set fire to the rain

Gabriel de le Poer · 07-28-2011, 01:40 AM

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He dreamt of fire.

It was always fire; fire in the south, fire in the east. He had been chosen and made mighty by God, given the sword and turned into his scourge. When the plagues had fallen in Egypt, he had been there. When the bombs fell in America, he had been there. Once an angel, Gabriel had been sent to earth to touch it with mortal hands. In his dreams, he flew—in his dreams, he felt the fire and knew what it was to be cleansed.

When he woke, there was only thunder. It was distant, but ever encroaching, ever nearing. The air felt heavy and something in it drove him to rise. Gabriel left the building and walked into the night. Nose turned to the air, testing it. He smelt the rain coming, but he sensed something more. With as much speed as he could muster (and truth be told, the doggish trot he picked up was quite fast) the graying hybrid moved west. He was about halfway to the caves when a banshee’s wail rose from the west and set the fur along his spine on end.

It was her voice, and it was more mighty and terrible than anything he wished to imagine. Wide-eyed, Gabriel quickened to a run. His shoulder protested, but adrenaline blocked the pain. There was little resistance from the earth, for Gabriel knew the Waste even better than his son.

When he reached the bank, his tongue was lolling and his speed had dropped considerably. The entirety of his left arm felt as if it might destroy itself. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Gabriel found the source. In the darkness, he was a shadow, a shade with gleaming eyes and terrible scars. Without hesitation, he plunged into the water—he was lucky. She had traveled from the south and approached from the smaller section of the river. It was not half as large as it was closer to the bay.

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