Chapter Text
“Speaker. Thank you for meeting with me. Especially on such short notice.”
“Welcome, Sera. My door is always open to you. Come, sit. Tell me of your troubles, child.”
A comfortable sofa. As is every seat in Heaven. The Speaker waits, patiently, poised in her armchair. The room otherwise bare save for a coffee table. Quiet. Secluded. One of many such meeting places scattered throughout the court. Silence, warm and inviting, while Sera gathers herself to address the Speaker of God.
“I doubt myself, in spite of your guidance. I have sinned, through action and inaction alike. Had I acted sooner, had I permitted Emily’s intercession earlier - who is to say for certain, but experience tells me that much of the recent tragedy could have been forestalled.”
“Yet you broke free from the shackles of fear binding you.”
“Nearly too late.”
“Time yet remained, and more of it than you think. But you did not come here to discuss hypotheticals, did you, Sera?”
“No, Your Highness. I did not.”
“What is it then, that weighs so heavy upon your conscience? You have performed admirably throughout this crisis; weathered trials that brought the foundations of your worldview into question. Your horizons have broadened, your understanding of Creation and of the mortal soul has deepened. We are proud of you, Sera.”
Sera's gaze falls from the speaker, her face twisting as she shakes her head; her wings flutter as she squirms. “And although I swore that no more sinners would fall to the machinations of Heaven the death toll in Pentagram City already numbers in the hundreds; the true cost may never be known!”
“Child, you shoulder blame that is not yours to bear.”
“Maybe not alone. Even then, nothing changes the fact that there is blood on my hands beyond what any mortal has ever known, perhaps beyond that of any being in Creation!” Cradling her head in her hands, Sera kneads at her temples, worrying them like a dog on a bone. She sighs. Were she mortal dark bags would ring her eyes, but she is not, and she wrestles responsibilities and stares down consequences far beyond the ken of any mortal. “Not just the sinners. My obligation to them is lesser than to those in Heaven, it is true, and yet I have also failed the souls directly entrusted to my care. Emily, who even now is relearning how to fly. Tens of thousands of exorcists, whom I gave life to in order to prosecute an unjust war, never expecting that they might someday know peace! That is to say nothing of the monster I handed them over to. The monster who I once loved like a son.”
“Once?”
Sera’s wry laugh is wet. “You always knew me too well, ma’am. Yes, once… and still.” A shake of her head, her wings accentuating the motion. “Not only have I failed these angels, born of Heaven; so too have I failed the masses of deceased mortal souls. By my command their loved ones were slain in droves, and to what end? Curtailing a nebulous threat that never materialized - not until my very actions breathed that threat to life. A self-fulfilling prophecy, then, and my own worst fears nearly realized just two days past.”
Sera trails off, out of breath. The Speaker waits until it is clear the High Seraph will say no more.
“Do you feel as though you have atoned for these misdeeds?”
“No. I doubt the possibility of that.”
“Now, Sera. The young Morningstar is right about a few things, and chief amongst their number is this: no one is beyond saving.”
“Forgive me, Speaker. It is hard to believe such a thing when you wade through rivers of blood.”
“So it is. That is my purpose, though. To council, and to remind all Heaven of the grace of the Most High when they need it most.” The Speaker of God leans forward in her chair. “You have guided Heaven’s Light for a long time and with a steady hand. Could it be that this burden wears on you?”
“It does, Your Highness.” What a sin that is, to admit in the presence of the will of the Most High made manifest. Failure. Guilt twists her stomach and tears threaten her composure. Sera has failed in her constructed purpose, and yet… and yet she feels light, for not even in Emily has she confided this truth: that the burden of leadership has ground her down steadily throughout the long centuries since she first took up the mantle of High Seraph.
“You would lighten it, and in doing so seek to be absolved of your sins?”
“I pray that I may be able, in time, to atone for even the smallest fraction thereof.”
“I know you well, Sera, long though it has been since last I walked these streets of gold. You came to me with something specific in mind, did you not?”
“I did, Your Highness.”
“Tell me of it, then.”
“Very well…” Sera gathers herself, visibly straightening. Resolve, then, steadies her. “None save a handful of vocal exceptions can deny that Creation is on the cusp of a new age. I… am born of an old age, an age that did not permit softness, where mercy and kindness were faults to be taken advantage of. I have prayed upon this matter and concluded that Heaven needs leadership better suited to this new age. It seems this will be an age of forgiveness, of kindness, and of reconciliation. Emily will lead well, with you and the Archangels guiding her path.”
“What would become of you, then? You would retire?”
“I would seek atonement through service to the lowest of those whom I wronged.”
“You would fall?”
“Not unless the court so decreed. Exiled, by my own volition, unless and until I am called upon.”
“Alone, then?”
“I see no reason for another to attend to me or keep me company, not when penance and atonement is the purpose of my exile.” Sera shrugs. “Nor for protection. There is little in Hell that poses a true threat to a seraph. Those dangers lurk in the lower rings, save of course, for the Morningstar and his kin.”
“All correct, and yet, not the end to which I pose that question.”
“Forgive me my misunderstanding, Speaker, my mind is so rarely at ease these days.”
“Not at all, that is to be expected with the weight placed upon you. Let me ask you this: are there other angels whom could benefit from a similar period of atonement? Of penance?”
Sera hesitates, her breath catching. The Speaker waits, ever patient. She is content to let Sera voice her thoughts in her own time. With all eternity there is so rarely need to hurry matters along.
“There is one…” Sera’s gaze falls again from the Speaker. Regret colors her words. Of all her sins, only a few have a name. A face, one that she must view almost every day. “Perhaps, one of my greatest failures, my gravest sins. After all, she is exactly what I created her to be. And how I have held it against her. Decried her bloodlust when it was I who imbued her with such.”
“She is. And to her you have a responsibility, as you do all souls in Heaven. I shall tell you this. There is but one soul in Heaven in genuine danger of Falling right now.”
“You feel it, then? The wrath that even now consumes her?”
“Yes.”
“Is it too late? Is her fate set?”
“No one’s fate is ever set, child, and free will dictates that not even I can foretell what lies in store for her. You, better than many, ought to know that well. And yet, storm clouds follow her, it is plain to see for any who may look upon her countenance. Should they burst, the wise would expect a flood. Believe me Sera, when I say those clouds are heavy with rain.”
“You suggest she join me in exile? I fear that may not send a sufficiently strong message to her, after all, she is incredibly stubborn as you yourself have witnessed.”
“Will you guide her, along this road to redemption? Even if she were to Fall?”
“I’m not sure that I will be the guidance she needs. Falling by my hand would be kinder than allowing the court to cast her down in my absence. Lenience has been granted her by myself and others on account of her grief; the court’s patience grows thin with her outbursts.”
“Then I encourage you, take this wayward angel under your wing. Care for her. Consider yourself fortunate to be afforded the opportunity for atonement in this matter. Events did not conspire to take her life from her, when well they could have.”
“I do consider myself, and her, to be fortunate, Your Highness. I must take precautions; I fear not for her safety but for the safety of those around us. She has proven unpredictable, and her penchant for disobedience grows by the hour. Her penchant and capacity for violence is already well known to all.”
“She mourns a loss still fresh, true; she mourns too another loss, not so fresh but recently resurfaced, a love soured and turned to hatred. Bear that in mind when entreating with her throughout what is to come, for it is knowledge that shall serve you well.”
“As you say, Your Highness.”
“Good. Today, then?”
“My mind was already firm in this decision, and I thank you for your wisdom, Speaker, it sets my heart and soul alike at ease.”
“You have prepared?”
“Almost completely, there are a few matters that I must attend to if she is to follow me into exile. Otherwise, all is in order for my absence. Emily will be left instructions on how to contact me should the need arise.”
“As I expected of you. She will take this poorly, you know. Not Emily, excuse me. She who is to Fall.”
“I do. The wisdom in your suggestion is evident, and I hope that in time she will no longer resent me for what I am to do today.” Sera chuckles, bitter. “Though I would never blame her for any resentment she holds. One more hardship, one more indignity I will force upon her, and that atop the tragedy of her existence.”
“I caution you, Sera, against such thoughts. Life is never a tragedy, rather it is ever a blessing no matter the circumstances of a being’s creation. You gave her a purpose, this is true, and not a kind one.” Sera hangs her head, cheeks warm. “Now, you shall atone by guiding her to find a new purpose - protection, or peace if she so desires, in place of gleeful slaughter. Reforge this jagged blade of yours, and trust her to make the most of the opportunity you grant to her.”
“I understand, Speaker.”
Sera rises, and the Speaker stands as well, towering over the High Seraph. Her placid features soften for a moment, and she opens her arms to Sera - an invitation, and one that Sera gratefully accepts. Sera allows herself to sink into the Speaker’s embrace, and she feels in her heart that another age may well pass before they see each other again. Then again, perhaps not, for this new age is foreign to her and the Speaker’s words ring true, she may yet be mistaken, and the Speaker will cross her path sooner than either expects.
“Go, now, with my blessing, and may Heaven light your way.”
“I thank you, for your council and blessing both. Take care, Your Highness.”
“Thank you, and remember, We are always watching over you. Goodbye, Sera.”
It is cold in the court, or maybe the chill exists only in the frozen depths of Sera’s soul. No outward sign of her discomfort is shown, not in these public halls. To the angels of the court she remains - for now, for a few hours yet - the High Seraph. She is unassailable and poised; Heaven’s will made manifest.
Sera does not know what the Will of Heaven desires. No one does. For long centuries they have done as they felt best for the souls beneath their care, and now… blood soaks her hands, and the hands of one hundred thousand souls who were granted no choice in their existence, no mind paid to their desires nor their comfort. Blood pools beneath countless millions, or more, cut down not by her own hand but by her command.
Her office door, the gateway to her sanctum, arrives sooner than she expects, so lost in thought is Sera. Thought, and mounting resolve. The portal yields for her and her alone, and she shuts it behind her. Nearly all know not to disturb her when the door closes, save for by invitation. Nearly all. The exception, that simple enigma; her portrait lies on the desk. Almost a mugshot, the paper faded from twenty years locked away in a secret archive.
Nude, a fact that Sera barely acknowledges, though the subject would no doubt be mortified to know of this image’s existence. Records of her creation - the first of them, and at once the best and the worst of them. Of her exorcists, her birds of war, created for unspeakable violence in hopes of preventing a war that would shatter Creation. A war that only their creation and use made possible.
It would take great effort for her to join Sera in exile. To keep an exorcist healthy away from the plenty of Heaven would be no mean feat. Their appetite is prodigious and their diet specialized… for one not so blessed as Sera with the power of creation, procuring the necessary sustenance in Hell would be a herculean task unto itself.
With a heavy heart Sera flips the pages, annotating the margins again - ways to neuter her exorcist, so that she cannot harm the sinners whom Sera seeks to aid. Another indignity, but it is a necessary one. Let her hate Sera, if she will, or let her come with time to understand the reasons for Sera’s actions. It matters not. So long as she is alive and well to hate Sera; not hunted for sport or food by packs of roving sinners or reduced to a mindless, fallen beast in the deepest pits of Hell.
From her notes Sera writes out a ritual. One of binding, of protection, and of restraint. Limit her vocal range, taking away the natural weapon of all exorcists, able to incapacitate sinners through ultrasound and infrasound, layered and harmonized into the hunting call of an exorcist. The spell is complicated, and backed by the strength of a seraph; the unfortunate exorcist will be helpless to resist.
Her work complete, Sera closes the file and reflects upon the portrait on the first page. A nude woman, unable to hide under bright lights. She is slight, but corded with muscle, pale of skin, her monochrome wings stretched wide. No scars yet carve their vicious paths across her skin. Laid out on a hospital bed, unconscious, though her eyes are open and stare unseeing out of the page. Even asleep there is something piercing about those eyes. It is if she looks at Sera and sees prey. Nothing more, nothing less.
After all, that is what she created them for. Her hunters. Efficient and vicious. This one, Sera made too vicious, too volatile. She had been an experiment, one that provided valuable data to make the remainder of her exorcists better, more reliable, or so she had once believed. Another mistake, a whole avalanche of mistakes, that she and she alone must shoulder. At the top of the page a single word gives both name and purpose to the woman.
Lieutenant.
Adam’s lieutenant, then Abel’s, and soon… hers, in a sense. Something about it irks Sera, draws her to rebuke her past self for such discourtesy. What had possessed her to reduce a soul, even one made fit for so cruel a purpose, to no more than a title, a role, a cog in the great machine of war?
With a stroke of her pen, she crosses out that damnable word, Lieutenant. Atop it she writes another word. Lute. A name given to her by someone she loves, a name shared with an instrument of old. Fitting, in that sense. Both belong to a bygone age. Privately, Sera vows, no more. No more will Lute be merely a lieutenant to the high and the holy. Sera will bind her, yes, and through atonement those chains and all the others will shatter, setting her free. Free to choose her own destiny, and one that will not lead her down a path of ruination.
Setting them both free.
Sera replaces Lute’s file and leaves without looking back. She must gather the Court. She must overturn the order of Heaven.