quicksand's got no sense of humor

He'd barely been in this place for longer than a few weeks. Just a few weeks out of an immortal life, something that was comparatively a single drop in an endless ocean, a span of time he could blink and miss, an absolutely insignificant speck in the infinite march of time. And somehow, someway, he was already really sick of it. Gabriel could sit here and question this line of thought perhaps. Spend some time doing some actual introspection for the second time in his entire life.

But why would he need to do that when the problem was technically, obvious? He didn't need to ponder his feelings in regards to this, even as his mind drifted back to the mortal he'd found hiding in the woods during that blasphemous festival. It was obvious why he'd be so opposed to it. Just how many mortals were felled during that hunt? How many that simply lacked what was the same stupid luck Hans had when he'd stumbled across him? It had been within his power to do more, he could have done more. Should have done more.

The fact that death was cheap did nothing to assuage that guilt, it didn't make the pain any less real. ... Gabriel had told himself he wouldn't be introspecting and yet-

And yet here he was, pacing like a caged tiger in his room, picking at a wound not because he felt it could be soothed if he did but out of the sheer familiarity of the pain. Better than thinking about other things, he supposed. A feeling he could only pretend was unknown to him swam in the back of his head, a shrouded leviathan who's shape was far more recognizable than he'd be willing to admit. Suggestions sounded in the mire that was his mind, step out for some air, find someone to speak with, but he knew what the Devil sounded like when he spoke. There was no way those idle, innocent suggestions would end well, either for himself or for any soul he happened to stumble upon.

This would pass, and his thoughts would calm eventually. They always had, they always would.