It was nearing midday when Michael entered the unfinished hall depicting the Golden Legend, a long, somewhat narrow room that branched off of the main corridor of what would someday be the Grand Sanctuary of Hod. Large sections of the high ceiling and outer walls had yet to be finished, allowing great columns of warm daylight in to illuminate portions of the interior, though no other lights had yet been placed inside to brighten the shadowy far corners. Standing silhouetted in the main doorway, Michael thought the dim, empty room to be a stark, unpleasant contrast to the bustling construction taking place outside. A glance around revealed no one inside, prompting Michael to proceed further indoors; this was the only section of the Sanctuary he had had no involvement in planning and he was curious to see how it was developing.
The area directly inside the main entrance was dedicated to the Aeons, each of the nine portrayed by a grand statue over three times the height of a man and holding their Sephirah in hand. Rather, there would be nine of them eventually; at present, four of the sculptures were missing. Michael sidestepped the empty pedestal that both plaque and placement announced was reserved for the statue of the King and idly wondered if there was a reason why those four, in particular, had been delayed. He was distracted from that line of thought when he turned and was confronted with his own sculpture.
The statue depicting the Aeon of Hod portrayed a compelling young man in peak physical condition. In his right hand, the statue held aloft a luminous crystal sphere representing the Sephirah Hod, and in his left, he gripped an odd relic: a cruciform arming sword with a complex set of seals carved along the length of the blade. The height of the statue made it difficult to judge his expression when standing on the ground before him, but his pose implied high-energy movement, his body and wings arranged in such a way that suggested he was either landing after a flight or preparing to launch into one. A golden laurel wreath crowned the statue’s curly hair and a ring of fire danced around his feet as if following his steps.
It was a deeply flattering depiction, Michael thought as he scratched at his chin with a wry grin, for all that it failed to be unbiased; he supposed it could be considered artistic license, but Michael himself was by no means as grandiose as the statue that supposedly depicted him. There was no use denying that he was indeed quite tall - not to the exaggerated degree of the statue, though still enough that he towered head and shoulders over most people he met - but, unlike the statue, he had yet to leave behind the lanky posture that often came along with a rather sudden growth spurt. Also unlike the statue, Michael kept his blond hair cut short enough that one could hardly guess it wanted to curl, and he certainly never paraded around with any crown of laurels. Staring at such an overblown yet highly detailed depiction of his own face quickly grew unsettling, and Michael found the majority of his focus shifting to a seemingly unimportant matter: the fact that the statue held the sword in its left hand to lift aloft the Sephirah in his right. The symbolism of it was all well and good, but he couldn’t recall a time he had ever held the sword currently strapped at his hip in his off-hand, much less wield it that way with any degree of skill or grace. He also made a point of keeping a length of red ribbon tied around the sheath at all times, which the statue lacked. No doubt it was a small and petty thing to complain about in the face of such artistry, yet it bothered him. With a quick shake of his head, Michael left the statue behind and proceeded further into the hall, too flustered to spare more than a glance at the equally artistic sculptures of the other Aeons; it wasn’t as if he could verify their accuracy, but he had no doubt they were about as accurate as his own sculpture. The hall was far more interested in depicting the ideals each Aeon represented rather than who they may have truly been, after all. Michael, however, was far more interested in the works relating to the daeva.
Once past the dedications to the Aeons, the carvings and murals on the walls began to depict the history of the Sphere Hod. It started with the most recent, the yet-ongoing construction of the Grand Sanctuary that contained this hall, with the stories growing older the further one went. He meandered by images related to the foundation of the major festivals, laws, citizen councils appointed by the Saerim, then the early meetings of the Saerim themselves. His pace slowed to a crawl as he reached the image that, according to the plaque, was meant to symbolise the materialisation of the first daeva into Hod. Further images showed his designation of the Saerim, the formation of the Sphere around the Sephirah, then the separation of the Aeons and their Sephiroth from the divine realm of the Source. The entire back half of the hall was dedicated to the Golden Legend itself, the destruction and loss of the Old Kingdom, but Michael had no desire to see that story and so stayed in the unfinished front half.
He was still considering the mural related to the foundation of Hod’s capital city when he was found.
“My Aeon?” called a voice he recognised as belonging to his Regent, Saerim Remiel.
“There is no one else here, Remiel,” Michael answered. He continued to peruse the images on the walls, forcing Remiel to walk inside as well if he hoped to hold any form of reasonable, non-shouting conversation.
“Michael,” Remiel corrected himself. He crossed the room with quick strides to join his Aeon in observing the artwork depicting the various feats the daeva had accomplished since the creation of the Sphere. Remiel was a tall man by normal standards, though not so tall as Michael, and as his powerful build did little to hide his stiff posture, it was easy for Michael to infer how uncomfortable Remiel was with this turn of events. Remiel came to a stop beside him, his back straight as a board and his arms folded behind him, a marked difference compared to Michael’s relaxed contemplation of the murals. They stood in silence for a beat. At last, Remiel cleared his throat and said, almost hesitantly, “This is the hall of the Golden Legend.”
Michael sighed deeply. “I appreciate that your tone implies I somehow failed to realise where I was.”
“You can hardly fault my surprise when you ordinarily avoid this place as if it were some sort of highly contagious rot,” Remiel said with a grin. Michael didn’t disagree. “Were you searching for something specific?”
“Nothing in particular, no. I suppose I finally grew curious as to what they thought it ought to look like,” mused Michael.
“And how does it compare?” asked Remiel. He walked to stand in front of the section devoted to when the Spheres were first given form under the guidance of the King of Aeons, gesturing to the image for clarity. “Is this at all what it looked like when the world was made?”
Michael moved to stand next to him, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He took his time forming an answer. “This is a true work of art. As I understand it, most works of art are judged not on their factual accuracy but on their ability to invoke strong emotional responses from their audiences. Keeping that in mind, I believe the question ought to then become ‘does this create within me the same emotions as the exact moment the world was made?’ The answer to that question is, of course, completely subjective and always dependent on the perspective of the viewer and their personal relationship with the symbolism used as imagery devices by the artist. Take, for example, these lines here, surrounding Most High, King Elion. I must assume the artist meant for those lines to represent His unfathomable power, or His lingering, tangible connection to the Source, or perhaps even the action of the world settling into place around Him, but at this exact moment, all I can think is that it looks to me as if He is surrounded by some force of inexplicably floating noodles. I suspect I may simply be hungry, rather than that reaction being caused by any explicit failure on the part of the artist, however. Perhaps if the lines were not quite as thick, do you think?”
“I’ll never understand the enjoyment you appear to derive from pretending to consider a question you intend to deflect,” said Remiel, sounding caught between exasperation and amusement.
“I’ll never understand your persistence in asking questions you know I will not answer,” countered Michael. “I am hungry. If we’ve finished here, would you care to join me for lunch?”
“Gladly.” They turned to leave the hall, walking back towards the racket of the construction taking place outside. “I can only speculate on the emotional response triggered by walking past a giant version of yourself,” said Remiel as they passed the knees of the states of the Aeons.
“I would describe it as a call for crippling self-reflection. I had not realised my head was so overinflated,” said Michael.
They left the empty hall behind and returned to the active construction zone that comprised the rest of the eventual Sanctuary. The open corridor they walked into would one day be the main public hall of the Sanctuary, though the lack of a completed roof and unfinished walls caused the cavernous space to feel more like the wide outdoors than a future temple. The bright midday light and the sudden onslaught of noise was, in Michael’s opinion, a welcome change from the tomb-like stillness inside the hall depicting the Golden Legend. The area was swarming with daeva, both on the ground and flitting through the unfinished levels above, some of them focused on a specific task or location and others relaying information, work orders, and materials as needed. Construction was progressing smoothly, though the Sanctuary was yet skeletal in many areas, the great supports and structural beams mapping out what would one day be a spectacular temple. Michael paused as he tried to picture what the Sanctuary would look like once completed; architecture had never been an innate talent of his, but it was becoming easier to imagine how the bare beams and incomplete ceiling would look when they were finished.
He was jolted from his musing when a large scaffolding sheet slammed to the ground behind him, the heavily weighted bottom of the sheet colliding with the ground with a loud ‘thud!’ less than an arm’s reach from his back. Michael spun around with a surprised shout; a thick sheet of waterproof material had been flung from the roof, evidently to cover the gaps in the hall’s walls, the lower edge of the sheet lined with substantial weights to prevent it from moving overmuch in the wind. At the sound of his shout, the daeva who had dropped the scaffolding sheet peeked his head over the edge of the roof to see who had made the noise.
“Sorry!” the daeva called down to them. The boy vaulted over the edge of the roof and fluttered down to stand in front of Michael, folding his wings into his back and out of sight once he landed. “The hall was meant to be empty; I didn’t think - My Aeon!” He realised who he had nearly squished with a horrified squeak and dropped into a low bow. “My most sincere apologies, my Aeon; I did not know anyone would still be inside, much less you! Are you injured, my Aeon?”
“No. You missed, thankfully, so no harm’s been done,” Michael assured the young daeva. He knelt to inspect the weights lining the bottom of the sheet; he could lift one section with a bit of effort, but the whole thing combined proved to be more than he could easily move. The idea of being struck by such a force unawares was not a pleasant one. “Though, perhaps, in the future, some manner of warning before you throw something such as this off a roof would be wise.”
A shout interrupted them before the young daeva could respond. A petite blonde woman marched towards them with a burning purpose, the bright red cap she wore marking her as someone of authority as much as the way the other daeva scattered before her incoming wrath.
“Kafziel!” the woman yelled, her expression livid. “My eyes must have deceived me, for I surely did not see you fling already weighted scaffold sheeting into an active zone. I could not have seen that since no one working at my site would be daft enough to do such a thing! Tell me, then, Kafziel, exactly what I saw you do just now.”
The boy - Kafziel - blanched. “Saerim Ciel, I was told to secure the hall to prevent weather damage and - ”
“And you thought you figured out how to streamline the process by letting gravity do the work for you, is that it?” Ciel accused. “I doubt very much you were instructed to disregard the procedure we’ve used to prepare for foul weather since long before you were scarcely more than a wisp of thought from the Source. Were your exact instructions to fling the weights onto the heads of whoever was standing below you?”
“No, Saerim Ciel,” mumbled Kafziel, his face glowing with embarrassment.
“I thought not,” said Ciel, reaching into one of her pockets.
A pang of sympathy for the boy tugged at Michael; Kafziel was clearly quite young, the patch he wore on his shirt announcing his apprenticeship still shiny and unblemished. “Oh, come now, Ciel, you’re carding the poor boy?” Michael asked. “Do you truly feel the situation warrants an official reprimand? No one was hurt, after all. Since it seems an honest mistake, surely a touch of leniency would not be entirely without benefit, at least in this case.”
“With all due respect, my Aeon, I do not agree that disregarding basic safety in favour of expediency deserves leniency, but as you wish,” said Ciel. She pulled a small, brightly coloured card from her pocket - yellow, rather than the red card Michael suspected she had originally reached for - and scribbled a short note on the back of the card before passing it to Kafziel. “One more of these and you’re out of the programme for good, do you understand, Kafziel? Thank the Aeon for his leniency, but I will be having words with your instructor tonight. Gather your things together; I want you off my site for the rest of the day.”
While Ciel shooed the boy off, Remiel leaned towards Michael and muttered, “Perhaps I agree, my Aeon, that this is not a case which would benefit from overly indulgent leniency.”
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“Well, yes, but you always say that,” Michael said.
“Fair enough,” said Remiel with a small shrug. After Kafziel was out of range, he spoke to Ciel again in a normal tone, “Perhaps you would consider transferring the boy to the guard? We both know Mahariel would sort him out sooner or later if it comes to that.”
Ciel wrinkled her nose and tossed her hair over her shoulder with a dramatic huff. “If one can call training a dog ‘sorting a boy out’, I suppose I can’t argue.” At once, her expression became guilty. “That was uncalled for and beneath me, I apologise.”
“I take it you have your hands full with keeping things running smoothly, Ciel?” Michael asked, struggling to keep from grinning.
“You could say that, my Aeon,” Ciel said with a sigh. “It’s been so many seasons since we’ve attempted a project of this scale; many of the younger daeva have no experience with the protocols required of such a project. Still, that is no excuse for me to speak poorly of our colleague, much less so when she isn’t here to defend herself. Please don’t tell her what I said, Remiel.”
Remiel scoffed. “Why would I?”
Ciel gave him an indulgent look but shook her head with a slight shrug. “At any rate, present dramatics aside, I remain optimistic that Kafziel will settle in and thrive with us here, given enough time. Please allow me to apologise on his behalf, my Aeon; Kafziel is fresh from the Academy and his first few days with us have been, shall we say, somewhat trying. He’s a bright boy with great potential, but his head has always been so far up in the clouds he was bound to be shocked by the aurora eventually.”
“No need to say more, Ciel; I believe we’re all familiar with the perils of youth,” said Michael. He gestured to the thick sheeting now draped over the front of the hall of the Golden Legend. “I take it you’re expecting foul weather?”
“Yes, my Aeon, we are,” said Ciel, an uncomfortable expression darting across her face. “We are likely to see some development later today, though how severe it’s predicted to be is a matter of some contention. As a precaution, we’re preparing to shut down all outdoor work if the weather proves it to be necessary. I am quite embarrassed we are in such a state of disarray during your visit, but I assure you that the site is typically far less chaotic than what you see now.”
“You intend to shut down the entire site? I was not aware a storm of such magnitude was expected,” Remiel said. He withdrew a small information pad from one of his pockets and flipped to his notes for the day with a slight frown. “I don’t believe I’ve noticed a single cloud in the sky all day today.”
“Nor have I, which in itself is a touch odd for this season, you must admit, as is the unseasonable wind,” said Ciel. Her statement was punctuated by a particularly timely gust moving through the site, whipping up plumes of dust and knocking over any small objects that had not been properly secured. Ciel lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and leaned in closer, keen on ensuring they were not overheard. “There’s an odd energy in the aether today; though not an opinion I’d put on an official record, my guess is that someone Out There is either in trouble or very angry.”
“That is an unsettling thought, albeit one founded on unverified superstition,” said Michael, no longer bothering to hide his grin. “I’ve never seen any direct correlation between my mood and the weather; I don’t see why any of the other Aeon’s moods ought to affect our weather, either.”
“I doubt they mean to affect our weather, my Aeon,” Ciel said, crossing her arms stubbornly. “Whoever it is, I’m sure they’re focused on whatever troubles them and not thinking of us at all. Why would they? But still, that’s the impression I get from the aether today. Someone somewhere is very upset.”
“That, I suspect, is liable to be true and very difficult to argue against, though I still doubt it’s enough to affect the weather,” said Michael, but he had gone still, a slight frown clouding his features as he reconsidered what his own senses were telling him about the wind.
“We’ve had storms before,” Remiel said. “It’s some time in the past now, but I distinctly recall there being nothing mystical about the storm that flooded most of the city in seasons past.”
“No, but would you prefer to repeat that experience?” Ciel said with a pointed look. “It was a disaster, and so unnecessary. If anything, that perfectly illustrates the reason for my caution today. What is the point of our mistakes if we do not learn from them? Our own failure to account for how much damage a true storm can cause was responsible for flooding the city and everything that followed. Now that we understand the potential power such a storm can carry, there is no reason to allow our mistakes to happen again. If the Source is willing, today will blow over peacefully, but we have the opportunity to prepare for the worst this time and I see no reason not to take it.”
As the two Saerim bickered, Michael looked upwards to study what patches of sky he could glimpse through the construction. The blinding white pillar of light emanating from the Sephirah Hod which marked the heart of the future Sanctuary, of the entire Sphere, created a shining beacon which cut to the top of the sky itself and illuminated the entire clearing around them. At a glance, there was not a single cloud in sight to obscure the colourful curtains of the daytime aurora adorning the firmament, and he could see a neighbouring Sphere hovering above the horizon behind a vibrant swirl of blue; Michael guessed it was Yesod based on its position, but he wouldn’t have been willing to wager anything of value on his hunch. The wind carried with it a brisk sharpness that was indeed unseasonable for mid-spring, but more importantly, it also brought with it an electric energy he couldn’t readily identify. Now that it had been brought to his attention, the unnamed power steadily building in the aether proved to be impossible to ignore.
“She’s right,” Michael muttered. “Whatever the cause may be, it’s better to be prepared for however this turns out. Besides,” he added cheerfully, “time is hardly an issue with this project. I can think of no reason to disregard caution in this instance.”
“In fact, my Aeon, construction is proceeding ahead of the initially predicted schedule,” Ciel said. “Even expecting the occasional, inevitable setback involved with such a large project, I believe the Sanctuary will be functional by next spring.” Another strong gust of wind blew over them, tugging at hair and clothes and knocking over a half-finished scaffolding platform that had not yet been properly fastened down. Ciel grimaced. “That is assuming, of course, that today does not develop into a natural disaster rivalling that first monsoon. I humbly beg your pardon, my Aeon, but there is much to be done before the storm. If you would please excuse me?”
Michael nodded. “Keep up the good work, Ciel.”
“Thank you, my Aeon,” Ciel said, bowing quickly. She turned and darted back into the bustle of the construction site, already shouting to a group of workers that they needed to be absolutely certain the upper levels were safely secured against the wind.
“Whatever the cause may be?” Remiel parroted incredulously once she was gone. “Are you truly prepared to blame the weather on the foul mood of another Sphere, my Aeon?”
“I doubt I’ve ever been truly prepared for anything, Remiel. You of all people ought to know that,” said Michael with a light shrug. “No, I don’t believe there to be a correlation between anyone’s mood and our weather, but something does seem… off. I don’t doubt that there will be a storm, and it will likely be a bad one. And, I don’t know about you, but I have no desire to relive the mess of our first monsoon.”
Remiel made a vague, non-committal noise as he jotted down a quick entry in his information pad. “I’ll send out an alert to ensure all appropriate preparation measures are taken, shall I?”
Michael chortled at his tone. “Has the weather offended you, Remiel?”
“No, that would be ridiculous,” said Remiel, tucking his information pad back into whatever pocket he normally kept it in. “Monotony offends me, as I believe you well know.”
“So a storm ought to be quite welcome to you, then,” said Michael brightly. “All the better if it turns into a disaster, yes? Anything to break up the horrendously dull routine of peaceful stability.” He shuddered dramatically at the words.
“That is not what I said, nor do I want a disaster,” Remiel said. “Though I think at this point in Hod’s development, even the worst of storms would be, at most, little more than an inconvenience and a temporary setback. Our days of flooding a city because we forgot to account for drainage that can handle a freak monsoon are long past.”
“I’m getting the impression this upsets you,” said Michael. “Speak freely of what troubles you, Remiel, I’d like to hear it plainly.”
“There is no challenge anymore,” said Remiel. “How are we to prove ourselves with no challenge to overcome, no adversity to triumph over?”
“Oh, I ought to have known,” Michael said with a sigh. “Why are you so convinced there is anything to be proved by suffering?”
“I have no desire for needless suffering, but I would relish an opportunity to truly test the mettle of everything we have built here, to definitively answer whether we as a people possess the individual and collective strength necessary to flourish despite overwhelming hardship,” Remiel said.
“The primary thing surviving hardship proves in your ability to survive hardship and precious little else,” said Michael. “Which is certainly commendable, but I see no reason why it need be celebrated as a core value if hardship is sensibly avoidable. You seem quite eager to forget that proving you can survive the worst involves actually living through a worst-case scenario. How much would you be willing to sacrifice to find out if you were able to merely survive? When would the damage incurred no longer be worth the bragging rights? Before or after you’ve lost the ability to sleep peacefully through a night?”
“You misunderstand,” said Remiel, choosing his next words carefully. “I am not suggesting raw torment or tragedy benefits anyone. I am suggesting that reasonable trials and healthy challenge benefit growth of character. There is a type of inner strength that can only be gained by learning from one’s own mistakes, by facing a particularly difficult challenge directly and conquering it through one’s willpower and ingenuity. It is easy for anyone to boast that they would be able to weather whatever difficult times they may encounter, but for it to be demonstrably true, to watch someone who has been knocked to their absolute lowest find within themselves the strength to pick themselves up and continue onward, that, I believe, is genuinely worthy of admiration.”
“You make it sound as if you view personal tragedy as a badge of honour,” Michael said.
“That is vastly oversimplifying a personal opinion on a matter you asked me to discuss,” countered Remiel. “It’s not as if I intend to seek out some manufactured conflict to throw myself into, but I would appreciate a naturally occurring opportunity to prove to myself, if no one else, that I am capable of doing what needs to be done regardless of how easy it is to accomplish. But what opportunity is there to perform deeds of glory and valour in a paradise?”
“Glory does not hinge on conflict!” Michael snapped. The scaffold sheeting on the ground directly behind him burst into flames and there was a brief scuffle of activity as they hurried to stomp it out. Once the fire had been extinguished, Michael sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. “Okay. I understand that things have been less-than-thrilling lately and how that would leave you with little else to think about, but consider the matter from this perspective: you are the Regent of Hod. Any challenge that would be sufficiently problematic for you to overcome would likely come at the potential risk of the health and safety of the many innocents who rely on your choices. Is your rhetorical question worth their suffering?”
“Of course not,” Remiel said, affronted by the very notion.
“We ought to be grateful for the peace we have been blessed with,” said Michael firmly.
“We are grateful,” agreed Remiel.
“I appreciate that you answered me honestly,” Michael said, his tone suddenly sincere.
Remiel shifted his weight from foot to foot in discomfort. “I would never dream of attempting to deceive my Aeon.”
“And I appreciate the honesty,” said Michael. “You’re a good Regent, Remiel, and a good man. I’ve seen enough of your character that I don’t need to watch you struggle to believe that. Though I will try to find something more academically stimulating for you to do, as well. There is no reason you ought to be bored to the point of frustration.”
“It is humbling that you would go to such lengths on my behalf, my Aeon,” said Remiel.
“Well, a distracted Regent is a potential liability in many ways, right?” Michael said with a grin. “On to more pressing matters: have you got a pick for lunch?”
The wind drowned out any response Remiel may have offered, howling loudly through the bones of the construction site with sudden ferocity. Michael shielded his eyes against the dust disturbed by the wind out of instinct. He opened his mouth to comment on the onslaught when a loud, sharp whistle sounded from above, an urgent call for attention. Following the source of the noise, they saw a daeva perched on a platform near the unfinished ceiling along the outer wall of the main chamber far above them. The daeva was shouting and pointing at a large, decorative metal plate, one of many tiles that would eventually comprise the mosaic ceiling, which had been in the process of being moved into position when it was caught in the wind. The brunt of the wind struck the plate in the broadside, causing the heavy metal tile to swing wildly and the lifting straps securing it to snap in rapid succession. Michael’s stomach plummeted in horror at the sight; the plate was solid metal, easily twice the height of a man and suspended over several levels of stone balconies and pillars as well as a tangle of temporary scaffoldings and platforms. No matter which way it fell, it was about to cause dangerous amounts of damage.
Someone nearer to the ground - likely Ciel - whistled three times in rapid succession, the signal to fall back to a safe distance. The daeva scattered from the site, picking up what tools they could salvage and hurrying out of range of the impending accident. Michael was about to unfurl his wings in preparation to leave alongside Remiel when he saw a single daeva, a young man, ignore the warning, drop the bag he was carrying and fly towards the precariously swinging metal plate, likely with the intention of securing it properly before it fell.
“Kafziel, get away!” Ciel screamed from near the front of the site, but the howling wind ensured her voice did not carry to the boy.
Michael felt himself moving forward without thinking about what he intended to do.
The final strap holding the metal plate broke with a resounding snap and the plate fell to the floor below, triggering a deafening avalanche of stone and mortar as it took every obstacle it encountered to the ground with it. A metal pole was thrown from the debris and struck Kafziel in the shoulder, knocking the boy from the air and pinning him to the ground under the falling plate. Remiel was, as always, faster than Michael and reached the trapped boy first. He flung himself over Kafziel, no doubt hoping to shield the injured daeva with his own body, just as Michael had known he would. Realising there was no time to get them out of the way, Michael planted his feet beside them and took a deep breath, bracing himself for the inevitable, the hum of his nearby Sephirah deafening even in the face of the oncoming collapse.
He suffered a strange moment of clarity and saw with terrible detail that the falling metal plate was decorated with the emblem of the King. Then the mountain of rubble was atop them and the world went black.