AN: It has been almost exactly 4 years. I was tempted to wait three days to make it an exact anniversary, but figured y'all had been waiting long enough.

I don't really have an excuse other than college sapping my brain, and returning to real life afterwards, along with this being the most difficult story I've ever written, but, here I am, and it's all thanks to you wonderful readers and your brilliant comments that have kept me motivated to not give up.

~x~

it gets old when you talk to the sun in a tongue understood by no one

They rebuild their village after the Frost Giant attack, and Hugleikr, Aðalsteinn, and Vigdís are revered as gods-blessed heroes in the aftermath. Hugleikr never knows if he is more amused or bitter at the legends that are told and retold of their bravery and strength. Of the way they were greeted by one of the gods as an equal. The Asgardians are not like The Others, but he grows weary of the reverence shown to all powers who like to meddle on Earth.

He dreams of a day when the truth of the 'Gods' will be known, but does not know if it will ever come to pass. Not all futures are clear to him.

Life continues much the same, although he and his lovers are burdened by the ache of power in their veins. It weighs heavy with possibility and burns for release that is many centuries away. Only the touch and presence of each other soothes the itch, and Hugleikr fights death when it comes, sinking unwilling into the blackness between lives.

That same power binds them closer, stronger than the curse The Father laid on them. It grants him glimpses of their lives without him. Glimpses that soothe and sting. Seeing them will never not be sweet, but looking and not touching was a skill he lacked long before he was mortal. Flashes of pain he cannot ease hurt bitterly, and he is grateful when they are drawn together again less than two centuries later.

He is born as Lu Da, in the city of Weizhou under the reign of the Song Empire. His family are land holders so he is given the opportunity to take the exams for government service. He purposefully does poorly, having no desire to rise in status. Instead he joins the military, serving in a local garrison and living for the moments in which he sees the others.

Something holds him back from seeking them out, some hint of vague prescience, until he has no choice.

Many officials and other individuals of status abuse their power in the Empire, and his tolerance for witnessing the suffering of others without interfering is at low ebb. On his way home one evening he runs into one such injustice. Before he has time to process his actions, there is blood on his hands and a body on the ground. A girl professes her thanks with effusive gratitude and no small hint of fear. He assures her that he means her no harm, and seeks no reward, and sends her away before the body can be discovered.

His position will not save him from his actions and so he flees, feeling only relief. These lives of theirs, so fragile and fleeting, feel more transient and unimportant every year—stepping stones on the way to a future that is both aggravatingly distant and yet so close he can taste the freedom.

His other halves are out there, the only people who make every year bearable, and it is time he finds them again. The glimpses of his lovers, together and happy in this life, do not come with a convenient sense of direction, and so he wanders. He is drawn to a monastery, memories of Tenzin and a rare friendship luring him with hope of finding similar peace.

They are cautious of a stranger with military bearing, but the abbot seems to share some of the clear sight Tenzin had and he is eventually welcomed. When he becomes a monk, they give him the name Zhishen, and he considers staying.

But the peace of the monastery cannot subdue his restlessness, nor the sparks within him that yearn for the two who are bound to his soul. The abbot senses his disquiet and sends him to the Royal Temple in Dongjing, the capital of the Song Empire.

Bandits attack him on the way there, angry men he does not want to kill. He does not want to die either, not willing to sacrifice a chance at another life with his lovers, so he lets some of what he is slip loose from the confines of his mortal flesh. The gleam in his eyes and the unexpected speed of his blade dissuades them from continuing the attack, and his own distaste for violence stops him from claiming their lives anyways when the power wants more.

It a struggle to leash it again, to ignore the desire to see just how close he is to what he was. But the others are not with him and they are not ready for what it will mean when they are no longer hiding who they are.

They are close, though not by a human scale, and the prize they are fighting for is worth a little more patience. However much it chafes.

In Dongjing, he is assigned the task of maintaining the temple's garden. It is a pleasant duty, but his restlessness is worse than it was at the monastery and the itch beneath his skin for the others is growing to a fever pitch.

Until Lin Chong and his wife Meng Xiu Ying stroll into the temple garden and turn that fever into a raging fire with the warmth of their smiles. It's the middle of the day and he can't touch them, can't revel in their presence as he so desperately needs to. But knowing they're there, that he found them when he wasn't looking, is enough to see him through the long hours until he can.

Lin Chong is a martial artist and the instructor for the Imperial Guards. He and Meng Xiu Ying have a beautiful home in Dongjing and it is there that he goes as soon as the city is dark enough to hide in. The humming is louder, almost painful, until he feels their skin against his and then it is blissfully silent.

They welcome him without words, only warm mouths and persistent fingers. Happy laughs and eager moans follow them as they stumble through the house toward their bed, large and raised off the ground in the popular style of Dongjing.

Meng Xiu Ying traces the flower tattoos on his arms and chest with her tongue and Zhishen—once Lu Da, once Lucifer, once so many other names—shudders his release into Lin Chong's mouth.

"We missed you," she whispers against his mouth and he buries his hands in her silky black hair, holding her close as Lin Chong crawls up the bed to join them. He wraps his arms around them both, Zhishen warm and secure between the only two people in the world he has ever loved.

Life is better, after that. He still works the gardens, still feels the hum of awakened power thrumming beneath his skin. But he is not alone, and he is loved. They are careful, and close friendships are not unusual, so there is nothing untoward about the amount of attention and affection that they show him in public. And in private, there is no one to care how untoward their affections are.

It is almost perfect, as human lives go.

There is a man named Gao Yanei, the son of the Grand Marshal, who watches Meng Xiu Ying with lecherous eyes whenever he sees her. She does not need them to protect her, is more than capable of destroying him herself if she so desires, but that truth does not make Zhishen want to take his head off any less.

She tells them to ignore him, to not let his presence ruin their life together, and they, like the wise men they are, obey her.

Zhishen thinks she saw, what would happen, when his own happiness blinded him. Part of him wonders why she didn't tell them, why she didn't stop it—the rest is proud and amused. It would not do to forget all the long years that the curious, brave woman in the garden has survived on her way to becoming more dangerous than anyone he has ever met.

Gao Yanei is cleverer than they gave him credit for, and he baits a well-planned trap, luring Lin Chong away and invading their house while only Ming Xiu Ying is home. His cleverness is not enough to make up for his stupidity. When Lin Chong and Zhishen arrive home, half-frantic, he is disemboweled on the wooden floor while Ming Xiu Ying cleans the blood from underneath her elaborately painted fingernails.

"I believe he had companions who knew his plans. We should probably run," she tells them, her lips curved into a perfect smile.

Zhishen laughs, helpless to contain it, as Lin Chong tugs her to her feet and kisses her thoroughly, ignoring the blood staining her silk robe. "Whatever you think best, my love," Lin tells her, and Zhishen nods, staring down at the body at their feet and laughing again.

It is not the first time they have run, and he knows it will not be the last. And it is certainly for a worthy cause, one that grows in the days that follow. Other than when the lives they are born to require it, they have not meddled in human affairs. They have not sought to change the course of history, to stop or start wars, to do anything other than survive and love and wait.

But more than just their powers, and their bond, has changed.

They have claimed this world as their own: theirs to fight for, theirs to protect, theirs and only theirs to meddle with.

And so when they have run far enough, they stop. And when they stop, they begin to plan. It is not only inhuman injustice they intend to protect their chosen people from, but also the injustices they deal out to each other. They have all witnessed far too many abuses of authority in the great Song empire. Nor are they the only ones who have fled in the face of imprisonment or death.

It is among these other lost souls, mortal but not weak, that they find allies against the empire they have chosen to resist.

The most difficult part of their little rebellion is thinking small. They could overthrow the entire empire, if they wanted. But they don't think they should. They have no desire to become rulers, or to dictate the course of human history. But they are tired of seeing people hurt, by so-called gods or by each other.

Those in power wanting for nothing while the poor struggle in labor that barely meets their needs is not new. But the impressive size, sophistication, and organization of the Song empire, while bettering many lives, only enhances the divide between the top and bottom strata of society.

Food is the most important issue, and the one they focus on first. Ever growing and thriving cities creates increasing demand for food, and also draws away large portions of the laborers needed to produce that food. The result is that the farmers, fishermen, and others still residing in the country have to work harder to produce more food, most of which is sold or claimed by the owners of the land they work, leaving them with too little for themselves and their families.

They raid caravans of food headed for the cities, always careful when gifting it so no one can accuse the farmers of stealing back their own food. They steal money too, large sums meant for bribes and other forms of corruption. Their reputation spreads and with it comes information, the names and crimes of men like Gao Yanei, who abuse their power and positions.

When it ends, their revolution of redistribution, it is in pitched battle with the united might of the Imperial Army. And instead of death, they are offered mercy—if they choose to serve in the war against China's enemies, the invading Khitan peoples.

Zhishen, Lin Chong, and Ming Xiu Ying allow their people to make their own choices, but have no need to discuss theirs. Fighting, even killing, to prevent the oppression of those they can protect was not a difficult decision. But serving as soldiers in the wars between empires they know will fall to time and the inevitable progress of history is not a choice they are ready or willing to make.

They are not anyone's weapons, not anymore.

They slip away in the middle of the night, evading all attempts at pursuit in the weeks and months to come until they are far enough away in distance and time that the Empire is no longer willing to spend resources to reclaim them. They make their way west, travelling by night to avoid the attention their foreign appearance will bring in European lands.

When they stop it is in a densely forested area, as far from the closest village as they can manage. The trees are old and green and the smell of the earth is familiar. He sees the same memories in the eyes of his lovers and smiles. It is not the forest in which they spent their first life together, but it is so similar that the difference in time and location do not matter.

They dig into the ground, building their new home in the same fashion as the haven they created so many millennia ago. There they live out their remaining years in these skins, warm and safe in a world of their own making.

Zhishen dies last, savoring each memory of the peace they found, and the rebellion that preceded it. Soon they will not need to hide in order to make change, nor to find rest after.

The need for the others does not cut as sharp in his next life, but his worries and fears for the future are a constant fire in his soul.

Okoro has never questioned his identity. He was created with a purpose. Unlike the mortals who so fascinated The Father, he never had to wonder about his role, his reason, his future. After the fall, he had a new purpose, ready made. Michael, and then Eve. They were his purpose, his reason, his future.

They still are. But there is so much more that he wants now, so much more for all of them to be. And he is struggling as he has never struggled in knowing who he is. He is not The Father. They are not The Father, or The Others. But they are more than mortal, even as they are tied to mortal forms. And there is much they could do for humanity, if there is a way to do so without becoming like those who merely see humans as toys in their grand games.

He thinks they can be better than The Father, in every way that matters. He's afraid they could be worse.

"The Great Deceiver. Lying to yourself these days?" the voice is vibrant and amused, but harsh, a judgment not a greeting.

A woman has risen from the ground beside him, the taste of Her power as deep and rich as the earth beneath their feet. Her skin is darker than his, brown that appears black in the moonlight. She is adorned in precious metals and vibrant paint, and the air around Her is perfumed with the scent of clay and palm oil. She is Ala, Goddess of the earth and ruler of the underworld and he bows his head under the weight of Her gaze.

"That title is itself a lie," he responds when the silence lengthens. "At least in the way The Father meant it."

"And yet it has become true, has it not?" She says, still watching him with fathomless eyes. "You are not Okoro. You are not a farmer. You are certainly not human. Your every breath is a lie."

He grimaces, looking away. She is not wrong in fact, and while he could argue the difference that intent and necessity make on the definition of deception, he's not sure it's an argument he would win with a Goddess whose purview includes morality. That has never been his area of expertise.

"You fear to become The Father who created and abandoned you, but you make the same mistakes. His arrogance bred true."

His head snaps back to look at Her, anger flaring, but the look in Her eyes seals his lips.

"Who are you to decide the future for a race you do not belong to? Who are you to decide what's best for them?" Her words are blows and he flinches as She leans toward him, invading his space with the heavy press of Her power. "The Father made many mistakes, and no one can dispute your claim to justice. But do not presume to make yourself their new God, nor dictate who and what they are allowed to believe in."

"I don't-" he starts to defend himself, then stops. Perhaps he is lying to himself. Had he not wished to expose the truth of all The Others? And what truth? Are the humans wrong to call them Gods? How else would they view beings of such power?

There is a gleam of something like satisfaction in Her eyes as She watches him. "I will be watching, nameless one; I expect you to fail, but do try to surpass my expectations." Then She's gone, the scent of palm oil lingering in the air around him.

He stares up at the sky, the countless stars whose countless names in languages long dead rest beneath his tongue. They stare back, silent and bright, and he shudders. Time is the heaviest burden to bear, heavier than vengeance, heavier than loss. What can be said of the time behind him, stretching for years beyond number? What will they do with the time ahead, the march of future possibilities that flicker behind his eyelids, changing with every breath he takes.

He closes his eyes, blocking out their light, and focuses on the intangible bonds to his other selves, pretending they are there beside him, sharing their strength.

They will not fail. And they will not repeat The Father's mistakes.

There are plenty mistakes of their own to make, he thinks with a twist of his lips, but then that is what makes humans unique. Not the ability to fail, but the ability to learn and grow from it as The Father never has.

Okoro never sees Ala again, not until he is old and withered and She comes to watch his last breath with cold eyes, his soul not Hers to claim.

The weight of her gaze stays with him as he is born again.

France in the thirteenth century is deeply religious and the power of the Catholic Church is absolute. It makes Estienne's skin itch, the constant reminder of The Father's power, the evidence of how pervasive His influence has become.

Images of the devil, Satan as he has been named, are everywhere. Twisted figures with horns and the legs of a goat or a chicken. If it wasn't so infuriating, it would make him laugh, these ludicrous caricatures of evil.

He is staring at one such image, in a shop window, when Eve finds him.

~x~

Cateline's mother is a shopgirl and her father does not exist, in a legal sense. Cateline's mother does not speak of him, but Cateline believes he is a priest and her lips twist as she watches the men performing services, wondering which one forsook his vows and callously disregarded the consequences.

Life for a bastard peasant girl, even in Paris, is not easy, and it is in the spiritual women of the local Beguinage that she finds succor. She does not share their belief—or rather their faith, as she knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that The Father is real—but she appreciates their dedication to community, and the freedom they have found in a commune of only women. She has lived many lives in which women had power equal to or greater than men, but this church founded by The Father's lies blames all of 'Eve's' descendants for her great sin, and it is rare indeed for women to find any freedom in its domain.

The Beguines are not nuns, they make no vows of chastity or poverty and are not bound to the church. Women of faith, they devote themselves to prayer and good works, living together under the guidance of a Grand Mistress. They are free to leave and wed at any time, but can choose to remain unwed and serving as long as they wish. It is not an easy life, but Cateline is undeterred by hard work, and feels no guilt at directing her devotions inward toward the things she Sees instead of to a God she will never serve again.

Once accepted into the Beguinage, she has no intention of leaving for yet another life as a submissive wife to some devout Parisian shopkeep, even if one would have her. She stands firm in that intent until she is returning from the hospital for destitute women and finds Lucifer staring at an elaborately inked representation of the devil, resigned fury etched into every line of his face, and cannot help her smile.

She takes his hand, still smiling as he turns toward her, anger fading into surprise and then joy as he pulls her close into the warmth of his body. "Mon amour, es-tu mariée?" he murmurs against her lips, so close she can taste the words.

"Non," she tells him, savoring the touch of his skin against hers, the feel of his spirit, grown more potent with every year. It will not be difficult to convince the Grand Mistress that she's been swept off her feet; her love for him is brighter than the sunlight shining off the puddles in the road.

It is a sweet life, marred only by the necessity of maintaining the appearance of religious devotion and, of course, the aching emptiness of their missing third. They have one child, a daughter who is doted on and who eventually chooses to join the same Beguinage her mother had once belonged to.

Her next few lives pass in a blur, the years without her lovers just more empty moments in a life longer than she likes to contemplate. She's a copper worker in a city filled with great mounds, a Countess in a feud with a scorned suitor, and a woman of a tribe of seafaring islanders, traversing from one home to the next, until she loves the scent of the wind and the waves and knows she will miss them in every land-locked year she lives after.

She's not sure who is more surprised, her or the Asgardian, when she literally runs into the man on the streets of Seville. The city is under what feels like constant construction, and navigating the streets involves careful avoidance of building materials and the gangs of men in charge of them. She is slipping down a side alley toward her estate when she collides with him. He is shorter than her, but catches her with surprising strength, enabling them both to remain standing with all belongings intact.

She is already mouthing reflexive gratitude when the taste of his power hits her. She stops, mid-sentence, and stares at him with eyes as far from human as he is. He smiles, sheepishly, and raises his shoulders in a half-shrug. "I suppose lying to you is out of the question, then."

"Quite," she answers, her lips quirking into a dry smile. "Why is an Asgardian here? I have not felt any signs of an incursion."

"Uh, no, there's no incursion that I can use as a convenient excuse to get you to leave for your own safety."

She arches an eyebrow and he grins. "Not that you would, of course. I see I'm not the only one who was a warrior in a past life."

"But no longer?" she asks, her smile warming by a notch, curious about this man who seems so different from the others she has met from his realm. She is sure that there are Asgardian scholars and artists and craftsmen, just as there are among the humans, but they rarely have cause to come to Earth.

His answering smile is a bit pained. "No, no longer. There is only so much blood one can shed before it becomes entirely too exhausting. Although none of my brethren seemed to share my opinion on the matter."

She snorts, not sure if she agrees more with him or his brethren. It depends on the life, mostly, on the roles she must play in societies where women are rarely allowed to shed any blood other than their own. But she has seen echoes of this man's weariness in Michael's eyes, his reluctance to wield a blade in the countless wars humans commit on each other, and she can understand his desire for peace after a lifetime of violence.

"You should join me for a meal and we can discuss past lives, one former warrior to another," she says, tipping her chin at him, and his face brightens.

"Yes, I'll bet a bottle of my finest wine that you have wonderful stories." He offers her his arm and she laughs and takes it—she's a widow, with wealth and property of her own, and no reputation she cares to maintain.

"Wonderful ones, and terrible ones, and many in between. We will most certainly need more than one bottle of wine." She smiles at him, sharp despite the dimples in her cheeks. "My late husband was quite the vintner, one of his few good qualities."

"I shall withhold my condolences," he tells her, humor lurking in his pale eyes, and she laughs again. Friendship has not been a rare commodity in her lives, but the idea of a friend whose death she won't have to mourn, who she might see again once this skin has crumbled to dust, is a novel one. She thinks Michael and Lucifer will like him too, and hopes she gets the chance to introduce them.

For now, she leads him out of the alley toward her estate, coaxing him into telling her more of his own story as they walk.

They remain friends as she ages, reaching and surpassing his apparent physical years. She never remarries; despite the whispers about them, their friendship never extends into romance. Whispers that she's sure will only increase once it becomes clear than she left him her holdings in her will.

Causing scandal is the tamest possible use of her talents, and one she thoroughly enjoys right up until the moment of her last breath, drunk on her late husband's wine and laughing at one of Elliott's stories.

The world is dying when she wakes next, quelling the memories of warmth and happiness. Plague is spreading across Europe like wildfire, faster even than the religion of the Father had, all those years ago.

She does not succumb, protected by who and what she is, and under her patient and watchful care other lives are saved and deaths made more peaceful. Unlike her first life, where her skills were revered, here and now they fall under suspicion. She is no saint, no nun working under the auspices of the church, just a baker's daughter in Tarnów and whispers of witchcraft follow her every move until they are no longer whispers but the chants of a mob with pitchforks, led by a priest whose eyes burn with a fanaticism brighter than any torch.

Her father falls to his knees, begging for her life, and there are others she can see in the crowd who look uncomfortable—lives she has saved that now make no move to protect hers.

Her anger is a paltry thing, more than outweighed by exhaustion caused by nothing physical. Ignorance is as lethal as the black plague, and it has been responsible for many of her deaths over the centuries.

She is resigned to her death and does not protest or struggle as she is grabbed by rough, bruising hands and dragged toward the town square. There is a pyre built and she flinches, flooded with memories of lungs inflamed with smoke and skin blistered from heat. Fire is her least favorite form of death and for a brief moment she thinks about running, forcing them to kill her faster. She does not have the well honed muscles, or the weapons, of her lives as a warrior, but some skills never fade.

There is something in the air, anger that has nothing to do with the pulsing hate of the mob, fueled by the priest's scathing condemnations, and her search for it loses her precious time. It is not until she is being tied to the stake that she finds his eyes, bright with anguish.

She knows he would tear them all apart if he could, less volatile than Lucifer, but far more protective, penance for the age he spent as The Father's Sword. The pain on his face eclipses the pain she knows is coming and she wishes she could touch him, soothe the hurt, hold him tight until the only burn she feels is the burn of his soul.

Heat flares around her, eager flames consuming the tinder beneath her feet, but the tightness in her throat has nothing to do with the caustic smoke that fills her nose and stings her eyes. She sees his fists clench and the flames explode, burning hotter than natural fire should, and then she sees nothing.

~x~

The crowd is grumbling, restless, awe at the fire's fury fading into dissatisfaction that they had been denied the pained screams of a witch's lingering death. He turns away, before anger can drive him to foolish, cruel violence, and finds that someone is watching him, and not the still roaring fire.

In the darkness it takes him a moment to place the face, strong features he has not seen in millenia and never in human guise, but when he does there is another explosion of flames, shocked and frightened cries filling the night air that he is utterly deaf to.

"I see your fire burns as brightly as ever, Michael."

"That's not my name anymore, Raziel" he bites out, long-banked fury rising in a red tide that threatens to consume this town and all who dwell in it. "Did you have a hand in this? Are we to be punished further?"

She raises her hands, eyes keen as she fearlessly meets his gaze. "I am not here at the Father's behest, nor do I wish you any harm."

Edmund's lips twist skeptically, bitterness and fresh grief coiling in his chest. "Do The Father's creatures know how to do anything else?"

Her smile changes the planes of her face, molding them into something sadder, more human. "They didn't. Before you. But some of us are learning now."

He studied her, tasting the spark of her power in the air. "You left." It was a statement, not a question, and she nodded.

"Yes. And I am not the only one. We don't have mortal forms, like you and Lucifer, but we don't have the power we did." Her smile sharpens. "He could not cut us off entirely, it was an unpleasant surprise. His displeasure has driven a few more out of His realm to join us on the ground."

Something that tastes like bitter satisfaction is burning on the back of his tongue, and relief and wariness are coiled in the tense lines of his muscles. It is hard, to trust, after more lifetimes than he can count of hating and fearing the Father and all of His agents. But he knows Raziel, as he knew all of the Father's carefully crafted weapons. He was the first, the oldest. He trained them, guided them, protected them, and pushed them. Raziel was always one of the fiercest of his soldiers, focused and determined, with a quiet wryness that was rare among them. Humor had never been a trait the Father prized.

And here she stands, free of His influence if she speaks true. Free to discover life outside the Father's shadow. And it is his lead, his and Lucifer's that she followed. Her and however many others who escaped the Father's greedy grasp, wings and some measure of power intact. He is surprised by the lack of jealousy he feels. The gaping emptiness of what he once was has faded over the years, never cutting as sharp for him as it did for Lucifer. And he would not sacrifice what they have found with Eve, and with other mortals over the years. However much their ignorance has cost him in this and too many other lifetimes.

"What do you want of me?" he asks, when the silence between them has stretched long enough, the bitter mutters of the dispersing crowd fading in the distance.

She shakes her head, dark hair swirling about her shoulders, shorter than he's ever seen it. "Nothing, we, I," she says, with barely audible emphasis, "just wanted you to know. That His hold has loosened. Or that perhaps it was never that strong and we just needed you to show us the way." She shrugs. "There are plenty who remain, who love Him and hate you for all you represent. But not all. And if you need us," she steps forward, her eyes burning with angelic fire. "You are still our captain, and we will come when you call."

He has held the fealty of countless soldiers in countless lives. He was created to lead others into battle, to guide armies to victory. He does not know if it is because of that purpose, or in spite of it, that this is what convinces him she speaks truth, that her vow calls to the fire inside of him that burns with a fierceness undreamed of by the smoldering flames behind him.

"I would be honored to lead you in battle once more," he says, nodding to her.

She grins, fierce and familiar. "I look forward to that day." And then she's gone and Edmund is left standing there, his back to the village that just murdered one third of his being and his head tilted up toward the sky and the echo of wings.

When the itch in his back has faded, he returns to the village. Gathering his things from the tavern, he leaves the way he came. He'd been sent here to apprentice to a local glassworker—the plague has driven many to travel far from their homes in search of work and distance from the dead—but there is no reason to stay now. Eve is somewhere else now, most likely too far to travel in this lifetime, and a child. But he might still find Lucifer, or, perhaps, one of the others who has left the father's side. Regardless, he no longer has the patience to finish out this life in a village, surrounded by humans willing to kill those who only want to save them.

He knows humans are capable of rising above their fear, of accepting differences as valuable. But the lethal expansion of the plague and the dominance of the Father's religion have encouraged the proliferance of ignorance and the violence it leads to. And he is more than tired of living under the Father's shadow.

So he walks into the forest and doesn't look back. Finding uninhabited land had grown more difficult, before the plague, but he has been surviving in these forests since before they had names on maps in king's palaces and he knows how to disappear.

This life fades into peaceful obscurity; a small home in the depths of the forest, wood carvings no one else will ever see, and years to wonder about the Father's realm and all that has transpired there since Michael chose Lucifer and the humans over his creator's will. He cannot imagine life if he had not made that choice, if he was still the Father's sword in his endless war with the Others. There was so much emptiness in what he was, in what he was created to be. Not a person, a vessel, to enact the Father's will. He wasn't supposed to want things. He wasn't supposed to feel.

There have been times in the thousands of years he has spent as a human that he wished for that emptiness again. Moments when the pain eclipsed the joy of freedom and sensation. Moments when all he wanted was to not feel. But he had never been the purposeful vessel the Father intended. Lucifer was proof of that. As are the others who have fallen, who have found their homes on this mortal plane, accepting all the anguish and loss and rage that came with humanity.

He had no doubt that all who had made that choice would stay, would revel in life, despite all the pain it entailed. It must baffle the Father, that His precious weapons would choose to abandon Him for what He'd intended as punishment. That He had less power than He'd ever dreamt of, even over those of His own making.

Such thoughts are more sweet than bitter, and they carry him through the lonely years as he passes from one life to the next.

The next time he sees Lucifer, it is in the moment he is born, a small round face with brown skin and dark eyes peeking around the midwife who helps his mother deliver him. The women later joke that it was love at first sight, the inseparable bond of two souls recognizing each other.

As soon as he can walk, Timote follows Cuica around their village, a dedicated shadow as the other boy tends their crops with his father and helps his uncle make arepas for the evening meal. Life is happy. When not with Cuica, Timote helps his mother shape clay into vessels, and into art, praised for the deftness of his small hands. He watches his father spin fibers into thread and weave them into colorful mats that everyone in the village proudly display in their homes. With all the other village children, they clean the water tanks for the fields and the village every few moons, taunting each other with the slimy fungus found in any tanks that haven't been properly maintained.

Their village is several days journey from the coast, so they have warning before the invaders come.

It isn't enough.

Tall white men in armor, wearing crosses and speaking in a tongue only Timote and Cuica could understand, slaughtered their way through the jungle. They burned crops and razed villages, leaving only scorched stone walls and broken pottery, killing, capturing, and driving away his people indiscriminately. They took what they liked, including Timote's father's best work, which had hung on the front wall of their home since before Timote was born.

They took people too, forcing them to work for the soldiers, cooking their food and carrying the spoils of the land that did not belong to them. They learned broken bits of Timote's language, calling his people savages, and exhorting them to follow the Spaniards' god. Cuica, too old to be considered a boy any longer, had fled into the jungle. Timote was sure he was among the warriors who sabotaged the foreigner's camps, killing guards and destroying food and supplies.

Timote had been with the other children, and the threat to them stayed his hand. He knew even in this young body he could have killed all of the soldiers that surrounded them, but some of the children would have been lost. So he watches and waits, following the bidding of the General who claimed him, his own personal savage to wait on him hand and foot. They did not know he understood them, these cruel and violent fools. That he knew every word that fell from their sneering mouths, that he understood their strategies better than they did.

He alters maps in the dead of night, and leaves messages for Cuica, hidden in the subtleties of a land these white men would never understand.

It isn't enough.

Soldiers die in scores, felled by the blades of his people, by poison, by their ignorance of the jungle and its dangers. His people die in droves, the diseases of the white men as deadly as their swords.

Cuica dies.

Timote isn't there, he doesn't see it. But their connection has grown, stronger even than when he was the Father's sword and knew every injury to befall one of his soldiers. So he feels the sword puncture Cuica's lung, feels the helpless fury as his soul flickers, feels the grim satisfaction at the dead soldiers covering the ground at his feet. He feels his name on Cuica's lips, the last breath as he fades and then is gone. He knows he will see him again, but it still leaves him gasping, hands and knees pressed into the dirt as he struggles for clarity.

One of the soldiers casually kicks him, asking if the monkey boy is okay in an insulting tone he is not meant to understand. Timote breathes—in and out—then moves, faster than these soldiers have ever seen. He flings dirt into the man's face, blinding him, then takes his sword and guts him with it. He's on to the next before they've even begun to react, spinning and slashing until the earth is turning to mud beneath his feet, blood mixing into the dirt as freely as water when it rained.

When he is done, a camp of nearly a hundred lies dead on the ground. He was created to be a weapon and his years in human skins have only honed his edge. His flesh, however, cannot match his skill and he can feel the darkness crowding in, blood and other fluids leaking from a dozen wounds.

He wants to stay, to live, to fight for his people until every last soldier who has claimed their home is dead, but with the freedom of mortality comes limitations even he cannot circumvent. Not now.

"I could grant you the unending life you so desire," the Father says, and for a moment Timote thinks he is hallucinating, that the past years have been nothing more than a fever dream induced by some of his mother's special tea.

"You are not Timote, and this is not a dream, my son."

The darkness deepens and then explodes, hot, white light that would blind him if he still had form. He is in the space between lives, a moment without time, and the Father has come to him.

Why now, he wants to ask, and even without a mouth to speak the Father hears him.

"Your betrayal hurt me, my son, hardened my heart against you for many years. But I forgive you for what you did, for your foolishness in following Lucifer's silvertongue. I welcome you back to my side, once again my Sword."

His denial is instantaneous and wrathful, soul-deep rage like nothing he has felt since he saw Lucifer's wings burning away under the Father's gaze.

"I would give you the Earth, my son. You could protect these mortals you find so precious." Persuasion has never been the Father's way, and the words are awkward, the tone not quite right.

Too much arrogance, he thinks, as if I would ever follow you again.

The light is hotter now, edged with an all too familiar anger. It is satisfying. You are weak, and you are afraid, and I am no longer your weapon to command. Find another sword, if you think it will save you.

"You will regret this," the Father vows, his voice a penetrating lance, louder than the cosmos as the light brightens until there is only white. Then nothing. And then he is screaming, a tiny infant in a loud new world.

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1) The chapter title comes from the song 'Something to Believe In' by Young the Giant, one of several songs I've listened to on repeat for inspiration for this story.

2) We have maximum one chapter left before hitting the First Avenger, possibly not even that. I'm at the point where there are more cultures I want to explore, but not a lot more things to say with them, so will be fast forwarding a lot through the next four hundred years if not all of them.

3) And now the obligatory history notes, which took a while to put together because I've been writing it in bits and pieces over the course of 4 years and had to go back and figure out all my old research.

A. Their first life is thanks to all of you lovely readers who suggested The Water Margin as inspiration. It's set during the Song Dynasty of China, and uses several characters from the legend. Not sure if I love or hate everyone who suggested it, because it is one of the most complicated legends in existence, and parsing it out for a story like this was not easy, especially as I couldn't find any decent English translations. Obviously I took a lot of license with the details, but for anyone curious about more, it's super interesting and I highly recommend at least checking out the Wikipedia page. I was very disappointed that I couldn't work in the astrological angle as there is a lot of potential there. Would love to read a modern Chinese author's take on the legend in some kind of urban fantasy or historical fantasy context.
B. Lucifer's next life is with the Igbo people in Nigeria. Okoro is actually a surname, meaning the child of the freeborn man.
C. His and Eve's life together is set in France, in the 1300's. The Beguines were a very interesting phenomenon, offering a sort of unprecedented freedom of that era for women who joined them. Definitely worth looking up for anyone interested in religious history.
D. Eve's next few lives are all over the place and very briefly mentioned, as I didn't have a lot to say for her in this chapter, she has less growing still to do than the boys, but include the Mississippian culture responsible for the very impressive mounds in Cahokia but who we have tragically few records of despite how extensive it appears their civilization was in North America, before winding up in Poland during the peak of the Black Death.
E. Michael's final life is with the Timote-Cuica people whose descendants still live in Venezuela but whose culture has essentially been erased thanks to colonialism. There are no records of their language I could get access to, hence the naming of Michael and Lucifer using the name of the people themselves. The other cultural details are as accurate as possible, and they are credited with the invention of the arepas that Lucifer helped his uncle make.

4) I look forward to your guesses on who Raziel is! And who the other fallen angels might be :D