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You are Archangel Gabriel.
You are a son of God.
As one of Heaven’s guardians, sculpted by His loving hands, your duty is beholden to His will – the creator of the land below and all that is good within it; provider of abundance and plenty, and Father of Man. You carry out His divine plan with the aid your brothers and sisters in arms, guiding His children along the path of piety and peace towards His holy embrace. For there is no greater honor.
Such was an easy task in The Beginning, in the Time Before. When kindness and abundance was all that was ever known, but experience in short supply. You advised, discussed, nudged Man back onto the path as they began to stray. Preached peace, love and understanding. Times were simple, then, but rewarding.
And yet, Times change.
You blink, and wickedness had wrung its claws around the people of Man. You carried out your holy duty with righteous fury and fervor. With powerful light you purge the shadows to reveal those who skitter in the dark and protect man, woman and child from their influence. You and your brothers and sisters assist in their guidance towards a prosperous life, granting blessings to their families as rewards for their good faith, and punishments as penance for stepping foot into the shadows you set to smite. For you all were made into being by His hands, you are his sword, his will incarnate. Such is your duty.
Though many of your brothers and sisters refuse to acknowledge it out of pride, the constant battle leaks weariness into your soul. The holy sword, the shield, the light and His word; they can only do so much against the night. Many of God’s creations could not be saved as evil overtook their hearts and they began to perpetuate untold horrors against those who wished for nothing but their love and success. One day, you witness a father commit the horrific sin of matricide, and were you not swift enough his son would have been lost as well.
Despite it all, you are reassured. God speaks in His ways, ensuring you are all on the right path. But what steels your heart for the wars to come is in the smiles of His children. Infants looking up to your form in awe; mothers trying to offer you food despite angels not requiring sustenance; people pushing through their fear of your appearance to thank you for your help. Many of your brothers and sisters directed their focus to their crusade, battling against wickedness and those that creep in shadows. Zagzagel, your brother, holds fast to that belief and spares little time in damage control. He is a powerful warrior in your crusade. But the children of Man, their kindness, their needless reciprocity and smiles of pure gratitude beyond mere penance and awe; in your darkest hours, those acts bolstered your will.
For no matter how many horrors yet persist, no matter how many vile creatures ebb against the border between light and shadow, the gentle embrace of a child and his thanks for the blessing of a future, that outshone them all.
You blink. The battle has raged on for a thousand years more. You continue to carry out His will, your faith as your armor to protect His children.
And yet, times change.
An archangel speaks to all of his brothers and sisters in Heaven’s court, acting as His mouth. Wickedness has overtaken the land below, a darkness so opaque and impenetrable that your light could not pierce through. For all your battles, all your efforts towards the salvation of Man, little true Goodness remains. Theft from the needy, violence toward the unprotected, blasphemy upon blasphemy; too many have shunned the path and abandoned His embrace. And thus, God has made a decree:
In an effort to salvage what remains, a select few of His creations shall be protected. The rest, all life below, shall be washed away in a divine flood by God’s hand.
Blessed you are, that His tears are your own, so that you may weep for those who shall never be seen again.
Your brother, Zagzagel, he alone was responsible for informing those Chosen to prepare for what was to come. The rest of God’s children kept the darkness at bay so the Chosen may finish their work. You fight beside them, continuing your divine mission against those that lurk in the dark. But a shift has occurred. Your swords, imbued with His divine light, now forego their paired shields. You smite and push back the shadows and purge the wickedness from the land, but the sword alone cannot protect, cannot sustain empty stomachs from a ruined harvest, cannot heal wounds earned in an attempt to protect one’s family.
“There is no purpose behind such acts of generosity now,” Zagzagel speaks one day. “They, too, shall be washed away soon.“
You recognize the truth behind his words. Recognize in just a moment’s time, the slate will be wiped clean. In the decades before His decree you could sense it, fewer people to protect as the land below became scorched by hatred.
One day, during your holy mission, you find yourself returning to the home of the Boy’s grandchildren, as you have done so many times before. The Boy asked for guidance, for assistance against the dark that surrounded them on all sides. As did his son, and the son that followed him. You advised his family across the years, guided them along the path even after He made His decree. There is no real purpose to it, as Zagzagel said. But as the sword grows dull with age, so too does the shield. Needless as it may be, even in one’s final days, should they not be filled with joy?
You return, today, to continue their guidance. And upon your arrival, you find instead a smoldering pile of cinders. The home turned to naught but splinters and ash. Bloodied pitchforks and sickles against sharpened knives and blades; an improvised attempt to protect a home. Their bodies…
You blink. The house is subsumed by the waves. Nothing, not the family’s bones nor those of the arsonists, remained.
You blink. The world is full again with children of the Chosen. The flood has sculpted mountains and carved deep trenches where rivers would soon freely flow, and with it, what remained of the wicked that had burned down the boy’s home. You and your brothers and sisters resume your original work, guiding the children of Man along the path towards His embrace. The land below has changed, its grooves becoming unfamiliar, but for much time everything was as it was once more. Your advice means something again.
And yet, times change.
Though not in as grand swaths as before, wickedness persists. The Sons of the Sons of the Chosen to carry on the legacy of what remained before, they represent it in all of its beautiful and vile fullness. Brother deceives brother and steals blessings given unto him by your brothers and sisters; Man burns the crops of his fellow neighbors in shortsighted acts of jealousy; Kings rise and enslave their fellow Man in service to no one but themselves.
Despite your best efforts, despite God’s intervention, there is still suffering.
You carry out your duty, still. His fury is your blade, his mercy your guiding light, leading Man towards his embrace. But those same lessons which acted as salvation for those in the Time Before, their words do not fall on Man’s ears with the same weight they once did. The communities built by Man become larger, more winding, more complicated. Faith in the Lord’s mercy can only do so much within a famine, his love only so strong against kings who twist his words.
There is a brief moment in time where the Children of the Children of the Chosen appear united. Despite their differences and grudges, a mass congregation of Man had come together, summoning those from all of the realm below, for one unified purpose: to erect a grand monument of hardened clay and tar. Every hand lending tools, food, and warmth to another as they stacked brick upon brick and create a palm of earth so large it would reach up to the heavens and meet the hands that had so lovingly cradled them for generations upon generations. Their impossible task made manifest by their camaraderie and roaring ambition.
You’re in awe of their passion, the endless joy and togetherness that could produce such a project. But many of your brothers and sisters were horrified at the act, interpreting their grand project as a means to enter the kingdom of Heaven without due process. Few shared your appreciation towards the craftsmanship and togetherness as the spire of earth reached higher and higher.
And, tragically, that sentiment was shared among God as well.
You blink, and the tower is brought to . Man speaks in tongues that their fellow Man cannot recognize. Suspicion and doubt sprout within them and they are scattered once more. This time, of their own accord.
The Mouth of God speaks, determining that Man’s wickedness had grown far too great, festering their hubris until they deemed themselves equal to God and all of his children. As penance, and to ensure such a disgrace would never happen again, Man shall forevermore remain divided.
Your brother, whose devotion to the Lord was matched only by your own, is silent.
It does not take long for you and your brothers and sisters to learn these new tongues, and learn of the divisions that they create. Some children of Man go out of their way to translate these languages, but with the effort that act takes those saints are few and far between. Even acts swaddled by sincerity are looked upon with suspicion when spoken in foreign tongues. Even the most noble and kind members of a community, when faced with uncertainty, begin to foster fear in their hearts and convince themselves that the ends justify the means.
You blink. Wickedness has returned once more. Not out of jealousy, but out of misguided fear and hatred. Crusades begin out of misunderstandings, pieces of culture that once were are lost to time, languages vanish along with their people.
For you and all of your brothers and sisters, your job has become more difficult. Your guidance towards His embrace becomes muddled by the multitude of tongues you must speak through. Attempts at dissuading conflicts and resolving disagreements become tedious, time consuming, and Man is becoming impatient. Fear hiding within their hearts grows by the hour.
Through it all, the Mouth of God continues to justify this act: that though cruel, the splitting of tongues was necessary to ensure that The Path is not abandoned and wickedness is kept at bay. So that Man will not seek shortcuts to His embrace. He continues to speak of such necessity as a farmer’s crops and livestock are ravaged, as He leaves a man crippled for life, as He falsely decrees that father sacrifice child, as He plagues and starves one of his most loyal as a means of merely testing his faith. And yet Man still enslaves their fellow Man, kings continue to starve their people, the march of progress leaves people in its wake with no recourse.
You continue your job. His fury your sword, his mercy your shield. Providing blessings when you can, advice when it is needed, care when it is deserved.
And yet, Times change. And your duty, the sole reason you were created and brought into this world, is no longer viable.
The Mouth of God decrees again: it is clear that despite all of your best efforts, your holy duty and grace falls upon deaf ears. As such, direct involvement shall end henceforth. For Man has proven their willful ignorance and wicked ways, such direct help was no longer a privilege. If your brothers and sisters wish to provide counsel to Man once more, it must be done through indirect messages that Man must interpret on their own.
In your eons upon eons of service, you had never questioned your God’s teachings. But as the land below continuously spiraled inwards towards chaos and the crossing of meaningless lines led to blood being spilled, you had to ask. For what reason is this being done?
“We had shown them kindness,” he said, “generosity, direction. And after so long, they continue to choose ignorance. If they shall not listen, not repent, not be grateful for what we have given them, then they must learn by themselves.”
You wanted to interject and tell him that is not how things work. And you know that’s not how it works, because you have seen how patience and kindness and empathy can change a person’s life for the better, like the Boy and his many generations of loving family. Ever since the Time Before, the acknowledgement of Man’s circumstances and the complexity that comes with them have changed their lives for the better, and that the purging of evil alone does not guarantee a prosperous world.
But in the multitude gazes of your brothers and sisters, you could feel that your decision was minority. There is a fine line between questioning God and speaking out against Him. And nobody has forgotten what happened to your former brother who had done so.
Zagzagel pulls you back, squeezes your hand to comfort you amid the crowd. Clearly frustrated alongside you, but just as powerless.
You stay silent.
Man has not learned.
Communities have turned to societies have turned to governments, and Man has not learned. Horse-led wagons transformed into living and roaring carts, bows and arrows into miniature handheld canons, tyrants renamed to kings and presidents. There is now little time for kindness and empathy, only survival within the Grand Atrocity Machines that Man has created around themselves in your absence.
Kindness still exists, but fights to distinguish itself in a sea of facsimile smiles to endlessly recite a script of politeness. Tyrants and marauders in everything but name tamper with that machine endlessly, enslaving people to make food in exchange for barely enough metal discs and paper to buy the food they themselves harvest. Man must write names on a paper to request those who direct the Machine to not trample upon them. God’s words, your own words, are twisted for hatred which has become an institution all on its own. Monuments created for a version of history, of God, of yourself that are mockable parody to the kindness you wish to provide but God forbids you from doing so.
You no longer need to blink to witness the world shift around you. Homes are created and destroyed and created and destroyed and the people within them destroy themselves to pay someone else for the land they stand on and yet belongs to nobody. In the many millennia before this point you could embody depictions of your brothers and sisters and speak through them to the people on the other side. But people come and go far too fast, on far too inconsistent of a schedule as they hurry to their next job to do tasks for metal and paper to pay for the right to simply access clean drinking water. And those who need guidance the most, those who are crushed by the Atrocity Machine as it uses dogma to persecute them, are inaccessible through these depictions.
All you and your siblings can manage, outside of places of worship, are fleeting moments of one-sided interaction. Whispered words through greeting cards, a nudge of a book to a certain page, even the back of pieces of toasted bread when you’re desperate. There is little you can do but watch, praying for a chance to nudge Man in the right direction and away from self destruction.
You recognize the irony in that statement far too well.
The Mouth of God continues his ceaseless repetitions, that all of this was necessary, that Man deserved this, that you all tried your best and there’s nothing more you can do now.
You sit and hope that a girl, looking for a sign to not kill herself, will buy a specific bag of potato chips.
The Mouth of God gathers you all together for news. Strange contraptions have been appearing more and more frequently in the land below: moving pictures created with refractions of light and intricate metals. These devices are becoming more common by the day, appearing in every city, then neighborhood, then homes. And many of these moving pictures involve depictions of yourself and your siblings.
Few of your brothers and sisters have attempted to utilize these new forms of entertainment for themselves. Though they are vibrant and expressive, their structure creates heavy scrutiny and limited flexibility. They are not still paintings whose gestures can be modified, they are millions of tiny paintings stitched together that must be carefully manipulated to convey a message. In the times when your brothers and sisters attempted such communication, they often developed more fear than they dissuaded.
Fortunately, according to the Mouth of God, there have some developments. And with help from an organization of Man, angels will be permitted and incorporated into these moving pictures for direct communion on scheduled hours of the day. All that is needed in exchange are the interests and opinions of those who watched. Thus, after centuries of having limited communication with Man, you all will be provided with further access.
Many rejoice at this new development, reveling in the opportunity to have something to do akin to their old duties again. But within you, a seed of doubt that had been taking root is beginning to sprout. This organization of man is yet another product of, and controller of, the Atrocity Machines. As such an organization, they care only for the gathering of invisible wealth, so they may gain more power. The information you give in return, would it not be used to further those means? Though you all would be granted communion, would you not be repeating the horrors held down under an inanimate heel? Would you, by working with this group, be perpetuating what you have been fighting against this entire time?
Your concerns are acknowledged, then ignored. Many angels take to their own moving picture programs, Zagzagel included. He says he’s suspicious of the situation just as much as you, but this opportunity is the best you’ve all had in far too many years. He takes to his own program very quickly.
For years in stubborn defiance and misguided hope, you cling to your values and continue as you had been before. Communing and giving advice in whatever fleeting moments you could provide without expanding the Atrocity Machine’s reach even further. Your brothers and sisters tell stories of the people they have helped, the children they have talked with, the adventures they go on to teach these lessons. All the while you continued to whisper advice in dreams and pray a child retains them when they wake.
You are one of the last to follow suit and take up the mantle of Wreath of Life. You’re tired of praying for Man’s bread to toast the right way.
Embodying a character in moving pictures is, strange. You must adapt your form to fit the logic of these stories. What was once a mighty and terrifying form that vanquished those who lurked in shadow, now wears the friendly appearance of a rabbit in bright angelic garb and feminine voice. Admittedly, you enjoyed the change and not scaring away people at first sight.
Taking to the role is quick work for you, and rather enjoyable at times. With the assistance of your friend and follower Francis you act out a play for children across an entire country, preaching messages that remind you of the Time Before. Hope and perseverance, faith and forgiveness, in a forested home that invites nostalgia even from you. Francis’ house reminds you of the Boy you helped save so long ago.
And yet, Times change.
As familiar as these words feel in your mouth, something within them… rings hollow. Perhaps it is the limited time you have, perhaps it is warped glass you must speak through, but the lessons never quite feel fitting for your audience. You have a direct glimpse into the homes and lives of those who wish to follow your faith, your story’s core premise being your friendship with children and inviting them to speak. And they tell you things. Many, many things that cannot be fixed in the span of fifteen minute episodes. Hope and kindness and empathy are always important, but granting forgiveness for a simple feather is quite different compared to a friend ruining another’s reputation in the neighborhood. A river is difficult to compare to a home about to be ripped away by the inscrutable forces of “Foreclosure.”
Other households, other children, you spy into their lives and gain more insight than you have ever had before. You learn far more than what the children merely tell you in the comings and goings of those behind them. How close they get to the screen, how loud they turn up the volume to quiet the noises in the background. The toys and stories they enjoy mixed with the vile traumas they must face each day.
You take note of it all, these precious secrets that children tell you in confidence, and give them to Wreath of Life so they may nudge those viewers in a certain direction. Mail certain pamphlets advertising other shows and toys and games, so they may earn more money. All so you can do these communions. It makes you feel sick.
To many children you become the friend they always needed. Letting them speak issues and stressors that had weighed them down for so long, providing advice they need to nudge them in the right direction. But those are the exception, not the rule. Your simple messages, simple stories tied to certain hours of the day, can only be changed so much. Sometimes the parents watch and you must act out your role perfectly, sometimes children are forced away halfway through. Sometimes they hear your lessons, your attempts at comfort and friendship, and it just makes them hurt even more. As hard as you try to convey your advice through the screen it is always drowned by an ocean of snow. And just as they are bound by their family and living situation, you are bound by the contract with Wreath of Life and can’t go too far off script lest you ruin the entire operation and risk leaving these children without anyone at all.
So you act out your part, play the devout and merciful angel, repeat the same lines ad infinitum for years upon years upon years. Watching children on the other end grow distant from loved ones, go hungry, be abandoned home alone for untold amounts of time, become more cynical, sneer at your play’s childish messaging, shove faces into pillows to muffle their sobs, hurt themselves, beg for help, to be whisked away from their situation and live somewhere safe far far away, to just have a hand to hold or someone living they can hug and be told things can be okay.
And you watch. And you record. And you tell what you learned to Wreath of Life so they may send these grieving, broken children advertisements in the mail.
And you wait for the next programming block.
The wait tears its claws into your soul.
In all of your existence, since the moment God sculpted you from nothing, time has never moved so slow. Outside of the program since the Time Before, the world moved so quickly. Son turned to father turned to grandfather turned to dust, generations came and went in the blink of an eye. You, theoretically, had so much to do with no specific schedule to adhere to. Searching for evil to smite or manifestations to preside over was how you spent your time. And now, tethered to this manifestation, any influence you can make confined to such limited time, you begin to wonder if this is worse.
Zagzagel recommends you step out every now and then, spend time in his world or back in Heaven proper. But you have to prepare however you can for when the dark screen becomes light again. Seek out a child that watches the show, think of what to say, rehearse your lines even though you’ve recited them thousands of times over. It’s all you can do.
Today, you decide to put your focus onto a boy that has been watching your reruns several times over the past few weeks. He’s always arrived promptly, sitting up close to the television, sat very close to the screen and flinching when people walked by. He looks like he needs a friend to talk to.
The screen becomes clear. You hide in the clouds as the intro plays, as is your stage role. Francis calls below, you giggle and float down. The boy on the other side with his jagged teeth, messy hair and light scars along his arms, smiles at your presence.
Ask for his name, Jonah it is. You continue with the lesson, guiding Jonah along and asking for input to make him feel included. He talks of a person named Babe Ruth, some sort of sports player you’ve learned a lot about from other children. The lines are so familiar to you that speaking them is second nature.
And then somewhere on the other side of the screen, a loud crash. Jonah flinches, huddling closer to the screen as voices grow louder. You keep your eyes on the screen as you continue your role, bracing for another horrid sight that you will undoubtedly become captive audience for.
Mother and Father enter stage left, screaming through angry sobs and drunken slurs. They scream of faded love, of undeserved hatred, of money issues. Jonah huddles as close as he can against the television and cradles himself to appear as small as possible.
You talk to Francis about how friendship is a fun adventure that can brighten any day, asking if there are any places that Jonah likes to spend time in. He begins to answer, ‘the tr–’ then flinches as a bottle is thrown. You mention how walking in nature can be quite calming.
You go to a garden patch, talking about how even the simplest of things like eating carrots can taste better with friends.
Father stomps over and puts a hand on his shoulder, turning him around and force him into the argument. He asks if Jonah had fun with a trip to the fair that the child doesn’t remember, to which he mutters out a weak and insincere agreement. The yelling turns chaotic as several rage to protectiveness to fear overlap onto one another. You recite an old line from the Bible about how important community and family and togetherness can be–
Father grabs at His waist, takes out a gun and shoots it into the ceiling. The room turns silent.
Francis tries to make a joke about how he likes a bit of honey with his vegetables. You stare through the screen.
Father, in a drunken slurry, spits and accuses both wife and child for not respecting Him enough. Mother doesn’t go to work (in accordance to Father’s will), so He pays to bring in food for all of them, pays to keep the water running and electricity on. The fact that Mother is cradling Jonah, trembling with tears in her eyes, is insulting. He’s brought them both joy at several points in their lives, He’s not a bad person. But all of this yelling, all of this coming after Him and disrespecting the work He does to provide for them both, they keep painting Him in a bad light like he’s a monster. He pulled Mother out of squalor and is in a better place now, He ensures that people don’t disrespect his family, He brought joy into their lives before, and were it not for all of His hard work, Jonah wouldn’t be here at all. So if the both of them are going to keep painting Him as the villain, disrespecting His wishes, then maybe He should show them just how much of a villain he can really be.
Francis is saying something. You watch through the screen.
Jonah and Mother repeat their apologies over and over. Father holsters his gun and walks out of the room.
Mother holds Jonah for many minutes, checking if he’s okay, apologizes for bringing her baby into this. Then she leaves as well, muttering that tonight is a “serve yourself” night for dinner.
Jonah is alone.
Francis continues on with the script, saying something about how he’s more empowered to talk to people. Waiting for your cue.
You stare at Jonah, frozen in place, holding his shoulders.
Father’s words continue to run through your head. In all your years, you have become adept at picking out lies from truth through the slightest aversion of a gaze. In His tirade, not once could you sense a stretching of the truth or outright lie. He was fully convinced in His fury. And so were Jonah and Mother in their rebuttals of fear.
He believes Himself to have put all of who He is into the household, to being the sole provider of joy to the family amid a world out to get them.
He believes Himself to be wronged and slighted, even when the offenders in question wished nothing of the sort.
He believes Himself to be the reason that Jonah even exists at all, and deserves reverence as payment.
He believes himself to be the god of the household.
He believes himself to be God.
…
He is God.
.....
Francis, thrown off by your not playing along, speaks his final line of the episode. The credits will be rolling soon.
“Jonah.” You speak. He does not hear.
You walk to the screen. “Jonah.”
The small, frail child flinches once more. Finally noticing you on the other side of the screen, front and center. His gaze is of shock, confusion, but detachment. He is not fully there, his eyes stare beyond you in the briefest acknowledgement. Perhaps he doesn’t fully realize this is real.
“I’m sorry, Jonah.” You say, holding your arms. “You didn’t deserve that. Nobody does. I can’t imagine how scared you must feel.”
The young boy walks closer to the TV, breathing heavily, looking down onto you.
“But I’m right here, Jonah. I’m right here.” You put your paw against the screen, feeling the cold static against your fur. “I’m here.”
Jonah, lip quivering and still detached, weakly raises his hand up to meet yours on the other side of the screen.
You can feel a shift around you. The program is ending soon.
“I’ll be back tomorrow, okay? Same time. I promise. Friends never break a promise.”
The last thing you see before the cut to credits is Jonah widening his eyes, pressing his forehead against the screen, beginning to mutter a weak ‘thank you.’
Everything turns to black before you can return the gesture.
The set of Angel Hare rings in its silence.
Francis stands behind you, unsure of what to say. You don’t blame him. What you just did was almost certainly a contract violation of some form. But you know him well, he won’t report this. You hope that he won’t going forward as well.
You know. You know full well that your mind is running with blasphemous thoughts. Merely intending to go against God’s will in such a way would be grounds for banishment. And if you’re caught then you risk ruining everything not just for yourself, but for thousands of other children that your brothers and sisters help every day. If Wreath catches wind, if your reports stop coming in, then it’s over. Fear already has its claws sunken deep within you.
But you will not look away anymore.
You are Angel Gabby.
And you will not leave another child behind.