The Scribe

Prologue

The Fallen appeared on the summit of Mt. Ararat. Golden eyes reached west, settling on some point unseen by the hawks circling overhead. The wind whipped past him, brushing the black hair that fell to his shoulders. Jaron wore his human form, content to cloak his true nature and enjoy the sharp pleasure of the sun on his skin. Ancient talesm covered his shoulders and chest, gold against bronze. He was a vision of glory, resting on the mountain peak.

His brothers appeared beside him, Barak with his wolf-grey hair, gold eyes watching the birds overhead. Vasu, already pacing, his lean human form dark against the snow.

“You gave up your city, brother.” Vasu stared down as he spoke, seemingly mesmerized by the tracks his bare feet made in the frost. The angel chose to reside in warm climates, though none of their kind were truly bothered by either heat or cold. They commanded their senses at will.

“You imply defeat. I simply chose not to fight for it. It no longer interested me.”

Barak murmured, “And the rest of your territories? Are they secure?”

“Volund knows better than to become too brazen. I allowed his child to overrun Istanbul because it served my purpose. No doubt, he was confused to find my people withdrawn.”

“Where are they?” Barak asked. “And do not underestimate Volund. I thought the same about him until he attacked. Now my children think me dead. They hide, afraid of their own shadow.” Barak’s lip curled. “I would cleanse this realm of their presence if doing so wouldn’t give away my continued existence.”

“I am watching,” Jaron said. He couldn’t take his eyes off the city. Something was churning there. The sun fell in the west, slipping below the clouds to shine pink over the plains and mountains of Asia Minor. “I am always watching.”

“But for what?” Vasu asked. “I hope your visions sing true.”

“Have they ever not? I warned you of Galal’s attack, didn’t I?”

Gold eyes flashed from behind Vasu’s curtain of black hair. His talesm sparked gold. Black and gold, the Fallen glared at his brother. “And I allowed you to persuade me. Now my children think their father murdered by a foreign god. They fight to remain true to me, even as Galal’s soldiers slaughter them.”

“Tell them to be more careful, then.” Jaron shrugged. “When the time comes, you will breed more.”

Vasu curled his lip. “I have not consorted with human women for a millennium. You know I tire of their attention.”

“I hear sorrow,” Barak growled, rising to his feet and looking west to the ancient city. “What is this? I thought the female was unharmed.”

“She formed a bond with one of the Irin scribes. He sacrificed himself for her.” Jaron’s voice held a faint note of admiration. “She mourns.”

“Does this change anything?” Vasu asked.

“No.”

Barak cocked his head. “Why did you allow the sacrifice? Did you foresee it?”

“I did. I was… curious.”

“And she mourns him?” Barak’s voice held no pity. His eyes were impassive as he stared into the distance, the evening sun flushing his pale skin a gold-tinted rose.

“She does.”

“You were curious?” Vasu asked, his voice holding more judgment than Jaron expected. Vasu was younger than his brothers, a mere boy when the Fallen had left their home. He had lived longer in the human realm than the heavenly. “Toying with humans is beneath you.”

“His sacrifice was incidental. Still, it is curious how she mourns.”

The three angels rested at the peak of the mountain, the hawks circling above them, screaming at their intrusion. Jaron relaxed, bronze and gold in the light, eyes watching the distance, seeing beyond time and space. His children, when it served him, bore traces of his foresight. Vasu stood slightly behind him, dark and brooding. His physical presence dwarfed his brothers. Not in size, for the tall, lean human form he donned was not imposing, but his energy, the tightly chained physicality of his presence, marked him as different, more terrestrial, than his brothers.

Barak sat silently next to Jaron, his brother’s mirror in eternity. While Jaron saw, Barak heard, his solemn presence the eternal and constant punctuation of Jaron’s curiosity. The two friends had existed in tandem for millennia. And now they struggled to attain what others thought was lost.

“Do you truly think it possible?” Barak asked, rising to his feet. “After all this time?”

Jaron narrowed his vision. Something was stirring in the distance. “Seven years or seven million, brother. He does not see time as we do. It must be possible.”

A flicker. A wavering in the heavens as the stars danced above. Jaron stood and walked to the edge of the cliff.

Barak asked, “What is this I hear?” His eyes sought Jaron’s, which were wide and filled with a long-lost emotion.

Wonder.

“A complication.”

Vasu darted to his side. “What do you see?”

“Look, my brothers.”

Then Jaron opened his vision, sending it to the two angels at his side. All three watched as the woman crouched in a hotel room. All three heard the words she uttered, then the tearing of the heavenly realm.

Vasu blinked. “Unexpected.”

“Indeed.”

“Does this change anything?” Barak asked.

“No. He was necessary to keep her alive. Other than that, he is incidental.”

“The female did this,” Vasu said.

“So it would seem.”

Barak said, “We always knew her powers would be unstable.”

“They all are.”

Vasu lifted an eyebrow, a decidedly human gesture that Jaron wondered if he was aware of. “Is it any wonder our sons fear them?” he murmured.

“She is a means to an end,” Jaron said. “That is all.”

Barak and Vasu exchanged a look but did not argue with their brother.

Vasu and Barak asked in unison, “Does this change our course?”

“No,” Jaron said, his eyes focused on a dark riverbank. “We do what we always do. We watch.”