Names had staying power and names had beckoning power. Ahya had been sitting on a roundabout in central London, hands shoved into his pockets and shoulders held at a slouch, watching as the streets turned to water and a grinning crocodile went zigzagging past. One girl stood in the lee of an enormous lion, her hands wound into its mane, her cheek resting against the wide, bristling plane of its shoulder. Aslan, is that you? Ahya practically crowed, taking a step closer to--
But then it felt like an anchor had driven its way into his navel, an enormous hook (line, and sinker) sinking its way beneath the Nephilim's skin. He struggled, intangible wings flapping, rearing up like a lassoed bull. Ahya ahya ahya ahya, it echoed. To me.
The name called to him, and he had to respond. With another hissed profanity scattered in his wake and a thunderclap of wings, the man known as Mr. White disappeared and answered the call, materialising a moment later atop the clock tower. He temporarily rocked on his heels, then regained his balance on the rooftop and locked eyes with the Watcher. His uncle. Ohya had mentioned his encounter with the angel -- no secret went unvoiced between the brothers -- but Ahya hadn't met him until this moment. This very moment which found him crawling to heel like an abashed child, yielding for discipline, for scolding.
"What is it?" Ahya asked, perhaps a bit sharper than intended. There were wrinkles around his own eyes, but Penemue was handsome and young, perhaps in his thirties. The Watcher looked younger than him, which immediately made him bristle -- the blood of man had curdled inside the Nephilim, age leaving its scarring mark where no proper angel was forced to bend to that yoke. He wore this mismatched age with bitterness.
But he bowed his head in greeting, a grudging mark of unruly respect -- while his wings twitched and fluttered behind him, agitated but obedient.