Stained Glass Wings
Christmas card for defectivedream
Stained Glass Wings
Gabriel/Azri and Asher/Patrick.
Merry Christmas, Mic!
Trick sat out in the frozen grass, watching the light from the congregation stream out through the stained glass windows, painting the monochrome of Christmas eve night with an explosion of warm and sensual fire. He could feel the ice against his bare skin, a curiously pleasant sensation when the discomfort of cold was divorced from it, and pretended he could feel the warmth of the light as it bathed the contours of his perfect face in a glorious wash of amber and palest blue.
These particular windows had a special place in his heart. He'd designed them. One could look at the circular "rose" window and see the kaleidoscopic brilliance of the sun. Each seraph represented in the lancet frames was a being he knew and loved. The church did not know this, it only knew the artist had requested the windows be moved to a church in the United States, from the french ruins they'd been salvaged out of, and that one window piece was never placed in a wall where it would see a casual eye.
Patrick wondered, as his fingers toyed with a frozen blade of grass, if he'd have the guts to slink into that place of holy worship to see it, or if he'd let the beauty of his other beloveds (so many of them dead) bathe his own marble features into transcendence this Christmas.
"It's funny," said a voice. "You look more like an angel than I do, by their standards."
Trick looked up. The boy was a little taller than he, perhaps, if they'd both been standing. He was wearing a grey sweatshirt over tight blue jeans, and had an unruly mass of truly lovely fire-red hair, glinting with strands of new gold. His eyes were a strange, unearthly lavender color, and his delicate face was dusted with gold freckles. Patrick remembered something his father had said about his mother's freckles: You were so beautiful, your guardian angel had to kiss you, here and here...
He smiled wistfully. "I'd be a fallen angel. Look at how dark I am." Then he laughed and tossed his black hair back over his bare shoulder. "I like it that way, anyway. I share the human sentiment regarding the untouchability of certain blonds."
"Tell me about it," said the boy. Trick heard a depth in his voice that stunned him, and turned to glance at his eyes. He found them shut, unreadable.
"You have some talent, for a creature of the night," said the boy, "but why put them in a place you have to be outside of?"
"Outside of them, basking in their light," Patrick smiled, "that's the way I've always been with them."
"What about the other one? The one that's under velvet?"
"I don't get to see him anymore."
"I hear the lie in your voice. There's something else..."
"All right. I don't get to see that him anymore."
The boy gave him a sharp glance. "Don't you think you're being awfully selfish about that, Patrick Angevins? Acting as though you are the one who is constantly burned by the memories of that night?"
Patrick started. "What did you call me?"
"I used your name, not that grandiose nom-de-plume you invented ninety years ago. Listen to me, Patrick. Sometimes light can burn over you till you want to cringe and run away, but it is nevertheless the light of love. Stop worshipping the memories of the dead and face what is still within your heart, waiting for you."
"I suppose you'd be some kind of angel."
Azahariel turned, and his huge wings, molten copper red running with beautiful patterns of black, shone in the Mary blue light of the stained glass angel's robes. "Sometimes I am. Go find his stained glass wings, Patrick. I want to return to the one I love..."
"You make that sound harder than the task you gave me."
The boy's eyes looked sad. "It is."
There was snow, then. A flurry of it, colored by the stained glass lights. The stained glass wings.
Stained Glass Wings
Gabriel/Azri and Asher/Patrick.
Merry Christmas, Mic!
Trick sat out in the frozen grass, watching the light from the congregation stream out through the stained glass windows, painting the monochrome of Christmas eve night with an explosion of warm and sensual fire. He could feel the ice against his bare skin, a curiously pleasant sensation when the discomfort of cold was divorced from it, and pretended he could feel the warmth of the light as it bathed the contours of his perfect face in a glorious wash of amber and palest blue.
These particular windows had a special place in his heart. He'd designed them. One could look at the circular "rose" window and see the kaleidoscopic brilliance of the sun. Each seraph represented in the lancet frames was a being he knew and loved. The church did not know this, it only knew the artist had requested the windows be moved to a church in the United States, from the french ruins they'd been salvaged out of, and that one window piece was never placed in a wall where it would see a casual eye.
Patrick wondered, as his fingers toyed with a frozen blade of grass, if he'd have the guts to slink into that place of holy worship to see it, or if he'd let the beauty of his other beloveds (so many of them dead) bathe his own marble features into transcendence this Christmas.
"It's funny," said a voice. "You look more like an angel than I do, by their standards."
Trick looked up. The boy was a little taller than he, perhaps, if they'd both been standing. He was wearing a grey sweatshirt over tight blue jeans, and had an unruly mass of truly lovely fire-red hair, glinting with strands of new gold. His eyes were a strange, unearthly lavender color, and his delicate face was dusted with gold freckles. Patrick remembered something his father had said about his mother's freckles: You were so beautiful, your guardian angel had to kiss you, here and here...
He smiled wistfully. "I'd be a fallen angel. Look at how dark I am." Then he laughed and tossed his black hair back over his bare shoulder. "I like it that way, anyway. I share the human sentiment regarding the untouchability of certain blonds."
"Tell me about it," said the boy. Trick heard a depth in his voice that stunned him, and turned to glance at his eyes. He found them shut, unreadable.
"You have some talent, for a creature of the night," said the boy, "but why put them in a place you have to be outside of?"
"Outside of them, basking in their light," Patrick smiled, "that's the way I've always been with them."
"What about the other one? The one that's under velvet?"
"I don't get to see him anymore."
"I hear the lie in your voice. There's something else..."
"All right. I don't get to see that him anymore."
The boy gave him a sharp glance. "Don't you think you're being awfully selfish about that, Patrick Angevins? Acting as though you are the one who is constantly burned by the memories of that night?"
Patrick started. "What did you call me?"
"I used your name, not that grandiose nom-de-plume you invented ninety years ago. Listen to me, Patrick. Sometimes light can burn over you till you want to cringe and run away, but it is nevertheless the light of love. Stop worshipping the memories of the dead and face what is still within your heart, waiting for you."
"I suppose you'd be some kind of angel."
Azahariel turned, and his huge wings, molten copper red running with beautiful patterns of black, shone in the Mary blue light of the stained glass angel's robes. "Sometimes I am. Go find his stained glass wings, Patrick. I want to return to the one I love..."
"You make that sound harder than the task you gave me."
The boy's eyes looked sad. "It is."
There was snow, then. A flurry of it, colored by the stained glass lights. The stained glass wings.