Savage Divinity

Word Total: 15011



"That there are," Aron agreed. Slowly, though, the lighthearted – forcibly lighthearted, it might be added – mood darkened as the weight of the truth of loss settled over the two once more. "Ten?"

"Hmn?"

Aron shook his head as if at a loss for words. "Ten… Send someone. Send me."

Tenascus looked surprised, and well he should be. "Didn\'t you just fight tooth and nail to keep me from sending anyone?" the General inquired, tipping an eyebrow upwards as he regarded Aron.

"That I did," Aron agreed, "but this is something more… I wanted to have the others realize their folly, not keep them from it. Send one to fetch one. One can do alone what multitudes cannot. Send me, Ten."

So passionate about the words he spoke was Aron that Tenascus paused for a moment, looking quite thoughtful. "Are you sure?"

"Would I say I was if I were not?"

To that there was but one answer: "Yes."

Aron shook his head more forcefully. "Tenascus – listen to me! I know the others, I know those who live in Sempra better than you ever could. Better than any of these ever could. Please…let me go after Kavra\'s brother."

"You need to give me more of a reason than just that." Tenascus\' voice was gruff. He did not sound incredibly pleased with Aron\'s apparent turnabout of mind. His arms crossed as he regarded the chestnut haired Angel-stock with hard eyes.

Aron swallowed, hard. "I can\'t just let them lose someone else." Perhaps a touch too melodramatic. He tried to reach for the words that would express what he meant to say, to get his message across. Ever elusive, moving from place to place, dark corners in his mind, just outside the reach of light to find them. For a long moment Aron struggled to find the right words, but then gave up. "I can\'t say it the way I should. I only know, Ten, that this is something I feel inclined to do. Call it a whim of mine, and let me go."

Tenascus was shaking his head, the long white mane that marked him indisputably as Ten\'s General shaking with him. "No. I can\'t let you go, Aron. You\'re the brains behind this operation."

Aron frowned. "There are more minds than mine working on winning this war," he argued.

A set of hands went out to grasp Aron\'s arms, holding him tightly. Grey eyes stared into violet. "You. May. Not. Leave. That is an order." Tenascus\' voice was sharp and decisive. His eyes burned, grey staining Aron\'s vision until the shades of black and white were all the unfortunate Angel-stock could see.

Finally, after a long moment, Aron broke away, glaring. "Tenascus, I don\'t know what\'s come over you! Once power wouldn\'t have made you think like this – once you would have cared enough to listen to what I\'m saying. So listen!"

But Tenascus was shaking his head, and whatever words Aron spoke were not getting through. "I won\'t let you go, Aron, if I have to have you locked up to keep you here away from the enemy\'s land. You won\'t be allowed to leave. I\'ll keep you under guard at all times, if I have to. You will not leave."

Aron snarled silently. What is wrong with him? the young male wondered, his mind fighting to wrap around the concept that Tenascus – one of his greatest friends, at least until a few moments ago – was fighting with him over this. I\'m the strategist – I should know what I\'m talking about. It was a perfectly logical argument; Tenascus didn\'t seem inclined to be logical at the moment.

Shaking his head still, Aron backed away from the white haired General. "You\'re mad," he informed Tenascus tartly. "And you\'re ruining this because of it. Talk to me when you\'re less high on your own power, all right?"

He didn\'t wait for a reply, simply shot off, leaving Tenascus behind him. He needed to be alone, but he knew that with the threat of abandonment that he left behind, Tenascus would keep someone\'s eye on him at all times now.

He can\'t trust me to stay in camp. Well, if Tenascus couldn\'t bring himself to trust… Might as well leave right now. Not logical, considering he was hardly prepared to leave, but in the moment of anger and disappointment in his friend\'s cognitive functioning, Aron decided it was the best course. I can return later on this evening. Perhaps things will have settled down a bit more.

Mind mostly made up, he made his way to his tent and slipped inside. The tent itself was relatively close – just barely big enough for a sleeping pallet and oddments of armor and weaponry. He snatched up the armor and strapped it on. At least he could do that much to keep himself protected. It was a no man\'s land out in the middle of the fog. Anyone could disappear, as evidenced by Asher\'s vanishing act.

Armor buckled and belted on, Aron paused to pick up a sword and bow, slinging the bow over his shoulder along with a quiver and strapping the sword to his belt, right next to the dagger. Checking once more to make sure he had everything necessary – what a catastrophe to accidentally forget something as vital as a helm! – he slithered out the door, leaving his sleeping pallet behind, just as rumpled as it had been when he first entered.

So dressed, Aron wandered around the camp, taking the side ways, avoiding all the people he could. It wouldn\'t do for someone to catch him and ask questions as to his attire. Wearing armor was generally discouraged unless in training or when the encampment was preparing to move out. Or, of course, when going into battle.

But we hardly every actually engage the enemy anymore. It\'s all hit and miss, with us sitting around waiting to be found, just as the Vilyte in Sempra await our appearance. Something has to give eventually. It\'s a stalemate without a victor apparent. And if nothing changes…

It would stay a stalemate. That was unacceptable.

Maybe the scales could tip without one of us. Then at least this could finish. Even if the end of this warring means the extinction of the neodemons\' blood, or if it means that the Vilyte are cast out of Heaven… It would be a start. A finish. Something worth reaching for.

Even if it cost them all everything. The stalemate was wearing. It wouldn\'t do to keep it up forever.



Hours of wandering after he made his way out of the camp, Aron was still looking for a place to fall asleep. He wanted somewhere that was sheltered, but not too much so. If he took to one of the foggy embankments for shelter, then it was possible there could be an encampment from Sempra hidden there. To walk in on them unawares was…a less than brilliant tactical maneuver.

To find a place that was completely unsheltered was just as stupid, if not more so. Not only would he be unprotected from the elements entirely, he would also have to deal with the possibilities of being found by wandering Sempran Vilyte. It was, bluntly put, a rather fucked up situation all the way around, all courses being considered.

I guess… If he had to choose, he would choose the protected encampment rather than risk being found in the open. And if I\'m quiet about it, I might be able to sneak up on a Sempran outlet without being discovered. It would give me enough time to get away, at least. That seemed the best course, all things considered, so he made his way towards the fog banks, careful in his steps. True enough, Aron was still within the \'legal\' boundaries of Ten, but one could never be too careful.

Thankfully, there was nothing and no one in the fog banks. He was quite pleased with the discovery, and quickly bedded down. It was beginning to get dark, thanks to the randomized time cycles that Heaven had left up after God had left. Aron let his eyes drift shut and listened. This rest was not the true rest the humans enjoyed down on earth, but the rest of the divine – a sort of meditation, supposed to bring the once-angels closer to the Great One. Not so anymore, for He was no longer around to be connected with, but they enjoyed it all the same.

Or perhaps \'enjoyed\' was not the proper term. \'Utilized\' could be considered a better word for it. They used the restful silence to rejuvenate and become stronger. Their bodies rested while their minds fluttered hither, thither and yon on the wings of summer that barely existed.

So, Aron\'s eyes were closed, and he was in this fitful rest, and the sounds that drifted into the fog disappeared almost the moment they left the mouths of the ones who were speaking.



Nemsohiriel caught up with him almost the instant he left the tent. Reson guessed it was a predictable – almost predictable – pattern now of the Vilyte General\'s – a tendency to show up when he was least necessary to further a situation. But, with the goodness of a Vilyte soldier, Reson allowed the Vilyte General to accompany him on yet another foray around the encampment. Nemsohiriel seemed not to have much to say about anything. They simply strode, steps matching almost perfectly in timing, one and another and another, again and again. The smiling face that Nemsohiriel presented made Reson nearly nauseous, but he couldn\'t for the life of himself fathom quite why.

It was only when they came to the last row of tents, strewn haphazardly across the fretting blades of fraying green and grey grass that it came to him. When Nemsohiriel took his shoulder in hand, and held him close, almost as if the Vilyte General wished to impart a secret of great merit. It felt distinctly uncomfortable, and Reson resisted for the first time he could recall, pulling away from Nemsohiriel sharply. "What do you want?" he demanded, the lightheartedness that had once occupied his words vanished into smoke and ash.

Nemsohiriel spoke no words at first, simply gazing at him with eyes that seemed to see too much and too little, all at once. The look they gave him infuriated Reson for a reason unfathomable. He just couldn\'t stand to be looked at in such an incomplete manner – not informal, and not hateful or deceitful…but rather like he was a specimen in a lab, being examined. The sensation was alien, and unwelcome.

"Do you want anything of me, Vilyte Nemsohiriel?" Reson demanded again, glaring now at the black haired Vilyte General, eyes seeking for an answer in eyes that refused to answer. Still Nemsohiriel did not speak, and Reson shook his head, backing away further, out of reach and away. "Come back to me when you have something to say." He didn\'t add in that he wished Nemsohiriel would come to him simply for regular speech, the way he went to Coris to talk when he was lonely or wanting of company.

Reson didn\'t look back as he fled, leaving Nemsohiriel behind. He could imagine the Vilyte General\'s posture all too well in his mind\'s eye. Just a dark haired Vilyte, standing, forlorn on the field. In the background, blue and grey tents moved slightly in a wind that barely existed, and the blades of grass that hadn\'t yet rotted in the absence of God flickered with the frosty breath that couldn\'t freeze. It was a depressing portrait, made all the more so by the face Reson imagined Nemsohiriel to be wearing – a depressed, anxious expression, forgotten and left to his own devices.

I\'m not going back. He didn\'t need to go back for a while, anyway. He could go out for a while, relive himself of the pressing duties that meant absolutely nothing when weighed against what he was really doing.

Or…no, I can\'t not go back. Dejected, he made his way back slowly to his tent, eyes lit at half mast, only open wide enough for him to see objects in his path before he stumbled across them. The tent flap was not open when he returned, as well it shouldn\'t have been. He pushed it open and slipped inside. The Angel-stock was back in bed, eyes closed and a serene expression spread across its – his – face. Coris was nowhere to be seen, much to Reson\'s dismay. He considered going out to look for the Song Master, but the expression across the Angel-stock\'s face held him, for a least a little while.

He studied the young male, laid against a backdrop of sheets that made him appear all that much paler, tinged with blue so his hollow skin nearly looked corpse-like. The ashen hair spread lightly across the depressed pillow was fine and soft looking. He almost reached out, moved forward, hand outstretched to touch it…but something more pressing than the reaction he was sure to garner should that be his course of action stayed his hand. He didn\'t want to be in contact with someone who had corrupted blood. It was said by other Vilyte that the elite among them could smell unclean blood, and would dispense of the unfaithful in a manner fitting the crime.

He ran a hand through his own hair instead, ruffling his red locks firmly, still staring at the Angel-stock. So absorbed was he that he barely registered another entering the tent behind him. He looked up suddenly, hearing the footsteps and rustling. He half expected it to be Nemsohiriel – wouldn\'t have put it past the Vilyte General to simply appear and demand attention of one sort or another – but it wasn\'t. Instead Coris had reappeared, bearing in his hand a miniature harp.

Reson raised an eyebrow. "A harp?" he murmured.

Defensively it seemed, Coris clutched the precious object to his chest. "Yes, a harp. I intend to play for you."

"Why?" Reson was puzzled. "You know I don\'t like your story songs."

"Ah, but this will not be a story song," Coris said, his eyes twinkling. "And you will like it, I think. So…to wake him up." The Song Master shook the bed gently by pushing it with the one hand not still clutching the harp possessively. "Wake up, sleeping one. It is time for you to once more be aware."

Slowly the Angel-stock roused. Reson watched with fascination as the serene expression transformed to innocent curiosity, then fearfulness and finally, lastly, into a resigned mask that was so at odds with the sleeping being\'s face that he could cry over it. Two different people living in one body, or nearly, it seemed.

"I have something I believe the two of you should hear," Coris informed the two of them. "It\'s an old ballad – something I don\'t think even your Generals have ever heard. It was written around the time when God first began creating… Uriel wrote it, actually."

Reson cocked an eyebrow. "So…?"

The Song Master merely shook his head and smiled. "Take a seat, Vilyte Reson, and let the lessoning begin."

"I thought you said this wasn\'t a learning ballad!"

Twinkling eyes captured Reson\'s gaze. "I lied."

Seriously contemplating some descriptive swearing, the redheaded Vilyte settled himself on the sparse space that was open as floor in the tent before looking expectantly to Coris. The Song Master was fiddling with the strings on the harp, tuning it. Finally, after a few minutes time worth of rather pointless seeming notes passing back and forth in the air, Coris looked up, expression slightly less than grim, but by no means a cheerful one.

"This is how it went…"

His fingers caressed the strings, pouring forth a sort of moaning sadness, echoing even within the confines of the tent. The Song Master\'s face was a thing to watch as it changed from serene – or nearly – to a sort of pained non-expression. Finally, after the heartbreaking intro that wrenched Reson\'s very core even without words, Coris opened his mouth and began to sing.

Hearing a Song Master sing a song could not be compared to anything. The words came alive, and the pictures that were painted within the song itself became nearly real. The listeners lived the songs the Song Masters presented to them. Reson let his eyes dip partially closed, shutting out everything but the sound of Coris\' voice as it peaked and fell, caressing each note individually and blending words together in a way that he had never heard anyone else manage.

Vaguely, in the back of his mind, he wondered what the Angel-stock thought of this talent, and wondered too if there were any Song Masters in the ranks of the half blooded Angel-stock. His wonder disappeared though as Coris began to simply play again, and the music washed all thought out of his mind.

It happened once, so very shortly a time ago, when the world was yet to begin and the sun to set aglow. The majesty of His being was justice new begun, and He smiled on the universe, and thus was born His son. But only in the beginning was the world so loved and braved – as the days were passing it needed to be saved. And so sent was the youngest of the three who lived above, to rescue th\'innocent from their treachery in love. And so the son went forth and spread the message from the stars, and thusly came the believers coming near and going far. And once the message sent was well out on its way, the son returned to father\'s side, intending there to stay. But walking on in the world of men had damaged his poor soul, and the Father and the Spirit were sad to see him go. He took with him the damaged ones of angels following him on earth and offered to them a better life and a newer, brighter birth.