Soapygold

Soapygold Waiting Silence Epilogue: Peace at Last "A way to end this existence and become one with the universe," mused Amitiel.  "I think I could do it, but I am not sure.  You see, I've never actually tested my hypothesis." "Why not?" wondered Jonathan.  "You want that more than anything!  Why wouldn't you test your ideas?" "The price is too great—I cannot pay my faire out of this world." "What price?"  Jonathan was beginning to feel impatient.  Amitiel was stalling; he could tell.  "What could be too dear to pay for your freedom?" "The only possible way for me to exit this plane of being… I have to take another sentient be

Soapygold Waiting Silence Part Two: A Windborne Refugee Jonathan woke from a feverish sleep filled with demons and knights, innocence and corruption, light and dark, and always, just out of sight, Amitiel, the black-winged, scarred angel of truth.  Amitiel himself was writing on a very long scroll of parchment paper with a delicate quill pen and muttering strange syllables to himself.  He turned from his work when Jonathan stirred.   "Is sleep really so elusive to you?" he inquired, raising his eyebrows. "I couldn't rest without knowing the rest of your story.  It's so close after all these years… I almost can't believe I'm really h

Soapygold Waiting Silence Part One: Linking the Worlds "Or at least," the angel muttered, returning to his seat, "I was once.  That was my name when I walked among the angels.  Now I am merely a scholar searching for solitude and a chance at redemption." Jonathan couldn't help himself: he badly wanted the information that had driven him there, but the needs of the present forced him to ask, "Why?  Why would the Angel of Truth lose his name and need redemption?" Amitiel looked up at Jonathan.  "I've not been a good host, have I?  What did you come to ask me?  The winning lottery ticket?  The location of Blackbeard's treasure?" "Only hist

Soapygold Waiting Silence Prologue: The End of a Quest The passageway stood like something from a nightmare: spider webs covered the ceiling; ancient skulls containing the long dead remnants of holy candles lined small, regularly spaced niches in the walls; the only light came from the torch that a man held in his slightly trembling hand.  The man's name was Jonathan Findley, and he was a historian by trade.  He had specialized in modern languages in high school and archaic ones in college, and he had travelled the world for forty years in pursuit of rumors describing a man who was an expert on the dark ages; a man who could give Jonathan