❝ ✦ Is that WOO DOO HWAN joining Las Vegas from the heavens? No, wait—it’s none other than YOON HYEON-SEO (THEY/THEM), posing as a 30 year old mortal working as a HOUSE CALL DOCTOR. They're Heaven’s own RAPHAEL. Born as an 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋, they’re said to be FORGIVING and KIND, though whispers accuse them of NAIVITE and SHORTSIGHTEDNESS, especially after the War in Heaven shattered their innocence. When I picture them, I see A LIGHT LEFT ON WAITING FOR YOU TO COME HOME, A COOL HAND ON YOUR FOREHEAD TO BREAK YOUR FEVER, and A HEART BARELY HOLDING ITSELF TOGETHER, and hear the heavenly choir sing HAPPY TO BE HERE (JULIEN BAKER) just for them. Their purpose still lingers despite the constant threat awaiting them, will they heal the rift between Heaven and Hell… or tear it wider? ✦ ❞
She had thought of it before – what would happen when the experiment on and of her life drew to a close. She hoped, now more than ever, that she would be the last of their kind – not out of misguided ego, not out of a wish to be the only one standing so she could be the only one standing, rather so she could provide all of her kin with the peaceful endings that they deserved. Everyone had been fighting so hard for so long, the last thing she wished for them was to disappear into infinite nothingness without a modicum of peace.
Was it nothingness now?
No matter which way it was cut, however, she would not receive that same peace that they would. But it would bring her peace, wouldn’t it? If she had been able to send everyone off, sealed with a kiss, in a certain bliss? She knew – she knew that knowing that, that knowing she had been able to do that, would allow her to pass with a smile.
So maybe there was a certain selfish air to that longing to be the last, simply… not in the way it could be.
She nodded a solitary nod in response to Raphael’s gratitude, eyes still on the body – now unarguably just a body – of Cassiel. How it took and it took, the turmoil that was living.
They have to try, they said; they have to try to keep the living alive. It was their purpose, thus it was what they felt the most connected to; it was their purpose, thus it was their obligation – God-given. So she nodded again, placing a hand on their shoulder this time. “I know you do.” They had to guard life to the best of their abilities, just as Azrael had to aid in creation and be the bringer of destruction. What a funny word to describe death.
“Some don’t want to be.” Azrael had danced with some, had danced with some who called upon her and changed their mind. Humans, she believed, were more complicated than some gave them credit for. Perhaps some humans were even more complicated than angels and demons and hellmouths and even God. Thus, a beat… “Some don’t know what they want.”
They fuss over Cassiel, still forever now. Raphael smooths their hair, mops the blood from their neck as best they can; their tears, the last tears they’ll ever shed, are gently wiped away. Azrael touches them, her hand gentle against their shoulder. They lean into it. It’s the same as it was before dawn broke on the first war in heaven. Raphael and Azrael allied in their fear. Death is coming to the deities of Las Vegas and with it pain unimaginable.
Azrael warns them, gently, she is always very gentle, on the folly of humans, the fickleness of their desires. They gnaw their lip, hand rising to cover the one Azrael still has curled around their shoulder.
“I will wait for them then,” they tell her, still gazing down at Cassiel.
God created them with holy purpose, formed from his own grace in a shape made only for them. In his absence, they can only see one way forward. “It is what I was made for Azie.”
This is their design. To care. To offer help and healing wherever it is needed. An open door waiting for all of humanity to finally decide that it would like to return home.
“There shall be a uniting power and changing love, by which we will be led to create the society of the meek, who are stronger than the strong; the society of the loving, who cannot be broken by force; the society of those who live in the truth that rends the power of insincerity. The kingdom of God shall by built by those who can suffer and forgive and love, and overcome evil with good.”
If they are mortal like humans perhaps they should grieve like humans too.
OOC: lol do what you will with this information or ignore it entirely! it's a thing raphael is doing ic and would invited everyone to because they believe everyone who knew cassiel deserves the same opportunity to remember, mourn and honor them.
OPEN STARTER
— jophiel.
— the origins museum of art.
The world grows very quiet and very dark as the sun begins to tilt itself toward the evening. Jophiel stands in the grand room of their little world, a sole figure against the silence and watches as that great idol, endless in its stories, rests its cheek against the horizon and spills gold upon the world before it fades. The gilded frames, the soft shades of paint and figure, of bone and treasure, of worlds having come and gone.
Jophiel had watched it burst into life. Out there among the stars and the moon, and the unknown chaos and it suddenly — there was light. How glorious. For days, they sang of the sun and the lovely moon. A small refrain lingers in their mind and as they turn away from the melting evening, they begin to hum it.
& the song follows them as they turn to that lingering figure. A smile on their face, gold on their fingers, the soft subtle gleam of the velvet of their jacket, all of it alight in the glow of the sunset.
"The museum is closed ... unless you're here for a private tour?"
"No," Raphael says with a frank little shrug, "but I would love one, if you will have me."
In the time between Lilith's Eden and now they have gotten no better at appearing human. They arrive at Jophiel's doorstep with no sign of how they might have traveled there, their feet still bare and their face still possessing the open, undefended innocence of one who'd rarely stepped beyond the gates of heaven.
Well, perhaps not completely open. In their mind there is still the image of Jophiel, their mouth bright red with Cassiel's blood. It terrifies them.
But they have known and loved Jophiel too long not to go to them, to seek to understand, to forgive even before absolution is requested.
"How are you Jophie?"
war, it stained her existence, bloody, burnt. god had made michael for such purpose, a perfect sword, nothing more. she could not question, albeit tired and hurt, it was his plan and the oldest daughter would abide to it until her last breath.
" yes, i do... " a mumble escaped as the burning sword cut through the last demon, a pile of corpses between her and raphael... the kind one. a healer, bringer of salvation. in another life, perhaps, they would see eye to eye. " if i don't, no one else will. "
the heavenly fire diminished, a soft blue, reminding her of heaven, a place they could no longer dream of. " are you alright? " blue eyes pierced raphael, closer, giving into his mercy, only for cassiel... or whatever remained of them.
" cremate? " one could wonder if michael hesitated, for the first time in her existence, to burn her own sibling out of creation, an innocent being. " i see... " the archangel had killed more creatures than she could remember, yet this one act of mercy had her recoiling.
it had to be done. her fingertips burned bright, and she observed the corpse of cassiel. " how do i.... should i just? " for the first time, she sought guidance in raphael, he knew of the hurt ones, of suffering.
" i hope he can't feel this " gentle steps moved her towards cassiel, her younger brother, a victim of their mistakes. where did angels go when they died? michael kneeled beside him, hands reaching for the cold skin of his fingers
blue eyes sought raphael, bitting the inside of her own cheek as she swallowed any hesitance. then fire spread, consuming every last piece of cassiel.
Their heart breaks when she says, “if i don’t know one else will. “
Angels live their lives in singularity, in complacency, crafted for one purpose by their Creator and so focused on that pursuit they rarely notice the burdens of other Angels. How could living your life in service to God be anything but a privilege after all? In His light even the banality of suffering is made sacred.
It is only the current circumstance, the magnitude of their grief that allows them to think like this. The memory of a voice, the most beautiful voice, flows into their mind irresistible as a river of milk and honey. It whispers that it is a cruel and unfair thing to be made this way. It asks Raphael if they have ever considered being different. They ignore it, for now.
“I will be Michael,” they tell her, even through their tears. “Are you?"
She moves to grant their request. They place one pale, blood stained hand on hers, reassuring. "They are beyond pain now. Azrael already gave their soul peace. It's only the body that remains. Anything you do for them now would be a kindness."
In all of heaven and earth, only the sun is quite as bright and beautiful as Michael's flames. Only the sun. Cassiel's body disappears in a flurry of dancing light. When it's over, only ash remains.
With nothing left to defend, Raphael lets the knife fall from their hand. It clatters to the ground, ignored and unnecessary.
Raphael presses one dirty hand into the dark patch on the floor, then they turn to Michael. "Thank you, for doing that for them."
Perhaps there had been a time, however short lived, that Azrael had wished she was more recognized for her status not only as the Angel of Death/Destruction, but the Angel of Life/Renewal. However, she had come to learn rather quickly that few others would be so willing to shoulder her responsibility, to accept a role that was intertwined with tragedy, that she accepted it. More than that, she began seeing herself solely as the Angel of Death/Destruction, Life/Renewal but a mere side effect. And even more than that, she began to take solace in that title.
Angel of Death. Angel of Peace.
In any case, perhaps it was more tragic to be the arbiter of… any other facet of life or emotion or lived experience. Death was the one inevitability. Death was the one unavoidable part of life itself. Death was something she had grown numb to, something she found hard to believe tragic when it was what she knew best. Death was beautiful, so she thought. Death was impartial. Death was fair. Death was release from a hard mortal coil.
She did not weep over it, unlike Raphael; she felt no ire over it, unlike Michael. There was a murderer in their midst, that was something to be concerned over – having no God, that was something to be concerned over – but the Death of both God and Cassiel itself…
“There’s nothing you can do now.” She had been called, even if it was cacophonous. She was only called when the end was near, she was only called when someone begged, she was only called when someone who had reached true moral clarity had already passed and simply needed… peace to guide them along.
With the perceived permission of Raphael, black wings protruded from Azrael’s back as she knelt down. A caress against the side of Cassiel’s face, dead but not yet Dead. “Shall I release you?” she asked them, despite their inability to answer. It still seemed only right to ask. Thus, with the unexpected answer of no answer, already released, she placed a soft kiss upon Cassiel’s lips. Peace in an otherwise peaceless environment.
And her wings folded back in.
“It’s inevitable, Raphael. You must know that by now.” Try as they might… “They can’t all be saved.”
For all they dread Azrael’s coming, she is beautiful. She exists with a kind of purity reserved only for their Lord. After the rest of them have faded from existence Azrael will still be there, final, inevitable. It is only by chance that she is also kind, that her intervention, as tainted as it is by loss, is always a mercy.
The world is tilting on its axis. For the first time in their long life, Raphael must reckon with the mortality of angels, of God himself. New and unknown fears rise inside the chamber of their body, held back only by the numbing cold of their grief. But as they watch Az spread her night dark wings, one pushes its way to the front of their mind, so tragic even their sorrow cannot dull it.
Someday all of them will have returned to the nothing they were before God made them into something. And then Azie will be left all alone. There will be no one there to kiss her goodbye. There will be no one there to tell her that there is nothing else left to do.
“Thank you,” they say, reverent, sincere. Their gratitude expands far beyond this moment and this single death. Azie has been there for every death that has ever been. She will be there for every death that will ever be. She has accepted this duty with the whole expanse of her heart and what has Raphael- what has anyone ever done to thank her for it?
She presses her lips to Cassiel’s and then it’s over. Cassiel’s body remains the same but something else, something unseeable and unknowable has changed. Cassiel is Gone.
Raphael gazes at their still face one last time and then they turn to look at her and smile, weak with heartbreak but grateful. At peace in their own way.
“I know Azie, I do,” they assure her, they raise their hand to wipe at their wet eyes but abort the movement when they remember there is blood all over them. She is right, of course, but still, Raphael has no intention of accepting that. Their sense of failure is important to them. It serves a purpose. God made them to heal, to save. If they accept that it cannot be done for one soul, they accept that it cannot be done for any of them.
“I just, I have to try. You know that,” they tell her finally, pleading with her to understand what they cannot fully put into words.
anger rushed through michael... ancient and indomitable, something she hid for millennia, often under the command of god.
divine mercy, granted to her twin the day she ripped his wings out instead of destroying him. somehow she sought strength in restraint, wielded into a weapon.... but not tonight.
the glimpse of golden ichor elicited a michael creation feared, an archangel that scorched those in her path. cassiel could not be saved, but she would grant them a safe passing.
heavenly fire burned on her hands, a bright blue, slowly consuming the archangel. " enough! " her voice once so dedicated turned stern, monstrous, a laced in the very blood michael spilled.
" take our brother, raphael... " a quick motion placed her between the youngest and any demons that sought to feast on cassiel. " some of you seem to forget your place " beneath, a stain in creation.
the archangel wielded heavenly fire into her own sword. " if it's blood they want it, then i shall spill it " a cruel grin cut through her lips and she struck.
again, again and again. the fiery blade destroyed any demons in their path, leaving behind a pile of vessels... empty and scorched.
Michael’s strength has always been something fearsome. They're the sword hand of their creator. There’s no chance for Raphael to react in the affirmative of negative before she is already swinging, demons once alive and now dead, smoking husks.
It is as the war was, unforgivably violent, horrible, Michael the brightest and most brutal star in heaven. They’ve wondered, often, if there’s something else she’d prefer to have define her life.
They knife switches to their other hand and they reach forward, carefully gripping the fabric at the back of her shirt like a child attempting to catch the attention of their older sibling. “Michael,” they say, gently, “you don't have to do that.”
It likely would have made Cassiel cry. Angel of solitude. Angel of tears. So beautiful in their compassion and so tormented by it. They wonder, suddenly afraid, if the souls of angels return to heaven, if heaven can remain eternal without the might of God there to preserve it.
“I need your help,” they tell Michael, pushing their fear aside to reckon with the things right in front of them. A rite to be performed. A comrade to be laid to rest. “ I need to cremate them so no one else can desecrate their body any further.” They gaze up at Michael. Both of them know there is no flame better suited for the job than hers. “Please.”
[ 🌧️ ]ㅤ.ㅤis there a pain they refuse to heal from ? / [ 🕯️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat memory do they replay when they’re alone ? / [ 🔦 ]ㅤ.ㅤwho do they search for ?
🌧️Pain is necessary and important. It serves two purposes. The first is as a reminder to never make the same mistakes again. The second is motivation. Their pain will never resolve itself until the kingdom of heaven is remade as it should be, all of the angels redeemed and returned to their rightful place, their family made whole again.
🕯️There are two angels on the surface of the moon, gazing all around at the new sun and earth and stars. The War in Heaven is yet to come and Raphael is too naive to understand that this fragile moment will not last. Nothing like it will ever happen again. But they don’t know that as the moment passes around them. They only know to be happy that they get to have it happen to them, and they hope that they might get to do this together again very soon.
🔦They’ve spent a very long time in self-imposed isolation. Now that they’re out they’ll be looking for fallen angels to redeem. Given the newest plot developments, they’ll also be searching for god (if he can be found), god’s murder, and Mr. Jesus Christ himself.
It was not a symphony this time. What drew Azrael to Cassiel was not some beautiful piece, written by composers she had long since led away from the mortal plane; what drew Azrael to Cassiel was the screech of a violin, an out of key concerto, an opera singer fumbling the lines with a wavering voice. She had grown to appreciate Death, she had grown to appreciate her role in it, but neither she nor Death could find it in themselves to find God and Cassiel’s passings to be… peaceful.
She waded through the chaos, paying little mind to the demons who drank the ichor and the angels who sobbed, intent only on bringing him peace. How he could find it when even she hadn’t a clue what her role would be now, she didn’t know, but she knew he deserved the same peaceful sentencing as all of the martyrs and the saints and those who struggled and those who simply called upon her. Death, some believed, was sweet.
All that blocked her from reaching Cassiel, from playing her part, was Raphael. In their arms… how tragic a sight. It was not an uncommon sight, but the specifics of it – the specifics of these two angels – made her heart sink just an inch or so.
So she knelt down beside him.
“The only thing more powerful than God, Raphael, is Death. He willed it to be.” She placed a gloved hand upon their shoulder, leaning over Cassiel’s body. Was he the first angel to have died? There was so much Death, she sometimes forgot. “I would like to kiss him, if you would let me.”
The fire in them does not die. They do not think it will for a long time. There will be no forgetting the moment they saw their kin reach not for Cassiel as they died, but for the lifeblood draining out of them, heedless of who it belonged to, heedless of compassion, heedless of decency. But Azrael doesn’t approach them with pretense or greed. She arrives as gentle as inevitable as the falling rain.
Still, it is the defect of the living to deny death. Raphael shakes their head, eyes growing hot and wet with tears. “No,” they start, voice trembling as they grip Cassiel a little tighter, a little closer to them, “I can still-”
But no, they can’t. Even now warmth flees from Cassiel’s body like blood from a wound. Raphael could split their human vessel open and pour every last drop of their power and grace into this body and even then it would not draw a breath. If it somehow did, it would not be Cassiel anymore. There’s nothing more they can do. Cassiel has long since crossed the threshold from their domain into hers. Any further denial of that fact would be to stand against the natural order of things.
The knife and the whole of their power is only a useless gesture in the face of death. But Azrael stops anyway, because Azareal has always been kind. Before she was powerful and inevitable she was kind.
“Oh Azie,” they whisper, defeated, letting the hand with the knife drop. “Will you help me please? Will you help me lay them to rest?”
In the kingdom of heaven there is a garden and in that garden there is a tree. Beneath that tree is where Raphael learned of their purpose and nature. To heal, to repair, to protect and to preserve the sanctity of life granted by their holy creator. Eventually they'd make this garden into their own prison, but a home needs only to be familiar, not kind nor comfortable. That space under the shade of the Tree of Life is the one place in the universe Raphael feels they truly belong and they ache to return to it despite how miserable they'll be when they do.
[ 🌪️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat’s the one choice they regret (not) making ?
rn my general history of raphael involves them allowing the garden of eden to go unguarded in the hopes that the more discontent angels would have a chance to get to know the humans inside and learn to love them. alas, they really buffed it there. the guilt over this defines how the think of themself and the conflict between heaven and hell.
[ 🕊️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhen did they feel the safest ?
[ ⛓️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat does guilt feel like to them ?
[ 🕊️ ]ㅤ. I doubt raph has felt truly safe since the early days of eden, when the world was new, before the first sin and all the subsequent sins after it. every day since then they've had to live with the knowledge that angel's greater than them have fallen, that they could fall any moment, that more often than not man and angel like do not chose heaven and instead elect to battle against it.
[ ⛓️ ] What does flying feel like to a bird, or swimming to a fish, or walking on the ground to a man? What does breathing feel like to a creature with lungs?
₊˚⊹ ㅤa collection of character analysis/headcanon questions to learn more about your character and your partners'! writing/headcanon prompts requested by anonymous. feel free to edit these as you see fit.
[ 🖐️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat do their hands feel like: soft, calloused, trembling ?
[ ☂️ ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they crave touch or fear it ?
[ 🎐 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they have a sound, like a song or voice, that they associate with peace ?
[ 🕊️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhen did they feel the safest ?
[ 💤 ]ㅤ.ㅤhow do they sleep ? curled up, sprawled, holding onto something ?
[ 🦇 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat is a fear they never talk about ?
[ 🔒 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat is a secret they’ve sworn never to tell ?
[ 🪢 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhen was the last time they broke a promise ?
[ 🫳 ]ㅤ.ㅤwho do they feel they owe, but never paid back ?
[ 💼 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat do they always carry with them ?
[ 🧨 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat’s the quickest way to set them off, even if they hide it well ?
[ ⛓️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat does guilt feel like to them ?
[ 💢 ]ㅤ.ㅤwho have they never forgiven and never will ?
[ 🩸 ]ㅤ.ㅤis there something or someone that, if lost, would break them ?
[ 🌧️ ]ㅤ.ㅤis there a pain they refuse to heal from ?
[ 🪞 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhen have they looked at their reflection and hated what they saw ?
[ 📿 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat superstition or ritual do they cling to ?
[ 🌊 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhen was the last time they cried ?
[ 🐾 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo animals like them instinctively ?
[ 🪶 ]ㅤ.ㅤhow do they laugh ?
[ 🫀 ]ㅤ.ㅤwho taught them what love is ? did it hurt ?
[ 💭 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they believe they’re worthy of being loved ?
[ 🎀 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat is their main love language ?
[ 🔦 ]ㅤ.ㅤwho do they search for ?
[ 📜 ]ㅤ.ㅤis there a story they love sharing with others ?
[ 🌒 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they have a dream or goal they have given up on ?
[ 🕯️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat memory do they replay when they’re alone ?
[ 🌪️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat’s the one choice they regret (not) making ?
[ 🧩 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat’s a truth about themselves they refuse to admit ?
[ 🍻 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat kind of drunk are they ?
[ ✉️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat kind of letter would they write but never send ?
[ 🗡️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat is a scar that they have but never talk about ?
[ 🕸️ ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they have a favourite lie they like to hear ?
[ 🪦 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat would they want on their gravestone but never admit aloud ?
[ 🎱 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat kind of future do they crave, and who’s in it ?
[ 🌀 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they have a recurring dream or nightmare ?
[ 🍃 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they feel like they belong ?
[ ⚓ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat does “home” mean to them ?
[ 🧭 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhere would they go if they could disappear tomorrow ?
The First Seal pt. 2
TW Blood, death, cannibalism, violence, mishandling of a corpse
They heal the wound on Cassiel’s neck, but it's too late. They're already gone, dead. They died here in Raphael's arms, whispering their last words into Raphael's ear. They had not known until this moment that angels could die. They could be injured, yes, cast out, ruined beyond repair, but they were as constant as their Lord's grace. They did not end.
And now they do. Now God does too. Already has, alone and undefended in his empty kingdom, because all of them were here. Raphael thinks of Eden. They have done it again, learned nothing, and made the same exact same mistake once more. It cost them everything once, and now, twice.
They try for a moment to return to heaven, to see that empty throne. Until they do they will not believe it. Perhaps he was only injured and Cassiel was mistaken. He's somewhere in heaven, hurt and needing healing and if Raphael can only get to him they can set this right. But their body is closed around them like a cage and they realize with dreadful certainty that they are trapped inside of it now. The gate to heaven is closed, so far beyond their reach heaven might as well cease to exist entirely.
They sit there, the blood of their fellow angel soaking into their hands and clothes, and they despair.
And then, people begin to eat what is left of Cassiel.
There is horror of course, sweeping in cold and vile to replace their grief. And then, from the deepest and most hidden part of their core, comes rage.
It is easy to forget. Raphael makes it easy to forget. They detest violence and all its permutations. Since the first war, they have never touched a blade, turning instead to the better parts of their nature, their compassion, their forgiveness, their desire to be and do good only and to never stray from God's path again.
But they were once the archangel Raphael who felled Asmodeus with a stroke of their sword. They will be that angel again without joy or satisfaction if it's necessary. And it clearly is.
The hilt of the knife fits easily into their hand. The blade gleams, still soaked in blood. Raphael knows already it will rend whatever it touches with ease, angel or demon or immortal human alike.
They hold it forward, level with the neck of the next body foolish enough to wander too close to Cassiel's corpse.
“No more,” they say, deceptively mild. “If any of you try to touch them again, I will stop you.”
Eve’s chest lifted in a quiet, almost imperceptible exhale, a warmth spreading through her at the raw honesty in Raphael’s voice. For a moment, the nightclub around them faded, the pulsing lights and music shrinking into a distant hum. She had not expected to be missed like this. Not by an angel, not by one who had watched her so long ago with the purity of innocence in their eyes. And yet, here they were, awkward and human in ways she could recognize, vulnerable in a manner that made her want to cradle the ache she heard in their words. Her smile was soft, wistful, and indulgent, carrying the faintest tremor of a mother’s compassion. “Raphael,” she murmured, letting the syllable linger, a gentle acknowledgment of both their pain and their courage. “It’s… alright. I understand, even if it took you this long. Time has a way of testing all of us, doesn’t it?” She stepped closer, careful not to overwhelm, yet drawn by a desire to bridge the centuries between them. Eve’s eyes traced the nervous flutter of their hands, the small, human gestures that spoke of humility, longing, and regret. She allowed herself a rare, detached indulgence, seeing the soul beneath the angel’s hesitation. “You don’t need to apologize for surviving, Raphael,” she said softly, voice teasing the edges of laughter yet lined with earnest care. “The world is… heavier than it seems, but it’s also brighter in ways only we can feel.” Her hand brushed against theirs, a fleeting touch, both comforting and grounding. “I appreciate you… noticing me, even now. That is, perhaps, the closest thing to kindness I could ask for tonight.”
“I have always noticed you,” Raphael says, a little helpless. Angels cannot touch and be touched by humans, at least not in the way humans are always able to make contact with each other. They look down at her hands, intricate arrangements of muscle and bones, cells, molecules, atoms. Fundamentally, it should be no different from touching anything else, but it is because these atoms belong to Eve. “Since you were made, I was supposed to protect you and I didn’t. I failed you.” Their hands fold carefully around hers, a return, a plea.
Her life was meant to be one of ever lasting beauty and innocence, kept eternally in Eden, safe from all harm and pain. Raphael was there at the tree of life. At any moment they could have raised their sword to stop the extending reach of darkness. They didn’t, and in return they received no punishment from God or any other angel, and in return Eve was cast out, subjected to a new world and all the evils that befell it, alone. She says the world has brightness to offer for all its heaviness. All Raphael can think is that she would never have had to endure the heaviness at all.
But how can they apologize for letting her leave, for not following after her? How can they when it was God’s will that she go?
“You deserve so much more kindness Eve, as much as anyone.”
The city glared at him. Every light, every screen, every noise seemed designed to remind him he didn’t belong here. Leviathan sat at the bar, shoulders drawn tight beneath the low hum of mortal chatter. The air smelled of cheap perfume and electricity — he despised both.
They stirred their drink without looking at it, watching instead the way the crowd shimmered under neon light. Humanity had perfected envy; mortals wore it like a dress, smiling while they tore each other apart. It should have amused the demon. It didn’t.
They took a slow sip, expression somewhere between irritation and boredom. Their eyes flicked toward the door, as if measuring how long they could stand to stay in paradise.
When another presence slipped into their awareness. Something ancient, familiar. Didn’t bother to turn, just a faint twitch of his jaw, the smallest exhale of annoyance. “Hate it here?” The Hellmouth muttered, voice low and edged with disdain. “Even Hell knew how to keep the lights dim.”
They are initially drawn to the room because of the shelf behind the—bar their mind supplies, a place where alcohol is served. It's lined with glass bottles of various shapes and colors that catch the light just so. They wander towards it like a moth to flame, then they see him.
Of all the demons in hell, Leviathan is the only one unknown to them. He was never an angel, never anything but a demon. He simply was, from the very beginning, inexplicable, a snag in the perfect tapestry of God's creation.
They're not sure what they feel for the demon, what they are willing to feel. There is a wariness of course, because he has proven himself dangerous. There is resentment, because he was the one to set in place the rot that would eventually destroy their family. There is interest, because he is something entirely new, not celestial or human but an existence all his own, unique. And there is pity, because that means he must be alone.
“I don't hate anything Leviathan,” they say gravely, finally moving to settle beside him. There is an awkward moment where they have to remember how to use a chair, and then they are seated. “I just learned about an odd little human invention the other day, they're called sun glasses. It's a construction of wires or plastic and dark tinted glass that you wear over your eyes to protect them from light. You could always give those a try.”
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