Simon stood looking on indifferently, and one would swear this had nothing to do with him at all. His gaze, hollow yet piercing, drifted past the others as though they were shadows, passing fragments of a dream not worth his notice. He had hardly spoken since his awakening, and in that silence there was a terror greater than any proclamation.
Those who had gathered around him mistook his stillness for detachment, but it was not detachment, it was weight, the unyielding gravity of one who carried the burden of a thousand fates. The longest conversation he had shared since he returned to the realm of the living was with Luca, when the man had come back from hell. Even then, the words had been sparse, measured like drops of blood upon thirsty ground. With the Entity, that nameless force beyond stars, Simon had spoken as though he were too weary, too unwilling to wrestle with riddles. He had spoken what needed to be said, and when his words were done, he had turned away, abandoning the conversation as if it were ash in his mouth.
Since then, it was Luca who had borne the strain of speech, Luca who had become his voice. It was Luca who raged, who pled, while Simon merely looked on as though unmoved, unshaken, like a shepherd watching lambs scatter, waiting only for the moment when they must be gathered again.
Raphael could not endure this silence. It gnawed at him like worms in the marrow of his bones. In the presence of Simon, he found his gift broken, shattered as pottery struck upon the stone. He, the prophetic angel who had long borne the mantle of foresight, discovered that he could not prophesy when Simon was near. His visions blurred, his sight was veiled, as though the heavens themselves refused to speak when the Shepherd looked upon him.
What was worse, Raphael no longer had Grace. The wellspring of his angelic power had been sealed, bound away in that great rebellion that cast many from their thrones. He had sought to ascend beyond his Archangel's form, to stretch upward into the rank of the Divine, even with his Grace bound. But the climb had broken him. His wings could not find the winds of heaven, and he had fallen short of the threshold. What he discovered instead was a lesser thing, though he clothed it as if it were holy: access to his Faith-well it was how he had so effortlessly dug into Uriel's faith well, he had found it easy to access it the same way he could access his, the traps and failsafe's Uriel had set were on her Grace not Faith, most Angels had this weakness in truth.
That secret spring was meant for the Divine only, meant for those whose thrones were fastened upon the pillars of God Himself. Yet Raphael, broken and half-crippled, had bent his soul until it cracked, and through that fracture he drew water not meant for him. It gave him strength, but it was not Grace. It was not the living fire meant to power him. It was a counterfeit flame, flickering in the dark, leaving him forever between, neither Archangel nor Divine, a wayfarer stranded in a desert place but maybe with time and Simon's intervention he would cross the boundary, but as things stood he was beginning to doubt he would get the help.
Even so, he pretended. He clothed his weakness in prophecy, prattling as though he foresaw, murmuring as though the stars whispered secrets into his ear. But Simon's silence unmasked him. He could not see. He could not know. In the Shepherd's gaze, Raphael was blind.
His calm before Luca and Michael's wrath had been a façade. Twice now they had sought to strike him down, to silence his meddling tongue. Twice he had endured and called what he thought were bluffs, not because of any foresight, but because he reasoned. He reasoned that he was necessary, that the great design could not unfold without him. He was a piece upon the board, and the others knew it, and so they would not dare to shatter him yet. That logic steadied him where visions could not.
But Luca's fury had caught him off guard. Luca, sharp and cunning, had seen through him, or perhaps simply reacted with a fury Raphael had not foreseen. For Luca's wrath was not like Michael's, predictable in its violence. Luca was measured, controlled, dangerous in his restraint. For him to have broken composure, to have nearly abandoned reason, meant that Raphael had played his hand too far, overreached his fragile advantage.
And then there was Simon's silence. That silence was a storm with no thunder, an abyss with no echo. It terrified Raphael more than any sword or curse. For he had thought Simon would be different, that the Shepherd would refuse favoritism, that he would gather all equally and let none be consumed. Yet Simon's quiet, his lack of speech, his refusal to explain, felt like judgment. He was not keeping Raphael close because of kinship. He was watching, weighing, ensuring that no loose cannon threatened the order he meant to build.
For Simon was no mere man. He was a Shepherd, and in that office was a power older than the angels. A Shepherd saw paths that no prophet could, threads that no seer could untangle. He could trace every soul, every choice, every echo of faith across the heavens and the earths. What need had he for Raphael's half-broken sight, when his own vision stretched farther than eternity?
And yet, Simon was weak. He did not draw upon Grace as the angels did, for Grace was not given to him. His power was fed by Faith alone, the trust and belief of those who followed him, who knew him, who called his name. But who knew him now? Who even recognized him in this Ninth Heaven, veiled as it was from the worlds below? Few, so very few. Only the upper thrones of the heavens knew fragments about him, and even they muttered in doubt. The mortals did not yet know him. Their prayers did not rise to him they called to the Father. Their faith did not anchor him.
So he bore his office alone, with little to sustain him. Every step upward in his ascension would grow heavier, every attempt to rise more costly. His silence was not only judgment, but necessity. Words spent faith, and faith was scarce.
This was the tragedy: The Shepherd who saw all, who could trace every path of history, who could discern the fate of every angel, mortal, and demon alike, was starved of the very substance that sustained him. He could command the cosmos, yet he stood weakened, like a king crowned in thorns, unrecognized by his subjects, rejected by his own.
Raphael trembled at this thought, though he would never confess it. He watched Simon stand in silence, and he understood, though dimly, that this man, this silent Shepherd, held the future tighter than prophecy itself, even in this weakened state he was this strong. Simon saw more than Raphael could ever dream. Simon saw all.
The air grew heavy, as though the shrine of passing itself bowed beneath the weight of Simon's brooding. Luca lingered at his side, restless, his mind unravelling with each passing hour, his scars from hell still bleeding in ways no balm could heal. Gab stood afar with sword unraised, his face etched in unreadable lines. And Raphael pretended still, muttering his half truths thinking there was still anyone here listing to him, when in reality Gab and Luca had been lost in thought since Mike left, waiting for him to return.
But Simon spoke not. He did not need to. His silence was the final word, and it resounded louder than prophecy, louder than wrath, louder than the wails of angels fallen from their thrones.
And in that silence was judgment.
And in that judgment was dread.
And in that dread was the tragedy of heaven itself.