21.8

 

Looking back at him, she sees the creases around his eyes and mouth, visible from this close but not from any further away. She tries to concentrate on him, but the Nephilim’s thoughts are as addictive as followers to an influencer, and she feels the allure of it deepen. She is recognised. The Nephilim remembers her, the Mantle remembers s. More than that, they respect her. Why is she seeking recognition amongst the society of humans when she already has the respect due a Horseman?

She feels the pull of it again and sees herself reflected through their respect. Through their eyes she remembers travelling through Shinar after Eden was laid bare, where the plants wilted beneath her feet. The people who dwelt there pleaded with the Creator to bless the land and formulated a plan together. She remembers the tower they built of bricks of hardened mud and river clay; how it rose into the clouds with the urgency of their need to talk to Him. How he sent his Horsemen to separate the tribes of me and give each tribe a different language, so they could never again cooperate with each other and threaten to equal Him with the products of their creative abilities.

She and her siblings travelled through the land there and struck down the tower while the tribes bickered and fought and turned to bone and dust. In seeing herself through their eyes, she remembers the shape she wore then; the shape she abandoned and though she could outrun, but how could she ever outrun the turning of the wheels of Destiny?

Steve’s frown lines deepen as his grip tightens. “Fight it,” he tells her. “Stay with us. Don’t go to it.”

Is it regret she feels when she shakes her head, or pity? She almost remembers Steve as he was before; when he was thin, poor, covered in the cheap ink they derived from soot and wine vinegar and stinking of ale and piss. He went by a different name then, a name which is on the tip of her tongue but remains elusive. Her voice matches her indecision. “It knows me.”

Steve’s breath catches. “That’s exactly why you shouldn’t.”

She smiles softly. He means well, but he doesn’t understand what being a Horseman is. To her belongs the fate of the world and the turning of the pages of the world. He thinks he knows better than she does what her existence is for, and it does bear some further consideration. She takes a step back.

And doesn’t.

She shifts her weight, tries to pull her shoulders away from Steve’s grip, tries to turn her body away from the Nephilim but her legs don’t obey her and her feet don’t move. The pull she is experiencing is not physical — it’s identity. The same reason an orphan is driven to know who their mother might be or the reason a member of a crowd holds up a flag of solidarity. The compulsion she feels is the gravity of recognition.

Steve’s eyes flick downward. He can see the way her muscles tense but don’t obey, and his grip becomes tighter still. His jaw tightens. “Roisin, please. Don’t let it take you.”

She looks past him again, into the liquid eyes of the Nephilim. She can see her reflection there, but not in the human skin she is wearing, but in the shining, triumphal form of the angel she once was. She looks back at Steve and shakes her head. “It’s not taking me.”

“Then what is it doing?”

Steve’s top lip tightens against his teeth, exposing the intricate dental work he’s had done. She can see past the crowns and bridges to the bone posts embedded for long into his gums that they’ve fused with his jaw. There is nothing left of the teeth he was born with. He steps closer, chest‑to‑chest with her now, and tries to block her view of the Nephilim entirely. “Roisin, listen. Whatever that thing is, whatever it wants—”

She cups one of his cheeks. Yesterday, she thought him overweight. Now, he looks gaunt from fear and loyalty to someone he considers a friend, if not family. “It doesn’t want anything,” she murmurs.

“That’s worse.”

She meets his eyes for the third time and for a moment — just a moment — she sees him clearly again. She sees his stubborn, human determination to keep her anchored to a world she no longer fits inside. He’s trying to save her but he doesn’t understand what she is.

What she was.

What she could be again.

She whispers, “Steve… I’m not in danger.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t know that.”

Roisin glances past him. The eyes of the Nephilim of the eyes of her horse, and it has known her longer than she has known herself. She feels the pull again — stronger, deeper, inevitable; the arms of a mother pulling a drowning child from a river. Her voice is barely audible. “I do. I No. know what I am.”

Softly, she kisses his forehead. Chastely, like a nun blessing a child in her care. “It’s reminding me.”

It’s his turn to shake his head. The lines around his eyes deepen. “Of what?”

Her smile is golden. “I’m a fucking angel.”

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