Gabriel, Alone

Somewhere in what would later come to be called the Andromeda Galaxy, the Archangel called Gabriel floated listlessly.

She was in human form, having found that their brittle grasping fingers were much better for fighting than the amalgamation of pure light and sound and love that her true form was. Her eyes, half-lidded, were dull pulsars behind their delicate lids. Her divinity pulsed restlessly beneath the thin husk of organic matter with which she had encased it. She trembled, just so, with the desire to burst free from it.

And yet within she remained, floating aimlessly through the vast and insignificant cloud of dust and newborn stars, their shy new light bathing her splayed form in their splendor, setting the horn loosely held in her right hand ablaze.

Regret did not consume her; from the moment of her creation, she had been her Father’s, but the taste of victory was not as sweet as she imagined. Better to have never tasted it than to exist like this, with so many of her siblings gone awry.

Control over her form began to slip, and two of her halos manifested around her head, orbiting lazily and burning away any matter that came near. She closed her eyes to their light and waited, her grip tightening ever so slightly on the horn.

The day would come when she would blow it for the last time, and time itself would halt because of the sound.

Until then, she floated on.

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