In a Joan of Arc Mood
He knelt before his Queen, dressed in knightly raiment. She smiled beneficently upon him, right hand raised in the sign of redemption. The Queen of Angels occupied her throne like a dove its silver cage: all beauty and whiteness, she was thronged by the purest of seraphim, ringed by soft wings and power. And she, their sun, fed them her manna of light. “Oh Michael,” she said, voice like a clarion bell. The blond stone chapel she occupied echoed with her presence. Michael gazed upon her, clad in heavenly blue and all the beauty of the cosmos. Even he, most ancient of all, lost his breath each time he saw her. Her crown was her humility, her queenship boundless love.
She pressed her fingers to his brow, face tender as she looked upon his wounds. Cool softness flowed through him as she healed her champion, most high of angels. It…
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