Work Text:
Normally Neivira wouldn’t bother with anything like teatime, especially not in Heaven. But out a vessel, Archangel nowhere to be found, and an invitation from respected Seraph servitor of a one of the less strict and political Archangels who could be persuaded to put in a good word, and some tea and conversation seems like a small price to pay.
That’s what leads her into the Halls of Creation where a golden orange reliever spins to greet her. Though the whole hall is a melange of sounds--cooking, woodworking, smithing, and music all forming together in one melody--the reliever’s voice stands out. “Greetings, Neivira, Cherub of the Wind! My mother Jubilee welcomes you to the Halls of Creation and has asked me to escort you to her studio!”
Neivira gives a gentle snort and nods her head. “Lead the way.”
The reliever turns her back, which just proves that the child has not had any formative experience with the Wind yet. Maybe she’ll point some relievers towards the Halls, just for some education. No one secures anything here: kitchens, studios and workshops all just filled with important equipment and works in progress ready to go missing for an hour or two.
And she can just imagine what that one particularly passionate statue displayed in the middle of a Judgment classroom would do to spread some educational chaos.
“What’s so funny?” The reliever says, doing a somersault so she faces Neivira now. Those shining black eyes aren’t accusing, just curious. She drifts backwards through the corridor, still leading the way.
Neivira puts on her best innocent look. “Have you ever been to the Council Spires where Judgment holds court?”
Gold glitter disperses through the air at the reliever’s headshake. “A triad did come by once or twice to ask me questions. They were very serious and didn’t even want to try out my watercolors. I didn’t think oils were good for starting out as they take a very long time to dry, but perhaps charcoal--”
“You should stop by sometime.” Neivira says before the reliever can spout out everything it knows in that way relievers have when the universe is still new to them. “And when you do, you should give them that statue. It’s not being appreciated to its fullest extent here.”
The reliever looks thoughtful. “People should always be encouraged to appreciate the arts.”
Neivira stifles a snicker before the reliever thinks to question things further.
--
Neivira used to visit her old Wordmates, the first few centuries after--her transfer to the Wind. They all had studies, offices, or labs with their new Archangel, all penned in and caged up. Even the Litherites, whose cages had no doors. The habit drifted away with the Wind.
Jubilee’s studio, on the other hand, ends up being a little hedged off portion of a court yard, all heavenly blue sky above, and just enough furniture that someone could paint and then have tea. The Seraph practically glows in the sunlight, in a way that would be blinding on the Corporeal, but fits perfectly into Heaven.
“Welcome, Neivira. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.” Jubilee flutters her left wings at her.
Former Wordmates always say that, from lofty Seraphim to diplomatic Mercurians and all the Choirs in between. They stop meaning it soon enough. “Did we know each other? Back before--” Neivira says, searching her memory through all the gaps. She gets a few images of Seraphim, but none with scales of the same bright gold--reminiscent of Incan coins--as this one.
“We never met. Though I once served Knowledge, my transfer to Eli’s service happened centuries before the battle with Legion and the death of the Bright Lady who made us.”
Neivira bows, front half towards the ground. “It is a pleasure to meet a former Wordmate who doesn’t expect me to remember the lectures we attended together.” The words in Angelic are tinged with a politeness and a qualifier for wariness.
“It was thought that might be the case.” Jubliee says and motions to a table, where the reliever is laying out tea, cakes and sugar cubes. Very proper by Creation’s standard, and clearly in the image of her mother. She’s small enough that traces of her future choir haven’t yet appeared, but Neivira would bet she’s being guided towards Seraph. Neivira sneaks a sugar cube while the child pours black tea into two porcelain cups. “Thank you, Preerana. Feel free to return to your drawing practice. I’ll let you know when something else is needed.”
Preerana gives a little bow and floats upwards, a sketchbook and a charcoal stick suddenly in her hands as she flies off towards somewhere.
There are a thousand phrases of politeness that could gently introduce the topic so none feel uncomfortable, but neither a Seraph or a Cherub belongs to the right Choir for those. Jubilee wants to talk about Knowledge, Neivira wants a vessel and to be back with her attuned.
“I’m glad we finally get a chance to meet. You are difficult to find.”
Neivira could--and doesn’t--comment that she wishes to be more difficult to find. “All of my time is spent on Earth doing the work of my Archangel.”
Even in Heaven, where lies cannot be spoken, the Truth can still be concealed, if only through silent agreement.
“So it is. I wish to ask some questions as part of a Destiny project to study the outcomes of those who once served Knowledge. The interview will be transcribed and archived in Yves’ Library. Is that acceptable?”
The promise of vessel made many things acceptable that perhaps should not be. “Yes.”
“Do you have any questions before we begin?”
“You serve Creation. You left Knowledge before…before...” Neivira takes another sugar cube in lieu of finishing the sentence. Forget the tea. That’s just an unexamined formality. Coffee is the wave of the future. Maybe she should convince the reliever to put coffee in the teapot next time.
Jubilee takes a delicate sip of her tea. “I did. It was thought that would make me a better candidate to talk to some of the more….non-traditional transfers. Of those Servitors of Knowledge who remain in Heaven, most transferred to Yves or Jean, with the rest going to Raphael’s protege, Litheroy. Those who did not have reasons for their choice, and might be less uncomfortable discussing it with someone who didn't make the choice they rejected.”
“You left our Lady.” Neivira spins her teacup. Liquid sloshes up the sides, but this being heaven, nothing spills.. The Seraph stays still and coiled. She knows she has a reward any decent Cherub with attuned downstairs would jump through hoops for, she doesn’t need to force the conversation. “I didn't have any choice but to go.”
“No. Most of our brothers and sisters did not. Casualties are the nature of the War. Even Archangels are not immune.” Jubilee writes as she speaks, the Truth she sees something she chooses not to vocalize. “What were your duties in Knowledge? To the best of your memory.”
Her memories fell to pieces centuries ago, a foundation the Wind built freely on top of, but in between scraps of attuned long past--a smile here, a scent there, she can generalize the duties she carried out before her world blew up. “I guarded pilgrims who sought enlightenment from holy sites and passed the knowledge on from one village to another.”
Jubilee takes notes and sketches out a portrait, and Neivira is vain enough to turn her head slightly to provide a more flattering angle. “So you were used to moving. Is that why you chose to go to the Wind?”
“I had just shaken off Trauma when I transferred. Most of my Ethereal Forces had been lost. It wasn’t exactly a well-considered decision.” Neivira stamps a hoof on the ground restlessly. The instinct to run remains buried just under the surface.
The garden studio stays silent except for the scratch of pen on parchment. If Jubilee means to say something, she waits for another sign from Neivira.
“I wanted to run for a bit. Just...run and forget everything of who I was and what had happened before. No attuned. (Her current attuned are fine in the immediate term, but she needs to get back before pieces can move) When I could think again...it seemed appropriate. Yves was too static, Jean too closed with his knowledge and Litheroy too open. Whereas with Janus, the information could scatter out to where it could do the most good. If I can’t serve Our Lady, he seems as good an Archangel as any other.”
This time when Jubilee takes notes, she offers a comment. “Not many of our brothers and sisters chose to serve the Wind. Less than two dozen out of thousands. Mostly Ofanim, with a couple each of Elohim, Kyriotates and Mercurians to round out the numbers. And you, a Cherub.”
“And me. A Cherub.” Neivira stamps her foot on the grass again. The Seraph leaves space for her to ask questions, names of former Wordmates who might understand, common threads between those who went with the Wind versus the rest who went to other words. She doesn’t ask. It’s not dissonant to not want to know what will hurt her.
Jubilee uses the tip of her tail to pour herself another cup of tea. Neivira takes another sugar cube and lets it dissolve in her mouth, from cube to grain to syrup. It’s too perfect, like the rest of Heaven, and then it vanishes.
“And how would you say the Word of the Wind suits you?”
Neivira gives herself time to consider, while Jubilee continues on the portrait. The breeze isn’t a part of her the way it is for those who grow or are created among the treetops; the tattered Ethereal force her memory is built on won’t let it be. Her feelings are complex. They’re simple. “It’s a Word. My Heart is now tied to it. Short of what will never happen, and what I hope will not happen again in my lifetime, I won’t serve another.”
Seraphim cannot lie. Yet they can refrain from telling a Truth, and the right five seconds of silence can be as telling as a declarative sentence. “How has your time with Knowledge influenced your perception of the Wind?”
“I still seek out knowledge, and guard those who seek to spread it. That hasn’t changed.” Neivira pauses and takes another sugar cube. “The work I do for my Master distributes the knowledge where it can change the status quo. Our Lady’s word focused on the use of knowledge as much as the collection. This is one way to carry on her legacy.”
“True.” Jubilee says softly. She extends a wing out. “That’s the end of my questions. Do you have any questions for me?”
Neivira has several ranging from “Is it time for my recommendation” to “Who are the ones who came to the wind?” but one will be answered soon, and the other can be dug up from Yves library at her leisure. There’s only one she has to ask now in this space. “Why did you leave?”
Jubilee coils and uncoils in an unending loop. “Raphael created me just after the Fall--Litheroy was a big brother of sorts--and sent me down to Earth to learn and teach the arts in various civilizations. I fell in love with it all--pottery, poetry, paintings. Music and drama. I loved seeing what people would make, more even than I loved knowing what they had made or using their tools to transcribe learning. Our Lady was an Elohite, and she encouraged me to move into Eli’s service when it became clear where my heart was. Objectively, she couldn’t have done otherwise. And here I’ve stayed.”
“Here you’ve stayed.” Neivira stares down into her tea, her eye staring back from the dark liquid.
Jubliee pushes back her own empty cup. “Anyway, I promised you a recommendation for your assistance with my project, and you shall have it.” She whistles, and the golden reliever returns, sketchbook page filled with what are either drawings of Ofanim or poorly-formed circles at attention and ready to help.
“Thank you for your time, Neivira. I understand this is a difficult subject for many to speak of, and your answers will help this project immensely. Should you ever want to visit again, please don’t hesitate to drop by or send a message. It would not have to be about our former Lady.”
Neivira bows her head. “I will keep that in mind, Most Holy.”
“Good. Preerana?”
The reliever unfolds from the loop she was forming and straightens herself into an upright position. “Yes, mother?”
“Neivira’s recommendation is in my easel. Please deliver the letter and escort her to Eli. If you can’t find him quickly, go to the Symphony Hall and ask Israfel for help.”
“Yes, mother.” Preerana flits over to the easel, and retrieves a folded sheet of parchment sealed with wax. With a somersault she flies back over to Jubilee and drops a kiss on her snout. Jubilee in return nuzzles her and whispers something. The reliever looks towards Neivira and nods solemnly back to Jubilee.
Preerana motions back to Neivira, and drifts towards the exit to the garden. “This way, please!”
Teatime is over, and thank goodness.
--
Cherub and reliever stand in front of an intricately carved door, behind which there should be an Archangel willing to give her a vessel.
“Could you tell me something Preerana?”
“Probably.”
“What did your mother tell you before we left?”
The reliever puts a finger to her chin, trailing bright gold glitter. “Oh, she said that you’re a Windy, and that it’s in your nature to do things that produce chaos. Therefore, if you made any suggestions to me, I should think for myself on whether I should do them.”
Neivira considers that...and finds she can’t argue. “That’s good advice when dealing with anyone, kid. But I’m telling you, you should definitely take that statue over to the Council Spires. After we talk to your Archangel.”