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It starts with curiosity.
Admittedly, Itherael isn't so familiar with this emotion.
Despite their role as the Archangel of Fate, Knower of What Would Be, they rarely felt the urge to know more. Their role was to observe. It wasn't the kind of thing they felt much of anything about, other than perhaps a vague sense of purpose and duty. Reading the Scroll only brought them as much pleasure as it did to do something correctly. They were not in the habit of feeling anything about what they'd read, either.
Over the years, they'd gotten used to knowing. Reality presented itself to Itherael , and they would read it readily to their fellow angels, to do with as they saw fit. Pursuit of knowledge was more Malthael's domain, or perhaps Auriel's . But Itherael...it was rare they had to search.
It was rare that they didn't know something. Possibility was their domain, and when anything and everything was possible, nothing was so interesting.
Then, Sanctuary happened. The nephalem happened.
Apparently, someone else happened. Someone not in the Scroll.
Itherael only learned of Rathma long after an angel and a demon had joined together to forge him of their union. Learning something knew, of someone new, was a rather unique feeling. It wasn't often that anyone new came along, not anymore. No one had ever existed outside of the Scroll before.
They weren't certain what to feel about it. Interested, perhaps.
The Heavenly Host finds their Renegade's world. They attack. Itherael lends a hand in halting this attack.
After all, for the first time in a very long time, something new has presented itself. Something they've never seen before. Never even considered.
And so, Itherael is curious.
***
Itherael should not be on Sanctuary. It is very, very much forbidden. If one of the others found out...well. Itherael knew thousands of reactions, but was also aware that some were far more likely than others.
Tyrael was actually already covering for them. Dependable as the stone withing the Diamond Gates, as they'd known he'd be. Auriel would likely approve of their involvement, even if she would wonder what had prompted them to act. Trust was in her nature. Imperius ...perhaps not so much. Concern for his siblings ever manifested itself as a need to control them. No, and if Imperius would not be happy to know Itherael was exploring the forbidden nest of heaven and hell's commingling, and Malthael would be positively furious. No one had ever directed these emotions at Itherael , the opportunity had never shown itself in their Scroll. How novel!
Turns out rebellion is a little bit exciting. At least, they think so.
Idly, they let themself imagine what Inarius and his ilk must have thought as they sang their new world into existence. The High Heavens had not needed to be built in such a deliberate way, but had rather moulded itself along with each new angel from the Arch. Creating Sanctuary must have been a very interesting venture indeed. What would it be like to command reality as one saw fit, as opposed to the other way around? Itherael couldn't fathom it.
***
It had been a vague hope that they might make acquaintance with the mortal called Rathma again. (Although, for them, these vague notions and feelings were truly quite momentous. Itherael was not used to hoping on their own - they had Auriel for that.) Their acquaintance had been brief, and they had not spoken to one another, but Itherael had taken note of the mortal, somehow different from his fellows, within the council chamber that day. He stood out. Itherael had to ask Tyrael who he was, and what a process that was. Usually, angels came to them with questions, not the other way around.
But Tyrael had known, and Tyrael had reluctantly told them. Inarius had a son.
Who would knew of this world better than its first child? Who could know what its creators had though, what they'd felt about this place?
Who better but the fateless to understand what Fate sought here?
Rathma was not in their Scroll. Itherael knew this for certain now, it was not merely a case of being overlooked. They had traced every line from Inarius's birth to when he'd disappeared from their view, and still could not see him. Without the sire to reveal the way, they'd been forced to look the old fashioned way; watching the possibilities roll on and on, seeking Sanctuary, seeking mortality. It would not reveal itself. Even now that Itherael knew exactly what they were looking for, they could not find it.
And the reasoning was quite simple; it wasn't there. Sanctuary was not in the Scroll. Did it have a Fate? It seemed not. But it existed, and must have had a future.
It was too interesting not to contemplate. The answers weren't in the Scroll of Fate, and they certainly weren't in the Heavens. Itherael had to go to Sanctuary.
As they breached the world, they marveled at their present state. Was Itherael in the Scroll, right now? Could they look at their own Song and see where they were? Somehow, they doubted it.
Thus, they flew through Sanctuary's periwinkle dawn, and were treated to quite a shock. To look upon the world and realize that not only were they being watched back, but by the one person they hoped to find, it almost seemed a hand of fate itself.
Yet.
If Rathma was surprised to see them, he did not show it, even as they alit before him. He did favor them with a hint of downturned lips though.
"I did not expect to find you." Itherael told him, honest.
"I did not expect an angel, so soon after your decree." Rathma responded, mild.
They could understand that. "I should not be here."
At that, the nephalem tilted his head to one side, and for a moment Itherael was reminded so strongly of Malthael that their wings nearly ruffled in greeting. Rathma's eyes flitted over the tendrils, squinting, pupil constricting.
"No, you shouldn't be." He agreed, before turning around. "Come along then." He set off towards a path, that surely led somewhere, though Itherael had seen no structures for miles in any direction.
"Where shall we go?" They asked, following easily.
"I have a study near here." Rathma told them. "I keep my answers there."
How exciting!
***
Rathma boils them a pot of tea. It is fragrant.
Itherael is uncertain what to do about this. They watch the mortal carefully as he pours a cup for himself, and then raises questioning eyes towards Itherael . There is a second, empty cup. Itherael nods their assent, and Rathma obliges.
Once they have the tea, they content themself to let it rest on the desk they are sat at. They are at a loss, but also very pleased. Rathma had laid out several documents and tomes, with little prompting. It seemed he had some idea of what to do with Itherael , which was quite fortunate, for they had little but that quiet sense of desire to go off of as to why they were there at all.
"These," Rathma tells them, "Are what I've unraveled so far." He slides several papers towards Itherael , with words printed finely in neat columns.
"Seen?" Itherael plucks up a page, delicate in their armored fingers, and marvels at the poem laid out before them. No, not a poem. A...prophecy.
- I saw my corpse -
- From my mouth crawled Hatred-
"I dream. I see things, now, then, before. It makes little sense at the time, so I write it here." He flips open a book, and the inside is perhaps the messiest thing Itherael has ever seen. Words, images, all jumbled together in charcoal and graphite smudges. It is chaotic, and yet, they find they can read the page easily. A Wolf, devouring its children. But who is the wolf? What are the children? Dreams are not so plain, of course.
Rathma is watching them, and sips his tea. Itherael has yet to touch theirs, but they consider it.
The mortal seems satisfied. "Once I have a concept, I can try to take it all apart, and put it back together." One hand sweeps over the assorted pages. Some are more illegible than others. "And when I have the final verse..." He tugs the page back out of Itherael's hand. "I record it."
"You have created your own Scroll." Itherael surmises, suddenly delighted. Rudimentary, but effective enough "To record your own Fate. This is why I cannot see you."
Now, Rathma looks puzzled. "The Scroll of Fate? Is that what you speak of?"
Itherael hums agreement. "Not Sanctuary, nor mortality have ever graced its page. I have wondered over it."
Rathma looks over his own work, the words and ideas and futures he'd scrawled onto simple pulp paper. It seemed a wildly impossible thing, that his own idle speculations could equate to the purpose of an Archangel. Then again, it wasn't only his dreams and thoughts he had recorded here.
"Is this why you have come?" Rathma asks, curious now.
"It must be." Itherael agrees. "The Answer, as ever, provides itself."
***
Itherael does not belong to Sanctuary. They should not be here.
Nonetheless, they return every seven days. Sometimes five, if they suddenly struck with a fit of desire. Somehow, Rathma always seems to know, and is back at his study to greet them. Talk to them. Entertain and confound them.
He gives Itherael tea, each time. The first two, they simply don't know what to do about it, and can only enjoy having it in their possession. But this causes his companion to withhold the substance, and that displeases them. Displeases them! No such small thing has caused them offended distress in eons! It is refreshing. And yet they simply do not know what to do when he does not offer them tea, anymore than they know what to do when he gives it to them.
Rathma only blinks up at him. "I could only assume you didn't like it, considering you've never drank it. But here, if it pleases you so much." He pours them their cup again, slides it across the desk.
"I've never drank anything before." Itherael confesses, even as they cradle the cup in their massive hand like its something precious. It is a fragile thing, porcelain they think, delicately decorated with a swirling silver design.
They look up, and find Rathma staring at them, face blank, utterly unreadable.
The nephalem is a strange creature. He is as both his parents, and yet nothing like them at all. From what he says of it, all of Sanctuary can be like that. One moment it seems to mirror the Heavens, the next it is utterly unique. Hell bleeds through for a day, and yet is nowhere to be found the next. Sanctuary is its own self. Rathma is...calm. He is still, as the skies above the Silver Spire. Yet there are times when Itherael can feel a turmoil within him, just beneath the surface, before the mortal contains whatever disquiet lives within him.
He is a curious creature.
Itherael has found it in themself to be a curious angel.
"The angels have restorative tonics, don't they?" Rathma asks, although its not really a question. "I know you have the ability to drink. Or at least, your species does."
"Such things are most common among Imperius's warriors." Itherael tells him. "But...yes, I suppose I...possess the ability."
Rathma only hums, and drinks his own tea. Then, he pulls out a book that looks newer than the rest.
"I started a new journal." He says, utterly dashing the previous conversation.
Confounding creature!
***
" Itherael , you really mustn't." Tyrael tells them.
"And yet, I shall." Itherael replies, the same way they always do. Their brother just sighs at them, and together they float towards where Itherael has stowed away their own waypoint.
"It is dangerous." Tyrael tries.
"I have not felt danger."
"There could be demons." Tyrael warns.
"I have not seen demons."
"We are forbidden." Tyrael insists.
"I have gone nonetheless. I shall go again."
"What would Imperius say?" Tyrael asks.
"That I really mustn't."
"What of Malthael ?" Tyrael cries.
"He would merely disapprove, before asking Imperius to deal with it."
"And if the both of them should find you missing?"
"They haven't before. And I have you to thank for that."
Tyrael hesitates, squirms. "Yes. And I shall continue to ensure your safety from them..."
Itherael beams at him. "And I shall continue to visit Sanctuary unaccosted ."
***
Rathma accosts them almost immediately when they touch down.
"Come along, come along." He calls insistently, beckoning with a hand. Never before has Rathma touched Itherael , but the thought of it sits better with them than they had expected. They are almost disappointed when the little mortal rushes on.
"What shall we do? Where shall we go?" Itherael asks, and follows, readily.
"There is a town nearby." Rathma tells them, almost conspiratory . "Other mortals. Humans. People. They are having a festival, I think you would enjoy the experience."
A festival? "There must be an occasion then."
Itherael
surmises. They are pleased to be invited; this is exactly the sort of thing they are interested in experiencing. Sanctuary's people.
"The last Harvest." Rathma explains. They delve into his study, and the nephalem produces a tome. This one is different from most of the others, in that Itherael can feel that a hand other than human wrote it. When they crack the cover open, they find Inarius's scrollwork staring back at them. They are holding a spellbook , penned by the renegade. His son watches them, expectant.
It is easy to find the page detailing how to make oneself as human as possibly. A complicated spell, but Itherael is an Archangel, and it is well within their capabilities. Even as their fingers light with power and they mutter spellcraft in soft undertone, Itherael is surprised by themself. The idea of becoming something more humanlike should frighten them. It should feel wrong.
The changes that take over their hallowed form are almost comfortable.
As a result of the effort, a short human stands where once there was a tall, imposing seraph. In front of them, another human. Rathma had also changed himself, something less perfect, less stark in contrast, easier to look at and absorb. Itherael looks down at themself, marvels at their own soft hands, and the comfortable robes around their body. Perhaps if they peeled back the layers of cloth, they would find supple amber skin, unmarred by scar or speck, warm and pliant.
They look up at their companion, and wonder at what was under his tunic and cloak. Skin, no doubt.
"Come. The festival awaits."
Rathma takes their hand.
***
Typically, Itherael only remains on Sanctuary for a few hours, half a day at most. They are always gone by the time the stars come out.
Rathma had once lamented this fact to them; he was confident they would find enjoyment in Sanctuary's starscape . Further than that though, Rathma seemed quite certain that the stars were a source of his dreams, sometimes. It almost seemed he knew something else, something he wasn't telling Itherael . They had the good sense not to ask. Not until they'd seen these stars for themself anyway.
The night of the Harvest Festival, Itherael stayed well into Sanctuary's night. Tyrael will be furious! Rathma took them out, under the stars, a mere sliver of moon. It's as though they're drunk on the world. They've drank nothing, but absorbed sight and smell and gripped sweat-damp skin in their soft human hands, clutched Rathma's arm tight so as not to be somehow lost in the mess of humanity. The nephalem had simply huffed and shook his head, amused, but let himself be clutched while showing Itherael dozens of things they could never imagine. What a place Sanctuary was! And they were only experiencing a small sliver of it.
When faced with reality, the poems and prophecy Rathma had shared with them seemed terribly drab. The Scroll of Fate seems empty. Life on Sanctuary was full.
They wander through the woods together. Rathma has his face lifted towards the sky, and Itherael alternates between watching him, and watching the stars. At one point, they could swear they catch the stars looking back at them. Perhaps Rathma was correct about them being a source of his dreams, although Itherael was not confident it was only stars up there now.
They come to a hill. With utmost drama, Rathma throws himself down, onto his back, face to the sky. He is looking up at Itherael now.
They really should go home. To the Heavens.
Instead, Itherael curls down next to the strange mortal that shared his visions of humanity's fate, and shared the reality of Sanctuary with them.
The Scroll of Fate feels awfully, wretchedly empty these days. Oh, it shows them the past and future of all angels, but they've come to a realization. Ever the course of working with a mortal mind, Itherael has learned to approach things differently, to fit the contexts at another angle.
They can see the destruction now. The endless, pointless death. They can hear the whispers of prophecy in the back of their mind, sinister and sinuous.
- And at the End of Days-
-The first sign shall appear in the Heavens-
What a horrid thing to live with.
Before, the strands of Fate had merely been a tool, their reality to record and discard and offer up to the other to do with as they saw fit. It had never mattered so much before.
Now...they can see cost. They can see loss. They can feel regret.
Beside them, mortality is fragile and strong, lifeblood pumping in defiance of reality, existing despite what should not be.
Itherael clings to it.
They feel Rathma stir beside them, and they feel soft lips on their forehead.
It feels like benediction.
"You and I, we understand." Rathma mutters against their skin. "We are alike."
It is the truth.
"It is wretched." Itherael tells him, regretful for having said it.
"And yet, we endure it anyway."
Carefully, Itherael tucks their face into his neck, under his chin. He can feel Rathma's heartbeat just under his skin, and closes their eyes.
The price of curiosity, was to know.