The darkness was absolute and suffocating. It threatened to crush the breath from his lungs and cause his knees to buckle. It pressed down on his shoulders with all the weight of inevitability, as if it meant to grind him into dust. He resisted due to instinct more than anything else, refusing to bow under the pressure only because, in his confusion, he could think of no reason why he ought to. He couldn’t think of anything, really; it was so dark he couldn’t see, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, why was it so dark? It was never meant to be this dark!
He squeezed his eyes shut against the blackness, although it made no perceptible difference, and fought to catch his breath under the crushing weight bearing down on him. He wanted to straighten his back and stand upright but couldn’t, and his attempt to do so created a distant rumbling noise that was barely audible over the ringing hum causing his head to spin. Panic began to claw its way out of his confusion to latch onto his chest, but panic, at least, he recognised. He knew what to do with panic: hold still and focus on breathing until it became manageable.
Each breath was a struggle and gave him precious little air for his efforts, but he kept at it anyway, forcing his body to repeat the motions of deep breaths despite the ache in his chest. The familiar repetition had the intended effect of chasing away his panic, and his mind began to clear. The pressure on his back that was preventing him from drawing a full breath was very real, as was the grinding rumble he heard at the edge of his awareness. He wasn’t in pain, exactly – his body tingled with the buzzing numbness that always came alongside proximity to his Sephirah – but he certainly was uncomfortable. The weight of the debris from the collapse was doing its best to squish him, and although it hadn’t managed yet, it was an ongoing struggle to keep from giving in to its pressure. The longer he focused on his breathing, the clearer his mind grew and the more aware he became of his surroundings. Michael remembered visiting the Sanctuary construction site, the wind knocking one of the ceiling tiles loose and causing a disaster, his own stupid decision to try to catch said ceiling tile so it wouldn’t fall on top of –
Remiel.
Michael forced himself to open his eyes, counting his breaths as he waited for his sight to adjust to the darkness. Despite his best efforts to maintain a steady rhythm, his breath came in shallow, wheezing gasps that echoed in his ears, not helped by the thick layers of swirling dust and dirt agitated by the accident.
As he stared into the oppressive gloom, the plumes of dust clogging the air became visible, illuminated from below by the weak golden glow of fresh blood. It was just enough light to take rudimentary stock of his surroundings: he had managed to catch the falling plate on his shoulders and prevented it from hitting the ground, but doing so only bought them a small pocket of space under the debris of the collapse. They were enclosed on all sides by pieces of their would-be Sanctuary reduced to rubble. The decorative metal plate that had started this mess formed the ceiling of their cramped shelter, but only so long as Michael could hold it up; the relief of the Crown’s emblem carved into the plate was digging into his shoulder and his arms had gone numb, but Michael hardly registered either of those things. His attention focused on the unidentifiable lump at his feet, the point where the golden glow of blood was most concentrated. In the darkness, he couldn’t tell whether the shape was more rubble or a body.
“Remiel,” he hissed, his voice hoarse and shaken. After a few ragged swallows of air, he tried again, stronger this time. “Remiel!”
There was a startled gasp, followed by a series of rasping coughs. The lump at his feet lurched upright as Remiel sat up from his protective, likely unconscious hunch over the fallen daeva. Michael’s knees went weak with relief and the ceiling lurched downwards threateningly before he could right himself, costing them that much more of their precious space. Remiel turned to face the noise, looking dazed and somewhat battered but relatively whole. His expression at seeing Michael would one day make for an excellent joke, caught between utter disbelief, relief, and sheer annoyance. “Michael! Are you injured, my Aeon?”
What manner of question was that, given the circumstances? Michael bared his teeth in irritation, attempting to shift the weight of the plate across his shoulders to something more comfortable, an effort he soon abandoned as the haunting sound of grinding rock echoed around them. “Never been better. This close to the Sephirah, I couldn’t feel my face even if I somehow set it on fire. Everything tingles a bit, is all. You?”
Remiel gingerly reached behind himself to run a hand over his lower back before he stretched as far as their cramped space would allow with a wince. He still had his full range of motion, then. Michael fought against the rush of weakness that accompanied his relief. “I'll be sore tomorrow, but it’s fine for now,” Remiel said.
“Good. And him?”
Michael waited in tense silence, grinding his teeth while Remiel checked the boy’s wounds to the extent that he could in their poorly lit shelter. Michael couldn’t see the boy, but the golden glow from the daeva’s blood was growing brighter as more of it spilt. He hated himself for the gratitude he felt towards the light.
“Well, he’s got a pole in his chest,” Remiel reported at last. “He isn’t fading, so it must not have damaged his heart. He should live if the bleeding isn’t too bad. Made a proper mess of his shoulder so he won’t be flying anywhere for some time, but that will heal. I can’t tell if there are other injuries, I’m not a healer.”
Something shifted in the weight above them and the metal plate groaned in protest. Michael hissed at the change and their already tight shelter grew just a touch smaller. He pushed back, straightening his shoulders as best he could and fighting to keep the ceiling from descending any further. “Can you move him?”
“Not easily, if at all. When I say he’s got a pole in his chest, I mean he’s pinned to the ground,” said Remiel. There was a soft rustle of fabric as Remiel moved to the side to tug on the pole impaled in the boy, but true to his warning, it refused to budge. After adjusting his grip, Remiel gave a second pull, harder, but with similar non-results. The injured daeva stirred weakly and let out a breathless, gurgling noise of agony.
“Enough!” Michael flinched at the sound. A shower of dust and rubble fell on them at his involuntary movement. He held his breath for a moment to remain as still as possible until the terrible noise of grinding rock and metal ceased. “It was a hypothetical question, anyway. We’re not going anywhere just now, so there’s no reason to torture him. We’ll just have to wait until Ciel can dig us out.”
Even as he knew it to be true, the reality of waiting in this dark, cramped space with only the weak glow of Kafziel’s blood for light seemed heavier than the rubble threatening to crush them. As his head spun so badly he thought he might be sick even with the closeness of the Sephirah numbing his awareness of himself, Michael screwed his eyes shut. His breath grew fast and shallow as he fought to maintain a steady rhythm and failed. It was far too easy to confuse the scraping sounds of rock on metal for other, far more terrible things in the dark.
Kafziel lurched away with a shuddering, wet gasp and a terrified whine.
“Try not to move around over much; you’ll only make things worse,” Remiel said as he held the boy in place.
The wounded daeva struggled to reply, but he was incoherent and couldn’t seem to get enough air to manage more than a gurgling wheeze. Then, the worst happened: each of the boy’s joints locked into place and a radiant golden halo exploded around his head, a blinding light that blinked in and out of existence with the building intensity of a failing heartbeat.
“He’s drifting!” Remiel shouted as he struggled out of his jacket to press it against the daeva’s wound, hoping to staunch the flow of luminescent blood.
Frantic runoff energy of the young daeva’s soul struggling to maintain the life in his body even as his pain and fear pushed him away flooded the air of their cramped shelter. The scent of blood and primal panic became as thick as the choking dust as the daeva’s scattered life energy interacted with the latent traces of aether permeating the air, amplified by the nearness of the Sephirah Hod. It was strong enough to knock the breath from Michael’s lungs. The Sephirah pressed urgently on the back of his mind, further numbing his awareness of his body and calling him to take higher action to stop this, to stop Kafziel’s suffering and fear, to do something. Michael jostled the plate without feeling himself move. The downpour of small rocks and rubble caused by his unthinking movement and the distant rumble of shifting debris above him was the best counter he had against losing himself entirely to the Sephirah’s call; this was perhaps the worst place to lose awareness of his physical self, he argued to Hod, but the distress of the drifting daeva was too much to ignore.
Michael locked himself in place, shutting his eyes as he tried - and largely failed - to block out his surroundings. “Call him back, talk him through it,” he hissed through gritted teeth.
Not letting up pressure on the boy’s wound, Remiel leaned over the downed daeva to be level with his face, ignoring the quickening pace of the flashing halo. “Kafziel, listen to me. Focus on what I am saying and hear the truth in my words: you are not an animal, subject to petty wounds and mere time. If this injury was fatal, you would have faded at once. Your Word is safe in the Archive and your body will recover from this so long as you persist. Stay your fear and show your Aeon that you will not be undone by a mere accident here, in the house of the Sephirah of all places!”
The blinking of the boy’s halo was brighter than ever before, though the pace was less frantic than it had been as he struggled to stabilise. It wasn’t enough. Hod could not ignore this child’s pain and he could not ignore Hod forever; the power of the Sephirah was singing through him, an ancient, soundless tune that wielded the weight of eternity against him. The pressure in the air was building with each moment. Nothing had broken yet, but he was beginning to fray. No, he was coming undone. Hod was unfurling in his mind and clouding his vision; he could no longer see Remiel and Kafziel in front of him, though he could feel every beat of their lives more clearly than he could feel his own wings itching to burst from his back. If he moved, if he could not keep the ceiling steady, they would die. That thought floated to the surface of his mind even as Hod’s power jolted through his body and took hold of his throat.
“Kafziel, Word of Trial and aspect of Glory, you are a Beni Elohim of Hod and you absolutely will survive a bit of roof falling on you!” he heard himself shout. The voice that had spoken was not entirely his alone, however, and echoed with a power that shook loose a scattering of dust and debris from the pile atop them.
Kafziel’s halo stopped blinking, a blinding, steady light in the darkness that persisted as the boy fought to obey and stabilise himself. His panic and fear faded from the air, and as it became less tangible, so too did Hod’s insistence ease from Michael’s mind. He could almost think again, though he kept his eyes shut to lessen the spinning in his head. It was enough to know that he wasn’t accidentally dropping the plate atop them, at least.
Seizing this progress, Michael continued. “You are a daeva, forged from the Will of the Source! You have been gifted the ability to outlast any pain so long as you possess the sufficient mental fortitude to continue living, regardless of what your body may tell you now! Remain calm and be at ease remembering that breathing is a habit daeva can temporarily do without. I know you are hurt and afraid, but nothing has happened here that will kill you unless you choose it and you do not have my permission to die. Is that clear? Answer me, Kafziel! Repeat what I just said!”
“His mind may survive without breath, my Aeon, but the body requires it to speak,” Remiel said.
The sound of his Regent’s voice returned him to the present. While he had been in his daze, Kafziel’s halo had faded from sight and the desperate energy was gone from the air along with it. He could dimly make out the boy squirming weakly in pain on the ground despite Remiel’s efforts to hold him still. Remiel was staring at Michael, his expression cautious.
Michael swallowed. “So it does.”
“It’s getting a bit hot in here, Michael,” said Remiel. His gaze flitted upwards to the metal plate threatening to crush them; the areas in direct contact with Michael were heating rapidly. The spreading glow of red-hot metal added a much harsher light to the faint golden luminescence of Kafziel’s blood.
“So it is,” said Michael. He attempted to shift his stance but froze when all he did was drop a few - blessedly small - rocks on them. The surrounding air shimmered as the temperature rose. Distant sounds of their attempted rescuers struggling to move the rubble atop them echoed through the mess, but the integrity of the plate was already failing as Michael’s unchecked power melted it. The heated metal was warping under the weight of the rocks even as he tried to hold it steady. “Right,” he said, his mind racing. “Remiel. Does your comm still work?”
“What?”
“Would you kindly send a message asking everyone outside to back up, please?”
“Yes.” Remiel fished his handheld communicator from his pocket and hurried to relay the message as fast as possible in the gloom. An angry red glow dominated most of the surface of the plate and the air was sweltering by the time he finished. “Sent.”
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They waited in tense silence for a reply. Sounds of the panic and chaos outside their collapsing shelter were little more than whispered echoes over the sounds of the shifting rubble, muffled by the debris but unmistakably there. With a terrible, metallic shriek of protest from the plate, the ceiling lurched downward, forcing Michael to one knee with a grunt. Remiel did his best to shield Kafziel from the pebbles dislodged from above, but the boy whimpered as a fist-sized chunk of rock fell too close for comfort to his head.
“Hurry up out there, please,” Michael ground out through clenched teeth. Fat, sluggish drops of molten metal fell from the plate as gravity distorted the super-heated emblem of the Crown into something unrecognisable. It was impossible to tell if the noises of jostling rocks crashing around them came from the people outside still trying to reach them or the steady crumpling of their pocket sanctuary. Michael fought to hold it steady, but their only shield from the rubble was melting around him and their shrinking shelter was rapidly on its way to becoming an oven.
“They’re clear,” Remiel announced at last.
“Keep your heads down and cover your faces,” Michael ordered. In a smooth, well-practised movement, he drew the sword at his side.
A pillar of fire shot from the depths of the rubble, too brilliant to look upon directly. Much of the rock and metal before him ceased to exist as Michael cut his way to freedom. He took to the sky and with only a few beats of his wings, he was far above the bedlam of the construction site. The great pillar of fire followed him into the air and away from the others. He flew away from the capital, his back turned to the light of the Sephirah, a fiery comet of raw power, bright and prominent against the backdrop of the daytime aurora.
By the time Michael found a comfortably secluded spot to land - a sparsely wooded riverbank not far beyond the outskirts of the city - most of the flaming nimbus around him had faded, though the heat was yet enough to cause the grass at his feet to wither and die. The sword in his grasp was still wreathed in fire. As he folded his wings into his shoulders and out of sight, he took several deep, theoretically calming breaths as he fought with the powerful thrum of adrenaline and the lingering fear that was responsible for the tremble in his hands.
Desperate for some semblance of stability, Michael looked to the sword, the one focus he could reliably use to direct his power. He brushed the flames from the blade with his free hand; though the divine seals carved into the blade were glowing with harsh white light, the blade itself remained untouched by the heat of the fire. Michael concentrated on the design of the seals. He traced their pattern over and over until the glowing sigils supplanted the remnants of shadows in his mind when he shut his eyes. Gradually, his power faded to a somewhat manageable state. Hod returned to a distant, comfortable echo in the back of his mind. He sheathed the sword with a sigh. The ribbon he kept tied around the scabbard had been burnt off and would need to be replaced once more.
The clearing was calm and bright, illuminated by the cheery aurora and alive with all the sounds of spring life in the wilds, the city far enough away to not interfere with the forest birdsong. If he craned his neck, he could just see the top of the tallest aqueduct over the trees, but from here it was easy to dismiss the greatest city of Hod as something as distant as the mountains lining the edge of the basin, the rim of the known world.
Wearily, Michael trudged to the edge of the river and considered his reflection in the water. He looked about as well as one would expect, dishevelled and covered in ash and dust. Thick streaks of grime only highlighted how pale with fright he was underneath it all. His hair was so covered in soot it may as well have been black; he reached up to touch it and realised his hands were still trembling. Michael stared at his hands, shaking and dirty but unscathed, for a long moment. He thought of Kafziel, pinned, bleeding, and broken under a pile of debris. They were both foolish enough to run headlong into a collapsing building to try to keep it upright. They had both lost control when it mattered most, yet Kafziel had almost been killed and Michael had not a scratch on him. It felt fundamentally wrong, unjust. Michael ran a hand over his face with a sigh, not caring that it was only making the grime worse, as he shut his eyes and allowed himself, for only a single moment, to remember how crushingly dark it had been while they were trapped. Even so, that was no excuse for his failure. This episode had nearly cost him Remiel.
“Stupid,” Michael muttered as he slapped his face and glared at his reflection in the river. “You have to be better than this, Michael. You have to be better for them. What’s your excuse this time?”
His reflection didn’t have one, naturally. With a sigh, he lowered his hands into the river to rinse off the grime. His hands were washed clean and the ash was carried away downstream until not a single trace was left behind. Michael cupped a handful of water between his palms and raised it to clean his face; the water he was holding evaporated with a hiss of steam the moment it left the river. Startled, he lowered his hands to try again. The river churned and boiled at his touch.
With a strangled noise of frustration, Michael slapped and kicked at the surface of the water in an admittedly immature display of impotent rage before stomping into the river and flinging himself underwater. A thick column of steam exploded around him that lingered over the river long after he had dragged himself back to the bank and flopped dramatically onto the shore. He still longed for a proper bath and a fresh change of clothes, but he was calmer after getting that little outburst clear of his system.
A handful of small fish floated to the surface of the water, boiled alive by his antics. Guilt immediately consumed him.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. He wasn’t certain he was speaking only to the fish he had killed. “I ought to be better than this, I know. I want to be better than this, but I...”
He didn’t know how to finish that sentence, so he collapsed onto his back and stared up at the sky overhead as he ran a hand through his already-dry blond hair and tried to find a word for what he was feeling. There was a certain comfort Michael found in the grand dance of the celestial lights that always brightened the sky above, and today proved to be no different. The sky was alive with gossamer curtains of colour that breathed in time with the Source, crowned with the faint sparkles of the other Spheres moving through the infinite depths of the Void far beyond. The Sephirah Hod was a comfortable, comforting thrum in the far back of his mind and the Sphere was alight with the hopeful rhythm of spring life, just as it had been for the past hundred thousand spring seasons before. With a final, deep sigh, the tension eased from Michael’s shoulders at last.
“What a strange sense of humour, casting my Word as Glory,” he mumbled aloud with a wry smile. He tugged at the remains of the collar of his likely ruined shirt, feeling too young and unworthy and ruffled, and wondered how he differed from Kafziel.
Before he could follow that thought too deeply, Remiel landed in the clearing behind him. Remiel was also sporting an uncharacteristic coat of soot but appeared to be lacking any crippling wounds.
Michael anxiously turned to face his Regent. “Injuries?”
“From the accident, reports so far account for a handful of cuts and bruises and one broken ankle,” said Remiel. “Kafziel is still being treated, but the healer I spoke with was optimistic that he will make a full recovery in time. Your… departure prompted a few unexpected tans, but nothing else worth mentioning. Ciel says you knocked over an unfinished wall, but, as I said, not worth mentioning.”
“And you?” Michael asked.
“Nothing a hot meal and a good day of rest will not mend,” Remiel assured him. He hesitated before adding, “Shall I assume you did not mean to call upon Hod? Was it because we were so near the Sephirah?”
“That had something to do with it,” Michael said. He rubbed at his face with a tired sigh. “Kafziel’s distress was very upsetting, is another thing. But being so near the Sephirah made it all but impossible to ignore.”
“We’ve been too careless with the Sephirah,” Remiel said. “This was too close. We’re lucky this accident wasn’t any closer to the Sephirah; we’ll need to figure out a safer method to build around it.”
“I doubt we’d be able to hurt it if we tried everything in our power, much less so by accident,” Michael said. He flopped onto his back once more to avoid looking at Remiel. If he wasn’t looking at Remiel, the urge to yell at him for endangering himself wasn’t so strong; as tempting as it was to throw a tantrum, it didn’t seem worth getting into a fight over it when he knew Remiel’s reckless actions had likely saved Kafziel’s life. He knew that, and he was grateful for it, yet he was still furious.
Remiel, for once, didn’t notice his mood, or at the very least misunderstood the reason for it. “Your presence during the accident was most fortuitous, my Aeon,” he attempted to reassure Michael. “Had you not been present at the exact moment and place of the collapse, Kafziel would doubtless be lost to us, to say nothing of other possible injuries. The story of how you smote a falling building to protect the defenceless is already circulating and will be widespread before the night is up.”
“Can we squash that story?” Michael groaned, covering his face with his hands. “Or at the very least re-title it?”
Remiel’s hesitation lasted for nought but the length of a single breath, but it was enough for Michael to read his displeasure as plainly as if he had screamed a string of obscenities. “We can,” he intoned.
“Handle it however you think best,” said Michael, suddenly dismissive. He didn’t want to argue, not now. “You were there as well. I’ll leave it to your discretion.”
“Your daeva wish to view you as a hero, my Aeon, and consider this story evidence to support that claim,” Remiel said. “It would take significant effort to convince them otherwise. I fail to see what the point of trying would be.”
Michael’s stomach gave an unpleasant lurch, but he nodded. “I trust your judgement, Remiel.”
“Let them recognise your actions, my Aeon,” said Remiel.
“No,” Michael said before he could stop himself. “It’s better they don’t.” He shook his head and sat up with a sigh. “You know my thoughts on this, Remiel, there’s no point getting into it again now. I’ll leave it to you.”
“I don’t understand the issue in this case,” Remiel said. “You did a great thing today, why -”
“Is that what you saw?” Michael demanded. “You were there, you saw what happened, how I lost control. Don’t stand there and tell me that losing my mind was great.”
“What I saw was my Aeon coming to the defence of someone who needed the aid despite all the reasons not to,” Remiel argued. “It was a horrible situation, but we would not have survived without you. In fact,” he said boldly, “things were so tailor-made to set you off that I would consider it very great that you held off as long as you did.”
“Don’t say that,” Michael said as he leapt to his feet. “Don’t you dare stand there and praise me for having a somewhat delayed meltdown in the middle of a crisis where I needed to be calm and collected. How can you possibly think that is acceptable, that it’s in any way good enough?”
“I think it’s progress, and I think it’s progress we wouldn’t have seen if not for this accident,” Remiel said. His hazel eyes were bright with fervent energy; Michael realised with a pang that his friend looked more excited to be alive than he had in seasons. “If I may, Michael, regarding our earlier conversation: at the risk of sounding borderline tactless, I would like to add that I believe Kafziel will be better off for his experience today. It’s all well and good to give second chances when someone makes a mistake, but sometimes consequence is the best teacher possible, particularly when the impulsive nature of youth is involved. I expect Kafziel will use his time recovering from today’s events to reflect upon how he came to be in that position and adjust his future behaviour accordingly. His well-meaning recklessness was an accident waiting to happen and while I am grateful no one was killed, I believe he will learn from his experience and grow to be a wiser man.”
“Is there no other way to learn?” Michael pleaded. His raw desperation threw Remiel off-balance, who opened and shut his mouth without a sound. Not truly having expected an answer, Michael turned back to look at the still-steamy river once more, running a hand over his face and working to school his countenance back to a calmer expression.
A polite noise from his communicator prompted Remiel to retrieve the handheld device from his pocket. As he read the brief message he had received, his shoulders squared and his posture straightened. “Saerim Ananel is looking for you, my Aeon,” he said, his manner entirely professional once more. “Your comm must be fried again.”
Michael pulled his comm from his pocket to check. The frame of the device was warped and it possessed the distinctive smell of burnt technology. Disgusted, he chucked the comm to the ground. Almost immediately, his guilt got the best of him and he scooped the device up once more, pocketing it to be properly disposed of later. “What’s the message?”
“Your presence is requested in the central communications building,” said Remiel. He squinted at his comm dubiously before adding, “Apparently the Aeon of Yesod is calling for you.”
Michael laughed. “Right, what’s it really say?”
“That is what it says,” Remiel said, annoyed. “Don’t laugh at me; Ananel would have sent it to you directly if she’d been able to. Take it up with her if you want, but that’s what it says.”
“What, you’re serious? The… The Aeon of Yesod, truly? It’s not just another message, it’s actually the Aeon of Yesod?” Michael glanced up at the sky in surprise. The distant, twinkling light of the Sphere he continued to assume was Yesod was still visible above the horizon. “Did she say why?”
“Only that it appears urgent,” Remiel said. He gestured in frustration at the comm. “I’ve read what she sent. You’ll have to ask Ananel yourself if you want more information. The central communications building, she said she’ll be waiting in the lobby.”
“Right, I’m going,” Michael said. “Can you double back to the Sanctuary site and check with Ciel? I’d like to know the damage estimates and get to work on the cleanup as soon as possible.”
“You won’t require my assistance with the Aeon of Yesod?”
“Assistance with what? Yesod is far removed from us, but the damage at the Sanctuary is something we can and must tend to,” Michael said. “I’ll see what the Aeon of Yesod wants but I need you to see to the Sanctuary.”
Remiel sighed, his disappointment visible, but he nodded. “As you say, my Aeon. I’ll see that it’s taken care of.”
“And speak to one of the healers about yourself, Remiel. I don’t care that you feel fine. I’ll be asking Ciel to verify that you did, mind, so don’t pretend to forget.”
“I would never, my Aeon,” Remiel drawled. “I do not share your aversion to bed rest, after all.”
“Well, you’ve got me there,” said Michael. He then remembered that he looked as if he had spent his morning buried under a pile of rubble at a construction site. “Er, Remiel,” he began as he picked self-consciously at the sleeve of his ruined shirt.
“I’ll have someone send over a change of clothes from the palace,” Remiel offered.
“Thank you, Remiel,” Michael said with gratitude. “You are the best and I do not know how I would manage without you.”
“You are too kind, my Aeon,” said Remiel with a quick roll of his eyes.
“Once this is sorted, if it’s not too late I’ll contact you about lunch,” Michael said as he unfurled his great wings in preparation.
He waited just long enough for Remiel to give him an affirmative hand gesture before he took flight towards the capital, equal parts curious about what his neighbouring Aeon would want to say to him and giddily nervous at the prospect of speaking with her; though Aeon Gabriel had sent word of her visions in the past, it had only been through impersonal messages rather than asking for him directly. Perhaps she had had another vision, but even if that were so, Michael wondered what she could expect him to do about it. There was a whole Void between them, after all.