Raphael x Reader: Imagination
*
There had been a time, oh-so-long-ago, when you had believed Lucifer to be the greatest orator of the Archangels.
Surely the First Rebel, the one who had convinced 1/3 of the Host to fall with him- Surely he was the most skilled at speaking.
Upon discovering that Lucifer's eloquence and allure had dimmed after millennia of torture however, you began to consider others.
Perhaps the honour would fall to Gabriel, Patron of Communications, the angel to whom your station manager always prayed before going on air during football games- Perhaps he was the most articulate.
Upon introduction to the Trickster, however, witnessing him cast mini galaxies across his fingertips, casting acquaintances into dimensions of his own devising- You had accepted that the Messenger preferred to relay his meaning through actions over words.
You next considered Michael, the Warrior, the Viceroy. To lead armies in his Father's absence, to have the whole of Abrahamic Creation at his command, surely he must have some skill with a silvered tongue.
It seemed all of your assumptions fell short however, Michael speaking only when absolutely necessary, each syllable cast in careful consideration, minced to perfect necessity.
Of most surprise, it was Raphael, the Healer, who graced you with her words, weaving whimsy whenever she gained a moment away from her eldest brother's side.
She was a wonderful speaker, sharing with you stories of primordial creation and the first breaths of starlight, creating clear images of the foundations of the universe. She shared with you stories of Heaven, of her brothers, of the years before her Father had trapped His Sister, of the epochs before Lucifer's supposed corruption, before the Great War.
Each tale teased further intrigue, each retelling shaping into a more corporeal form. The only limit to your fantasies was your own imagination, painting caryatid columns in nebula, streams trickling in starlight, every hall gilded with greenery and precious gemstones.
You were overwhelmed with longing, an aftereffect of your orator's own nostalgia.
The Golden Age she shared with you, the stories she sometimes shaped into reality against the homely backdrop of your living room-
It was a realm neither of you could visit.
For that era was gone, a life she could not return to, a world you would never know.
But with her guidance, with her support, you would find your own way to preserve it, to share the former opulence and whimsy of the celestial sphere.
*
