.
Word count: 609.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I am making no money from this.
Rating: PG.
Summary: The power of words.
Thanks to dolorosa_12 for beta-ing this and getting me hooked on Supernatural to start with. You’re awesome.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Doubt is a bitch.
Castiel tries out the phrase, rolls it round in his head, savouring the crisp tang of vowels and consonants, enumerating them in his head: voiced alveolar plosive, diphthong, voiceless alveolar plosive… His human vocal organs feel strange and clumsy, shaping thoughts into flesh and blood. But words are familiar to him; words have power, words have substance. Words are the stuff of starlight and starbirth.
And these words tastes strange, sweet as revelation and bitter as the spill of his own blood. They should curdle on his tongue as it dances this alien dance of language, graceless and startlingly graceful in the same moment. They should repel him, appall him, a stink of sulphur, a twist of fear. But they taste of ozone, clean and sharp, like the flutter of feathers in the wind at ten thousand feet, the footsteps of destiny, the heralds of fate.
An angel should not think of doubt, should not curse, even in silence - so silent, so still, so alone in his own head - but it is not quite blasphemy. He is not yet fallen and he may yet be remade in glory, a being of faith shining like sunlight on clear water. Or blood pooling on the floor of a warehouse, splintered moonlight catching the gleam of life spilt. The images shiver dangerously close to one another.
He still remembers the certainty speech and action mandated and prescribed, the certainty of the sword and the sceptre and the truth indefatigable. He still remembers flesh sinless and stainless, the brush of wing on silvered wing, circling in spires above the heights of infinity. Purity of thought and action without hesitation, without this coil of doubt tightening around his throat. And once he believed this to be the natural order, the Will of God, an article of faith, as steadfast as love. He is an unwavering guardian of mankind, and this trust is a sacred trust. But he is an angel of the Lord, a messenger as well as a warrior, and words are his currency. And these words endure when his tongue falls silent, dwelling in the pattering darkness of a deserted road.
And now certainty is only a memory half-glimpsed through the fragments of his shattered faith, through the rain that soaks the beige trench coat and weighs the blue necktie down like a hangman’s noose, flapping soddenly in the rising wind.
Castiel hunches his shoulders against the persistent drizzle and the fear that twists these human guts and knots his angel’s soul. But the doubt persists, soft and low, speaking in the deep, calm tones of his own voice. The words will not be denied; even the pressure of one hand against his lean belly cannot hold them back, and they rise in his gullet, scalding the flesh of his mouth. His mind is whirling with a hundred questions unanswered, a thousand actions that are now nothing more than broken fragments of intention, spinning on the winds of sentience. Doubt and faith are a storm inside him, a brave new world waiting to be born - or broken. He stands upon the cusp, and, through the storm and the night, he cannot see whether triumph or disaster lies before him, angel-bright eyes dimmed by this new self, this other awakening within himself.
Yes, doubt is a bitch. He lets the words spill forth once more, whispers them into the rainy night, tastes them with the raindrops falling, from his hair and splashing on his tongue. But it is the only certainty remaining to him, and he will hold fast to it with might and thought and faith.
Characters: Castiel.
Word count: 609.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I am making no money from this.
Rating: PG.
Summary: The power of words.
Thanks to dolorosa_12 for beta-ing this and getting me hooked on Supernatural to start with. You’re awesome.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Doubt is a bitch.
Castiel tries out the phrase, rolls it round in his head, savouring the crisp tang of vowels and consonants, enumerating them in his head: voiced alveolar plosive, diphthong, voiceless alveolar plosive… His human vocal organs feel strange and clumsy, shaping thoughts into flesh and blood. But words are familiar to him; words have power, words have substance. Words are the stuff of starlight and starbirth.
And these words tastes strange, sweet as revelation and bitter as the spill of his own blood. They should curdle on his tongue as it dances this alien dance of language, graceless and startlingly graceful in the same moment. They should repel him, appall him, a stink of sulphur, a twist of fear. But they taste of ozone, clean and sharp, like the flutter of feathers in the wind at ten thousand feet, the footsteps of destiny, the heralds of fate.
An angel should not think of doubt, should not curse, even in silence - so silent, so still, so alone in his own head - but it is not quite blasphemy. He is not yet fallen and he may yet be remade in glory, a being of faith shining like sunlight on clear water. Or blood pooling on the floor of a warehouse, splintered moonlight catching the gleam of life spilt. The images shiver dangerously close to one another.
He still remembers the certainty speech and action mandated and prescribed, the certainty of the sword and the sceptre and the truth indefatigable. He still remembers flesh sinless and stainless, the brush of wing on silvered wing, circling in spires above the heights of infinity. Purity of thought and action without hesitation, without this coil of doubt tightening around his throat. And once he believed this to be the natural order, the Will of God, an article of faith, as steadfast as love. He is an unwavering guardian of mankind, and this trust is a sacred trust. But he is an angel of the Lord, a messenger as well as a warrior, and words are his currency. And these words endure when his tongue falls silent, dwelling in the pattering darkness of a deserted road.
And now certainty is only a memory half-glimpsed through the fragments of his shattered faith, through the rain that soaks the beige trench coat and weighs the blue necktie down like a hangman’s noose, flapping soddenly in the rising wind.
Castiel hunches his shoulders against the persistent drizzle and the fear that twists these human guts and knots his angel’s soul. But the doubt persists, soft and low, speaking in the deep, calm tones of his own voice. The words will not be denied; even the pressure of one hand against his lean belly cannot hold them back, and they rise in his gullet, scalding the flesh of his mouth. His mind is whirling with a hundred questions unanswered, a thousand actions that are now nothing more than broken fragments of intention, spinning on the winds of sentience. Doubt and faith are a storm inside him, a brave new world waiting to be born - or broken. He stands upon the cusp, and, through the storm and the night, he cannot see whether triumph or disaster lies before him, angel-bright eyes dimmed by this new self, this other awakening within himself.
Yes, doubt is a bitch. He lets the words spill forth once more, whispers them into the rainy night, tastes them with the raindrops falling, from his hair and splashing on his tongue. But it is the only certainty remaining to him, and he will hold fast to it with might and thought and faith.