Venice, the city of love.. or of canals.. or of brackish water you shouldn't drink. Its title is in there somewhere, Jack is almost sure of it. That not-withstanding, our stalwart Cherub is out for a walk. He watched Galadriel as best he could, but a time came (rather quickly) that Kit was past his help, and now that his word is back on track and he has found the will to support it more actively again, his charge spends most of his time where Jonathan cannot follow. So long walks and and thoughts he keeps to himself are the order of Jack's days recently.
     Of course he hasn't really told anyone, but memories that were so long lost to him are starting to, slowly, work their way back. Of course, he cannot help but feel a bit slighted. So far the Bad Memories dwarf the good ones. Hell, even the nearly catastrophic memories seem more frequent than the good ones. But still he's just glad to have them back. And so Jonathan walks quietly along the canal, watching as a pair of young lovers float along in a pole boat. "Hrm, I wonder if Kit is helping them ... aspire to a little heavy petting later."

     The water is green with limestone, centuries and... well... the best is left undescribed. Still, when sunlight moves across it, it is easy to think it pure for that moment. How beautiful Venice is in that moment. And if you notice, the sunlight is bright upon the water, a moment when the sun and the water come together in perfect harmony. The water holds a mirror up to the sun, so it may see itself. And the sun seems to turn the water to brass and flowing, burning bronze.
     When the light flickers on your face, Jonathan, only you know the difference. And between the particles of light, you can see him, midway between Alexander and Caesar, having been them both Once Upon a Time. In the reflection of sunlight against your face -- are you squinting yet? -- you can see the quirk of an amused smile.
     "I don't know much about aspiration," comes Michael's voice at your ear, "...but I do know a little something about this city and what in inspires." He stops there, that's not what he came to talk to you about. Hm. And he ...came.. to ...you. "Hello, Jonathan...." And in the bright, burning bright reflection, you can see him removing his helmet, tucking it beneath his arm.

     Jack's eyes narrow and squint, even though technically doesn't need to. Even though the centuries have not been kind to Jonathan at times, he has picked up quite the number of humanisms over the years, even if he doesn't realize this. "Greetings sir." Jack balls his right hand into a fist and places it over his heart and bows his head. An archaic kind of a salute to be certain. Jonathan's stray thoughts are banished and his manner becomes crisp and his bearing military. He kneels down as a knight might do before his lord, but in truth he manages to make the gesture look as if he is looking at something curious in the water.
     "You are looking quite Drachonian today." Jack says with an even tone, and perhaps just a bit of a smile. "What do you wish of me sir?"

     In the light a hand makes a motion. Yes. Well. Habits. We all have them. And sometimes it is the only comfort a man might find. There is a quirk of golden eyebrows -- those are a habit, too, not just the motion but having them in the first place -- "Thank you, I think," the angelic language is not normally known for its emotional expressiveness. Power, yes. Beauty, yes. Prophecy, yes. But sarcasm? Droll amusement?
     "You'll pardon the theatrics," Michael always says of his grander entrances, "...but the only other choice was to become an egret or pelican. But to the point of the Deus ex Machina entrance," he says, getting to Business. "I have come to praise you. And to tell you of a plan. But let's not talk strategy out in the street. I think I may be ringing Andre's bell." It is where his tether is, afterall.
     The sunlight begins to recede, and with it the vision.
     "Third door down..." is his parting words, and if you turn you'll see three blue doors to your right, leading to palazzi, or apartments or... interdimensional hallways...

     Jack has often thought that it would be easier to be a mortal man some days. After all then you'd just know every door you stepped through would lead to only one place, what's on the other side. Of course living as he has, knowning at least some of the true nature of the universe, he knows that a door can and often will lead anywhere. Pushing back up to this feet, Jonthan turns and approaches the third door down and opens it, stepping past the threshhold.
     "I never mind a grand entrance, Michael, they remind me of the old days, you know that..." He closes the door behind him and takes a deep unnessecary breath. Modestly saying nothing of the praise and instead asking, "So what is this plan then if I may be so bold?"

     And you are standing on the old war field, the campus, all but abandoned these days it seems. The old weapons, the old armor, the old standards of battles from Byzantium to Tripoli are standing as testaments all around. Even his own spear, whose point was once at Lucifer's throat, stands, point embedded in this earth that is not earth. But there are no warring cherubim, seraphim or any other choir. There are no groups of his compadres. It's... strangely peaceful...
     Michael motions to a chair, there are two Roman cross chairs in the field. "I have been feeling somewhat nostalgic of late." I have begun to dream, too. "Please... have a seat, Jonathan." Here, the fire has receded, there are no burning canals or whirling columns of fire or burning bushes for that matter. And the Old General, who once looked so tired after so many wars, appears relaxed and refreshed. And he takes a seat across from the other chair.
     "Like steel when it is tempered, you have become stronger," Michael notes, looking at you directly -- for he knows no other way. "Put back into the fire that bore you, rejuvenated. Your work has not escaped my notice," no one of his servitors do, though it takes him a while to get to them all, "And I would like to show you my appreciation in the only way I know how. I am giving you something else to do," Michael smiles suddenly.

     The Cherub takes a moment to take in a deep breath. Wet earth, faded smoke and the copper tinge of blood. The smells of battle. Even faint as they are it is has been a long time since Jonthan stood on a field such as this. It brings back even more memories. Pride as he watched the Martel fight so valiantly at the pass of Pointier near Tours. Pride as he watched St. Joan lead the french to victory. Of course memories of St. Joan bring back the anger of what Dominic and the Whelp of the Sword allowed their Catholic Church to do to her.
     Jonathan moves to the cross chair that faces Michael and settles into it. Old bones creaking just a bit, weathered by durable. "Thank you, sir... I'm hardly worthy of such praise, I merely finally did what I should have made myself do long ago." A dark brow raises up as his superior tells him of the impending reward. "A new mission?" There's a swelling of excitement in his breast, but it's quickly quelled. Gotta keep your cool before the boss. "I would be honored sir. What do you need me to do?"

     "I do not give praise lightly and so, as it is given," Michael waxes, leaning back in the chair and making himself comfortable, Byzantinian and Alexandrian garb and all, "... know that you are worthy of it, Jonathan. And yes," a softness to the word, "... a new mission. But," he raises a hand, "before I move on, I should like to brief you on your charge, the cherub Galadriel. Know that you were a foundation that kept him from cracking. A column that bore him upward, when he could not bear his own weight. And he is better for your tending to him. He has been promoted within his ranks. This could not have been possible had you not held his head in the desert and made him drink," he speaks of Turkey most likely here. "It is sometimes the quiet battles, Jonathan, in which history is made. And so, I show my gratitude in ..." hands spread, "...the only way I know how."
     By finding an even greater battle for you, most likely with worse odds. But, therein lies the greater glory for a soldier they say.
     "I want you to go to London. There is something happening there. I would like to know more about the movements of the dark troops I see converging upon it. You...are to be my scout, see with your eyes so that I might better understand." And Michael smiles a little, but it soon recedes. "We are winning the war, Jonathan, and we are poised to turn the tide. We must remain vigilant. And so... London..."

     Jack smiles a bit as you tell him of Galadriel, and his promotion. "Thank you, Sir." You know Kit could sure frustrate the hell out of him, but he loved the guy. It makes him proud to know he played some part in The Angel of Aspiration finding his own again. But the smile turns to a more somber look as Michael outlines his reward.
     "To London," Jonathan says. His words trail off. Holy Christ on a stick.... that's one of the Fronts... Jonathan quickly clears his throat and regains his composure. Laurence fights in the middle east and a fire there grows like it might consume the world. "Then your eyes I shall be." And maybe, just maybe he'll get a chance to be your fist on a few occasions. "Do I have an particular objectives? Persons or Places that need a guardian? Or do you need me to discern how or foes and potential resources are?" You know, he's starting to sound like the old Jonathan again. The faithful and unflappable sergeant to your ruthlessly efficient General.

     And it makes Michael smile, as few things do -- though he has been smiling to almost excess 'today' -- to hear you speak as you are, as you Once Did, as you Do Now. Maybe that is why he seems... restored. Because you are. "All of the above. You will find your charge as you always do, I have no doubt of that," he waves at it, so well it is known how you choose your attunements and why and what happens. He has faith and trust in you.
     "As you know more, learn more, so shall Our Purpose unfold before our eyes. First, we must understand more of who is behind this latest surge...of activity. Who is trying to get What and Why. What is happening in the Middle East... it is a distraction. They hoped," whomever it is, "...that eyes and hands and hearts would be too busy there to notice the tiny island off the coast of Europe's mainland." A pause. "It almost worked," and then Michael smiles again, rising. Not that the meeting is over.
     "I would like for you to take seven earth days worth of rest. London... will be a difficult assignment. But my faith is in you, Jonathan," And with that he crosses over to his old spear. He pulls it out of the ground, where it has, in truth, been embedded for years. Years and years. Since he was removed as commander of Heaven's armies and Sword was created. It is tossed to you, gently, for you to grab it -- in other words, he's not trying to impale you with it. "Move us forward, Jonathan."
     The spear gleams. It is not made of gold but seems gold. Not made of bronze but seems bronze. Not made of earth but is as easy to hold as one hewn from the wood of her trees. "When London is ours," Michael intones, "... embed this in the center of the city." And the lines of battle will move forward at your command. You are the standard bearer now.

     Jonathan rises up to his feet and a strong hand deftly snatches the spear from the air. Jack swallows again as he sets the butt of the spear in the ground and stands at attention with the weapon in his hands. For a moment he remembers, he remembers as it was held at Lucifer's throat, He remembers when it was called Pelion and wielded by Achilles. He remembers when one much like it was given to Longinius so he might completely his destiny and later found in the hands of the Bear of Britain for a short time. He looks to Michael then and nods. "I will pierce the cities dark heart and bring back the light and from there we will march one."
     He takes the spear in one hand and crosses it over his chest, there is a flash off essence as something swims through the symphony to his off-hand. His loved room-sweeper that he crafted for himself back in his days in gang-land Chicago is held. It crosses with the haft of the spear before his chest and Jonathan bows his head, "By your will, it shall be done."

     Who is like God...
     That is what I was called when I stood out of the fire. It was the first thing that left my mouth. Who is like God? I sang, I admonished. I warned. But the question was not heard. And later, when I asked it again, a ...friend answered me. And he said: I Am. We Are.
     And then we began to bleed...
     So as I began it, I hope to end it...
     But I am not God. I do not know if I am even like Him, truly. I hope. And so, I cannot do it on my own. Mabye my friend was right. Maybe we Are All God afterall. We shall only know when we all come together as we were before.
     Michael smiles and becomes a column of fire, the very one who appeared to Moses, to the Egyptians and the Assyrians. The fire that was called Ares first, then Mars. But the grass of this earth does not blacken and burn.
     The flames roil, the sparks and flames flicker into nothing. But... there is never Nothing. God has seen to that. Even space has a pattern. A being. A purpose.
     And now, you have yours...

Posted by rowan at May 19, 2003 11:40 PM