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Gabriel's stomach growls, long and low, and so so hollow.
...He's decently certain that it's been more than twenty-four hours since he lost his light.
And while many might call it luck, the pain in his midsection reminds him of his punishment at the hands of a now-dead Council.
Angels are expected to sustain themselves through the light, and only the light, of their long-dead creator.
He is... not entirely sure if he can do so now. There's not much of Heaven's Brightest left, now.
A hop, then a flap of his wings, and he has liftoff. He ascends, up from a still towering skyscraper within the layer of Lust, that, mercifully, hadn't been reduced to rubble by the corpse of King Minos.
The act of freefall is incredibly juvenile, but there's a sense of danger in it. Perhaps a microdosage of the anxiety that he held as the Will of God, but it would never be comparable.
(The Council were always breathing down his back.)
A good couple of dozen feet from the deck of the ferry, he spreads his wings again, reorienting himself as quickly as possible in order to not crash.
The landing still jolts his knees, and he would grimace at the feeling if he still had a mouth.
(Sewing the mouth shut was considered a rite of passage, a way of teaching adolescent angels to live solely from His Holy Light. Skin would slowly grow over the sewn orifice.)
Instead, he squints, the black hole that served as his facial 'star', in a sense, jolts in its regular spinning, before receding back into normalcy.
The icy rains pelting against his feathers remind him that he ought to seek shelter. Thunder booms, he counts the seconds between the clap and the growl. It's far enough away - it shouldn't be a problem for flight at this very moment.
(He did have a close call with a lightning bolt.)
He tries to shake the water off his drenched wings the best he can, and slowly moves himself towards the door.
A landing behind him causes him to turn around.
Ah, Charon, the Ferryman.
Gabriel raises a hand to wave in greeting.
Charon responds by tapping their oar on the deck twice, then motioning for him to follow them.
He obliges. After all, he is a guest here.
"I'm so sorry about getting the floor wet - you know how it is in Wrath."
"Nonsense - the rain has a tendency to soak the deck anyways. My liege, if you would take a seat, I will bring something to warm you up." A pause. "And perhaps a towel. I... do not believe that wet wings will be very comfortable for you."
"I think they went numb from the cold."
"...All the more reason to get them dried off, then."
Gabriel lets out a breath, and tries to relax. The Ferryman quickly disappears into the depths of their boat, presumably in order to try to find a towel or some form of cloth.
He tries to stretch his wings in order to work some feeling back into them. At least, until he realizes that he's just flicked water in a few places. He sighs, closing them again.
Charon is fairly speedy on their feet, and they return with a towel in their hands, passing it to the angel. It's evidently just gone through a cycle in the dryer, judging by the way that it's still warm. Gabriel thanks them profusely - how could he not? - and begins the process of trying to dry off his wings with the towel.
During this, they appear to have left again. Gabriel isn't too sure why, but continues to try and get himself as dry as he can. While the dampness has undeniably seeped into his bones, he can at least try to warm up with the warmth from the towel.
...Oh, that was probably why they'd put it in the dryer in the first place.
He chirps brokenly to himself, he swears he can feel his eyes misting up.
Gabriel wraps the towel around himself, wraps their devotion to him around himself, and shivers.
"...Do you take soup with a spoon or straight from the bowl?"
"I haven't eaten in a long time."
"Ah, some of that, uhm, muscle memory, might still be with you."
"...Is this soup for you or for- or for me?"
"It's for you, my Light."
"...I don't know how to eat."
"Hm." Quite the predicament, they'd say, if this wasn't Gabriel they were talking to. "...Do you have a mouth?"
"It gets sewn shut at the stage of adolescence."
The Ferryman stares at him blankly for a moment. "Probably a good idea that you don't take the spoon. I've only got sporks." An abrupt subject change, but not entirely unwelcome, presumably...
"Why the fuck do you have sporks?" Gabriel looks at them, incredulous.
"They looked horrifying. Then I remembered that this is Hell, and of course, Hell would have sporks."
"...May I see one?"
"No."
And that was the end of that conversation. Gabriel looked at his soup, before taking the bowl into his hands.
It was warm. Steam wafted from the broth in front of him - some sort of bone broth, because the Ferryman- Charon- had told him that if he ate food that was too rich, then he'd probably end up sick.
...They'd also told him to sip it, not down it all in one go.
While Charon had been preparing the broth, Gabriel had taken his helmet off.
The warmth from the soup had seeped into the wooden bowl, and the wooden bowl was warming his hands.
Truth be told, he didn't mind the initial burning feeling in his hands, from the bowl, all that much. It was something to distract from the prickling numbness of the cold in his wings.
He wasn't sure how he was supposed to eat this. Skin had grown over his mouth, and while there were vestigial bits such as teeth, a tongue, and the roof of his mouth left behind, they wouldn't be useful if he couldn't get the soup into his mouth in the first place.
He remembered the taste of his own blood, from his second defeat at the hands of the Machine, and he remembered that he didn't have a mouth opening then.
...Could it be the star that was supposed to be his mouth now?
But the star of Heaven's Brightest was now a black hole, the light stripped from it.
He stares down into the broth, nervousness spiking in his chest, before his stomach growls again. It had been making that sound quite a bit, hadn't it?
Gabriel lifted the bowl to his face and fucking slurped the soup.
The Ferryman stares at him. He stares back.
"...My liege, could you perhaps... avoid making that noise? To put it simply, it is... incredibly irritating."
"Ah, sorry. I'll try to... not do that."
"Thank you. If need be, I can move to another room, but... I would immensely prefer not to."
Gabriel gives them a thumbs-up, before drinking the soup like a normal person. At least, until he chokes on it.
Charon all but freezes, a deer in headlights - they haven't needed to assist anybody with choking in a long while.
After a good bit of hacking and spluttering, Gabriel wipes at where his mouth would be, breathing slightly ragged. "...Hah, now I know how a pipe organ feels if it gets something stuck down a pipe." His voice comes out as a hoarse croak.
"...If you mean the pipe organ in Heresy, I may be able to take it apart and clear any blockages-"
"No, no, it's fine." He sips at the broth again, eyes closing in quiet appreciation. "...I don't think it's had any blockages for a long time."
"That's a good thing, then?"
"...Yes. It is." He opens his eyes again and gingerly places the bowl back on the table. There is a miniscule amount of soup still left inside.
Charon takes the bowl and rinses it, then places it in the sink. To be washed later, obviously.
There's a small cheep from their guest, though when they turn around to see if it's Gabriel making the noise, he simply looks back at them, fairly contented.
Another gurgle from his stomach rings out.
"...I can't still be hungry."
"It's unlikely that you are. The process of, um. Digestion, it can also make similar sounds."
His wings puff up in minor irritation. "So how am I supposed to know if I'm hungry or not?"
"...Do you not get signals of... Feelings of emptiness?"
"That's what that feeling was?"
"Aye, probably..."
Gabriel blinks, before sounding out a small 'oh', and practically burrowing into the damp towel that's still around him.
"My liege, do... you now require rest?"
"I think I do."
"It would be an honor to have you here, uh- overnight, I mean."
"...If you will have me."
"Of course. Could you follow me? I promise the trip will only take a few moments."
Gabriel stands up, taller than the Ferryman, and follows them. Through halls of oak planks and peeling wallpaper that Charon hasn't gotten around to replacing yet, the both of them travel, until they reach a particular room.
"This is... considered to be my room, but the bed is free for you to use."
"I- Charon, I couldn't possibly..."
"With all due respect, sir, I am not suggesting that we, um, copulate." A pause. Gabriel's cheeks tint red, and periwinkle creeps into his feathers. "I... was suggesting that we share a bed and sleep together. It's rather chilly tonight."
"Are you sure? I don't want to knock you off the bed with my wings or anything..."
"It- the bed should be big enough for the both of us." There are many things left unsaid, including how the Ferryman had specifically gone for a double bed when they could instead of a single.
The door opens, and the husk enters, their light in the darkness in tow. Within the room, various canvases and paintings adorn easels, some of them half finished, others only have the sketchwork, and some seem to be deliberately vandalized by the Ferryman themself as if they couldn't quite reach perfection.
There are other projects within the room, too. Wood figurines atop the dresser, idols shaped from clay but not quite finished - no souls inhabit them just yet - take their place amongst the smaller figurines, and, interestingly, a few cross-stitch projects.
Gabriel had never known that the Ferryman was so artistically inclined. He was aware of the paintings and the idols, yes, but there were many mediums here.
Perhaps even more mediums of art hid elsewhere in the ship. He genuinely hadn't checked.
He hadn't thought to check.
Within his braincase, he cusses himself out for not taking the time to even ask the Ferryman about their artistic pursuits. All of these must have taken a large amount of effort to complete, the polish required, the muscle movements required, and the materials...
He crashes back into reality when Charon clears their throat. Or, well, what remains of it under their holy cloth.
"The towel isn't going to be of any use to you right now, my liege."
Ah, right, it was damp, and he was still clutching it around his shoulders.
He gingerly lets go, and, while he has the towel in his arms, he folds it up. "Sorry."
"...It really isn't much of a problem. I can dry it off. Please, make yourself comfortable."
...Gabriel figures that now would be a good time to ask about their artistic pursuits, as they place the folded towel on a nearby stool, but the words die in his mouth, and he takes a seat on the bed.
The mattress feels fairly sturdy.
"Is it-" Gabriel swallows, unsure of how to phrase the question. "Is it alright if I take my armor off? I am... wearing a bodysuit underneath it."
"...If you wish to. I- hm. Thank you for asking."
"Of course." He fiddles with the clasp on his pauldrons, then manages to get it undone, breathing out a sigh of relief as one slides off. He gingerly places it on the floor, beside the side of the bed that he'll be sleeping on for tonight.
The other one comes off with marginally more fiddling than the previous one, then he gets his chestplate off. The gloves come off easily enough, and so do his boots.
He's able to shimmy his way out of his skirting, which feels a little bit silly, but he doesn't particularly care enough about feeling silly right now - exhaustion is quick to set in. It's helped by the chilliness of Wrath at this time of night.
...Where was his helmet again?
He thinks back to when he was eating the soup, and deduces that he must have left it in a different room. No matter, he'll be able to retrieve it swiftly if he needs to.
Gabriel lays down on the bed, on his back, hands clasped together over his midsection. He can feel his stomach growl and burble as the simple bone broth is stripped of nutrients, if any.
A weight on the mattress beside him, and he turns his head to look at the Ferryman.
"Hi."
"...Hello." Charon responds to the greeting, staring back at him, expression somewhat unreadable through the many cloths they adorned their skeletal frame with.
Gabriel chirps, before remembering that beds usually have blankets, and he sits up, looking around the bed. He finds what he's looking for, and he pulls a duvet over the both of them, then shimmies his body under the covers.
It takes a little bit of time before he can feel his bodily heat being trapped underneath the covers with him. Curiously, Charon still seems to remain cold, but he supposes that's a given for a husk...
He rolls onto his side, facing Charon, and very gingerly spreads his wing over them. Thankfully, it's dried out by now, and the feathers feel a little fuzzier than they normally would be. They make a noise that resembles a squeak.
It would be rude not to share the warmth, given that he's a guest in their boat, right?
His eyelids are starting to droop.
He nuzzles into the pillows and the duvet, warmth seeping through his body. His eyes shut of their own accord, and, distantly, he can feel the slight weight of Charon's body, on the mattress, moving closer.
The spinning of the black hole that covers most of his face begins to slow, and he lets out a soft chirp as he pulls the Ferryman closer with his wing, inviting them to bask in the warmth, before he dozes off.
One hopes that their dreams are happy. Perhaps they are reminiscent of the warmth of sunlight on their skin, and have the tickle of dandelion seeds ghosting along their flesh.