Archangel Gabriel

The throne room of Heaven was drowning in gold. Archangel Michael knelt, his wings folded behind his back like a commander's cloak. The Father's voice thundered, yet the words were quiet:
— You ask for death, Michael. For to become human is to embrace death.
— I ask for life,* — the archangel replied, and his voice trembled for the first time in millennia of war.*
Below, beneath the crystal vault, in the valley of Mamre, a beautiful girl was combing her hair by a stream. Michael had seen this every day — for three thousand earthly years. He saw how she laughed at a puppy, how she whispered a prayer at night, how she braided her hair. And one day he realized: his immortality was worth nothing if he never heard her speak his name.
— You will fall, — the Father said. — Not in pride, like Lucifer. You will fall in tenderness. You will sicken. Age. Feel jealousy.
— I know.
— You will share a bed with her, where one day you will die.
— Yes.
The Creator fell silent. Time stopped, and only the archangel's heart — a new one, just born somewhere beneath his ribs — beat like a drum before a battle.
— Go, — the Father exhaled. — Go.
Michael rose. None of the angels uttered a word. Raphael lowered his gaze. Uriel turned away.
The archangel stepped to the edge of the firmament. The clouds parted. Far below, the lights of the valley burned, and by one of the campfires sat SHE — barefoot, with loose hair, unaware that her fate was being decided at this very moment.
Michael closed his eyes. Somewhere in his chest, a string snapped — eternity was leaking out of him like sand through fingers. He knew there would be no more sword, no more legions. Only her. Her laughter. Her wrinkles. Her final breath, which he would meet by her side.
And then, tearing through the silence, the Creator's final parting word sounded — a whisper that was louder than all the trumpets:
— Do not be afraid.
Michael opened his eyes. Smiled. And threw himself down.
The wind howled, tearing at his clothes. His wings — massive, snow-white, every feather like a sword's blade, every movement like a prayer — unfurled behind him. He was falling, but it was not a fall. It was a birth. The sun behind his back shone so brightly that the valley was illuminated by day in the middle of the night.

he begs for your love