milliways_bar | (no subject)

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The door opens to show fields, and a blue sky that goes on forever. Javert stands on the threshold - rough workman's clothes, pitchfork in hand - and contemplates the view in front of him. Then he steps back, and is gone as he closes it behind him.

Maybe twenty minutes later, it opens again. It is dusk on the outside, and Javert has a rag in his hands this time, wiping dirt away. He sighs quietly, and says 'very well' to himself. His trepidation is obvious when he steps inside and closes the door, because he immediately tests to see if he can open it again. Perhaps his relief is just as clear when it seems he is not to be locked in this time.

He asks for a newspaper at the bar. When he learns the date, he asks it to be taken away. There is no expression on his face, and he does not look around to see if there is anyone he knows. He simply picks up his coffee and walks out of the back door, down to the lake to look over the water.

[OOC: Available in the bar, or outside. Open all weekend! <3]

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There's the sound of wingbeats, either from something large very high up in the sky, or a small bird very near to hand.

Several feet away stands a woman, barefoot, wearing old jeans and a gray T-shirt that reads 'Don't want to don't have to, I'm Michael'.

"Lost in thought?"

He was.

Then there were wingbeats.

And now there is a woman.

(Javert may be staring a bit.)

"Hello, Javert."

Her voice is deep, for a woman.

"Fear not."

...easy for her to say.

He nods his head, once, dumbly.

And then shakes it, because...well, it is easy for her to say.

There is no smile on her face.

"Will you walk with me a ways?"

Hesitation.

And then, another nod. Would he say 'no'? Of course not.

He moves a little stiffly, and keeps his eyes on her as he edges up to her side. Eventually, he manages to find his voice.

'What are you?'

It is asked respectfully. And with definite fear.

"I am an archangel of the Lord."

She still doesn't smile, merely holds out her arm as if for him to take.

"Michael, in point of fact. Captain of the Host and Prince of the Presence."

...no, he will not take the arm of Michael. It is all he can do to stay on his feet.

If he looked fearful before, his face verges on panic now.

Michael takes his arm in hers, instead.

Implacably.

Her touch is anomalously gentle, given the stern unsmiling nature of her appearance.

"You have not been found wanting."

His heart pauses. And then rushes to catch up, while a breath sucks in hard over his teeth.

His face may crumple a little. Not simply out of shock.

Perhaps she...he?...means less than he hopes.

'At arm holding?' he says, cautiously.

More like a whisper, laden with uncertainty.

"At living," she says, her expression gentle even as her voice remains strong.

"At being human."

Her mouth twitches slightly, and she reaches out with her free hand to lay it over his, where it rests on her arm.

"Perhaps less so at knowing you are worthy of the love thy Father bears thee, but we can work on that."

She's here after all, is she not?

Edited 2014-06-07 23:27 (UTC)

His eyes fall to the hand touching his.

Michael. Touching his hand.

His head starts to shake, and does not stop. It is not long before he realises the rest of him is shaking also.

'I-'

There are tears in his eyes, and he does not care.

'-I am not worthy. I have hurt people, and not been sorry. Do you know this? It is all very well to say that I am worthy because everyone is, but I have done bad things and not cared enough to notice.'

His voice is shaking too, but perhaps that can be forgiven also.

"Let he who is without sin cast the first stone."

She makes no mention of his trembling. Or of his tears.

"You are noticing them now, those things that you've done. Will you do them again?"

'No.'

Wait. Is that true?

'I will try. But I-'

He cannot pull his hand away, or his arm, because it is Michael. But the touch scares him, as though it may burn at any moment.

'I do not know how to go forward. And the longer I prevaricate, the more damage I seem to do.'

A short, dry, laugh.

'Damnation would be easier. But that does not seem to be allowed.'

Michael comes to a stop, pulling Javert around to face her.

"There is nothing easy about damnation. Put that thought out of your head."

Her hands remain gentle, however, even as her voice is not.

"No one gets out of this life without doing damage. You will falter and you will fail, much as my brother did and does."

She does not exhale.

"But I will tell you this, Javert, and I will have you remember it. In the end, despite all that he had done over so many millennia -- in the end my brother came home. And I do not love him one drop less for all that time apart. Can you think God would be any different, with you?"

'I do not know,' he whispers, and it is probably quite obvious that he is entirely lost on this point, floundering on it.

'I would never dare assume to know the thinking of God.'

He does not even attempt to look into her face.

'I was given instruction by another angel, in order to redeem myself. I do not think I can fulfil his instructions. And I do not want to fail again. I am sorry for what I have done, but now I am angry at God, and it will not go away.'

The unspoken is there, obvious to see and hear. Please make it go away.

"God can take your anger," Michael says.

She means it.

"All children question. All children have their own moments of doubt."

Her hands are warm on his shoulders.

"Will you tell me what instruction you were given, as you understand it?"

He does feel like a child in this moment. Utterly helpless.

'I was told to connect with other people. To find love. Because God is love, and mercy, and they are things I have never attempted to understand.'

He understands the reasoning behind it. He does not - or at least, did not - want to do it, and now things are even more complicated than they were. But it is not the instruction that infuriates him; more that he was not told how to do it.

And now the only way to do it involves violating a tenet of the Church. Damned either way.

Michael's gaze is fathomless and deep, but her hands remain unutterably gentle.

"God's love is not the same as that of a woman for a man, or a man for a man, when it comes to that."

She doesn't sigh, just leaves her hands on Javert's shoulders, holding firm.

"The love of one friend for another, or a parent for a child, or a neighbor for those in this world that are less fortunate, or less safe -- all these are love, also. I do not believe such loves as these are beyond you, Javert."

She leans forward, then, and presses a kiss of peace to his brow.

"Trust in that, if you can, until you are more fully able to trust yourself."

He keeps his head bowed. The brush of lips threatens to undo him utterly, and he cannot face a being who brings such a message. The wonder of it aches, and brings such shame that he can hardly stand it.

'And if,' he says, in a low tone, 'that is not the kind of love that means anything to me?'

He does not want to think of Valjean, but it happens anyway. Not that he loves him. But there is a secret veneration that borders on the one currently trained on Michael.

'Perhaps I can learn to do it. I will try. But the other kind?'

He does not want to burn in hell for something he cannot control. But if Michael - Michael - says he must deny it to himself, then he must.

"Then you may have the other love, too. None of it is meant to tear you apart, Javert. It is all a blessing from thy Father, to thee and all his children."

Her grip remains gentle.

"Even if the Devil would have thee believe otherwise. And his voice has ever been most loud and easiest to hear."

He is confused.

He wants to believe this so badly it hurts. He is not even intending to act on it, but the fact that it would not be condemned if he did...it is freedom from torment, if nothing else.

'It goes against the Church.'

He mutters it, not wanting the statement to be taken away from him. He is not even supposed to listen to angels above God - but then, the Bible was written by man.

'...I do not want to get this wrong. I am trying not to fall again.'

"After the choice of Peter as the rock, Javert, the Church was made by men. And all men, best-beloved though they are, are fallible. I tell you true, to hate thyself is to hate the hand of God that made thee."

She knows it.

"Neither the Son nor the Father judge thee for this, for it was how thou wast made. Be easy."

And now she does smile, small, unpracticed, and sweet.

"As I said. Fear not, for nothing about thee is damned, and all thy choices lie before thee. Make them anew, and be a kinder man -- to thyself and others both -- for all thy days. I have faith in thee."

It is a long time before he moves. And when he does, he only nods, face down to hide the evidence of emotion.

He trusts she will understand if he does not speak. A crushed man cannot be expected to find words, even one crushed by gratitude. And relief. And a desire to be...better.

"Thou art loved," Michael says, holding his hands between both of her own.

"Do not forget it, and be blessed."

Her wings are jade green and vast, the same color as her eyes, and they beat against the air for a moment before she launches upward and away.

Her work here, for the moment, is done.

And the message has been heard.

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