A Meeting with Yves
"It was a good death," Lake murmured.
He leaned back into his chair with a sigh. As the last echoes of his voice rippled softly, fading into silence even as he listened, his fingers subconsciously smoothed the paper over which they lightly rested. The textures felt rough beneath the touch of his skin, worn as they were by time and care. The books that Lake had chosen were very much relics of an ancient world , destined to spend the rest of their existence among the caress of gentle archive lamps.
Even lost in the musings of his own thoughts, Lake felt the whisper of soft soles across the floor long before he ever heard them.
"Did you say something, Professor?"
Shaking free the faint bitter taste of his mouth, Lake turned cloud-grey eyes towards the intrusion. The subject in question was a much younger man, his pleasant round face framed by a shock of tangled brown hair. A pair of silver-rimmed glasses did nothing to hide the sharp intelligence beneath them, nor indeed, Lake thought with private amusement, did they dignify the otherwise rumpled assortment which made up the owner's attire. All in all, it was an appearance much rather suited to a computer technician than the youngest associate professor affiliated with the University of British Columbia.
"Sorry if I startled you, Alan. A slip of the tongue." Lake's arm swept back to encompass the clutter of scrolls and parchments which occupied his cubicle desk. "I just got caught up in the heat of the moment."
Alan Mensk grinned. "I never thought I'd live to see the day when a person could use 'excitement' and Ancient History in the same sentence. His eyes looked briefly at the mess of papers, then swiveled back to Lake. "How's the translation going, anyway?"
Lake grimaced slightly. "As well as might be expected. I just finished charting a revision on the Battle of Thermopylae. Took me a couple of solid hours just to work through the existing Greek records. They're pretty horrendous."
"Thermopylae?" Alan frowned, his left hand tapping gently against his
chin. "The death of Leonidas?"
"The very same." Lake smiled. "You surprise me. Not many people go out of their way to learn Greek history. I thought your area of expertise was Post-Modern socio-economics?"
"It is," shot back the younger professor. "I just like to keep a hand in wherever I can. I've found that people are more interesting if you don't know everything about them." A brief pause. "You must have some secrets of your own. After all, I've known you for almost a month now, and you haven't so much as volunteered a last name."
"I like to keep things simple. Just Lake will do." He got up slowly from his chair, allowing the kinks in his back to work themselves out. "Anyway, I'm headed home. Thinking too much about the dead is liable to give me a headache."
* * * *
Lake walked slowly across concrete. The bleak weather and cold winds were enough to discourage even the most persistent of travelers, with only the occasional headlights of a passing car separating Lake from true solace. Behind him, the bleak grey slab of stone which was the Main Library reached high into the heavens, a silent monument surrounded by lesser buildings. To the west, the sun had sunk into an orange fugue, its dying embers smoldering before the darkness.
Thinking too much about the dead.
"Laban."
The single word, uttered with such force of conviction, was enough to turn Lake around. As the disruptions in the Symphony subsided, Lake saw an old man leaning against an oak. Watching him. His eyes glittering fiercely in the shadows.
Lake took a step in the direction of the stranger, then bowed swiftly. "Yes, my liege?"
[GM]
The old man smiled. "Your Resonance serves you well, Laban, you perceive my nature clearly." He pushed away from the tree and came closer towards the old Mercurian.
"Vancouver is a impressive city," continued Yves. "Wouldn't you agree?" He turned to Laban, a twinkle in his eyes.
[OOGM: Ok, Adrian, you want to know how conversation works? Let's do it like this. I write for Yves, you write for Laban. Slow? Yes. But worth it. One line at at time. If it doesn't feel fast enough, I have a few other tricks up my sleeve.]
Lake nodded carefully. "Very impressive indeed. We, I mean human beings - built Vancouver to be a haven of strength. Some of that fortitude still shows today." He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "I'm sorry, my liege. The day's work has taxed the limits of this body, and it's been so long since I've heard my true name. The angel Laban chuckled self-consciously. "I think I've grown accustomed to being called Lake."
"Of course you have," said Yves. "You've a Role which is allowing you to blend in with the Symphony more and more. Your Role is becoming part of your identity."
The Archangel paused. "I have an assigment for you. I have been thinking for quite some time as to who would be the best suited for it... I believe that it is you."
Laban nodded thoughtfully. The sun had faded almost completely now, spilling pools of molten gold across the Inlet. As the waves danced and beckoned in rhythm, the flaxen mirror broke into a thousand pale reflections of the night above. Inside his coat pocket, his right hand strayed briefly against smooth metal. A sword hilt, its pommel guard carved into the shape of an angel, its handle bound in oiled leather.
He carried it always. It reminded him of so many things.
"You do me too much honor, my liege." Lake replied. "In what way may I serve Destiny tonight?"
Yves smiled. "As you know, most angels are created by Archangels themselves, like yourself. However, there are a few angels which are created by two or more angels through the sharing of forces. The ceremony requires the blessing and power of an Archangel, but it can be done."
"There is one such angel here in Vancouver. She is a Seraph, the offspring of two angels named Dodai, Mercurian of Children, and Cosum, Seraph of Lightning. The fledgling's name is Jezreel and she needs to looked after, perhaps protected as well."
"Her father figure, Cosam, was Outcast by Lightning and has since fallen prey to the diabolicals. Currently he is a Servitor of the Media, a Balseraph, calling himself Cozbi. Jezreel will undoubtedly wish to see him. I do not forbid it, but it is because of this that I chose you, a
warrior in your time, to protect her. Hopefully, if he has any love left for his daughter, he can been redeemed once more."
"But this is not your chief concern. As a Mercurian, you can help her adjust to human society a little than she might otherwise. As a warrior, you can protect her if her body, mind, or soul is in danger. As a teacher, you can instruct her in the ways of learning, of the persuit of knowledge, and of discovery. She is Jezreel, Seraph of Creation serving Revelation. She should be relatively easy to spot."
He extended his hand, holding out a picture of Jezreel.
[IC]
Laban reached forward to receive his Superior's gift. The object of the photograph, a young girl with dark blonde hair looked up at him with innocence. With trust.
"My liege, I know it is not my place to question your design, nor indeed, that of God's will. Yet, to accept such a responsibility, to guard no less than another angel." Laban hesitated. He could feel the eyes of his archangel upon him.
The weight of the talisman in his coat bore down upon him more.
"My liege, in the past, I have always strove to further the cause of your Word, in whichever way you needed me. As Lake, I have mingled with humans, learned their craft, their passions, watched their wonder and their agonies. Yet this assignment," Steeling himself, Laban forced out the words which choked his soul. "...it dwarfs the responsibility of anything I have ever done before. And to become a warrior again." Laban bowed his head. "You know yourself that I have failed heaven in that task once already."
Yves smiled enigmatically. "Be careful not to allow the shadows of your past to darken the prospects for the future. You have learned much from your stumblings. Had you not, you wouldn't were you are right now."
"You shall now be a warrior once more, you shall be a teacher, a guide, and a protector. Your goals are not to wage war, but to bring peace and to lead the creatures of the symphony towards their Destiny."
Laban sighed once, his breath trailing away in an expulsion of mist. This is the road I have chosen for myself, he thought silently. Let it not be my undoing.
The angel bowed slightly, in acquiscence to the other. "Let it be done, then, as you say. Where might I find this fledgling?"
[GM]
"That requires some thought. I am not a Cherub, you know." Yves smiled and then appeared to be lost in thought for a moment, staring off into space.
"Knowing her, she has jaunted off to one of the local parks to enjoy the sunrise." He glanced down at his watch. "If you hurry, you might be able to find her before she moves along, but, it might be easier just to give her a call or visit her house."
The Archangel smiled. "The number and address are on the back of the photograph." He paused slightly, "Destroy the photo, Laban, we don't need it Falling into the wrong hands."
[OOGM: As a Vassal of Destiny, Laban has photographic memory of sorts, I believe. :) ]
Yves smiled. "Now, before I depart, is there anything I can do to aid you in this assignment?"
Laban flipped the picture onto its back and committed the details to memory, before sliding it into the voluminous folds of his cloak. "No, my liege. Your trust in me is sufficient."
The phone number and address indicated that it was a house on Powell, on the east of Gastown and northeast of Chinatown.
The Archangel of Destiny nodded. "I'll be seeing you around, then. I've got a few things to tend to in town." He smiled and walked down the path. Almost instantly, a cab pulled up next to him and he got inside.
And then he was gone.
[OOGM: Okay, before you and I go any farther, I have to note a few things, collect my thoughts and whatnot. Please send me a short reply indicating that you got this. :) ]
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[OOC: I actually considered sending this addition to the lurkers as well, but decided against it. I figure it works out better this way; you get a chance to read my writing first, and edit out anything which doesn't work or destroys continuity. Then the lurkers get the game-tailored version.]
The mighty thunder of hooves bit deeply into the earth, the horses' flanks glistening with sweat and fear. The cries of dying men and tempered steel had mingled into a single cacophony of destruction.
On a hill not far removed, Alexander had sat astride his mighty steed in order to observe the carnage. No longer the boy-god of his youth, but rather, a brooding king of nations. Hollow-eyed men sat all around him, patiently instructing him in the dark arts of war. History would call
them his Companions, his closest advisors and firmest friends.
Heaven would call them outcasts.
Once-angels, they had fallen too far from divinity into human nature. Alexander was to be their greatest triumph, their most successful marriage of flesh and spirit.
On this particular day, other forces had taken an active interest in the Macedonian leader. The archangel Uriel, incensed by the impurity of such an act, had called down a host of his soldiers to end the madness. Under the guise of Greek mercenaries in service to the Persian king, they had struggled to reach Alexander through the throes of battle.
Laban could still taste the stale air, his plated helm smashed open by a particularly well-struck spear. With prodigious strength, bleeding from half a dozen wounds, he had pulled dozens of Macedonian cavalrymen from their horses. Oblivious to the frenzy surrounding him, Laban strove
onward, his shame and anger turning steel into a glittering arc of death. Somewhere deep in his mind, an echo of his Mercurian nature screamed in protest. And even though Laban ignored it, he felt a heaviness about his soul. For he was no fool.
Laban opened his eyes, and the last vestiges of sleep disappeared completely. It took just the tiniest fraction of a second before his heart started pumping again, and in that time his human eyes had already adjusted to the darkness of his home. In the fireplace before him, the angel Jezreel stared back innocently. Then the last fragments of the picture crumpled into glowing cinders.
Laban promised himself that he would look up the fledgling come tomorrow. He leaned back into the chair, enjoying the absolute silence of the moment. It had touched something deep inside him.
Something long forgotten.
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