Yves has many methods of travel. Perhaps the most common is just
appearing, whereever it is he's going. Or taking innocuous transport
to go remarkable places. Or simply walking.
Which is what he did on this day in Heaven. He made his way from the
Library, a book tucked under his arm, and he walked into Heaven. He
walked past the gleaming Halls of Progress and the shining Cathedral
of Laurence. He stepped lively through the Baazar, taking the
thoroughfare to the road on the edge of the Eternal City. The road to
the Groves, the fields of practice, where War's forces lay and rested
and trained eternally.
Deep in the Groves themselves, the Archangel David stood outside a
tent. He had been standing there for days, now -- never moving.
Constant, as a Malakite should be. He had turned and looked into the
tent once, at the request of the inhabinant. Otherwise, he had simply
stood and waited.
The horse's hooves thundered as the rider approached. David did not
turn to look -- he knew who would be riding, and did not need to see
the boy to envision him. Eventually, the boy rode into view anyhow.
Erect in the saddle, wearing a simple leather jacket, jeans and a tee
shirt. David had never seen James Dean movies, and had no comment for
the young general as he approached.
"Has he moved," Laurence asked, tersely, as he slipped out of the
saddle. A sword hung on the saddle, and Laurence took a moment to
transfer it to the sheath on his belt, waiting for David's answer.
"No." David felt no need to elaborate.
"Your angels have been defending the mortals," Laurence continued.
"Against the desperate push of the Princes. I wanted to commend them
-- their strength has allowed us to carry the battle to Hell's gates
on other fronts."
"Thank you."
Laurence opened his mouth to say something else, but decided against
it. "Has he had any other visitors?"
"Novalis, to heal him. You can imagine how well he took that."
"Mm." Laurence nodded again, and slipped past David, into the tent.
It was well appointed inside, but unstaffed. Bright banners were
furled and stored. Various axes were set in racks nearby -- not that
any showed use, but for the well kept great axe by the cot.
Laurence was brave and honorable. Too honorable to turn away from the
Archangel who lay on the cot. Too honorable not to look straight at
battered, injured form. He could percieve flashes of the six eyes and
six wings Michael showed every so often. He could see the tall human
body Michael generally showed. He could see the bandages, the blood,
the sheer battering that the mightiest of all Archangels had
withstood.
"Laurence," the Archangel croaked.
"Firstborn," Laurence half-whispered. "You're looking better."
"You're a damn liar. Come closer."
Laurence moved to Michael's bedside, kneeling. "Yes?"
"How is the world. And don't sugarcoat it. I hate that."
Laurence nodded slightly. "It's in contrast, right now. The princes
are launching desperate attacks -- almost open ones -- to bolster
their Words. But with their strongest Servitors failing, it's
becoming easier and easier to contain them. The Seneschals are dying,
so their tethers are war camps or vulnerable. Hell has lost more
ground in the last month than in the three hundred years before it."
"That's because Hell gained ground for the last three hundred
years." Michael spat to one side. "They're weak?"
"Critically weak. The Princes are faltering. The infernal Word-bound
are dying or dead. The Symphony is rejecting them, without Lucifer to
demand their presence."
Michael closed his eyes, a smile touching his lips. "Then it worked?"
he whispered.
"You have driven them back, Firstborn," Laurence whispered. "You
stood against evil and prevailed."
"I nearly lost," Michael said, eyes opening again. "If he'd hit me
before I hit him... any of my Distincted could beat me now. I'm so
weak...."
"You won. You didn't lose." It was like a mantra. Or an expression of
faith. "You beat back the night."
"Laurence," Michael hissed, grabbing at his arm. "This is your
moment. Your time. You must start it! Start Armageddon now!"
"Michael--"
"Don't you see? We could win now. It is certain. Yes, we would
need to trigger the signs ourselves, but then we could destroy Hell's
army and remake the world into Heavenly glory! They have no leader!
This is your moment." His eyes burned. Burned like Gabriel's at the
cusp of her visions. Burned like a preacher's in the pulpit. "Do it
now, boy...."
Laurence took a deep breath. "They do have a leader, Michael."
"What? Baal convinced--"
"Not Baal. Lilith. She's apparently forming a court in Hell. We know
that. We have unprecedented defections. The Fallen and Hellborn alike
are taking any route out of Hell, any chance. God and Heaven, Michael
-- even demonic Word-bound in Limbo have been forcing themselves out
in any vessel, and fleeing to us. Michael, we're winning. We don't
need Arma--"
"Lilith." Michael laughed. A rasping laugh that became a cough.
"That's like saying Marc took over in my absence."
Laurence felt his face burn. "He didn't. We miss you, but--"
"Nothing is changed. Laurence -- strike! Call down the host and
decimate the horde! They couldn't stop you -- not now!"
"It was considered. The Seraphim Council elected to pursue the war
into Hell if possible, and contain the Infernals on Earth. We'll wait
out the death of the demon Princes."
"No! Laurence -- this is the best chance we have had in twenty
thousand years! We must--"
"They're deserting, Michael. Unprecidented numbers are redeeming. Do
we meet them with swords and blood and destruction? We don't need
Armageddon. We're winning the War! You have won the War--"
"Laurence..." his eyes looked desperate. "Laurence -- I know that
Flowers and Trade will fight you, but this is your chance to end it
all. Can't you see?"
Laurence looked in Michael's eyes. "It is writ that Armageddon will
come down to the battle between Heaven's Champion and the Champion of
Hell. That all will be decided by that battle. Is it not so?"
Michael didn't answer, his need for the end of the War on his face.
"You couldn't beat Baal now, Michael. Hell, you couldn't beat
Nybbas now. You'd die. What would happen then?"
"It's a prophecy. Damn it, Laurence -- another can fight. You can!
You could take Baal -- especially now!"
"I am the General of the Host. You are Heaven's champion." Laurence
stood straighter. "We're winning the War without Armageddon, right
now. Why should I trigger Armageddon, when all signs are we would
lose, because Heaven's Champion can barely lift his axe? Or that
someone unworthy to be the Champion of Heaven will join the field and
lose? There's no need to, Michael. You've already won the battle.
Maybe your battle was Armageddon, and Lucifer Hell's Champion --
and now our final victory is assured."
"Laurence..." Michael whispered.
"No. You've given us an incredible advantage. That's what we need to pursue."
"Damn it--"
"That's my decision, Michael. Given the current tactical situation,
Armageddon can only favor Hell, because Heaven is poised for final
victory. We will wait them out. They can't endure much longer. We
will welcome the defectors, and redeem those we can. Those who can't
be redeemed will be destroyed anyway. We will contain the Princes and
prevent them from starting Armageddon. And we will watch Lilith's
power play carefully."
Michael looked away, angrily.
There was a throat clearing. Laurence turned.
Yves stood at the flap of the tent. He had a book under one arm. "May
I come in," he asked mildly.
"Oh, perfect," Michael snapped. "Please. Come in. On your way,
drive one of these axes through me."
Yves moved closer to the other two Archangels, sitting on the ground.
"I'm sorry," he said, quietly.
There was a long pause.
"For?" Michael finally asked.
"I tried. I tried my best to explain, to appeal, to... what's your
word, Michael? Manipulate? But in the end, she chose her Fate."
Laurence frowned. "She? Who?"
"Lilith." Yves took a deep breath. "You've been critical of me,
Michael, but I've always done what I thought best. But sometimes...
sometimes, Fate wins over Destiny. She has embraced her Fate."
Michael snorted. "No shit. She joined Hell."
"That was her battlefield. Her war is lost. We must focus on winning
ours, and it will be much harder now. Perhaps impossible."
Laurence blinked. "We're winning the War," he started.
"We are gaining ground. We must take all we can, and hold it. We must
limit Hell's options as much as possible. And we must work with
humanity. We must give them reasons to embrace selflessness. Embrace
Destiny." He looks down. "I thought... I could explain it to her. I
thought...."
"Thought what?" Michael tried to force himself upright, shaking with
the effort. "For once, tell us what you're talking about."
Yves took a long breath. "Nothing is set in the future, Michael.
Nothing. There are paths can be taken. Destinies. Fates. Sometimes
both. Lilith chose the path of selfishness in the end. And that
choice affects the entire Symphony."
"Because... Lilith is Hell's new master?" Laurence sounded
incredulous. "Yves, you know I have faith in what you say, but... how
can Lilith possibly be so dangerous. I thought it reflected the
desperate state of Hell. Now, if Kronos had taken the Granite Throne
-- or Baal...."
"Lilith lives within the Symphony, where Baal denies it. Baal could
be nothing more than Lucifer, and would have to reach impossible new
heights to even equal him. He could, at best, impose his Will on the
Symphony. Lilith is woven into the Symphony, and her choices can
move the Symphony in ways Lucifer... and we... could not dream of."
Michael frowned. "It's said Kronos is connected to the Symphony. Not
that you've ever explained just what Kronos is...."
"Kronos could not rule Hell, any more than I could be the General of
the Host. For what it's worth... I'm sorry, Michael." He pressed the
book into the wounded Archangel's hands. "Heal quickly, Michael. As
quickly as you possibly can."
Laurence took a deep breath. "Then... perhaps... Michael is right.
Perhaps Armageddon--"
"We could not start it if we wished to. Baal could not start it if he
wished to. That phase of the War is over. The next phase begins now,
and we must not let our hubris overshadow our duty." Yves rose,
striking a cigarette. "We will speak again, soon."
"You and I?" Michael asked. "Or you and Laurence?"
"For what it's worth, Michael -- well fought. Bravely fought. Your
victory was profound." Yves took a long drag off his cigarette. "I
only hope... and pray... we can be equal to that example."
The General and the Champion watched Yves leave. The odor of
cigarette smoke clung in the tent afterward, mingling with leather,
sweat and antiseptic.
Michael looked at the book in his hand, and opened the leather cover,
to read the frontspiece. THE WAR OF HEAVEN AND HELL, it read. PART
ONE -- The Life and Death of Lucifer. He took a breath, and closed
his eyes to rest. And heal. Hopefully.
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