Chapter 22 - It Feels Like This
"Dean must be treated as he is," Michael shakes his head. Over the past few days, the venom in his voice has died, somewhat, his bitterness easing out with exhaustion—and, perhaps, guilt. "He is too much like a lion taken into civilisation as a young cub. Tame now, to be sure—or, relatively so. But the moment he tastes Human blood, he will turn on you. Every one of you. He has no choice in that."
"Then what do we do?"
Castiel is tired of the gathering speaking as though Dean were not present.
"You say we can't kill him?"
"That will only make matters worse," Michael shakes his head.
"How so?" A Human asks.
"Imagine it as dropping an oil lantern into a barrel of black powder from the Southern Isles." Michael replies. The Humans look increasingly worried.
"I don't understand."
"Then be glad," Michael shakes his head. "And pray you never have to."
"If he cannot die—"
"—He can," Michael correct. "We simply cannot afford to let him."
"Then we are to use him?" Victor asks. "As a weapon against the Demons?"
"Certainly not," Michael shakes his head, frowning, as though the Humans are being remarkably slow. Honestly, Castiel understands now more than they do. "He is of their design, remember. The Demons. We cannot allow him to come in contact with them, again."
"Then why can we not afford to let him die?"
"He will become too dangerous, if killed."
"How is that possible?" The King of Corinna frowns. "How can he be a danger to us from beyond the grave?"
"He'll only be beyond the grave insofar as we will be unable to kill him."
"You've answered none of our questions, King Michael," Victor seems to grow frustrated.
"Allow me to enlighten you," Michael sighs. "The moment Dean dies is the moment he truly becomes a monster—not the kind you see before you—" he gestures to Dean, who glares back at him but says nothing. "—Who lacks all self-control but is still Human; but a monster of power and ferocity we cannot comprehend. Not Human. Not even Demon: not as we know them, at least. Something new altogether."
"Then we are to protect him?"
"At all costs," Michael confirms. "If nothing else, then to protect yourselves."
Eyes around the table glance nervously over to Dean, as though any moment he may burst into flames that consume all of them. Only Castiel looks at him with pity. Dean notices, and his expression turns bitter.
"You expect me to do what, then?" He asks, voice little more than a snarl.
"Stay out of harm's way in Hera, until we think of something better."
"You're going to lock me away in my own Kingdom?"
"In your own castle."
"And you expect me to—"
"This is hardly the time for selfishness, Dean," Michael nearly shouts over the Human's bitter, curled words. "Be glad we didn't think it wise to lock you deep in the heart of the Great Mountain of Eofor—"
"Why don't you?" One of the Campbells asks, looking angry. "You swore to protect us—that seems the most effective way of doing so—"
"Father—"
"Gwen, enough—"
"No," the younger Campbell frowns. "The boy has done nothing wrong—"
"He mutilated himself—"
"And you wouldn't do the same for your family?" She raises her eyebrows, then snorts. "Sorry, I forgot who I was asking." She looks away dismissively from her father, and instead to Michael, her eyes wide and earnest as though she is pleading with him. "Dean Winchester had no way of knowing what he was doing—you must recognise that—"
"It hardly matters," Michael shrugs. "It is done, now. And he ought to have known, at least, not to deal with Demonkind—"
"It wasn't Demonkind, it was your brother," Dean points out. "And you offered me no support, when my father died," he snarls across the table, lip curled, expression bitter. His hands are balled into tight fists, and anger flashes behind his eyes. "You did nothing—"
"My youngest brother flew to Hera as soon as word reached us of your father's passing—"
"Passing?!" Dean nearly bellows. "It was murder—at the command of your brother!"
"—And you turned Castiel away!" Michael continues, snarling over the sound of Dean's voice. Thunder outside of the castle sounds once again, and Castiel sinks a little lower into his seat, heart trembling. "After all he had done for you! After—"
"He lied about loving me!" Dean shouts over the storm, gesturing furiously to Castiel as though he is nothing, means nothing, is nothing more than a pile of dust and ash in this and every other universe. Castiel thinks a glimmer of lightning flashes over their heads, but he can't be sure. "He lied, and I was left alone—"
Michael is about to bellow over Dean once again, but Castiel rises, having had enough.
"We're all more or less in agreement," he sighs, too exhausted to cry, too lonely to feel bitter at Dean's words. "The King of Hera must be kept out of harm's way. For now, certainly, that means being confined to his own Kingdom. Perhaps later, circumstances will change, for better or worse. His brother," Castiel looks at Sam, who stares back at the Angel with sad hazel eyes, "must also be kept away from the Demons. We know that Dean has made a deal with them, and that they have promised not to hurt the younger Winchester brother, but that's not to say that they'll keep their word. They've hardly proved trustworthy in the past, and—"
"Don't talk to me about trust," Dean rises, shaking his head bitterly. "Fuck all of you—fuck the Angels in their mountains and you Humans in your courts and the Demons across the sea. You'd all see me dead, if you could—only apparently doing that would mean burning the whole fucking world down, so—"
"Dean, sit down," Bobby growls. Dean ignores him and pushes his chair into the table pointedly.
"I'll do whatever—I don't care—but you think you can keep me in my kingdom for the rest of my life? However long that's going to be? And what the hell do you think is going to happen when I die of old age, then?" He asks. The gathering looks shocked. Apparently this thought had hardly flickered across the surface of their minds, until now. Dean looks at them expectantly. "Yeah," he sighs bitterly, as though he cannot even bring himself to be disappointed by their lack of foresight. "That's what I thought."
And with that, he leaves. Castiel still stands, motionless, staring at the Human as he leaves. Michael does the same, for what feels like an age, his expression troubled, before he turns back to the throng.
"I must beg your leave," he bows his head to King Victor, suddenly just as respectful as he was to the Humans the first time Castiel saw him encounter them, at Hera all those years ago. Something in his tone, or his demeanour, is lonelier than it was then, however, and as Victor confirms with a surprised, wary expression, that the High King may return to his chambers, Castiel thinks he can see the glitter of tears press at his brother's eyes.
He isn't given the chance to confirm this, however, as in the next second Michael has taken leave, risen and left the crowd, heading not for his quarters but for the slow spiralling corridor leading out of the palace. Heavy rain echoes in the hall, hitting the cut crystal over their heads and making the daylight flooding the hall ripple in an odd, watery veil. The effect is almost lonesome.
…
It hardly ought to matter, now that Castiel thinks about it, that Dean no longer loves him. The admittedly wondrous few years of his life where the world was dancing with hope are now long over; it is as it is. And Dean, so stubborn and angry so much of the time is now lost, at least to Castiel, forever. Castiel wanders through a sodden grey square of the palace, feet making an ugly sound against weathered white slabs of rock, looking up at the dreary grey sky. The clouds hang so big and heavy that it is almost suffocating; Castiel cannot see the sun yet something about the sky above him is oddly pale. Instead of a dark grey, it is nearly white, wispy and delicate. The rain is heavy for how vast it is, but each drop is finer than hair.
Castiel has trodden through so much of the castle that he no longer recognises his surroundings; he is out of the cyclical dome of the palace and has wandered past little collections of homes all enclosed in yet another curved wall shorter than those at Hera. The rain rattles in muted sounds down on the yellow thatched roofs of some of the houses, slapping against the blue slate of others. He reaches the edge of this great stone circle, to a great iron gate, such a shade of black that it is almost blue, lying under an arched break in the white wall surrounding the houses. Stepping through it, he sees beyond him the wide river that feeds through Eofor; the River Amnis, as it is known to the Humans; or the Weeping River as it is known to his own people. It feeds from the mountains. On the horizon he can even make out his homeland, clearer than he ever could hope to in Hera. Here, the water seems all but completely still. Castiel thinks with a shiver that it must be very deep. Opposite him, in the centre of the gaping river, wider than he has yet seen on his travels, lies an island covered in hunched willow trees, trunks and branches winding around one another, vines dropping into the slow-moving water. The rain dapples at its surface, sending ripples bouncing off one another with oddly quiet plashes, the air around Castiel seems clearer, as though it has been cleansed by the rain.
He cannot think what drives him to do it, but he flies over and lands at the dark sands of the isle. White river lilies grow next to rocks a dark enough blue-grey to be black. Their spider-thin petals tremble at the rain.
Round, smooth stones of pale colouring have been arranged in some kind of path ahead of Castiel. The faint green tinge of moss covers their corners. Castiel follows them out of curiosity more than anything else. The green of the willows around him reminds him of Dean's eyes—so many things do—and once again he wishes the Human would just listen to him, if only for a moment: let Castiel explain everything that his brothers did to each other and how Castiel really does love Dean, he always loved him, he always will.
Tears prickle at his eyes and blur his vision even more than the blue-grey of the rain does.
If only Dean weren't so stubborn, weren't so caught up in his own despair at the death of his father and risk of losing his brother… But as it is, Castiel can hardly blame the Human for being as he is. Honestly, would he love Dean if he were any other way?
And it hardly matters now, anyway, whether Dean loves Castiel or not. The Human is doomed, as it seems their affair was from the start. Strange to think of it now, that Castiel and Dean were once betrothed, and to be married. Strange to think that Castiel was willing to forfeit his life as an Angel to live for only a moment, a breath, with Dean. Strange that he'd do so, even now.
He reaches a clearing. He stops short.
Michael sits cross-legged on the soaking ground, head in hands, opposite a great white slab of rock, carved into a design Castiel cannot recognise. He approaches softly, careful not to be noticed, and realises his brother is shaking with tears. Something that had remained balled up, terse, angry inside of him loosens now, as if remembering with a horrible, sudden drop that Michael is more than simply the callous, bitter Angel he has increasingly been acting.
"I'm sorry, Castiel," Michael says, not moving his head from his hands. The younger Angel starts.
"Michael?" He asks cautiously. "Whatever for?"
"I am a fool," he shakes his head, looking up at the rock in front of him, but not back at Castiel.. "I wish…" Castiel's brother sighs, the sound like a thousand lonely winds breaking on cliffs, and the rain hammers down a little heavier. In the blur of the storm, Castiel only now notes what the rock his brother weeps in front of is carved into.
An Angel is curled around a limp Human body, flesh captured in stone, face pressed into the curve of the Human's neck. Sobs seem to wrack the stone Angel's body in the pulse of the rain the same way they wrack Michael's, now.
Castiel frowns, face soaked.
"This is a grave…" He starts slowly. Michael does not respond, only continues in his weeping. He glances back at his brother. "Michael?" He asks cautiously, unsure of whether he ought to reach out a hand to press comfortingly to his brother's shoulder. Water slides off Castiel's wings and drips into the already sodden grass.
"You must know how it feels, Castiel," Michael takes a shuddering breath, "—You must know how it feels to—"
Castiel kneels down next to his brother. Michael does not look up.
"—I can't be all alone like this—I can't—"
"Michael," Castiel starts softly, but finds he doesn't know what to say.
"I miss him half to death, Castiel," Michael looks up, now. His face is drenched; whether this be by the rain or by his tears, Castiel cannot tell. It hardly matters, the two are the same. "I think I'm going mad," Castiel's brother shakes his head, face pale from the cold.
"Who, Michael?" Castiel asks. "Who do you miss?"
Michael seems unable to answer, he turns back to the great stone, pressing his face to its feet, and sobs again.
"—I called him Dawid—"
"You called him Beloved," Castiel frowns. "This is the grave of your—"
"Beloved," Michael repeats. "And he was beloved. By all who knew him—by me —"
Castiel finally brushes his fingers against the High King's shoulder. He looks up at the stone face of the Human. It is oddly familiar.
"I am losing myself, Castiel," Michael finally looks up into his brother's eyes. "Losing myself," he repeats. "Every day I stray a little further from what I was—and I can see it—and I miss him—"
Castiel takes Michael into his arms the way he would a child—the way Michael did, Castiel, on so many teary occasions in Castiel's childhood, the way Michael did Castiel when their father died and Castiel no longer understood his place in the weary world. Only now does Castiel begin to consider that perhaps Michael felt exactly the same at that moment. Only now does he consider that he and his brother are perhaps more alike than unalike.
"You must know how it feels—" Michael shakes his head in Castiel's arms. "I have seen the way you look at him—"
"Michael," Castiel breathes in, ready to cry also.
"They have the same eyes, you know," Michael looks up at Castiel. "Much like we do—" he grazes a hand across Castiel's cheek. "The same…" He shakes his head.
"He looks familiar," Castiel turns back to the statue.
"To think, he lies motionless beneath us…" Michael shakes his head, ignoring Castiel, pawing at the ground he kneels upon with first his fingertips, then his knuckles, driving them into the soaked earth. "Body no longer animated, heart no longer beating—"
"But he rests in the stars, Michael," Castiel shakes his head. "You must know that."
"You honestly believe that?" Michael asks hollowly, looking up at Castiel with hopeless eyes.
Castiel worries at his lip.
"If I don't, what else do I have?" He asks, finally.
"What indeed..." Michael's lip curls with bitterness. "Nothing, Castiel. We are nothing." Thunder cracks overhead. "We are ash and dust and bone, none of us worthy of life, none…"
Castiel shakes his head.
"I can't believe that."
"Then you are a fool," Michael spits. "You are a fool to live in hope. I wish I were dead. I wish I were with him. You—" he turns to Castiel with renewed anger, "—let your Human slip away. I could never have, mine. You were careless, you were—"
Castiel has dropped his brother out of his arms. Michael's expression fills with regret.
"You would carve my beating heart from my chest with your own blade, if I said the same to you," Castiel nearly snarls. Michael looks away, expression filled with something beyond guilt.
"He and your Dean were so very alike…" He mumbles, picking a fistful of grass from the earth, the way a child would. All that he does is so staggeringly infantile.
"So you have said," Castiel frowns. The thunder has subsided, the sky turned pale and lonely again. The rain continues.
"I should have stayed with him," Michael shakes his head. "We were to marry, he and I… And I would one day carve out my grace and fall, gladly, into his arms, and…" He looks back up at Castiel. "You know he was a castle hand, Castiel? Not even a squire, nor a knight. Not a noble drop of blood in his veins. Did you know that?"
"Of course I didn't," Castiel frowns. "This is the first you've actually spoken of him—"
But Michael doesn't seem to hear.
"I came to Eofor with our family—some—some foolish, blustering event. I hardly remember now, not that it even matters—and his was the first face I saw. Or," Michael laughs self-consciously, and corrects his romanticism, "the first face I saw which mattered. Eyes the colour of grass after rain, so vibrant and rich…" Something wistful graces his face, and a glimmer of sunlight appears in the sky overhead. "He seemed so serious, Castiel, you'd hardly believe he was a Human—but in private, he made me laugh like a fool. We used to talk like we could build castles in the sky. He would come to my room each night and sleep with me, the rest of the world hardly seemed to exist. His smile was like the dawn. Only twice as beautiful, twice as bright. He smiled only for me. Only for me and his sister. He took me to this place," Michael gestures around them, "showed me all the flowers, told me all their names. We were to marry, to live together—it hardly mattered how brief that time would be: he was my beloved, and I was his—"
Silent tears have pulsed down Michael's face as he speaks, Castiel feels them mirrored in his own eyes.
"I loved him, brother, and I should have stayed for him—"
"You cannot blame yourself, Michael—"
"I had this grave built when he died—" Michael gestures to the statue. "He would have scorned me for it; he would have thought it too big and filled with pretention—he liked things quiet and tucked away—" Michael trembles. "—So I had him buried here. This was our place. Nobody else in the world comes here. The waters are too deep, the Island too small to be of any use, too isolated to be a home—the mothers in the city used to tell tales of how these waters were haunted… I don't know if they still do… This island made no home for those in Eofor. But it is a good enough home for the departed—especially my own."
"It's beautiful—"
"A part of him runs through Dean's blood—" Michael looks up at Castiel.
"What do you—"
"Dean's mother's family once dwelled in this Kingdom—I wonder, did he ever tell you? He would have hardly had reason to, but… Dawid's sister wed a man twice her rank; and birthed a daughter with hair the colour of wheat and eyes of the forest, and she wed a merchant of the lonely islands and birthed another daughter, who married young but lost four of her children before they were yet born, and another two in their infancy, and had only one son. This son married a woman who birthed two children, one boy, and one girl. The girl married and had three children, the youngest of whom married a man with eyes the colour of bark from Corinna whose great, great grandfather had once graced the courts of Evadne—"
"Michael, what are you talking about?"
"—And they had only one child; a girl with golden hair and eyes the colour of lavender, blue and green and violet and grey, and she married and moved to Hera," Castiel frowns as Michael speaks, "and birthed two sons. The younger, with hazel eyes. The older, with eyes the colour of grass after rain—"
"Dean is a descendent of Dawid?"
Michael lets out a shuddering sigh, caught up in his sobs.
"Every day I saw the two of you together, I could only think of my loss. I am so very sorry, Castiel—"
"Dawid—the castle hand—his descendants came to take the throne of Hera?"
"They did," Michael nods. His lips twitch upwards. "He always thought it such a grey, depressive castle. I am sorry if you came to love it."
"I loved it only because of Dean," Castiel shakes his head. "Now it means nothing to me but the regret I feel regarding him."
"You would have gladly lived there for the rest of your life."
"I would have," Castiel confirms. "For him."
"That he should doubt your love…"
"You would have lived in Eofor, married to a castle-hand?"
"Gladly," Michael sighs. He looks up at the sky. The rain has turned to drizzle. "By Abra, if I could turn time…"
"Things are as they are, Michael."
"I have been unreasonable," Michael shakes his head. "In my dealings with Dean and the rest of the Humans, and in my dealings with you." He looks back at Castiel.
"It matters not—"
"It matters a great deal," Michael shakes his head, resting his hand on Castiel's shoulder. He looks far more like the Michael that Castiel knew three years ago than he has in a very long time. "Only you are far too noble to say it. Good brother," he shakes his head, pulling Castiel into his arms and weeping again. "Noble brother. When I look at you, I see everything I ought to have been."
"I wouldn't have you any other way."
"You can't mean that," Michael laughs bitterly. "I thank you for flattering me, but…" He sighs. "I fear I have done you great wrong in my own thoughtlessness."
"There is hardly any use in regret, Michael."
"And what about repentance? Can you ever forgive me for my crimes?"
Castiel falls silent.
"We ought to return to the Great Hall. We have much to do," Castiel answers after a moment of uncomfortable quiet. "If Dean is in as much danger as you say—"
"I understand," Michael nods quietly. Castiel rises. Michael slips his hand into the stone one of the limp Human, lying dead in the marble rendering of Michael's arms. With his other hand, his fingers come to trace the stone rendering of his true love's forehead. He lingers a moment, breath as delicate as glass, before looking away, and, without a word, setting flight from the river isle.
Castiel turns back to the statue of his brother and his lost love. So strange, he thinks softly, that this grave will last longer than even Michael will. Michael and Dawid were made immortal with each chip of the Mason's blade into the stone. Now, at least in marble, Dawid and Michael rest together until the end of days, Michael weeping eternally over the body of his lover. Their love is what survives of them.
How strange a thing death is, Castiel ponders, and how strange a thing that it should separate people so; steal their faith and their hope and leave them sobbing on the ground as the skies open above them. And how strange a thing love is, not to stop it.
…
Returning to the castle, Castiel sees something that makes his heart, so poor and tired and weak with loss already, feel as though it has dissipated into nothing but vapour.
A girl, pressed up against a doorframe, is tangled in Dean Winchester's arms. They hardly seem to notice Castiel at first, who has stopped still on the pale corridor, world disintegrating around him. But as they continue, locked in one another's embrace, to kiss as though they know nothing else, Dean's eyes flick up to Castiel's. The motion is enough to make the world drop away from under Castiel's feet; suddenly he floats through ether, alone, as Dean's gaze flickers carelessly away from Castiel's after a moment—a moment in which he has not ceased kissing the girl locked tight in his arms. Castiel trembles and looks away, sickened. Should he turn back? Walk back to the river and sit beside it until his sorrows are abated? Or should he walk past the pair and pretend he doesn't care, the way that Dean doesn't seem to care? He chooses the latter: walking away would seem too much like admitting defeat, and he has had enough of doing that with Dean. He stomps past the Human down the corridor—it hardly matters now, he can barely see for the press of tears and pulsing, furious red nearly blinding his vision—the girl Dean had been kissing quite so passionately lets out a startled little gasp as she notices Castiel, but he ignores her, not bothering to look back.
He hears the grumble of thunder outside, and, confused, wonders what could have happened to anger Michael into causing another storm.
Only as he reaches his quarters, slams his door shut and begins sobbing violently does her realise, as rain hammers down on the crystal roof of Eofor, that it wasn't Michael who caused the storm this time, but him.
He wants to take revenge on Dean. Revenge on the Human for being so thoughtless and spiteful and vindictive; for all that he has done to Castiel. He wants to find a Human of his own to parade in front of Dean, to prove to the Heran King that he can hardly bring himself to care about Dean's feelings, now—but the thought only sets him into weeping again.
"Castiel?" There comes a quiet, gentle knock at his door, and Anna peaks her head around. "Are you alright, little brother?"
"What can I do?" Castiel asks, looking up at his sister with teary eyes. "To prove to him that he's been wrong about me all this time? What can I do?"
Anna sighs sadly, almost with pity, and steps into his room, closing the door quietly behind her. She approaches Castiel and kneels in front of him, taking his hands in hers with a kind of motherly tenderness that makes Castiel tremble.
"If he cannot recognise it—"
"It's Dean, Anna—he'll never recognise—"
Anna sighs and slides her hands up to Castiel's shoulders.
"You love him," she says softly.
"Always." Castiel's eyes well up again.
"Then let that be enough," Anna says quietly. "Let it be enough, that you know the truth, and you love him—and that he only does all of this because he hurts with how much he loves you. You may never feel the same about anyone again—"
"I never could—" Castiel shakes his head.
"—But you have felt this way about Dean." Anna presses on, using her sleeve to brush away Castiel's still-falling tears. "And it is a good thing, Castiel, to feel—no matter what any Angel tells you."
"I think I'm dying—"
"And it is only proving that you have lived," Anna shakes her head. "Let it be enough."
Castiel lets out a shuddering sigh.
"Sister—"
"Dear brother," she presses her forehead to his and gazes earnestly into his eyes. "If Abra has willed you and Dean, then you will be. If not, the world will continue to turn, the birds continue to sing, the stars to shine, and I will continue to love you so dearly that planets will be born in the night sky the same shade as your eyes."
"I—I'll let it be enough," Castiel nods, still shaking. He stares at the ground, then back up into his sister's eyes. "You are too good to me, Anna—"
"You flatter me," she laughs, tangling her hands with Castiel's and rocking back on her feet. "I'm only doing as you deserve."
"I could not ask for a better sister—"
Anna laughs again and pulls Castiel tight into her arms.
"And I know that the heavens sent me you to make up for how infuriating my older brothers were." Castiel lets out a laugh, ugly with sobs, but free and happy to be in the arms of his sister.
"I couldn't possibly comment."
"Then you are far too noble."
"I love you, Anna."
"And I you, Castiel."
"I found Michael at his Human's grave, today," Castiel shares.
"That hardly surprises me," Anna sighs. "He is… complicated, our older brother."
"Yes," Castiel nods. "…Maybe not as wise as I once thought he was."
"It is a difficult thing to discover," Anna states sadly, "that those we once thought the world of are hardly worthy of it."
"I pity him," Castiel frowns. "Is that bad of me?"
"No," Anna shakes her head. "At least, I don't think so. I pity him too."
"I pray that he finds rest."
Anna sighs sadly again, smiling at Castiel and pulling back slightly.
"I fear, dear brother, that with the loss of Lucifer and of his Human, the only rest he will find is when he comes to lie in Abra's arms eternally."
"He told me that he doesn't believe, earlier," Castiel frowns gently. "He told me he thinks it hopeless, all of it."
"After everything, sometimes I wonder, too," Anna admits. "And Michael is… sensitive. Like hot glass only just cooling. A touch could dent him forever, a blow shatter him completely."
"What is he going to do about Dean?"
"I don't believe he has it in him to imprison the Human, even now," Anna shakes her head. "But I've been wrong about Michael before—and when he is hurt, he becomes vindictive—and when people have seen him vulnerable, he becomes malicious. It is not a good thing that you found him by his Human's grave today, Castiel."
Castiel falls silent and worries about how right his sister is.
"Come," she sighs, standing and holding out her hand for Castiel to take. "Michael has summoned us. And we would have to gauge his mood at some point, I'm sure."
…
"So it is decided, then?" Michael asks, looking around the gathering. "Dean is to remain in Hera—Evadne will provide footmen to keep him out of harm's way, until we find a safer place for him, that is not captivity—or until the Demon war is won?"
Murmurs of consent go up around the table.
"How many men—Angels—will you provide?"
"You will be given fifty to guard Hera. Three of whom will be Dean's personal bodyguards. These are in addition to Hera's own forces. Dean will be safe."
"I'm not a child," Dean snarls.
"And yet you were as thoughtless as one when you entered your deal with Lucifer," Michael counters, frowning heavily yet managing to maintain a cool exterior.
"Dean," Bobby sighs, rubbing his forehead. "Considering everything, this really is a fair solution."
"My home will be my prison."
"Then be glad your home is so big," Anna rolls her eyes. "Were you any other rank, you'd have just cause to complain. As it is—"
"All agreed?" Michael raises his eyebrows at the gathering.
A murmur goes up, vague and uncomfortable.
"I'm not agreed on it," Dean glares.
"Thankfully, your voice counts only for one," Michael replies coldly. "All those in favour of the current proposition, raise your hands."
Well over half the Humans raise their hands, as does Michael, his adviser, Gabriel and Anna. Castiel looks at his lap and decides not to participate.
"Against?"
Those against seem marginal in comparison.
"—And what of Samuel?" Queen Bela asks.
"Samuel is to be kept under the same conditions as Dean, I think," Michael decides. "He's hardly as dangerous—but could still be used as a weapon by the Demons; and it would take very little for him to lose his Humanity all but completely, after being fed Demon blood for so long."
Samuel nods and does not protest.
"Excellent," Michael rises. "Then Dean will sign the treaty, which we are to amend to include his brother, and Samuel will sign it also." A servant approaches with a scroll of white-gold parchment as Michael speaks. The Angel takes it and lays it on the table, his adviser leaning down over it to amend the detail about Samuel. "You are not to involve yourself in any wars, Dean, under this contract." Michael starts, looking at Dean and speaking to him in a cold, removed voice. "You are not to practice fighting or combat in any way, armed or otherwise. You are not to make contact with the Demons, you are not to make contact with my brother. You are not to leave the walls of Castle Hera—"
"—What about riding?" Dean asks. "Don't tell me I can't go riding—"
"You are not to go beyond the walls of Castle Hera." Michael says through gritted teeth. Dean glares, furious and upset, back at the Angel. "You are not to marry or have children—"
"What?!"
"—We do not know the nature of the mark or its effects on any lives born under it!" Michael exclaims. "
"You'd have me become a eunuch?"
"If it ensured the safety of the Earthly and Heavenly Realms, yes!"
"You never cared about the Earthly Realms! You—"
"—You are not to involve Hera in the Demon War," Michael continues, glaring. "You are not to beget any children, bastard or otherwise. You are not to ask for amendment or removal of these conditions without due and just cause; which your guards sent from Evadne will decide upon, if you raise them. You will not go straight to me to ask for amendment, but through them; they will decide if your protests are worthy of my concern. Should Hera find itself invaded as it was, sixteen years ago, you are not to defend."
"What?!"
"You are to contact Evadne immediately. Your personal footmen will know what to do. Evadne, Theia and Tyrzah will carry out the correct action. At this point, your footsoldiers may defend, your guards may defend, but you personally may not, under any circumstances. You are not to fight. You are not to train in combat after this day; you are not to carry out any physical acts of violence or aggression under any circumstances—this includes self-defence, and that is why we will send so many of our own and best warrors as your protectors. Should you ignore any of these conditions—"
"They're ridiculous!"
"—We will have no option but to imprison you in Evadne, in the deepest cell in the deepest cave in the mountain. You will not be allowed to speak to your family. You will not be permitted to take leave. You will stay there until we find a way of removing the mark, which we may never—"
"This is bullshit," Dean slumps in his chair.
"—You will not leave Hera unless given written permission by the Angels, in either my hand or by the hand of my siblings—excluding Castiel, considering the circumstances I believe that it would be a conflict of interests—"
"What, I'm your pet, now?!"
"Call it whatever you like," Michael replies coldly, "you are still under our care and responsibility. Do you consent?"
Dean stares at the table, tearful with frustration.
"Do we have your consent?" Michael repeats.
"Dean," Sam places a hand on his brother's shoulder and speaks quietly to him. "It's going to be alright."
Dean softens at his brother's touch, though he still refuses to look at Michael.
"Fine," he replies shortly. "You have my damn consent."
Michael pushes over the parchment for Dean to sign. He scans the contents of the page before doing so; apparently concluding that nothing of its nature appears to have been omitted by Michael.
Michael then instructs every Human sat around the table to do the same, to sign as witnesses; and then the scroll is passed over to Castiel, Gabriel, Anna and Michael's advisor. All of them sign. Castiel feels Dean's gaze press at his face as he does so. He doesn't look up.
…
He has to find Dean. Before he goes, he has to find Dean, talk to him, make him see sense. He knows Dean's heart, knows the patterns of spite and lashing out, knows that under the mark, Dean is more and less himself, than ever.
Michael must be revisiting David's grave; the rain is hard and agonised. Castiel spotted Dean pacing out to stand in the downpour, as if the waters could extinguish the mark's fires within him. Castiel follows and, in a round courtyard turned gray by Michael's sorrows, the cream stones spattered murky in the rain, the sky a grim colour of heartbreak, Dean stands, head turned up to the heavens, his back to Castiel.
"Dean," the Angel tries, voice faltering over the spitting sounds of rain and thunder on the horizon. Dean's hands curl into fists at his sides.
"Dean," Castiel says again, heart breaking. "Please—"
Dean turns to Castiel. Even through the falling waters between them, Castiel can make out the venom in his gaze.
"Come to gloat?" He asks, lip curling. Castiel's heart rips.
"No," he says. "Never."
Dean snarls but says nothing.
"Dean, please," Castiel takes a step forward, but Dean gives him a look that dares him to approach any further. "Please listen to me."
"To what?"
"Whatever Lucifer told you, about me—about us—it wasn't true. He lied, he lies, of course he lies—he killed your father, and you'd believe what he has to say?"
"He told me the truth about Michael, about the Demon war," Dean points out, hands still clenched into fists.
"Not all of it!"
"Really?!" Dean shouts. His pupils are blown wide. "What did he miss out?"
"That I love you," Castiel pleads, above the rain. "That I have always loved you—that—that I know you by heart, Dean. I could never tire of you—"
Dean wrenches something from his neck and flings it to the soaked ground. Within Castiel's chest a bolt of lightning strikes, hard and sharp enough to burn away everything left within him. He stares at the broken cord of the necklace he gave Dean, to signify their engagement, rain spattering the iridescent gem at the end of it.
"Dean," Castiel cries, pleads. "Don't—please," he bends to pick it up and catches, mortified, the sight of the bands Dean gave him, the Heran signets of betrothal, at his wrists. His heart wrenches inside his chest, in the metallic glint at his wrist he catches sight of the knight, Lafitte's, armour, and Dean's parading the man in front of Castiel to poke and prod at his broken heart. In the weaving patterns stretched across them, he catches some echo of the hair of the servant girl Dean bound himself up with in front of Castiel to make clear his loathing for the Angel he once nearly called husband.
Castiel looks up to Dean again. The Human is watching him with stubborn, poisoned loathing. Castiel's breath catches, heartbroken, in his throat, and he rips off the bands and tosses them beside the stone in the downpour, rising to meet Dean's gaze.
"There," he says, voice uneven. "It's as you wish. Are you happy?"
Dean is staring down at the bands, line knitted between his brows like he hadn't expected to see them. Castiel is only mortified that he continued wearing them for so long—but then, he thinks, chest panging, Dean kept the necklace, all this time—wore it, an anchor to the past, a past they shared, and the bent refracted mirror of a future they once might have shared, too.
Is Dean thinking the same thing? Is Dean thinking Cas kept these bands, what does that mean? What's the only thing that it could ever mean? in the bright gold hum of his thoughts?
Castiel knows Dean's mind, knows the brass buzz of it. Surely this is where his mind must wander, now.
But Dean looks up to Castiel again, and the moment their gazes meet is like the pummel of a sword landing a blow to Castiel's stomach. Dean's lip curls.
"I hate you," he says, the rain making tears appear at his eyes. He paces past Castiel into the downpour, back into the castle.
Castiel stands, drenched, soul a storm. The sky is doubly murky, now. He gasps, but all the air in the world has turned to ash, and no breath will be enough.
He bends, picks up the necklace Dean threw, thumb grazing over the trapped starlight of the mixed gemstone, sweeping away a sheen of rainwater. The cord is sodden. His heart is sodden, tattered. He looks at the metal bands. If the stars fell to earth, now… It would not be such a terrible, unforgiving thing.
He stares at the bands, then at the necklace, tempted to throw it down beside them again. He can't bring himself to. He curls his fingers around it, presses it close to his heart, a cry catching in his throat. He looks up at the sky, to the rain pommelling down to earth like time. He turns to go inside. He leaves the bands where they lie.
…
Castiel returns to Evadne and resumes his training for combat. He is turning twenty-one very soon, and will be forced to choose either a mortal or an Angel life. To choose the life of a Human would be to live as he would have with Dean—the thought is too much for him to bear—and yet to live and Angel life would be to live for centuries, and live knowing every day what he so nearly possessed, now lost.
Both sound like agony.
The Mountains are cloaked with a wispy, white mist that at first glance makes the snow seem several feet thicker than it actually is. The mist settles heavy up to Castiel's waist and after that becomes light, delicate, translucent. He cannot see more than a few feet ahead of him as he climbs through the citadel which overlooks all of the mountains and valleys for miles. But Castiel cannot see the valleys, can hardly make out the other peaks, nor the snow covering them, nor the forests clambering up their sides, nor the lakes at their feet. Everything is obscured by fog, it is eerie and Castiel is sure that the townspeople can feel it too—something is wrong. Something bad is coming.
It's oddly cold and grows still colder for this time of year. Michael talks endlessly of provisions and winter foods—but it isn't winter and crops ought to be growing again. Scarlet bearberries and olive-drab herbs grow up the sides of the roads lower down the mountain, but little natural life thrives in the citadel, only the dark leaved trees and ghostly pale ones; little in between.
Castiel focuses on his training; it distracts him from Dean just enough to make getting through each day bearable—but it does nothing to comfort his oldest brother. Something distant grows in Michael's eyes every day, and when, one morning, Castiel sits down with his brother to break his fast, Michael turns to Castiel as if to speak, Castiel's heart drops with foreboding.
"Brother?" He asks Michael, attempting to keep his voice calm and earnest. Michael's expression is hollow.
"I fear we are to lose this war," Michael states dryly. He stares at Castiel but does not seem to truly see him, seems to be looking through his younger brother and at something far off in the distance.
"Why would you say such a thing?"
"Can you not see?—Or, more likely, are you too kind to point it out?" Michael laughs, rubbing his face with his hands. Castiel has never noticed the way Michael's voice bounces off the great white arches of the hall until now. "Demon forces are strong enough to counter our own, even without the addition of Dean to their armies. And with Dean…"
"But Dean is safe—"
"Safe now, but for how long?" Michael groans. "You cannot honestly expect him to be kept out of their reach forever, can you?"
"But we have warriors who can destroy their men—"
"With not so much ease as you would think," Michael sighs. "Their footsoldiers, certainly, are as flies are to our Garrisons—but footsoldiers are of little consequence—especially to the Demon generals or to our brother across the sea. No. I fear we have hardly seen the least of Lucifer's strength, thus far—I fear he has been biding his time for good reason—but why…"
"You knew him best, once…" Castiel points out. "Surely you can find some way of knowing."
"I did know him, once," Michael admits. "But now I have lost him forever."
"There is no use in—"
"I have lost him, just as I lost—"
"Michael—"
"I know what I must do," Michael sighs, "and yet I cannot do it. The prophets were right in their teachings: to feel is weakness. I have been weak, and continue to be just so."
"Because you cannot kill your brother?"
"I have pretended to you for twenty years that I know my heart and have tamed it. It is but another of my lies."
"It's no sin to find killing—"
Michael sighs and places his head in his hands.
"You will learn, Castiel, that the people you love are only weapons to be used against you." Michael looks up at Castiel. His pale eyes seem almost white. "Better learn it sooner rather than later." A beat of silence. He sighs. "Whatever happens to Dean, I need you to remember that."
…
The following day, Michael is not in the kingdom. A servant knocks at Castiel's door and requests he follow; the King has left him with instructions for the day. Castiel expects much of it to be training or sitting in the Great Hall with advisers, listening to the Cherubim surrounding him quarrel over rationing for the winter or how best to deal with the latest bout of thievery—but the Angel does not lead Castiel to the Great Hall, nor does he lead him to the stadium or any of the combat grounds. The Malakim leads Castiel down into the heart of the palace, into the parts of Evadne that are carved into the rock itself, down ancient, chipped stone stairways that seem to have forgotten the touch of daylight upon their surface, down halls built before the record of time itself—into the catacombs that Castiel has always been forbidden from entering.
"Where am I being led?" Castiel asks at last, his feet echoing in the dust-covered halls of his surroundings. The only light comes from the Malakim's torch—it makes the statues around them dance with shadows; Castiel's skins prickles and he feels almost as though the eyes of the dead are upon him. "And what will be my purpose there?"
At first, the servant makes no reply. The sound of Castiel's footsteps become muffled by thick layers of dust and grit settled on the ground as they venture deeper into the heart of the mountain. This is close to where they keep the Grigori, locked away from sunlight and the eyes of the stars for the crimes they have committed. Castiel shudders again. The light from the flame continues to set the shadows around them into a haunting dance-macabre.
"The High King left me few instructions," the servant states as Castiel brushes the cobwebs sticking to the shoulders of his jet robes, pale grey against midnight-black. "But I am to take you to the Archives—to the Chambers keeping those Prophesies of What is to Come."
"The Prophesies?" Castiel asks, dumbly.
"Yes," the Malakim nods. "Though no further. If you should wish to venture forth on your own—that is for you to decide—I am not to tread any further than the entrance to the Prophecies of old. Those are ancient, holy places—it is said that none but the blood of the First Queen may venture there." The servant stops as they enter a great hall from which their tiny corridor has fed into, its ceiling wide and high above their heads, domed into the stone of the mountain. The hall's walls are made of a sandy coloured stone that seems to turn to gold in the flickering light of the torch. They stand at an enormous arched entrance into a room with no door. In the flickering light of the flame, Castiel can dimly make out lettering over it, though cannot decipher it. Something about it seems almost primordial.
"Oh," Castiel replies softly. "Have you any idea of what it is I am supposed to do?"
The Malakim shrugs and lifts a torch off the wall, lighting it with his own. He hands it to Castiel. Its handle is sticky with cobwebs. Castiel bites down on his disgust and takes it.
"To light the room, take your flame to the barrel there," the servant gestures. Castiel can hardly make it out in the dimness of the room ahead of him; he squints in the torchlight ahead and can just about discern a round shape about ten feet from the archway, just taller than his waist, and as wide as the ancient trees in the singing forests at the feet of Evadne; greater than the span of his arms. "Your brother has no other instructions for you, apart from that you read whatever you wish from here," the Malakim gestures to the inside of the room, "and answer whatever of your questions may remain."
"He said that?"
"Those were his words," the servant nods. "I shall leave you here, if there is nothing else you need, my Prince."
"Yes," Castiel nods distractedly. "That will be all, then." He turns back to the room and hardly notices the Malakim's leaving. He can only make out a few feet ahead of him, and steps cautiously into the room, towards the great rounded stone structure that appears more like a well than a barrel. Once again, centuries of settled dust muffle the sounds of his feet on the stone floor; he treads almost silently forwards, and dips his torch into the stone well, as was instructed. In the next second he has to jump back, partly out of surprise and partly to prevent himself from being burnt alive; bright blue-white flames shoot up from the barrel and touch the ceiling—which Castiel only now realises is almost fifty feet above his head. The black surface of the well bubbles and spits aggressively, the heat is immense, yet as quickly as the flames have sprung up they die down, and turn a golden-yellow the colour of the sun that the walls of this room have never known. The jet liquid in the well begins to settle, it no longer spits but rather simmers gently—and Castiel watches as tongues of flame wind their way along stone pathways leading out from the barrel, winding around the room which is infinitely bigger than Castiel had anticipated. Alleys of scrolls are lit up, shelves of rotting wood climbing up the walls and beyond Castiel's gaze, streets of stone tablets stretch beyond the ever-traveling light of the flame, which continue to wind their way along their chosen pathways. Some of the tablets are larger than doorframes at the front of castles, others the size of Human gravestones, others still no larger than the books Castiel is so used to reading. The room—no, hall—is larger by far than even the library of his home; perhaps it is even the size of the Great Hall.
But what could Michael possibly have planned for Castiel down here? And where has he flown—or perhaps fled—off to now? Is he carrying out duty, or avoiding it? Both are so typical of Michael, neither would surprise Castiel. The Angel sighs and resolves not to trouble himself with such questions—at least for now. He must carry out his duty, which is obeying his brother's commands. And those, apparently, are to familiarise himself with the ancient scrolls he had been forbidden to so much as enquire of in his youth.
Stepping forward to a great table at least twice as long as the one he and his brother dine at every night, Castiel picks up a scroll longer than his arm, which seems to have been deliberately set aside, and begins to unroll it.
In the reign of Adonael, It reads, High Ruler of The Great Mountains, Healer and Most Faithful servant of Abra, after the last of the Doaines, the Calls of old, before the Great Schism:
And then, in Ancient Enochian:
I, Adonael, humble servant of Abra, whom we know to be the Mother of All Things, whose names are Peace and Love, have been summoned by our Lady of Heaven to share with you my visions of the coming storm, and the darkness that is tomorrow.
We that are young in the world, as yet half formed, are blessed to never live so long.
In darkest times we do find that sunlight forms most richly, diamonds shine most brightly, candles burn most brilliantly, so shall it be with love. When all seems gone to hell inside of us, love is that which shall redeem. Just so, there shall come two loves, alike in heart if not in kind, who shall prove just this. Humanity in Angel form, Heavenly in Human: these two shall shake the foundations of our earth and bring either storm or peace. Though a coin when tossed may land on but one side, tempests leave in their wake stillest waters and brightest dawns, and sunlight gives way to hurricanes.
From the Kingdom of our chosen warrior shall come the beloved one; most beloved by the one from the Kingdom of first goodness. For the Angel with Human heart the sky shall seem to burn as it did for Aoveae when her beloved passed from this world and into the next. Under these two lovers our earth shall quake, both of the promised wielding power neither can fathom; dragons shall crawl out from under the sea and from the heart of mountains, the Great Lion shall awake again and we shall tremble. War, war, war of the heart and of all the lands we know will come in the time of Angels, war as we have never known, or peace as we have never known.
By the grace of the Mother of All Things, may we find peace. And the Angel afraid of falling, the Human afraid of flying, shall lead us there, and into paradise. So saith our Mother. May it be. Peace be upon you, all you nations under Abra, the Lady of the Heavens. As sure as Her name is Love so it shall be, and we shall witness it from the skies; indeed, we shall watch all this from paradise.
Your humble servant,
Adonael
So saith Adonael, the Great Healer, in the first vision of the next coming.
A second prophecy follows just below this.
I have already written, concerning those things of which are to yet come. This day Abra has visited me again, and once more blessed me with the task of passing on great truths, that they may be used for good, rather than harm. Blessed is Her name.
In the time of Angels shall come one with the healer's hands, born under the fourth star, the morose planet, a warrior and Angel of the Lord, who shall gather all the kingdoms of the earth under a Human of the valley, a righteous man. Their hearts shall govern them, as Aoveae was governed, and through them we shall find rest and sleep, rest and sleep at last, or fall into terror. This is what the Lord has told me. One may not live without the other, yet both shall perish for each other. This shall be the way; and so the stars shall sing in sadness. The Angel, fallen from grace, shall take no pleasure in the world at the loss of the righteous man. Whole worlds apart shall they be, and only when all seems gone to hell shall these two worlds collide. At the dawn of time, Abra marked out these two in the stars and planets and drew their paths into the soil, for this is what She has told me. We cannot know Her will, only obey it; so I say to you: mark Her will—the Angel who bears the crest of Humanity, born into royal blood, shall stand at the Edge of Doom with the Righteous Man—and either fall, or fly. With these two shall we follow.
I cannot tell you the meaning of all these things; they are for another to interpret, and bear need for another's eyes; I can see but cannot understand, another may understand that cannot see. By Abra's grace may we not fail, may they not fall—yet Her will be done, not ours.
Adonael
After the first of the Great Schisms, during the reign of Erathaol of the Celestial Mount, which is now lost, the Great Teacher Bataivah came and advised the Blue King of all that which had passed, was passing, and was yet to be:
So saith our God there are to be some Twelve Kingdoms, and yet we know ourselves of only eight; I say to thee, another vision has bestowed mine eyes: that we eight shall fall yet in our time another rise to bring us nine—this kingdom ninth beside the howling sea shall guide the waves and so be named. The tenth—across the sea and desert red shalt sleep with fire in its bed and yet refrain from coming war. Our fifth shall fall with lion's roar, and from it rise again a younger brother, a boy with Demon blood who shall with heartache never know his mother. This boy, in wake of war and terror, shall rebuild our world and in turn change all things: for either good or bad, dependent on his error. The Eleventh Kingdom has lived long, yet to cause another harm, but from its sleep shall wake and for the fifth seek vengeance like a first summer storm. All lands, but ready to decay, weary of our worlds, look west at last and see, across misty ocean, river, sea, the Twelfth Land, older than the rest, younger by far, and rising shining from the ash of war.
In this Twelfth Land shall we peace find, led by one of every kind, Angels shall with Humans sleep, Humans shall with Demons weep, and all with one another live, Abra's final gift to give before we to the stars return.
Over this Land shall rule two lovers, the two foretold in time ago by most beloved Adonael, Servant of God, Healer of the People, Faithful to the last. We do not know the day; though mountains shall quake and the earth itself tremble before the two, different in kind, shall bring peace to the land.
As for the terror of which I spake, the trembling and then the storm that shall cut across our world—
This is where the scroll cuts off. Castiel stares, infuriated at it, for what seems like an age. The words inscribed with shimmering gold in the ancient tongues of Angels past are torn, half of the scroll is missing; the words before the snagged, feathery parchment curl in on themselves. Castiel runs his fingers along the tear. His mind feels oddly still.
He thinks of how Michael told him of Lucifer stealing half of the prophesies, apparently on the subject of Castiel and Dean—could these be the prophesies Michael spoke of? And does Castiel believe that Lucifer stole the missing half of this scroll? Or could Michael have torn it away, not wishing for Castiel to read any more?
He sighs and runs his thumb along the rip once more. The parchment, so old it is nearly brown, is leathery between his fingers. Castiel turns to the rest of the room. He has a lot of reading to do, and a whole new library at his disposal. He ought to get to work.