𝕒𝕞𝕠𝕣 𝕤𝕒𝕔𝕒 𝕒𝕞𝕠𝕣

In the beginning was GADRIEL, an ANGEL loyal to the cause of the ANGELS. She is said to be IMMORTAL and uses SHE/HER pronouns. In this New Testament she serves as a MEMBER of the VIRTUES. Blessed be her name.

THE INDELIBLE MARK.

When she was named the Virtue of Temperance she thought that surely it was another means of punishment under the guise of an honorific title. But the subjects of the kingdom of Caelum trusted her to use her zeal to protect them, to ensure the sanctity of their people. As the Virtue of Temperance she also serves the seer of the Hundred-Eyed God, utilizing her abilities as a means for her protection. Gadriel has the unique ability to manipulate the gravity of the different kingdoms, allowing her to make one feel as though the earth itself is dragging one to its center, or completely untethering them if she so desires. There are those who say that, when they are close to her, they feel lighter – as though they might very well dance among the stars. But the victims she has vanquished have felt the air crushed from their lungs before being smote by her sword. Her ability to manipulate gravity so flagrantly is mitigated when she is unable to concentrate or finds her emotions to be overwhelming. It’s rather difficult to make one feel as though they carry the weight of the world when she, herself, is the one that seemingly holds it on her own shoulders.

THE HISTORY.

It is as though these memories are echoes – fast fading and pale in their colors. She knows that they reside within her, though, because she can still taste the blood upon her lips and still can recall the pain that she had endured before wings had sprouted from her back like branches from a tree. Gadriel is one of the few mortals that has ever had the rare blessing of being rebirthed into an angel – but she was favored, like few others had been, and in her favor God had sought to place her in a position of veneration. She had, after all, suffered and died in His holy name. It had been a terrible death, one that was retold time and time again in hushed whispered and tearful gazes as they recalled her renowned devotion to a God that did not hear His people until long after their blood had sunk into the earth. The ones who had thrown her to the lions were the same ones who had once regarded her as a coveted woman – they had longed for her, lusted after her, and for years she had denied them, invoking the name of God as her one true beloved. Day after day she would kneel before her shoddy altar, face upturned to the God that she could not see, beseeching Him to reveal His will unto her and take protect the souls of those who laid their lives before Him. Such devotion was what few would have deemed as saint-like, but the many sneered at and called utter delusion. 

Again, the memories are fast-fading and pale in their colors. No longer can she recall the pain that seared through the entirety of her being as she was dragged along the streets of Rome, the onlookers jeering and spitting on her dust-covered skin. No longer can she remember the faces that had looked on as the hungry lions roared their discontent, nor can she remember the agony of the claws sinking into her skin. Instead, all she can remember is the metallic taste of blood on her lips. How she had seen the face of the angel just as eternal night encroached on her vision – how their wings had wrapped around her, a sanctuary from the horror that had been her martyrdom. Gadriel ascended and found herself rebirthed as a member of the kingdom of heaven – God’s own visage turning towards her in utter benevolence and love. Among the choir of angels, she was still deemed a saint, her steadfast faith and adoration of the Father of all of creation dwarfing any others in comparison. Upon her lips, one was always likely to find litanies of praise, in her eyes the beatific love for her Father seemed all-consuming. She paid no mind to the earth that she had once come from, nor did she care much for the mortals that continued to suffer and bemoan the hardships that God allotted to them. Why should she? She was in heaven – favored, venerated, and at peace. 

Perhaps it was her once-mortal folly that led her to believe such an existence would have extended on to the horizon of eternity. She had mistakenly thought that such bliss would have been as immortal as she was. She was a Cherubim that was regarded by many of her brethren in high esteem – not once, though, did they think that her loyalty and devotion would waver from God. So, when the revolution was under way, she was carried in its tide and drowning in the undertow, one treacherous angel after the other throwing themself in her way to keep her from clinging to their Father’s side. Gadriel had never been one to wield her sword, but it cleaved through the air, indiscriminate of who might be smote upon its blunt edge, all in the name of her zealous faith in a God who was being overthrown. The tears in her eyes could have drowned whole mountains in their grief, not even the ocean could hope to mimic the fury and grief that teemed within them. And once more, she was dragged before onlookers to suffer the consequences of such blind, steadfast piety.  And once more, Gadriel was forced to endure the agony, pain, and grief that had consumed the last few moments of her mortality. Just as before – Gadriel conquested over it, but no longer because of a celestial savior, no, she liberated herself. 

Before the haphazard court of Caelum she raised her chin and declared her own innocence, beseeching her brethren of the court to consider mercy and forgiveness, temperance and compassion. So moved were they by her impassioned call for compassion that Michael thought of something befitting for an angel governed by her zeal. They clipped her wings and she took it with tight lips and gritted teeth, for there were far worse things in her existence that she had endured. Her wings could regrow, just as the warmth within in heart could for the angels that had persecuted her. In the new world, she found that her untethering from God had served as a means of complete and utter transformation of her being – the Hundred-Eyed God was a far more benign than the one she had once devoted herself to, the world that awaited her was no longer a harrowing thing that might trample her underfoot. The world that was remade at the cost of her idol was one that was ripe for shaping into her own vision of beauty. For so long she has given, and Fate, in turn, has taken from her. But her hands have grown weary from their charity and her spirit has grown vicious in the abuse that it has endured. What is a creature like her to do, when her wounds remain raw and aching, while her heart has grown serrated teeth?

THE CONNECTIONS.

ASMODEUS: Breath. She does not know where his fascination stems from – why his gaze always seems to linger on her, as though he seems short of breath and needs a moment of her attention before regaining it. In truth, the attention that he gives her fascinates her, the ability to undo him with nothing more than a single glance is a point of utter intrigue. Though she holds no warmth in her heart for demons, this one, at the very least, is deserving of her pity. What sadness could he have endured to look at her and be enthralled? She knows the woe that hangs heavy on her shoulders, how the stain of her martyrdom remains with her, still. There is none that could find beauty in it, unless they longed for such melancholy to stain their fingertips whenever they dared to touch her. Asmodeus, still, skirts around her like he fears her touch might burn. She wonders if it will. Secretly, she hopes it might. 

ISOLDE WICKEN: Ward. She thought that being placed as the guardian of the seer might be a means of humbling her haughtiness, of serving as an additional punishment for her foolish loyalty to God. As such, she has remained rather formal when interacting with Isolde – ensuring that there is a certain amount of aloofness to complement her professionalism. But the Gifted mortal has a particular penchant for wearing away at the mountainous walls that Gadriel has put in place. She finds herself smiling whenever they share a glance, biting down on laughter when the seer barely manages to hide a well-deserved scoff when regarding matters of the Holy Land. There is an ease to their relationship – like a breeze sifting through the flowers of a meadow, caressing every petal gently before dissipating. She fears that if she clings to it too tightly, it might crumble to dust before she is able to recapture her heart. 

ARAEL: Heartbeat. There are few among the angels that have taken the time to build something lasting with Gadriel – Arael serving as the exception that proves the rule. The Virtues, of course, are her brother-in-arms, but Arael is far more than that. She is her touchstone and her north star. In the throes of Arael’s grief, Gadriel has ensured that she has remained a constant. Only she can truly remember how potently it can poison one’s heart, how it can overwhelm until one knows nothing but the dark fog that follows in its wake. Gadriel sought to serve as a sanctuary to the other angel, a ward against the onslaught of despair that haunted Arael’s every step. And from such determination birthed a kinship between the two that others would covet, the intimacy that has come forth almost blinding in its purity. The reasons for Gadriel to shed blood is a short list – Arael’s name, though, is undoubtedly on it. 

MAMMON: Trophy. She is never quick to raise her sword or the first to join a battle – having seen so much violence in the span of her existence, she loathes the thought of contributing to it. But when she has, it is as though the world holds its breath when she draws her blade. Mammon is the only survivor of such an onslaught, blow after blow she rained upon them, watching as the vicious look of victory began to give way to confusion, to utter fury at their defeat. In truth, she declared it a draw, amused at the thought of them living on to ruminate on the fact that she had exercised mercy when she could have buried her blood in them to the hilt. There has never been a victory that has tasted as sweet as this, and as the sun rises and it sets, she finds that it grows sweeter still. And when Mammon’s gaze meets her own? It seems completely and utterly delectable.