Author's Note: I'm doing this in a style I've been experimenting with in some of my longer Mass Effect stories: after the Prologue, this story will be narrated aloud by Castiel. The conversation takes place somewhere between 8.22 "Clip Show" and 8.23 "Sacrifice." The events described, as will become obvious, occurred long before the show begins.
Verity
Prologue: Of Tongue or Pen
Castiel shivered as he wrapped his hands around the mug of coffee on the table, though its warmth would do no more to alleviate the chill he felt than would the caffeine to abate the weariness that dragged at his very bones. He felt sick. Yes, Nephilim were abominations, and this wasn't the first time he'd been sent to destroy one. But just like the last time, it felt wrong. Dangerous or not, abomination or not, they couldn't help what they were. They were not responsible for their own existence. The execution of Akobel over a century ago, however unfortunate, had been just. But the death of his little daughter? Castiel still privately wondered if it had truly been necessary.
And the one he'd killed last night—he didn't even know her name—she had been living her life as a human, undetected by Heaven for nearly thirty years. Yes, it had been necessary to kill her to save Metatron's life, but she had only attacked in self-defense. She might have had a normal, harmless human life if they hadn't confronted her.
But it had been necessary, hadn't it? It was critical that the gates of Heaven be closed before the angels' infighting devastated the Earth. And this was the only way to do it. Castiel would have to keep reminding himself of that.
"Tell me a story, Castiel."
The words, spoken loudly and abruptly, shattered his reverie, and Castiel frowned at the angel seated across from him. "A story?" he asked skeptically.
"Yes, yes, a story!" Metatron cajoled him. "We need something to pass the time, and I've hidden away so long, missed so much…" He raised his eyebrows in what Dean would have derisively called a "puppy face." "Please?"
With a sigh, Castiel protested, "I don't know what kind of story to tell."
"Well, why don't you tell me about you?" suggested Metatron. He leaned forward. "Didn't you used to have a different vessel? What ever happened to her?"
"No," snapped Castiel abruptly. "I'm not telling you about that. It's not…" He swallowed hard, averting his eyes. "I prefer not to think about it." Few indeed were those who knew that particular tale: Ishim, Mirabel, Benjamin, and the rest of their flight; he could count them on the fingers of one hand. He had no desire to tell it to another, not even—perhaps especially—the Scribe of God.
"Guilty conscience, huh?" Metatron asked, his voice fairly dripping with sympathy. "You know, the humans have a saying. It goes, 'Confession is good for the soul.'"
Castiel glared at him. "We're angels, Metatron. We don't have souls."
"Semantics!" Metatron shot back. "Must you take everything so literally, Castiel? Look, I promise I won't breathe a word of it, on my honor, not even to Dear Old Dad Himself."
With narrowed eyes, Castiel regarded Metatron for a long moment, considering. He'd only just met the Scribe, and had to confess to being a little disappointed. He had always pictured Metatron as an angel of wisdom and knowledge, radiant with the brilliance of the Mind of God. He had imagined him to be solemn, formal, and deliberate, perhaps even a little intimidating. But instead, he was faced with this simpering creature, this self-described "pencil pusher," this irreverent, flippant, frankly irritating being whose presence was decidedly underwhelming, and who now stared at Castiel with a wide-eyed innocence so obviously, intentionally earnest he wasn't sure if he was being played or simply condescended to.
But… this was Metatron. The Metatron, the angel God had trusted to take down His Holy Word. And who was Castiel to question one in whom his Father had placed His faith?
Finally, he conceded with a heavy sigh. "All right," he huffed. "But this doesn't leave this room." He sat back, looking off to one side at nothing in particular—at anything but Metatron's eyes. "Her name was Verity. Which I suppose is ironic, since the 'truth' is precisely what she hid from me…"