Nova. A star that suddenly increases its light output tremendously, then fades away to its former obscurity. He has felt a microcosm of a nova, energy clustering in brief interchanges with a variety of angels, on a variety of angles all concerning the same objects, and then just as suddenly, his energy wanes and everyone departs once more.
These interchanges have been intense, periodically too intense, as he has both valiantly and impatiently attempted to answer all of their questions. It leaves him exhausted and again he must rest and repair...
The Marches do not keep Time as such, but if one might apply the terms of Time to those who dwell here then Today has been a rough day. He has asked for peace and quiet, he has needed rest much more today than the previous, and the Malakim have kept the doors closed far more than they have let them open.
Up and down, like a buoy riding little ripples, his magic carpet moves. Lifting, lowering, much like the intake and exhale of breath, if he required such a thing. Galadriel rests upon his stomach, his wings -- long since turned to streams of colored Brilliance -- flicker. He loved Christmas on earth, and his pennant wings look like strings of lights being tested.
Galaxy eyes open and look around but there are few here, only one attendant who comes and goes and the malakim at the door who prevent the inquisitive and simply curious from entering unless they have an appointment. Galadriel exhales, his hands balling up on the carpet.
Maybe if I sit up... a little meditation... maybe some singing...
The citadel chimes as if energy from every wall converges. It is the Archangel in motion. Present and manifest. Sweeping down the corridors, the surge is the arrival of every anticipated moment and every hopeful dream.
Behind it, a rush of voices, lifting, singing.
Singing for one of their own, singing hosannas for a Sentinel.
In the room, the Archangel appears, swirled in his robe of the universe. A map of All, sparkled and dusted upon a pastiche of black and blue. His face is turned upwards as the music fills the tower, all of the Dreaming Host, together lifted in song chimed across the Symphony.
He has been so easily moved to hallelujahs since his return, to the ecstatic tears of one most passionate about God and about the connection to God. And the voice of God, which can so clearly be heard in the voices of all of those dreamers, beautiful dreamers, is so overwhelming.
Tears come as comets dripping from the galaxies of his eyes and he moves to sit upon his knees, uncaring of the energy spent to do so -- normally such would be done without thought, without the obvious expending of energy, but when one has been so close to nothing, a sudden burst requires more behind it.
"Beautiful Dream," Galadriel murmurs, his voice among the thousands, softly issuing. "Music dreams to be as radiant as the songs of Our Fellows." The magic carpet slides suspended, taking him to you. He closes his eyes, his hands lifting to rest upon the unclothed chest. "O, it is good to hear it," he says softly.
Who could not be strengthened by this sound?
And to our brilliant friend
a friend to all
the height of the heart
in seeking itself
its true self
to always lead one home
Blandine turns his visage to here, to his sentinel near him. "A shared song...it is what we offer."
The archangel does not ask how you are doing. That is evident. Nor what happened. He knows. Or what you might need. It is evident. Instead, he simply exists in the space, taking Time. Giving Time away to you. It is yours of his to do as you wish.
A shared song, it is what we Are...
So many times did I sing to ease your own heart, sing your praises, sing to make you laugh. Now are all of those songs returned in the multitude. It is breathtaking, if one were required to breathe. Galadriel lowers to the carpet once more, his smile Brilliant, sparkling from his soul.
"I could fly to hear such, but I think it would not last long," he teases himself. He rolls over onto his back to look at you, his wings still flickering, extended and trailing downward. Galadriel turns his face to you, he seeks you out, he holds out his hand.
He does not speak now. He gives his praise to you, the Dream and Hope of God, his tears streaking in glowing light down the surface of his dusky cheeks.
We dreamed of this...
Thus it came to be...
In Hopes combined we reached...
In Aspiration, we grabbed on...
"The Marches rejoice," Galadriel speaks once more, and he smiles. For his tears are not of sorrow, but pure ecstasy. "I love you, both the Dreamer and the Dream," he whisper-sings. He closes his eyes briefly, the smile remaining.
"Not me, We," Blandine explains as the chorus continues to sing behind him. Trained voices now, the host has become but a few in song. It is never about him.
"You are on leave, Sentinel," Blandine notes for the record. "Extended and indefinite."
He closes his eyes and he nods. "May I be of service again," Galadriel whispers his own hope. His own Aspiration. It is how he fortifies himself. To Aspire. He opens his eyes and he looks to you.
There's no peppering of questions. He knows he has far to go. There is that poem, yes? Miles to go before he sleeps. And then some. He will have to return to Heaven, he knows this.
"I hope to return to Venice some day. To sing with Fra Spero's children and make macaroni pictures." He delights in the thought of it.
But there is so much happening. The questions are there, unspoken, held cupped in his eyes. Of The Marches. Of Soldekai's campaign. Of Love.
"You are of service, eternally," Blandine reassures. "Aspiration is the hope and truth of all."
"But even an angel needs a holiday."
Galadriel nods. He no longer expects to hear the roar of the engine belonging to the South Bound Bus. It is simply strange, the idea of an extended vacation. "Yes, My Lord... angels do," a small smile. "This angel certainly does... I ... will rest. Until you call to me to do otherwise."
You know better than he...
The galaxy eyes, with all their spirals and sparkling stars, close again and he rolls over to lie upon his belly. "I dread nothing, for I move in the confidence of my service," Galadriel whispers. "I am... so thrilled for your visit. Even though you are always with me."
"I am always with you," Blandine offers, "...and you are always with us. Your Word Is."
"Enjoy Venice. You will leave soon."
"I love Venice. All of the shiny glass. All of the sparkling water," Galadriel replies dreamily. "It is the place where I struggled. It is the place where I remembered. It is the place where I persevered." He smiles to think of it now, for all of the good and the bad, the joyous and sad.
Soon?
Galadriel opens his eyes, looking to the face of his Lord. "Will I be going directly to Venice? I thought... I might have to ... be examined," he says, rather than interrogated.
"There will be review by the Judges," Blandine confirms, though he makes no mention of the timeframe. "When our own have done with all of the pertinent details to handle the present situation." And there remains a situation. "That is more important than...even the immediate past."
No wonder no one of opposing ilk have visited.
"We must understand our guest's situation and what may potentially arise. We must know what needs to be done to secure his and everyone else's safety. That is paramount, tantamount. And to that end," Blandine smiles, the stars in it, "...it is important that you remain with us for now."
"I am ready for whatever God has in store for me. I will be ready, when it is time." There is no dreading, for he moves in the confidence of his service. Galadriel suddenly smiles, "I am in no hurry, mind you, Lord," he murmurs.
And his curiosity gets the better of him: "Our present situation... I have not received my news today," his debriefings are frequently peppered with his own questions about what is or is not happening. He has even asked of Soldekai, though such is both bold and indelicate.
"Your news will come," Blandine confirms, his cloak falling open slightly to reveal more of the universe beneath. Darkness. "I will remind them that it is that time."
Blandine smiles again, giving a lingering stare. "Be well, Our Sentinel."
The connections help him. They bolster him. It keeps him involved, engaged. Galadriel settles with the promise of reports to come. He will wait. He will be patient.
"I shall, My Lord of Dreams," it is his turn to assure. Galadriel looks upon your smile, faces the lingering look. "With such songs and hopes and dreams as these, how could I be otherwise?"
Posted by rowan at February 19, 2005 02:06 AM
