Title: The Power of Watchers
Character(s): A Power/A Grigori (also referances The Nephilim and Elizabeth Báthory)
Pantheon(s): Christian/Vampire
Rating: PG
Summary: An exercise in perspectives. Goes from the POV of the Grigori, to the Power, and back.
Warning(s): The Grigori looks like a creepy pedophile for a second.



He sat alone, in the middle of a pew, in a row toward the back of a large, gothic church. He watched the people, praying in various pews, or going into confessionals and closing the door. It always made him smile to watch them going about their religious pursuits, with absolutely no idea that they weren't alone ... that they were in the presence of something that was more than themselves.

Or maybe, some of them did know what he was, and that was the problem. But he couldn't be entirely sure, as most of them didn't seem to even realize that he was there. A very few did see him, or so he thought, but they would skitter away when they looked in his direction. It was as though they had seen something out of the corner of their eyes, turned to look, only to find the thing that frightened them the most looking back at them.

But even those that skittered away didn't have any real idea as to what he was, and he doubted they ever would. They had their ideas of what his kind should look like, and since he didn't look like that idea, they were lost as to actually name him. Shadows on a cave wall, and that's exactly the way he liked it; it made the things he did so much easier ... like cutting the butter after you've already warmed the knife. If they really knew, they would be much more afraid than they already were.

****

She stood alone, looking at a painting, by an artist she didn't know. It was of two toddlers, with downy wings, resting their faces on arms or hands, and both looking away from their observer. Childish, infant angels; the embodiment of the Renaissance, angelic idea.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" she heard a woman behind her say, as she walked by. "Those precious, little angels."

She smiled, sardonically, to herself. They really had no idea; no idea what an angel really looked like. The idea of what one was supposed to look like, from art and from their entertainment, had planted such deep roots that they would not have recognized one ... unless there was an electric, neon arrow pointing down. There were so many kinds, so many choirs, but people seemed to think there were only the cherubs (which, for some reason, they turned into babies), archangels (but probably only because they had heard of Michael), the angel of death (because of an honorable mention in a religious text), and your everyday, garden variety of angel. Even when the movies tried to do angels, they never seemed to get past Michael and Gabriel ... or sometimes Lucifer (though, how many times had they glossed over the fact that he had been an archangel before he was a demon).

When she had still been young, she had believed that somewhere, deep in their souls, the humans would still have known her for what she was, even if she didn't specifically reveal herself. Sometimes, once in a great while, a few would know (or at least, they seemed to), but it was never many, and never the ones you would think.

She thought that somewhere, deep inside of them, they had a genetic memory of Paradise. That somehow, they might have heard echoes of it in her. But then, she came to the conclusion that maybe she was the wrong kind of beacon for that. After all, what was she, but a librarian who could kick tail?

****

There were those he had a siren call for, he knew, but it wasn't this crowd. But when he could get one of these, the ones who prayed so often, and who seemed so devoted, the victory seemed so much sweeter. Just find the one who could be lured with the idea of forbidden knowledge, the truth those blowhards didn't want you to have. Those were the ones that crunched on the way down, and oh, how he did love the crunch. In all the things of the universe, there was nothing quite like it.

The only thing that could come in a close second, were those few who really seemed to understand what he was, and were attracted to him because of it. Their scent was a sweet one to him, all full of sugar and life, with only the vaguest hint of sour rot. They reminded him of the ones, who, so many years ago he had fathered a race of half-breeds with. Oh, his beautiful children, and all of those like them; how he missed them, and wished they were still here. There had never been anything in this world that had ever been quite like the Nephilim, but a world-wide catastrophe killed them all ... as well as all of the women who had been their mothers ... and even some who were about to be.

In the years since then, there had been other children, but nothing like the numbers they had been in before, and none that had caused as much mischief that they had before. There had been those which he wished he could have claimed as his own, but they were simply a beautifully twisted brand of human. He really did love those ones, and watching the fallout that they caused.

****

Her choir hadn't been created until after the Fall, as keepers of knowledge and enforcers of the distribution of power. She had spent much of her time looking for, and recapturing wayward Grigori (or "Watchers," as they were sometimes called). After their children, the Nephilim, giants among men, angry and violent, had caused so much trouble that they only way to rid the world of them (and of their fathers' mischief) was to just start over, and the Grigori had been bound in an attempt to stop them from causing more trouble.

The problem was that in the millennia since then, there had been those who had broken their bonds. They had escaped their prison, and had continued doing things that they shouldn't. It still amazed her that they thought they could get away with what they were doing; that at some point, one of the Powers wouldn't find them, and bring them back to where they belonged.

She, herself, was very good at what she did, having returned several Watchers to where they should have been. They never made it easy on her, but she didn't expect for them to. Really, she thought that that was half the fun. She suspected that she was slightly abnormal with the love she had for the search and capture.

It hadn't been long since she had heard about one of them hanging out at a church, watching its members, and she jumped at the chance to look into it. As of yet, she had no evidence that any of the people had been harmed, but she feared that things may not remain that way.

She could vaguely smell the Grigori, as she stood across the street, and slightly down it, still baffled by the painting of the infant angels in the window of a shop. The humans probably would've thought that the Watcher would have smelled of brimstone, because he was one of the Fallen, but that thinking was wrong. The Grigori may have been fallen angels, but they weren't cast into Hell. Instead, they were bound in a valley on earth. She wondered, slightly, if the idea of freedom was more appealing to them, or if it was the scent of the humans that drove them crazy. No humans lived in the valley itself, it would've been to much of a temptation for them. But there were humans who lived relatively nearby, and sometimes came extremely close to the borders.

Their sent was nothing like those who had been cast into the Pit. Their smell was still sweet, but it was a sickly sweet smell. It was almost like the most deliciously smelling fruit that anyone had ever experienced, but added to it was the smell of the fruit after it had started to go bad.

She only hoped that her own scent didn't give her away; that the Grigori was too drunk on the smell of humanity, of all of the people he could feasibly train in his ways, to notice just how close he was to danger. There was going to be a fight, of that she was sure, but she would prefer it to be somewhere else. There were just too many people moving about where they were, too many chances for there to be casualties from such an encounter. The Grigori would probably prefer their meeting to be here and now, if he knew how close he was to danger, to give him a better chance at escape.

****

A small girl was sitting in a pew, in the same row, but across the church from him. She had been sat down by her mother, only moments before, and told to wait for her mother to finish confessing. It wasn't long after she was deposited that she noticed him, and begun to shyly look at him out of the corner of her eye. At one point, he caught her eye and smiled, to which she blushed and quickly looked away.

If she had been a bit older, he would've crossed the church to sit by her. He would've whispered things into her ear about how she was more beautiful than anyone he had ever seen. It wouldn't have been entirely true, but true enough. But she was far too young for that now, and he had never been fond of ... veal. As it was, he considered following her home and seeing if she might be the right type for his "secret knowledge." He had never thought that this information was all that impressive, but when humans came into contact with it, there were those who had some very interesting reactions to the use of the things they learned. Some were called witches, and were burned at the stake. When they finally figured out what was going on, and how to protect themselves, almost none of them were ever caught ... if the learning of the knowledge didn't turn their minds. When that did happen, they were usually caught, because they had gone mad.

Elizabeth Báthory had been one of his favorite pet projects. She had learned so much, in such a short period of time, and she had been increasingly subtle with her work. But it wasn't long before her mind cracked. Perhaps he had given her too much to begin with ... or maybe he pushed her too hard ... he wasn't sure. Either way, the knowledge she had learned from him had pushed her over the edge, and in the end, history had been rewritten around her, so that she now became something that was paraded out during Halloween, or for horror movies. It was really rather sad, and made him even more nostalgic for the good, old days.

Suddenly, he tensed. He caught a whiff of something that he recognized. Something sweet, heavenly. Something that was not of the earth, and which could only have come from someone from Above. He knew, then, how very close he was to being caught, how much trouble he was in. He would have to be careful. He would have to be quick. If not, he was going to be taken back to that cursed valley, and he had no intention of going there any time soon.

****

She, suddenly, became aware that the scent of him was moving. It was no longer coming directly from the church. Instead, it was coming from slightly farther down the street, and was moving away from her. She turned, looking on the sidewalk, trying to see him moving away from her. She moved quickly, her eyes never stopping, trying to get him within her sights.

Then, the world around her stopped, and she saw him. He was looking over his shoulder, at her. He saw her looking back at him, and moved to quickly for human eyes. But she still saw him. Her body coiled, and she readied herself for a mighty leap.

It wouldn't be long, and she would have him. He would be back in the valley, and she would have the pleasure of knowing that she had completed a job, and had completed it well.

As she jumped, she laughed, war-like and joyful.

****

He stood over her, as she lay bleeding. She should have known that he would not let her take him back to that place. He wasn't ready ... or willing ... to go back there. If she had only stopped, if she had only let him go, she wouldn't be laying there dying.