Chapter 1: Chapter 1: He, Who Is First to Love (Romantically)

He made angels to love. They were to love all living beings, made by their hands and His. From the wriggling tardigrades to the snapping megalodon, the rolling pillbug to the stomping mammoth. Even before there were other beings, before Time, before Creation, when it was just them and He, angels loved each other.

Some angels loved more than others. But they all loved, at least a little.

Raphael didn’t much like the tardigrades, when they were being made. He loved them, of course. Found them fascinating, in their sturdiness, in their ability to survive no matter what was thrown at them, where they were put. But their mouths, pinched and circular, disturbed him. He loved them still, as he loved anything. Raphael loved all the other angels, from the lowly Angels to the praising Seraphim. Raphael loved his siblings the Archangels, Michael and Gabriel.

He Loved, capital ‘L’, the Power Camael.

The Archangel Raphael was the first to ever capital ‘L’ Love.

He hadn’t known what that feeling was, then. What the strange warmth that bloomed beneath his breast was when he looked at Camael. Or, at least, where his breast would be if he had a human-like form, a form with a chest.

So he’d asked his siblings, as he’d always done Before. They were Creators, Inventors, They-Who-Made. Surely they’d know? But they’d never felt capital ‘L’ Love and hadn’t known what it was either. And neither had the other angels, of which there hadn’t been many yet, only a few in each sphere, in each rank. He’d still been working out the kinks, then. Designing them, making every single angel by hand. They’d not needed many, because Time hadn’t been invented yet, so they could take as long as they needed to Create.

They hadn’t known much, before Time was invented. Because they hadn’t Created many things yet, or discovered them.

In that time - though there hadn’t been Time yet - He had still been available to them. A pull, a call always in their mind, so they’d always know where he was even when he left his throne. Always there when they needed him, always answering their calls for him, answering their questions. Because they’d been new, and had had many questions.

“That is Love, Raphael. You feel Love for him.” He had said as Raphael knelt before him, wings spread wide in supplication. The Seraphim, of which there’d only been three, one to stand at each of His sides and one behind Him, had never stopped their praising, but Raphael could hear Him without straining. His voice rang in Raphael’s head, His gentle smile a balm to his confusion.

“Love?” Raphael had asked, not understanding. He knew of love, and love was warmth, a contentedness. It was not this burning thing inside him, this fire that urged him to stand at Camael’s side and talk, to preen his wings until they gleamed and caught Camael’s eye, to take his hand — or their approximation of a hand — and never let go. “Father, I know love, and this is not it.”

Before, they had not been afraid to question Him.

“No, My son.” And He’d laughed. “You, and My others, know of love for family, for friends. Philia. What you feel is Love, Love for a romantic partner. Eros, Ludus.” And with a gesture of his hand, a grand wave to His feet, He’d bid him to kneel. He had, of course. Raphael had always been loyal.

Disloyalty hadn’t been invented yet.

He had pressed his fingers to his head, just between his eyes and slightly above, and he’d Known. Of clandestine ‘kisses’ when others weren’t looking, of picnics - which hadn’t been invented yet, and neither had food, or eating, or blankets or wicker baskets or other such things - under a setting sun (also not invented yet). Of held hands and shy smiles, of swooping through the emptiness of the nether, of grooming feathers in a way different than how he’d ever groomed his siblings’.

Raphael hadn’t been shocked, not really. Or surprised, or any of those emotions. When everything you do is new, you stop being surprised quickly. Perhaps it would be best to say he’d been taken aback.

He’d sat back on his heels, tilting his head as he thought, and felt. Brought his hand up to his chest, cupped that feeling, and held it close, and felt it flutter in his palms like a trapped butterfly (in the process of being invented). “Oh.” He’d said, for lack of anything else to say. And then he’d said it again, “Oh,” as the warmth of Love in his palms flared and crawled up his arms, though it didn’t dare to burn him.

“Does he feel Love too?” Raphael had asked Him, forcing his gaze away and up to Him.

“Perhaps.” His eyes had been fond (they often were, Before, when He still loved them, before He abandoned them to rot), though His smile was cryptic. “That is not for Me to say.”

He had reached out again, Raphael leaning forward to meet His touch.

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And he had known of Love rejected. Of heartbreak, and heartsickness. Of kneeling, a ring in hand, and hearing ‘no’, of walking in on someone you love with someone else. Of falling out of love, of never knowing it, of losing it. Of having someone your entire life and sitting beside them as they passed, of having them only for a short time and losing them suddenly. Of loving someone, of gathering the courage to tell them, only to be rejected. Kindly, cruelly. Of being sent away, of being laughed at. Of loving from afar a friend you’ve known for most of your life, of falling in love with someone in only moments. Of the grief of loving and never telling before losing them, of the pain of loving and never telling and watching them love someone else.

(He’d known of humans, too. But He had directed his thoughts away from them, because they were little more than stardust yet, not more than a thought, a whim when He looked at His angels. A contemplation, for when He’d finished with them, and they were able to care for themselves and didn’t need Him much anymore. So when Raphael looked back at what he’d been Shown, the humans wouldn’t even be a thought, wouldn’t even be acknowledged.)

Raphael had shuddered, and had looked up at Him. His eyes had been soft, His smile warm. When he had reached up to wipe the gold streaks from his cheeks He had leaned forward and done it for him, glowing fingers coming away coated in stardust. His wings had trembled, tucking against his back before splaying out again. “I understand.”

Not all of it, no. No angel, no being of any sort could understand everything. Maybe He could, or maybe not even He. Certainly not an Archangel, low in rank, only highly regarded for being firstborn and favored by God. Raphael… liked Love, at least he thought so, liked the heat that had settled back in his chest, just beside the warmth of the love for others. Liked the fluttering against his ribs, or his equivalent, liked the way it made his lips twitch up, made him want to flutter around and lean against Camael and talk and praise him better than any Seraph could even dream of — if dreams had been invented yet, at least. Still, he didn’t understand the other parts of Love; the grief, the loss, the denials. The pain and the abuse, the restrictions and the selfishness.

But he didn’t question Him, he never did. Because He wasn’t wrong, He never had been, and He never would be. He knew what He was doing when they didn’t, He always had an answer. Even if it was just ‘you’ll see in time.’

Raphael wasn’t sure what Time was, but they always found out the answer to their question in the end, so he thought he rather liked Time.

The Seraphim spread their great wings, all six of them on each Seraph, when he moved to stand, and swept into the air, crying out “HOLY, HOLY, HOLY IS THE LORD GOD, THE ALMIGHTY, WHO WAS AND WHO IS AND WHO IS TO COME.” where before they’d chanted only “HOLY. HOLY. HOLY.” All in one voice that came from three separate mouths, in perfect sync just like their wings; two that covered their faces, two great ones that flapped and kept them alight, and two that curled around to hide their feet. They curled around Him, switching positions, the one who’d been behind Him now to His right, the one who’d been on His right now on His left, and the one who’d been on His left now at His back. Three heads, eyes obscured by wings so small the tips only barely brushed where they met, raised and they called to the sky — though there was no such thing, not yet — as the countless eyes that nestled in their feathers swiveled to look at He and Raphael in turn.

“HOLY, HOLY, HOLY IS THE LORD GOD, THE ALMIGHTY, WHO CREATED LOVE OF EVERY KIND. HOLY, HOLY, HOLY IS THE LORD GOD, THE ALMIGHTY, WHO CREATED THE SERAPHIM, THE ARCHANGEL RAPHAEL, THE POWER CAMAEL.”

Raphael would have choked, if he was capable of such a thing. Would have blushed, if he could do so. As it were he moved to rise, raising his gaze to seek His permission, not looking at any of the chanting Seraphim.

He hurt to look at, or nearly so, so blinding was His brilliance. He had a strange form, though when man came into being Raphael would realize He had built Himself into a man with no features, only pure divine light glowing in a man’s shape, shining from an Extradimensional core. The soft blue of His luminescence drew Raphael’s gaze but made his eyes sting, though still he met the white glows that were the lights of His colorless, radiant eyes.

“You may go, My Raphael. Learn, teach. You have been given a gift.”

He had been munificent with His gifts Before. They’d each had their Domains, what they held power over - or what they would, at least. Jubal, with her music. Raphael, with healing. Uriel and their arts, Wormwood and his war, Zaphkiel and knowledge, though he’d been given power over the Thrones as well. Camael his strength, courage, and compassion. Azrael knew she would hold domain over death, but none of them were sure what death was, not yet. But He had been grave when He pronounced it, so they knew it was an important matter. That Azrael was important, and so she was treated in such a way.

Everyone was important, before Time. But she’d been just that little bit more so.

Raphael had thanked Him, of course. Had bowed as low as he could go, had bared the weak, vulnerable undersides of his wings. “Thank you, Father.” Had reached out with his own divinity, letting it twine with His, letting Him feel his gratitude, his love, his adoration. “I won’t waste it.”

He had laughed, that deep, throaty, booming laugh of a father amused by his children. “You waste it, Raphael? I should think not.”

Pride hadn’t yet been one of the seven sins yet, then.

There hadn’t been sins, then.

So when Raphael walked away to the stardust pool, where most of the angels spent their time Creating, his wings were mantled and he was smiling, feeling a thousand feet tall, and bulletproof.

One of which was true but, well, you get my point

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