It is nearer the Elysian fields, Blandine's tower, the first passage to Heaven. Far across the Marches stands Beleth's, ominous and opposite. Blandine rarely makes appearances since the Lover fell to the other side, most work administered by servitors he...she...entrusts. But it is she, everyone wonders, who must have the most power, really. The power to affect Dreams...to affect the hopes and wishes of the Soul. Wielded so? Rarely. Dominic and Laurence both believe there is so much more The Dreamer can do. But he has retired from such active work...seemingly.
     This night, a day that never comes, Blandine is at his...her...usual. Deep within the unending tower. Reading. Walking. Looking at Night and the Stars.
     There are many ...spirits...angels...the world's Forgotten Creatures...myths who live here in safety, rather than purged For All Time by One Being's view of Purity and Holiness on earth. Here...the first passage of heaven. And Here...the farthest fingers of Hell. Realities and Eras packed in between...

     From the reaches of one half of the Marches...to this Other...a dark bird comes flying. For what is the realm of the Dreaming and the Dead without a raven to attend it. But...it is no servitor of Beleth, no bird of Hell. No...indeed. The raven flies to its master's....mistress'...tower. Some chiming against the Symphony sounds as the talons meet the body of the Tower. Flight halted in a tower's window. The bird is larger than those borne by earthly winds, but is in every other way indistinguishable from it. Black eyes. Black beak. The black sheen of feathers. Pinions stretched. But instead of the ...expected hawking cry, there comes the smooth, deep voice of Masculine Energy. "Your Grace of the Night Time Hours...I bring you news from the front lines of Our Conflict..."

     "Hmm?" matching voice comes. Male for this moment. Blandine turns around from a shelf, ceiling stone...and not stone. Above, gleaming black and violet of Night. Illusion and Reality indistinguishable. He frowns faintly as he turns about. Unexpected. Violet wings of the angel open and close in readjustment, book set down. "News? Something wrong?" Of course. That's how it's been since...well...does he linger on it too much? He sighs a little. "And how are you?" he mumbles, heading towards you and the window alcove, an absent comment.

     How can one say to an Archangel...Humor me. And yet the Herald of Dreams -- rather like the Jack of Spades in a deck of cards -- tilts his head, and beak preens the feathers of his sometimes raven form. He is not always so, but...sometimes, an ounce of drama can make up for a tonnage of missing diplomacy. The wings of the raven flap, and then settle. The beak opens. "Something is wrong, yes. Shall I dispense with the formalities, or do you wish the entire report, Your Grace? I shall amend...and abridge...as You Will..."

     "Dispense and abridge," is the retort, even and malleable. As with all things. Blandine comes nearby and leans against a wall, broad arms folding across his violet chest, his violet self. And the eyes...Rigel and Capella. Blue-white and Yellow.

     And the raven lifts from the window that is not a window and settles into the room, which is not a room. Yes...and again No. And talons chime against the floor. The Symphony again. And in the hum of it, an angel is kneeling before his lord. Lady. Whatever. Black wings are extended outward. His head is bowed. Beautiful. But darkly so. His hair is black, his skin dark and dusky. His clothing is a mottled violet and black armor. The Herald of Dreams -- his armor reflects glimpses and pictures of realities and never-beens. Like a thousand mirrors. "The ..." He must bite back the word 'bitch'. And 'harlot'. "...advance of Nightmares on the Marches has gained new ground upon the flank. Dreams...Dreams must be restored to the Creation's Mind and Heart...or Their Despair will become Our Despair."

     Now he appears a bit lost. "Who...in particular?" Blandine asks, the silk vest and pants upon him shifting between the dark ends of the spectrum. "You are not being precise," he notes. "What were the losses?"

     Ravens are never precise. They riddle. That's the glory of it. But the angel who wears an angel's form, raises his head from the brow. He is a soldier of Dreams, this one. His eyes are silver, molten liquid as he lifts his gaze. "As those below who are Our Charges lose Hope and therefore lose touch with Our Evening's Guidance...She gains more ground on the Marches. Now...My Lord and Grace of Dreams. We lost a hundred souls and bear the marks of Beleth's nails for it. I...Your Herald...am loathe to abridge and report to you. There is a shadow on the right-most flank of the Marches." There is....no not hatred, no dissonance...but there is Very Strong Feelings at the mention of the Traitor's Name. The Herald bows his head again. And awaits his Master's reply.

     "Lost..." Blandine says, silks changing for violet-starred armor, "...is extreme. In jeopardy? Can you all not spend this night with them and restore their Hope?" He pushes from his spot and moves to the window-not-window where you perched before. "The Shadow...should be in your control." Do not make me go out there. "Work with each of the hundred...take some of the Pachydim," the choir of dreams, "...and dispense them as you see fit Master Herald." All of it at your disposal.

     I am only one. Where are the Legions of Heaven in support for the hearts and minds of their own children? But the Herald rises formidable. "Yes, Your Grace of the Night Time Hours," he murmurs. Reverence for you is evident. And for his task. But these angels of yours...in their way are they not among the most battered by a conflict that is constant. That knows no day to its night. The constant struggle of the soul for transcendence...victory...as mirrored on the world below. Far below. The Herald stands there a moment and then becomes the Raven once more. Perched upon the window. "One...last thing, if I might have your leave to speak?"

     "Yes," Blandine says, turning about. Outside the window, others arrive. Pachydim to take the voice of Whisperer to mortals. To guide their nights even as Cherubim help during the day.

     How can we, Lord? Do this? When our leader ...perhaps...has had his...her...own Dream infringed upon by Traitorous Deeds of a Love Lost? His dark eyes take his Master in. His head tilts for a good look. "I am your Valiant Herald," comes the deep smooth voice, smooth as a rounded stone. As a raven's beak. "I will not return without the souls tucked under my wings..." And the bird leans in, beak opening. The first Herald caw sounding. Herald indeed, giving clarion call to the "troops" he is about to lead. "Or you may pluck my wings, Lord of Dreams -- each one..." And the Symphony rings when the talons scratch against the stone that is not stone on the window-not-a-window.

     A voice comes your direction. The Eternal Whisperer. "I am Here," with you all, the Archangel thinks, "...and I am not interested in Destruction..." a stream of angelic syllables that represents a True Name, Yours, "...never...that."

Posted by rowan at April 20, 2003 08:53 PM