By Amber Michelle K.
myaru@etherealvoid.net

The Book has changed over the ages. It began as a scroll nearly as tall as Raziel was, and it was difficult to roll open and consult, which was probably intentional on the part of her creator; she was very trusting in her youth, and gave in to the demands of the others to see her notes on the creation even when she wasn't supposed to. Then she broke it into many pieces, when she became impatient with the awkwardness of the original, and the library was created to hold each fragment, and given to her charge.

It was only recently that she decided to bind it as a codex, when she made a copy of the core chapters for Noah, to enable Raphael to oversee the construction of the ark from a distance and also help Gabriel manage the war between the tribes of Nephilim. A mere thousand years later she refined her book - /her/ copy - even further at Metatron's suggestion, and confined it all to one volume, deceptively small, that would simply display the chapter one most needed upon parting its covers. She was content with that for a long time. It allowed her to write in it at will, and find whatever she wanted whenever she needed it, without having to get up and search the shelves.

But she had seen Metatron punished, now, and watched as he was driven to fight his brother at the Dead Sea. He was gone, and whenever her eyes rested on her book without a purpose, without the intent to open it and search for something, she found it reminded her of him. It was his ink she'd used to write in it, paper made by his hand. His fingertips were stained indigo. His robes carried the slightly dusty scent of books. Lately, she found it hard to focus when she sat down to write. She'd open the book to an empty page, and those were the only images she could summon to mind after.

She sat at the edge of her bed and fingered the edge of the binding. Many years had passed since its last change. The spine was worn with constant reading and the corners were worn down. Age was becoming for a tome like this, she thought, but it had grown heavier, and was harder to carry than she could remember it being in the past. Now Anafiel would gaze at it with longing, and she knew he wanted information the creator would never allow him to have - otherwise, he would surely ask directly. Metatron was gone, but the Holy One could still speak for himself when he chose to.

Raziel closed her eyes and let the silence settle in around her. She could sense the whispery presence of other angels in the library below, and hear the distant murmur of song from beyond the garden. It was about time for the evening prayer, though the light streaming in through her window appeared no different, so she decided it was time. Rising, book held securely in her arms, she left her room and took the back staircase down to the bottom floor, where she slipped out of a side door into the garden.

There were windows facing this side, but the angels who had lingered were in another part of the building. She crossed the courtyard safely and hurried along the path into an area slightly overgrown and darkened by intertwining branches above. The clearing it brought her to was small and bordered by glittering gravel, and to most eyes it would be empty. She stepped forward confidently, expectantly, and stumbled mid-step during the transition.

It was a fold in the veil, concealed from all eyes. Even the Creator's, she thought, though she wasn't positive. It was Metatron's sanctuary, once upon a time, and she'd requested it for herself once he fell. Privacy for her work was the reason she gave, but Anafiel, with another of his piercing looks, might have suspected otherwise.

She sat down on the floor cross-legged, book in her lap. The area was unstable, or she would have summoned some kind of furniture. It probably wasn't a strain at all for Metatron to maintain matter here, but she wasn't as powerful or precise as he was. And would it be right, to act as if this place was really her own? She could imagine the scent of tea still lingered on the air - he'd loved earthly things, there had always been something new and interesting to look at when he called her over.

He'd sit in a chair over there; she could see him there if she closed her eyes. Once he had received her with furnishing of a Japanese design, sparse but elegant, and his hair had fallen down his back in a straight black curtain to trail on the floor behind his cushion. She remembered that tea; how strong it was, how deeply green. How he'd kept his voluminous sleeves out of the way when he poured it into her bowl. And how he'd laughed that day when she'd said something that didn't quite come out the way she'd intended.

The echo of his laugh remained too, but imperfect and faint, as if distorted by distance. Her mind tried to reconstruct it, only to grind to a halt when it started to sound wrong, more like Michael's laugh, or Raphael's.

She loved them both, but it wasn't their voices she wanted to hear. If it hadn't been so long, if she had thought to imprint the memory in her book when it was still fresh in her mind, she'd still have it with her now to comfort and bring warmth.

Now she opened her eyes to look at the book, and her vision blurred, making the edges indistinct. She lifted the cover and fanned the pages between her fingers. They were so precise, all of the same cut and thickness, that his touch was obvious. His idea, his prototype.

It was time for another change. The last one.

She closed it again and lifted it from her lap. Hands splayed on both sides, she pressed the covers together until the pages were compressed and seemed all one piece, and then she bent her will to it, forced it to become smaller, thinner, and more compact. It burned sapphire blue, shedding motes of light like dust, and then it was malleable. The book would mold itself into anything she wished, but Raziel gathered the light into her cupped hands and closed them carefully, and whispered to it as it settled into its new state.

When she opened her hands, it was simply a stone. It could have been glass, or quartz, but it was unrefined, and would never be mistaken as something so valuable as a diamond. Only the light, glimmering deep within, saved it from being completely unattractive. It flared when she turned her attention to it, until it glared like a lightbulb and she had to scold it to be more modest.

Tzohar, it would be called - radiance, like the blue of the sky. Like the book Metatron had so enjoyed reading, that made his eyes shine with a light entirely his own.