Redemption

Phaleris waves Azalea over to the spare chair, taking a seat himself. "Do you want tea or coffee, or anything?"

Azalea sits down, carefully, and shakes her head. "No, I don't think so."

Phaleris nods, and folds large-knuckled hands. His litter-stick is propped against the side of the desk. "So. What can I do for you, then?"

Azalea says "I want to know what to do next."

Phaleris says, quietly, "If you want to Redeem, you would say so, and I would send you up to the Marches with one of my staff as escort. There you would ask my Lady - of your own free will - and you would be Redeemed. Or you might die."

Phaleris says, "I do not think you wish me to mince my words, so I will not do so."

Azalea lifts a brow. "That sounds rather simple."

Phaleris frowns. "So is jumping off a cliff, but one often has second thoughts on the way down."

Azalea says "One can't prepare to jump off a cliff; can one prepare to Redeem?"

Phaleris says "One can try - whether or not it is easy - to place one's trust in the Archangel who will Redeem you. You are giving yourself over to be attuned to the true Symphony."

Phaleris says "If a violin could prepare itself to be tuned, then one might try to do that."

Phaleris says "Unfortunately, I am not sure how much experience you have with trusting."

Azalea says "I am - learning."

Phaleris nods.

Phaleris says "I believe you might describe yourself as a skilled craftsman?"

Azalea says "I would."

Phaleris says "You may find it easier if you remember that you should still have your skills, and all your capacity for focus and talent."

Phaleris says "The change will be in how you perceive the world, and that you will hear the Symphony and know you are a part of it."

Azalea asks, ruefully, "Will I be overcome with the urge to hug strangers?"

Phaleris snorts. "Great Heavens, I hope not. I regularly twitch every time I see some of those cheerful types fluttering around here. May I request that if you do feel any such urges, you hug somebody else?"

Azalea chuckles, low. "I can accept such a request. I found the - youthful enthusiasm - of many of those I met, rather overwhelming."

Phaleris shrugs. "Frankly, some angels do seem to feel happier that way. Others do not. Just as I have seen Ofanim who were always running, and others who were always busy with their hands, and others who were simply busy with constant thought."

Azalea repeats the word "Ofanim," thoughtfully.

Phaleris picks up one of the CDs from the pile, stacking it neatly. "The Ofanim - it is not so much that they are moving, but that they are _doing_. Or so it seems to me."

Azalea says "I am relatively ignorant of the various bands of angels, I'm afraid."

Phaleris says, "The Seraphim - I am one of those - are the converse of the Balseraphs. They never lie, and can sense the truth in others." His tone becomes didactic.

<> Arcangel says, "Uh-oh, you've got a Seraph started lecturing. Now you're in for it."

Phaleris continues. "The Cherubim are the converse of the Djinn, and protect those to whom they are attuned. The Elohim are the converse of the Habbalah, and sense emotion, but may not act subjectively."

Phaleris says, "The Kyriotates are what Shedim may become; they can possess many host bodies at once, sending the hosts to the Marches to sleep while they act; but they are not to harm the bodies of their hosts."

Phaleris says, "The Mercurians are the bright kindred of the Impudites, and may not harm humans, but can see the patterns of relationships."

Phaleris continues, "The Malakim are the Virtues, and are said to have been formed at the moment of the Fall, when a group of angels raised their hands in anger against the Fallen, and found themselves - something else."

Phaleris says, "And the Ofanim, the bright wheels of fire, are what you would be. They are constantly moving, acting, existing in motion and deed, never entirely at rest, whether in body or mind or spirit."

Azalea mouths an 'o'.

Phaleris turns aside for a moment to finish stacking the pile of CDs.

Azalea says "I see. I shan't be what I am. That's - a difficult step."

Phaleris says, turning back, "Then again, you are not what you were, either. Not so much the destroyer?"

Azalea says "True."

Azalea says "I do not know what I am, any more."

Phaleris brushes an invisible fragment of dust from his hands. "If you go to my Mistress, you will find a place in the Symphony, and a part in its harmony. That may be enough."

Phaleris says "You may know _who_ you are."

Azalea says "Should I wait? Should I go now?"

Phaleris frowns at the table, then looks up at Azalea.

Phaleris says, "I would want you to go now, but by the nature of Redemption, I cannot _tell_ you to go."

Phaleris says, "Free will and choice are part of it."

Azalea says "Good. I want to go now. I don't know what else I can do; in truth, I don't think there is anything else."

Phaleris nods, and rises.

Phaleris says, "I will have to have somebody escort you, I fear. A demon arriving alone might be attacked."

Phaleris says, "Please wait a moment." He walks to the door, and opens it, leaving the room.

Phaleris returns a couple of minutes later, with a young woman in the same uniform following him. She nods neatly to Azalea.

Phaleris says, "This is Aucune. She will be escorting you in the Marches, up to our Lady's Tower."

Azalea says, gravely, "Thank you, Seneschal."

Phaleris says, "Go with God." He nods to the campbed in the corner. "If you lie down there, you can ascend to the Marches, and Aucune with you. Your Vessel will be safe here."

Azalea sits down on the campbed, looking over to Aucune. She fixes her hair behind her ears.

Aucune takes the seat behind the desk, and nods again. She crosses her legs, and settles her chin on her chest, closing her eyes.

Phaleris stands by the door. He turns his litter-stick in his hand, watching.

Azalea lies down on the bed, not taking her eyes off Phaleris until she is prone.

Phaleris remains still. Aucune's breathing settles into the slow cadences of sleep.

Azalea closes her eyes, and drifts into sleep.

You open your eyes again on the Marches, standing near a high ivory tower that rises towards the pallid sky. Beside you is a dark-winged wolf, that folds its wings against its back in a deliberate, non-threatening manner. Groups of angels are drifting round the foot of the tower, jewelled six-winged Seraphim, Kyriotate clouds of eyes and mouths, and others. Two great Cherubim sit by the gate, their warding posture obvious.

Azalea lifts her chin and begins to walk toward the tower.

Aucune scrambles to take the lead. Several groups of angels turn in surprise as you pass them - Malakim with wings of obsidian, Ofanim in ceaseless swirling rings of flame - but they let you pass, till you come to the two Cherubim before the tower.

The two winged lions regard you both. Aucune growls, her tones low, "Aucune, Cherub of Dreams. I escort one who seeks audience with the Lady."

The Cherub on the right turns towards Azalea, and rumbles softly, "Name yourself, if you would enter."

Azalea pages: That means her true name, yes?

You paged Azalea with 'That's the impression, yes.'.

Azalea says, staunchly, "Alia of Nightmares."

The Cherub on the other side says, tone lower, "Enter, Alia of Nightmares." Both withdraw slightly, wings shifting behind them and bating quietly.

Aucune drops back, to walk beside Azalea as she enters. There is something of the responsible protector to her attitude.

Azalea steps into the Tower, Aucune at her side.

A wide hall lies beyond the ivory gates, and again groups of angels drift through it, or stand talking. At the far end is a glowing area, that shimmers with a brightness which burns at the eyes. Partway along is a smooth staircase, that winds up.

Aucune murmurs, softly, "She will be on the balcony, at the top of the stairs.

Again, eyes move to Azalea, and there is a hushed buzz of conversation, and a few quick, aborted movements, hands that dart to swords, wings that spread and are furled again.

Azalea looks neither left nor right, nor gazes at the angels around; instead she moves directly to the staircase, and begins to travel upward.

Aucune follows, a step or two behind now. The stairs wind into a spiral, reminiscent of Beleth's own tower, though here there is a pale, clear light. The Hearts of angels burn in niches as you climb, like prayer lamps.

Sooner than you might think, you are at the top, and the mutter of conversation has died away. The stairs lead out to a balcony, where a woman in green robes is standing, looking out at the dark sky.

The woman says, not turning, "You may go, Aucune. I will speak with you later." Her voice is clear, and yet as harsh as cold winter water.

Aucune pauses, and rubs her head against Azalea's hip for a moment, in what might be a reassuring gesture: then she turns, to pad her way down the stairs again.

Azalea bends to one knee in front of the woman.

Blandine turns. She is as beautiful as Beleth, but the constant, _terrifying_ edge that underlies every movement and expression is gone. There is a simple and dreadful power about her, though, a dreadful light that is something which is strange.

Blandine says, "You make petition to me, Alia, and I will not turn you away."

Azalea says "Thank you, my lady."

Blandine says, "To be attuned to the Symphony may destroy you, or may lessen you. You will have been told this before."

Azalea says "In countless ways over the centuries, my Lady."

Blandine nods.

Blandine says, "I will not insult you by asking if you wish to choose again. We will do the best that we can."

Blandine offers her hands. "Take my hands, my daughter."

Azalea rises, taking Blandine's hands in hers.

The sudden surge of light is pleasant at first, a cool clarity: then it begins to grow fiercer and fiercer, glaring and white, till it seems that it will burn you to the bones and pierce your eyes. There is a feeling of pressure, as of sinking underwater, and a throbbing around you, like some gigantic heartbeat you can almost hear, only not quite, not quite. It seems to jerk at you, wrenching and pulling at what you _are_. The only constant thing, the only thing left, is the sensation of Blandine's hands.

As the noise rises round you, a heartbeat, or the waves of some vast sea, it begins to sound more like music, but too huge to grasp, too _big_: something so big seems impossible, not reasonable, not _right_. And you are out of tune with it: what you are is dissonant to it, at an angle, a jarring discord against it.

Azalea swallows.

Slowly, you begin to feel the light and the pressure changing you, altering you, stretching you further and further towards the music. It burns, because every adjustment, every alteration is done through fire and through a changing of what you are, what you have always known yourself to be. But you can still feel Blandine's hands on yours, still feel her presence in the light and the pressure and the fire, and she is there, dependable, secure.

It might be some vast piece of classical music, and for a moment you could believe it was Mozart, if you let yourself. It _connects_, reaching from Hell to Heaven and all Earth and the Marches between. There is a single moment, at which you can see the possibility of being part of it; when you can see and understand the concept of being part of it and yet yourself, still Alia, and still in harmony. And then, it seems, you begin to lose yourself entirely. You can feel your body shifting, attenuating, reforming. Something in you begins to turn outwards, into action and movement, which before had been the constant slow churning of entropy.

Azalea murmurs, almost humming, "Voca me cum benedictis."

There is a terrible fear to it, this change, and yet a rightness, as around you the music matches itself to your voice - or perhaps your voice matches itself to the Symphony, in a spreading chord that affirms you, from the heights to the depths.

There is fire, for one last moment, and then you see again, and the clarity is still there, and the Symphony is with you, sustaining and constant. Blandine still grasps you, but now you are part woman, part wheel of fire that spins and burns.

Blandine says, "Alia, Servitor of Dreams, my daughter, be welcome in Heaven and among my children."

Azalea looks up at Blandine, a sudden shaken laughter at her lips. "I didn't really think I'd make it, Lady."

Blandine smiles, the expression a brief one, but sincere. "We would all have been lessened if you had not, my daughter."

Blandine says, "It is customary at such a time as this for the newly-Redeemed to spend a while in Heaven, among their new kin. However, I have a duty that I must ask of you."

Azalea says "Please, my lady."

Blandine says, regretfully, "This night I can give you, in Heaven and below, to walk with your fellows. Tomorrow, I would have you upon the Earth again, to do the work that you began, with Taroniel and the others."

Azalea says "It is better this way; I've never been terribly good with holidays." A quirk of the lips would indicate that yes, the play on words was meant.

Blandine's smile is, again, fleeting. "My Wheels can spend a longer period within the dreams of others: you shall have this, daughter, as you shall have the gift of walking in dreams that the dark lady gave you."

Blandine reaches out, briefly, and brushes Azalea's brow with the tips of her fingers.

You paged Azalea with 'Blandine has just given you _her_ version of the Dreamwalking attunement, and her Ofanite of Dreams attunement.'.

Azalea smiles, soft, at Blandine. "She will be brought to light again, my Lady."

Blandine inclines her head, something sad in her eyes. "Go on down now, daughter, and meet the others. Aucune will be waiting for you."

Azalea turns, with one last look, and walks down the stairs.

---

Fiat Justitia