Bubbles of dreamscapes roll to and fro in the Marches. Despite the recent quieting of arms, all know that the War has simply moved to the next plane. The host of the Archangel Blandine now takes the lead against the horde, each available angel seeing to its charge in the course of their Dreaming. It is there things rage: a smile on a bus given to the downtrodden, hope given to the despairing. The right answer suddenly comes in a Dream, a solution writes itself after rest made secure.
In a cathedral, a priest grins as another of his orphaned children gets a new home.
It is in these things will the War be won, Blandine had explained again in Council. It is when Dreams are realized, achieved, and manifest that a victory will come. When the Dream is not relegated, but given freely to the benefit of the Dreamer, and in the path of right motion of reconciliation and redemption towards Eternal Life for all God's children.
No matter what Hell they had created for themselves.
The Archangel Blandine believes in second chances.
He must have another chance.
The concern in that was felt around the Council chamber. Even Soldekai watched as the Archangel's rare visit and speech at the end of the latest round of direct aggression in the Far Marches verged on the edge of something else. Something he's seen before.
Yet the Council did not openly disagree with Blandine. In general, several key voices remained quiet. There was concern about the animals, and if the Archangel felt for them in the same way. There were several questions on procedure, the Archangel's unwillingness to allow extensive interviews with all involved in the 'supposed' (Dominic's word) return of Andrealphus. It was noted by Brilliance that Blandine had, in fact, allowed such interviews, but what did Dominic wish? What was the accusation against all those who had worked so hard, save perhaps zealousness with this particular Dream? That half of the host would be questioned, as there are inextricable links between inspiration, aspiration, desire, and willingness to change. And then - well - just the network of such a defection. Would Dominic wish to undermine such a delicate system that apparently worked?
With that, The Archangel Blandine, the ultimate Dreamer, faded in a stream of starshine and inky blackness, having decided that his time at Council that day, had come to an end.
When he was next seen, it was with a servitor in his chamber of Dreams, where stars speak and the darkness chases the pinpricks in a game of eternal hide and seek. Upon his throne, Blandine spread, closing his dark eyes. Within, there was but ache. A longing unfulfilled. Love missed. With each passing bit of Time, the emptiness has only worsened, and the Archangel Blandine finds himself facing that which he has strived to avoid since his Heart was broken - a view of the abyss, the feeling of urgency before Despair.
His dark head tilts back against the gem-encrusted throne. Blandine whispers a prayer of hope; sings a song of comfort. Maybe his love had forgotten him. It was true, this Nightmare...
His mind has burned and his tongue has burned and he has felt more in these... however many the reckoning may be of sand in archangelic hourglasses...than the in millennia that proceeded it. All failures. All lies. All sins. All sadness and sorrow. The breaking of the first heart.
That one alone was his ruin. He failed Them. And in so doing failed Every One That Was Ever After Them.
But...
But...
Sins were conceived in such a word once. But....
But...
But hope is found now in that simple sound. A breath. But. But. But.
But there is a chance that in the darkest of the dark that some spark will be set that could create a universe. And is that not a Dream? And is that not a Hope? And is that not a possibility?
And is a word with courage. And is a building stone. And... And... And...
If But is a breath, And is conviction -- sound that exists behind it.
And is that not what Love Is? Too frequently confused with Romance, too confused with Fidelity. Love is as surely in Loss as it is in Gain. It is in the echoing light of Gabriel's flame, the one that calls out to her still: Return, Return, Return.
I was not here to show them that, for I had already forgotten it.
Every drop of crystal that fused to another crystal that became the grain of sand, with every drop of it, Andrealphus sent a word to the Host, a prayer for their sake, a tear of apology, a choke of understanding. Every drop of Time, however it is spent here, was given to this exercise. But. And. Of recounting all -- the tremendous All -- that had transpired and the truth and lies unfolding in his consciousness, choices made for himself and for others, because of others, because of himself, and all the permutations of evil done, followed by the hope of all Good that may yet Be.
There is no Nightmare without a Dream. And no Day or Night, no Hour or Minute that may germinate, blossom and decay in the garden of the dreaming that does not come with a servitor bearing a message from Andrealphus to Blandine.
His crimes became the ticking hand of the clock of the Marches. His apologies, the arms that moved. His hope, the mechanics of the clock itself, turning and turning and turning.
Please tell Archangel of Dreams...
Please tell him...
Please tell her...
Please carry this forward...
Please...
I must speak...
I must see the Face of Dreams...
Please tell him I have come...
That I beg his forgiveness...
Broken hearts can heal...
They must heal...
Another servitor quietly enters Blandine's tower chamber, the throne of dreams. Head lowered, he does not look upon His Self, His Greater, the Face of the Dreams of God. "My Master," the soft voice hesitates, "... a message has arrived." Another one.
But Blandine already knows. If an Archangel may look tired, this would be the instant. Yet the Archangel nods, shifting on his universal seat, and says softly, "Let him come."
What? The angel's expression might be said to say: in here? But he does not linger. The head pops back out of the door ajar, the door softly closing behind him.
I am covered in things worse than bloodshed. Lies and Deceit, Seduction, Empty Vessels filled with Debauchery. It was a lie when I first told it. That was not Love. Love... would not have done that. I am sick of the sight of me. Beautiful thing, Love was. Lust is a painted up icon of Despair. It is Despair in high heels. Despair.
I am not clean, no matter how frequently I bathe and oil myself in purification. I am not clean, no matter how my being is scrubbed with the salt of daily prayers. I was corruption, now marching behind the Incorruptible. Not marching -- staggering as they march. Around my legs the shackles of my own creation.
But...
But...
But... in forgiveness, in hope may Despair be vanquished. I renounce my Corruption. I renounce it. I renounce it. I renounce it.
Andrealphus' lips parted, mouthing those words as he was taken from his holding area to the tower of Blandine, flanked on all sides by Ishrael's Incorruptibles, the only ones who may stand in the presence of the former Prince of Lust.
I renounce my corruption...
I renounce it...
I renounce it...
The Incorruptibles (Indestructibles) bring him and they remain once the door is closed, and resoundingly closed at that. Without their prompting, Andrealphus goes to his knees, his beauty faded by his own corruption, but there is no veil to hide it. There is no veil capable of concealing it, even if the desire were there to do so. He is clothed as he was when he Left, the remnants of penitent garments in tatters. He refused to change. No, was the message, he wishes it to remain, his symbol for his crimes, his symbol for his desire to change.
"I failed You," comes the whisper, the clatter of the remains of wings sounding after as the stubs shudder. "You," he echoes in a softer breath. You, personally. You, Blandine. You, God.
The stairs of the throne, alternating reflection of a universe, change colors when Blandine rises from his seat. He was younger then, when he loved Beleth and joined hands and hearts in Novalis' Garden. You stood with them, accepting their joined hearts as perfect guardian. It was the very metaphor, that Time.
Though his face retains the youth and beauty of an eternity ago, the Archangel of Dreams is now filled with the aged essence of that very same eternity. He strides each step with an almost nervous quality. His dark eyes ask the questions:
What happened to you?
Why do you look like this?
Why did you leave Us...
Why did you leave us - our joined hearts - alone and broken?
Blandine does not speak these things. Instead, the tiniest of tears, like comet trails, fall upon his cheeks.
Do you know what you did to us?
Do you know what you did to me? You left us...and took him with you. Took her with you.
The Archangel is but a Prince to his peers. And in that, Blandine begins to speak, his mouth opening to say something to you. But his lips close, and instead, he looks upwards to his Heaven.
"I...I...am not ready to do this, Father," his tears worsening. Instead, he takes a step back, reaching for the safety of his throne. "Forgive me, Father, because I cannot forgive Him..." his gaze now firmly upon you. The words 'I am sorry' almost seem to form at his mouth, but Blandine own horror is placed before him.
From nowhere, Ishrael makes himself Present. In his regalia - for a Prince, even corrupted, is a Prince - and sword, he flies to the side of his Archangel, a hand out to steady his trip backwards upon the stairs. His wings, dusky as all Malakim are, brace stiffly, widely, and he turns an accusing gaze towards the visitor while he supports his Mistress.
"Your heart was broken," Andrealphus whispers, "and with it, all of our hearts were broken. Lucifer did not ... he did not convince me of anything. In fact," Andrealphus chokes on his words and weeps, "I did not even speak to him. I failed when I could not save her. When she left, it was my failure. And I could not face you. And then I heard the lightbearer say: See what Love has done today..."
His hands meet the marble of your own creation. "See what Love has done today. It was my fault. The War... everything... and I give my Self back to the universe... I must... or we cannot heal. And please... do not forgive me, the instrument of Love. Blandine, it is Love Itself you must forgive before this War can end. So... failure of an instrument though I am... paltry and small and weak... I have felt that Love yet exists, though it has fled me..." Andrealphus weeps as he speaks, sputtering angelic, his words out of key.
"Love still exists and we must recognize it. That is what I saw, I felt it... you see... when that servant of yours... and," he bends his head. "And Heaven healed a scar, one of its too many scars with the arrival of Brilliance. I left Hell that day, never to return. No matter how painful, no matter... oh it is worse... no matter how appealing forgetting is. Hell... is forgetting who we are...and then we lose our voice... and then ... we lose our minds..."
I was in Hell before Hell was a place...
Andrealphus does not look at you. He is not worthy to see the tears of his own doing. But he must. He feels compelled to look. "I must face you now," he whispers. "That is my punishment. To look at the face of the pain I have wrought. I am so sorry. I am so very sorry. And my death, or a thousand repetitions of it will not be enough to atone for it. But I must try. I must try. For Love demands that of me. Your ... forgiveness is your own to give," Andrealphus turns his head. "I must ask it, regardless. It is my only hope."
He falls silent suddenly, an unquiet gasping silence. His hands clutch the tatters of his former office. And then they pull. He tears the fabric from him, baring himself of every artifice. "I failed you, Blandine. And I failed Beleth, too. I did not know... I could not imagine that I could not bring her back. I failed everyone. And only Lucifer gained. I am such a fool! A coward! This is no prince," he spits at himself. "It is a weak thing, a fallen and broken thing."
But...
But...
But...
"But... I have had this Dream...it carried me from my sanctuary, my hidden place now burned and destroyed. That broken shards of broken hearts may be mended. That all of us may heal. That ... Love may return where once it fled. I beg for that and not for myself. For that Dream ... it does not need me to live to dream it..."
Blandine turns his darkened head, something said to Ishrael. The Archangel remains flustered, held by his chief Indestructible. ishrael looks up after his Master commands him, then looks to the rear of his guard to command, "This is over. I am sorry..." no title given. An arch of a dusky brow causes the two rear guards to turn and open the doors. They head out to make sure the corridors are empty for the return to guest chambers.
Blandine begins to lift himself from the stairs before his throne with Ishrael's assistance. The guard spreads out slightly to give their guest room to rejoin them for departure. A second-in-command, Ischiel, says softly, "Please come this way, Your Excellence. If the audience is needed again, we shall tend to the message for you."
If any of the words were heard by the Archangel, it is hard to tell. Blandine's personal anguish is evident to those in the chamber. And from his Indestructibles, this story will never be told.
"Please, do not honor me," Andrealphus whispers as he rises. "I am no one's ... excellency. I am just a soul. Less than," he notes, and then he nods. He holds his tatters in his hands. His wings would hide himself if they yet existed.
"I am sorry for the ruin I have brought to your master," he speaks, his appearance more wan by the moment. "I am sorry for all of your suffering. For the battles you had. For those that may yet be coming. I have done what the Lord has asked of me," he breathes, his face twisting in his own anguish. Anguish that is only doubled by the existence of Blandine's.
"Take me now to Dominic. This Lord... has suffered for my sake long enough."
Once Blandine rests upon his Seat, Ishrael comes down to the main floor once again. His expression says nothing - no surprise in that - but his voice chimes, "My Lord does not wish for you to be subject to Dominic's hands yet, Your Grace. For this to resolve itself in the way you say of your Dream, then perhaps it is not time for that. If you wish to go to the Hall, we would escort you." You must remember how this works. "You are no prisoner of our Tower or our Mistress. But I know that your safety and the better resolution of this is preferred."
So sayeth the Archangel Blandine's Prime Indestructible.
Does Ishrael know his master's heart so well, or are these his words for this situation? It perhaps matters not. Ishrael's hand extends towards the door as Ischiel and he fall into now-rear ranks. "We will ask you to continue to stay with us, for now, Your Grace." If we are to have Hope that this will work to some satisfactory end.
In his eyes, a Dream...
Two beings, two hearts, cleaved into one; its union sealed by the hardest diamond. The pair stand in Novalis' glade, their delight on display for all to see. There are smiles about as the pair kiss again for their friends, and a joined prayer is lifted to their Father for thanks. Another kiss is placed, and then one turns to Love standing beside him, the heart handed over. It must be stored. The heart's giver smiles at Love, then lets his bride go long enough to place a kiss upon Love's own lips. He stares for an instant where his lips so recently burned, then grins at Love to see his response.
The bride is embraced again, and the groom places an arm on Love's shoulder, drawing him closer.
A broken strand of diamonds at the trio's feet suddenly rises, creating a mirror-image of the heart given to Love, and the second hovers above the blades of grass.
"I trust in your faith," Andrealphus responds. He moves forward. It is the only way, now, to go...
And...
And...
And so he walks, his arms holding against himself as though there were sheltering wings there. "I am so sorry," he begins to repeat. "I am so very sorry."
It is the mantra of regret that he must sing, not because it is expected, or required in this dream of Redemption, but because he was wrong. He allowed himself to be deceived. He did not believe when his Belief was most needed. He doubted himself.
He failed...
He Fell...
In the glade there were three...
In Heaven one fateful day, it took only One to make it all fall apart. One, to kindle the desires of Another. One, to kindle the doubts of Another. And the diamond had a flaw. And Andrealphus was to blame. If I had been stronger, this would not have happened.
No, Lucifer whispered, if Love had only been stronger. The Word is flawed. But... perhaps you can help, Andrealphus. Desire. Would not that help them?
As he is led from the chambers, Andrealphus winces. His mind burns and his tongue burns and he feels millennia worth of failures, lies. All the sadness and the sorrow.
And the breaking of the first heart...
Posted by rowan at January 08, 2006 08:13 PM
