Post by Amry on Jan 22, 2009 22:06:12 GMT -5
[brief context: This is a small chunk of one of the ridiculous vast universes my friends and I create and write in. I was prompted to write on our characterizations of the four canonical Archangels, and this was my product. In this universe, God is female and the angels live and work for Her in a corrupted city called Carbon. I hope you enjoy!]
--
When Uriel prays, he walks.
There's not much green in Carbon, but he's good at finding it (or making it, as the need arises). He'll travel thirty miles to find a park, as far outside the city limits as Mother will let him go. If there's no time he'll go to the cathedral and walk among the columns thick with vines, and maybe hum as he walks, in whatever language suits his mood that day. The plants sing with him as he offers his soul to his Mother.
(Usually he only has to encourage one or two inquisitive souls away from his haven, but on days he prays, they come in flocks and droves and he lets them listen, because they are hungry and it makes him glad to feed them what little he can.)
When Michael prays, he stands.
Raphael will enter a room, searching for him, and see him standing before the window, staring out over the city with eyes far away. When this happens, Raphael will turn without saying anything and close the door behind him without a sound. Michael's forbidding at the best of times, but when he prays, just to look at him feels like an intrusion.
(Once Uriel came in and Michael was on his knees before the window, head bowed and hands outstretched as though he were holding his heart out before him. Uriel left so quietly that not even the dust knew he had been there. He wished he could talk to Gabriel about it, but if Gabriel had been there, there would have been nothing to talk about.)
When Raphael prays, he breathes.
His Mother is in him when he breathes in and around him when he breathes out; if he sinks deep enough into himself he can imagine that she is everywhere, over and under and beside him, singing in his marrow, holding him against the tides of his breath. He prays in the quiet, where the sunlight can touch his wings and the breeze can whisper to him. His prayer is a sigh and an echo and a contented smile, the muted sound of a voice too beautiful to stand.
(When Raphael prays, he can imagine Carbon away from him; find a core within him that knows nothing of agony and fear and lamenting, all the sounds he hears when he walks the streets. Before he can heal this broken city, he must heal himself, and so he prays, rebuilding piece by piece what the city breaks within him.)
When Gabriel prays, he screams.
They are less prayers than accusations, less mournful entreaties than heartbroken cries of Why?, less questions than pitiless threats. He goes beyond where the city ends and the desert begins and screams to the skies, and the voice that replies is not enough to slake his thirst for justice. He does not let his brothers see him pray, for they would not understand; his Mother's silence is killing him, and none of them would understand.
(How many times has he knelt before the window with hands outstretched, looking for whatever confidence She has given Michael? How many times has he sought Raphael's calm and Uriel's happiness, found nothing, and wondered how they could be so blind? He has lost count, and as he prays he begins to wonder whether he should begin taking his own reckoning to put in a holy book of his own making.)
When they pray together, the world stops turning to listen.
(even if it cannot fathom what it's hearing.)
--
edit:
Forgot to mention, guys. I am in this for concrit. Be brutal. >D
--
When Uriel prays, he walks.
There's not much green in Carbon, but he's good at finding it (or making it, as the need arises). He'll travel thirty miles to find a park, as far outside the city limits as Mother will let him go. If there's no time he'll go to the cathedral and walk among the columns thick with vines, and maybe hum as he walks, in whatever language suits his mood that day. The plants sing with him as he offers his soul to his Mother.
(Usually he only has to encourage one or two inquisitive souls away from his haven, but on days he prays, they come in flocks and droves and he lets them listen, because they are hungry and it makes him glad to feed them what little he can.)
When Michael prays, he stands.
Raphael will enter a room, searching for him, and see him standing before the window, staring out over the city with eyes far away. When this happens, Raphael will turn without saying anything and close the door behind him without a sound. Michael's forbidding at the best of times, but when he prays, just to look at him feels like an intrusion.
(Once Uriel came in and Michael was on his knees before the window, head bowed and hands outstretched as though he were holding his heart out before him. Uriel left so quietly that not even the dust knew he had been there. He wished he could talk to Gabriel about it, but if Gabriel had been there, there would have been nothing to talk about.)
When Raphael prays, he breathes.
His Mother is in him when he breathes in and around him when he breathes out; if he sinks deep enough into himself he can imagine that she is everywhere, over and under and beside him, singing in his marrow, holding him against the tides of his breath. He prays in the quiet, where the sunlight can touch his wings and the breeze can whisper to him. His prayer is a sigh and an echo and a contented smile, the muted sound of a voice too beautiful to stand.
(When Raphael prays, he can imagine Carbon away from him; find a core within him that knows nothing of agony and fear and lamenting, all the sounds he hears when he walks the streets. Before he can heal this broken city, he must heal himself, and so he prays, rebuilding piece by piece what the city breaks within him.)
When Gabriel prays, he screams.
They are less prayers than accusations, less mournful entreaties than heartbroken cries of Why?, less questions than pitiless threats. He goes beyond where the city ends and the desert begins and screams to the skies, and the voice that replies is not enough to slake his thirst for justice. He does not let his brothers see him pray, for they would not understand; his Mother's silence is killing him, and none of them would understand.
(How many times has he knelt before the window with hands outstretched, looking for whatever confidence She has given Michael? How many times has he sought Raphael's calm and Uriel's happiness, found nothing, and wondered how they could be so blind? He has lost count, and as he prays he begins to wonder whether he should begin taking his own reckoning to put in a holy book of his own making.)
When they pray together, the world stops turning to listen.
(even if it cannot fathom what it's hearing.)
--
edit:
Forgot to mention, guys. I am in this for concrit. Be brutal. >D
[/shadow][/glow]