I am old.
That means little to us -- some of us measure time since the Fall, rather than in years. I measure time from the Purity Crusades, for personal reasons -- but I was here before them.
By human standards, I am ancient. By my own, I am simply *old.* Arashiel -- created from the same whim and Forces by our Archangel -- is not. Or he hides it better. Arabis -- is old like I am. I wonder what event scars her past. This Arnu, I suspect. Fallen? An old enemy? If he Fell, and she knew him -- she has my empathy. Nothing quite like seeing someone *change* like that.
In all my years -- I have never been to Hell. It's not a place angels go, as a rule. And yet three of us have gone, just these past few days. Oh, the hyenas will descend on us when *that* is known. Rook's record is clean (and he's a Malakite, and not at all dissonant) -- but Arabis' isn't, and neither is mine. I know Judgement is only trying to make sure that no angel Falls . . . and I will try to remember that when the Triad is in front of me.
Of course I would do it again, but still. I would not have hesitated, even had I known what was down there. Nightmares. The Tower we can all see across the Marches -- more horrific to be inside it, I assure you. Poor Rook. Chained there. Isolated. Alone. Sweet Eli. . . I cannot guess what they did to him. I think that even a minute in that place, with no certainty of rescue, would be worth eons of torment. Thanks be to holiness he was not in his true shape. I have heard tales of what happens to Malakim. . . but no matter. We got him, and they did not.
And we were *seen.* Who can I tell, that would understand the horror of seeing *him* there? Arabis, maybe. Rashi. . . Rashi knew him too. Rook will only hear me say "Habbalite" and that will end it for him. I cannot explain tangles of emotions and loyalty to *that* bright being. He is War, and unswerving as the hand of God when it comes to duty. He would pursue any demon, even Irad. And Irad would obliterate him.
So why, I ask myself, did Irad *look right at me* and let us go? He may not have recognized us, true. And Arabis is really made of cotton candy. Some of his Forces are mine. He would *know* me. I know him. I remember such a bright creature -- not that tattooed freak with bitter eyes. Why let us go? I do not trust some old feeling on his part. Some motive, maybe and probably nothing for good.
Ah, Eli, do you know? Do you see Irad where he is, see what he has become? What would I be now, if I had followed? Some twisted horror in that Tower, I do not doubt. Perhaps I would have been the one to stalk Susannah, or to lock Rook in his cell, or . . . Jael, that way lies madness.
Concentrate on this: Irad let you pass, and Rook is free. And you have seen what you might have been, and are not, and what the Enemy's face is like when it's at home -- and you have survived, and your friends have. And what if your old Master watched you as you passed him?
Let us think instead on . . . Rook. Heart of my hearts, why can I not be more like Arashiel? Do I really need to become so *devoted* to the unattainable? Ridiculous. I am *old* and I know what I am feeling. I am, therefore, old enough to know better and (thank you, Eli) smart enough to keep my Creationer hands away from where they are not needed. Arabis is right about Malakim and doting. And this particular Malakite abhors emotional expression. He should have been an Elohite, I swear it. I am too old to find the frustration fun any longer. But I can endure it, and leave our dignities intact.
I think he's been through enough, this last week.
I think I have.
An odd thing: I feel pain in my heart, a dull and hollow ache -- and it reminds me of the first day when I realized I could think of Irad without weeping. It's that sort of pain. I feel it when I see Rook, much of the time, marching along in this mission or that, so sure of himself and his purpose. With Irad -- I would have sworn, until this week, that what I felt was loss, sorrow and anger. Now I know better: it is love, but the sort that will never find reflection in the beloved's eyes. It's a quiet thing, a little lonely. I felt it when I saw Irad again, and it reminded me.
How can one being love a demon and a Malakite? Irad would laugh at the irony. Rook would . . . not approve, I think, and I am afraid to ask him.
Another Creationer told me once that love, no matter how painful or lonely or strange -- was never wrong. Not if it were truly unselfish. Not if given freely. I will qualify that -- that love is not wrong, so long as it does not endanger anyone. And I am terribly, terribly afraid that these loves of mine are dangerous. Because Irad will exploit it. And, paradoxically, because Rook will not even see it.
I am old, yes, but worse: though I am not alone, I *feel* alone. And isolation is the first step to a Fall.