There is no better place on earth for you to be, Archangel of Brilliance. For such as you are, you will always be the Chamberlain. The first in with fire. With light. To sway the tides of war, or calm them. Here, along the Ring of Fire where one island has been ripped in halves...
     Not by the shifting plates that float upon the underlying magma layer, but by strife, unrest, terror...
     The unrest has spilled from village and city streets to the jungle that should, by all accounts, swallow everyone. But her trees are on fire, smoke rising and voices and gunfire. And your fellows are with you. And East and West Timor burn with a far older battle in progress.
     This is the newest killing field...
     But as soon as it flared, it is silent again. Eerily. Oddly. A pause between sniper shots. In the shade of a tree, whose shelter seems strangely idyllic.
     The Symphony is stirring. You feel one of your charges nearby. You felt the shimmer before he did. The third wave? He sounds weary. When will they stop... do they not ever get tired?

     The slim Indian officer looks over to the charge. He smiles, but blinks soon after, black hair turning away. Better not to look so worried. What is that?
     Soldekai pushes himself from the tree, deciding it better not to be so relaxed. "It's alright, Bashir," his Malay tongue comes. Brown skinned and hazel eyed, Soldekai has gotten use to this form of late. An offer from Chennai. Lovely place, that.
     "Come on," he motions, bringing weapon down to prepared mode, "...we'd better get on to Aceh. The rebels may have stopped the advance, but certainly their 'friends'," he smiles at his personal team, "...are not resting. We can beat them to Aceh and perhaps get them to change the rebels to decide on a different course of action." Maybe. Stranger things have happened.
     The Indian officer grins as he pats one of the men beside him and nods at the woman dressed in fatigues. Their signatures in the Symphony are familiar, even if the vessels have changed. But once Bashir takes point and everyone falls into line, Soldekai goes quiet again, listening for the source of the tones.

     There is a beautiful tree that stands in this grove. It is heavy with the fruit it bears. Like a tree from Eden. Heavy. The leaves wide. A strange statement of fertility and life amid all of this...
     ...This...
     And as soon as the essence of Attention lingered, the tree erupts in spiraling fire. A column of flame that might... might... seem as if it were born of some discharging mine or explosion. But you know better, Soldekai, Archangel of Brilliance.
     Soldekai, Aceh must wait. When the fire speaks, you know it is Michael. And the jungle goes suddenly silent. Every 'friend' that thought to advance now clings to its spot of God's Earth. There will be no movement now. No more movement tonight.
     For you, Aceh must wait.

     What?
     Soldekai spins and looks to his side. Someone speaking. Hazel eyes glance to the rest of his group, then glide back to the burning flora.
     What is it? Eyes narrow. Something wrong. He should hate to look concerned to the rest of the team, but they can tell now. Too late, soldier.
     Hand lifts. "Bashir, you, Karinda," Bashir's second, "...can get to Aceh. Find Athatir there and see if you can't get him to change Coru's mind about this flanking." A spin about and he sighs, "I will return as I can," eyes gleam across the small squadron. They look so much like the other squads that run these jungles. "You know what to do." And they do.
     Soldekai's pack shudders as he swiftly turns to face the bush. And without hesitation, not unlike his squad to his word, he moves towards the bush, disappearing within the flames.
     And the squad, now 7, move onward towards Aceh, Bashir in the lead.

     There is nothing more that is spoken. Nothing more that is conveyed. This, only Heaven can bear witness. As soon as you step into the flames, the spiral dances, explodes, and all that is left is the ash of a once great tree.
     But the fruit was unharmed. Cracked open by the fall, the fruit spills its seed into the earth. Protected by the ash. In a year's time, with next year's rain, the tree will be reborn. It is the way of things...
     And you?
     Transported...
     The sigil fire's portal opens into Michael's palace. Imperial -- unable to make up its mind, it would seem, between Greece, Rome and Byzantium. Great bronze urns hold continually burning flame, and four-headed lions, with a gaze cast to each cardinal direction stand guard at the triple-doored entrance to Michael's atrium. As the sigil fire shimmers at your back, dissipating, each set of leonine eyes blink at you. And the doors open.
     It is a rare, rare occasion that any are summoned thus to Michael himself. A rare, rare day when he is not upon the earth fighting the good fight. A rare, rare day when the burning bush makes an appearance before a squadron of your men.
     This cannot be good.
     But the air is not heavy with Doom... at least not on its own. What you put upon it... that is for you to decide, Soldekai, Archangel of Brilliance.
     The doors open, all three, and three carpets of gold flames lead inward. And there he stands, as he most likes to be. Gold hair short, Grecian. Curled. His face the very example of Doric strength. His was the visage that was named Alexander. No mistaking it. It was Michael. He is clothed in bronze, gold and leather and turning from a map upon a... colossal bronze table. "My apologies for the theatrics, Archangel of Brilliance... but you will pardon it... it is my hope. You know it was not done... without extreme need." Unlike ... some others who are all flash and mirror with very little substance of fire and smoke beneath.

     The newest archangel does not muster a smile. While they may be of equal title, few are equal in stature to Michael. Maybe Uriel. Maybe Raphael. Gabriel. And once, Another, who has long since turned his face away.
     "Understandable," Soldekai nods, now sheathed in the dusky shadow that is the Malakim. Wispy and transparent, yet dark as Night or coal Earth itself. The epitome of Form and Substance....and Nothing at all.
     He must have intended it that way.
     The 'armor' that gives Soldekai a shape moves unlike the corporeal world. Not something put on, it is his body. He moves across the carpets of flame to attend to Michael, the greatest of the generals.
     "I will say that I am...not sure what is going on..." Soldekai offers first, unashamed to speak thusly to the Archangel of archangels. Some lessons have been learned from the General. But something is happening.

     Yes, of course it is. Bronze armored wings fold with a metallic chime. The Symphony moves over it in every key and tone. "One of your company..." Michael pauses, and full mouth puckers slightly. No that is not the word. "...your acquaintance... has been arrested for Treason." He lets that sit for a moment, even as he half leans against the table.
     Not so much than anything beneath the Grego-Roman armored kilt be seen -- if anything there be to see -- and his arms fold against his chest. "The Cherub Named... Galadriel. One of Blandine's. He was arrested... earth morning..." A hand lifts, he makes a gesture. Whenever that was. "I ... thought it best the news come first from the Judge, before the sniping harpies of the Prosecution get a word in." He does so hate lawyers. An abomination.
     And with that there is a seeming pause, on earth it would have been an exhalation, and upon that Hellenic Glorious face a narrowing look of concern. He waits now... to hear what you would say.

     What?
     Come now. Soldekai, Chamberlain of Fire. You can be more diplomatic than that.
     Huh?
     Each flashes across his face, as each statement moved closer and closer to home.
     Soldekai does frown, his hazeltine eyes darkening in confusion. Scenes played out, Time reeled quickly through angelic memory. No, nothing there.
     "I...I do not understand," he chirps ethereal, spinning his dusky form. Half-smile there, for there must be some mistake or misunderstanding. Are you sure seems a silly retort. Instead, he stiffens, realizing such mistakes are few at this level.
     Someone has said something. About what has happened between us.
     Instead, annoyance sets in.
     "Who says such a thing," Soldekai now asks, verging on demands. I can wring their tiny snake necks. Seraphim...

     He seems to watch you with stoic eyes. His features do not ripple with emotion. But the steady gaze holds in it a flicker. His eyes are molten gold, echoes of heavenly fires. Much as Galadriel's are made of molten starlight. "There are two who have named him according to Dominic's writ of Transgression Against God," his voice flicks and flashes like flame, licking at the air. Roiling deep but ending with light syllables upon the angelic tongue. Sparkles, like embers -- that is how his words form. "Two superiors who have said they have witnessed both in the Marches and on Earth such Transgressions against the Kingdom of Heaven that warrant a trial. I have not yet heard the whole of their case. For his part, Galadriel seems content within his conscience. If he is a traitor, he is the most even-handed, unwaveringly unworried traitor I have ever had to call upon."
     Michael pushes from the table and stands before you. "You ... can speak for his character... why does he take the form of a Raven... thought Beleth's own sentinels do so?"

     I want to sigh. Can no one here see the irony of it all? Soldekai looks up from his downcast gaze, narrowing his eyes at Michael. "I am surprised that you ask such, General." Even you? Soldekai finally gives into the temptation of exasperation, shaking his head as he moves from the table.
     "I will speak for his character, General..." Sol says softly, looking towards one of the walls. "I will not speak for his choices. But I know this..." and for this he turns over his shoulder, "Galadriel is as true as any. Dreams and Aspirations all," he smiles. "Even celestials dream, General, and we often..." on all sides, "...dream of the same things. Galadriel can tell you this."
     That is the answer to your question. Did you understand it? Perhaps my guardian, my lover, has worn upon me. Such answers you give, Soldekai.
     "Who is to defend him against this?" Anger is flush, but it will not manifest. It is not how you deal with such things here. "If no one will, I shall, of course," he insists.

     There is the tiniest of smiles. The definition of archaic. As you speak, it is not your words he studies. But he does listen. Eyes lift to the golden ceiling of his Byzantine-flavored atrium. "I ask because -they- will ask... have asked. For those building cases of vapors, symbolism means... everything. Gabriel was slandered for little more. Uriel... for only doing his command too well... even I have had to face them a time or two..." His voice quiets for a moment. And then there's The Criminal Himself. A spectre of an old friend's regret. But it is moved aside.
     "I was hoping you would do so, come to the defense of your comrade," he does not say lover, but he knows. And the smile grows a touch, and the eyes almost... twinkle. If Michael's eyes could ever be said to... twinkle. "I cannot be judge and defender both. I need someone who knows him... his motivations..." golden eyebrows lift and a pointed look is given to you. "... someone who knows what he means when he insists on speaking riddles."
     Lips curl, the smile gone from his mouth. Puckered slightly in thought. "Speak with him. I want to review ... the reports given to Marcus and Dominic... I will send them to you, so that you may know the whole of the slander. You know the... tender trap of Truth, yes?"
     That Truth, by its very nature, can be bent by those who most use it. It is like molten steel, it may be molded into a variety of shapes, cooled and turned to a weapon.

     Soldekai nods. He will see the reports, he will speak with Galadriel. But he shall remain calm, despite the Brilliant energy that radiates forth. A mix of all things.
     "I will...be here, Gen--" and Soldekai stops, face even. "Judge."
     Expectation of having leave, Soldekai's own sigil appears beneath him, swirling fire and magnetic light. Destroyer of Physics, as Mortals know it. He pauses and waits until specific word is given.

     There is a sudden... softening...
     If Michael's visage could ever be described as soft...
     "He is housed in my domain," Michael says, his voice soft and melodic. "As he shall be until it is his time to stand before Council. You are, of course, free to visit him... for however long you like, Soldekai. You will find him in the high tower..."
     A sigil of Michael burning at all sides of him. You know how it is done. He cannot leave, but it is such that you might enter...
     And then The General emerges once more. Doric splendor and resolve. Golden tendrils of curls move as he nods to you.
     You may go...

     He's here?
     Soldekai's own sigil fades and instead, he bobs his head, accepting the other transport options.
     No need to go home. Soldekai fades into ashen white, moving through the sigil to another part of the citadel.

     The sigil shimmers at your back and with a hiss of fire, it is gone...
     And you stand within a tower. Before another set of triple doors. Before those doors sit another two colossal four-headed lions. Eyes of fire, bodies of brass and bronze. And four heads turn toward your entrance -- two heads of each lion -- and the other four give out a roaring clarion call. They do not rise from their haunches. There is no need.
     The doors shimmer and Michael's sigil shines upon the center of the triple door.
     The Accused is within. The lion to the right speaks with its southern, or face-forward head. A growl that you at once may understand. You may pass through, Archangel of Brilliance. Pass through the sigil. It comes now, growling from the eight leonine mouths. The walls will form behind you.
     And through the sigil, through the transparent fire, you see The Accused. The violet head bowed. The wings... those dark wings... blackest violet and blue... are held arched in a protective, defensive stance.

     "Malaysia was boring without you," Soldekai smiles, speaking in gentle tones. All the rest is forgotten instantly: anger, annoyance...all gone in the flicker of a feather. He walks forward and the Symphony chimes loudly -- he moves from darkest silhouette, to a young man in beige slacks and white shirt.
     And he stands ahead of you, both hands out.

     You heard it as soon as you passed, for the roaring of the lion guards was silenced by the sudden formation of walls. The sound of chiming, soft chiming. From within the shelter of dark wings. The three silver globes, something beyond metallic, yet with something of that sheen. And the wings lower and the head pops up without grace. His dusky skin, like midnight, flawless. His eyes of silver, swirling. Liquid hematite. And his hands stop. And so does the music.
     The environs are quite comfortable. He is being treated well. How that must gall his accusers. Violet hair drapes forward and he smiles. "Welcome to Hotel St. Michael... I asked for a room with a view... but..." There is dissonance. Some residue of the darker side of the Marches still clinging to him... where he was taken. There is a waver to the usually smooth and flawless voice. The deep hush of the Herald showing what he will not show to anyone but you. "... this was the best I could get on such... short notice..."
     He gives you his hand, Galadriel does, and a wing. "It is... I did not know if I would see you before the pronouncement. I am to be moved to the Palace of Justice, such as it is, eventually..." It is hard to count time in Heaven. How is it marked? The hour is whatever God ... or Michael calls it.
     Fingers are strong and they clasp yours and Galadriel laughs and it is radiant. Chiming as clearly and as sweetly as cathedral bells. "My comet, you flatter me! But I... have rather put an end to your boredom now, have I not?" And he falls into laughter, sweet and pure. Who could not laugh at this...

     "No," Soldekai murmurs, hands coming to rest at your waist, "...you have taught me what boredeom ~is~," he explains. Perhaps it is too philosophical for now.
     He looks down where he holds you, wanting to draw you nearer. "I came...when I heard," he says softly, not wanting to give it much weight at all. "As soon as I heard," he fills the air. Sound of his voice to calm you both. And I will be wherever you are.
     "But..." he grins, shaking you gently, "...I would rather talk of us. Or whatever it is you wish to talk about," he offers, not ruling out discussion of the present situation.

     "It marked the first time I have met The General, as they call him. I hear... this is not the best sort of audience, but it is the surest..." He will laugh at it if no one else shall. What other choice has he? That or grow more dissonant by the moment, as an experiment to see whether the lions outside shall twitch with it. A hand touches at your arm, and lingers there. And then both long, dark wings extend and envelop.
     "It has not been so unpleasant. I'm rather looking forward to my day in court. Maybe... one should be careful of what one asks for..." The smile is ribald, slanting, but with the next moment, it is dismissed. The whole thing. "Tell me about Malaysia... how was your battle? We shall one day have to make a charge together. I should like to drive another tank... I discovered a hidden talent. A knack..." And the eyes widen, stellar. Galaxies held in. "Ah, that reminds me... I have a little... gift for you..." His hands begin to pat his celestial armor of mirrors and mottled starry vestments. "Where did I put it..." he murmurs.
     And the pockets begin to empty. "I hope I did not drop it while I was tending to Beleth's Regretfully Sweet Dreams of Bunnies and Kittens..."

     A gift? You never cease. Soldekai smiles, feeling the embrace. He looks left and right as you do, wondering what it could be. "I would rather you stay away from tanks, but if you must...maybe we can arrange a small skirmish near a small town in...Liberia. At least you will be able to pick up diamonds."
     He snorts at the mention of Beleth, and thinks of Blandine. "Anything..." Soldekai dips his chin, "...you want from the apartment, shiny Galadriel?" He will fetch it. "I could bring your stones and set up a lovely display.

     "Aha... here it is..." he whispers, and he holds out his hand. Resting upon the palm, it is a smoky diamond, shaped and cut into the shape of a mountain, and at the peak is a fitted piece of clear diamond -- radiantly bright. Like snow. "A volcano..." he murmurs, "... I had it made by one of Marc's stonecutters. You can lift the top off..." His other hand does just that. Beneath it? Rubies, red and fiery as lava. "I thought you could keep it with you... in case you got homesick on your travels..."
     Curious thing, that. Do angels get homesick? Oh yes. Oh yes they do. Galadriel grins, a slant that seems ingenuine unless you know him. Almost wicked, in truth. If his mouth can even truly form a wicked look, not ever having been... Wicked. Perhaps... mischief is the In Between Country between Purity and Wickedness. The neutral ground where the two can converge. "My comet," Galadriel breathes, his voice quiet but deep, "I should like obsidian. The obsidian from my little home. I should ... move anyway... I am thinking of Italy or... maybe Prague..."
     Nothing is said of the tank for now. "Care to sit upon one of the wondrously enormous golden cushions and sip nectar from Olympus with me?"
     And indeed the cushions are quite enormous. A most comfortable prison, indeed.

Posted by rowan at May 14, 2003 08:26 PM