Prophet Of The Lord

Simon Farmer. Prophet of the Lord. A gay mess. "I feel it in my bones just what the future has in store."

[prophetsimonf-blog]

merciful-love‌:

Jegudiel watched the human carefully, but they couldn’t help but notice something shift in his mood. Had they said too much? Too little? They weren’t too well-versed with humans, they only knew how to forgive them ( and love them ). In reality, God’s creations were complex, they wavered on the line between good and bad, and over time, they changed. It was oddly fascinating yet confusing at the same time for the archangel. 

“Oh, I apologize, I didn’t mean to bring forth any bad memories.” 

Jegudiel nodded at his response, reassuring, “I … I agree with you. This is very difficult.” Leaving God, descending onto Earth, trying to find a ray of sunshine in these dark corners – it seemed impossible at times. But they couldn’t think like that, they had to stay positive, had to be merciful and loving. 

They had to do it, for themselves, and for God.

“Can you tell me what it was like before all this?” They wondered, curious. 

His lips press into a thin line, chapped and dry. He could use a drink. But he wouldn’t want to find one here. The water at Providence Park tastes like purity, he has a feeling everything inside the city limits will taste like damnation instead, sullied by the demonic creatures who live here now. 

The apology soothes him, to an extent. He shakes his head, breath flowing free. “Don’t worry about it. No apology needed.” And he means it, too. It almost surprises him. At one time in his life, he might have held this slight like a grudge. But he has no room for that now, no room for anything other than forgiveness. 

He leans against a wall, trying to relax his shoulders. “Before?” His voice is thoughtful, slow. “I guess it depended. It was...a little awful, sometimes. But so...stunningly beautiful, other times.” He allows himself a smile. “I guess thats humanity for you. Gotta take the bad with the good. Like...the bad is what makes the good shine brighter.”

[prophetsimonf-blog]

angxluriel‌:

A flicker of recognition passes over the man’s face, followed by a moment of confusion. Uriel can almost see the thoughts flitting behind those startling clear eyes, assessing the current situation. Simon Farmer. It’s not a name that particularly stands out to Uriel, but then again human names rarely do stick in their mind. They have never needed to know them on a personal level before. 

     Until now.

Despite their reassurances, Simon still seems uneasy. “I’m Uriel,” they say in response, dispelling their anonymity. They wonder if he’s heard of them before, of the tales spun about their previous visits to Earth. No doubt Uriel was a different creature back then, one who still believed in the good of mankind, and inspired scribes to document their journey.

     Now, they may not even recognise this angel. 

“What role do you play in the end times, Simon?” Their gaze has yet to waver, a sign to show that judgement still hovers over him.

He wonders distantly, as Uriel looks at him, if this is what divine judgement feels like. Like he’s been found wanting already. Uriel, a being of such great power. Such importance. Steadfast and sturdy and pitiless. 

What role does he play? Is he a Prophet, bearing God’s glory? Is he temptation put in place to prove a Messiah worthy or unworthy? He doesn’t know what to say. He shakes his head, just slightly. Attempts to straighten his shoulders. 

“I’m just a man.” He murmurs. “I help Eli.” He allows. “As much as I can. Less now than before, I think.” And its boardering on too much honesty. He knows he isn’t as useful as he was a year ago, or even six months ago. “Its not much, but I do my best given the circumstances.”

[prophetsimonf-blog]

oldtrcths‌:

Verity notes the step back. People scare too easily. Or maybe her friendliness appears more predatory than welcoming. Well, either works for her.

It’s an impressive feat that she doesn’t roll her eyes at the ‘chronically polite’ remark. How can one still think any situation calls for niceties anymore? Her second question would be how this man has survived for as long as he has. 

“No problem. It was a bit of both our faults, wasn’t it?” It doesn’t take a rocket surgeon to tell this man doesn’t want to speak to her. That’s too bad for him. 

Her eyes light up at his answer. “Goodwill? I used to shop there pretty often. Even tried to get a job there.” She runs a hand along the brick wall next to them as she takes another step closer to make up for the one he took back. 

It isn’t even a lie. With how often she traveled and the little work she got from it, Goodwill was a gift from below. Most of the clothes she has now are from there. 

Drawing her hand away from the wall, she glances down at the red dust that coats some of her fingers. “Y’know it’s lucky someone gave that away. It looks real sturdy.” Verity begins to rub her forefinger and thumb together, then looks up again at the man. 

“Sorry, excuse me, you were talking about manners and I forgot all about mine. I’m Verity.” She extends a hand out to him. “Can I have the pleasure of knowing your name?” 

His eyes stick to her like glue. He wants to be careful here. He is distantly aware that he is already getting tired of constant vigilance. 

“Lucky is a word for it, yeah.” A smile. “Lets call it the grace of God.” His fingers are curled tight around the strap. White with the pressure. He thinks if she wanted the medicine, he’d give her some. Maybe not all of it. But god, hes not opposed to sharing with the needy.

His head tilts at the sound of her name. It sets something cold in his stomach that he can’t name, like the echo of a dream he can’t remember. Verity. She feels unknowable. He feels vaguely threatened by her behaviour. 

He just wants to go home. 

“Simon.” He allows, with a nod. “Listen, its nice to meet you, Verity.” A lie. It isn’t nice to meet her at all. Its rarely nice to meet anyone these days. But politeness will always win out when it comes to him. “But I should really be going. I’m expected somewhere.”

[prophetsimonf-blog]

ofwarricrs‌:

Earth is emptier than Michael ever thought it would, nay could, be. Its state is not as its Creator intended. (Or at least, with history as precedent, for Michael can make no claim upon Gods mind). If only the humans could have seen it as it was when it first began: Eden, a true paradise. But it isn’t the brutality of war or occupation that transforms the world into a barren landscape. It is the absence of God. In a decaying Earth, it is harder to feel His touch, to see His influence, to believe. Even here, upon Holy Ground, Michael can feel only ghosts.

It is fortunate then, they think, that their worship is of a different kind. Humans bend on their knees and cradle their books. Angels fulfill their duty and give thanks for being allowed to do so. Both species, they think, love. Love in the ways they know how. Or at least, they did. Michael still feels as if they serve God, it is just perhaps in a different way. A way divinity does not make room for. 

It takes Michael a moment to unlace the intricacies in Simon’s tone, to learn that he is not, in fact, trying to state the obvious - but manipulate his words into a poorly formed joke. So many little human quirks. How can Lucifer hate them so? They wonder. They are far more vibrant than He and I ever could have been. On the sixth day of creation, humanity took its first steps. Today, Michael intends to help them run. 

“I see no lost causes.” They speak not from a place of hope or wishful thinking, but pure fact. The world has seen sorer states than this. It has been devoured by Noah’s flood, torn apart by a serpent in a garden, ravaged when Lucifer fell. And even then, they are not lost causes. Michael rejects the premise itself. Small comfort that is to humanity, who experiences the most misery it has ever known. Hindsight, Michael knows, is not a virtue of theirs. It shall be for the Angels to teach it. 

Slowly, Michael shakes their head. “You’re not. This is a place of worship for your species, not mine.” Angels have no need for temples. Their celestial bodies serve. “Did you come to seek guidance from Him?”

He allows a smile. No lost causes. He likes the sound of that. He doesn’t quite believe it yet, but he knows that he should be making room for hope. Its the end of the world, all rational assumptions should lead him to the conclusion that humanity is helpless now, that there is nothing they can do to change the mind of God. Who, after all, could make a big enough gesture to save all mankind? 

Jesus did. But even that wore off. And a small fear settles in his chest. There’s another messiah ripe for martyrdom, but Simon doesn’t think he has the strength of will to watch that happen to Eli. 

“Guidence...kind of, I guess.” He gives Michael a nod. Its hard to vocalise, what he wants here. But words come out with honesty regardless. Like a confession. “Its...harder than I thought it would be. Feeling the absence.” 

A moment of silence. He wonders if they feel the same. He wonders if they’re here looking for connection too. “I just wanted to feel close to Him. Like He was still...” He trails off, uncertain. Like he was still here. Like he still loved us. Like he was still watching. 

He feels embarrassed, then. He knows he shouldn’t. If anyone will understand, its an angel. “I was going to pray.” He admits. 

[prophetsimonf-blog]

elimarkos‌:

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.”

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. 

[prophetsimonf-blog]

abvddcn‌:

The darkness inside of her oozed out of her like a black hole, whether Abaddon wanted it to or not; that’s why it was imperative for her to have a character so pure looking, so angelic that she would be able to fool even the smartest of humans — even if their heads were, to her belief, filled with nothing other than sand.

At his invitation, Agnes let a small smile appear on her lips, glad to know a stranger would be so kind as to help her. Abaddon, on the other hand, wanted to drink a glass of blood and cackle. Slowly, but surely, she would get the man’s trust and with that trust, came one way into the prophet’s life.

“Are — are you sure? You must have other things to do, I’ll be fine, really. I’m sure there are no monsters in the dinner.” Although Abaddon let her words come out as genuine as she could possibly manage, they had an underlying intention: there would be monsters in the diner and even with her protests, the man would want to accompany her.

It was the perfect guilt trip. “I don’t want to impose.”

“Its no imposition, really.” He insists. Of course he does. 

He can’t help thinking of the night that changed his life for good. Sitting across from someone in a diner, a moment of kindness, selflessness. 

And they live now in a world where paying it forward means so much. Where for some people, it could mean everything. The night is too hot, full of horror. Monsters lurk around every corner, willing and able to tear people limb from limb if they want to. 

He doesn’t want to be the reason for somebody elses blood staining the concrete of the pavement in this town. He inclines his head, motions her forward. “I need something to keep me going right now, anyway. We can hang around until its a little...safer.” 

[prophetsimonf-blog]

merciful-love‌:

They were pleased to be recognized – because it meant that the precious human had known about God. About the angels. About everything. Which meant there was hope, a chance for redemption as the world surely deserved to be saved ( to be given another chance, to be forgiven ). 

Jegudiel stepped towards them, their hands patting his head, calming reassuring, “ – you are forgiven. I’m sure you must have many of your father’s traits. He must have been a good man, like yourself.” 

“Yes, we surely have our work cut out for us,” the archangel acknowledged, knowing none of this had been a simple mission. “Gabriel will find us if we wait long enough. And while there are many others to save, you, too, are important. How have you been with … all this?” 

It was easy to focus on the lost souls instead of the ones that were already on their side, fighting for the cause. Moral had to be uplifted everywhere, including within their own group. 

His heart goes cold, is the thing. He feels, not for the first time in his life, like his insides are glass –– ready to shatter at any second. I’m sure you must have many of your fathers traits. It forces him to think on the matter. He hopes he isn’t like his father. So much hatred in the name of Faith, any sin deserving of nothing more than cruel words and strong fists. Repentance in the shape of bruises. 

Simon hopes he isn’t like his father. 

He loves God. He does. But not enough to hurt anyone else in the name of proving it. He swallows. Thick. Clogged in his throat, the words don’t come easy. “He’s gone now. It doesn’t matter much.” 

He glances away. Uncertain. “I mean, if you think so.” It makes him anxious, the prospect of just waiting. The question surprises him, makes him have to think again. “I’m doing as good as anyone can be, I guess. Its...hard. Its one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to face.”

[prophetsimonf-blog]

ofwarricrs‌:

TIME: dawn PLACE: st. jude’s church STATUS: open

Learning, to an Angel, is a strange thing. Created whole, they are fully fledged from the beginning, in no need of instruction nor education. They understood time before its formation, animals before their creation, love before there were any humans to care for. Now, a thousand thousand years later, their mind is a map. Within, civilizations long fallen rise once more and dead languages come to life, only a moment away from manifestation. They are everything. And yet, from this Earth, Michael has learnt this: it is the simplest things in life that provide solace. 

A dawn, a ruined church, battling against the tide. They are little, but in a world such as this one, they mean the most. 

The sun streams down, stubbornly persisting. Even Lucifer cannot drown it out. And then, a pang. He probably enjoys the kinship. Bright for bright. A star for a star. Their eyes search the cracked church, looking for…they do not know. Their Holy Father? They don’t need to see Him to know He is here. He is always here - both watching and within. 

Distracted, they almost miss the footsteps to their side. Mere inches from holy ground, outside the confines of the church, it could be friend, or foe. The thought doesn’t shake them. They are Michael. That means something.

Instead, they call out. “Come to observe the virtues of human grit and tenacity too?” For what else can you call this place? Its struggle is beautiful, divine. 

He finds comfort in the walls here. Maybe he shouldn’t. Its practically a ruin, but still, it stands tall. It reminds him of Eli. It reminds him of himself. His shattered faith, the thing he rebuilt slowly over time. It feels like God has left this place, but Simon knows He hasn’t. And if God hasn’t abandoned this building, maybe God hasn’t abandoned him either. 

He feels wrong –– interrupting someone else, breaking such a reverent silence. But he feels possessive of St. Jude’s too. Its a place that calms his mind, calms his beating heart. When he feels hopeless, he finds his way here. He spent so long trying to drink the very voice of God out of his head, trying to corrupt his body until the divinity burned out of him. He was frantic with it then. Love for God. Hatred for God. Loneliness. Devotion. He wants a drink now, so badly it aches. Wants to be high out of his mind. Wants to demand more of Eli’s time, but knows they both have work to do. 

St. Judes keeps him away from the drastic things his body will never stop yearning for. Sets his mind back on the right course. He can think clearer within cold stone walls, gazing up at the cross still hanging. 

He pulls in a breath, hesitant, and makes sure his voice is soft and quiet when he speaks. You should never raise your voice in God’s domain, that was what his father had beat into him. “St Jude.” He sighs out. “Patron Saint of lost causes. It seemed fitting.” 

Its a rough attempt at a joke. A wry commentary at their current state of affairs. They all feel like lost causes, now. And then, quieter, tinged apologetic in the way he has always conditioned himself to be. “I didn’t mean to...interrupt you.”

[prophetsimonf-blog]

elimarkos‌:

     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.”

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. 

[prophetsimonf-blog]

abvddcn‌:

Abaddon was no fool; she knew exactly who she was talking to and she knew exactly what character to play. She knew exactly what to say and how to act. There’s no doubt that her very presence spread a cloud of doom for what seemed like miles and Abaddon knew the prophet ought to be feeling something as he stood close to her. Abaddon’s play was clear: she had to make him doubt his own gut feeling by acting so angelic that Heaven would curse itself for not having an entity as pure as her. 

It was ironic, for she believed there were not many souls that were more tainted than hers and that made her feel proud. 

You know what they say about necessity. It breeds stupidity and, in turn, that stupidity made for some amazing opportunities for Abaddon to spread her own version of fun. “They say a lot of things.” Abaddon simply spoke, letting Agnes come forth and take place — even the name was meant to plant some sort of comfort upon the ears of those that heard it, on the tongue of those that spoke it. 

“I’ve always heard that hope breeds eternal misery. And right now, there’s enough misery going around, don’t you think?” Even speaking those words made Abaddon want to laugh at how she was able to come up with such things; she was an artist, wasn’t she?

At his question, Abaddon smirked on the inside — Agnes, however, let out a sigh and bit her bottom lip, avoiding letting her own dark eyes meet his. “I — it’s complicated.” The brunette spoke, an innocence so contagious it put saints to shame. “My roommate and I… we got into a small fight and I don’t really want to go back just yet. I don’t know where else to go. At least for the night.”

Its wrong. Something in the air. A darkness, cloying and intense and inescapable. He’s felt it so often, nowadays. Its like it lives in the very air around them. Like New Zion is a beacon of darkness, instead of the shining city it should be. 

A beacon of sin. He did his fair share of it, here.

But its right, too. Something about her calling him into service. Like the lost souls him and Eli would help. Buy them a meal, a cup of coffee, sit and listen to their stories. he wonders what her story is, the full one. Where she came from, why she’s settled here, how such a sweet thing can live in a world like this. 

She doesn’t know where to go, and it makes his chest ache. He knows how that feels. Back in the day, he would have brought her home. Let her sleep in his bed while he crashed on the couch. He can’t bring her back to Providence Park. Not without talking to someone else first, anyway. 

Not tonight.

He sighs, quiet, heavy with the weight of it. “Uh, that sucks.” Uncertain, then. “I think theres a diner open, down the street. Let me buy you a cup of coffee, get you inside for a while, or something.” 

[prophetsimonf-blog]

angxluriel‌:

Humans are such fragile things. The one before them has frozen, a stance that suggests he may bolt at any moment. What do they fear? Uriel wonders. Their own end? Having lived in Heaven for so long, Uriel can’t begin to fathom why the humans would be afraid of the closing of life, not when it leads through the heavenly gates to Paradise. All they have to do is believe. But, alas, so many do not. 

Taking a few steps, Uriel emerges from the shadows, standing in a pool of amber lamplight. The man’s face looks familiar; they must have passed each other in Providence Park, or else St Jude’s. Uriel studied the face before them, the bright eyes, the strained lips. Is this man a believer? A lightness about his energy suggests that he is, but they can’t deny that he looks older than his earthly years. And sins do tend to age the humans.

     We shall soon see. 

“I’ve seen you before,” they say boldly. “In the Park, where the Apostles rest. What is your name?” And, hoping to prompt the man to let down his guard: “I won’t harm you. It would be unnecessary, seeing that someone else may well do so instead.”

His eyes inch over them. Serious expression. Powerful aura. A familiar face. He recognises them, thats the shaky thing. Their face, he’s seen it before. In the old stone walls of St. Judes, the singular time he’d been there. The minister, with kind voice and soft hands. 

And the second glimpse, at the Park. Gone before he could crane his neck and look again. This person does not feel soft, does not sound like the woman he had seen give a Church service once upon a time. This is something else. Something new. 

Someone new. 

Mind moves quick. Angels need hosts. Hosts are often the most devout members of society, sacrificing life and body to play vessel of divine light. 

This is an angel.

He isn’t sure which one. It calms him, none the less. He tries to sound confident when he speaks to them. “Simon.” He tells them, voice only quavering the slightest bit. “I’m Simon Farmer.” 

It sounds lacking when he says it. Like it isn’t enough on its own. He sounds lacking. Just a man named Simon. He wants to add: I’m a prophet of the Lord. He can see himself doing it in his mind, shoulders straight, voice confident. 

It would feel like a lie now, so he leaves it out.

[prophetsimonf-blog]

merciful-love‌:

“Gabriel,” they softly repeated, smiling at the mention of their fellow angel. This had been a sign that this precious human had, indeed, been on their side of the war. A side full of light and love, of second chances and hopeful wishes. A side that God would, given all their prayers, forgive. Jegudiel stepped closer towards the human, pulling back the hood covering their head. 

“Simon, what a pleasure, my name is Jegudiel,” they introduced, revealing themselves. “Although, you may call me Judy.” 

Jegudiel had been fond of nicknames, it provided a sense of familiarity. And after descending  towards Earth, they almost felt like they didn’t deserve to be called by their rightful name, the one chosen by God … the very God they had betrayed. 

Jegudiel shook his hand, adding, “perhaps we ought to go look for them, these streets seem very … harsh.” 

A smile, soft and gentle. Recognition. “Jegudiel.” his voice is as soft as the smile. “Angel of Mercy. I know you.” And embarrassment floods him then, at having said that. It’s half true, but still an exaggeration. He’s just overtaken by them –– their beauty, a kind face. Simon is less scared than he was a moment ago. 

“Sorry ––” Its bashful, sweet with relief. “My dad was... he was super into Angels. All of it. And well, I saw a lot when ––” He cuts himself off, a sting in his chest at the absence of God, absence of visions. He can’t bring himself to say I saw a lot when God still liked me. 

A glance around, amused. “Harsh is a word for it, yeah.” A nod. “Gabriel is pretty tough though.” Smiling again, bright at the thought. Gabriel is totally his favourite angel, so far. “I think maybe they just got busy. Like...you know. So much to do. So many to save.” Its rueful, even though he doesn’t mean it to be. “And i’m just one guy, I figured they thought I could...wait.” 

[prophetsimonf-blog]

miixedbreed‌:

       His eyebrows raise as the other speaks, eyes cutting to the falter in the others steps. Unease, fear, hesitancy…these were the first things he learned. Watching the family of this vessel navigate a world that seemed to be crumbling down around them. He would copy their movements; the heavy weight of their shoulders and their furrowed eyebrows over and over till he looked the picture of worry. He might not be quite perfect with his human façade but this? This he knew how distinguish.

      Its not surprising in the least, the night is already turning dark. Its nearing the time where family members disappeared and businesses were raided. A rough time for even the most prepared.

      He watches as small group of people walk hastily past the entrance to the street, back lit by the street lights, clearly in a hurry. The city around them is alive, hearts beating and vigilant. There’s laughter at seemingly nothing, coming from a man slowly walking past them. His eyes cut from the stranger to the man walking past, unafraid to make eye contact like so many. His head cocks to the side. “And where’s home? Maybe I’m heading in the same direction.” Give him a break he’s bored and has no ill intentions really. He likes fun and excitement, needs it like a drug, but this person clearly has nothing fun about them.

      “I’d hate for something awful to happen to you all by yourself.” He has no ill intention. Never been one for torture, its still a relatively new concept to him, something he’d never witnessed before falling. Or for any other general harm of others unless there’s something in it for him and really what would he get from this? A bottle of pills he’ll never need? Useless. 

 On paper he’s doing everything right, shoulders down, hands on show and worry on his face. His smile is less comforting stranger and more like a loaded gun, teeth white even in the dark light. He doubts stranger will bite, he’s almost hoping he does, what is he doing? Attempting to gain information? Since when does he actually do anything Lucifer wants him to do? This is a first.

Simon is a man with experiences. Sketchy situations are no stranger to him. Weird guys, sketchy guys. Uncomfortable guys. But this isn’t quite the same. For all intents and purposes, this man seems genuine. But there’s a feeling in Simons gut that he can’t shake. 

Weird guys. Sketchy guys. Creepy guys. It doesn’t feel inherently malicious, but he’s still on edge. Providence Park is a sacred thing to him. Salvation, a refuge. A quiet space in a loud world, brought to him by angels. It’s a secret, and he needs to keep it that way.

“Well, i’m a big boy.” He murmers, trying to project confidence. “I can take care of myself. And home is –– Well, far enough. Farther than you’d be going, I assume.” And he can, take care of himself, that is. He did it for a long time. All alone in the world, so often lost and so often cold, drunk or high half the time. But he never got badly hurt and he always made it through the night. 

Sure, Eli is a big reason he’s here now, but he did most of the heavy lifting on his own. He’s a big boy, he can face the world alone if he really has to. 

Eye contact. Direct. Confident, he can do that. “I should be just fine. But thank you, for the offer.” 

[prophetsimonf-blog]

oldtrcths‌:

Hunger is not a new feeling for Verity. Before the world was shown Lucifer’s light, she couch surfed and worked minimum wage, during the best of times. The days she had to fast to pay for a motel room appeared to be a trial to train her for the future she now resides in. But she isn’t on her own anymore, which means her needs is not what she needs to worry about. Some fellow worshippers led more comfortable lives, and she can’t blame them for wanting to eat and drink once a day. 

She volunteers eagerly to be the one to scout for supplies, humming as she walks down the streets of New Zion. There’s a switchblade she’s had for years that sits snugly in the pocket of her jeans, in case anyone invites her kind of trouble. 

No one’s blinked an eye at her. Everyone is too absorbed in their own selves, wallowing in self pity or praying for a god who won’t come for them. On her way back, she’ll stop next to them. She’ll ask if they wish to be saved, and if they do they should stop asking for a glowing, feathery beings help from above. The answer is far below. 

Do you wish to be on the right side of this war? Or casualties for the lord, who care not for you?

Her current goal is food, medicine, and anything else that can help them survive. Stealing is no issue. The trouble comes when she’s fighting other people for their scraps, and she isn’t going to fight fair. 

As she’s about to turn the corner, she raises an eyebrow at the person in front of her. He’s not familiar in the slightest. “What a mundane problem we have here,” she shows all her teeth to the man. “A bit different, though. Usually when people run into me, they don’t even say sorry. And you look white as a ghost for almost walking into me,” she laughs, taking a step forward. “Nice bag, by the way.” Her eyes flick down to the overfilled tote. “Where’d ya get it?” 

He keeps his distance, careful. Embarrassed. But he knows that he can’t underestimate anyone these days. He feels white as a ghost, so she must be right. 

A small step back, smile shaky and aiming at bashful. “What can I say? I’d uh –– I’d apologise to a wall if I walked into it. Chronically polite.” 

A pause. And then, to back it up. “Sorry, anyway. For the near collision. Wasn’t looking where I was going.” 

She takes a step forward, and he thinks he knows her type. Tougher than he is. He never was the macho sort of guy. He knew what he was good at and what he wasn’t. 

He angles the bag away from her regardless, eyes guarded. He doesn’t want to talk to her, but he’s never been good at disengaging. Years of following Eli around on his ministry conditioning Simon to hear out every soul he meets. 

“Goodwill.” The answer is stiff, but true. Nearly everything Simon owns is secondhand, from charity shops or the like. 

[prophetsimonf-blog]

abvddcn‌:

All Abaddon wanted to do was kill, destroy, spread hopelessness and use that to her gain; to Lucifer’s gain. However, the Knight of Hell knew she wasn’t out of hell because her King wanted an executioner. No, no — she was much better than a head collector. Abaddon was on Earth to play the long game, to fool everyone around her with her angelic-looking vessel and destroy them from within. And when that came to be and was not just a desire in her head, a wicked smile would spread across the vessel’s face and everyone would know they had trusted the wrong pretty face.

New Zion’s streets were captivating, in a way. Two blocks down, the rustling of nightlife was but a child learning to walk; it was young, filled with spirit and drunk, stupid humans; what Abaddon wouldn’t give to influence every last one of them to drink themselves into a coma, perhaps even as far as the sweet embrace of death; more souls to torture and more numbers to their side. 

That was not their plan, however. Not now. They had to be smart. They had to be cunning. They had to be patient. Abaddon was two of those three things, though she could feign patience until it had been tested far too much. 

Coming across a face she didn’t particularly feel attached to nor was she a complete stranger to the sight, the Knight of Hell grew intrigued. Before anything, the Knight picked up the phone she had stolen and pretended to be on a call. Turning around, as if startled by the noise, the demon let Agnes take over; truly, if demons were eligible for an Oscar, she would wipe the floor with everyone else, she was sure of it. 

Furrowing her eyebrows, she tilted her head and kept her observant eyes on the other. “Isn’t it a bit late to go on a shopping run?” Agnes observed aloud before offering him a small smile, a kind one. One that lit up her eyes and rouged her cheeks. Innocence personified, really. “I heard there are all kinds of fiends out and about these days. Makes up for good campfire stories, don’t you think?” For all he knew, Agnes was a non-believer, a skeptic that took none of it seriously.

He keeps his eyes on her, sharp. His heart is still beating too quickly, adrenaline hot in his veins. He’d been ready for the worst, here. He’s heard the stories. Demons wandering the streets, killing any living thing they see. Hell –– and god, no pun intended there –– he’s seen the blood splatters, still wet, on the stone walls that made up so many buildings in New Zion. He’d been sick to his stomach, almost shaking from it. Guilt mixed into everything he did now, the feeling of abject failure. 

He and Eli had been going to save the world together, after all. Look at them now.

He keeps his eyes on her, and feels something uncertain spread in his stomach. She’s just a girl, he thinks. Young. He’s seen his fair share of this too. Youthful faces that still manage to feel invincible even in the face of hellfire and damnation. People blaming all of this on terroroists or god knows what else. 

He lets out a slow breath, keeps his distance. “Well, you know what they say about necessity.” Its true. He’d rather be home, but needs must win out. Medicine benefits the many, his own safety benefits no one but himself. And then, the guilt again. 

“I dunno.” He murmurs. “I’d kill for a campfire story instead of all this.” 

A step closer, concern for her sparking low in his stomach. She’s so small. So young. Who knows what could happen. “Are you...sure you should be out here right now? Do you need me to walk you somewhere?” 

[prophetsimonf-blog]

merciful-love‌:

“No need to worry, all is forgiven,” Jegudiel replied, smiling at him. Apologies made the heart feel lighter, the soul letting go of all its burdens ( of all its sins ). It gave them hope to see that the stranger hadn’t reacted with hostility or rudeness – instead, they were both two wanderers that simply happened to run into each other. 

An unwarranted crash, a sudden encounter. What could this mean?

Their eyes lit up once he mentioned Providence Park, already wanting to go back to the holiness of it all. To their fellow angels, making sure that the other divine beings were doing well amongst all this chaos ( even if Jegudiel had only left for a few hours ). They couldn’t help it – they didn’t want to lose anyone. Especially since they had left God behind. 

“I am, it is – home.” The angel had descended from the heavens, they needed to find a new place to call home. And Providence Park seemed to be fulfilling that wish. 

“Are you from there, too? Are you lost?” They asked, curious about what the human knew. 

A deep breath in, a feeling of calm. They were odd, but Simon couldn’t help feeling at ease, a comfort to there presence. 

“Home.” He breathed. Home, as a steady place, is a strange concept. For the last few years his home has been the passenger seat of Eli’s car. Motel room after motel room flying by them. Eli’s hand on his shoulder. Home has been a person. 

But Providence Park is his now too, he supposes, for the duration of this mess. “Not lost, so much.” He spares a glance around. “Gabriel was supposed to find me, to bring me back safe. But I don’t know where they...well, wandered off to.” A wry smile, and then, bashful. “But damn, i’m being rude, sorry.”

He reaches a hand out, steady and ready to shake. “I’m Simon. Simon Farmer.” 

[prophetsimonf-blog]

merciful-love‌:

Jegudiel pulled the hood of their jacket over their hair, as if it shield themselves from the sight in front of them. New Zion. Humans, all running, all scavenging. No ounce of love or mercy hiding in these dark corners, causing their heart to ACHE. 

Perhaps they should’ve stayed in Providence Park a little longer.

Perhaps they weren’t ready for the reality of it. 

Instead, Jegudiel merely clutched the cross necklace that had been donned around their neck, whispering prayers as they lurked throughout the streets. They hoped that God could hear them, they hoped that all would be forgiven. 

They hoped, and hoped, and hoped. 

So blinded by faith that the archangel hadn’t even noticed that they ran into another lost soul. They recoiled immediately , shoving the necklace underneath their shirt, quickly admitting, “ –oh, forgive me.”

“You gave me a freight.”

Simon feels relief flood through him once the collision takes place. Something about this person sets him at ease. While he’s spent the last few hours on edge, praying and hoping that he’ll get home alive, he doesn’t feel like he has to worry anymore. That might be a mistake. This could be a trick, but somehow he’s sure it isn’t. 

They seem like a kind soul. 

He lets out a breath. “Ditto. I mean –– me too. You gave me a fright.” Understatement. He’d thought this was gonna be the end for him. “I’m sorry. About running in to you?” 

A shake of his head. And then he takes a closer look at them. Kind face, kind eyes, kind aura. Familiar. Safe. He feels like maybe he glimpsed them at Providence, that old run down farm he’s already longing for. “You’re –– From the Park, right?” He hopes hes right. He prays that he’s right.