It had been ages since Gabriël set foot in the Archivum. The grand dome housed thousands, if not millions, of books, transcripts, and scrolls. The carefully organised maze held the knowledge of the universe, since words were first put to paper. Its curator was none other than the Scribe of God, Metatron. Ranked as high in the hierarchy as the Lord Protector, but dismissed by most as a mere recorder of history. Yet, in his hour of need, Gabriël was certain the answers lay here.

"Gabriël?" Metatron looked up from his work as his fellow Archangel walked into the main hall. "My goodness, you've changed. I hardly recognised you."

"Hi, Metatron." Gabriël smiled in greeting. "Forgive me it took so long to visit you."

"Don't worry about that." He pulled Gabriël into a hug — which was surprising for someone who looked like a grandfather who could keel over any day — and then held him at arm's length. "How are you holding up? I know about... well, everything, obviously. I'm so sorry you were caught in the middle of this."

Gabriël pursed his lips. He'd forgotten that Metatron would know about him and Joan, even if nobody had told him. It was his power as the Scribe. His abilities allowed him to look into the past, and even follow present events, to transcribe them exactly as they occurred.
But no matter how hard he tried, Metatron couldn't see what was yet to happen, as the future was not set in stone. For every path laid down before a person was a different outcome. It was something Gabriël was brutally reminded of.

"I'm fine. Don't worry about me," he said dismissively. "Forgive the intrusion, Metatron, but I need your help. Did you ever make a chronicle of the Archangel runes?"

Metatron's eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head. "I have. Why do you need it?"

"It may help me in my search for Michael."

The Scribe hummed and nodded. Gabriël frowned at this. Had Metatron expected him to come for the chronicle? If so, how? He was about to ask, but was silenced when Metatron raised a hand to beckon him. He guided Gabriël through the public library, going deeper into the dome. Once in a while, he stopped to look into a case, but all he did was grunt, shake his head and signal Gabriël to keep walking. Eventually, they came to the far end of the Archivum.
Gabriël halted at the sight of the desolate desk of Metatron's former student. It was covered in dust, but everything still stood as she had left it. He slowly walked toward it and traced the desk with the tip of his fingers. A memory flashed before his mind's eye — a heated argument, followed by heated kisses.

"Do you still hear from her?" asked Gabriël, looking up as Metatron rummaged through the papers on the opposite table.

"Sometimes. She sends me books by mortal authors she believes I'll like." Metatron glanced over his shoulder. "I didn't expect you to still think about her after all these years. Your relationship, if I can even call it that, was somewhat... stormy, after all."

"That's an understatement." Gabriël scoffed lightly. "But Dina and I had our moments. I want her to be safe."

"You know better than most that our Dina is a tough lady. Anyone messes with her, and she'll give them a run for their money."

Gabriël chuckled at that. He definitely remembered that about the tempestuous angel. It suddenly struck him that Joan wasn't that different. Maybe more agreeable and loveable, but both his first and final love were fierce fighters who didn't let anyone stop them from speaking their mind. He didn't believe that was a coincidence.

"Aha, found it!" 

Metatron pulled a thick papyrus scroll from under the mess on the table and placed it on top. He rolled it open, and it unravelled off the side of the table, rolling further into the shadows.

"Now, normally," he said, "this scroll can only be read by the Lord Protector. But as you are replacing Michael, the words should appear to you as well. In theory."

"Thank you. Um, this may seem like an odd question, but... if there were a new Archangel, you would know of it and add the rune to the scroll, correct?"

"Indeed."

"But that hasn't happened so far?"

"No."

Gabriël sighed. The baby would probably need to be born first before it could be added to any chronicle. That theory would have to remain ongoing until then. Hopefully, he would have Joan back by the time she was due to deliver.
He leaned in and stared at the scroll. Words and symbols appeared before him. He wasn't surprised to find the scroll was written in Enochian, the language Metatron himself had created in the beginning. Gabriël hadn't read or even spoken the ancient language of the angels in quite some time, but he hadn't forgotten. He scanned the scroll carefully, translating the words in his head. His breath caught when he suddenly saw his own rune and the text written beside it.

Gabriël furrowed his brow. Metatron cleared his throat and asked in a casual voice, "Something wrong, Gabriël?"

"I'm... not sure."

He had an awkward feeling that the text was some sort of prophecy. His betrayal, his current position... It was all mentioned between the words. But what could the last two sentences mean? Joan was the one who stirred his heart, of that he was certain. But too many things were broken. And not all of them could be mended.
Then, Gabriël caught sight of Michael's rune. He felt a pang in his heart at seeing the Lord Protector's sigil. 

Gabriël put his thumb on his lip. This one was even more of a riddle. If Heaven's Fire was supposed to help him find Michael, he could just ask for lightning to strike him right now. It would probably hurt less. Michael was the only one who could control Heaven's Fire; all others who tried got burned by God's Grace, leaving nothing but a pile of ashes.
He let his eyes wander over the scroll again. Further down, he came upon another familiar one.

Raphael's was far less prophetic than his own and Michael's text. 'Leaves of Life' was a reference to the Tree of Life. After Adam and Eve were cast out, part of its root had been brought from Eden to the Vale. It still flourished in the apothecary and gave Raphael — and the other physicians working with him — healing power. There was very little he couldn't do with it.
He was the Guardian of the Eastern Winds, with air as his element, which was another word for breath. And Raphael possessed both a healer's heart and an educated mind. It was only natural that the leaves of the Tree of Life would always grow as long as he was there. 

Gabriël grunted in frustration and raked a hand through his hair. These texts were getting him nowhere. One text was a profile, the other a complicated prophecy. He didn't have time for this. 

"Find what you're looking for?" asked Metatron then.

"Not really. I don't even know what these — hang on." Gabriël turned to the Scribe when a thought occurred to him. "These aren't events that needed to be recorded. They're predictions." 

Metatron grinned at him. "Of sorts, yes."

"But you can't see into the future. You didn't write this chronicle by yourself, did you? Metatron, please, you must tell me who else knows about these."

"Come now, Gabriël, think. Who do you know that has always had a fondness for puzzles and riddles? Who do you know would make me write in such a manner?"

"I don't —"

Gabriël fell silent. His eyes landed on another rune, another text.

Of course. It had to be him. The only Archangel who could provide the answer but who was a recluse because of his gift of foresight — the Seer.

***

Raphael impatiently waited with Catherine, Margaret, and Isabelle for Gabriël to join them. Things were not looking well at all. It was bad enough that Michael had gone missing, but Raphael feared the worst now that Joan was gone, too. Gabriël would be torn between them. Duty and love never went well together.
He threw a worried glance at Isabelle. The old woman looked straight ahead, her face blank and unmoving. Joan's letter was clutched in her hands. Whatever her daughter had written, Raphael prayed it wasn't a goodbye. He didn't know how many more of those Isabelle could handle. 

Catherine shifted in her seat, and Raphael put a comforting hand on her shoulder. She mustered a faint smile. He wished he could offer more than that. It pained Raphael to see her like this. She was one of the most logical and well-educated persons he had ever met. But she was quick to be swept away by emotions and blamed herself for things that were completely out of her control. He wanted to tell her that none of this was her fault, but as so often happened when he was in a less formal situation with Catherine, he found himself speechless. So instead, he turned his attention to the fourth person in his apothecary.
Ever since Margaret learned about her past, she had become withdrawn. There was an unreadable air about her, and Raphael didn't like it. This girl had been caught between Michael and Lucifer, and even now, she was treated like their toy. He did not want to think of what she might do if she decided enough was enough.
At long last, Gabriël burst through the doors of the apothecary. They all jumped to their feet, intending to ask what was going on, but he didn't give them the chance to speak.

"Sorry to have kept you waiting, but I may have found something. Raphael, I need you to come with me. Cate, Marina, you aid in the preparations in the Scola. I'm sure they will need a firm hand there. And Isabelle, can —" 

Gabriël stopped his rambling and fell silent when they all looked at him, their expressions filled with sadness and pity. 

"Joan's fine," he said then. "She won't be harmed."

"How can you be so sure?" asked Isabelle.

Gabriël walked over to her and took her hand.

"I know the man she has gone with. He will keep her safe. He is a Fallen Angel himself and won't let anything happen to her."

Raphael shot Gabriël a hard look, but the latter ignored him. He didn't like Gabriël talking about Lucifer like he hadn't orchestrated all of this. Lucifer wasn't an ally to their cause, who would keep Joan safe out of the goodness of his heart. He was the Devil and the very reason they weren't together now.

"I'm sorry for you," said Isabelle. "This has not been easy for me, but you, Gabriël... How can you bear it?"

"I have hope. Hope that has grown since visiting Metatron."

"What do you mean?" asked Raphael. "Cate said you mentioned something about a rune. Were you talking about our runes? Do you know how to find Michael through them?"

"I'm not sure. But there is someone who might, and I was hoping you would join me in seeing him."

"Then why are we still standing here?"

Raphael waited at the door for Gabriël to give Isabelle a final encouraging nod before they left the Hospitium together and took to the sky. He tried to keep an open mind as Gabriël filled him in on who they were going to see.

"Uriël helped Metatron write the chronicle," finished Gabriël. "but I couldn't make much sense of it. I need his help to figure this out."

Raphael grimaced. "I don't like this, Gabriël. The man has all but lost his wits."

"He's not crazy, Rafe. He's just... well, not crazy."

"I haven't seen him in years. Do you even know where to find him?"

"There's a mountain where I believe he dwells."

"Of course there's a mountain. It's always a bloody mountain." Raphael sighed. "Uriël is a fool, exposing himself like that. If the darkness ever finds him, we're all doomed. He should never have left us."

"It was his own choice, Rafe. His gift is both a blessing and a curse. Who are we to bind him to the Vale? You know it only brought him pain to be here."

Raphael gave Gabriël a pensive look and said, "You're sounding more and more like him, you know?"

Gabriël didn't reply. He didn't even ask who Raphael referred to, and Raphael didn't offer any clarification. He knew Gabriël knew he was talking about Michael.
They flew over the Gates. There Gabriël halted, hanging in mid-air to look down. Raphael followed his gaze, but he only saw souls... and mist. Like a falcon in pursuit of its prey, Gabriël suddenly dived. Raphael went after him but couldn't match his speed. His feet had barely touched the ground as Gabriël struck the man before him.

"You've got some nerve!" he yelled out angrily. "I called you up here hours ago!"

"Clearly, patience isn't your strong suit," said Samael, his hand on his cheek.

"Spare me your wit, Samael!"

"Gabriël, calm yourself!" Peter shielded the Angel of Death from Gabriël's view while Raphael pulled him back. 

"Rafe, for the love of God, let go!" Gabriël shot him an angry look before returning his attention to Samael. "You, where is Michael?"

"You mean he hasn't come back yet?"

"We haven't heard from Michael since he sought you out to take him to Morpheus," said Raphael.

"The bloody arrogant fool!" Samael grunted. "I warned him not to go after them."

"What are you talking about?" demanded Gabriël.

"We went to Morpheus' Realm, but he had already let the Horsemen escape. There was nothing more Michael could do there. Upon our return, he thanked me for my help and forbade me from following him. He flew away with his sword in hand, not heeding my warnings."

"He went after the Horsemen alone?" Raphael asked incredulously.

That was a fool's errand, even for someone with Michael's power.

"He said something about setting things right," said Samael. "That he was not worthy of your support, so he would not ask it."

"You should have warned us then!" yelled Gabriël

"I'm not bound to the Heavens or any of you, Gabriël!" The Angel of Death spat back at him. "I still go where I please. Besides, I had something better to do."

"Oh, really? Like what?"

"The souls." They all turned to Peter when he spoke. "We are losing souls, Gabriël. The Horsemen have begun to sweep through the Mortal Realm. War, Famine, Pestilence... The Earth is in decay because of them, and Death follows in their wake, claiming all those they've struck down. Those souls are forever stuck in the rift, with no hope of crossing to Heaven or Hell."

"I'm trying to help as many as possible cross over," continued Samael. "But my powers are not without limit. I may be the Angel of Death, but I can only do so much against Death itself."

"Damn it. Fine, do what you can for now. I will deal with the Horsemen myself as soon as I return."

Raphael cocked his head slightly. He hadn't failed to notice Gabriël's eyes narrowing and the corners of his mouth turning down right before he spoke. What was he doing?

"Who or what can possibly be more important than capturing the Horsemen right now?" exclaimed Samael. "Some Lord Protector you are."

"I never wanted to be one. I just want to return to the woman I love and who is waiting for me now. If you're interested in Michael's position, go ahead. Not sure if the others will accept you, though. But at least you can pretend to be a true angel then."

Raphael held his breath at the insult. The tension between the two men grew fiercer, and he prepared for the worst. Fortunately, Samael chose the high road and disappeared in a flutter of dark feathers, throwing Gabriël a murderous scowl as he left. Peter gave Gabriël a reprimanding look, but said nothing. He dissolved the mist and returned to the souls.

"Perhaps you could have used a bit more diplomacy?" offered Raphael when they were alone. "We need Samael's help, Gabriël. Why did you say those things to him?"

"Because now I know we can't trust him. He made it seem like he didn't know Michael was missing, but he knew I was in charge now."

Raphael wanted to protest, but he realised Gabriël was right. Samael didn't come to the Vale unless he was summoned. There was no way he could have known Gabriël filled in for Michael.

"There's something else too," said Gabriël. "He said Michael had his sword with him, but I'm carrying his sword. I found it in the case underneath Michael's bed. Clearly, Samael doesn't know what it looks like, or he would've come up with a better lie. And then there's this."

He showed Raphael a black feather from the sword's scabbard.

"Where did you get that?" asked Raphael as he took the feather from Gabriël to inspect it more closely.

"Michael's private room. Besides Samael, who else do you know with feathers such as these? He was in there, Rafe, I know it."

"So, you think Samael had a hand in Michael's disappearance?"

"Not on his own. I have a hunch who his accomplice might be, but I don't immediately see a reason for them to work together."

Raphael scratched his head. This was becoming more twisted by the minute, and he didn't understand a thing about what was going on. There was only one silver lining in this entire mess.

"Michael made the right decision in naming you his successor," he said. "You are a better Lord Protector than you think."

Gabriël smiled awkwardly. "Hm, it'll probably be better if Michael came back for a little while longer, though. But to find him..."

"We need to see Uriël."

***

Joan was livid. Morpheus paid no attention to her at all, and Leonora stood with her back against the wall, too scared to offer any support. If they wanted to send her into a tantrum, they were about to get the mother of all tantrums!

"All I'm asking for is one note," she said in frustration. "One little note to the Sanctum at Resia. What's the harm in that?"

"What part of no don't you understand, girl?" Morpheus rolled his painted eyes at her and tsk-ed. "Besides, the note won't make any difference. Even from above, the angels will have learned by now that the Horsemen ride among mortals once more. They don't need the Nephilim to tell them that."

Maybe not, but that won't be the only purpose for the note.

"Now, I'll say it one more time. You are a guest for as long as I allow you to be my guest. You have certain liberties, but writing to your friends is one you don't have. I suggest you be a good girl now and return to your room. Keep yourself busy with some... knitting or whatever it is you expectant mothers do."

Joan could handle a lot. But a man like Morpheus putting up a patronising attitude towards her was a step too far. Fortunately, this wasn't the first stuck-up son of a bitch she had to take care. All she had to do was put the pressure on him. Slowly, Joan walked up to him and then leaned in, hands on the arms of his throne. She stared him down, making Morpheus shuffle uncomfortably in his seat.

"I'm a nice girl," she spoke in a hushed tone, "when I want to be. But if you make me angry like the Blood Countess did, you'll get the same treatment. Or worse. So, wouldn't it be easier to allow this one note to pass your border? No one need ever know, if that's your concern. All I'm saying is, I would hate to redecorate your chamber to something more... or should I say, something less?"

Morpheus's body stiffened. He seemed to stop breathing. A shining drop of sweat appeared on his brow. There it was — fear. Fear of the unknown and what was out of his control. She'd struck the right chord. Morpheus regarded her with investigative eyes and then gave out a relenting sigh.

"Write your note. But I will read it before I send it out. If there is any hint of your location or any indication of my role, I will send it to the Circles and see how the Prince of Hell reacts to it."

"Deal." Joan smirked at him. "I thank you for your kind assist, Kyrios."

She backed up and bowed. When she turned to leave, she winked at Leonora, and the maidservant hurried after her. When they were far enough from the throne room, the young woman couldn't hold her excitement any longer.

"You were amazing! I don't believe I've ever seen someone speak to Morpheus in such a manner and live to tell the tale."

Joan chuckled. "The ones who blow hardest are usually easiest to cut down."

Leonora hooked Joan's arm into hers, and they walked back to her room together. The euphoria Joan felt dropped when she saw the Countess at her door.

"Where were you?" growled the witch.

"Out for a walk," replied Joan, scowling. 

"You will go nowhere without me. Can't have you wandering about on your own."

"I wasn't on my own. And I don't take orders from you."

The Countess towered over her.

"Perhaps a lesson in obedience is needed?"

Joan met her threatening glare. She briefly glimpsed down and asked, "How's the ankle?"

That did it. The Countess backed up slowly, her fiery eyes never leaving Joan.

"You may be protected now, but I will have your blood one day, girl."

She picked up her skirts with one hand, stuck her nose in the air and walked away, firmly but gracefully. Joan scoffed at her departure.

"You don't care who your enemy is, do you?" asked Leonora.

"The only threat Bathory poses right now is the threat of making everyone sick to their stomach with that putrid odour. Come on, I need to write that note for Ga—for the Nephilim."