And he gathers the prayers as he stands, And they change to flowers in his hands, Into garlands of purple and red; And beneath the great arch of the portal, Through the streets of the City Immortal Is wafted the fragrance they shed.
- henry wadsworth longfellow, "sandalphon"
selective & mutuals only - based on biblical lore / not fandom-affiliated - 21+ status: semi-hiatus
there’s something slightly disdainful about his face when he plays which is actually his focused!face but either way: 5/5 stars, would recommend.
A MEMORY
do you know what love is? you think you did, once upon a time. maybe you never did. you hold onto what you think love is; how you felt when you thought you had it. it's fleeting, and maybe you'll never feel that way again. but wasn't it great? how long will you stay here, lost in this world of fantasy and memory? when will you move on?
tagged by: @loyaltylanced <3 tagging: you!
IT'S NOT THAT CASTIEL DISLIKES SANDALPHON. He's okay for a non-soldier angel, even if Castiel can't really share his passion for music. It's just that his brother picked a really bad moment for a visit because Castiel can't, for the life of him, figure out the damn guitar thing. He knows that he asked Sandalphon for lessons because he'd genuinely wanted to learn (since that would impress a certain human), but he let practice slide during the last months because it's just too complicated and exhausting. He's a warrior, not a harp-plucking songbird. "Later would be better, yes."
Sandalphon figures it's alright for Castiel to not feel passionate about music, same as San truly isn't too passionate about Thursdays. Then again, Castiel himself doesn't seem too passionate about Thursdays, either.
Castiel's guitar is badly out of tine and he finds himself scrunching his nose and reacting viscerally at just how terrible it sounds. "Would you like me to inspect your instrument to make sure it's not broken?" He must go easy on his poor brother for he so obviously does not understand. "Or would you like to try that again and I can give you some pointers?" He steeples his fingers, thinking how best to connect with his brother, or rather, get it through is thick skull that musical ability isn't a sign of weakness. "Castiel, I'd like you to think about your eldest siblings for a moment. How many of them don't know how to play at least one instrument?"
meta question: how does sandalphon view himself in regards to the more militaristic components of angelic beings? are there any ways he would find fighting and composing to be similar?
Sandalphon was created with a sword in his hand, with the concept of music and prayers coming much later. When he came into being, all he knew was training with his siblings with no real aim, seeing as there were no humans yet. By the time the Civil War occurred, fighting was second nature. Sandalphon may even argue it was first nature.
Now the Sandalphon of modern times appears very much laid back and relaxed, but in reality it takes a lot of effort to not be on guard all of the time. He's very much like a big cat always ready to pounce. He's gentle and kind, but so much of that has been practiced over time.
On the one occasion he was made human, he killed 450 people in one day as an elderly prophet, so there's some good context for what the seraph is capable of.
Now imagine someone sneaking up behind him while he's drinking a cup of coffee and him stabbing them through with an angel blade mid-sip without spilling. That's more his style.
He does compare playing music to fighting. He's a methodical fighter and, in both cases, timing is everything. For both he zones himself in, his focus being completely on the task at hand, whether it be crushing a violin solo or his enemies.
Sandalphon is very fun to take wine tasting because he can tell you exactly what notes he tastes in the wine, but also where the grapes came from and who harvested the grapes and who stomped on the grapes and the name of their firstborn child and
The absolute insanity of mashing these up
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀open starter. ( mutuals only! )
⠀⠀her form is crouched in supplication, nothing more than a dark, hooded heap kneeling on the snowy ground. the words fly through her lips faster than she has time to think of them, a frantic prayer, a vice around her heart threatening to crush it into ash. she shakes — tears roll down her flushed cheeks — the rosary in her numb fingers threatening to slip.
⠀⠀gustave daaé was dead.
⠀⠀he had been for some time now. the wounded girl had never healed, only festered and rotted over the years from the inside out. how large the world seemed, yet so vast and so empty… how different it was seeing things with clarity, without the tint of childhood sweetness. she sobs.
⠀⠀❝ papa, how I love you… ❞ she whispers to the weathered headstone at eye-level, his name blurred through the wetness of her eyes. where was he now? she imagines that his poor musician’s soul was welcomed into heaven, for any hymn that passed through his lips was made holy by the fact that it was he who had sung it. christine takes an agonizing, shuddering breath in the bitter cold.
⠀⠀❝ papa, how I need you, ❞ she continues, as if he were there, as if he were listening. why did he have to leave? she still does not understand, she didn’t back then, and certainly not now. ❝ papa… ❞ her face contorts in anguish. she sniffles. ❝ how I miss you kissing me goodnight… ❞
The snow continues to fall and threatens to bury her under cloaked form, much like the stone statues scattered through the cemetery.
He's used to pain and suffering. He's used to every stage of grief frantically packaged into a prayer meant for the ears of no one besides the Almighty and His messengers. He's not used to intervention or, Father forbid, growing too close to his charges again or, well, his former charges' children.
Gustave Daaé was dead. Sandalphon was there when he took his last breath, after all. Gustave Daaé would not be very happy if he heard his only daughter caught her death sobbing over his grave in a bitterly cold cemetery. It seemed intervention was the only option, after all.
"Mademoiselle are you alright? You'll catch your death if you're out here for much longer." Hopefully she won't notice the way the snow seems to melt more quickly beneath his footfalls or how his eyes seem to emit a faint glow. "Surely you can visit again when the temperatures are above freezing and you won't run the risk of losing your sense of direction on the way home due to the sleet." He removes his own cloak and places it over her shoulders. It smells vaguely of wildflowers.
Gustave Daaé would never wish for his daughter to be this distraught by his passing. She was never meant to lose her way. "Let me walk you home, Mademoiselle..." He pauses and turns toward the headstone as if he doesn't already know. "Mademoiselle Daaé. Your father was the famous violinist, yes? I've always admired his compositions and how they sound so bright and airy. Almost angelic. I play the violin myself, you see."
@ofcarth said: ‘ darkness stirs and wakes imagination. ’
"Your imagination or mine?" Sandalphon responds, humor in his voice. The concerto he'd attended that night had only just let out and he finds himself at the outskirts of the well-dressed crowd making their exodus from the auditorium. He readjusts his sunglasses, turquoise eyes glowing faintly behind them. "It's always a pleasure to see you, Lilith. Did you also attend tonight's event or are you milling around the darkened streets looking for someone to corrupt?" There is no hint of judgement in his tone. "Unfortunately it can't be me, but I do enjoy the company."
" I thought since I'm older, it's my load to shoulder. "
"I don't think you give us enough credit, Michael. Time has proven that your younger siblings are more than capable of shouldering countless burdens." There's a pause as San places a hand on Michael's shoulder. "What can I do to help?"
@qapsiel said: ‘ and i have been visited by the angel of music. ’ (said kinda long-suffering lmao)
Sandalphon is used to ignoring a great number of things as the angel of music, such as karaoke, untuned instruments, and sarcasm. Besides, he himself believes that anyone he chooses to grace with his presence is truly blessed, especially younger siblings.
"How is my most favorite angel of Thursday?" His lip curls into an amused smile. Perhaps he hasn't ignored the sarcasm after all. "I hope I haven't picked a bad time to check in on you. I have no qualms with coming back later..."
LITTLE LOTTE / THE MIRROR
THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA
MUSIC OF THE NIGHT
Hands + violin
A conversation that would totally definitely 100% happen:
Someone: ask San about his opinions on [music topic].
San, deadpan: I don’t have opinions. My thoughts on [music topic] are always correct.
