Metatron (hisword) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2010-06-30 08:59:00 |
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Entry tags: | metatron |
Who: Metatron (hisword)
What: Revelations, movement.
Where: NYC lodgings.
When: Mid-week.
Warnings: None.
Too much, too much.
Eisheth Zenunim had the heart of it; serpents above and below, caged, restless, striking out in equal measures of agitation and their own nature. God's Voice opened that box with no expectations. He took in the sight of writhing reptiles before wordlessly accepting their venom, resolute, head bowed, face drawn taut with circumstance. It was a wretched burn through the flesh which encased his not-soul, that Heavenly spirit stuff which made him up, but he'd faced far greater ire and persevered. The Hell Queen's petulant lashing out saddened the angel, but did not surprise him.
Other happenings, however.
He went into a state afterward, that slip-slide place where their Heavenly Father should have been clear as a cherubic bell but instead sounded so distant, so far, so muffled and mute. Fingers wrapped loosely around a black mamba, Metatron went to his knees and did not pray so much as wait.
"Now?"
"No."
"Now?"
"A while yet."
"Now?"
"Hush. Soon."
"Now?"
Now would be good, he realized moments-lifetimes later. Now would be right. Tell the Horsemen "Yes, now, go forth, perform as He made you to", see them light up with the unrestrained joy of beings which could finally, finally fulfill their purpose. Wipe the slate clean, start afresh.
Not yet. That day would come, and it would be glorious. But not yet.
The Voice snapped back into place, aware of his false mortal shell, the dull ache in its joints, the sound of his eyelashes brushing over his skin. Snakes crept along the floor and over his hands and legs, placated, still restless despite. He reached out to run a printless fingertip along one's spine, hummed under his breath; the creature calmed immediately. Metatron smiled, tired and rueful.
By the time he made it back to his feet and strode outside, any sense of pleasantness was long gone. The Voice understood more of the Plan now, the Purpose carved directly into his bones. If he'd a heart, it would have broken; as it was, sadness and anger waged war against serenity. He did not hide what he was, not today. Instead the angel took a deep breath, closed his eyes, threw his tousled head back and turned his face up to the sky.
"Michael," the Voice called. Window-glass rattled in its panes. "There are words." Buildings shivered along their foundations whilst car alarms blared up and down the street in accompaniment. "There are intentions." Men and women dropped like stones, deafened by wordless, perfect sound they could never describe.
"End this."