not quite gamaliel centred, but something they created.
They had learned long ago not to go against any orders they were given, and obeyed for centuries up until the day when Gabriel had returned in shame to heaven, having been defeated by a mere machine.
They listened attentively to the Council’s discussion of what would be done to him, and the moment their name was mentioned, everything they had once kept buried - every retort that had been bitten back, every undone act of protest, every bitter thought and shred of concealed rage - rose to the surface in a bloody outburst. The mere notion of being made to harm the one angel they had been able to confide in and trust was their final breaking point.
The councilors that had been unfortunate enough to try and restrain them would find their limbs fusing and knitting together, flesh melding with fabric and congealing into an inextricable mass.
Gamaliel finally found a window of opportunity to escape for the first time in centuries, in the midst of discordant screams and red haze.
Some nightmares were subtler than others. They were only twitching slightly in their sleep.
A quiet groan.
Brighter than bright.
The room they're in is a cold, sterile white - hazily reminiscent of human medical facilities.
The air is thick with the smell of ozone.
Two figures sit in the center of the space, walled in by glowing marble and alabaster columns.
The taller figure hovers over the shoulders of the shorter, seemingly attending to its grievous wounds with rolls of bandages.
No amount seems to be able to soak up the rivulets of blood that stream down their skin.
Their chestplate and pauldrons have been discarded, revealing deep gashes on their sides between both pairs of arms.
The taller figure is draped in white and green robes, horns jutting out from under a hood covering their helmet.
" Keep your head tilted back. "
Her voice was sharp and cold, like a blade parting the air.
She moved one hand to grasp the chin of their helmet, making them flinch, and moved their head back for them.
There was enough blood on the marble as is.
" I-I apologize, councilor. "
" Very well. "
There was now a noticeable metallic tinge to the ozone smell as reddish-pink pooled around the injured angel.
Her hands drifted carefully over their back, which had been lacerated a few times over.
They hissed faintly at the dull pain of bandages being pressed against their open wounds.
With the way the wounds on their sides had been bleeding, no one would have never been able to guess that they were older.
Ieshim doesn't look like the type to get her own hands dirty; with her thin frame, decorative armor and air of authoritative elegance.
It was unlikely that she had punished them directly, but very possible that she had been the one to order it.
Either way, the angel is looking increasingly uncomfortable under her gaze, but firmly keeping themself from trembling or otherwise reacting negatively.
They weren't even safe in their own head, after all.
Their primary arms are lifted as the wounds on their sides are covered up, and bandages wrap all the way around their torso to cover the gashes on their back.
" You are shaking. " She mutters.
" N-no - didn't mean to. "
Her halo, a watchful amber eye hovering behind her head, turns an unsatisfied lime green.
" Keep still. It is almost over. "
Was that reassurance? Her voice was still icy as needles piercing their skin. But they would take it. God knows, they needed it.
Her hands were covered in their blood, drip - drip - dripping onto the marble
staining the world,
⠀⠀
⠀turning the world
⠀⠀drowning it
⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀ 𝐫 𝐞 𝐝
It was their blood, their fault, their mistake and their guilt that they had to carry.
The once-white walls were now a brilliant sanguine from floor to ceiling, the columns pulsating faintly as if breathing.
Ieshim was frozen behind them. No, not just her, she wasn't alone - she'd never be alone again, the state she was in.
Fused and melded and congealed together, all three of them; inextricably combined as if they had been that way since creation.
Three hearts, three pairs of lungs, three sets of cloaks and pieces of armor amalgamated into one; for all eternity.
They couldn't stop staring, looking upon their grand masterpiece.
The Cacophony - the shambling mass of exposed flesh and gnashing teeth and discordant wails - would never hurt them again.
Oh, it would never hurt anyone; not even itself, as much as it wanted to tear itself apart.
Did they deserve this? Didn’t they?
They had to have.
Gamaliel had lost count of the number of years that had passed since the fateful day of their false coronation, the very betrayal that had marked the beginning of their suffering at the hands of the Heavenly Council.
But even then, as they stood before this pitiful, horrifying thing — that grasped desperately at the ground with half-melted hands and wheezed for air with countless new mouths — they knew that they would never forgive themself for what they had done.
Blood had pooled onto the ground until it rose up to their ankles.
And up, and up and up and up and up and higher –
– until they drowned in it, and the world turned white
turned red
turned black
and they were no more.
The archangel Gamaliel jolted awake in a cold sweat, blood streaming down their face from where their horns pierced into their helmet.
