for i am dying of such love

She traced the lining of the bed and felt a bitter taste on her tongue. How many mortals had stayed within these walls? How many of them had worn the blood of her kind like one wears armor? Had Uriel’s murderer stayed in this very room? She had arrived at the Holy Land with a desire to see her vengeance fulfilled, but her hands were weighed down with the sense of failure. Her killer still lived among the rest, and Arael was left to wallow and track the mortals not willing to join the hunts.

Her eyes glanced up to see Caphriel enter her quarters. A brief darkness passed through her features before it transformed back into her icy indifference. She had thought the angel was akin to a friend, but she had chosen the mortals over her kind. She had chosen to protect those that ripped Uriel away rather than give her closure. Arael had no room in her heart for those that wouldn’t help her on her journey, and much like Uriel on that fateful day, her trust had died. 

“Perhaps I’m simply enjoying the festivities.” A lie, but perhaps that would change in the upcoming days. Perhaps she could gain some insight into those eager to prove themselves amongst their kind— even if that meant shedding celestial blood to earn some respect. She tilted her head before slipping off the bed. Her jaw set as she approached the angel before she added on, “Is that not allowed?”

As Arael stands, the room seems to darken further, all light drawn to the harsh beauty of her features, the presence that she exudes. She and Caphriel stand near eye to eye, yet there is something about Arael that demands attention, that makes Caphriel feel as though she’s craning her neck up to face the other angel. It has eluded her for centuries. Perhaps it had been her disinterest, once - then, perhaps, her companionship with Uriel. Now, it seems the icy chill of grief that shrouds her like blizzard, inhospitable for those who draw too near.

“Perhaps,” Caphriel allows, stepping fully into the room to meet Arael head-on. “Who am I to deny you some time amidst the beauty here?” They both know this cannot be the case - Arael had not cared for Earth in her sojourns there while God still reigned, so why should she care for Sanctus Terra now? 

you are my extension. you are my prayer. a caphriel and luca playlist (20 songs, 1hr 21min)

thunder road - bruce springsteen // honey & i - haim // over my head - fleetwood mac // brastempp - trombone de frutas // coming home - leon bridges // bloom - the paper kites // alone - heart // nobody else will be there - the national // songbird - fleetwood mac // i belong to you - brandi carlile // wasteland, baby! - hozier // god only knows - the beach boys & royal philharmonic orchestra // oh, what a world - kacey musgraves // belong - san fermin // now i’m in it - haim // the louvre - lorde // this must be the place (naive melody) - talking heads // sunlight - hozier // sweet creature - harry styles // a world alone - lorde

There is music in everything, and through the music one can find order. Caphriel can’t recall who told her that, or when, but it’s settled into her bones, tied itself into the muscles of her heart, a part of herself she cannot extract. The patterns of her daily life lend themselves to movements of a symphony - the rise and fall of activity, underscored by an orchestra of ambient noise, the low and constant hum of the city.

She breaks her days into segments, each with its own unique tenor - time for herself, time for others, and time for music (the structured kind, with clear melodies and written parts), with that again in two: time for herself and time with the band, an aria and a full ensemble. Her life, really, is just one big set of overlapping venn diagrams with music at the center. The world yields beautiful and strange melodies everywhere, and Caphriel’s ear is always tuned to them, ready to pluck them out and settle them in her heart.

The rush of trains through stations. The hum of people’s voices as she rises from the underground. The clang of metal spoons on pot rims at the soup kitchen. The bell over the door, signaling another entrance or exit. The discordant blend of noises blurring from un-soundproofed rooms. The squeak of sneakers on the linoleum floors of the YMCA. The click of a latch popping open.

The last always makes her heart soar, brings her back to the real music, the songs written by other people, the hours spent in her cramped apartment or even more cramped practice rooms, fingers calloused and shoulders sore. The noises of the city come together to sing the song of the universe. They build another world for her, bolstered by set staves and marked tempos. She loses herself in the layers, clings tight to the scaffolding at the heart of it all.

She sings along to the radio that hums in the kitchen. She grits her teeth at the early, discordant notes of people new to instruments, helps them coax sweet things from the strings. Every week, every few months, every year, she loads herself into Michael’s house, or a tour bus, or a recording studio. She plays with the band.

IF ALL ANGELS ARE TERRIFYING, who forgot to tell Caphriel? When talking to the angel, Arianne often feels as if she is trying to coax thunder from a rose, or blood from a kiss. Some alchemy is ill-fated; some magic must be forbidden. But then Caphriel’s eyes will catch the light, or her wings will emerge in full glory, and Arianne believes that there is something wicked tucked in between beams of light. Should there be any at all, Arianne will find it. She will take it into her hands and shape it like iron. Perhaps it’s wonder that kindness can last through centuries and remain intact. Perhaps it’s pity. Perhaps it’s irritation that a celestial such as Caphriel may stay soft after a sky-tearing war when Arianne tore up the last bits she had left as her father and sister watched. 

Speaking of her sister — the word hunting ripples under her skin, though it does not show in Arianne’s tumbling laughter. “No, that is for my sister. Romilda cannot resist a chance for glory and triumph.” She turns her head to look out into the crowd, who watch them with open awe. “The people needed me more. It is too unsteady a time to leave them without something familiar.” Her smile stretches wider, even as Arianne tilts her head to the side curiously. “Did you decide to extend your visit to the Holy Land as well, Caphriel? I’m glad to hear it.”

“That is wise of you,” Caphriel says, returning Arianne’s smile. “I can sense a certain... unease in the city. Many people still in mourning for the fallen Star. I thought it best to stay, offer my aid for those who may want it.” It may not be her best decision, but it is what feels most right - the uncertainty that lingers over the Holy Land feels like a bowstring pulled taut, ready to snap. She would see the transition through, see a new Star rise, easing the way into the new era as best she could. 

It does not feel good this game she is forcing him to play. The more dirtier tasks of leadership do not bring him joy anymore than following the will of God did. But it is at least a burden he put upon his own shoulders. Perhaps for that reason alone it is easier to carry. Perhaps for that reason alone he demands it be easier to carry. Caphriel and all her time spent in the Holy Land understands none of his burdens. It sparks something sour inside of him. How much of himself he gives over to his brethren who still do nothing but take?

There is still enough respect there, tied deep into the bones of all divine beings, that she comes when he asks. And she comes with her head bowed, and it’s a start but it’s not enough. He must know why. Why Caelum is not enough. Why his leadership is not enough. “Caphriel,” a simple nod in acknowledgement. Regard looks good on his angels. “It has been manageable.” There the barest hint of condescension slips into his words, perhaps for Caphriel’s benefit alone. His time in Sanctus Terra has been a careful act of political power, the time has stretched on for too long. “Have you been successful here, my friend?”

She attempts to remain deferential, keeping her gaze lowered and posture open, but the edge in Michael’s tone hits like a blow. Her gaze snaps to his, inscrutable as ever, and Caphriel can only hope that she is not so transparent as she feels. That he cannot sense her instinct to recoil, to hide herself away from his demanding presence and fade back into blessed obscurity in the crowd. “Perhaps it may have been more... enjoyable had there been some advanced notice,” she offers, “But, regrettably, one cannot predict when one will pass on. Another visit at some less... charged time may better reflect the beauty to be found here.”

Success. It is hard for her to see her work in such black and white terms, but she grants Michael the concession. Their perspectives vary so greatly - his from far above, her in the midst of it all - that she cannot expect him to understand the nuance of her time among the mortals. He was not made to wade through the chaff himself. That is, perhaps, why she had been permitted to roam as freely as she had - to be his Hand, in the mortal realm, to touch the lives of people more directly than Gabriel in his role as the Sun. 

Caphriel has carried the mantle of Michael’s ideals, still carries his sword, but her drive has always been her own. She would have forged a path into Sanctus Terra had one not been sanctioned for her, and it seems Michael is finally coming to understand this point, despite her obfuscation. “I believe that I have been,” she starts, tentative. “I offered my aid to the mortals and helped them to build. I cannot claim that the prosperity you see is solely my doing - nor would I want to - but I...” She trails off, unsure what to say. She had thrown herself into the world, taking upon herself the miseries of all mankind - and yet she had not faltered. She had spread love, and compassion - had used force when necessary - had left her mark, indelible and without want for regard, on the workings of the world. A mark that, by all rights, should have been made in Michael’s name. But her work had been her own. She would not - could not -  pull the veil of his gauzy and insubstantial regard for humankind over her own yearning.

No matter how many times Caphriel has traversed the wilds of Sanctus Terra, the land never fails to captivate her. She could walk its length a thousand times over and still feel as though she’s just stepped upon the earth for the first time, overwhelmed with love and brimming with hope for the people she would soon come to know. This long traverse, shepherding pilgrims to the Holy Land to mourn, feels especially poignant, the crackle of emotions radiating from their caravan settling on her skin like a distant hum. 

The road is quiet and slow, enough for Caphriel to strike up conversation with those around her and note the dearth of engagement she holds with her fellow volunteers - notably, and most discomfiting, the relative lack of Luca’s cheerful voice in her ear. At first she’d attributed his distance to the demon in their midst, but Orias has been holding their own at the back of the caravan for some time and has remained quiet on the fringe as they stop to make camp. It simply seems, she’s concluded, that his mind is elsewhere when he looks at her - gaze shuttered for the brief moments he allows it to linger. A quiet enough rebuke, one that she may have missed had she not bound him so tightly to her heart. One that gnaws at her, since she can find no cause for it - a fact that only serves to heighten her concern, a loop of worry more for his sake than her own.

Oh - Romilda -

They found themselves smiling before they even met the angelic gaze, grinning from ear to ear, before they could stop themselves. Wiping the excess wine from their hand onto their skirt, they emphatically shook their head, denying any sort of culpability that Caphriel seemed to claim. Beside her, Baldur huffs, all too eager to clean up the wreckage of the spill that was on the floor. 

Everything seemed to brighten whenever Caphriel was near, melancholy notions dissipating the longer that Romilda allowed herself to bask in the other’s presence. Her aura seemed to Romilda like the ebbing waves of the ocean, wiping away any gouges left upon the sand until there was nothing left  but the mere  memory of such things. “You were coming to greet me?” Perhaps the tone of surprise was unwarranted, but Romilda was not often looked for - when people wanted to find Arianne or Luca, they were the one that was turned to. But to be looked for, themselves, was…an inconsistent occurrence, to say the least. 

Their cheeks flushed as they realized how wide their smile had grown. It was rather nice to be wanted, wasn’t it? And by Caphriel of all beings…

It was akin to being kissed upon the brow by the moon herself. 

The only thing Romilda could do was bask in it and glow. Their hand absentmindedly lifted to cover their cheek, hiding the tell-tale scars that seemed to flicker and gleam in response to their giddiness. “I find it all a bit overwhelming,” they sighs, lips settling into an uneven smile. “And so, I took refuge in the Temple. I prefer to ease into my mourning rather than revel in it.” And the cogs and mechanisms of their mind fared much better in the quiet rather than the cacophony of hollering and merriment that took place in the throng of the crowd. 

“I am fine, otherwise…” 

Their gaze flickers over Caphriel, assessing the angel for any injuries or bruises that might have befallen her in her journey to the Holy Land. The longer they look, though, the more it is affirmed that she is seemingly caught within an ember - unmarred and forever ensnared in golden beauty. Romilda would be envious if they weren’t so devastatingly enchanted by it. “You look like you could ensnare the stars above, Caphriel - surely you did not dress to hide away with me. Come, now, let me parade you around so you’re properly adored and worshipped.” The corners of their eyes wrinkled with the mirth of their grin.

Caphriel’s frown relaxes into a smile at Romilda’s own, the warmth radiating from them a welcome balm to the sorrowful undertones of the past week. She blushes, too, at the surprise in Romilda’s voice, a small flush borne of embarrassment that she has somehow not made her affections clear to her. The thought that she perhaps has acted as though Romilda’s presence warranted anything else than her deepest joy and love is unbearable. “Yes, well,” she says, still flustered, “I had seen Baldur and assumed you were not far - though you had moved from when I saw him last, and so I wasn’t paying much mind to where I was going, and look where we’ve ended up.”

The spilled wine is still spreading at their feet, an unfortunate reminder that she sidesteps slightly, moving closer to Romilda as she avoids trailing her hem into the rich liquid - or into the path of Baldur’s tongue. 

“It’s not often that so many people come to celebrate the life of an individual,” she muses, gesturing back out to the crowds they stood parted from. “It is beautiful, in its own way, though the magnitude... I can see how you could be easily overwhelmed.” It has become almost too much for her, familiar as she is with the mix of heartbreak and levity that permeated the rites. Caphriel lightly catches Romilda’s hand, bringing it down from their cheek to cup it, gently, between her own. “I am here for you, should you need someone to share your grief. I do not  wish to presume,” she says, gaze steady and true, “that you are not capable on your own. But if there is ever a time, know I will always be here, if you wanted.”

Those eyes. She would have known them anywhere. Even in sickness, even in death; buried six feet under with maggots burying themselves into the sockets of her eyes and dirt caked under her nails until the tiny white crescents disappeared into night — she would have risen. Even in Hell.

It’s too late that the realization sinks in, heart hammering within her chest as her eyes meet Caphriel’s from across the pyre — for all the nights she had replayed the memories within the dark of her rooms, opening and stitching up centuries-old wounds with unsteady hands, they had never truly been hers — golden light fracturing upon their wings as they flew between clouds, gazes searching the mortal lands; their hands clasped together with a fondness that somehow felt more comforting than prayer. No, it was she who’d been possessed by the memories, tormented and aching, stretching apart goodness as if she could unthread time. Until the wounds were nothing more than exposed nerve.

She doesn’t try to hide it now.

She doesn’t try to hide the bitterness, the hurt. The way her hand moves to reach for Caphriel’s, then pauses and drops back along her side, fists clenched as if she has to physically stop herself from grasping at the angel, if only to confirm that she is real.

“Sister,” Abaddon says finally, a half strangled sound that holds the entirety of her longing. The title burns her throat, slices away at her lungs until she is slightly breathless, though a small smile manages to hang off the corner of her lips — for if sister is a blade without a hilt, she has long grown accustomed to bleeding. “Have you missed me?”

Sister. One word should not cut so, but it is a knife in Caphriel’s heart, a blade left there for too long, a wound so constant that it has become almost a part of herself. The absence, a gaping hole unexpectedly filled - how can she hope to align the torn parts of herself with the jagged edges of Abbadon now? 

She has heard whispers of the home she has made for herself in Hell - master of the wretchedest of prisoners, bending even the worst of souls to her dominion. The little wayward angel, hand in Caphriel’s own, seems impossible to reconcile against these stories, but here before her she sees evidence of the hardening of Abbadon’s spirit. Her own hands recoil, then tangle in her skirts, as if gripping the fabric could substitute for flesh and blood. 

“I have,” she says softly, heart in her throat. “I have.” It’s almost too much to bear. The crushing weight of eons of separation threatens to choke her, her own grief flaring brighter than the pyre at her back. I have missed you every day since you fell, she thinks, gaze roving, taking Abbadon in greedily as if she might be snatched away in a moment again, just out of reach. “Are you - are you well?”

She could kick herself for falling into pleasantries when so much else threatens to burst from her throat, but the edge to Abbadon’s smile, the anger in the clench of her fist - the hurt radiates from her in waves, and she knows her overtures would not be well met. She wishes, not for the first time, that her gift may be transferred to another, so they may have a taste of what she feels in full, without her having to express it fully and properly.

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: the third week of the new moon 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: the garden of eden 𝐖𝐇𝐎: @ocaphriel​

              𝐈𝐓  𝐖𝐀𝐒   𝐍𝐎𝐓   𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐋   that Raum sought out as she wandered around the Garden of Eden as if it were her first time in the vicinity. It tended to have that effect on her, and she allowed her to be immersed in the memories of her Eve— her muse, her catalyst. But it would Caphriel whose attention she sought out upon seeing her. Despite Eve likely never returning, it took a particular sort of person to draw Raum back to reality when she became engrossed in imageries of Eve. It took someone like Caphriel— someone real and grounded, someone that made the earth sigh dreamily when being met with her footsteps— someone kind enough to extend the internal beauty that radiated within her to the wholly undeserving humans. There was something about the angel that she could not put her finger on, but something Raum desperately craved to know. Part of her wanted to take her apart to understand her inner workings; maybe then she would finally understand the angel in her entirety. Yet, part of her felt wholly undeserving of such a feat. Part of her wanted to put as much distance between her and Caphriel as possible, for what would potentially arise as a result of Raum’s darkness, her festering void encountering the angel’s grace? Raum was predisposed to possession and destruction, but with Caphriel, this was somehow different. And that scared her, how in Caphriel’s presence, a calm washed over her as if to lower her defenses and make her susceptible to attacks. She approached her hesitantly, focused on their surroundings, out of habitual mistrust. She stares upon her splendid face, attempting to resist the tranquility that it inspired. “Every day here is as if I wasn’t here the last,” Raum begins, hand running over the rough bark of a nearby tree. “It’s someplace new despite me being here hundreds of times. That’s what I’ve always loved about it.” It was difficult to predict when exactly Raum was to switch subjects, and this instance was no different. “What draws you to a species that could never wholly return your affections?”

.

The Garden of Eden was something of a haven for Caphriel, the carefully tended crops a reminder of all the good of civilization, the permanence of settlement. She remembers the original Eden - how could she not? How could she forget that splendid place, the first moment when she saw God’s new creations and saw not only what they would become, but what she herself could be? The farmlands before her draw her back to later times - the wheat of the Fertile crescent, the flooded east bank of the Nile, humans time and again coaxing from the earth sustenance against all odds. It calms her, to be in a place so imbued with histories, echoes of millennia in the careful tilling of the soil, the planting of the rows.

It is not entirely surprising to find Raum amidst the trees - Caphriel has seen the demon here before, lingering at the periphery as it seems she is wont to do. She smiles in her direction, content to continue on alone, and is rewarded instead with her company, a gentle and shifting presence by her side. “It is captivating,” she agrees, turning her gaze over the new leaves taking residence on the once-bare branches. “It is impossible to know it in its entirety - every little thing changes just as you’ve studied it. A leaf falling or growing, new shoots, a piece of fruit...” She trails off, leaning against a tree and cutting her gaze back to Raum. The change in subject was abrupt but not unwelcome, a familiar path.

“I suppose it is for similar reasons as to why I love this garden. They keep changing.” She smiles, thinking again of the resilience of the mortals, of the adaptability that has brought them here. “I don’t need them to love me in return. It is enough to simply learn from them and help them grow.” This is where she had differed from her Creator - where she still seems to differ from her fellow angels. Where she differed from the demon before her, she assumes. The heart of Raum was shrouded in mystery that she sought to unravel, one small conversation at a time. “The tree does not thank the farmer for planting it, for tending to it, but the farmer does not feel slighted by this. They invest their work, and in time they make something beautiful, like this garden.”

I think you are:

I think you are:

I think you are:

I think you are:

I think you are: