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rainbowfic2015-07-30 11:56 pm
shadowsong26) wrote in rainbowfic2015-07-30 11:56 pm
Octarine #10, French Grey #23
Name: shadowsong26
Story: Who Is Like God?
'Verse: Lux
Colors: Octarine #10. Just because it's not nice doesn't mean it's not miraculous., French Grey #23. The public not unnaturally goes on the principle that he who would heal others must himself be whole, and looks askance at the curative powers of the man whose own case is beyond the reach of his drugs.
Supplies and Materials: graffiti (duck gallery), fingerpainting (very weird second-person poem thing), photography, charcoal, pastels (my current gen + romance card N4 "angelic (or demonic) beings"), yarn, beading wire
Word Count: 483
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Michaela
Warnings: References to war, violence, and erasing memories.
Notes: Constructive criticism welcome, as always.
You know what your name means--
or at least what it means
when cut to pieces by human tongues;
and you know it isn't true.
Well, it almost isn't true.
You are a leader, you are justice,
you are a soldier and an executioner
and on occasion a guardian, a giver of mercy.
In one hand, you hold a sword a spear a mace a bow a pistol a knife;
you cleave the wings from your beloved sister's back, and call it justice--
And what is the Holy One--what the humans call God--
What is the Holy One if not justice?
But in your other hand--in your other hand,
you cradle light, and compassion, mercy and healing,
pushing the pain away from your nephew's conscious mind
and isn't that justice, too?
Gabriel weeps, and you don't understand it,
your nephew begs, and you don't understand it,
your sister laughs, and you don't understand it,
sometimes you think you will never understand it.
But you are there, you are a leader,
you are justice, and a soldier, an executioner,
a guardian, bestowing mercy on those in your charge,
a blade in one hand and a healing light in the other.
But the War comes again--the Four are awake,
the Broken Branch has borne its fruit, and you ask yourself--
do you have the balance right? And when it all comes crashing down again,
will justice in one hand and mercy in the other do what must be done?
You twist the syllables of your human name on your tongue.
Michaela, Michaela, Michaela. It rests uneasy there,
and you can't help but speak it as a question--
Who is like God?
You toss the name into the air and wait for the Holy One to answer.
Who is like God? You stand as the pinnacle of justice,
you do everything you can to keep justice and mercy alive
in this world that you know is slowly dying,
But the answer never comes. Who is like God?
You hold your mace in one hand, your light in the other,
and pray for compassion, for justice,
for your name to be something other than a question.
They are weeping, all around you, they are weeping,
and a part of you grieves with them, though you can't ever show it,
and you feel your armor turn to rust around you, and you can't move fast enough,
and you can't save them, though you try, oh, how you try--
Executioner on the one hand, and healer on the other--
Who is like God? Not you. Perhaps.
But you try anyway. And you will see this through.
You will dispense justice, and mercy, in any way you can.
Who is like God?
Your question isn't answered, cannot be answered,
but you find peace of a kind in what little you understand,
and know what you have will be enough.
Story: Who Is Like God?
'Verse: Lux
Colors: Octarine #10. Just because it's not nice doesn't mean it's not miraculous., French Grey #23. The public not unnaturally goes on the principle that he who would heal others must himself be whole, and looks askance at the curative powers of the man whose own case is beyond the reach of his drugs.
Supplies and Materials: graffiti (duck gallery), fingerpainting (very weird second-person poem thing), photography, charcoal, pastels (my current gen + romance card N4 "angelic (or demonic) beings"), yarn, beading wire
Word Count: 483
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Michaela
Warnings: References to war, violence, and erasing memories.
Notes: Constructive criticism welcome, as always.
You know what your name means--
or at least what it means
when cut to pieces by human tongues;
and you know it isn't true.
Well, it almost isn't true.
You are a leader, you are justice,
you are a soldier and an executioner
and on occasion a guardian, a giver of mercy.
In one hand, you hold a sword a spear a mace a bow a pistol a knife;
you cleave the wings from your beloved sister's back, and call it justice--
And what is the Holy One--what the humans call God--
What is the Holy One if not justice?
But in your other hand--in your other hand,
you cradle light, and compassion, mercy and healing,
pushing the pain away from your nephew's conscious mind
and isn't that justice, too?
Gabriel weeps, and you don't understand it,
your nephew begs, and you don't understand it,
your sister laughs, and you don't understand it,
sometimes you think you will never understand it.
But you are there, you are a leader,
you are justice, and a soldier, an executioner,
a guardian, bestowing mercy on those in your charge,
a blade in one hand and a healing light in the other.
But the War comes again--the Four are awake,
the Broken Branch has borne its fruit, and you ask yourself--
do you have the balance right? And when it all comes crashing down again,
will justice in one hand and mercy in the other do what must be done?
You twist the syllables of your human name on your tongue.
Michaela, Michaela, Michaela. It rests uneasy there,
and you can't help but speak it as a question--
Who is like God?
You toss the name into the air and wait for the Holy One to answer.
Who is like God? You stand as the pinnacle of justice,
you do everything you can to keep justice and mercy alive
in this world that you know is slowly dying,
But the answer never comes. Who is like God?
You hold your mace in one hand, your light in the other,
and pray for compassion, for justice,
for your name to be something other than a question.
They are weeping, all around you, they are weeping,
and a part of you grieves with them, though you can't ever show it,
and you feel your armor turn to rust around you, and you can't move fast enough,
and you can't save them, though you try, oh, how you try--
Executioner on the one hand, and healer on the other--
Who is like God? Not you. Perhaps.
But you try anyway. And you will see this through.
You will dispense justice, and mercy, in any way you can.
Who is like God?
Your question isn't answered, cannot be answered,
but you find peace of a kind in what little you understand,
and know what you have will be enough.
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