Past-Death gave him a long look, and Fate raised an eyebrow.
Gabriel pulled a knife from its sheath. "How does this work? I cut myself and say the words?"
"Cut, immerse your hand in water then say it," Fate directed. "You'll be introducing yourself to the gods and goddesses of eras past, sealing your commitment with two of the three laws."
"Three," past-Death corrected him.
"Whatever."
Mates-blood-fate. Gabriel shifted back to the caldron, his heart pounding as he realized he was about to take the final step to seal his position as Death. His mate flanked him on one side while Fate went to his other.
With a deep breath, he sliced his hand with the knife and lowered it into the water. Souls rose up to greet him, caught in invisible currents, while his blood twisted and twirled like red ribbons into the depths of the bowl.
"I swear by the Three Laws to protect all souls and perform my sacred duty until the underworld chooses another," he repeated quietly.
More souls rose up. As each brushed his hand, a flurry of images crossed his mind, before the soul floated back to the bottom of the bowl.
He closed his eyes, unable to register exactly what it was they were sharing with him. The visions were too fleeting, the messages too faint, but he watched and listened anyway. As he did, he became aware of something else: the quiet flow of knowledge from a second source.
Names, faces, histories … they washed over him, hundreds of thousands a second. The souls in the Lake were eager to tell him their stories as well, their tales conveyed through the bond the Lake shared with the water in the bowl. Ever reverent of the souls, he couldn't help but feel humbled at the secrets they shared, the hopes, dreams and disappointments of each of them.
It was an honor even greater than the one he considered serving Death in the capacity he had before. Trillions of beings were trusting him to keep them safe, and the intensity of such a realization made him want to weep at the enormity of what it truly meant to be Death.
Clenching his jaw, Gabriel took it all in, unable to stop the flood of knowledge and unwilling to disrespect the souls he protected by trying. Instead he did what he always did and let the souls speak. The knowledge of eras past raced past his eyelids, the whispered secrets of every age pummeling him.
And then it hit him like a punch in the stomach. With a grunt, he bore the familiar sensation, his astonishment soon replacing discomfort.