Savage Divinity

Total Word Count: 12009



Well, if he\'s not going to tell me what to do, I suppose I should ready myself to figure it out myself. Reson frowned, displeased with the traitorous direction of his thoughts. I shouldn\'t be planning anything without the Vilyte General\'s consent! he wailed to himself. The protest went mostly unheard, even within his own mind. His brain was taking off, deciding on a course of its own, not waiting for consent to break away and do its very own thing.

So absorbed was Reson with his internal battle that he missed the Vilyte General when Nemsohiriel began speaking to him again.

"— and they don\'t ever really listen to what I say either, which is why you are so very important, Vilyte Reson." Nemsohiriel sighed, an agitated, breathy sound. It – combined with the Vilyte General\'s words about listening – made Reson feel acutely uncomfortable.

I\'m listening now, so talk to me. Tell me something of substance, something of importance. Enlighten me, oh General of all that is worthy of the Vilyte in Heaven. No, not in Heaven… In Sempra. Now that he was listening, though, truly listening and not just pretending at a state of mind, there were no words forthcoming from Nemsohiriel. The Vilyte General merely continued on, looking to be in a state of depression, his face fallen, clouded over. Eyes were dark with weariness of this life. Reson sympathized, but there was not much more he could do.

What does one do for the leader of Heaven\'s angels? he wondered. What does one do for those who are left behind?

Nemsohiriel stayed with him a while longer, neither on speaking. It seemed, if such a thing were possible, that the Vilyte General took comfort merely in Reson\'s presence, as if the redheaded Vilyte had something he could offer as consolation for existence. It was both flattering and unnerving to the extreme. When Nemsohiriel finally did leave, it was a confused and agitated Reson that returned to his tent.



"Coris –?"

"Here."

Reson had to look around for a moment to see the Song Master. The Angel-stock was no longer lying in bed but sitting on a stool in one of the corners of the room, looking like he\'d been conversing with the Song Master. Reson frowned slightly at Coris, trying to make his disapproval evident without being too overt about it.

We can\'t become too friendly with them. He\'ll be dead within a week\'s time, anyway. You don\'t raise a named lamb for the slaughter, and I will not become friendly with a blood traitor.

Coris, on the other hand, seemed to have quite a different idea about the whole thing. The Song Master stood, stretching out a little before meandering over to where Reson stood, a look painted across his face. Coris chuckled. "So disappointed in me, young Vilyte?" he inquired.

Reson shook his head, ashamed to admit that he had been disappointed. And in what, he had to ask himself. For what? There was no reason to be disappointed in Coris. The Song Master knew his world, knew his place in it as well as any, and better than most. The only thing Reson felt he could reasonably harbor against Coris was jealousy, and that was stretching it as well.

No one who was remotely sane wanted the job of the Song Master, to train younglings from the time of their inception through their final moments.

"How is it – he –" he had to remind himself the Angel-stock was supposed to have a gender, " – he…doing?" Reson inquired.

Coris raised an eyebrow, but otherwise made no comment on the slip of the tongue. "He," the Song Master replied, emphasizing the pronoun, "is doing quite well. We were just talking." That confirmed Reson\'s suspicion.

"About what?" the redhead inquired, looking about for a moment to locate another stool and pull it up.

Coris looked to the Angel-stock, as if urging him to be the one to reply. When there was only silence, the Song Master shook his head. "I\'ll tell you when the time is right, Reson."

When the time is right. One day. So many different ways to say \'later\'. So many different ways to say, so far into the future, you won\'t even remember I promised to tell you.

"Later, then," Reson replied, his eyes catching Coris\' for a moment, just long enough to ascertain if the Song Master really meant to tell him. From the dark, empty eyes, he almost doubted it, but then, this was Coris. If he felt there was a time for something, then surely, when the time was right, Reson would find out what he needed to know.

He trusted Coris.



Asher froze when he heard footsteps outside the tent. The Vilyte – no, the angel – talking to him, stopped speaking, looking up. When the tent flap opened, the angel relaxed. Asher couldn\'t bring himself to. It was the redheaded Vilyte. Reson.

He looked away when Reson cast a glance his way. The two Vilyte exchanged words, hushed and swift. Coris paused to look at him, as if waiting for Asher to put some words in as well. He stared back into dark eyes, silently telling the angel he wanted nothing to do with the Vilyte.

This was something he hated being, hated doing. A prisoner, waiting for the people around him to decide his fate. It was not what a respectable member of the Angel-stock would do! It was not something he was comfortable with. So he stared back, his eyes dark, glaring, refusing to speak to the Vilyte or the angel.

It was the angel with whom he was most comfortable, but the Vilyte…something about Reson stirred anger and fear in Asher\'s blood though he hated to admit it. He stared, then blinked and looked away, not submissive, as he would have Reson believe (and thereby think he was subservient) but planning, and reserved.

Even with the angel, he was not ready to reveal who and what he was. To the angel – whom had not given him a name yet, though he suspected it to be \'Coris\' – he was a simple resident of Ten, just another Angel-stock, and no one of importance. He would not give them the possible upper hand by letting them know he was a Commander in Ten. He thought both of himself and of the others.

If they knew…if they ever found out…they could use that against us. Against me.

He thought he liked the angel. At least, he didn\'t hate him. Reson he had developed an aversion to – he didn\'t want to be around the redheaded Vilyte at all. There was something abstract about Reson – a fearful implication floating around his head.

And when the angel had been speaking to him, Asher had determined why he was afraid of the Vilyte. Reson…if the angel was to be believed, Reson was in contact with the Vilyte General – the perceived ruler of all of Sempra, the enemies of Ten.

To be in the same room, the same tent… Chilling.

When Reson looked away from him, when he began to talk to the angel instead, Asher relaxed a small amount. He looked up, slightly, moving his focus from the floor, from the patternings that were non-existent to the Vilyte, studying him closely. The flow of his red-hued hair, the sharp profile, even down to the exacting red and brown eyes that caught at every feature of the room, even as they seemed to be looking nowhere. Despite himself, Asher was intrigued.

When he leaves, I\'ll ask the angel about him, the Angel-stock decided, nodding a little to himself. He wanted – needed? – to know more about who this male was, and what it meant to be living in his tent. If he ever makes a wrong move, I\'ll kill him. He surely knows that, even as I know that if I do something wrong in here, I\'ll be dead myself. There was a balance then, of power, if nothing else.

He wondered idly if anyone besides the angel and Reson knew he had taken up residence here. Taken up residence…as if I\'ll be living long enough to call myself a \'resident\' of any particular place. If I\'m still alive come next moon turn, then God will have reappeared in Heaven.

He doubted either eventuality would happen. It just wasn\'t how things worked anymore.

Later, then.

Later. What does \'later\' mean? What will be happening later? Curiosity after curiosity, including the fact that the angel seemed to be senior to Reson. In age, surely, but position? How would a mere angel triumph over the Vilyte extremists?

Questions, questions, and a distinct lack of answers for any of them.

When he leaves, the Angel-stock decided firmly, when he leaves, I will ask the angel about him. He at least, must have some of the answers.

Asher watched and listened to several more exchanges, spoken in hushed tones, but not really concealed from him, as if he were a dog or something of the same ilk, not to be worried over. Nothing crossed their lips about military tactics or fighters, though, which led him to believe that the angel at least, had some idea of what needed to be kept secret, and of how much he really understood.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Reson bowed and departed.

"Well…"

Asher\'s head snapped up, and his gaze alighted on the angel. "Well what?" he demanded, his voice a touch shaky.

The angel looked at him, shaking his head slightly. "No need to be so jumpy, young one."

Asher declined to answer, brushing a hand instead across his face, wiping away a touch of dirt, some sweat that had collected…the stench of the place.

"Reson works closely with Vilyte General Nemsohiriel; you know this already."

He nodded. Yes, he knew.

"What you do not know will not harm you, but may harm us should you learn it. There are things best kept in silence, when silence reigns." A pause. "Names, for example. There is no name for you, to us, and likewise, there should be no name to label either of us, for you. However," he added, a twinkle in his angel eyes, "it seems Reson has been a little lax. You know his name."

Asher nodded again. Yes, but what did names have to do with war and fighting and dying?

"Perhaps you do not see the connection?" It was eerie how the angel seemed to read his mind, Asher decided. "Ah, yes…I see you do not." A sigh. "Well, then. I suppose explanation is required of me."

It would be nice.

"Names are power. They give power over the individuals who are held by them. A name is a group, not merely a single subject. Reson, for example – he is as he is, but his name, that essence of power over him, controls more than a single being. Do you follow?"

It made a twisted sort of sense.

"You know the name of our Vilyte General as well."

There seemed to be no point to this \'lecture\' of the angel\'s. Yes, he knew the name of Nemsohiriel – they all did, all the Angel-stock from the youngest to those who had run out of time. They knew his name. They feared his name.

"Nemsohiriel is…uncontrolled. Uncontrollable. A single name, a single entity, a single being."

"I don\'t understand," Asher ventured. He expected to gain a glare of disapproval or worse. Instead, the angel shook his head.

"No…no I don\'t suppose you do." His voice sounded rather sad and distant, as if he were explaining finite details to someone just on the verge of understanding, while there was a roadblock of epic proportions simply keeping the knowledge from reaching through. Maddening.

Asher opened his mouth, meaning to speak…but his words died in his mouth and he closed it, his eyes shutting as well as he rocked back and forth on the stool. The canvas of the tent rustled softly in a wind that must be blowing outside. Rugs lain across the floor sat frozen, the bed he\'d been in lay rumpled, sheets knotted up from his tossing and turning. Even the air had a sad, remote quality, as if he had been here before and not left alive, or as if it knew the fate to which he was sentenced.

"I should leave you to your rest, then."

He watched the angel rise, taking to his feet with a grace that Asher couldn\'t manage to feel at the moment. "I\'ll be back," the angel promised before vanishing out of the tent. He paused for the briefest of moments inside the tent flap, twisting a slight bit as if he meant to look over his shoulder, but then didn\'t, moving out, leaving silence in his wake.

Asher sat there, swaying back and forth on the stool for a while longer, staring through things, seeing them without seeing. Eventually, when his eyes began to hurt from prolonged openness, he blinked and made to stand up and shuffled slowly over to the bed. He perched on the edge, ran a hand through his hair. I wonder what Kavra is up to. I wonder if the others are still alive. I wonder…

He shut his eyes to keep the tears inside. A few squeezed out anyway.



"I\'m not leaving my brother to the thrice damned Vilyte bastards!"

"Kavra, sit down!" Aron ordered, the chestnut haired Angel-stock standing up to drag his friend back down into the seat next to him. The General of Ten – Tenascus – nodded briefly toward Aron in thanks from behind the podium where he stood.

"We all agree that we cannot leave our dear companion and Commander among the fiends in Sempra," Tenascus agreed once the meeting hall was silent again. His words were slow, musical, but filled with deadly intent. They echoed around the inside of the wooden meeting structure that doubled as a dining hall of sorts as well. "We will get your brother back, Kavra, do not doubt it for a moment."

There was some cheering to follow the pronouncement, and Kavra looked slightly mollified. Next to him, though, Aron bit his lip. The violet eyed Angel-stock wasn\'t so sure of the truth behind his General\'s words. He believed very much that the Deities of Ten were comprised of souls too important to merely throw away, and sending any of them on a suicidal mission to rescue one was almost as selfish as the General surrendering without all of the rest of the Angel-stock consenting.

And yet here we are, he thought sardonically, his eyes fixed on Tenascus, talking about sending our best fighters into enemy territory for one. If it were one for one, perhaps I could see it. The rewards for them both to escape would double, the loss of one over one would only double the loss. Instead these idiots wish to send ten and twenty! Losses compounded, if they do not all return, and reward diminished with excesses. He shook his head to himself. I cannot condone it.

When there was silence at last again, Aron rose to his feet himself. His hair caught the light of candles and seemed to glow slightly. Violet eyes flashed dangerously as he looked around at the assembled. "Forgive me, Tenascus," he begged of his old friend, "but I feel I must speak."

From behind the podium, Tenascus nodded. "Feel free to do so. As long as you keep your long winded speeches simple enough for us all to understand without translation, I have no problem hearing you speak."

Aron nodded as a dismal chuckle rippled through the rest of the Angel-stock. "Thank you, Tenascus," he acknowledged before bowing slightly to the rest of the assemblage. "I have a matter to address before you proceed any further with this." Inwardly he added in, with this folly. "The Commander of which you speak is Kavra\'s younger brother, the Angel-stock known as Asher. He is…important?"

The open question left Kavra gaping at him. "Of course he\'s important!" the infuriated Angel-stock exclaimed, standing up, his mouth twisted into an ugly expression to fit the anger across his face. "He\'s a Commander, besides being my brother!"

Resolutely, Aron kept his gaze on Tenascus, ignoring the ranting Kavra. "Tenascus," he called, his voice rising over Kavra\'s to cross the dining hall and reach all ears. "The life of one, no matter who he is, is not worth the lives of ten and more! This is not a mission with a high chance of success, no matter how we may think of it. It is enemy territory. Respect – one Angel-stock, no matter how extraordinary, is not worth the lives of more."

"What is it you suggest we do, then?" Tenascus\' voice was level. Aron could not read anything out of it. The General of Ten was leaning casually on the podium, his chin resting on his fist, staring at Aron as if they were the only two in the room, and the distance between the back of the room and the front were quartered, not what it really was.

"Leave him," Aron supplied immediately. The hissing that almost immediately rose from the assembly was menacing. He ignored it, focused on the white-haired General waiting at the other end of the room. "At the most, let one go after one. If our losses are doubled, then they are doubled. If our reward is doubled, then that is doubled. If you send more…" He broke off, shaking his head.

"You believe it isn\'t worth it." That was a statement of fact. Aron saw no reason to disagree with it. He nodded, and Tenascus stared at him for a while longer before straightening up and motioning for Aron to resume his seat. Aron did so, and the moment his body was in contact with the wood, at least a dozen dissenters sprang to their feet, all looking ready to attack something.

Tenascus had to raise his hands to quiet them, and even then, the mutterings of the gathered overrode what little silence there had been before when Aron was speaking. In a way, he wondered at that. Did the rest of the camp think him so interesting that they would willingly hush for him, or was it simply that now he had made them all so angry they could not contain themselves?

"Malachi, I give you the floor," Tenascus granted.

A young, eccentric looking male rose, white blond hair cascading down his back as he did so. Malachi offered a bow – half bow really – to Tenascus and the others before his mouth opened. Trembling words pressed forward, barely held in check rage evident behind them. "This is not permissible. Who is he –" a waved hand in Aron\'s direction, " – to declare the life of any of us to be unimportant?" He gesticulated wildly. "It could be you, or you, or you out there! If it was, if you had fallen into enemy hands, wouldn\'t you want someone to come for you? Wouldn\'t you want to know that you were important enough to be considered worth saving?"

The Angel-stock became more eloquent as he progressed, working himself up into a speech that Tenascus cut off midway, waving for Malachi to take a seat. "I\'m sure you have much more to say on the subject," the General presented, "but there are others who must be left some words to speak in their own tongue." The little wit seemed to pass right over Malachi\'s head, but he sat down anyway.

So it continued, a democracy with each member having a say if he wished it. Tenascus ran it smoothly, and from his perch on his chair, Aron watched, his arms folded across his chest, listening to the repeating words, all returning to the base theory that if one of them were lost, they would wish to be found.

Do they have no more imagination than what is laid out before them? he thought in disgust. It\'s enough to make me wonder why I\'m not on the other side… Except, of course, he knew why he wasn\'t. If they had had any room for strategists in Sempra, if the Vilyte hadn\'t been so unwelcoming, he might have actually ended up on the other side of this war. But he hadn\'t, because they hadn\'t, and that was that.

Finally, when everyone had had his say – and some had spoken twice, giving nearly the same speech (enough to make Aron nearly gag) – Tenascus cut down the banter and advised them all to leave and get some sleep. The hall slowly emptied, as the white-haired General looked on from behind his podium. Aron, for his part, did not move from where he was stationed in his chair, until everyone else had vanished. Only then did he rise and make his way forward, even as Tenascus was doing.

"I don\'t think I\'ll ever understand you," the General mused, running a hand through Aron\'s chestnut hair.

The slightly surly Angel-stock declined to answer directly, instead speaking to Tenascus as if they were no big players in this world. "Ten, I need to ask a favor."

The use of the nickname seemed to surprise the General, but only for a passing moment, and he nodded acquiescence. "Ask, then."

"Are you going to send out a party after the lost one?" He held his breath on the answer.

Tenascus shot him a questioning glance. "There is overwhelming support for the idea, you do understand, yes?"

Impatiently, Aron nodded. "Of course I understand that, but the question still rests: are you sending someone?" Or, if it came down to it, several someones.

"No, I don\'t believe I am. They might not understand you, Aron, but I do. You speak in numbers and symbols to a people used to beautiful words. The cannot understand you."

"I do not speak in numbers," Aron protested playfully, feeling a bit more relaxed with just his old friend. He lightly slapped Tenascus on the back of the head. "If anyone speaks in symbols, it is you, dear Ten. I remember your love of ciphering, and don\'t you dare attempt to deny it! You had more codes hidden away in your head for secrets that didn\'t exist than anyone I ever knew."

Tenascus nodded, a hint of a smile playing across his mouth. "So I did, didn\'t I?" he admitted. He smirked and tapped Aron on the nose. "You though…I might have loved the ciphers, but it was you who was so intrigued by the concepts behind them, and the mathematical precision that was required for each. Don\'t bother denying it, either."

Aron shrugged, smiling. "I won\'t, then. I\'ll admit readily I was just as intrigued by the patterns as the numbers."

A gentle laugh came from Tenascus. "I suppose there are worse things to be interested in," the General conceded.