ready to suffer & ready to hope

Eli Markos / messiah / he-him

[elimarkos-blog]

angxluriel‌:

It certainly seems as though Eli could use a boost of morale. Uriel can’t help but feel his dread emanating off of him like waves. Yes, the future here on earth does seem bleak. But they have so much beauty to look forward to, if only they set their hearts upon the stars. The pain that you’ve been feeling, can’t compare to the joy that’s coming. It’s a passage that Uriel stands by when confronted by their siblings. God has so much more in store for the faithful. 

     “You shouldn’t need each other for morale,” Uriel says with a shrug. “You should be searching for Him. That is where you will find strength.” 

They turn a sceptical eye upon Eli, wishing to test him further, to see the extent of his devotion. Even if it makes him uncomfortable. 

     “Do you speak of God when you help your people?”

     “He abandoned us, in case you’ve forgotten,” he snaps -- he doesn’t mean to, but it comes out anyway. “You think none of us are searching for Him? He’s gone, that’s why all of this is happening, and I can’t tell my people to sit around and wait for death just in case they find Him there, again.”

It’s true, every word of it: it doesn’t matter what Uriel knows. God is gone -- even Simon has stopped having visions, stopped telling prophecies. God never once spoke to Eli himself, and so Eli understands the feeling of absence well, knows how to persist without it, but he can’t say as much for the people who have chosen to follow him. It’s not human nature, to continue on, like this, without despair.

     “Of course I speak of God. I speak of little else but Him. But my people are people. They’re human, and sometimes they need something tangible to keep them going. Can you blame them for that?”

[redgifs-deactivated20211128]

[elimarkos-blog]

angxluriel‌:

It’s like he’s talking to himself, convincing himself that his actions are not in vain. The words come out a little thin, as though they’re costing him something. It betrays his mortality. And yet: my people. The phrase stands out to Uriel. Despite Eli’s obvious exhaustion and worry, there’s an irrefutable commitment he has for those under his care. And this commitment may not manifest itself as brightly or as magnificently as God’s light, but it does not seem to be going anywhere. It drudges on with the war, slow but steadfast, keeping the ground still beneath weary feet. 

     So the messiah is jaded, but he still goes on. Is this the charm of the human spirit? 

“On the contrary, I think you’ll find that they are. Why else would they leave their heavenly home into this bloody mess? I certainly opposed to it, but you and your people seem to have a magnetic pull over my siblings.” They can’t help but let a sliver of irritation come through their voice. It is certainly regretful for Uriel that there is now a divide amongst the angels, but that regret is nothing compared to their shrewd disapproval.

     A short sigh. “But logically speaking, you’re right. The more, the merrier.”

He’s never thought of the angels this way. They have always been a force he didn’t attempt to understand, something he just accepted for what they were, divine light and purpose, each completely different and yet nearly all of them so giving, so quick to come to humanity’s aid. He’s always assumed they had their own agendas, that their goals just happened to align with his. That Uriel’s don’t seem to should prove that. And yet, he can’t help but wonder at their question: why else would they leave? Why else bother to help humanity if not for the same reason he does?

     “It’d be good for morale, either way,” he says, and he hates breaking down his decisions into practical things like that, but he knows he has to. Not just to justify them to Uriel, but to weigh their different needs, to make smart decisions about what would be most important, what they needed to focus on.

He misses the ease of his old ministry, seeing people and helping them without playing into some calculus of strategy or worrying about wasting time. He misses the world, before it was over. But then again, he supposes just about everyone does. 

[elimarkos-blog]

prophetsimonf‌:

He can’t help the small, content sound that escapes his lips when he feels Eli’s fingers in his hair. An intimate touch, one he’s still getting used to. Fingers against sensitive skin on a touch staved body. 

He can’t help the way he nuzzles into it, either. “S’okay. Would have ignored you if I wanted to.” And he could have. He’s learned to take sleep when he can get it, now. Exhaustion weighing him down at all hours. He could have rolled into the warm space of Eli’s body and drifted away again. But he’d rather be here, awake, leaning on him.

Simon lifts his head slightly, tilting more into Eli’s fingers. A soft hum. “Bring me some too?” He asks, quiet. Its underhanded, probably. An excuse for Eli to come back, and soon. He never claimed to be above underhanded gestures, after all. 

There is a part of him, larger than he’d like to admit, that feels guilt, about all of this-- he feels as if the world ending was meant to be a sign, as if perhaps what he should have done was forsake these creature comforts, this selfish kind of love, in favor of something more productive. But every time he thinks it, Simon says something, or looks at him, or touches him, and he remembers Simon’s words, that first night, remembers the choice he made for himself and all his hundreds of reasons, and he can’t manage to sum up any kind of regret or ill feeling, couldn’t atone if he tried.

Instead, just now, of thinking about that feeling, he leans forward, pressing his lips against Simon’s, pulling him close, leaning into the taste of sleep-breath, the chapped texture of Simon’s lips, the heat of his body. 

     “Yeah,” he says, before he pulls away to stand up. “Yeah, of course. I’ll be right back, alright?”

[elimarkos-blog]

merciful-love‌:

“We have survived, and will continue to do so, because the world is too beautiful to let it perish,” Jegudiel added, looking at the sunrise. The way the colors all blended together, greeting the Earth, signaling the start of morning – it was heavenly. They had seen the sunrise from Heaven many times, but down here it was different.

Down here it meant something. Something relating to war, and victory, and loss ( and love ). 

“Any big plans for the day, Eli?” 

     “It’d be nice, it if were easy to think that positively at any other time of the day,” he admitted, but nonetheless-- a single moment of hope, however brief, could be enough to keep people going for much longer than anyone could anticipate. It was the only thing that had gotten them this far, to begin with.

     “We’ve got supply runs we need to make, into the city. And I’ve been meaning to stop by St. Jude’s, if I get the chance.” Each day, these days, felt interminably long, and yet, there were never quite enough hours in any given day to do everything that needed to be done. He’d been meaning to stop by St. Jude’s for longer than he cared to admit, without ever making it there uninterrupted. 

[elimarkos-blog]

abvddcn‌:

The Messiah was right about one thing: they wouldn’t be able to outrun the demon that was supposedly after her, especially if he was actually hunting the human down. Lucky for the human, however, if any demon even dared to hunt her vessel down without knowing who was inside, they’d be the one lying on the floor, eyes burned out — and that’d be a merciful kill. 

Nodding her head, Agnes did as she was told and got inside; she even waited for the human to get inside before she closed the door behind her and, of course, looked around in an effort to show the other that she wasn’t an empty-brained young girl, that she had the potential to be an asset. Pushing a random piece of furniture in front of the door, all Agnes wanted was to buy them some time — Abaddon? She wanted time to leave a mark in the Messiah’s memory.

“There. That should buy us more time, right?” The girl asked, looking at the older man for some sort of reassurance or a better idea if her own was shot down. 

Letting her breathing calm down, the girl looked around them, trying to let her eyes get used to the darker room, what was around her and if they were completely and utterly alone; Abaddon was good at playing scared, at playing the lost lamb — that’s why she chose her vessel’s carefully; it was half the work done for her. 

“Do you think they’re gone?”

     “Yeah, that’s great, that should help.”

The room they were in was dark, but as his eyes started to adjust he could see that it was some kind of storage room, the back room of some shop or defunct bar or something like it. The clutter was good -- it’d take someone chasing them a while to follow them through what was a veritable maze of crates and boxes and shelving units, but he couldn’t let that appease him, couldn’t afford to assume they were safe until he knew they were safe.

She still looked so scared, and he couldn’t blame her: he’d had very little encounter with demons, or their hell hounds, or any of the other things emerging from the depths of hell and turning New Zion into their playground -- thanks to the Angels, he’d managed to avoid all of that. But he’d seen the aftermath of it, people hurt and terrified. He didn’t want to stumble into one in the dead of night.

     “We shouldn’t assume anything-- there’ll be another door out of here, or a window, somewhere else we can go. There’s... there are safe places, I can take you, if you need. What-- what was it? Chasing you?”

[elimarkos-blog]

angxluriel‌:

The words that slip out are as good as a confession. Although he recollects himself and begins to list off the tasks needed doing, Uriel has seen a true glimpse of the man. Or rather, his worries. It reaffirms to them that he has barely grasped the importance and the honour of being chosen. Perhaps he has not had enough time to process his burden? Uriel purses their lips. Well, he must learn quick, for humanity’s sake. 

But why should they care if he is a good leader or not? God has already instructed Uriel to ensure man’s downfall. No man—not even the messiah—would be able to stand up against the hordes of demons and diseases coming his way. 

     And yet, if Eli truly carries God’s glory wherever he goes, then maybe more deserving souls will reach Him, when the time comes.

“You sound plenty busy as it is. I wouldn’t expect a mortal to be able to do much more,” Uriel replies listlessly. “And why would you need to recruit a doctor? You have powerful servants at your disposable that can heal any affliction. I’m sure Gabriel or Jegudiel is around somewhere. But do not expect me to be so willing.”

There’s an uncomfortable tightness in his throat, all of a sudden, like the shame of getting an answer wrong, like the embarrassment of being judged and found wanting. He feels suddenly defensive, like his hands want to clench in tight fists, and he has to suppress the feeling of frustrated tears behind his eyes. He’s not sure why the reaction is so strong -- maybe it’s lack of sleep, exhaustion. Maybe it’s the all too familiar feeling that he’s got no control in the matter of what he does, that every attempt at charting his own course is a futile and hopeless attempt at nothing at all.

     “I don’t--” he starts, trying to speak around it. It takes him a moment to work through it. “They’re not at my disposal. They’ve got a lot to do. I can’t ask them to spend their time healing every bump and scrape my people get, or every kid sick with heat exhaustion.”

In all honesty, it hadn’t occurred to him to ask Gabriel or Jegudiel to help with the injured -- surely, they had better things to do, surely it hadn’t been a completely wasted effort going out on runs for medical supplies. They weren’t his servants. Just because the God they served was absent didn’t mean they were his for the taking. 

     “Besides, we can use every set of spare hands we can get.”

[elimarkos-blog]

abvddcn‌:

Hey, it’ll be okay, calm down.

Oh, it will be more than okay. All Abaddon wanted to do at that moment was cackle, throw her head back and enjoy the sweet, sweet victory that she would eventually experience. The Messiah, who no doubt had promised himself time and time again that he would protect those that still believe in God, was helping one of the creatures that were the living, breathing opposite of what he believed in

If that wasn’t ironically funny, the Knight of Hell didn’t really know what could be. It was, without a doubt, in the top ten moments of her most recent visit to Earth. 

As Agnes asked of her, the demon stepped closer to the older man, inherently showing that she felt safe near him; it could make him think that even a stranger felt comfortable near him, without knowing who or what it was. It could make him feel even more responsible for her and that’s what Abaddon wanted. 

Letting him take her arm, the Knight couldn’t help but think how different things would’ve gone if she had gone down another road; if she had taken his arm, broken it and used fear as a reason for him to keep moving rather than responsibility. “Where are we going? That door can’t possibly keep that…. that thing from coming in!”

     “Probably not, no, but we’ll have more luck finding something behind that door to stop it than we will trying to outrun it.”

He didn’t know exactly what kind of monster, what kind of demon, was chasing her, but he wasn’t eager to find out. Doors led to buildings, and buildings had hiding places, or other doors -- if they were lucky, they could confuse whatever it was enough to lose her trail, or at least stall it long enough to get her to safety. 

Whatever she’d done to draw it’s attention, he knew that demons and monsters had better things to do these days than go on wild goose chases across the burned out cityscape unless they had good reason.

Clutching his bag close to his side, he rattles the pushbar on the door, finds it jammed and locked in place. So he separates himself from her for a moment, stepping to the side before he runs his shoulder, hard, into it, trying to jostle it free. It’s a safer bet than breaking a window, he thinks, and he’s broken into plenty of locked doors before. He hears the latch beyond click, and pushes one last time to set the pushbar back into place, the door creaking open beneath his hands.

     “Here, get inside--”

[elimarkos-blog]

merciful-love‌:

They found themselves awake much earlier than expected, the night consisting of them tossing and turning, restless. Evening prayers were meant to calm them down, to give thanks for another day. However, recent prayers were filled with them pleading. Begging for forgiveness, for mercy, for love. God couldn’t stay mad at the angels forever … could He? 

They weren’t too sure, but they hoped for the best. Even if it meant losing sleep. Wandering outside, they walked through the wet grass, their ankles getting stained slightly from the mud. To their surprise, they were quickly greeted. 

“Good morning, Eli.”

“We’ve been blessed with a new day, a new start. Nothing can go wrong, at least, nothing can ruin the sunrise.” Nature remained pure, remained untouched ( despite people hellbent on destroying it ). 

There was something about Jegudiel that seemed to match the easy dawn, a peace to them which made it so that speaking to them, or even just being around them, had the same kind of calming radiance, the same awe, as the moment before a beautiful sunrise. Of all the angles, Eli had once thought, Jegudiel was the one he would’ve wanted his grandmother to meet, the one most like the way she talked about angels in her bedtime stories.

     “Every sunrise we see is another day we’ve survived this mess,” he agreed -- the sun would keep on rising, after he was dead, after the whole of humanity was gone. Even on a kingdom of Lucifer the sun would still rise and set. But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t feel grateful every time he was alive to see one more, every time there was still a chance. 

Maybe it was the calming effect that Jegudiel had as they passed by, the gentle influence of their presence, but he found himself smiling, for a moment, thankful for at least one minute of today that wouldn’t be preoccupied by fear. 

[elimarkos-blog]

prophetsimonf‌:

It’s a dreamless sleep. Which in and of itself is a newfound rarity for Simon. He’s used to the visions filling up his nights, sometimes leaving him even less rested than when he fell asleep in the first place. He’s not used to the gentle lull of being pulled awake, but its a nice contrast to the pounding in his head that he had grown accustomed to. 

Eli moving wakes him, but doesn’t startle him. Its a gentle thing. The disturbance of a sleepy peace. He shifts, a sleepily confused sound escaping from his mouth. A soft panic. He doesn’t want Eli to go. 

He leans into the kiss. He isn’t used to this yet. This newfound intimacy. 

     “What’re you doing?” It comes out groggy, confused, head moving to butt against Eli’s shoulder. He hopes it doesn’t sound as displeased as it feels, or as clingy. 

Simon’s voice is thick with sleep, quiet and soft, and it tugs at something in Eli that he's found only Simon can find, some little place in his chest that responds only to the sound of Simon’s voice, or the feel of his hands. Even in the dark, the mess of curls, the delicate lines of Simon’s limbs are hard to look away from, the shadow of his lover silhouetted in subtle contrast against the night. 

He didn’t mean to wake up Simon -- they both need the sleep, and he’s never seen Simon sleep so fitlessly as he’s done since the world began to end. 

     “Couldn’t sleep,” he says, his fingers finding their way into Simon’s hair, and he relaxes back into the bed, propped up on one elbow with the other man’s head finding its way towards his chest again. As he cards his fingers gently through the sweaty tangle of Simon’s hair, the urge to get up and go quells, a little. Maybe he won’t get up, after all; maybe this will be enough to chase the ghosts away. “I’m sorry to wake you. I was just going to get some water.”

[elimarkos-blog]

dolmamuller‌:

–– there he is. eli markos. their wonderful messiah. would-be leader. so, she thinks, gaze landing heavy on his back, this is what i could have been. she has found herself in his ministry now, when she should have - could have - been leading her own. 

jealousy flairs in her, for the briefest of moments. she finds him lacking. she finds herself hungry for what he has. dolma attempts to push all of it aside. she doesn’t like to be an envious person. she has had enough sin in her life now, she does not need to give in to petty things like pride. 

the crunch of her footsteps alerts eli. good. he should be on his guard. 

    “ just confirming my suspicions. ” voice low, tilted quiet in reverence to the early morning light. “ i was afraid i would find you wallowing, and here you are. ” maybe its sharp. maybe its unkind. but he is their leader, and she imagines that he should be doing more. he should be making plans of action, preparing all of them for a war carried out in chaos. 

she sits beside him, hitting the ground with an audible thud. that is how she treats her body now, a tool to be thrown around. it has no other use. “ other than that, everything is fine. ” this is, she considers, quite an untrue statement. she gives him a tight-lipped smile. “ as fine as things can be. ”

Teenage Eli would have looked her dead in the eye, stood up to meet her gaze, and said I’m not wallowing. He’s not -- there’s a difference between wallowing and meditation, between getting caught up in everything that’s wrong and trying to clear his mind, and he’s decisively working on the latter. But there are a lot of things teenage Eli would have done that they won’t. None of them ever felt natural to him, and he hasn’t got the energy these days for disguises. 

     “I suppose that’s all we can ask, right now, all things considered.”

The past few days, the past few weeks, have all been a measure of trying to be grateful for what little is left: grateful for a half a bottle of painkillers found in the back of a cupboard, for a safe place to read their heads, for a little bit of company to help keep the worst of apocalyptic despair at bay. He doesn’t know Dolma well, not yet, isn’t sure what lies behind the tight-lipped smile, what sits at the root of her hostility towards him, but he’s doing his best to give her the benefit of the doubt. They’ve all got baggage. He’s not the only one with a history, here, not the only one afraid. 

     “It’s so peaceful out here, you can almost forget what’s going on just outside the Park,” he says, as she sits down next to him in the dirt. He hates it -- the deceptive quiet of this haven the angels have set up -- hates that he can sleep at night when the population of New Zion cannot spend a moment without fear. But he understands, and he knows it’ll help, once they’ve figured out what to do. 

[elimarkos-blog]

abvddcn‌:

The plan was flawless, in Abaddon’s head. With a mind like a general of the war, she thought the plan through countless times; Azazel was the big bad wolf and all the Knight of Hell had to do was play the part of poor red riding hood, long enough to convince the messiah himself that she was a lost soul, looking for some guidance and help. Both of which only he could give her. 

Shaking her head, her arms and hands, she resembled an actress getting ready to go on stage, relaxing her muscles just enough to be able to incarnate someone besides herself, a character written only in a paper who was meant to come to life.

The demon began running and with each calculated and fast running step, Abaddon began merging into Agnes; a girl that looked like an angel and resembled a lost lamb, with a name that meant someone pure and holy. As far as the Messiah was about to be aware, she was just that. 

Abaddon ran and ran, looking back to see if Azazel was sticking to their part of the plan; it was then that she saw her target and without hesitation walked over to him, with desperation transpiring into her forehead and a hunger for shelter appearing on her eyes, almost as if pleading with only one look. “Thank God,” Agnes breathed out, “you have to help me, please. There’s a — a monster, a demon after me. I’m so scared.” And so good at pretending to be a helpless little girl.

The footsteps weren’t entirely what he’d expected they would be. 

The girl -- she was only a girl, really, couldn’t be much older than twenty, or the fear in her eyes was making her look much younger than she was -- emerged from the other end of the alley and seemed to find him with her gaze like a lasersight. What had he told Uriel he’d be doing? Out looking for those in need, and here she was, begging for his help.

     “Hey, it’ll be okay, calm down.”

He wasn’t out here to tussle with demons, wasn’t out here to get in a fight; he couldn’t afford that, not with so many people at Providence Park relying on him, and relying on the things he had tucked into the bag slung across his shoulder, so he took a moment to look around, looking for anywhere they could hide, a corner to duck into or a dumpster to slide behind. The adrenaline was quick in his bloodstream now, churning up a whirlpool in his stomach as he searched desperately for somewhere to go, but his eyes landed across a door, just ahead of them, just down the alley.

     “Come on, this way--” he whispered, grabbing her by the crook of the arm and guiding her that way, darting across the alley and hoping it would be unlocked. 

[elimarkos-blog]

angxluriel‌:

Eli’s discomfort continues to manifest itself. Uriel suppresses a scoff, and the urge to berate him. Perhaps they shouldn’t have sought out his company. So far they have only grown more frustrated by his inadequacy.

Uriel considers the offer. “Very well,” they say eventually, settling upon a patch of yellowed grass. They sit a dignified distance apart, legs crossed and hands folded neatly. It occurs to Uriel that they might have never touched a human before. And why would they? These naive creatures disappoint Him time and time again. Uriel does not wish to be tainted by that same odour. It is bad enough they have to occupy a human host. 

They turn to Eli, their face a blank slate. To Eli’s credit, he doesn’t appear to loathe or disrespect Uriel. There is merely caution in the way he speaks that is absent when he converses with other angels. At least the boy has decorum, Uriel muses, wondering what to probe first. So many questions, so many doubts.

     “You’re a busy man. What are your plans for your followers today?”

     “I wish I were busier--”

It slips out, a whisper without breath behind it, a half-formed thought uttered before he’s certain he even means it, but once it’s in the air he realizes he does: he wishes there were already some concrete goal beyond survival. He wishes there was a clear path in sight, or even an unclear one, even one hazy and covered over with fog, but right now there is no path of any kind, not until they understand what they’re dealing with, what it means to be abandoned by God.

Instead, he’s left making abstract plans and Eli has never been good with abstracts. He’s always been better with things he can touch, things he can hold in his hands, lists he can make or objectives he can check off. He’s always had an easier time wrapping his head around the people in front of him than the idea of humanity. 

     “A few of us will be out on supply runs -- we need medical supplies, more than anything -- and I’ll lead a few more people out to find anyone who is injured or in need that we can help, or anyone willing to help us. There’s a doctor, I know, who should be somewhere in New Zion, I’d like to try to recruit her.”

[elimarkos-blog]

     location: Simon’s room, Providence Park      time: sometime around 3am           ( @prophetsimonf )

It’s too hot, even at night, for two bodies to be sharing a space this way, but he’s found that lately he can’t sleep alone. Ever since the end of the world, it’s been easier to toss and turn in the sweltering heat, the warmth of Simon’s thin body pressed close by, than to lay awake at night along trying to understand what it all means for him. 

Tonight is no different: sweating beneath the thin sheet that covers the bed, he’s been in the dreamy place between awake and asleep for most of the night, Simon’s sleeping arm draped across him. Half-dreaming of the demons at their doorstep, of the people he couldn’t save, seeing images of strangers, of ghosts, coming to tell him how they died at the end of the world, in hurricanes and forest fires and tidal waves. 

He comes back to consciousness, not so much with a start as with an unpleasant understanding that it’s still too dark in the room to see much of anything, and as he slowly works to extract himself from beneath Simon’s arm without disturbing him -- he needs air, he needs to walk, he needs to do something other than lay here until the dream figures come again -- he feels the other man stir beside him. 

     “Shhh, just me,” he whispers, pressing his lips into Simon’s hair. “Go back to sleep.”

[elimarkos-blog]

angxluriel‌:

They have not spoken much over the last few weeks. Uriel has chosen to involve themself as little as possible with the Apostles’ cause, choosing merely to stand on the fringe and watch. Indeed, Uriel has barely gotten to know the man before them. But they have heard the stories; his helping hand, his generous heart. They often spy him walking around the Park in search of the needy. 

Perhaps for the other angels, this show of devotion would be enough. But Uriel’s standards are of a higher order. They can feel Eli’s uncertainty, the tiredness of having to carry God’s believers to salvation. Uriel questions whether he does what he does out of love for God, or because he likes the alternative even less. 

     Some would say the distinction doesn’t matter. To Uriel, it is a world of difference. 

“I have no personal concerns,” Uriel replies coolly. “The angels concern themselves with all of time and all of God’s creations. At least, they should,” they add with a short sigh, thinking of their siblings. “And no, there is nothing you can help me with. I merely thought it prudent to talk with the messiah at least once during my time here.” 

     They pause, holding his gaze. Then: “I suppose you’ve noticed me watching.”

He flinches at the word messiah, the sound of it like a gunshot ringing in his ears. He doesn’t mean to. It’s not the first time he’s heard it, like this. He doesn’t like to think of it, that way -- it’s something other people have called him, something he ran from once and something he tries to stave off now. He can accept his role, his duty, without accepting the arbitrary meaning others have ascribed to it, he thinks. He can do what needs to be done without anyone feeling like they need to thank him or-- or worship him or whatever else messiah entails. 

He’s not a savior. He’s just a man, trying his best.

     “I have,” he answers. It would be hard not to notice, hard not to see them and feel like he’s been evaluated and found wanting. 

There is an uneasiness between them, and he knows it must be his fault. Angels don’t get uneasy. But whether Uriel means it to or not is lost on him. He can’t read them, can’t see anything past the aura of a disapproving and strict schoolteacher. If they want to talk to them, thought, he’ll let them. He’ll hear out whatever they have to say.

     “Do you want to sit?”

[elimarkos-blog]

     location: the outskirts of New Zion      time: dusk           ( @abvddcn )

They’ve been taking turns, going out on supply runs, looking for anything they might need to bring back to the park, and he insisted his name be put in the rotation like everyone else. Staying in one place, it makes him itchy, makes him restless, to feel like he isn’t doing anything at all is practically torture, especially without a plan of action farther than survive, and so today he’s gone out once the sun was low enough over the horizon that he wouldn’t have to worry about sun stroke, or heat exhaustion. 

He’s keeping to alleys, trying to stay low and out of sight, trying to keep his head down and his nose clean, but it’s only a matter of time before something gives him pause -- a voice, in the distance, but not so far, and then, after a moment, the pounding of footsteps running, like someone being chased.

So he sets his bag down, careful not to spill anything out of it, and presses his back close to the wall, glances behind him in the direction they’re headed to see if he can catch a glimpse of what’s happening without being seen.

[elimarkos-blog]

angxluriel‌:

Providence Park, they’ve called it. It almost makes Uriel laugh. For how long have humans belittled God’s name? They have shirked from it, buried it deep under their own desires and so-called dreams. God is dead, they said. But now that they’ve discovered their Creator has abandoned them, they sing a different song, a song of praise. 

     I’m afraid it’s too little, too late. 

Uriel has a feeling that the great messiah understands this. Why else would he sit so idly, whilst fresh terrors breach the streets beyond the protective sigils? If he truly is a man of God, why does he not brim with the joy of it? Uriel can’t help but find him unworthy of the title. They walk towards him, determined. They want to prove themself right.

“What a complex question for such an early hour,” Uriel replies, standing over him and looking outwards across the land. “I would say, in the grand scheme of things, that everything is fine. At least, it will be. That is God’s promise. As for humanity, on the other hand,” they drawl, their eyes sliding down to meet Eli’s, “things certainly aren’t all right.”

     “It was, um, more of a personal question than a philosophical one,” he answers, looking up at the angel, trying his best not to wither under their gaze. He puts his hands on his knees, ignoring the soil as it stains across the rough old denim there -- they’re all long past caring about the appearance of their clothes, and even this early in the morning the heat of the day means his skin is slick with the beginning of the day’s sweat, sticking at the back of his neck and across his forearms.

He feels like a child, kneeling in the dirt in front of them, a child with his eyes cast down in front of a reproachful parent. He can’t help but feel, around Uriel, like he’s doing something wrong, a twist within his stomach that makes him feel vaguely ill in their company. Every other angel he’s encountered has had a kind of warmth to their grace, but Uriel’s grace is sharp and withering, their calm presence somehow making him understand the old bible verses, the reasons angels always start their messages with do not be afraid.

He is, he has found, afraid. 

     “But, yeah, I guess the state of the world is kind of personal right now anyway, isn’t it. Anyway, uh... did you need something?”