abraxaslogs | [Closed]

Where in Abraxas the locals got the notion that all Summoned have a natural talent for farm life, Michael can only guess. It must be part of that blind faith of theirs in the old gods—that they wouldn't be sent people who can't contribute to life on the commune.

(Though Michael suspects that even the most useless of individuals are still warm bodies fit for sacrifice.)

He does prove to have a way with the sheep, thanks to his first gift from the Horizon. Getting them to cooperate is far easier when one can communicate in a language they understand. They prove far milder in personality to the goats, too, willing to stand where asked to so long as it's not too far from the rest of the flock. They're timid, if anything. It's somewhat harder to reassure them about the shears in his hand. It would help if Michael had any experience here.

One hand on the shears and the other on a sheep's head, gently scritching it between the ears, Michael turns to Claire. This seems like a task that might fall under her area of expertise, or at least some prior experience. Stitching a body back together, removing excess fleece—that all falls under the same skill set, right? He looks a little doubtful.

"Have you ever done this before?"

The glorious thing about living the way Claire has, is that she has indeed done this before. It's why she does fit the mold of Summond arriving in Solvunn who know what they're doing. And she's been doing the things she might have at Lallybroch: taking care of children, the washing, laundry, gardening. Instead of being chores that she has to get through, they have a tendency to make her homesick. Especially the children.

So, she isn't bothered by the task at hand, and she might even have a surprise up her sleeve, one from a life ago when she traveled roads collecting rent and watched the Jacobite revolution take shape right in front of her.

"I have, in fact. If I had it my way, I'd be living on an 18th-century farm right now."

Gently, her hands run along the sheep's back so it can get used to her hands. "I'll do the shearing if you can keep the ewe calm."

"In a role more related to your medical background than caring for livestock, I assume?"

She's talked up both how much studying she's done in the past and the fact that it wasn't easy for a woman to do so, in her era. He figures Claire would want to focus on the area she's put so much effort into.

Michael could speak to having experience with all of those same tasks now, except the babysitting. He's looked after younger angels since nearly the moment of his creation, but human children are nothing like young angels. He can't expect from them the obedience that comes naturally to angels. They'd exile him to the Tertiary Settlement—or worse—if he tried to discipline them the way he had wayward members of the Heavenly Host, too.

Sheep, though? Sheep he can handle. He shifts his hand from the animal's head to its jaw and holds its head steady as he looks into its eyes and issues a serene but imperious command:

"Relax."

The ewe lets out a baa in response. A yes, to all appearances, as it continues to hold still. Michael looks to Claire.

"Is this position suitable?"

Claire's of what he judges an average height, but the shoulders of even the largest animals in the flock don't come up past her waist. With the ewe planted on all fours, she'll have to bend over it. It doesn't seem a convenient posture for the work.

It only occurs to her at his question that she hasn't quite told him everything about herself. Not by omission, and so she decides to be honest and answer his question. More will follow, but she'll let them.

"No, actually. I learned in Scotland at my husband's childhood home, the same I created in the Horizon," she begins to explain. "His sister and her family live there now and have animals of all sorts. It was similar to Solvunn: everyone contributes, no idle hands." Jenny wasn't exactly patient, but she'd softened toward Claire considerably when she'd delivered her a healthy breeched baby. Once Claire and Jamie had returned from France over a year later, broken and childless, they'd bonded more closely than ever. It'd been a blow to the heart to lose Jenny for two decades, too.

Judging her position relative to the task at hand, she glances a the stool and weighs getting up and down over and over again with sitting.

"I might do the top first and then I'll be able to sit for the sides and underbelly." She's impressed by the sheep's compliance, and she smiles, gently patting her on the head before getting to work.

"There's a bit about me you don't know, and to be fair to me, there's been a hell of a lot happening since I arrived. Plus, it isn't the sort of thing one tells another person in the first few days of getting acquainted." But now she considers him a friend she can trust.

"I was born in 1918, but when I arrived here, it was from 1771. Quite on accident, I went to the past and spent three years there before returning to my time. That's when I raised my daughter and went to medical school."

Well, Frank raised Bree, for the most part. But the rest is true.

The ewe seems to enjoy the petting, from what Michael can glean. He wonders, not too seriously, if the occasional pat on the head would have helped keep wayward members of the Host in line or if that's just a mammal thing. The sheep and their desire to stay together and follow one another do remind him of his younger siblings.

"As you prefer."

Claire's the one with past experience so Michael is not inclined to argue. He keeps his hand beneath the sheep's head, gives its jaw a little scratch with the tip of a finger. Apart from the goats, the livestock in Solvunn is a lot tamer and more affectionate than anything he's used to dealing with.

There was once a time when Michael would have dismissed the possibility that there was anything deep to learn about any individual human. They were unique among his Father's creations, but shallow like puddles to him: little creatures made of meat, whose souls ascended to Heaven only to spend eternity daydreaming of their meat-based existences. After spending a decade in Hell with one of them, his attitude is much improved. Still—he's only interested because he considers Claire a friend, too.

"No offense taken. I'm sure there are details of my past that I've yet to touch on in conversation." Dumping the fact that he's an archangel on her within a month of knowing her was probably a bit much. There was no guarantee she'd even believe him, so he doesn't blame Claire for holding back a few details of her own. "You're a time traveller? How?"

There's some true surprise in his voice. Time travel is an exhausting task even for angels.

Claire's hands aren't as well practiced as her sister-in-law's, but they're still steady surgeon's hands, and sure. As she clips, she watches what she's doing, occasionally glancing up at Michael. There's a time she never would have believed him, about being the Michael, but she's decided there's too much unknown to her in the universe. It's a decision backed up by Abraxas itself. She met a bloody shark and hunted with it, for Christ's sake.

"I don't know," she answers honestly. "I was in Scotland, at a place called Craigh na Dun. It's a circle of large standing stones that captured my attention. I don't know why, I couldn't tell you what it was that made me reach out and touch one of them. I heard a...a buzzing sound like bees, and as soon as I touched the rock it felt as though I'd been hurled into a semi-truck. I woke up flat on my back in the exact same spot, only two-hundred years in the past."

It's the most succinct way she knows to tell it, glancing over at Michael. There's already a nice collection of wool, and she wonders if there will be any wool waulking involved later.

"Not that I knew I was in the past, not at first."

Gently, she does her own soft talking to the sheep as she rounds her neck, clipping close to her face before walking to the other side.

It's entirely possible that he isn't the Michael of her world, or that her world doesn't have one at all. That his Father had made multiple versions of him had been an unpleasant revelation to say the very least so he doesn't often bring it up.

Michael observes, and if Claire's technique falls short in any way, he doesn't notice. His hands are those of a soldier: more familiar with driving a blade into a living thing to tear it apart than to carefully dissect it or put it back together, but there's still a degree of precision involved. Shearing doesn't look very difficult. Normally he'd feel a little useless just standing and watching, but he suspects that keeping the sheep calm might typically be the more challenging part of the job.

He tilts his head, shorthand of his for I'm thinking. Craigh na Dun means nothing to him. If the place held the same power in his reality as in hers, word of it never reached him.

"Very few natural phenomena can alter the universe at that level, but there are spells that can propel one through time. Some of them involve sigils activated by touch." Is Claire so certain that there's no magic where she's from? There might be other explanations, but all of the ones that come to mind for Michael are ultimately magical. "How did you come to realize you weren't in your own era?"

Claire wishes she understood more about it, that she could sit down with someone who could tell her why, and why her. Instead, she's had to cobble together answers from her own experience and from what she gathered from Geillis's notes from the 60s. Perhaps it is magic, or science no one has figured out yet. She doesn't know. "Someone I knew thought a human sacrifice was necessary. Obviously not." Claire's lips drop into a deep frown as she thinks about Jocelyn for a beat, but she moves on.

"I couldn't find a road or the car. Everything else looked the same, so I started walking. It actually wasn't long before I got caught in the middle of a small battle, and at that point, I thought I'd stumbled across a reenactment. You know the sort in modern times, where people take fake weapons and play out a famous battle? I couldn't fathom it was real. A clan on one side of me and a British army on the other."

Claire moves down one side of the ewe, making real progress as evidenced by the growing wool pile. "Being attacked by a man with a sword clued me in." She can't talk about Jack Randall. She can't, and she won't. Maybe one day, but not today and she moves on quickly.

"I was saved by a Scotsman, though he had no less suspicion of me. The British thought I was a spy for the Scots. The Scots thought I was a spy for the British, but they, at least, took me in. My situation truly began to sink in when I met Jamie."

She's mentioned 'her husband' by now and often, but never explained she had two concurrently. Technically. "He was hurt, and I knew what to do to help him. No electricity, no food, no water. Nothing in the way of medical supplies. I understood it was real then, that I'd traveled in time, but it was difficult to accept. Acceptance came much later."

Michael spares a glance at the little hill of wool she's amassing. They'll be able to move to the next animal soon, but they'll have to push it aside and treat this sheep with the balm they were given first. He looks back at Claire, who's still hard at work.

"Leaving the home you knew is a sacrifice, of a sort," he suggests.

Depending on what powers the spell in question. If a sacrifice was what was needed, giving up a life in one place to start anew in another time could fit the bill. Michael thinks back to a few months ago, of a time he does not discuss, taking the ceremonial dagger from Wanda so she wouldn't be the one directly responsible for cutting flesh from the locals. One piece had been the outer ear of a deaf man. A perfectly useless bit of meat, from Michael's perspective. He suspects the value of an offering is more in the act than the offering itself, to the old gods.

That doesn't provide much insight on who or what dragged Claire through time—he doubts Abraxas's old gods had dominion over her world—so he doesn't pursue the subject.

He has only the vaguest idea what she means about reenactments. It's certainly not something one could do with angels. Give any of his younger siblings a 'fake weapon' and tell them to battle and they'd find a way to kill one another with them regardless of any blunted tips. There's some familiarity in the way she describes her trip to the past, however: being lost in a place you don't recognize, unfamiliar faces, unfamiliar amenities. He can sympathize, if only from his limited common experience. He hadn't understood why Adam was so fixated on food, nor why he'd wanted to get a job, why he'd wanted to pay for things when Michael could simply snap them up.

"And now you find yourself in another world entirely. Still no electricity, but we do have food and water. Did acceptance come more easily, this time around?" Claire had seemed only a little off-kilter, when they'd first met.

She's finally able to sit on the small stool as she works on the underbelly, ducking to see as she works, being careful not to knick skin.

"I suppose," she agrees. "I'm not sure I'll ever really know how or why. I'd like to know, but I've not found anyone who can explain it." Running her hand behind her to inspect her work, she quickly moves to the other side, trusting Michael to keep the sheep calm while she does.

At his question, Claire knows the answer right away. "I thought I'd died, so it was easier to accept this than the alternative. Jamie and I were on a ship home to Scotland when we were caught in a hurricane. The ship broke apart, and I was pulled under the water. Somehow I was tangled up in rope, and I know I lost consciousness, but then I was here."

Now she knows that she lived, but still.

"I think being alive and 'confused but accepting' was better than the alternative. If the circumstances had been different, if I knew then what I know now, I don't know if I would've reacted the same. Likely not." And at the very least, she isn't living a life she dislikes, it's only missing people.

Michael listens and considers, one hand always on the sheep, who looks to him for her cue the way any flocking animal does the head of the herd.

"We have more in common than I might have thought. My world was in the process of being unmade. If I were to return home, it'd be to oblivion." To say nothing of the fact that he's pretty sure he was in the process of being unmade, too.

He wasn't thrilled to find himself in Abraxas. Especially not in a pagan commune, although he'd almost certainly choose to be here again if he were given the option—for reasons ranging from the proximity to nature versus being stuck within castle or city walls, to the presence of now friendly faces among the other Summoned in Solvunn versus the presence of difficult family relations in the other factions. Michael didn't rail against being brought here the way he would have ten years ago when he was still dead set on seeing through his destiny. Solvunn's mages have no business meddling with other worlds, but they've given him a second chance.

The ewe twitches as Claire works at removing wool from its belly. It lifts a hoof and sets it back down again, then lets out a little bleat. Michael gives it a firm pat between the ears.

"Apparently, that tickles."

Claire chuckles softly and lightly pats the ewe's newly shorn back. "That's alright, we're nearly done with this part. Let her know she's been wonderful."

Before wrapping up, she glances at Michael, then continues the task at hand.

"I've since learned I did live. In fact, I've lived for another decade so far. Thanks to a friend from home arriving, I know just a bit." She hasn't asked many questions, unsure if she wants to know some of the answers.

"I sincerely hope oblivion doesn't happen for you soon. Your not being here wouldn't feel right." Especially knowing there's nothing for him to go back to. It didn't seem fair, to continue letting him believe she thought the end had arrived for her. "Had Lord John not arrived, I would've continued thinking I'd drowned."

"I'll be sure to do so once we've finished." There is, after all, one more step to follow. The ewe has time yet to be difficult. "Though she may appreciate a treat more than words."

Animals aren't any different from humans when it comes to deriving pleasure from food. Exactly what counts as an indulgence by sheep tastes, however, he'll have to ask.

Michael tilts his head, a touch surprised he's made enough of a positive impression on Claire to be missed. He can think of several people who would celebrate his sudden disappearance. Claire is one of few that he can believe would be sad to see him go, and so far the only one to say it so plainly.

"We archangels tend to be resilient," he says, offering reassurance that he's unlikely to disappear any time soon in lieu of admitting he appreciates the sentiment. "Doesn't knowing you have a future to pursue back in your world make it harder to stay here?"

His words pull a small smile out of her before it drops to think about his words.

"It's funny, you're not the first person who has mistaken my exterior calm for inward acceptance. That isn't the case, it's only that I've yet to understand how it would help to rage, fight, and rebel by not participating in life."

She tried that once, when she tried to will her body to stop being so stubbornly alive. Good thing it didn't listen, or she'd have really missed out.

"I've fought against time too long not to realize by now it will do as it damn well pleases without much regard to what I want." Standing, she steps back to do the last bit, right around back end.

"Could you tell her this will be very delicate, and it will only make it worse if she moves? I'll be quick."

Here's the ewe's chance to be not-so-wonderful after all, but Claire's sincerely hoping not.

Michael watches Claire move to the back of the sheep and quickly picks up on what she means.

"Fortunately, most animals lack the same sense of dignity as humans. For her, the most important thing is that she remain on all four feet."

All the same, Michael looks the ewe in the eye—which involves a bit of a lean to one side, sheep eyes not being set in front—and intones a very serious don't move in sheep-speak. He moves to stand beside the ewe, too, just in case the verbal warning isn't enough and he needs to swing a leg over to box her in.

He considers what she's said. Claire's professional attitude when she's at work gives away few hints of any inner turmoil. A sizable number of the (few) humans he's had close interaction with would never have acknowledged their lack of control over their own lives, too. He decides his mistake is understandable.

"Acceptance of fate is a rare philosophy in those I've met outside of Heaven. Some seem to feel the fight is reward or purpose in and of itself," he remarks. "I take it you're among those hoping to find a way home, then."

“I miss my husband,” she says simply in answer. “We were starting a new life together after losing everything, and I want that life more than anything else. I lost him for twenty years, and now I’ve lost him again.” Except this time, she doesn’t have a way to find him and claw her way back.

Quiet as she finishes, Claire begins to comb off all of the excess wool still clinging to the ewe. “There, that must feel better going into summer, hmm?”

Talking about her life can be emotional sometimes, but she doesn’t mind their conversations. If anything, she knows she can tell him enough without Michael taking offense.

"I understand. There are those I'd care to see again, if I had the choice." But, you know. The whole world in the process of being unmade thing. "At least you know Abraxas cannot be the end for you, given your acquaintance in Thorne knows a future version of you."

There's always the possibility that that Claire is not this Claire and rather some alternate universe version of herself, of course. Given that she's already a time traveller, it doesn't seem far-fetched. That thought is both terribly complicated and not a comfort, however, so he doesn't address it.

Michael takes a step aside to retrieve the jar of post-shear balm their local task-giver had given them before they'd started. The ewe moves to follow, bumping him in the thigh.

"If you'll gather the wool and keep it clear, I'll handle this part. Only one of us need get their hands dirty."

Claire nods, because that is true. She has Jamie to return to, and Bree, which she still can't understand. Thank goodness Michael doesn't suggest his alternate universe idea, because she'd likely never stop thinking about it, to her detriment.

"Thank you for that. I have a clean rag you can wipe your hands on after." She's thinking now about what he's told her of what was happening when he arrived here, so it seems cruel to follow up with who he'd want to see.

"I don't think I've ever asked this, do you have anyone else here you knew before?"

"I appreciate it."

He could snap his fingers and be clean in an instant, but the same is true of applying the balm to the sheep in the first place. Like Wanda, he's taken to doing things the old-fashioned way when the means are available. He's experiencing the human condition, or something like that.

Michael sighs. Speaking of those he knows inevitably means speaking of family, which is not a topic he takes up with just anyone. He's come to know Claire well enough to be comfortable touching on it around her. She probably deserves some kind of warning, anyway.

"No one I would have chosen to be here with," he says. He scoops some of the balm out of the jar, then smooths it over the ewe's freshly shorn neck. It probably smells herbal and a little sweet. He can't tell. "My only comfort is that none of them are in Solvunn. A trio of humans with a particular dislike for angels, and two of my younger brothers. Castiel is in the Free Cities, and Lucifer in Thorne. We are—on poor terms."

Claire's brushing off her hands when one eyebrow raises.

"Lucifer? How very awful sounding for all of us. But that's a lot of people from your world all in one spot. I think Wanda knows quite a few people as well from her world, either directly or by association."

It makes her wonder if she can expect more than just Lord John.

What if it's Black Jack? Christ, she'd have to warn everyone somehow. Could they lock up a man upon arrival? It isn't something she wants to consider and not a path of conversation she wants to go down right now. She watches as Michael rubs down the ewe, and it does smell nice; it most certainly has cooling properties and something to keep the sheep from itching.

"Why don't those specific humans like angels? That seems like a generalization, considering you and I get along just fine. I like to believe I'm an okay judge of character." Obviously not the best, but she's had her moments where her gut has told her to get the hell away as fast as possible. It hasn't happened at all in Abraxas yet, not that she can remember.

"Lucifer isn't quite the threat he once was. Thorne's borders keep him from causing trouble in Solvunn, at least for the time being. Nonetheless, I recommend you avoid him if you can; if you can't, avoid mentioning my name."

Becoming an item of interest to his siblings is an unfortunate consequence of getting friendly with Michael, and Lucifer's sense of play isn't unlike a cat batting around a small animal.

He moves to the sheep's back next, smoothing the balm across its skin in wide sweeps of his hand. The ewe, apparently at ease with the current proceedings, ducks her head and nibbles at the grass.

How does he explain the conflict between him and the Winchesters without starting at the very beginning? The whole affair seems so pointless now, knowing that it was all a game his Father was playing with Himself. What had been destiny to Michael had been nothing more than a short story for His entertainment—and Michael hadn't even been a main character.

"You've met me at a unique point in my life. There was a time when I wouldn't have bothered conversing with humans, and I wouldn't have hesitated to cut you down if you came between me and one of my Father's orders. Most of my kin were equally single-minded." Ruthless. Michael looks up from his task, his expression matter-of-fact. "These particular humans opposed the will of God. That made us enemies."

She can't imagine herself becoming chatty with anyone calling themselves Lucifer, but she does take note, and nods slowly in understanding. As he speaks and she watches him work, Claire takes note of his words. How does an archangel normally act? Of course, she has no point of reference, so she must take Michael at his word. There's no reason to doubt him, though.

"Obviously you're different now, so something changed. They have no consideration for you being more open-minded than not?"

There must be more to the story, but those details are up to him to share.

"What does it mean to refuse the will of God? To denounce Him and walk away or something more?"

Lucifer might not introduce himself by name. Even if he did, his brother can be both charming and charismatic when he puts his mind to it. He managed to convince Wanda that he's the victim in his own schemes. If Claire were to fall for his sob story too, Michael could only accuse her of being human.

He scoops another palmful of salve from the jar and then kneels, applying it to the ewe's stomach with the same efficient movements. Stray bits of wool and grass cling to his fingers. Claire guesses correctly: there have been changes in his life. They're few, but they're significant. There's no way of getting into that without explaining it all from the very beginning, though.

"Some grievances are too severe to forgive or forget," he says. He turns his head to peer over his shoulder, his expression flat. "Also, I'm not any more inclined to apologize for my part in our past than they are."

He doesn't like the Winchesters. They don't like him. Being on different parts of the continent is working for them.

Michael sets back to his task.

"It was more than that. It's a long story, but if you have time to hear it, I have time to tell it. What do you know of the Apocalypse?"

Claire's found that sharing back and forth with Michael has been easy, but she hasn't pushed for any reciprocation. Everyone's story is theirs to tell at their own pace, or at least she believes so. That may simply be her not wanting anyone to poke holes in her life and ask questions she isn't ready to answer. She hasn't run into that problem with him, or anyone else she's met so far, for that matter.

"You have no obligation to justify anything to me." She certainly has her own sins she won't apologize for or try to justify.

"I'm happy to hear your story. That's the perk of farm life: it's a bit slower at times. As for my knowledge of the Apocalypse, there are so many versions depending on which civilization we're speaking of. At a very basic level, and what I assume most people associate with the term, the End Times, Four Horsemen, et cetera. The book of Revelations, essentially."

If Michael hasn't been particularly forthcoming about his past up to now, it's only because sharing it hadn't occurred to him. Angels don't really do casual conversation, certainly not between the lower ranks and archangels. He's never had to tell any of the Host about the Apocalypse, anyway. They all knew the story. Most of them had been there when it happened.

"No, I don't." There's momentarily raised eyebrows and a hint of something that might be amusement on his face, but it's a flash at the surface and then it's gone.

He's an archangel, Claire. Of course an ego like his doesn't believe it needs to justify itself to anyone.

With the sheep now pretty thoroughly coated in a balm that Michael suspects is at least as much if not more ritual and tradition than actually useful, he reaches for the clean rag she offered earlier. He could snap his fingers and be done with it, but he might as well have something to do with his hands while he speaks. Farm life is slower indeed.

"Some of what you know applies. The bible is as much embellishment and outright lies as it is truth. The original conflict was between my brother Lucifer and our Father. Our Father created humanity and asked us to love them above all else, even Himself. Lucifer refused. Eventually he was cast out of Heaven and into Hell." And oh boy is he ever glossing over the details of how that went down, but she wanted to know about why the Winchesters hate him. His issues with Lucifer will have to wait for another day. "The Apocalypse was meant to be the moment I faced him again—our final battle. Our fight would have meant the death of a few billion humans. Dean Winchester was intended to be my earthly vessel for the task, but he refused."

Michael decides that's a sizable first bite, and pauses, giving her a moment to chew on it. He wipes the sticky balm off of his fingers without looking at them as he waits for either a question or a nod to proceed.

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beautifullies - 2023-07-31 23:23 (UTC) - Expand

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familysucks - 2023-08-02 03:07 (UTC) - Expand

[Closed]

Closed - Claire

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