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brontesdaughter · 4 years

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Anne Boleyn: from Protestant queen to usurping witch

The Malleus Maleficarum, originally published in 1487 by two German priests, was the official manual for hunt and execution of witches during 400 years in Europe. According to it, the signs that a woman shows for her witchcraft practice was have some kind of physical deformity, have a black cat as a pet, being born in february, being redhead, not being able to bare children or have a sexually impotent husband. Based on meaningless signs, the inquirors took to the bonfire more than two hundred women during centuries.

Anne Boleyn, the second wife of Henry VIII of England, didn't die on the flames or was juldged by the rules of Inquisition - but almost. Being raised in the French court, Anne had access to an education much more abrangent than the English girls at the time. She was raised to being ambitious, determined and cunning, but not to be a witch. However, that did not prevented Henry VIII of charge her to bewitched him when she didn't gave him a son, an episode that marked Anne's fate when she had a miscarridge of a deformed fetus, in 1536 - continuing to be only a girl's mother, the queen-to-be Elizabeth I.

Such accusation can seen as a tiny thing right now but, at the time, beyong the fact that the word of a king possess undeniable weight - even more so if the word comes from a king like him, who broke with the Catholic Church, becoming absolute sovereing -, an accusation of witchcraft was taken very seriously. Henry stated that he had been "seduced and forced into his second marriage through spells and sortileges". It was the XVI century England, afterwall, and the witch hunt was already a reality. However not too strong as much would be in a few years, but certainly strong enough to end a woman's life. And Anne was not any woman: she was believed to be the responsible for the separation of the country from the Catholic Church and for the horrible persecution that many Catholics had suffer, also for the implementation of a new faith, the protestantism. The easist and more eficient way to stop the trajetory of a woman like that was accuse her of witchcraft.

We don't know for sure if Anne had the intention of influence Henry VIII to something on politics. What we do know is that her father and her uncle encouraged the flirt between them during the years when she was Queen's Catarina de Aragão chaperone. Once Catarina was gone, Henry took the power off the Pope's hand, becoming the one true power in the reign. But would have been Anne a true protestant, manipulating the king into modificate the country's situation or was she just a young woman very well educated, but just a puppet of her ambitious family? This question remains util today, however the fact is that she, being this manipulative woman or this political puppet, represented a power figure and, for that, was executed. Her enemies and all the court, who felt threatned by her, would never let her alive. As Jane Dunn, Elizabeth & Mary's author, said:

“It was in the area of sex that the activities of witches were most feared and decried. A witch was represented as the embodiment of the inverted qualities of womankind: where natural women were weaker than men and submissive, witches were harsh, with access to forbidden power; where women had kindness and charm, witches were full of vengeance and the will to harm; where women were sexually passive, witches were voracious in their appetites and depraved. Witches were privy to recipes for aphrodisiacs and could make men fall helplessly in love with the most unlikely of women – even with their own benighted selves.”

This is well shown in The Tudors: Anne was condemned not for acts of witchcraft, despite rumors circulating around the palace about her evil nature, but for being a woman with power. Submissive women were what was expected at the time and Anne broke with that, being who she wanted to be and speaking freely about politics and religion. The queen, previously only delegated to the heir's spawning post, was now also an active figure who opined about events and managed to get the almighty king of England to listen to her (to a woman!) and change things accordingly to her your wishes.

The TV show, however, does a historic disservice in showing Anne (Natalie Dormer) as a Machiavellian woman, even granting her a villainous soundtrack and conversations that probably didn't happen in which she plots against Henry VIII (Jonathan Rhys Meyers ). If Anne is a villain, then all the men featured should be too - including the good guy in the series, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk (Henry Cavill), who spread the lying rumor that Anne cheated on the king with several men, including his own brother (remembering that incestuous relationships were also considered a characteristic of witches, who supposedly acquired their power through sex with Satan and manipulated men with their charms in bed). But Charles Brandon had a relatively happy ending, dying of a common illness, while Anne was beheaded in front of everyone with the reputation of usurping witch, traitor to the king and prostitute.

The accusation that Anne had a sixth finger that she hid and warts on her body was also placed in the show, which seems to have endeavored to corroborate the lie of the witchcraft used to get her out of power. The Tudors, created by Michael Hirst, is a show of misogyny and favoritism to men, who are always forgiven, even if they behead their wives. However, the lesson is passed on: seeing the story of his mother, beheaded for being a powerful woman, and of her stepmothers, who had a fate as bad as Anne, Elizabeth Tudor (Laoise Murray), daughter of Anne Boleyn and future queen of England, decides that she will never marry and keeps her promise, reigning alone and never letting a man be more powerful than her.

In any case, Hirst's choice to present Anne according to the rumors that have been spread about her and vilify the historical character is a political choice. The story of the queen beheaded by her husband is tragic enough and arouses attention without the false rumor of witchcraft. It was not necessary to instill this approach in the plot.

This myth that Anne Boleyn was a witch has spread so strongly in pop culture that we have two well-known and very accessible examples: the portrait of Anne that appears on the walls of Hogwarts in one of the films of the Harry Potter’s saga, as well as the origin of Lasher, the demon that supposedly was the fetus aborted by Anne in 1536. Although Anne's representation is that of a witch in these two examples, neither vilify her in the way the show does - perhaps because they have the vision of a woman in creating the stories - JK Rowling and Anne Rice, respectively - and not that of a man, as in The Tudors.

Even if the witchcraft accusation is unfounded, she could be popularly called a witch (in the pejorative sense of a bad woman) for allegedly manipulating an entire court. The show leads us to feel pity, sometimes contempt, for Henry, but for Anne the audiovisual resources are used to densify the villainy of his personality. A man would never be portrayed like that in the plot. But a witch is this: a powerful and ambitious woman, characteristics so praised in men, but forbidden in women.

Originally published here.

#anne boleyn #the tudors #henry viii #michael hirst #natalie dormer #jonathan rhys meyers #anne rice #harry potter #j k rowling #charles brandon #elizabeth i #queen elizabeth i #tudor #jane dunn #history #english history #monarchy #witchcraft #witch

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hnrywinchester · 6 years

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Fare Thee Well- - Chapter 6

Summary: She hasn’t seen Gabriel since he dies nine years ago, then a phone call changes everything.

Pairing: Gabriel x OFC

Series Warnings: ANGST, smut, swearing, character deaths, PTSD Gabriel, follows canon 13x18 on.

SLIGHT Dark!Gabriel in this one.

Beta’d by: @aquietuniverse

Words: 5.1k

This was just a Rob post marathon feels fest. It’s ANGSTY guys.

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Gabriel was staring into a face he never thought he would see again. Kali had broken his heart, tried to kill him, and outed him to her fellow pagans, making a whole big mess of an already messy situation. Still, after all of that, he’d ensured her safe passage out of the Elysian with the Winchesters and Liv, who hadn’t been thrilled about the entire exchange between himself and the fellow goddess. It was hard enough telling her that Kali was his ex, for lack of a better word, but it had been even worse convincing her that going the romantic route with her to gain an upper hand was a good idea. It also didn’t help that Liv had been right. Thankfully he’d “died” before she got the chance to shove the ‘I told you so’ in his face. Although he’d have taken her smug annoyance over leaving her a million times over. Her stony expression was unreadable, but she stood only inches away from him, her eyes bearing unwaveringly into his. His heart was pounding as his mind ran over her potential intentions, all of them being bad. Was she here to finish the job? Was she helping Loki? Softly, her hands came to his forearms and before he could react, her lips firmly pressed into his, and he felt nothing. No pining, no sadness, not even a fond memory passed through his head. “Sorry,” he said, clicking his tongue as he pulled his face away, “not interested.” As he pushed her body away from his by her upper arms, a satisfied little smirk spread onto her face, “So you have changed.” “Look, Kali, what we had was special, it really was but-“ he started, agitation setting in. “That’s not why I’m here,” Kali cut him off. “Okaaaay, so?” “Loki.” His heart dropped into his stomach. He’d recruited her. She was here to take him back, his former lover scorned was finally getting her revenge. Maybe she’d moved on and shacked up with that pompous ass. After Baldur had met his demise surely she’d found someone else, and Loki took pride in winning and stealing what had once been Gabriel’s. “Whatever he’s paying you, I’ll find a way to double it, just, please…” Gabriel begged, raising his hands in submission. “I’m here to help you,” she said bluntly, his gaze softening on her, “I owe you a debt and I’m paying up.” Life for a life. His nostrils pulled inward as his adrenaline surged, eyes hardening as his desire for revenge coursed through him. He didn’t know what she meant, how she planned to help, but this put him one step closer to the end game. Now he’d be able to hit Loki head on, hopefully unsuspecting. She held out a small slip of paper to him, his fingers shaking as he took it, her expression flashing her fear for no more than a blink. On it was written an address for Amarillo, Texas in ornate penmanship, nothing more. “That’s where they are. All four of them. They’ll move along soon, so act quickly,” she told him, his fists clenching at her words. “Thanks,” he mumbled, his thoughts too preoccupied with images of the four of them, dead by his hand. “Be careful. I can sense how low your grace is. He will, too. Also, keep her away from him.” “What?” “He’s well aware of what she means to you, of her importance. The human. Don’t let her near him, for both of your sakes.” So he did know. The little net of safety he thought he’d woven had long been shredded, and Loki was no doubt waiting for the opportune time to use this monumental play. Kali was right, he had to move quickly, because the enemy was going to strike soon regardless. “What does he know?” Gabriel asked as Kali moved back in towards him, needing as much information as she had to offer. “Everything. If he gets to her, you will not see her again. He’ll be sure of that. I’ll speak no more of it, I’ve risked enough. Good luck. We’re even,” she snapped back, before grabbing his arm and returning him to the park in Kansas. Life here was still moving slowly, leisurely, only fueling the rage growing in Gabriel’s chest. His jaw was twitching as he tried to balance his emotions. He couldn’t face Liv in this state, she’d catch on immediately and he didn’t need to add anything else to this already impossible situation. He needed the katanas, he needed them now. He also needed the woman he just promised he’d whisk away to a new and better life to somehow understand the position he was in. Unfortunately, he’d known her long enough to be absolutely positive of the outcome. “Hey! Gabe! What the hell? What’s wrong?” he heard Liv calling, her voice frantic, “I just passed this spot looking for you and you weren’t here…” “We have to go,” he snapped, grabbing her elbow roughly and pulling her towards the car. “Hey!” She yanked her arm from his grasp, planting her feet to the concrete. In all the years they’d had together, he’d never done anything like that. Gabriel was always one for words, he always had something to say and could talk himself out of any situation. He enjoyed defeating an opponent with nothing but word play and degradation, getting his way with nothing more than a cunning tongue. As his lip curled into an angry little snarl, she tried to quell her own fire by reasoning that this Gabriel was different. He was jumpy, panicked and afraid, he didn’t respond to things like he used to. Something was coming, or was perhaps already here. “What happened?” she asked, keeping her voice level and her gaze soft. “We need. To go. Now,” he growled as his teeth grit together. For the first time in her life, she was actually a little afraid of him. He’d done a complete one-eighty in less than twenty minutes with no explanation. He was furious with a reckless look in his eye that she’d never seen before. His unfaltering control was finally failing. “You need to tell me what’s going on,” she demanded, her voice trembling. “Do you trust me?” he asked, eyebrows knitting together in the middle. The question was loaded, and she knew he was well aware. So his Machiavellian skill was still very much intact. Her answer danced on the tip of her tongue, desperate to say yes but that little voice of reason planting seeds of doubt as it flowered from the hesitation she’d been trying her best to suppress since his return. She did trust him, but she didn’t trust whatever emotion he was feeling right now. Maybe it was because it was foreign or unexpected, but this was not a Gabriel she’d ever known. Maybe his faltering grace played a roll in his lack of confidence in himself, but she was tired of this guessing game. He didn’t want to discuss it, any of it, and that felt like a lack of trust from him. How was it fair for him to expect her to have unfaltering faith in him, when clearly the feeling wasn’t reciprocated? Her eyes told him everything he needed. No, she did not. Maybe she never had. He blamed himself, he blamed Loki, he blamed Asmodeus, and he blamed her. Why didn’t she see everything he’d been through, everything he’d done for her? What he was still doing for her. Why couldn’t she see how much he loved her? “Guess that’s a no,” he accused, taking a few steps away from her. “I just want to know what’s going on,” she stressed, reaching her hand out for him. “And I just want a lifetime supply of margaritas and ten minutes of peace of quiet, but we don’t always get what we want. We have to go, Olivia.” The use of her full name jarred her. She couldn’t remember a time he’d ever used it, not in jest or prank or introduction. Blindly she followed, knowing that this would be a losing battle. He knew something she didn’t, it was now a matter of prying that information out of him, and that wasn’t something she was used to. He’d always shared things with her, everything. She missed him. There was no other way to describe it. He was standing right in front of her, and she missed him wholeheartedly. It was the darkest, deepest form of loneliness she’d ever felt, to stare at someone and still long for them, to still mourn their absence. Though he’d been here for twenty four hours, he’d never really come back. Something was pulling him away, closing him off. In her mind, it was the trauma, the relearning how to live after nine years of confinement. She felt guilty, like she couldn’t love him broken and flawed, but that wasn’t true. She did. It was the secrets and the walls. She’d comfort him through a nightmare every night for fifty years if it meant she could have him back, but she wanted all of him. Fears and bad times, too. In his, it was killing off the one final threat to the normal life he so desperately wanted, and wanted to give her. When they reached the car, he opened the door for her as he always did, but to her, she assumed it was probably to make sure she got in without a fight. Her faith in the angel was waning. His anger was beginning to recede, guilt replacing it as he looked at her sullen and lost in the seat beside him. He could see the tears fighting her eyelids, pooling against her bottom lashes. They were caused by him. He couldn’t help it, he slid down the seat towards her and pressed his lips against her cheek, letting them linger as his forehead pressed against her temple. Her eyes screwed shut, the tender notion only tightening her chest even further. As her lower lip began to quiver, she bit down on the inside, forcing her teeth to hold it still. She wouldn’t give herself away. She would not cry in front of him. It hurt. Realizing that her safe space was no longer safe. Maybe it never was. He felt dirty, but again he found himself grazing the top of her thoughts, and it was worse then he had expected. She truly didn’t trust him, she didn’t even trust him enough to cry in his presence. She’d rather bite a hole through her lip than give him any inclination of how she felt. She knew he wasn’t right, that he was weak, and hearing her think it made the fact that much more real. He was nothing, not even to the one person who used to look at him like he was the sun and the stars. Maybe she didn’t need him anymore, maybe she’d be better off without him. But he wasn’t. “Sweetheart,” he sighed, pulling himself closer to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, “I need you… I need you to trust me. Please.” His words were falling on deaf ears and he knew it, but he said them anyway. She remained stoic, keeping her eyes locked on the dashboard in front of her, rattling off every weapon she had in the trunk to keep her mind occupied and distracted. He slid back into the driver’s seat, turning the key as he hung his head. He was losing her, she was closing herself off to him, and it pissed him off. He couldn’t do one thing right. Not once in his life had he ever been able to hold on to one damn thing that mattered. The drive back to the hotel was silent. Liv kept her eyes directed on the trees passing by the windows and she reflected back on just how fast things could change. On these same roads just hours earlier, she’d felt like the world was in her hands, that she had everything she could ever want, that life was starting over. She should have known that things didn’t work that way for her. She remembered thinking about when the other shoe would fall, hoping it would be years from now, but no, her reprieve from the life she’d made for herself lasted less than six hours. This was her fate. She fell for a monster, and in the end, the monsters always won, this one had just killed her slowly. Gabriel’s mind was no clearer. He tried to focus on mentally preparing for Loki, taking on the monster-god was going to be no easy task, but it just kept defaulting back to her. How this could very well be the last time he sat in this car, the last time her heart wasn’t filled with contempt when someone said his name. All because he wanted to keep her alive. When they pulled into the hotel her door was open before he’d even put the car in park. If this was ending now, he wasn’t going down without a fight. As the door closed behind him, he followed her closely into the room, wrapping an arm around her middle, pressing his chest to her back, dragging his lips along her neck. He knew what buttons to press to turn her into putty, and he would be trying each and every one of them. She didn’t resist, it felt too normal to turn away from. She whimpered under his touch, gripping the arm around her stomach, anchoring him to her. She’d dreamed of his touch for far too long, so her brain couldn’t deny it. His mouth left a blazing trail on her skin, his fingers dragging the layer of clothes down her arm, giving him access to her collarbone and shoulder, which he gladly explored and worshipped. Her shaky breaths mixed with the softest of sounds, reassuring him that maybe he still had a chance. His warm, arid scent filled her head, intoxicating and distracting. Maybe right now distracting was what she needed. This was simple, it felt good, it made her forget, everything was okay here like this. Quickly, he turned her in his arms, his lips crashing down onto her before she even got her footing. He kissed her hard, with teeth and tongue, his hands shoving at anything that kept his fingertips from her skin, and she responded with a hand straight to his hair, tugging his head around as she returned his kisses with ones equally as hungry. It felt good, it made her forget, everything was okay here like this, she repeated again. “Stop,” she whispered as they broke for air, “just wait.” Gabriel’s eyes snapped shut, this was it. “We can’t...we can’t keep falling into this same rut,” she stammered, still clearing the fog from her mind. “Always worked before,” he pointed out, before scraping his teeth along her pulse point. “Just, talk to me.” There it was. Not a phrase he wanted to hear, not now, not ever. Why was she so infatuated with hearing about nine years of agony, misery, and being denied the relief of death? Why did she think he’d even consider reliving any second of that torture? Of subjecting her to any images of the things Asmodeus had done to him. What was talking going to do? It wasn’t going to bring his grace back, or give him the last nine years he’d missed out on. It wouldn’t make her love him again, or forgive him. No. All it would bring was pain and a whole lot of misery. It was unnecessary and cruel for her to expect this of him. He pulled himself away from her, running his hand over his mouth as he adjusted his jacket with his other hand. He’d heard her startled gasp as he’d ripped himself away, and now he couldn’t bear to even look at her. “No. It’s fine. I didn’t come here for therapy hour,” he snapped, her heart shattering. “What…?” she choked. “Poor broken Gabriel, right? Who wants him? All damaged and powerless. No tricks, no fun. What use is he?” “That is not-“ “Then what? You think you can fix me? Do you honestly believe that? That we can just sit here, chit chat, maybe braid each other’s hair and bam, little Gabe is all better!” “I want to help you!” “You can’t.” This needed to end, he needed closure. He needed Loki on a stick, a wooden one to be exact. As much as he wished he could wait for his grace to recharge, it wasn’t happening. It was back to basics, hand-to-hand combat. Then he’d be back. He’d fix this, they’d be fine. He’d get her out, they’d live in peace and quiet out in the middle of nowhere. “Don’t you dare leave me here like this. Again,” she warned, tears falling freely down her cheeks, sobbing gasps ripping from her chest. “Or what? What’re you gonna do to me?” He felt his anger all the way in his fingertips as Loki’s grinning face seared itself behind his eyes. Come and play he mused, his treacherous chuckle echoing through Gabriel’s head. That smug, self-loathing bastard better be enjoying his final few days. He envisioned all the ways he could end him. All the different deaths he could inflict upon those three blubbering sons of his. He wanted it to be slow and painful, he wanted to hear them scream and beg. It was then that he remembered the woman behind him, he could hear her sniffling and heavy breathing, feel her eyes drilling into the back of his head. The one who was trying to convince him not to leave. He turned slowly, his eyes almost sinister as they fell upon her. “You gonna stab me with my own blade?” he hissed, gesturing to the glint of silver visible at the bottom of her duffle bag on the floor, “That won’t work. You don’t have the juice.” She was speechless. This wasn’t Gabriel. If she thought she’d feared him before, it was dwarfed by the terror freezing her in place right now. Her tears fell freely as her entire body shook as he stalked towards her; this was worse than watching him die. “I’ve got nothin’ left to break, sweetheart. You have no power,” he finished, “you’re nothing.” “Why?” she gasped, begging silently in her head to anyone listening to save him. “There’s something I have to do.” He bent and ripped his gleaming archangel blade from underneath the pile of what few clothes she owned, scattering them across the floor. Slowly, each finger wrapped around the handle, his head cocking to one side as he watched his reflection in the chrome. He didn’t even look like himself, he looked more like… him. “Please,” she begged, one last time, trying to reach the man she loved buried deep by whatever rage he was experiencing, “Gabe… baby…” His eyes flashed as her voice called his name, and he saw her. Blotchy red face, swollen eyes, she was wrecked. What was happening to him? He’d never… he’d never say those things to her. Nothing? He’d said she was nothing. Thoughts ran rampant as he shook his head, muttering incoherent words to himself. This was Loki. He knew. Kali… Something wasn’t right. “You need to go. Find Sam and Dean,” he instructed frantically, “I’m gonna fix this.” Every part of him wanted to kiss her one last time, not knowing if he’d ever get the chance again. Loki was in his head. He needed to leave, draw him out, and away from her, but her standing before him so battered and broken, it went against everything he knew. She needed him. Some little piece of her still wanted him, her final words begging him to stay. He felt a tear slip from the corner of his eye as she shook her head at him, silently telling him not to walk out that door, not to leave her again. “I’m gonna fix this,” he repeated, pulling his eyes immediately away before he changed his mind. Then he vanished. The echo of his wings ricocheting off the walls, every emotion from that night nine years ago pummeling every still-functioning part of her. She wailed as her knees hit the floor. It sounded inhuman, every inch of her numb. She was broken beyond repair. She’d held herself together for nine years, for thirty-five years, but she was done. Every barricade, every wall, every lie she’d ever told herself came crumbling down. Nothing had been worth it. Her life, it meant nothing, she had no one. “Get up,” a sharp female voice sounded from above her, was she really already hallucinating? It took a moment for her eyes to come into focus, and they fell upon a woman, gorgeous, with dark, perfectly curled hair falling to her shoulders, her umber brown skin glowing in the dim light of the room. Liv had seen her before, but she couldn’t quite place her finger on where. Then, it dawned on her. “You,” she growled. “I said, get up,” Kali repeated, bending down and grabbing Liv by her bicep, “you humans, you dwell in your emotions too much.” Liv stood frozen, unsure of how to react. She wanted to attack, Kali showing up moments after Gabriel’s exit seemed far too suspicious to brush aside. The goddess worked around the room, picking up the tossed articles of Liv’s bag and returning them to their rightful place. The action seemed peculiar. “What are you doing?” Liv fretted, the evening’s events overloading her. A goddess packing her strewn clothing was certainly the icing on the cake. “You need to leave,” Kali replied, shoving the tattered sack into Liv’s arms, “Now.” “I’m sorry, but you see what may be fucking with me here, right? Gabriel leaves, then you show up seconds later, and you’re both telling me to run, and not telling me why or from what. If you both just want to run off together then-“ “He doesn’t know I’m here.” That wasn’t the answer she’d been expecting. At Kali’s sudden appearance, she assumed Gabriel had chosen the obviously far superior woman, and they were off to enjoy immortality together. Kali stared at her, face still stoic, but a softness to her eyes now. There was a strange sense of sympathy in her gaze. She’d known Gabriel for far longer than Liv had, there was obviously still something connecting the two, and she wasn’t sure whether to be angry or appreciative. Kali had come here to save her, from what (if anything) she still had no idea, and she knew that Kali couldn’t have given two shits about some run of the mill human. Even worse, a hunter. She was here because of whatever relationship she’d had, maybe still did, with the archangel. “Where is he?” Liv asked, hoping to take advantage of this potential chip in the armor. “I can’t tell you that,” Kali responded, “Get in your car. And go.” So she did know, but Liv was smart enough not to push her luck. At this point, she was happy to be walking out of that room alive. She obeyed the instruction, grabbing her keys off the table and following the woman in red out of the room. Before Liv had a chance to speak another word, she was gone. It was then that she remembered a text she’d gotten earlier that day. They had a way to find him. Sam. I’m on my way. Two hours tops. As she pulled up to the decrepit building again, her heart sank. The Winchesters. She assumed Dean would be back, causing her lip to tick up in annoyance. He was lucky that he was damn good at what he did. She pulled out her phone and sent another text to the younger of the two, letting him know she’d arrived. Not more than four seconds later, the old metal door opened up and Sam’s giant, lumbering figure emerged from the doorway. “Hey,” he greeted, giving her an unexpected hug, “thanks for coming back.” “Uh, yeah, no problem,” she answered, feeling guilty as he thought her intentions were purely helpful. “Dean’s out cold, I can get you set up in a room and we’ll tackle this thing head on first thing.” “Sure.” Following Sam through the bunker, she felt the sting of the new wounds covering her soul. She’d remembered Gabriel holding her as she sobbed unapologetically into his chest, then the moment when his eyes finally saw her after years of torture, the relief in them. She saw the silhouette of his wings along the upper walls, massive and powerful, and then she heard the screams of Asmodeus as his hold on Gabriel finally ended. Or so she had thought. They walked past room number seven and she stopped; his room. This was where she needed to be. Sam noticed the absence of her footsteps behind him and turned to find her stepping back into the Enochian-etched room. “Do you wanna.. stay in here?” Sam asked skeptically. “Yeah,” she answered, tracing her fingers along the symbols, wondering if any of them spelled her name, retold any of their stories. Sam retreated with a silent nod, closing the door as he did. This was all she had left of him. These scribbled black, ancient letters on a wall. He’d taken his black leather jacket she’d worn for years, and his blade she never dared touch from the bottom of her bag. It was like he was wiping himself from her life. Slowly but surely taking every bit she had of him. Her eyes shot to the corner of the room, and she swore she could still almost see him huddled in a ball, catatonic and afraid. He’d needed her then, not like now. Now she was nothing. Thousands of miles away, in a place meant for only his kind, Gabriel was crouched over an old case, marveling at the four wooden katanas sheathed inside. These were his ticket home. Four swords, four monsters, one completed kill list. He’d shaken Loki off his tail for now, coming into the heavily warded fortress of his brothers. No one knew about this one. As his fingers ran across the wood, her voice drifted through the crypt, no more than a whisper in the dark. “You should have just stayed dead,” she cried, her voice cracking yet filled with unbridled betrayal as her tears poured freely once again. His chest seized as he heard her, he knew he deserved it. “Who does this? You told me… You’re a fucking liar. You don’t destroy the people you love!” Thankful to be alone with no chance of an intruder, Gabriel slumped to the ground, a sob echoing through the stone walls. He’d done nothing but destroy her since the day he’d met her. He ruined her. “God damnit Gabriel, you promised…” His guilt and sorrow churned in his belly like cement, thickening with every passing breath. He’d made a lot of promises he couldn’t keep in his life, but this was the one that mattered. This was the one that had eaten him alive every passing second of every day. “I fucking hate you.” His tears fell freely from his eyes, high pitched wails wheezed from his mouth as he finally broke down. He was cold, and numb. Everything was lost. “I fucking hate that I still love you. I hate myself for it. I hate, that if you walked into this room right now, I would forgive you. Again. So you could do this to me. Again.” ‘No sweetheart, never again. This is almost over. Truly, after this, I am all yours to do whatever you want with. Anything. I deserve the worst. Give me your worst. But please just give me something.’ “Why did you do this to me?” Her anger had died down, the rage simmering to distress and despair, “Why did you lie?” Every sentence was a knife straight to his heart. “Why was it never enough…” Her tears finally won, blocking out her words as desperate, broken sobs now replaced them. He wished she’d still been angry, he’d rather her be angry than this. He knew if she was angry at least she was still feeling something, that she was fighting. He could practically see her, curled into a ball on the bed. Her head wouldn’t be on a pillow, she’d be centered on the mattress, arms around her knees that her forehead would be firmly pressed into. Her body would be trembling and normally, he would have curled up behind her uncaring of how awkward the positioning was. He’d press as much of himself as he could against her, wrapping an arm tightly around her middle, dropping a reassuring kiss to her neck and shoulder when the tears would resurge as she worked through everything in her head.

Then, she’d finally turn and bury her face into him, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt to keep him there, as if he’d ever once considered leaving. But someone, at some point, had. Softly, he’d whisper to her that everything was going to be all right, that he loved her, that she was safe always, and soon she’d calm enough and drift off to sleep. Gently, he’d shift her to the top of the bed, laying her head on a pillow and covering her with a blanket that she’d subconsciously grab and pull up to cover the lower half of her face. Then he’d resume his place behind her, holding her close again, bunkering down for the night as he listened to her breathing slow down and even out, keeping close watch of her dreams, redirecting them if they strayed into anything upsetting.

The next morning when she would wake, he’d always greet her with a smile and some cheesy line she’d scoff at, but he knew deep down she loved, following up with the warning her face was going to get stuck that way if she kept it up. Her eyes would still be puffy and red, her face still blotchy and he’d kiss her with a little extra gusto, just to make sure she knew it didn’t matter.

But now, he was the cause. He was the reason she sat alone, cold, unsure and broken. He’d been just another one who left. So tonight, she’d fall asleep with no one to tell her that they loved her, that she was safe. Tomorrow, she’d wake cramped and sore from the terrible position her exhaustion would take over in. There would be no cheap pick up line, or rolled eyes, or extra kisses. It would be an empty room, a broken heart, and memories of unkept promises. His unkept promises. His.

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