#obnb

This is not who I am, you thought to yourself, as you sat up with grievous struggle. Your back feels so, so heavy, as if something is dragging it down even further. The very implications set your heartbeat into a fiery, terror fit. Yet, silent you remain, as you take in your surroundings.

Light surrounds you. Engulfes and encompasses all that you were and will be. You can understand that you're laying atop the softest bed you've ever felt, and it's quite a spacious room —gold and glistening curtains blinding your eyes.

Oh, speaking of eyes. They feel different now. Claustrophobic, in an unexplainable way; you can see everything without having to focus your pupils into a specific area. The amount of details you're processing sets your comprehension into a distress in itself. You clear your throat.

Something is shifting impossibly close to your hearing —which also feel frustratingly sensitive — and your auditory senses quickly conclude; it's not on you, around you, or outside of you, belonging to another.

The noise is within you. It belongs to you, you're the producer and its host. Your breath hitches and so does your body, entirely, it heightens the ruffled, soft noise —oh… it's caressing your eyes and arms.

You dare not look down or behind. You dare not touch yourself. In fact, as you finally bring yourself to your feet and push yourself towards the windowsill, your consciousness forbids you from even processing what you see on its reflection.

You no longer possess pupils to lull them to the side of protection. Illusioning yourself is feeble, after all; every twitch of the protruding, stunningly gentle shift of the appendages around both sides of your ears and back are demanding to be acknowledged, one way or another. (Now you understand what was so heavy on your back. The dead weight cascading along your tailbone and dragging across the floor like a thousand corpses. You just didn't want to face it yet.)

You don't even acknowledge it. Rather, you look outside.

You're in the Celestial realm. Unsurprising to no one, really. It's always so bright there. How do they even live that way, always in the light? Do they not tire of it? Your personal musings aside, you're forced to double away from the beautiful visage as a sharp pang of pain hits all across your body again. It's been like this since you woke up, or, more so —in your state of limbo. You felt it, faintly then, full-force, now.

You could only describe it as your own cells and muscle tissues rearranging themselves. They keep shifting, patching onto another, pulling each other apart and reproducing its essentials to what they now declare a state of perfection.

Ah, also, someone has been incessantly calling your name this entire time. A little after you woke up and walked over.. … .. It's familiar.

“[Name],” it says, again and again. Something shuffles from behind. Your perception takes into account another being, probably of belonging here. (Unlike you.) “How do you feel?”

“Michael,” you say, just barely. Your voice is different, but not as much as the rest of you, thankfully. You lean away from the window and, in a fatigued state, call out the intruder's name once more, just for the sake of familiarity. For a shred of normalcy. “Michael.”

He's been smiling this entire time, but it widens even further upon hearing your voice. “Hello. You recognized me fairly quickly… I have to wonder, how come? But, ah..” He takes you by the arm, gently, and leads your astray form to sit back down on the edge of the well plushed bed. “No matter. Your well-being is more important right now. Now tell me, how do you feel? Are you aware of where you currently are?”

“Celestial.” You say, but the words come out more of a breath than an answer. Your brain spins. Try to finish your sentence. “Realm. In the celestial realm.”

“Good, good. Your name?”

“.............”

“Do you remember your name? I just used it earlier, if that helps.”

You half hum, then startle yourself. You're still not used to the different timbre in your voice. “I remember.”

He hasn't taken his eyes off of you for a moment. More precisely, what's folded into themselves on your back and such. He lifts a hand to gingerly brush an index finger along the ridges of troubled feathers, and you flinch away from the touch enough for his eyes to widen. He retracts his hand and sighs quietly in what sounds like concern, if you're desperate enough for sympathy.

“This process is quite different with who were inherently born into a respective role here.” He says to your keenly listening ears. “We're all Father's children, and such were we raised, despite its complications and risk. The better we understood and developed, the stronger and efficiently were we molded into Father's image eventually. Take Luke for example. He's been ‘living’ for a time that would normally preceed any regular human, but he's still a child. He hasn't grown out his wings in a result of it, as I'm sure you know by now.”

You nod faintly. He continues. “Which is why, [Name], this not only differs from our Father's sacred custom, but your soul and importance have been enough to be amongst us. You weren't initially born into who you are now, [Name], that's why you are in immense pain as of yet.”

“I never,” you croak out through the rearing pain that digs its heels into every open nerve within you. “asked, for this —”

He stands up suddenly. Smoothes down his robes and turns back to you. “For your own sake, [Name], I'll plead you to not finish that sentence. You're in enough pain as is,” he gets on his knees —Michael the Archangel himself, hands on your shoulders. They're warm, a contrast against you, which confuses you —because angels would normally emit warmth — but oh, but ah, you're a little something entirely different, aren't you?

“Rest.” he ushers you onto your back. You wince and bring your hands against your chest reflexively —seems some senses stay rooted within, even as another, huh? “You'll be accustomed to it soon enough, as will the pain cease. Don't think too hard on it for now, alright?”

You'd expect him to leave by now, but he sits by your side instead, his weight dipping the bed sheets considerably. You're aware of his eyes staring at your face. You don't sense any ill intent. They're low lidded, softer than you might have ever imagined. “You probably would've preferred to have Simeon here to take care of you, wouldn't you?”

The mention of his mere name jolts a reaction out of you. You remember Michael words again. Don't think too hard now. If you start to think further, your body will only punish you for it.

“He would do a better job of it, I'm sure.” He mumbles, and you don't quite like the way he allows his hands to so simply run against your cheek, up, and down again. He pauses. “A shame he's no longer allowed here after his treachery, isn't it?”

You don't answer, because there would absolutely be no point in neither wasting your breath, nor getting into verbal sparring with someone like him. He resumes his semi-petting. You don't like the fact that it's actually proving to be calming your torched nerves and aching flesh. Perhaps it's his angelic properties playing part. Or perhaps he's just genuine. Is it that hard to believe, [Name]?

“I don't know why I'm still speaking to you, or why I'm here,” he says. “I think I've been lonely without anyone to speak to for an agonizingly long while, since the brothers and Simeon —even Luke, and Raphael have departed from our sacred palace. Yes, yes… . I've been lonely.”