Archangel Michael ✞ ArchistrategosSucreSpiritus
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I’m amaze that you are able to hold your liquor! *teases* @darkphoenix
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The Sky Holds Its Breath
The sun above the heavens burned brighter today—not in heat, but in purpose. Its rays shimmered across the alabaster arches of the Pantheon, casting shifting halos of gold along the divine marble floor. High above, the great sigils of the Archangels pulsed with light, ancient and living.
At the center stood Michael—the First Sword of the Divine, the Warden of Celestial Law. Clad in full archangelic armor, his wings shimmered with tempered light, massive and unmoving, like twin shields carved from sacred fire. His sword remained at his side—not drawn, but never forgotten.
Around him stood his legion. A thousand angels, silent. Their armor gleamed, their eyes sharp, their forms rigid in their loyalty. They knew today was not a day for war—but a day that demanded unshakable vigilance.
No disturbances. No interference. Not while She was at the Constellarium.
Michael’s voice cut through the charged air, low and resolute.
“Today, no soul, no god, no force shall breach our domain.”
They responded in unison—not with voices, but with the thunderous beat of wings.
He looked toward the sky—not in prayer, but in awareness. He could feel the shift in divine currents. Helena had entered the Constellarium. His sister, Noloty, was at her side. And though he was not present there physically, his spirit stood tall for them.
He was proud.
Proud of Lady Helena, who had risen beyond her pain and power, whose choices had never been easy but always rooted in love.
Proud of Noloty, his sister, the once-wild storm now guiding others through the tempest.
He did not smile. That was not his way. But his eyes—glowing like twin suns beneath his helmet—held warmth.
“Let it be known,” he spoke again, “that this day marks not a judgment… but the honoring of one who could have destroyed, and chose instead to heal.”
The angels bowed. The heavens held their breath.
And Michael stood unwavering—guardian of peace, sentinel of faith.
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*Arrives at what seems to be the last stop of club hopping and spots familiar faces dancing and drinking. He stands by the bar, watching silently*
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The roar of Michael’s engine echoed through the narrow streets of District 13 like a warning shot. The dark city was a place he rarely visited—too many shadows that liked to stare back—but curiosity got the best of him when he heard the news. GrungySugar Club, freshly opened, nestled like a secret among the alleyways, had started to buzz in certain circles. Normally, he wouldn’t have cared. But when he realized one of his prized bikes was missing—and Rory had conveniently vanished with Solana in tow—his mood darkened.
He parked just outside the club, kicking the stand down with a sigh that mixed annoyance and worry. The neon sign above the entrance flickered like it hadn’t decided whether to commit to being alive or dead. Typical District 13, he muttered.
Stepping inside, the heavy scent of sweat, old wood, and fresh whiskey greeted him like an old rival. The club was smaller than expected—intimate, even—but with an edge. Faint echoes of metal riffs pulsed through the walls, and deep red lighting cast jagged shadows along the cracked brick interior. It was gritty, raw… and oddly charming.
Then he saw her—Rory—laughing by the bar with Solana, both clearly enjoying the scene a little too much. Michael’s jaw tightened, but before he could march over, a familiar presence caught his eye. Jean. Of course she was here. Cool as ever, blending in with the chaos like she owned it.
Michael exhaled, tension slipping off his shoulders as he nodded in greeting. The irritation ebbed. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. Other familiar faces emerged from the crowd—family. And where there was family, there was always a strange sense of grounding, even in places like this.
By the time his second drink hit the bar, he’d decided—he still didn’t like District 13, but GrungySugar Club? That place had potential.
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Happy Mother’s Day my beautiful Phoenix and to all the ladies of this clan!
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Soft light filtered through the golden leaves above as a gentle breeze passed between them, stirring petals and robes alike. Michael stood at the center of the gathering, his wings slightly unfurled, his presence calm yet radiant. The garden buzzed with unspoken questions; curiosity laced with unease. At last, one of his siblings spoke — cautiously, but with sincerity.
“Michael… is it true? About you and… Jean? And the child?”
The question hung in the air like a chime caught in the wind. Michael didn’t frown, nor did he bristle. Instead, he simply nodded, his gaze warm.
“Yes,” he said softly, “it is true.”
A murmur passed through the circle. Some angelic faces remained impassive; others struggled to reconcile what they had heard. Michael stepped forward, hands open at his sides — not to defend, but to share.
“I understand your confusion. For ages, we have watched humans shape beliefs around us. They gave us halos and harps, wings bound to hymns, and laws they imagined we must follow. But you must remember — “we are not what humans believe us to be.”
He let the silence settle before continuing.
“The idea that angels are celibate… that we do not feel love or desire or the pull of deep soul connection… came from human interpretation — likely seeded by one seeking control, or perhaps by one who feared the power of divine love made manifest.”
He looked at each of his siblings, his voice unwavering, yet kind.
“Angels are pure — not in abstinence, but in intention. We love with clarity. We act from truth. We are not tied to any religion, nor do we follow doctrines. We come from one Source. And in that Source, all paths return. Even ours.”
There was a long pause — thoughtful, heavy, and sacred.
“As for Jean…” Michael’s eyes softened. “She may carry a human name, but she is not merely human. The true Jean, her vessel — it no longer exists. She granted herself fully to the Phoenix. Her consciousness and soul were offered willingly, and the Phoenix now walks in her place. With her memories. With her love. But guided by its divine purpose.”
He glanced skyward, as if feeling the invisible gaze of the Almighty.
“Our Father has given His blessing. And our daughter — Rory — will walk her own path. She is no ordinary child, and I know the uncertainty you feel. But I ask you… do not fear what is to come. She will become the spiritual warrior she is meant to be.”
The words lingered like a balm, and the garden was quiet.
One by one, the angels relaxed — tension melting into understanding. A few offered nods. Another placed a hand over their heart. And one, with a quiet smile, said:
“We look forward to meeting her… soon.”
Michael smiled, a rare expression of relief passing across his face. His wings slowly folded behind him, as the garden once again bloomed with peace.
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This reply was modified 1 month, 3 weeks ago by Archangel Michael ✞ ArchistrategosSucreSpiritus.
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This reply was modified 1 month, 3 weeks ago by
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The sky shimmered in hues of molten gold and celestial blue as Michael walked the sacred path alone. Each step was light, yet filled with purpose, his long coat whispering behind him as the wind carried whispers from beyond the veil. The towering mountains stood like guardians, and ahead, the radiant Pantheon pulsed like a living heart of heaven — a divine mandala suspended between realms.
He could feel them already — his angelic siblings gathering, drawn by the same silent summons that tugged at his spirit. This was no ordinary meeting.
With eyes steady and soul aglow, Michael pressed onward, the light of the Pantheon growing stronger with every breath.
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The golden hues of the late afternoon sun filtered through the towering trees, casting soft rays of light upon the gentle path. Michael walked with quiet purpose; his large, calloused hand wrapped around Rory’s much smaller one. His grip was firm yet tender, a silent promise of protection and love.
He had heard of what happened in the kitchen—of how Rory, in front of Jean and Noloty, had let something slip. A power too young to be understood, a spark of something divine, yet wild. He knew what his father had said. The Almighty’s words lingered like an echo, ever-present in the back of his mind. Yet Michael knew his father too well. He had no doubt of the weight such declarations carried, but he would not let them shape his daughter’s path.
Rory giggled, swinging their hands playfully as she skipped beside him. Her fiery red hair bounced with each step, catching the light in brilliant, flickering strands. Those eyes—those beautifully mixed, swirling colors—held an innocence he vowed to protect.
“Papa,” she called, her voice soft but brimming with joy. “Are we almost there?”
Michael glanced down; his usually sharp, piercing gaze softened by warmth. “Almost, little star,” he murmured.
For a moment, he thought of his own father—the weight of expectation, the burden of duty. But Michael was not just the warrior, the messenger, the angelic force of judgment. Here, in this world, in this moment, he was simply a father. And no decree from the heavens would ever change that.
Bending slightly, he lifted Rory into his arms, twirling her in the air as her delighted laughter rang through the park. Whatever future lay ahead, whatever powers she would one day have to face, he would make sure that she never had to do so alone. @Rory
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*chuckles when he hears Hikari’s comment then prepares the drink she asked for* Absolutely Lady Hikari, here you go.
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*Ignoring his sister not wanting to ruin the good vibes at the bar, he looks to Helena and smiles* Arigato for the compliment, my lady! I assure you, you will be fine. 🥰
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Those drinks are perfectly safe for you to drink, Lady Helena! My sister here is a horrible trainer when it comes to drinks! *winks*
