[Supernatural][R][Liminality] Words
Full notes on the Masterpost
Note: also on AO3 and ff.net
Warnings: None! No character death this time.
Word count: 8,455
Summary: Through Metatron, God delivers promises of future battles. Battles of all kind are also what Kára knows are mapping their road to the end of their journey, a final destination that at last, acquires a name. Words are spoken and plans are being made.
Disclaimer: Everything that's not angel is mine, the rest obviously isn't. Oh, and the translation from Evening Harmony is mine too.
A soft heart, that hates the vast and dark void,
From the radiant past hoards any fragments!
The sun has drown in its own thickening blood...
Your memory glows in me like an ostentory!
- Evening Harmony, Charles Baudelaire
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They were a tangled mess, feathers sticking out everywhere like a spiky ball, but content and comfortable as they watched the ichor’s golden shimmer gradually turn to its usual silver and retract into its receptacle. The archangel cursed the fact that due to the place’s nature, they couldn’t sense anything beyond its entrance. That was the reason why Ezekiel’s quiver stung Gabriel in sensible points when the Clepsydre’s doors opened, and also shattering the cosy silence between the two of them.
The Morning Star came strolling in, bright and fierce as usual, wings held high and spread out, like there was someone to impress here. Gabriel’s tip of wings twitched with amusement at the useless display before choosing to ignore his brother for the time being, in order to extricate his wings from his mate’s, both of them wincing the times they were just a little more rough than necessary.
Go, we’ll see each other later, the archangel told his mate when they were eventually done, flapping to let ragged feathers fall. Thanks for passing by.
Ezekiel nodded and obeyed. When Lucifer passed next to him, the seraph bowed low to him, his two pairs of wings plastered against the ground in submission and obedience. His older brother answered the salute with a pat, before turning his full attention to Gabriel, whose wings were lazily draped on the throne’s stairs like a veil.
He couldn’t help the admirative whistle at how much disgust Lucifer’s grace exuded, waves of a hate carefully controlled, but intense enough to knock the ichor balls out of his way, like he was chasing away a swarm of gross things. As if the devices where almost as bad as these puny humans the Morning Star despised so much, without even letting a chance to prove themselves. Just because their Dad treasured them more than him. What a brat.
“Hey, Lucy.” Gabriel extended his grace to brush his brother’s in greeting. Lucifer returned it with a gently stroke of feathers, stepping back when the other said, “Mike and you already finished? Because I’d like to able to go out of here without one of you thinking I’m a great target.”
The acid in his words might have been unnecessary, but he took a vicious pleasure to use it. He definitely wasn’t over what had happened to his wing, no matter how many years had passed.
“Don’t be like that, Gabriel. Not my fault this time, I promise.” Lucifer shuddered. “Not that you were really the target, mind you. ”
“According to you, it’s never your fault. That could easily have been me and my wings. Remember last time? When I was at the receiving end? It really hurt. I don’t want to experience that, ever again.” He winced, unconsciously reaching for his superior-left wing, where the injury had been.
“The Imprisonment of Eve, the Fall of Babel, Sodom and Gomorrah, and so many other battles.” Mockery dripped in his tone when he continued, “Gabriel, commander of the Lord’s army upon the Earth, you have suffered much worse injuries, haven’t you?”
Gabriel scowled and glared at him. Yes, he had seen much worse in past battles but, “Never by my own brethren’s hands,” he finished aloud, venom in his voice. His wing twitched again.
His brother didn’t seem to notice the gesture, probably ignored it along with his words. He took him into one of these strong and reassuring embrace he liked to give the other angels when he was satisfied with them, telling them how much he loved them. Always a charmer the Morning Star was.
“Congratulations!” Lucifer was literally beaming. “That clone you exchanged place with when the bolt was about to hit you? It was perfect. I was sure you’d succeed. Funny little trick clones are, don’t you think?”
Gabriel was totally not grinning, proudness and gladness going from one archangel to the other through their graces. He even smacked Lucifer in retaliation when the latter ruffled his feathers.
“Bro, stop speaking to me like I’m a cherub. It’s kind of unnerving.”
Lucifer used the same playful tone as his fellow archangel. “Careful, Gabriel, the more time you pass in this place, the more irritable you become.” He added his voice lower, “You might want to check that.”
And stop watching little bipedal cockroaches, they’re not worthy of your time, was what his brother left unsaid. However the message was clear as Lucifer knocked away a glass ball when it touched him, like an abomination had dared to touch him.
That irritated Gabriel more than anything else he could have said. As long as he didn’t neglect his duties-which he fortunately wasn’t-what he was doing with his time was none of Lucifer’s concern. What did he want him to do? Stop heavenly wars? That was definitely not within his area of competence, nor his will as he didn’t want to interfere with his brothers’ petty fight. So, if he watched over humans to avoid them, it was his own problem. Lucifer, amongst all, had nothing to say.
“Still better than what Mike and you do when Dad has His back turned. I’m not trying to break Heaven, me.” His brother stiffened, but refrained from any comment, and Gabriel was grateful for that. He didn’t wish them to have a confrontation of any sort. “So now, why don’t you tell me what you want with me, so that we both go back to more interesting things?” he asked rather abruptly to change the subject.
Lucifer wasn’t bothered; he didn’t push the delicate subject further. Instead, he shuddered when replying, “The little scribe has received a Word from our mighty Dad. He summoned the archangels. The four of us.”
Well, that was unusual. Metatron had always been secretive about what he received from their Dad, unwilling to translate the weird language-they weren’t even able to read it-he was writing in.
“What makes it different from the usual blah-blah? It’s not like he even cared about telling us what Dad wants him to write.”
When they had asked him, he merely had dismissed them like they were nothing, told them it wasn’t meant for them. They would have gladly given him a reminder of their status, but their Dad had been adamant about the annoying angel: Metatron had been chosen to receive His Words, he was to be treated with as much respect and deference as Him. In that way, the guy was pretty much off-limits and all archangels avoided him as much as possible. The scribe did the same, and until now all had been rather good. As long as he stayed away from them, they wouldn’t touch him.
“I don’t know, it might be important.” Lucifer shrugged. There was a feral edge in his next words. “It’d better be important. If it isn’t worth it, we’ll just have to punish him. A little reminder that archangels aren’t at his service, even if he’s Dad’s precious pen.”
“Well,” Gabriel sneered, mischief in his voice when he pursued, “Even if we don’t touch him or anything else. There are so many way to intimidate him and, with four of us, it should be pretty easy. The little coward is already afraid of us anyway. We can easily play on that.”
“What are you thinking of?”
“Isn’t it time to remind the Host that their archangels can work together if they put their mind into it?” Gabriel was already amused at what Metatron’s reaction would be when he would find out. “We’ll do that in the Garden. An official audience like if Dad was there.”
That made Lucifer laugh as they slipped out of the Clepsydre. Raphael and Michael were at the entrance, staring at them with a questioning gaze. Gabriel was glad to see the merry flutter of their wings when he explained the details of his little scheme. At least, for the moment, his brothers weren’t fighting and the respite was so very welcomed. Even if it meant they had to deal with Metatron.
METATRON!
Gabriel was nothing but pure smugness when he felt the angel flinch, stuttering and shaking. He hadn’t aimed for discretion, literary howling his name so loud the Host went suddenly quiet, the attention of legions turning to Metatron and him, curious of what the scribe had done to receive such a call from an archangel.
As you demanded, the First Choir will receive you. We’ll meet you in the Garden, at the feet of the Lord’s throne.
They were about to have so much fun!
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When they emerged from the forest, the sun was shining bright in a clear sky. From there, at the edge of the plain, they could see the large mill in its center, and the form of the buildings around. Róta rose a hand in the air, fisting it to make the group come to a halt, in their movements as well as words, each of them attentive to their leader.
“Totti, Agi.” Her friend’s eyes rested on the two young warriors, who bowed their heads. “Lads, I want you back in Thorhöll.” Agmundr was pouting but he didn’t dare interrupt the valkyrie. “It’s an important mission,” Róta added, with an encouraging smile. “Go to the jarl and tell him you bear the words of the valkyrie módir. Ask him a squad and you’ll guide them to the pond, where the battleground lies. There, you’ll salt and burn every fallen.” She turned to Kára, addressing her a large grin. “Except for one young lad. His name’s Gunngeirr Gunnólfsson. You won’t miss him for he bears the mark of the valkyries on his face. He’s to have a sepulture worthy of his status.”
Kára sent her a grateful glance, answered by a pat on her shoulder before Róta pursued, “After that, you’ll come back here with the men.”
“What then?” Agmundr asked, bushy eyebrows frowned, the corners of his mouth down. It was clear he wasn’t happy with the orders.
“Vífill and Finn will stay here with further instructions.”
While the rest of the group would progress further on their hunt, was left unsaid. Agmundr seemed about to protest but his uncle elbowed him and he settled for a shrug, obviously sulking at being left behind. Kára noted with amusement Vífill’s eye roll.
“Understood, lady Róta,” Thorsteinn said, bowing his head. He turned to Agmundr, messing playfully with the younger’s hair, much to his dismay. “C’mon, Agi. Let’s go.”
They didn’t wait longer to depart, with a few words of encouragement from the others. Then, the group was back on the road, the mood relaxed and chatty. Next to her, Finnbjörn was speaking of his betrothed and the baby expected for the end of the winter, how he hoped the wise women were right and that would be a girl.
“Careful for what you wish, Finn.” Vífill was grinning. “You might end up with a bossy future valkyrie in your house. No offense, ladies,” he added playfully looking at Róta and her, his laughter creasing the corners of his dark eyes. “But these things you can hear when you pay just a little attention.”
“You just listen to Reifr’s rambling, don’t you?” Kára replied, rolling her eyes as she pictured her brother with a full mead mug in one hand, the other gesturing in the air as he told the guests about their childhood.
“With the four of you, we have plenty of stories going around,” Finnbjörg was laughing, his half up ponytail bouncing. He pushed a strand of light-browned hair behind an ear. “And I’m totally willing to put up with a pushy kiddie girl if she’s to grown into a beautiful warrior later.”
“Yeah right, cousin, just tell you that,” Vífill answered back.
Their familiar banter came to a halt when Róta spoke, moments later, as they were less than a mile of Febœr. She told both of them to inspect the surrounding area, searching for any Nords that might have survived the attack, or many threats lingering there.
She didn’t wait to see if the warriors were already on their way to address the youngest of their group, her tone softer then before, but nonetheless commanding, “Rik, Myr, why don’t you light a fire and fetch one of the goats roaming around here? I’m counting on you, lads!” she added with an encouraging smile.
Adalrikr mumbled something but moved anyway, guiding his horse to the fields where some goats were grazing. In the meantime, Arnulfr dismounted, giving his horse’s reins to Myr.
“Take care of Andra,” he said to the thrall before he shifted his attention on the valkyries. “I’m going by feet now. Easier to track a trail.”
They stopped a few feet of the main building, a large manor, three storeys height of thick dark wood on stone foundations. The three of them let themselves off their saddles, the valkyries leaving their mounts in Myr’s care. Kára watched her friend enter the house, memories of many journeys coming to her mind.
Febœr was the hold’s largest farm, a commercial hub with their large productions of wheat and goat rearing. It was also a village in itself, a resting point on the road linking Thorhöll to Vatnreid. While the upper levels were home to the families running the place for generations, the ground level was nothing less than a tavern with many rooms, food and music; everything travellers needed after a long day of riding.
On the stairs leading to the large doors, there should have been a line a screaming merchants, while thralls hurried around through a packed yard, busy with work. Children should have been running around, squealing and fighting, under their parents’ vigilance.
She walked to the high mill at the far end of the yard, assessing her surroundings in the same time. If not for the occasional crooked planks sticking out of the walls, the buildings hadn’t suffered real damages. The ground however was covered in pieces of broken furnitures, and were the snow was melting, she could sometimes see dark stains. Here and there were straw and provisions, which must had been in now-shattered barrels.
The eerie quietness was wrong, Kára mused as she was turning a muddy apple in her hand, examining it. She sighed and dropped it, her eyes glancing over the unsalvageable waste at her feet. That was a pity.
As she walked through the domain, also searching in the small dependancies for anyone or anything, she noticed that despite the material traces of battle-dry blood on the mill’s stone walls, or arrows stuck into wheat flour bags-there wasn’t a single body lying around.
She went out off a shed, a familiar-too familiar-dreadful sense of anticipation dawning on her as she came to the center of the farm, at middle distance between the mill and the house. Then, she crouched, fingers tracing the mannaz rune in the dirt while she murmured one of the aura galdrar.
There was a light pulsing sensation in her eyes, not pleasant but nothing painful. The colors in her vision gradually turned into shades of blue. A human form stepped into her sightline, its outlines almost blurred by the bright orange flame where the heart was. She disinterested herself from the crouching Arnulfr, who now was walking alongside the fence, surely searching for footsteps or any indices of a trail to follow.
She walked through the yard to the paddock, which gates were destroyed. One led into the domain, and the other in the vast plain that had given its name to the farm. There, small lights-the goats-roamed freely. To her right, Myr was skinning one of them while Adalrikr was starting a fire. Absorbed in their tasks, they payed no mind to the valkyrie, who turned back.
At the far end of her field of vision, she watched Finnbjörg and Vífill coming at a fast pace to the farm, alone. She returned to the rune, erasing it with her feet when Arnulfr came to her. She blinked, relieved when the stinging feeling in her eyes vanished.
“No souls linger here. And there are no corpses too. So, it’s most likely that all dead have been transformed,” she told him, lassitude in her voice. For either, it wasn’t a surprise: merely an observation they had done too much time already.
The veidimadr’s messy hair slowly returned to a light blond and the tattoo baring his face, from one ear to the other, was a red line once again. His nose was wrinkled and his expression dark when he spoke, “I can’t tell exactly when they were here. The snowfall has washed away part of the smell, but it’s here, the lingering odor of decay and rotten flesh.” He showed a hole in the fence, between a kitchen garden and small storage shed. “And definitely stronger there. I guess we better go this way when we’ll finished here. It leads to the East,” Arnulfr added after a little silence.
Pictures flashed in Kára’s mind at the mention of the East, the unsaid implications: the only place in the eastern part of the hold that could interest the draugar. The world stopped. She felt her body grow tense, childhood memories renewed by the recent events. The death that had reopened old wounds. And again, she was walking into a succession of natural caverns, at the head of a solemn procession, leading them further in the mountain, to the monumental twenty-feet tall doors. She remembered the cold of the grey stone when, as a child, she had traced with awe the outlines of the figures carved into its panels-the ones she could reach anyway-finely sculpted reliefs of passages of Himinsfall’s history. She had taken time to read the runes graven into the sculpture, the benediction of the Allfather on these sacred grounds, as well as a warning to all who weren’t meant to enter.
And beyond the doors, in the depths of the mountain, majestic halls filled with columns inspired by the ones found in the Southern lands, large and tall. Everywhere were red and white marbles imported from far beyond the Kingdom. They had walked amongst imposing statues of figures of the past, into a silent city. Still, its magnificence had never been enough to bring her solace, and the memories were tied to grief and affliction. The never-en-
Stop it. She snapped herself back to reality by bitting into her cheek, the slight pain anchoring her into the present. Arnulfr was watching her with attention, but didn’t comment on her absence, and she felt grateful for that.
“Angardr?” she eventually said, her voice less steady than she had liked.
She ran a hand through her hair, playing with a curl, as if it would distract her from uninvited memories of the most unpleasant kind. In the same time, she forced her eyes to focus on the veidimadr’s face, tracing the line of his eyebrows, the hairs so pale they were almost invisible.
“Since we’ve been hunting them, the core of the group have always been heading to the East,”Arnulfr replied grimly. “The Holy Necropolis could be their final destination. It seems legit.”
The veidimadr was about to add something, but Finnbjörg interrupted, “We found three of them.”
Kára’s eyes went on the three full bags Finnbjörg and Vífill were carrying as they came to them. She closed her eyes, muttering prayers to the Allfather while the cousins carefully put them on the ground. In a silent accord, they began to gather wood into a large pile while Arnulfr went back to the horses.
“Halldóra, Finna and Audunn of the Blárhestr clan,” Vífill announced. “Shot by arrows, the three of them.”
“Right, typical.” Kára let out a loud resigned sigh when he came back, a bag in his hand. The pattern was the same every time. “They were the youngest. Children still too young, small and weak to make good draugar,” she said as the veidimadr emptying the bag until there was no salt left in it. Finally, they lightened the pyre, accompanying the slow burning by prayers.
Later, Kára wasn’t capable to mesure how much time had passed, a loud crackling followed by a short bark of laughter caught their attention, breaking the solemn mood they were caught in.
Arnulfr shook his head, nose wrinkled and blank face while he went to the boys, who were at the other side of the domain. With a skill born from experience, she pushed the swirl of negative feelings in a far corner of her mind, where she wouldn’t have to contemplate them. Then, she followed the veidimadr with an amusement hidden by a stoic expression, knowing the younger Nord wouldn’t take well the mockery when he was about to reprimand his apprentice and thrall friend. For that matter, said person instantly stop laughing. In the meantime, Adalrikr shifted uncomfortably on the ground, fingers moving with nervousness on the lace of his cloak, as he was used to when he was caught doing something bad or embarrassing.
Kára’s eyes went to the hearth were a strip of meat was slowly burning. Obviously, that was another failed try of Adalrikr with the process of drying meat. Not surprising from the young man when he never had to cook himself, always having thralls to cook for him, even during the years he had been placed in a lesser family. Obviously, his return the Gullhaust clan hadn’t helped at all, as he had been spoiled like they often were when they moved back within their birth clan. Moreover, this was the first time his master and cousin had allowed him to come with them in a long trip; that sort of things was meant to happen.
She coughed to mask a laugh, making a small gesture of compassion to Myr, who was making hard efforts to stiffen his chuckles when his friend started to grimace, face red with embarrassment.
She saw the illusion then, when looking at the fire. They stood at the other side of the fireplace, seating in the dirt, children with familiar eyes and hair. Their laughters were a wondrous marvel to her ears-a mix of Aldi’s soprano voice and Gunngeirr’s deeper tone, which made awkward high-pitched slips because of his youth-as they mocked Arnulfr and his cousin, like they were a part of the scene.
Kára pinched herself to make them disappear: there were no way the boys could have been here, and her mind usually never tricked her into such elaborate lucid dreams. Still, with their clear and bright skin - alabaster for one and an olive brown for the other - they seemed as tangible as if they were real, shadows created by the fire dancing on them without dispelling the illusion.
When he caught her stare, Aldi shook his hand with that large grin of him, all big teeth showing while Gunngeirr slowly shook his head, shrugging like his companion were being the most idiotic being on Midgard. Aldi just giggled at his reaction.
“Kára?”
Róta soft voice snapped her back into reality. She hadn’t seen her friend coming back, hempen bags in her hands that she piled on the ground. The older woman glanced at the smoke coming from the other side, but made no comment about it, comprehension dawning on her face as she put a hand to her braid. Then, she was looking at her again, waiting for a report.
The children were still visible, but no matter how tentative it was, she couldn’t let herself dwell further in her fantasies. She put a hand in her hair, grabbing a few locks and pulling hard at them, letting the irksome sensation preserve her from it. Next, she took a deep breath.
“The area is clear, and no corpses except for the youngest children of the Blárhestr clan.” Róta winced, then nodded, encouraging her to continue with a wave of the hand. “We have no indication of how much advance they have over us, but we can confirm they’re still heading east, which they’ve done for as long as we have been hunting them. The core of their horde does anyway, only straying from their path when there’re houses and farms in their vicinity. It’s like they’re trying to build a small army.” Kára turned briefly to Arnulfr, who made a small nod. “Arnulfr and me think they might be trying to reach Angardr.”
“Building a small army to break into Angardr? That would be logic.” Róta hummed her agreement to the theory. “With a little chance, the Holy Necropolis is as warded against undead as it is against living beings.” She ended her sentence with a little sigh, but smiled nonetheless. “Not that we can’t do much about that for now.”
Arnulfr lifted his eyes from the pots Myr had put in the fire, where he was cooking the meat they didn’t intend to keep as provisions. “So, what do you want us to do?”
“First thing,” Róta answered as Arnulfr and she sat down next to Adalrikr. She turned to Vífill and Finnbjörn who were joining them, placing themselves at the other side of the hearth, where the illusion had been. Kára was relieved to find they had disappeared into thin air, replaced by her two companions, whose attention was on her valkyrie, waiting for her orders.
“You two,” she continued. “You’ll stay here and wait for Totti, Agi and the other men. We wouldn’t want bandits to occupy the place, would we? As for the rest, we’ll head to Vatnreid, stay there for the night. Tomorrow will be a long ride to Angardr. Send a message of our intention to the jarl, he’ll want to know what we’re up to. Now!” Róta turned to Aldarikr and Myr with a large grin. “Lads, what about grabbing a bite before returning on the road? The meat you’re cooking looks delicious and I found some vegetables in the kitchen.”
She pointed at one of the bags. Kára tossed it to the boys before taking place next to the veidimadr.
“So, how were these bandits?” Adalrikr asked curiously, knife in hand and already cutting a leek. “I’d like to fight them.”
“They were former farmers, not fighters.” Róta answered, shaking her head. She took a cheese wheel out of a bag to slice it. “They wouldn’t have been much of a challenge for even a warrior in formation.”
“A fight’s still a fight. There’s always things to be learnt.”
Kára caught Vífill’s snicker at the youngest enthusiasm and he winked at her. Róta wasn’t sharing his amusement though; her friend knew how much she despited having to fight, execute, these people.
Arnulfr’s scowl was eloquent enough on what he thought of the statement. Still, he spoke aloud, making his point clear for his apprentice, “There’s nothing to be learnt from people who don’t know anything.” His tone was dry when he added, “Would you ask Myr to teach you reading?”
Myr sent an apologetic smile to his friend.
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The sky had shifted to a canvas of dark colors with nebulous clouds sprinkled over it, in an imitation of the space. There was even a few moons casting shimmering lights on the Garden and the Astrolabe beneath. The archangels were in the central part of Eden, floating above a large pond where many species of waterlilies grew, garnishing its surface with what seemed like colorful candles glowing under the moonlights. Fireflies as well as dragonflies buzzed over the waters, and a few herons, their long legs taking careful steps while they were examining the depths, waiting to catch the Koi carps populating the area.
Joshua had retreated beyond the pond’s limits to tend to other parts of Eden, pretexting he preferred to leave them enough privacy for what they were about to do, much to their amusement: they had made it clear they weren’t aiming for a nice little audiences between closed walls and psychic barriers.
No, they were following Gabriel’s idea of a brilliant display of power and authority, because hey! Metatron’s summoning had happened at a perfect moment to remind the Host their archangels’ divergences of opinions didn’t erase their bonds. They were brothers and loved each others very much, thank you.
So here they were, at the feet of their Dad’s lantern-shaped crystal throne, its heavy curtains closed as they had always been since He had created the rest of the Host. He had never let anyone but his first-born angels see Him.
Positioned at equidistance from each other, each above a circular platform of the same clear material as the throne, engraved with Enochian sigils as they as their names and titles. Their wings were extended to their full size, interlaced to form around the throne and them, a cocoon, its aqueous shell iridescent. They seemed like a closed lotus-shaped sculpture with a prismatic structure, bathing the open hall in shifting polychrome lights.
Because the Lord’s throne room was the highest point of Heaven, and its center, they knew they were like a sun, much brighter than anything and for now, visible to anybody, angels and humans confounded.
For the occasion, like his fellow archangels, Gabriel had stripped off of the psychic veil that dampened their thought waves to a standard angelic intensity, which basically meant the Host could read them-most of them anyway, they were thing in their minds that weren’t meant to be shared-as if they were mere angels. They felt the confusion of the weakest Choir, overwhelmed with raw power they weren’t used to, and the whispers of reassurance of the oldest Choir that it was how the Host had been once.
Individuals who were almost a sole entity once their wings and grace entwined, with the archangels at the top, linking them to their Lord and Father.
For a while, they reveled in the Host awe, their songs of love and devotion to their Father, praising Him through melodious prayers for a miracle that hadn’t happened in millennia.
Heaven felt home again, perfect in every aspect.
Of course, there was discordant notes in the laudation, because of that part of themselves that had shattered into pieces that couldn’t be reassembled. The paths the four of them had taken, the core of their dissension and the reason Heaven was at war with itself, whereas harmony formally reigned. The wails however, were lost in the myriads of cries of wonder and admiration. Astonishment also filled the Host, pressing incessant curious questions to why an event of this caliber happened, as their Father’s presence hadn’t be sensed yet.
They couldn’t afford to linger on it, though. It was time to deal with a more important matter. An ethereal euphony resonated through the Host when the Herald blew in his horn, announcing the beginning of the audience. At the sounds, the whole Host went silent.
In the center of their figure, standing in the large space under the throne itself was Metatron, whose wings shrank against him upon hearing the song, oscillating with nervousness, awe and fear. That was as one should feel when seeing archangels in their full glory, a reminder of the might their Father had bestowed upon them. That included the infinite love they felt for almost all Creation and the resulting will to chastise misbehaviour with fair but strict punishments, making an example of every single one of them.
Their voices was one when they spoke, Métatron, fils de l’homme faict ange par la main de Nostre Seigneur, eslevé à le ranc de scribe par la parole de Nostre Souvrain. They bowed in respect, tips of feathers soaked in the water, following their Father’s will about His scribe, whose uneasy stance were nothing but entertaining. Tu nos as convoqué, et com le Seigneur aye ordené, nos sommes venuz. As they hadn’t had any reason to use it for eons, the overly pompous of the holy language's old form felt weird. Still, they had to utilize it for the goal they were aiming for. Parle maintenant, ta parole est escoutee.
Metatron babbled useless formal salutations in answer, losing himself in it until they eventually nudged him as he was becoming annoying. He stopped in the middle of a sentence, wings flapping nervously, blinked to many times, a faint remnant of his long-passed mortal life.
Les nephilims doibvent estre destruis.
And that was all. Metatron fell silent then, anxiety pouring out of him as he was wondering what they would do to him now that he had delivered their Father’s command. A touch to his mind told them he was saying the truth, and that infinitely short message was all he had been given.
Grans mercis, Métatron. Va dans la bénédiction du Seigneur.
When he departed less than an instant later, the Host rejoiced with an unrestrained puerile bliss, like they were cherubs or cupids. Still, they were willing to let them continue singing their delight. After all, they were nothing less than warriors, waiting to execute their Lord’s every words. And that was without mentioning a simple fact: it was the first time since forever the majority of the Host was on the same wavelength.
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So far the weather was still good, rays of light shining through the multicolored foliage above their heads. Kára was watching the painting-like picture of bright strokes of reds, oranges and golds; pieces detaching themselves from it, then slowly spinning in the air.
It was far different from her memories from her last passage, nearly one year ago. At the time, in the heart of one of the hardest winters she had ever known, there had been nothing but white and tints of blacks and greys. The branches had made like an arch above them, with snow falling on the road whenever its weight became too heavy.
If she closed her eyes, she was sure she would be able to see herself back then. Curly red hair sticking everywhere, freshly and badly cut, as she had done it herself. Thórvaldr had been standing as close as he could without his bay mare running into Logior. At that time, the two of them had been unwilling to be separated if it could be avoided. In fact they acted like a crutch, helping each other even more than usual. With that in mind, the jarl’s sworn brother, her dear husband had also cut his long blond hair above his ears, in respect to her decision and the path she had chosen to walk on from that period.
She would be eternally grateful to him, she thought as Myr and Adalrikr’s loud chatter drew her attention. She hadn’t noticed that the veidimadr had finished dispensing his lesson to his apprentice, and moved forward to speak with the other valkyrie, leaving the youngest ones to themselves, wondering about what kind of wonders their travel would offer.
“So, both of you never went farther than Febœr, right?”
“Nope.” Adalrikr frowned as he added, “Mother never wanted me to go too far from Thorhöll, pretexting it was too dangerous,” he said with the irritation of young warrior eager to prove themselves. He shook his head then. “And when she says far, it means farther than the Kormak farm.”
“And you actually never went farther?” Myr giggled when Adalrikr nodded, passing a hand on the light fuzz covering his reddened cheeks. “Geez, Rik, you’re such a mama boy!”
“Oh, shut up, Myr! Mother can be freakishly scary. Valkyrie, you remember? She'd put a fucking tracing galdr on me, just to be sure.”
“You’re her boy,” Kára replied, brushing a leave away from her eyes. “Mothers can quite quite protective.”
“No one is that protective! Mother only let me go with you because I turned sixteen, whereas anybody else would have begin travelling with their master far earlier. It’s been a while since I’m not a little boy to be protected.” Adalrikr’s frown deepened and Kára stopped herself from laughing at his typical boyish offense.
“Your age doesn’t matter, you’re still your mother’s boy.”
“At least,” Myr cut his friend when he was about to reply. “You still have your mother. You can’t say the same for everyone.”
“You still have your father.”
Kára rolled her eyes. “Stop right there, both of you! You know better than play the have-you-got-any-living-parents? game.”
After all, it was common knowledge that in the whole hold and more particularly in its capital, almost no one over fifteen winters old hadn’t lose one or both parents to the war or other smaller misfortunes, but lethal nonetheless. Myr’s mother had died in childbirth, the poor woman had lost too much blood to be saved by the midwives or even the völva. Skuld’s husband had met his end when a drunk fight that had degenerated into a full brawl. At least, he had died sword in hands.
“Sorry,” Myr eventually said, his head low.
“Yeah, we shouldn’t have said that,” Adalrikr completed with an apologetic smile.
After that, they fell silent. Kára took some time to listen to the chirping sound of birds and the clop of hooves on the cracking leaves the road was covered in. In front of them, Róta and Arnulfr had also stopped speaking, the second his head turned to the right, ultramarine eyes squinted as he seemed to examine something in the distance. If they had heard them talking-that was a very high possibility-they had chosen to ignore it. She sighed.
“So, you two must be excited,” she eventually said to lighten the mood.
“Pretty much yeah. Vatnreid is the second largest town of hold, at the confluence of the Geirgautr River and the Helgeindridr River so, the scenery must be really something to see. And,” he told it like it was the most important thing. “I heard there’s friendly and peaceful alfar living in the town.”
“Really?” Myr turned to Kára. “Is that true?”
“I’ve always seen a couple of them each time I stop there. Never talk to one though.”
Truth to be told, she never had the reason to do so. And as a valkyrie, protectress of the Nords, she was used to have to deal with hostile and nuisible supernatural beings, fighting alongside veidimadar like Arnulfr. That was why, even though, the Vatnreid’s alfar were pacific, she was wary of them and did her best to avoid any contact with them if it wasn’t necessary. It never had be in the past so she fairly doubted it would be now.
“I’d love speaking with one of them. I hope we’ll be able to.”
“Yeah, that would be pretty awesome.”
Kára rolled her eyes to Adalrikr’s remark. Trust these young clansmen to be excited about something they should be cautious of. Especially Adalrikr, who were to be a veidimadr when he would finish his apprenticeship.
“Really Adalrikr?” Arnulfr suddenly intervened. “Must I remind you how dangerous alfar are? Although these ones are able to live in harmony with Nords, they could still kill you in no time. Even worse, they could enchant you.”
The apprentice seemed about to retort something, but didn’t. It always was a rather bad idea to try to talk back to his mentor. Instead he shrugged and turned his eyes to the scenery, gently petting his horse’s black mane with a hand. Kára let a soft chuckle out, amused by his quiet temporary resignation: she was certain that the moment Arnulfr wouldn’t be listening, the boy would be talking about friendly alfar again. That was kind of cute. Childish for the man he was supposed to be with his sixteen winters, but it was so refreshing to see he had kept some innocence she couldn’t help her gladness. She also wished Aldi would have grown up to be a little like that, since it was a luxury her generation hadn’t had.
“Anyway boys,” Róta said from the head. Kára could almost hear the smile in her words. “Alfar will have to wait. We will make a short stop to Heidarthorp before Vatnreid. Don’t worry, it’s on our road. I want to speak with the villagers to see if they have some informations about the draugar.” That last part were directed to the other adults, who just nodded. “And there’s that succulent ale they produce, which I absolutely want to buy.”
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Lucifer, watch your words. Michael was literally radiating annoyance.
Of course Lucifer wasn’t helping with his state of mind at all: the smug bastard was far more amused by the situation than he should have been. Not that he should have been amused in the first place. However, that was just so him to take glee in that kind of thing and it would have been foolish to expect anything else from the Morning Star.
But, brother, can’t you see how funny this situation is? I mean, Dad wanted us to bow to humans and love them. And-I’m impressed-some of us actually did it. Isn’t that wonderful? Isn’t that sort of thing just a logical consequence of what he asked of us? Lucifer replied even though it was unnecessary since the others knew everything he thought.
The four of them were still in the same position, less than eager to leave the embrace of their brothers, or disentangle from them, as if doing that would instantly break the peace they had achieved for now. With that being said, they had put the psychic veil back in place, warding most of their thoughts from the other Choirs.
What are you insinuating, Lucifer?
Don’t play stupid, Michael. You already know, don’t you? What I’m asking is why Dad want us to destroy the fruit of his first-born children and favorite children’s love? Love or whatever could push an angel into a human’s bed.
We must not question His words.
Oh dear, they were at it again. The eternal argument was about to come, one more time. An irritable time bomb Michael in a corner, and a Lucifer doing his best to make him explode on the opposite side. This time though, Gabriel couldn’t let that happen. Not when their Dad had spoken and given His command. Clear and limpid. He jerked his wings up and down, knowing the friction with their feathers would be uncomfortable enough to attract their attention. It didn’t fail: Raphael and the two idiots were suddenly concentrating on him, questioning.
Both of you, stop. Focus on the matter at hand and our actual mission. Nephilim, remember? Now do one of you know more about them than “the fruit of his first born children and favorite children’s love”?
How could we know? Lucifer nudged him playfully while answering, Aren’t you the one who likes to watch them, Gabriel?
Actually, I have seen one, Raphael said calmly before Gabriel told the bastard to go to hell. Let me show you.
Through their link, he shared a fragment of his memories. It was a female baby in the hands of her mother. She was born only a few hours ago and, like all human babies at birth, she had an ugly crumpled face. Her big eyes had lavender-colored irises, with swarms of infinitesimal spots of light. Like there was grey stars in them. It would have been invisible to anyone but a creature of the stature of an archangel. For Raphael, it had been obvious that he was seeing shards of grace in this human.
And, in that way that characterized cherubs, Katan-not the name the mother had given her, but what Raphael used when referring to her-already had a full awareness of her surroundings. When, the archangel slipped into the room, without a vessel, she was silently complaining in her own mind that her mother wouldn’t understand her words. To that, Raphael answered with amusement that was because the sounds she made were no more than mere cries to a human ear. He hadn’t thought she would hear him. She had.
She had turned these weird eyes of her to look straight at him, letting out an approving gurgle coupled with a dribble of saliva who dropped on her chin. She then put her arm in the air, reaching out for him with chubby fingers. Although his wings quivered with annoyance, when the little thing ordered him to touch her with his “pretty fluffy lights”-Gabriel and Lucifer didn’t wait to laugh, earning a hard pull on their feathers and Michael disapprobation-he still let the tip of his middle wings skim over her cheeks, making her loudly chirp with glee.
This is so very yucky Raphael, Lucifer commented as in the memory, Katan took a handful of his feathers to put it in her mouth as if it was a breast to feed on, putting drool all over them. No, scratch that. He quivered in disgust. This is foul, at the very least. For Dad’s sake, that thing can actually touch us. She touched an archangel. Why is she even allowed to live?
Last time I heard, she isn’t, Gabriel remarked, complacency making his wings vibrate.
Lucifer ignored him. If the Nephilim can see, hear and touch us, who knows what else they could do. Even if Father had not commanded it, they should die nonetheless. They are too dangerous.
Gabriel liked to compare Raphael’s usual state of mind as the zephyr, soft and gentle, blowing in the sky with an unalterable serenity. When picturing it at the moment, the zephyr had grown more agitated at Michael’s words; here and there, clouds forming and strong blast of air blowing them.
Brothers, Raphael eventually said after a while, his thoughts full of a determination and conviction similar to Lucifer’s when the latter was arguing for what he believed was right. Katan shall not be harmed, he asserted. Michael shifted, ready to answer back. Raphael didn’t let him, explaining himself further, No, Michael, listen to me before repeating the Words of God. I have been watching Katan her whole life, to learn more about her kind amongst other reasons. She is innocent and starting from now, under my protection. I vouch to take care myself of any angel who would try to harm her, including you, brothers. She is not to be touched.
Don’t worry, Raph. I’m not the one who’ll lift a finger on her. Gabriel couldn’t help the immense proudness for his ever cool and pragmatic having found a cause to defend. He didn’t remember seeing Raphael invest himself in anything that wasn’t work. Just don’t make cherubs with her, he added with amusement, much to the other’s dismay.
I’m not keen on more fighting with my brothers. One is enough for me.
After Lucifer spoke, they turned to Michael, whose multitude of thoughts was swirling between them. Love for all of them, as strong as the will to do their Dad’s command like the good boy he was. Irritation to see Lucifer rejoice in the fact Raphael was opposing him, drawing a parallel between the two, and Lucifer’s hope that, if he granted Raphael’s wish, there was a chance he would grant Lucifer’s. There was also the thrill to see his brother act like the powerful and fearsome warrior he was, not hesitating to stand up for the things he considered right.
What is she for you? Michael decided to ask before taking his decision.
I can’t say I’m not curious about what a Nephilim can do. While she seems like a normal human to her pairs, I’ve been speaking to her in the dream realm. She’s aware of her peculiar nature, without really knowing exactly what she is. I rather like our discussions, and as I said sooner, she is innocent.
Interesting, isn’t it, Mike? Keeping one of them would be wise, as she can inform us of what they can do. And, there’s this little thing. Think, brothers, with their mixed blood, her bloodline would be strong enough to make ideal vessels for us.
Alright, Michael finally said after a long silence. He pursued with the grave tone he used when he was announcing important decisions, This one will be allowed to live as long as she stays innocent. No harm will be done to her, as she will bear the protection of an archangel as if she were a prophet. Raphael, from now and until she dies, the Nephilim Katan is your charge. As such, you will take responsibility for any of her actions. In the case of her becoming a danger to humans or angels…
My sword will find her heart, Raphael cut him.
His conviction strong and steady, as he was persuaded that moment would never came and that Katan would never reveal herself to be nefarious to anyone. Gabriel hoped for him that would be the case. While he didn’t care at all for the little mixed-blood, he apprehended what would Raphael’s reaction be if he had to kill her. Speaking about it and actually doing it wasn’t the same thing. And there was enough conflict home; a three-sided archangelic war wasn’t needed.
Are you sure it’s what you want?
I wouldn’t want it otherwise, Michael. She was my duty from the first time I saw her.
So be it.
Now Michael, why aren’t you as pliable with me? Lucifer’s voice was nothing but smug. I’m sure we can come to something we both are satisfied with.
Because compromise isn’t part of your vocabulary, Lucifer, Michael answered back with irritation.
Gabriel poked hard the two of them with the tip of his feathers at the base of their wings, where it would be particularly unpleasant. Stop fighting you too. You’ll have eternity to do so later but for once, please stop. And that felt good to be able to say that without them being dismissive.
Thanks brothers, Raphael said after a while as he tightened their embrace, engulfing their grace with his to share how much affection and gratitude he felt for them in that moment.
The voices of the Host echoed in their mind, rejoicing and celebrating the love they could perceive through their bond. Even if the psychic veil stopped the angels to have any knowledge of the whereabouts, sensing their leaders’ euphoria was enough to make them blissful; that was what they were meant to be, had been eons ago.
Gabriel knew it wouldn’t last though: as soon as the Nephilim were out of the picture, Michael and Lucifer would probably be at each others’ wings. But for once, home felt almost perfect and he couldn’t help the hope it would stay that way.
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AN: The language the archangels, the old form of Enochian isn't gibberish nor invented. It's Middle French, the French equivalent of Middle English give it a few centuries, but it's not for the period I chose it. The reasons are that I was sure I wouldn't mess up with Middle French and I used words and formulas that are actually overly pompous.
Note: also on AO3 and ff.net
Warnings: None! No character death this time.
Word count: 8,455
Summary: Through Metatron, God delivers promises of future battles. Battles of all kind are also what Kára knows are mapping their road to the end of their journey, a final destination that at last, acquires a name. Words are spoken and plans are being made.
Disclaimer: Everything that's not angel is mine, the rest obviously isn't. Oh, and the translation from Evening Harmony is mine too.
A soft heart, that hates the vast and dark void,
From the radiant past hoards any fragments!
The sun has drown in its own thickening blood...
Your memory glows in me like an ostentory!
- Evening Harmony, Charles Baudelaire
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They were a tangled mess, feathers sticking out everywhere like a spiky ball, but content and comfortable as they watched the ichor’s golden shimmer gradually turn to its usual silver and retract into its receptacle. The archangel cursed the fact that due to the place’s nature, they couldn’t sense anything beyond its entrance. That was the reason why Ezekiel’s quiver stung Gabriel in sensible points when the Clepsydre’s doors opened, and also shattering the cosy silence between the two of them.
The Morning Star came strolling in, bright and fierce as usual, wings held high and spread out, like there was someone to impress here. Gabriel’s tip of wings twitched with amusement at the useless display before choosing to ignore his brother for the time being, in order to extricate his wings from his mate’s, both of them wincing the times they were just a little more rough than necessary.
Go, we’ll see each other later, the archangel told his mate when they were eventually done, flapping to let ragged feathers fall. Thanks for passing by.
Ezekiel nodded and obeyed. When Lucifer passed next to him, the seraph bowed low to him, his two pairs of wings plastered against the ground in submission and obedience. His older brother answered the salute with a pat, before turning his full attention to Gabriel, whose wings were lazily draped on the throne’s stairs like a veil.
He couldn’t help the admirative whistle at how much disgust Lucifer’s grace exuded, waves of a hate carefully controlled, but intense enough to knock the ichor balls out of his way, like he was chasing away a swarm of gross things. As if the devices where almost as bad as these puny humans the Morning Star despised so much, without even letting a chance to prove themselves. Just because their Dad treasured them more than him. What a brat.
“Hey, Lucy.” Gabriel extended his grace to brush his brother’s in greeting. Lucifer returned it with a gently stroke of feathers, stepping back when the other said, “Mike and you already finished? Because I’d like to able to go out of here without one of you thinking I’m a great target.”
The acid in his words might have been unnecessary, but he took a vicious pleasure to use it. He definitely wasn’t over what had happened to his wing, no matter how many years had passed.
“Don’t be like that, Gabriel. Not my fault this time, I promise.” Lucifer shuddered. “Not that you were really the target, mind you. ”
“According to you, it’s never your fault. That could easily have been me and my wings. Remember last time? When I was at the receiving end? It really hurt. I don’t want to experience that, ever again.” He winced, unconsciously reaching for his superior-left wing, where the injury had been.
“The Imprisonment of Eve, the Fall of Babel, Sodom and Gomorrah, and so many other battles.” Mockery dripped in his tone when he continued, “Gabriel, commander of the Lord’s army upon the Earth, you have suffered much worse injuries, haven’t you?”
Gabriel scowled and glared at him. Yes, he had seen much worse in past battles but, “Never by my own brethren’s hands,” he finished aloud, venom in his voice. His wing twitched again.
His brother didn’t seem to notice the gesture, probably ignored it along with his words. He took him into one of these strong and reassuring embrace he liked to give the other angels when he was satisfied with them, telling them how much he loved them. Always a charmer the Morning Star was.
“Congratulations!” Lucifer was literally beaming. “That clone you exchanged place with when the bolt was about to hit you? It was perfect. I was sure you’d succeed. Funny little trick clones are, don’t you think?”
Gabriel was totally not grinning, proudness and gladness going from one archangel to the other through their graces. He even smacked Lucifer in retaliation when the latter ruffled his feathers.
“Bro, stop speaking to me like I’m a cherub. It’s kind of unnerving.”
Lucifer used the same playful tone as his fellow archangel. “Careful, Gabriel, the more time you pass in this place, the more irritable you become.” He added his voice lower, “You might want to check that.”
And stop watching little bipedal cockroaches, they’re not worthy of your time, was what his brother left unsaid. However the message was clear as Lucifer knocked away a glass ball when it touched him, like an abomination had dared to touch him.
That irritated Gabriel more than anything else he could have said. As long as he didn’t neglect his duties-which he fortunately wasn’t-what he was doing with his time was none of Lucifer’s concern. What did he want him to do? Stop heavenly wars? That was definitely not within his area of competence, nor his will as he didn’t want to interfere with his brothers’ petty fight. So, if he watched over humans to avoid them, it was his own problem. Lucifer, amongst all, had nothing to say.
“Still better than what Mike and you do when Dad has His back turned. I’m not trying to break Heaven, me.” His brother stiffened, but refrained from any comment, and Gabriel was grateful for that. He didn’t wish them to have a confrontation of any sort. “So now, why don’t you tell me what you want with me, so that we both go back to more interesting things?” he asked rather abruptly to change the subject.
Lucifer wasn’t bothered; he didn’t push the delicate subject further. Instead, he shuddered when replying, “The little scribe has received a Word from our mighty Dad. He summoned the archangels. The four of us.”
Well, that was unusual. Metatron had always been secretive about what he received from their Dad, unwilling to translate the weird language-they weren’t even able to read it-he was writing in.
“What makes it different from the usual blah-blah? It’s not like he even cared about telling us what Dad wants him to write.”
When they had asked him, he merely had dismissed them like they were nothing, told them it wasn’t meant for them. They would have gladly given him a reminder of their status, but their Dad had been adamant about the annoying angel: Metatron had been chosen to receive His Words, he was to be treated with as much respect and deference as Him. In that way, the guy was pretty much off-limits and all archangels avoided him as much as possible. The scribe did the same, and until now all had been rather good. As long as he stayed away from them, they wouldn’t touch him.
“I don’t know, it might be important.” Lucifer shrugged. There was a feral edge in his next words. “It’d better be important. If it isn’t worth it, we’ll just have to punish him. A little reminder that archangels aren’t at his service, even if he’s Dad’s precious pen.”
“Well,” Gabriel sneered, mischief in his voice when he pursued, “Even if we don’t touch him or anything else. There are so many way to intimidate him and, with four of us, it should be pretty easy. The little coward is already afraid of us anyway. We can easily play on that.”
“What are you thinking of?”
“Isn’t it time to remind the Host that their archangels can work together if they put their mind into it?” Gabriel was already amused at what Metatron’s reaction would be when he would find out. “We’ll do that in the Garden. An official audience like if Dad was there.”
That made Lucifer laugh as they slipped out of the Clepsydre. Raphael and Michael were at the entrance, staring at them with a questioning gaze. Gabriel was glad to see the merry flutter of their wings when he explained the details of his little scheme. At least, for the moment, his brothers weren’t fighting and the respite was so very welcomed. Even if it meant they had to deal with Metatron.
METATRON!
Gabriel was nothing but pure smugness when he felt the angel flinch, stuttering and shaking. He hadn’t aimed for discretion, literary howling his name so loud the Host went suddenly quiet, the attention of legions turning to Metatron and him, curious of what the scribe had done to receive such a call from an archangel.
As you demanded, the First Choir will receive you. We’ll meet you in the Garden, at the feet of the Lord’s throne.
They were about to have so much fun!
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When they emerged from the forest, the sun was shining bright in a clear sky. From there, at the edge of the plain, they could see the large mill in its center, and the form of the buildings around. Róta rose a hand in the air, fisting it to make the group come to a halt, in their movements as well as words, each of them attentive to their leader.
“Totti, Agi.” Her friend’s eyes rested on the two young warriors, who bowed their heads. “Lads, I want you back in Thorhöll.” Agmundr was pouting but he didn’t dare interrupt the valkyrie. “It’s an important mission,” Róta added, with an encouraging smile. “Go to the jarl and tell him you bear the words of the valkyrie módir. Ask him a squad and you’ll guide them to the pond, where the battleground lies. There, you’ll salt and burn every fallen.” She turned to Kára, addressing her a large grin. “Except for one young lad. His name’s Gunngeirr Gunnólfsson. You won’t miss him for he bears the mark of the valkyries on his face. He’s to have a sepulture worthy of his status.”
Kára sent her a grateful glance, answered by a pat on her shoulder before Róta pursued, “After that, you’ll come back here with the men.”
“What then?” Agmundr asked, bushy eyebrows frowned, the corners of his mouth down. It was clear he wasn’t happy with the orders.
“Vífill and Finn will stay here with further instructions.”
While the rest of the group would progress further on their hunt, was left unsaid. Agmundr seemed about to protest but his uncle elbowed him and he settled for a shrug, obviously sulking at being left behind. Kára noted with amusement Vífill’s eye roll.
“Understood, lady Róta,” Thorsteinn said, bowing his head. He turned to Agmundr, messing playfully with the younger’s hair, much to his dismay. “C’mon, Agi. Let’s go.”
They didn’t wait longer to depart, with a few words of encouragement from the others. Then, the group was back on the road, the mood relaxed and chatty. Next to her, Finnbjörn was speaking of his betrothed and the baby expected for the end of the winter, how he hoped the wise women were right and that would be a girl.
“Careful for what you wish, Finn.” Vífill was grinning. “You might end up with a bossy future valkyrie in your house. No offense, ladies,” he added playfully looking at Róta and her, his laughter creasing the corners of his dark eyes. “But these things you can hear when you pay just a little attention.”
“You just listen to Reifr’s rambling, don’t you?” Kára replied, rolling her eyes as she pictured her brother with a full mead mug in one hand, the other gesturing in the air as he told the guests about their childhood.
“With the four of you, we have plenty of stories going around,” Finnbjörg was laughing, his half up ponytail bouncing. He pushed a strand of light-browned hair behind an ear. “And I’m totally willing to put up with a pushy kiddie girl if she’s to grown into a beautiful warrior later.”
“Yeah right, cousin, just tell you that,” Vífill answered back.
Their familiar banter came to a halt when Róta spoke, moments later, as they were less than a mile of Febœr. She told both of them to inspect the surrounding area, searching for any Nords that might have survived the attack, or many threats lingering there.
She didn’t wait to see if the warriors were already on their way to address the youngest of their group, her tone softer then before, but nonetheless commanding, “Rik, Myr, why don’t you light a fire and fetch one of the goats roaming around here? I’m counting on you, lads!” she added with an encouraging smile.
Adalrikr mumbled something but moved anyway, guiding his horse to the fields where some goats were grazing. In the meantime, Arnulfr dismounted, giving his horse’s reins to Myr.
“Take care of Andra,” he said to the thrall before he shifted his attention on the valkyries. “I’m going by feet now. Easier to track a trail.”
They stopped a few feet of the main building, a large manor, three storeys height of thick dark wood on stone foundations. The three of them let themselves off their saddles, the valkyries leaving their mounts in Myr’s care. Kára watched her friend enter the house, memories of many journeys coming to her mind.
Febœr was the hold’s largest farm, a commercial hub with their large productions of wheat and goat rearing. It was also a village in itself, a resting point on the road linking Thorhöll to Vatnreid. While the upper levels were home to the families running the place for generations, the ground level was nothing less than a tavern with many rooms, food and music; everything travellers needed after a long day of riding.
On the stairs leading to the large doors, there should have been a line a screaming merchants, while thralls hurried around through a packed yard, busy with work. Children should have been running around, squealing and fighting, under their parents’ vigilance.
She walked to the high mill at the far end of the yard, assessing her surroundings in the same time. If not for the occasional crooked planks sticking out of the walls, the buildings hadn’t suffered real damages. The ground however was covered in pieces of broken furnitures, and were the snow was melting, she could sometimes see dark stains. Here and there were straw and provisions, which must had been in now-shattered barrels.
The eerie quietness was wrong, Kára mused as she was turning a muddy apple in her hand, examining it. She sighed and dropped it, her eyes glancing over the unsalvageable waste at her feet. That was a pity.
As she walked through the domain, also searching in the small dependancies for anyone or anything, she noticed that despite the material traces of battle-dry blood on the mill’s stone walls, or arrows stuck into wheat flour bags-there wasn’t a single body lying around.
She went out off a shed, a familiar-too familiar-dreadful sense of anticipation dawning on her as she came to the center of the farm, at middle distance between the mill and the house. Then, she crouched, fingers tracing the mannaz rune in the dirt while she murmured one of the aura galdrar.
There was a light pulsing sensation in her eyes, not pleasant but nothing painful. The colors in her vision gradually turned into shades of blue. A human form stepped into her sightline, its outlines almost blurred by the bright orange flame where the heart was. She disinterested herself from the crouching Arnulfr, who now was walking alongside the fence, surely searching for footsteps or any indices of a trail to follow.
She walked through the yard to the paddock, which gates were destroyed. One led into the domain, and the other in the vast plain that had given its name to the farm. There, small lights-the goats-roamed freely. To her right, Myr was skinning one of them while Adalrikr was starting a fire. Absorbed in their tasks, they payed no mind to the valkyrie, who turned back.
At the far end of her field of vision, she watched Finnbjörg and Vífill coming at a fast pace to the farm, alone. She returned to the rune, erasing it with her feet when Arnulfr came to her. She blinked, relieved when the stinging feeling in her eyes vanished.
“No souls linger here. And there are no corpses too. So, it’s most likely that all dead have been transformed,” she told him, lassitude in her voice. For either, it wasn’t a surprise: merely an observation they had done too much time already.
The veidimadr’s messy hair slowly returned to a light blond and the tattoo baring his face, from one ear to the other, was a red line once again. His nose was wrinkled and his expression dark when he spoke, “I can’t tell exactly when they were here. The snowfall has washed away part of the smell, but it’s here, the lingering odor of decay and rotten flesh.” He showed a hole in the fence, between a kitchen garden and small storage shed. “And definitely stronger there. I guess we better go this way when we’ll finished here. It leads to the East,” Arnulfr added after a little silence.
Pictures flashed in Kára’s mind at the mention of the East, the unsaid implications: the only place in the eastern part of the hold that could interest the draugar. The world stopped. She felt her body grow tense, childhood memories renewed by the recent events. The death that had reopened old wounds. And again, she was walking into a succession of natural caverns, at the head of a solemn procession, leading them further in the mountain, to the monumental twenty-feet tall doors. She remembered the cold of the grey stone when, as a child, she had traced with awe the outlines of the figures carved into its panels-the ones she could reach anyway-finely sculpted reliefs of passages of Himinsfall’s history. She had taken time to read the runes graven into the sculpture, the benediction of the Allfather on these sacred grounds, as well as a warning to all who weren’t meant to enter.
And beyond the doors, in the depths of the mountain, majestic halls filled with columns inspired by the ones found in the Southern lands, large and tall. Everywhere were red and white marbles imported from far beyond the Kingdom. They had walked amongst imposing statues of figures of the past, into a silent city. Still, its magnificence had never been enough to bring her solace, and the memories were tied to grief and affliction. The never-en-
Stop it. She snapped herself back to reality by bitting into her cheek, the slight pain anchoring her into the present. Arnulfr was watching her with attention, but didn’t comment on her absence, and she felt grateful for that.
“Angardr?” she eventually said, her voice less steady than she had liked.
She ran a hand through her hair, playing with a curl, as if it would distract her from uninvited memories of the most unpleasant kind. In the same time, she forced her eyes to focus on the veidimadr’s face, tracing the line of his eyebrows, the hairs so pale they were almost invisible.
“Since we’ve been hunting them, the core of the group have always been heading to the East,”Arnulfr replied grimly. “The Holy Necropolis could be their final destination. It seems legit.”
The veidimadr was about to add something, but Finnbjörg interrupted, “We found three of them.”
Kára’s eyes went on the three full bags Finnbjörg and Vífill were carrying as they came to them. She closed her eyes, muttering prayers to the Allfather while the cousins carefully put them on the ground. In a silent accord, they began to gather wood into a large pile while Arnulfr went back to the horses.
“Halldóra, Finna and Audunn of the Blárhestr clan,” Vífill announced. “Shot by arrows, the three of them.”
“Right, typical.” Kára let out a loud resigned sigh when he came back, a bag in his hand. The pattern was the same every time. “They were the youngest. Children still too young, small and weak to make good draugar,” she said as the veidimadr emptying the bag until there was no salt left in it. Finally, they lightened the pyre, accompanying the slow burning by prayers.
Later, Kára wasn’t capable to mesure how much time had passed, a loud crackling followed by a short bark of laughter caught their attention, breaking the solemn mood they were caught in.
Arnulfr shook his head, nose wrinkled and blank face while he went to the boys, who were at the other side of the domain. With a skill born from experience, she pushed the swirl of negative feelings in a far corner of her mind, where she wouldn’t have to contemplate them. Then, she followed the veidimadr with an amusement hidden by a stoic expression, knowing the younger Nord wouldn’t take well the mockery when he was about to reprimand his apprentice and thrall friend. For that matter, said person instantly stop laughing. In the meantime, Adalrikr shifted uncomfortably on the ground, fingers moving with nervousness on the lace of his cloak, as he was used to when he was caught doing something bad or embarrassing.
Kára’s eyes went to the hearth were a strip of meat was slowly burning. Obviously, that was another failed try of Adalrikr with the process of drying meat. Not surprising from the young man when he never had to cook himself, always having thralls to cook for him, even during the years he had been placed in a lesser family. Obviously, his return the Gullhaust clan hadn’t helped at all, as he had been spoiled like they often were when they moved back within their birth clan. Moreover, this was the first time his master and cousin had allowed him to come with them in a long trip; that sort of things was meant to happen.
She coughed to mask a laugh, making a small gesture of compassion to Myr, who was making hard efforts to stiffen his chuckles when his friend started to grimace, face red with embarrassment.
She saw the illusion then, when looking at the fire. They stood at the other side of the fireplace, seating in the dirt, children with familiar eyes and hair. Their laughters were a wondrous marvel to her ears-a mix of Aldi’s soprano voice and Gunngeirr’s deeper tone, which made awkward high-pitched slips because of his youth-as they mocked Arnulfr and his cousin, like they were a part of the scene.
Kára pinched herself to make them disappear: there were no way the boys could have been here, and her mind usually never tricked her into such elaborate lucid dreams. Still, with their clear and bright skin - alabaster for one and an olive brown for the other - they seemed as tangible as if they were real, shadows created by the fire dancing on them without dispelling the illusion.
When he caught her stare, Aldi shook his hand with that large grin of him, all big teeth showing while Gunngeirr slowly shook his head, shrugging like his companion were being the most idiotic being on Midgard. Aldi just giggled at his reaction.
“Kára?”
Róta soft voice snapped her back into reality. She hadn’t seen her friend coming back, hempen bags in her hands that she piled on the ground. The older woman glanced at the smoke coming from the other side, but made no comment about it, comprehension dawning on her face as she put a hand to her braid. Then, she was looking at her again, waiting for a report.
The children were still visible, but no matter how tentative it was, she couldn’t let herself dwell further in her fantasies. She put a hand in her hair, grabbing a few locks and pulling hard at them, letting the irksome sensation preserve her from it. Next, she took a deep breath.
“The area is clear, and no corpses except for the youngest children of the Blárhestr clan.” Róta winced, then nodded, encouraging her to continue with a wave of the hand. “We have no indication of how much advance they have over us, but we can confirm they’re still heading east, which they’ve done for as long as we have been hunting them. The core of their horde does anyway, only straying from their path when there’re houses and farms in their vicinity. It’s like they’re trying to build a small army.” Kára turned briefly to Arnulfr, who made a small nod. “Arnulfr and me think they might be trying to reach Angardr.”
“Building a small army to break into Angardr? That would be logic.” Róta hummed her agreement to the theory. “With a little chance, the Holy Necropolis is as warded against undead as it is against living beings.” She ended her sentence with a little sigh, but smiled nonetheless. “Not that we can’t do much about that for now.”
Arnulfr lifted his eyes from the pots Myr had put in the fire, where he was cooking the meat they didn’t intend to keep as provisions. “So, what do you want us to do?”
“First thing,” Róta answered as Arnulfr and she sat down next to Adalrikr. She turned to Vífill and Finnbjörn who were joining them, placing themselves at the other side of the hearth, where the illusion had been. Kára was relieved to find they had disappeared into thin air, replaced by her two companions, whose attention was on her valkyrie, waiting for her orders.
“You two,” she continued. “You’ll stay here and wait for Totti, Agi and the other men. We wouldn’t want bandits to occupy the place, would we? As for the rest, we’ll head to Vatnreid, stay there for the night. Tomorrow will be a long ride to Angardr. Send a message of our intention to the jarl, he’ll want to know what we’re up to. Now!” Róta turned to Aldarikr and Myr with a large grin. “Lads, what about grabbing a bite before returning on the road? The meat you’re cooking looks delicious and I found some vegetables in the kitchen.”
She pointed at one of the bags. Kára tossed it to the boys before taking place next to the veidimadr.
“So, how were these bandits?” Adalrikr asked curiously, knife in hand and already cutting a leek. “I’d like to fight them.”
“They were former farmers, not fighters.” Róta answered, shaking her head. She took a cheese wheel out of a bag to slice it. “They wouldn’t have been much of a challenge for even a warrior in formation.”
“A fight’s still a fight. There’s always things to be learnt.”
Kára caught Vífill’s snicker at the youngest enthusiasm and he winked at her. Róta wasn’t sharing his amusement though; her friend knew how much she despited having to fight, execute, these people.
Arnulfr’s scowl was eloquent enough on what he thought of the statement. Still, he spoke aloud, making his point clear for his apprentice, “There’s nothing to be learnt from people who don’t know anything.” His tone was dry when he added, “Would you ask Myr to teach you reading?”
Myr sent an apologetic smile to his friend.
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The sky had shifted to a canvas of dark colors with nebulous clouds sprinkled over it, in an imitation of the space. There was even a few moons casting shimmering lights on the Garden and the Astrolabe beneath. The archangels were in the central part of Eden, floating above a large pond where many species of waterlilies grew, garnishing its surface with what seemed like colorful candles glowing under the moonlights. Fireflies as well as dragonflies buzzed over the waters, and a few herons, their long legs taking careful steps while they were examining the depths, waiting to catch the Koi carps populating the area.
Joshua had retreated beyond the pond’s limits to tend to other parts of Eden, pretexting he preferred to leave them enough privacy for what they were about to do, much to their amusement: they had made it clear they weren’t aiming for a nice little audiences between closed walls and psychic barriers.
No, they were following Gabriel’s idea of a brilliant display of power and authority, because hey! Metatron’s summoning had happened at a perfect moment to remind the Host their archangels’ divergences of opinions didn’t erase their bonds. They were brothers and loved each others very much, thank you.
So here they were, at the feet of their Dad’s lantern-shaped crystal throne, its heavy curtains closed as they had always been since He had created the rest of the Host. He had never let anyone but his first-born angels see Him.
Positioned at equidistance from each other, each above a circular platform of the same clear material as the throne, engraved with Enochian sigils as they as their names and titles. Their wings were extended to their full size, interlaced to form around the throne and them, a cocoon, its aqueous shell iridescent. They seemed like a closed lotus-shaped sculpture with a prismatic structure, bathing the open hall in shifting polychrome lights.
Because the Lord’s throne room was the highest point of Heaven, and its center, they knew they were like a sun, much brighter than anything and for now, visible to anybody, angels and humans confounded.
For the occasion, like his fellow archangels, Gabriel had stripped off of the psychic veil that dampened their thought waves to a standard angelic intensity, which basically meant the Host could read them-most of them anyway, they were thing in their minds that weren’t meant to be shared-as if they were mere angels. They felt the confusion of the weakest Choir, overwhelmed with raw power they weren’t used to, and the whispers of reassurance of the oldest Choir that it was how the Host had been once.
Individuals who were almost a sole entity once their wings and grace entwined, with the archangels at the top, linking them to their Lord and Father.
For a while, they reveled in the Host awe, their songs of love and devotion to their Father, praising Him through melodious prayers for a miracle that hadn’t happened in millennia.
Heaven felt home again, perfect in every aspect.
Of course, there was discordant notes in the laudation, because of that part of themselves that had shattered into pieces that couldn’t be reassembled. The paths the four of them had taken, the core of their dissension and the reason Heaven was at war with itself, whereas harmony formally reigned. The wails however, were lost in the myriads of cries of wonder and admiration. Astonishment also filled the Host, pressing incessant curious questions to why an event of this caliber happened, as their Father’s presence hadn’t be sensed yet.
They couldn’t afford to linger on it, though. It was time to deal with a more important matter. An ethereal euphony resonated through the Host when the Herald blew in his horn, announcing the beginning of the audience. At the sounds, the whole Host went silent.
In the center of their figure, standing in the large space under the throne itself was Metatron, whose wings shrank against him upon hearing the song, oscillating with nervousness, awe and fear. That was as one should feel when seeing archangels in their full glory, a reminder of the might their Father had bestowed upon them. That included the infinite love they felt for almost all Creation and the resulting will to chastise misbehaviour with fair but strict punishments, making an example of every single one of them.
Their voices was one when they spoke, Métatron, fils de l’homme faict ange par la main de Nostre Seigneur, eslevé à le ranc de scribe par la parole de Nostre Souvrain. They bowed in respect, tips of feathers soaked in the water, following their Father’s will about His scribe, whose uneasy stance were nothing but entertaining. Tu nos as convoqué, et com le Seigneur aye ordené, nos sommes venuz. As they hadn’t had any reason to use it for eons, the overly pompous of the holy language's old form felt weird. Still, they had to utilize it for the goal they were aiming for. Parle maintenant, ta parole est escoutee.
Metatron babbled useless formal salutations in answer, losing himself in it until they eventually nudged him as he was becoming annoying. He stopped in the middle of a sentence, wings flapping nervously, blinked to many times, a faint remnant of his long-passed mortal life.
Les nephilims doibvent estre destruis.
And that was all. Metatron fell silent then, anxiety pouring out of him as he was wondering what they would do to him now that he had delivered their Father’s command. A touch to his mind told them he was saying the truth, and that infinitely short message was all he had been given.
Grans mercis, Métatron. Va dans la bénédiction du Seigneur.
When he departed less than an instant later, the Host rejoiced with an unrestrained puerile bliss, like they were cherubs or cupids. Still, they were willing to let them continue singing their delight. After all, they were nothing less than warriors, waiting to execute their Lord’s every words. And that was without mentioning a simple fact: it was the first time since forever the majority of the Host was on the same wavelength.
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So far the weather was still good, rays of light shining through the multicolored foliage above their heads. Kára was watching the painting-like picture of bright strokes of reds, oranges and golds; pieces detaching themselves from it, then slowly spinning in the air.
It was far different from her memories from her last passage, nearly one year ago. At the time, in the heart of one of the hardest winters she had ever known, there had been nothing but white and tints of blacks and greys. The branches had made like an arch above them, with snow falling on the road whenever its weight became too heavy.
If she closed her eyes, she was sure she would be able to see herself back then. Curly red hair sticking everywhere, freshly and badly cut, as she had done it herself. Thórvaldr had been standing as close as he could without his bay mare running into Logior. At that time, the two of them had been unwilling to be separated if it could be avoided. In fact they acted like a crutch, helping each other even more than usual. With that in mind, the jarl’s sworn brother, her dear husband had also cut his long blond hair above his ears, in respect to her decision and the path she had chosen to walk on from that period.
She would be eternally grateful to him, she thought as Myr and Adalrikr’s loud chatter drew her attention. She hadn’t noticed that the veidimadr had finished dispensing his lesson to his apprentice, and moved forward to speak with the other valkyrie, leaving the youngest ones to themselves, wondering about what kind of wonders their travel would offer.
“So, both of you never went farther than Febœr, right?”
“Nope.” Adalrikr frowned as he added, “Mother never wanted me to go too far from Thorhöll, pretexting it was too dangerous,” he said with the irritation of young warrior eager to prove themselves. He shook his head then. “And when she says far, it means farther than the Kormak farm.”
“And you actually never went farther?” Myr giggled when Adalrikr nodded, passing a hand on the light fuzz covering his reddened cheeks. “Geez, Rik, you’re such a mama boy!”
“Oh, shut up, Myr! Mother can be freakishly scary. Valkyrie, you remember? She'd put a fucking tracing galdr on me, just to be sure.”
“You’re her boy,” Kára replied, brushing a leave away from her eyes. “Mothers can quite quite protective.”
“No one is that protective! Mother only let me go with you because I turned sixteen, whereas anybody else would have begin travelling with their master far earlier. It’s been a while since I’m not a little boy to be protected.” Adalrikr’s frown deepened and Kára stopped herself from laughing at his typical boyish offense.
“Your age doesn’t matter, you’re still your mother’s boy.”
“At least,” Myr cut his friend when he was about to reply. “You still have your mother. You can’t say the same for everyone.”
“You still have your father.”
Kára rolled her eyes. “Stop right there, both of you! You know better than play the have-you-got-any-living-parents? game.”
After all, it was common knowledge that in the whole hold and more particularly in its capital, almost no one over fifteen winters old hadn’t lose one or both parents to the war or other smaller misfortunes, but lethal nonetheless. Myr’s mother had died in childbirth, the poor woman had lost too much blood to be saved by the midwives or even the völva. Skuld’s husband had met his end when a drunk fight that had degenerated into a full brawl. At least, he had died sword in hands.
“Sorry,” Myr eventually said, his head low.
“Yeah, we shouldn’t have said that,” Adalrikr completed with an apologetic smile.
After that, they fell silent. Kára took some time to listen to the chirping sound of birds and the clop of hooves on the cracking leaves the road was covered in. In front of them, Róta and Arnulfr had also stopped speaking, the second his head turned to the right, ultramarine eyes squinted as he seemed to examine something in the distance. If they had heard them talking-that was a very high possibility-they had chosen to ignore it. She sighed.
“So, you two must be excited,” she eventually said to lighten the mood.
“Pretty much yeah. Vatnreid is the second largest town of hold, at the confluence of the Geirgautr River and the Helgeindridr River so, the scenery must be really something to see. And,” he told it like it was the most important thing. “I heard there’s friendly and peaceful alfar living in the town.”
“Really?” Myr turned to Kára. “Is that true?”
“I’ve always seen a couple of them each time I stop there. Never talk to one though.”
Truth to be told, she never had the reason to do so. And as a valkyrie, protectress of the Nords, she was used to have to deal with hostile and nuisible supernatural beings, fighting alongside veidimadar like Arnulfr. That was why, even though, the Vatnreid’s alfar were pacific, she was wary of them and did her best to avoid any contact with them if it wasn’t necessary. It never had be in the past so she fairly doubted it would be now.
“I’d love speaking with one of them. I hope we’ll be able to.”
“Yeah, that would be pretty awesome.”
Kára rolled her eyes to Adalrikr’s remark. Trust these young clansmen to be excited about something they should be cautious of. Especially Adalrikr, who were to be a veidimadr when he would finish his apprenticeship.
“Really Adalrikr?” Arnulfr suddenly intervened. “Must I remind you how dangerous alfar are? Although these ones are able to live in harmony with Nords, they could still kill you in no time. Even worse, they could enchant you.”
The apprentice seemed about to retort something, but didn’t. It always was a rather bad idea to try to talk back to his mentor. Instead he shrugged and turned his eyes to the scenery, gently petting his horse’s black mane with a hand. Kára let a soft chuckle out, amused by his quiet temporary resignation: she was certain that the moment Arnulfr wouldn’t be listening, the boy would be talking about friendly alfar again. That was kind of cute. Childish for the man he was supposed to be with his sixteen winters, but it was so refreshing to see he had kept some innocence she couldn’t help her gladness. She also wished Aldi would have grown up to be a little like that, since it was a luxury her generation hadn’t had.
“Anyway boys,” Róta said from the head. Kára could almost hear the smile in her words. “Alfar will have to wait. We will make a short stop to Heidarthorp before Vatnreid. Don’t worry, it’s on our road. I want to speak with the villagers to see if they have some informations about the draugar.” That last part were directed to the other adults, who just nodded. “And there’s that succulent ale they produce, which I absolutely want to buy.”
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Lucifer, watch your words. Michael was literally radiating annoyance.
Of course Lucifer wasn’t helping with his state of mind at all: the smug bastard was far more amused by the situation than he should have been. Not that he should have been amused in the first place. However, that was just so him to take glee in that kind of thing and it would have been foolish to expect anything else from the Morning Star.
But, brother, can’t you see how funny this situation is? I mean, Dad wanted us to bow to humans and love them. And-I’m impressed-some of us actually did it. Isn’t that wonderful? Isn’t that sort of thing just a logical consequence of what he asked of us? Lucifer replied even though it was unnecessary since the others knew everything he thought.
The four of them were still in the same position, less than eager to leave the embrace of their brothers, or disentangle from them, as if doing that would instantly break the peace they had achieved for now. With that being said, they had put the psychic veil back in place, warding most of their thoughts from the other Choirs.
What are you insinuating, Lucifer?
Don’t play stupid, Michael. You already know, don’t you? What I’m asking is why Dad want us to destroy the fruit of his first-born children and favorite children’s love? Love or whatever could push an angel into a human’s bed.
We must not question His words.
Oh dear, they were at it again. The eternal argument was about to come, one more time. An irritable time bomb Michael in a corner, and a Lucifer doing his best to make him explode on the opposite side. This time though, Gabriel couldn’t let that happen. Not when their Dad had spoken and given His command. Clear and limpid. He jerked his wings up and down, knowing the friction with their feathers would be uncomfortable enough to attract their attention. It didn’t fail: Raphael and the two idiots were suddenly concentrating on him, questioning.
Both of you, stop. Focus on the matter at hand and our actual mission. Nephilim, remember? Now do one of you know more about them than “the fruit of his first born children and favorite children’s love”?
How could we know? Lucifer nudged him playfully while answering, Aren’t you the one who likes to watch them, Gabriel?
Actually, I have seen one, Raphael said calmly before Gabriel told the bastard to go to hell. Let me show you.
Through their link, he shared a fragment of his memories. It was a female baby in the hands of her mother. She was born only a few hours ago and, like all human babies at birth, she had an ugly crumpled face. Her big eyes had lavender-colored irises, with swarms of infinitesimal spots of light. Like there was grey stars in them. It would have been invisible to anyone but a creature of the stature of an archangel. For Raphael, it had been obvious that he was seeing shards of grace in this human.
And, in that way that characterized cherubs, Katan-not the name the mother had given her, but what Raphael used when referring to her-already had a full awareness of her surroundings. When, the archangel slipped into the room, without a vessel, she was silently complaining in her own mind that her mother wouldn’t understand her words. To that, Raphael answered with amusement that was because the sounds she made were no more than mere cries to a human ear. He hadn’t thought she would hear him. She had.
She had turned these weird eyes of her to look straight at him, letting out an approving gurgle coupled with a dribble of saliva who dropped on her chin. She then put her arm in the air, reaching out for him with chubby fingers. Although his wings quivered with annoyance, when the little thing ordered him to touch her with his “pretty fluffy lights”-Gabriel and Lucifer didn’t wait to laugh, earning a hard pull on their feathers and Michael disapprobation-he still let the tip of his middle wings skim over her cheeks, making her loudly chirp with glee.
This is so very yucky Raphael, Lucifer commented as in the memory, Katan took a handful of his feathers to put it in her mouth as if it was a breast to feed on, putting drool all over them. No, scratch that. He quivered in disgust. This is foul, at the very least. For Dad’s sake, that thing can actually touch us. She touched an archangel. Why is she even allowed to live?
Last time I heard, she isn’t, Gabriel remarked, complacency making his wings vibrate.
Lucifer ignored him. If the Nephilim can see, hear and touch us, who knows what else they could do. Even if Father had not commanded it, they should die nonetheless. They are too dangerous.
Gabriel liked to compare Raphael’s usual state of mind as the zephyr, soft and gentle, blowing in the sky with an unalterable serenity. When picturing it at the moment, the zephyr had grown more agitated at Michael’s words; here and there, clouds forming and strong blast of air blowing them.
Brothers, Raphael eventually said after a while, his thoughts full of a determination and conviction similar to Lucifer’s when the latter was arguing for what he believed was right. Katan shall not be harmed, he asserted. Michael shifted, ready to answer back. Raphael didn’t let him, explaining himself further, No, Michael, listen to me before repeating the Words of God. I have been watching Katan her whole life, to learn more about her kind amongst other reasons. She is innocent and starting from now, under my protection. I vouch to take care myself of any angel who would try to harm her, including you, brothers. She is not to be touched.
Don’t worry, Raph. I’m not the one who’ll lift a finger on her. Gabriel couldn’t help the immense proudness for his ever cool and pragmatic having found a cause to defend. He didn’t remember seeing Raphael invest himself in anything that wasn’t work. Just don’t make cherubs with her, he added with amusement, much to the other’s dismay.
I’m not keen on more fighting with my brothers. One is enough for me.
After Lucifer spoke, they turned to Michael, whose multitude of thoughts was swirling between them. Love for all of them, as strong as the will to do their Dad’s command like the good boy he was. Irritation to see Lucifer rejoice in the fact Raphael was opposing him, drawing a parallel between the two, and Lucifer’s hope that, if he granted Raphael’s wish, there was a chance he would grant Lucifer’s. There was also the thrill to see his brother act like the powerful and fearsome warrior he was, not hesitating to stand up for the things he considered right.
What is she for you? Michael decided to ask before taking his decision.
I can’t say I’m not curious about what a Nephilim can do. While she seems like a normal human to her pairs, I’ve been speaking to her in the dream realm. She’s aware of her peculiar nature, without really knowing exactly what she is. I rather like our discussions, and as I said sooner, she is innocent.
Interesting, isn’t it, Mike? Keeping one of them would be wise, as she can inform us of what they can do. And, there’s this little thing. Think, brothers, with their mixed blood, her bloodline would be strong enough to make ideal vessels for us.
Alright, Michael finally said after a long silence. He pursued with the grave tone he used when he was announcing important decisions, This one will be allowed to live as long as she stays innocent. No harm will be done to her, as she will bear the protection of an archangel as if she were a prophet. Raphael, from now and until she dies, the Nephilim Katan is your charge. As such, you will take responsibility for any of her actions. In the case of her becoming a danger to humans or angels…
My sword will find her heart, Raphael cut him.
His conviction strong and steady, as he was persuaded that moment would never came and that Katan would never reveal herself to be nefarious to anyone. Gabriel hoped for him that would be the case. While he didn’t care at all for the little mixed-blood, he apprehended what would Raphael’s reaction be if he had to kill her. Speaking about it and actually doing it wasn’t the same thing. And there was enough conflict home; a three-sided archangelic war wasn’t needed.
Are you sure it’s what you want?
I wouldn’t want it otherwise, Michael. She was my duty from the first time I saw her.
So be it.
Now Michael, why aren’t you as pliable with me? Lucifer’s voice was nothing but smug. I’m sure we can come to something we both are satisfied with.
Because compromise isn’t part of your vocabulary, Lucifer, Michael answered back with irritation.
Gabriel poked hard the two of them with the tip of his feathers at the base of their wings, where it would be particularly unpleasant. Stop fighting you too. You’ll have eternity to do so later but for once, please stop. And that felt good to be able to say that without them being dismissive.
Thanks brothers, Raphael said after a while as he tightened their embrace, engulfing their grace with his to share how much affection and gratitude he felt for them in that moment.
The voices of the Host echoed in their mind, rejoicing and celebrating the love they could perceive through their bond. Even if the psychic veil stopped the angels to have any knowledge of the whereabouts, sensing their leaders’ euphoria was enough to make them blissful; that was what they were meant to be, had been eons ago.
Gabriel knew it wouldn’t last though: as soon as the Nephilim were out of the picture, Michael and Lucifer would probably be at each others’ wings. But for once, home felt almost perfect and he couldn’t help the hope it would stay that way.
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AN: The language the archangels, the old form of Enochian isn't gibberish nor invented. It's Middle French, the French equivalent of Middle English give it a few centuries, but it's not for the period I chose it. The reasons are that I was sure I wouldn't mess up with Middle French and I used words and formulas that are actually overly pompous.