The dark waters of Kaynan’s sea imprison the Fallen Ones—known, though a long time ago, as Heaven's mighty Watchers. They wait for their sons, the Nephilim, to free them. But there are the Warriors, and the new order of Watchers, to contend with.
A small faction of these Warriors is gathering on the eastern shores of Kaynan. Their faces are somber, their voices stern and they speak in a language which the Whisperers cannot understand. For that matter neither can the Nephilim who have forgotten the language of their fathers, nor the Kaynanites, except for one.
“They are prideful, those Kaynanites." Uriel clenches his fists. “We chose for them their new Watcher and they deny him. They exile him to the outerlands beyond the ancient forest.”
Uriel’s eyes fill with holy anger—justifiably so. Nonetheless, he struggles to keep his emotion under control. Uriel the Terrible is what the Whisperers call him.
Uriel:
 |
| Angel of Death |
He presides over terror, easing it away from the righteous but feeding it to the wicked. His face, though pure and holy, has that sort of unfriendly look. One could not really look into his eyes for fear of being destroyed, though he has no intention of doing so—unless one deserves it like the Whisperer, Forgersage.
This is a high-ranking Whisperer, one who has the ability to appear in whatever manner he chooses—demon, angel, man or animal. Most of the time he is invisible, one with his surroundings.
********
Upon the side of the Kaynanite’s castle wall, the two first met--Forgersage, with a company of Whisperers, and Uriel. Forgersage’s cursed claw touched the toe of the Warrior’s boot. The Whisperer turned its head slowly skyward and found Uriel staring into his eyes. Defying gravity, the Warrior slowly descended, down the brick and mortar of the fortress.
“Curses on you,” Forgersage snarled. “How is it you can see me?”
Uriel smiled. It was a horrible smile. The rush of the wind howled around his long black cloak. Snake-like hair (as terrible as that might sound, it was more awesome than terrible) whipped around his face. His sword was drawn in his right hand and with his left he pointed to the one to die—Forgersage.
“Sword of the Watchers,” Forgersage whispered. “How could it be? Where did you find it?”
Uriel did not answer. It was the last phrase to ever come from the Whisperer’s decaying mouth. With just one swing of the Watcher’s Sword, Forgersage was headless—decapitation was swift.
Forgersage’s companions scampered, in no particular direction as long as it was away from the Warrior of death. But Uriel’s flight was not easily escaped. He released himself from earthly bounds and soared like the nighthawk landing soundlessly on both feet. A small breath of dust rose around his boots and then settled. Such grace and power had the Warrior’s glide that they hardly saw him at all. Before they could touch again the solid ground of Kaynan, Uriel stood waiting with that horrible smile.
Some Whisperers fell into the coldness of the moat and drifted lifelessly to its muddy banks. Not one would escape the abomination of Uriel. They died in the waters, in the mud and mire, and some midair before the loud thuds of twisted corpses hit the wooden slats of the drawbridge. The Warrior’s anger consumed them one by one.
In the end, perhaps a handful remained and wistfully looked for help running toward the wooded areas. Uriel, with one leap, intercepted their retreat, and plunged his Sword to separate flesh from bone. Not from behind did the Warrior take their lives, for that would be most cowardly. No, face to face it was so they could see his burning eyes and surrender to his blade.
“It is enough.”
Pa'Lahdín, his brother, flew to his side.
Uriel the Terrible finally stood motionless a distance from the castle, blood marred his face.
Pa'Lahdín, always the one to come to his side, placed a hand gently at the nape of Uriel’s neck, and guided him back to the castle.
********
It is
Pa'Lahdín who stands next to Uriel at this gathering of Warriors and once again comforts his friend. “Yes,” he whispers. “The Kaynanites have exiled their Watcher. But the time has come to restore all the Lands of
Pa'raGhon. Soon Kaynan will once again belong to Yahweh.”
Uriel nods and with a sturdy hand upon
Pa'Lahdín’s shoulder, whispers, “Brother, always the Faithful Guardian.”
Thanks for reading the Scrolls, I'm off to read CS Lewis
The Silver Chair 
Coming next, Part IV:
Pa'Lahdín the Faithful Guardian.
"There are no more dragons, sir." Gha'enna caressed the innkeeper's face with the back of her sun-bronzed fingers. "Perhaps you'd be so kind as to pour me a pint of ale, slice me a piece of bread, and spare me a bowl of warm stew." Her lips were close to his, her nimble fingers unfastened the buttons of his disheveled shirt. "Here's me last few pence."
Every land of man's domain is littered with nothing but the ruins of castles and forts. If it were not for the Warriors, the wooded areas might have been gutted also. This world, called Eamane, is the last outpost between man's universe and the realms of the heavenly places. It stands almost barren, bar the lands of Paragon—where Kaynan is known as Middleland.
