Chapter Text
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a bored angel is a dangerous angel.
There were only so many wing-extension calisthenics one could do, after all; only so many mortals one could awe with an unexpected unfurling. Exhaustion was the inevitable end result of explaining, over and over, “No, I am not the lord your god, nor am I of the seraphim or cherubim; I am a dominion, it’s quite a different thing, actually, although you are of course welcome to remain on your knees.”
And so Helena sat on an ornate throne in the heavens, dangling her right leg over one of its arms, idly stretching and retracting her left wing. Her right was pressed behind her in smaller form, its feathers sleeked and compressed to near invisibility.
“What, may I ask, are you doing?” thundered Mrs. Frederic, the thronos whose symbolic furniture Helena had appropriated. Mrs. Frederic rotated her exterior wheel around her interior one furiously, her hundreds of eyes blinking, staring, winking, glaring at Helena.
“Just keeping it warm for you. I am also wishing,” Helena said, continuing to offer and withdraw her wing, “that this bureaucracy did not run quite so smoothly. Middle-managing the divine government is enervating.”
“Everyone else seems perfectly fine with it. Why are you always the one who gives me trouble?”
“I’m too good at my job?” Helena posited. “The work simply fails to hold my interest. There are no puzzles to solve.”
“Well, let’s see if we might remedy that, if only for my own peace of mind. I have a mission for you.”
Helena’s posture straightened slightly. “A mission?” Then she slumped back down. “It involves mortals, doesn’t it. They’re so… predictable. Overwhelmed by radiant beauty and means of heavenly propulsion. Motivated by lust or greed or some other of the deadlies, singly or in combination.”
“You’re quite sure of yourself, and of them,” Mrs. Frederic said, more enigmatically than descriptively—though, to be fair, thronoi could not but create mystery.
Helena raised her eyebrows slightly. “That is fine, coming from one who dwells in surest power.”
Mrs. Frederic rotated in what appeared to be grinding frustration. “In any event, I will now task you: you are to descend to Earth. A group of mortals is attempting to write a history of the war in heaven, and they seem to have access to… how shall I say this… inside information. And I doubt such information is being obtained from any of us.”
“Not this again,” Helena groaned. “You don’t believe this is going to amount to anything, do you? The war is over; it will not begin again.”
“Who among us can say? We may be divine, but the future remains the future.”
“You are giving me a headache,” Helena said theatrically.
“You can’t get headaches. I, on the other hand, am developing a migraine. Go now. Find these mortals: Arthur Nielsen, Myka Bering, Peter Lattimer. More importantly, find their source. Put a stop to whatever is happening.”
“Fine,” Helena sighed. She arose and shook her wings to loosen them.
“No,” Mrs. Frederic objected, “not like that. You have made your nature known to far too many mortals lately. Undercover. Challenge yourself.”
“It is no challenge,” Helena said, head high. She stood and tensed her shoulders; her wings shimmered, diminished. When she turned her back to Mrs. Frederic to stalk away, they were present only as vaguely sensed ideas.
“Take Claudia with you,” Mrs. Frederic called after her. “I have no desire to see the planets fall out of alignment again. We had to stamp out three separate schisms in the wake of your last adventure.”
Helena tossed an insouciant wave over her almost-bare shoulder.