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Nov. 1st, 2005 06:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
un_fallen[OOC: After this.]
Raguel walks outside alone, unable to stand the crush of people (staring at him, he thinks) any longer. In the east, or whatever passes for east in this part of the Creation, the sky is already the faintest pink. He'd told himself he wasn't going down to the water, and yet that is where his legs carry him, resolved and sure, through the dewy grass. The chilly feel of each blade is shocking underfoot; he isn't wearing shoes for the first time in what must be years. He reaches the lakeside, as he must have wanted all along, and looks down.
The angel Raguel looks back at him from the morning of the world. He stares at himself. And then he flexes pristine white wings wonderingly, his mouth slightly open, testing their span and remembering the gentle bend of each feather. They aren't solid, really, but solid enough to feel natural, and the breeze ruffles the down in waves of soft white. The lake reflects the sky's muted pink behind him, which deepens to complete the illusion of the City's ever-changing heavens. He stands for several minutes, just looking, remembering.
And then he steps back with a deep, shuddering breath. If he doesn't walk away from this on his own terms, there will be consequences. Slowly, he turns back to the bar, relishing the slight tug on his back from the breeze, then continues through to the exit without stopping.
One more breath, consciously not reaching back for one last reassuring touch, and he's out.
The illusion melts, as expected; his shoes reappear, the faded coat and clothes and patched duffel. He shoves his hands into his pockets and pulls out the broken, greyish feather he'd found after his dream. It resembles the feathers of Bar's illusion only the most basic sense, but for the first time since he picked it up, he is certain that it's one of his own. Pulling his coat around him against a nonexistent California chill, he lets it trail through the air as he walks.
Raguel walks outside alone, unable to stand the crush of people (staring at him, he thinks) any longer. In the east, or whatever passes for east in this part of the Creation, the sky is already the faintest pink. He'd told himself he wasn't going down to the water, and yet that is where his legs carry him, resolved and sure, through the dewy grass. The chilly feel of each blade is shocking underfoot; he isn't wearing shoes for the first time in what must be years. He reaches the lakeside, as he must have wanted all along, and looks down.
The angel Raguel looks back at him from the morning of the world. He stares at himself. And then he flexes pristine white wings wonderingly, his mouth slightly open, testing their span and remembering the gentle bend of each feather. They aren't solid, really, but solid enough to feel natural, and the breeze ruffles the down in waves of soft white. The lake reflects the sky's muted pink behind him, which deepens to complete the illusion of the City's ever-changing heavens. He stands for several minutes, just looking, remembering.
And then he steps back with a deep, shuddering breath. If he doesn't walk away from this on his own terms, there will be consequences. Slowly, he turns back to the bar, relishing the slight tug on his back from the breeze, then continues through to the exit without stopping.
One more breath, consciously not reaching back for one last reassuring touch, and he's out.
The illusion melts, as expected; his shoes reappear, the faded coat and clothes and patched duffel. He shoves his hands into his pockets and pulls out the broken, greyish feather he'd found after his dream. It resembles the feathers of Bar's illusion only the most basic sense, but for the first time since he picked it up, he is certain that it's one of his own. Pulling his coat around him against a nonexistent California chill, he lets it trail through the air as he walks.
