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Gabriel heads towards the nearby town with way more confidence than he actually feels and O’Leary by his side. Part of him is still pondering Loki’s words, his hopelessness for the modern world. If the actual trickster doesn’t see this era as his, what hope can he have? On the other hand, he is more than a little tired of abiding by the Norse god image. Sure, he’s given up his celestial name for good, but that doesn’t really mean he has to stick to Loki’s, right? The world is moving way too fast for Laufey’s son, alright, that doesn’t mean it is too fast for him.
‘So, what kind of misbehaving did you have in mind?’ He asks, turning to O’Leary, as they make a turn, to his surprise. They walk parallel to the town, but he can’t make out why exactly.
‘The high order kind. A bit high for me alone. Hope you’re up for it.’ The leprechaun smile doesn’t falter, but it acquires a metallic quality.
‘Are you planning on being more specific or...’
‘Are you planning on being honest?’
As he’s interrupted, Gabriel prepares for a fight. He takes a few steps back, eyes fixed on the leprechaun, weighing the pros and cons of just snapping away. He’s curious, though, so he stays.
‘I can see your soul, and you’re no son of Laufey.’ His tone is firm, but not threatening. ‘The disguise, though, is uncanny. How did you manage it?’
‘It was given to me.’ He won’t reveal too much, but sees no reason to lie. It’s obvious O’Leary has enough experience with the Nords to know something’s off.
‘Stranger and stranger.’ The Leprechaun closes the distance. ‘You’re not anything I’ve ever seen. As things are, it suits me just fine.’
Gabriel wants to ask what does he mean, he wants to ask him to think about it again, is he really the only angel on earth, how much has he travelled? Instead, he takes a deep breath, considering what he’s just heard. ‘How does it suit you? What, we’re not leading mortals towards a pot of coal?’
O’Leary snickers, sits on the ground and invites him to do the same. Once Gabriel does, he begins telling the story of Lir, whose ambition to rule over the Tuatha Dé Danann was so great, his wrath when they chose a different king could only be appeased after the newly crowned Bodb Derg promised one of his daughters in marriage. Satisfied, he’d married Aoibh and yielded, and the kingdom could stay in peace. That is, until Aoibh died giving birth to the third and fourth of Lir’s children. Bodb Derg, eager to keep the peace and pragmatic as he was, had promptly solved this issue by marrying away another of his daughters. Lir wasn’t about to object, and happily married Aoife. Aoife, though, was less than agreeable, and begged her most trusted entourage to slay Lir in the name of Aoibh. When they refused for fear of a reckoning, she lead her sister’s children towards the lake, mad with rage and ready to drawn them. Before she could do so, she was persuaded into sparing their life by Aoibh’s daughter Fionnghuala, instead cursing them to exist as swans for nine hundred years. Aoife told Lir the children had drowned, but as soon as he discovered the truth he turned against her, rushing to tell Bodb about her actions. Bodb was horrified to hear about it, and turned her into a Bánánaigh, casting her away.
Gabriel, who’s heard the story with growing suspense, is sure now whatever O’Leary has in mind is no practical joke. Still, he needs to know where it all ends. ‘What happened with the kids? I mean, the swans?’
‘A catholic priest interfered with the curse before the time was due, he tried a blessing that turned them into humans alright, humans at the end of the line. All bony and old. Had just the time to baptise them before they died. Christians.’ His tone is despective and he makes a sign with his left hand that makes Gabriel glad his grace didn’t give him away as an archangel. ‘Regardless, we’re not after them. Tonight we’re going to lift Aoife’s curse.’
‘Aoife? The woman who wanted to drown them?’
‘Well, she didn’t. She cursed them, she got cursed. She’s had to witness uncountable wars, when all she could do was scream about it. She’s also allowed me to tag along and see your fjords. Well, now the war is gone for better or for worse, and she’s decaying.’ His jaw locks, like a challenge.
Gabriel keeps silent. He’s trying to figure out a course of action. This could be a bad idea. Worse, it could be a trap. Still, the way O’Leary’s presented it, it’s hard not to feel for Aoife, at least a little. Hard not to feel for Aoibh. Sent away as a consolation prize, dead four children later. Loki had done worse for less, and he’d still freed him. That was a deal, he tells himself. Well, he can still work this in his favour. When he speaks, his words startle his companion.
‘Can all of the good people see souls?’
‘Ah, worried about meeting the queen. You’re actually lucky Ciaran isn’t more travelled. If any of them knows the Nords and gets close enough they’ll be able to tell.’ He stands up, and he imagines he means the jackalope from before. ‘Now come on, I don’t give my intel for free.’
‘So I can refuse to see her and be rude or appear before her and have her see right through me?’ Gabriel follows closely, wondering how a man so short can be so fast.
‘You could always tell her beforehand.’ He laughs, skipping ahead.
‘Yeah, right.’ Regardless, Gabriel's as good as on board for freeing Aoife, so he might as well find out what’s the plan. ‘How are we freeing your lady, then?’
‘She’s no more my lady than you’re my mister.’ He says, emotionless. Then he perks up: ‘To be honest, this has been a long time coming. I had to find a sword that’d killed a warlord, leaves from a tree that curses you when you say its name, water from a river where starcrossed soulmates had bathed together, the works.’
‘But you still haven’t freed her.’
‘Well, I got everything I needed except for one thing.’
Gabriel stops walking when he realises the leprechaun is slowing down, searching his surroundings. This was a trap after all, he thinks, his hand going to the curved knife he keeps on his hip, ready to attack; not entirely convinced O’Leary’s going to say he still needs the blood of an archangel and jump him, but not able to discard the possibility either. O’Leary turns around, confused, then lets out a hearty laugh.
‘Oh, for the Court’s love, you think I want to kill you?’
Gabriel raises an eyebrow, expecting him to either confirm or deny it.
‘I won’t kill you, I need you alive. Besides, the queen still wants to meet you.’ Gabriel’s shoulders drop. He’s probably safe thanks to the queen. Maybe safe. ‘Look, the ritual has to be executed by a being that wasn’t born of the seas, the earth or the sky. Someone who wasn’t brought into this world during the day nor the night. Who’s never been young and will never grow old. You get the flow. I don’t know what you are, but you’re my best shot. My only shot. If I have to be frank, I had this cooking since the moment I saw you.’ He pauses, sighing. ‘I’ve seen various creatures in my lifetime, but I’ve never seen something that burns like you.’
Gabriel forces himself to look into the leprechaun’s eyes. His time on earth has made him skilled in the art of lying and knowing when he’s being lied to, but he can’t detect deception on him.
‘Alright,’ he mutters in the end, finding himself swept on some level by O’Leary’s enthusiasm. ‘So what do I have to do?’
O’Leary’s expression falters for a moment, but then he nods to himself and reaches into his coat to pull out a dagger. It emits a faint red light and some calling energy Gabriel can’t quite place. His hand rests on his weapon more out of habit than because he thinks he’s in danger. Whatever the blade his companion holds is, it’s no angelblade. He hands it to Gabriel, who hesitates just a moment before taking it, his vision flashing with scenes of battles for a moment. He squeezes his eyes shut, and when he opens them it’s gone.
‘You have to slit her throat with that dagger while saying a blessing.’
‘What?’ Gabriel’s genuinely taken aback now. Not because of the weapon but because of his task. ‘Are you sure it’s going to work?’
‘I can’t be sure, there’s no records of this being done before. But she’ll just fade away if I do nothing.’
‘Right. Well, what’s the blessing?’
‘Just… a traditional blessing in your vernacular.’
Gabriel shudders at the perspective of it. He hasn’t heard or said a word in enochian in what feels like forever. Of course, he knows how it sounds, he knows the words, he just doesn’t know that he’ll be able to bring himself to do it. He doesn’t know he’ll be able to do it without his siblings around to answer. To listen. He’s grown too comfortable speaking through his vessel, he realises. He’s allowed himself to forget, and life seems to have different plans.
‘Great. Listen, I haven’t really spoken a word in centuries. Is there no other way?’
O’Leary fixes him with a glance so intense, for a moment he thinks he knows what he is and what his duty should be. But does protecting humanity extend to protecting fae demigods? No matter, He’s long rejected his god granted duty in favour of whatever he feels fair, and for whatever reason this feels fair. He nods, hoping O’Leary understands he’s up for it because if he has to say it out loud he might just back off.
‘Come now.’ The leprechaun seems to have found what he was looking for, walking towards a hollow tree and pulling out a key. Suddenly, Gabriel finds himself standing on a cobblepath. He can see a tower not far away, and they make their way towards it.
‘Won’t Bodb Derg be mad when he finds out the curse’s been broken?’
‘He never leaves the sídhe anymore. More and more, they’re finding this time unwelcoming.’
‘Can’t blame them.’ Gabriel sighs.
‘I can. They got used to being revered and feared. You must know nothing is forever.’
They make the rest of the way in silence, which Gabriel uses to mull over those words. He’s already transcending the Norse’s rule, but he was there before their time too. Who could tell when was an archangel’s time? Can he even include himself in that category anymore? For the sake of Aoife he hopes he can. Sooner than he expected, they arrive, and he follows O’Leary up the stairs and into an ample cell.
His eyes follow O’Leary as he beelines for the woman sat next to the only window, who smiles when their eyes meet, a vague curiosity adorning her visage. Gabriel stays back, letting them get reacquainted. She’s pale as a corpse, from her hair to the outdated armour she wears. He turns his vision to the floor, instead trying to remember the way his father talked. He wants to help, but he still hasn’t the faintest idea of how to bless someone as an archangel. Part of him wants him to use a Norse blessing, he’s got plenty of practice on those, but he doesn’t think that’ll work.
‘I hear you’ve come to slit my throat.’
His eyes shoot up. Despite the strained voice, Aoife is smiling, so he figures it’s a joke: ‘I only do so under request.’
‘I know you’ve heard of my crime.’ Her expression shifts, her voice is strange, it varies in volume and the words sound foreign in her mouth. ‘I must have been mad when I raised a hand against my sister’s children. That’s no excuse, but...’
‘It’s fine. I… I am here, regardless. I’m sure she understands.’
‘Would you?’ She asks, no more than a whisper. Without waiting for an answer, she holds her hair back, exposing her throat, and puts her head back.
Gabriel steps towards her in hesitant steps. Holds the dagger in front of him. He can feel O’Leary’s eyes on his back. For a moment he wonders what will they be left with if it fails. He won’t fail. He takes a breath, raises his arm and slashes through the white skin. He feels the tendons and muscles giving away under his pressure. He holds her by the shoulder with his free hand, feels the heavenly energy surge through him. He hears the words before noticing he’s the one saying them: ‘You’re forgiven.’
His eyes focus, he sees black blood pouring from Aoife’s throat like a fountain. She stumbles back, supporting herself on the wall. Speechless, he turns to O’Leary, who’s still covering his ears with a bewildered expression. When he looks back at Aoife, he sees her face colouring in. Even so, the blood keeps pouring, but is now cobalt coloured instead. Gabriel pales, as he understands the spell worked and she’s dying anyway. He throws the dagger away from him, instead raising his hand to her neck.
He feels the blood on his palm, hears her cough and only then it occurs to him his grace may work with humans only. He steps back, but he’s relieved when he sees the wound is no longer visible. O’Leary comes forward as she slides down the wall, clearly surprised by the turn of events. Gabriel gives them another look as Aoife heaves, overcome by emotion, and steps outside to weigh the recent events.
He’s spoken the language of the angels, when no one around him could understand him. It was enough, though. He was enough of an archangel. Is. He shouldn’t be, but he can’t bring himself to regret it. He falls on his knees, out of exhaustion rather than devotion. He feels like weeping, but he’s reminded of the presence of Aoife and O’Leary. It wouldn’t do, after such display of power. It’s not much of a decision when the words tumble out of his mouth:
‘My name is Gabriel and I used to be an archangel.’ He takes a breath, reminds himself nobody here can understand him. He stands up, looks into the sky, with an anger he can’t place but comes out as an accusation. ‘And I left heaven but not before He did.’
He can’t say what he was expecting. Some kind of retaliation? The might of God, raining down on him? The night is silent. In the distance, he hears some insect chirping.
‘If I stopped being an archangel when I left, what have you become?’
His breath comes out sharp, but he focuses on stabilising it. He left so he wouldn’t have to deal with any of it. He’s better now that it’s not his problem anymore. It’s not enough. He’s angry at his brothers for the constant disagreements, he’s angry at his father who couldn’t be bothered to stop them. To stick around. To care about the consequences of sealing the darkness in his brother’s arm. But it’s not his problem. His gaze falls to the ground. It’s not his problem anymore. No matter what he is, he is staying away. He’s got nothing left to say anyway.
He can’t tell how long he stays there before faint steps make him turn back. He sees Aoife walking towards him, her hands behind her ears, just in case. The blood has dried on her armour, but she seems fine.
‘You handle yourself as the trickster god, but if you were I wouldn’t be here.’ Her voice is melodic, and it holds a question.
‘If I was here as I am, I wouldn’t be here for long.’
‘Fair.’ She raises her hand to show him a pendant with a ring. ‘Keep this with you and they’ll be none the wiser. Just throw an offering into the river and pray there’s no more like you: I can only shield you from what I know.’
‘Thanks.’
He takes it, and as he hangs it around his neck, he doesn’t feel as if he’s giving up his identity. He feels he’s gained on freedom to figure it out. He smiles as he notices O’Leary approaching them.
‘You could have given me a warning.’ He grumbles, sounding more fond than he intended. ‘You can tell me you’re out of practice but not that you’re about to blow my eardrums to Gaul.’
‘Would that have stopped you?’
‘It would have made me get some wool plugs.’
Surprising himself, Gabriel finds himself laughing at that image. He tries to stop, the leprechaun deserves at least that all things considered, but Aoife shortly joins him, followed by O’Leary himself, if a bit begrudgingly. It’s somehow fitting, Gabriel thinks, and he lets his laughter ring and grow inside his chest. He's bringing himself to stop, when he notices O'Leary leaning on Aoife's calf in an attempt to regain his breath, which gets him to laugh louder.
When he finally gets to straighten himself, a smile lingers in his expression. He’s missed the action, maybe, he's missed the close calls. For the first time, he realises he’s eager to rejoin the world.