gabriel & lucifer | colour the dead patches (make it white)
COLOUR THE DEAD PATCHES (MAKE IT WHITE)
gabriel, lucifer. spoilers for 5.19, hammer of the gods. 1,150. g.
Oh, but it was always you and you know that.
(c) title from drunk on aluminum by wintersleep
a/n: so, here's christian mythology. and then here is me completely throwing that out of the window. all my love to smilla02 for reading this over for me ♥ i also don't have a gabriel icon :/
Colour the dead patches (make it white)
I remember the beginning. How daring and new we were, how we weren't curious or amazed because we were knowledge (you knew, even then, how frail we would become). I remember how you looked at me, Father weaving your grace, and the burden of illusion was shaped and shed from our bones. He forgot to tell us that we have fate and destiny, too. We were unaware; I can't say happy. We never had any misery to compare our existence to.
Father gave you the sky. He gave me the oceans. We made them match when they were never supposed to.
We smiled like children at our own creations. Father was so angry with us. I said it was symmetry and you said nothing at all. I don't think we meant for it to happen that way, but from all the colours given to us, we chose to make them the same.
It was never intentional. It was all for fun, wasn't it? Something we decided in the garden. You were pulling the leaves off of Joshua's plants, wrapping your fingers around stems and vines and I would never tell you not to. Maybe I should have stopped you. Such mindless destruction. I wonder what it could have changed in you, if it would have at all.
I realize now that I have too many regrets for who I am.
We decided in the garden, when they had made mountains grey and the valleys green. You wanted to decide with me, said that brothers make these decisions together. I could only nod. You stopped in the garden, saw the colour of land and deserts and empty hills. I remember that look on your face, hollowed by your light, repulsion made so small in the turn of your head. You would never admit it; Father made humans in our image, not His.
Maybe that's where greed came from. Maybe it was you all along. I could see it in your eyes. I didn't know what it was, so it didn't frighten me. I know now. I wish I would have known. Maybe I could have saved you. But it was never meant to be that way.
You told me you hated these colours, these greens and browns and yellows, how ugly and maddening they were. You looked at me and smiled, like a child, like me. You took my hands. You said you wanted blue. It would be like Heaven, you said, when we stood on the shores centuries from then, from now.
We stood together and you brushed your hand across the world, thumb prints fading to white clouds, the spread of your fingers streaking the sky in the most wonderful shades of blue, ones we had never seen, hidden and waiting just for you to unmask them. My work was not as perfected as yours. I left gouges in the earth, too deep to touch, and the water churned, twisting back and away, and I lost control. Dark blue, angry blue, and it wasn't the same as the curve of light in your sky.
I didn't want to show you. I tried to change it when you weren't looking, when you weren't there, but you were always there. You said you would never leave me, not here, not alone. You said there was no other that you loved more, just me. I believed you.
You touched my face, told me the oceans were beautiful. They were flawed and you never said it. You lied. I believed you anyway.
We were so very much alike once, weren't we? You're right. You did teach me everything I know. We carved Heaven to our own liking, an image we never knew, that was never seen before. You wanted to make mountains that stretched to the edges of our boundaries, thin rivers to mark both sides, fields of sage grass and wildflowers, a sky so blue, just like yours. You said you liked the colours and I would lose you in those meadows, the sound of your voice caught in the faces of your purple-grey mountains, leading me to the darkest corners you had created. I would always found you, your fingers dusted yellow and sticky, smelling of flowers when you reached out to me.
I don't think you were ever meant for Heaven. You were always too strange, too bright for what Father had given us; your darkness colouring everything, impatient bands of it tied around you, and if we had hearts, yours would have been growing cold. When humans came and you didn't understand, neither did I. It was always Michael to cast you down. He loved you. You loved him, too.
Maybe it was betrayal I felt. We aren't jealous creatures. But you taught me everything I know.
I forgot about you. I let myself not forgive you. I gave myself so many unneeded reasons. I'm not sure if I can say sorry. I haven't given myself a reason to. Would you believe me if I said I was afraid? I'm not sure of what. I left Heaven, you know that. I wonder who told you. I could see you in everything I touched, in the greed and lowliness of humans, in the same look of disgust that you had for the colours of the world, the mistakes of our brothers and sisters, how they never knew how beautiful the world could really be. It was me who told them of the pearly gates, of roads paved with gold, of clouds and halos and wings with feathers. You taught me everything I know. It was like you knew I was here, walking among their mountains and their fields, reminding me of what I had left. Was it always you, brother?
The sky looks different down here, though. The ocean is black from where I stand. The sky is still so blue. You never got a chance to see how different things have become. Maybe I should have saved you. I wonder if I owed you that much.
We didn't create the world. We just painted it to ruin. They never should have been the same, the sea and the sky. It ruined us both to be the same. But we were always so human, you and I. So full of guilt and doubt and love, such useless contradictions. This is what faith became. I see it in you, even now. I wish you could see people as they are: they are us.
Brother, don't make me do this.
Oh, but it was always you and you know that. The sea is screaming, brother, and the sky is falling. It's our end and it was told in the sweep of your hands across a newborn sky.
Father made you the sky. He made me the ocean. I think he always knew it was you. I'm sure I did once.
end.
gabriel, lucifer. spoilers for 5.19, hammer of the gods. 1,150. g.
Oh, but it was always you and you know that.
(c) title from drunk on aluminum by wintersleep
a/n: so, here's christian mythology. and then here is me completely throwing that out of the window. all my love to smilla02 for reading this over for me ♥ i also don't have a gabriel icon :/
Colour the dead patches (make it white)
I remember the beginning. How daring and new we were, how we weren't curious or amazed because we were knowledge (you knew, even then, how frail we would become). I remember how you looked at me, Father weaving your grace, and the burden of illusion was shaped and shed from our bones. He forgot to tell us that we have fate and destiny, too. We were unaware; I can't say happy. We never had any misery to compare our existence to.
Father gave you the sky. He gave me the oceans. We made them match when they were never supposed to.
We smiled like children at our own creations. Father was so angry with us. I said it was symmetry and you said nothing at all. I don't think we meant for it to happen that way, but from all the colours given to us, we chose to make them the same.
It was never intentional. It was all for fun, wasn't it? Something we decided in the garden. You were pulling the leaves off of Joshua's plants, wrapping your fingers around stems and vines and I would never tell you not to. Maybe I should have stopped you. Such mindless destruction. I wonder what it could have changed in you, if it would have at all.
I realize now that I have too many regrets for who I am.
We decided in the garden, when they had made mountains grey and the valleys green. You wanted to decide with me, said that brothers make these decisions together. I could only nod. You stopped in the garden, saw the colour of land and deserts and empty hills. I remember that look on your face, hollowed by your light, repulsion made so small in the turn of your head. You would never admit it; Father made humans in our image, not His.
Maybe that's where greed came from. Maybe it was you all along. I could see it in your eyes. I didn't know what it was, so it didn't frighten me. I know now. I wish I would have known. Maybe I could have saved you. But it was never meant to be that way.
You told me you hated these colours, these greens and browns and yellows, how ugly and maddening they were. You looked at me and smiled, like a child, like me. You took my hands. You said you wanted blue. It would be like Heaven, you said, when we stood on the shores centuries from then, from now.
We stood together and you brushed your hand across the world, thumb prints fading to white clouds, the spread of your fingers streaking the sky in the most wonderful shades of blue, ones we had never seen, hidden and waiting just for you to unmask them. My work was not as perfected as yours. I left gouges in the earth, too deep to touch, and the water churned, twisting back and away, and I lost control. Dark blue, angry blue, and it wasn't the same as the curve of light in your sky.
I didn't want to show you. I tried to change it when you weren't looking, when you weren't there, but you were always there. You said you would never leave me, not here, not alone. You said there was no other that you loved more, just me. I believed you.
You touched my face, told me the oceans were beautiful. They were flawed and you never said it. You lied. I believed you anyway.
We were so very much alike once, weren't we? You're right. You did teach me everything I know. We carved Heaven to our own liking, an image we never knew, that was never seen before. You wanted to make mountains that stretched to the edges of our boundaries, thin rivers to mark both sides, fields of sage grass and wildflowers, a sky so blue, just like yours. You said you liked the colours and I would lose you in those meadows, the sound of your voice caught in the faces of your purple-grey mountains, leading me to the darkest corners you had created. I would always found you, your fingers dusted yellow and sticky, smelling of flowers when you reached out to me.
I don't think you were ever meant for Heaven. You were always too strange, too bright for what Father had given us; your darkness colouring everything, impatient bands of it tied around you, and if we had hearts, yours would have been growing cold. When humans came and you didn't understand, neither did I. It was always Michael to cast you down. He loved you. You loved him, too.
Maybe it was betrayal I felt. We aren't jealous creatures. But you taught me everything I know.
I forgot about you. I let myself not forgive you. I gave myself so many unneeded reasons. I'm not sure if I can say sorry. I haven't given myself a reason to. Would you believe me if I said I was afraid? I'm not sure of what. I left Heaven, you know that. I wonder who told you. I could see you in everything I touched, in the greed and lowliness of humans, in the same look of disgust that you had for the colours of the world, the mistakes of our brothers and sisters, how they never knew how beautiful the world could really be. It was me who told them of the pearly gates, of roads paved with gold, of clouds and halos and wings with feathers. You taught me everything I know. It was like you knew I was here, walking among their mountains and their fields, reminding me of what I had left. Was it always you, brother?
The sky looks different down here, though. The ocean is black from where I stand. The sky is still so blue. You never got a chance to see how different things have become. Maybe I should have saved you. I wonder if I owed you that much.
We didn't create the world. We just painted it to ruin. They never should have been the same, the sea and the sky. It ruined us both to be the same. But we were always so human, you and I. So full of guilt and doubt and love, such useless contradictions. This is what faith became. I see it in you, even now. I wish you could see people as they are: they are us.
Brother, don't make me do this.
Oh, but it was always you and you know that. The sea is screaming, brother, and the sky is falling. It's our end and it was told in the sweep of your hands across a newborn sky.
Father made you the sky. He made me the ocean. I think he always knew it was you. I'm sure I did once.
end.