(Untitled)

[paterelohim]

In the beginning, God created the Heavens and the Earth. A few epochs later the hairless apes pranced onto the scene to the tune of a painfully slow evolutionary two-step, and one-two-three the first angel tripped and fell face-first into an alternate realm of his own design. They said the physical fall itself was over a year long, and that his

Comments

[andihaveto]

It had been more than a while since he'd been behind those golden doors, with or without his siblings. Not to say he didn't venture close, occasionally call to the Alpha and Omega for guidance, for revelation or a simple wish to be near or hear his voice. It was rare that the latter of which was requested; Lucifer was more attune to that.

But he did linger the halls from time to time; a solo grace spreading light from corner to corner, bright as it was and yet near to darkness in comparison to the Father. It was one of these days that the light spread from behind those golden doors, that He Himself left the throne without a word. Michael could remember exactly, the last time he had... Eons since. Long before Lucifer's War to be a little more precise.

So he drew near; curiosity, elation, praise, all rolling off his grace in waves. Something was amiss.

[paterelohim]

The light didn't dim or dissipate, but fell into itself, coalescing into the form of a human-shaped thing, at once too bright and too corporeal-looking to be an angel. At Michael's nearness it started, still shining supernova, and turned to face the angel with an inscrutable look on His face. Something was more than amiss.

"Michael." The light went inward, the very Presence itself of God seeming to withdraw from the far reaches of the halls to tighten and collapse into that singular form- still Infinite, but taking shape. Limiting.

[andihaveto]

His gaze wandered, watching the light pull into itself, condense and boil down to something else. Something more tangible. He'd never seen such a practice there, but it's not hard to guess the intent.

It wasn't often the Lion felt fear. Felt confusion and the inability to say or do anything to dissuade. He felt his core wrench, as if the tether connecting him to his Father was being cut short.

"You're leaving." Spoken as a statement, felt as a question. A plead for an explanation. Don't agree, tell him you're not doing it.

[paterelohim]

He looked to His son, light collapsing impossibly into visible skin, the beginnings of a facial expression forming. Michael wanted Him to say something, anything, to hold him as He had in the early days when only formlessness and Heaven were weighing down Creation.

"Yes." His voice was booming, but less impossibly penetrating and all-consuming than the angel had ever heard it before. In a word, more human. There was no trace of expression in that face, or emotion. A still, unknowable pool.