A Seraph faced a Cherub across a small windowless room. Each wore a simple
tunic; each carried a short silver baton.
A line on the floor between them divided the room into two equal halves.
At each end stood a slender pedestal, chest-high. On each pedestal stood a
silver bell.
"The rules, then," said the Archangel Laurence, "are as follows. Each
combatant shall have one chance to take the 'aggressor' role. The
aggressor shall step over the line into the opposing side. Once there, he
or she has thirty seconds to strike the bell with the baton, while the
defender shall seek to prevent this.
"Songs and attunements may be freely used, but only after an aggressor has
stepped over the line. No weapons, other than the batons themselves, are
allowed.
"Are there any questions, then?"
Michael shook his head. Across the room, Blandine murmured, "I asked for
these rules, Host Commander. I have no questions."
"Very well, then." Laurence removed a small cloth from his pocket. An
Archangel had no need of handkerchiefs -- or of pockets, for that matter --
but it was good to observe the formalities.
He glanced to his right at Michael... relaxed yet alert, muscles rippling
under his tunic. Laurence knew that the old Seraph didn't think much of
this challenge. "She'll likely throw some illusions at me," he had said
the day before. "Perhaps some Ethereal tricks.... I think she has
forgotten how many battles I've fought in the Marches. She does pretty
work, but she's no fighter."
Laurence turned towards his left, and Blandine. She seemed, as ever,
perfectly calm and self possessed. Laurence had never seen her dressed so
simply. Somehow she looked smaller without her elaborate capes and
embroidery; it was almost impossible to imagine her standing against the
massive Angel of War. But... she had asked for this contest. Laurence
shrugged internally; they would see soon enough.
"We begin at the count of three. One... two..." The cloth fell fluttering
to the ground. "Begin!"
There was a pause while the two combatants stood motionless, gazes locked.
Then Michael stepped forward. One long stride, another, a third... and his
foot came down over the line. He tensed himself, lunging forward towards
the pedestal
and went crashing to the floor, the breath smashed out of him by a sudden
hammer-blow of unseen force. His arm went out reflexively to break his
fall... and Michael heard, more than felt, the crackling *snap* as the
bones of his left forearm shattered like glass.
And then he was belly down on the ground, an impossible weight on his back,
his broken arm pinned agonizingly beneath him. Four steps away, Blandine
stood beside her pedestal, baton held at port arms, her expression
impassive.
Michael writhed. _What is this? How did she do this?_ With a flick of
his mind he shut down the pain from his useless arm. He calmed his
thoughts and let his resonance expand outwards, tasting the strange flavors
of the Symphony as it sang through Blandine's Tower.
_Gravity. She just increased the gravity a hundredfold_. Michael worked
his good arm under him, and pushed himself off the floor. Slowly he drew
one knee up under his body, then another. _That should not be possible.
Physical constants in Heaven are a matter of consensus. Not even a
Superior can..._ He had hit his head on the floor; blood was running into
his eyes.
_Wait. In Heaven. But we're not just in Heaven. This Tower is in the
Marches, too._ He slid one knee forward, then the other. The skin tore
off them at once; again, he silenced the pain. _And it's one of her
Tethers. So she can change... what? Gravity? Essence flow? Radiation?_
Michael considered trying to stand, then decided against it. On one hand
and his knees, damaged arm hanging uselessly, he began creeping towards the
pedestal. _I'm carrying the whole weight of her Tower on my back_.
"No, Michael. You're not." Blandine said softly. Michael grunted with
surprise; had he spoken out loud, or could she hear his thoughts somehow?
He turned his head: Blandine was down on one knee, just out of arm's reach
to his left.
"I discovered, some little while back, that I could use my resonance to
control the environment inside my Tower. What's happening to you... think
of it as something like the Cherub of Stone attunement; I've just attracted
the floor to you, or vice versa." Blandine's tone was calm, almost
conversational. "But it's been quite difficult to explore this ability.
It could be another way to defend all those who take refuge here, but... my
control isn't perfect, and using it to hurt someone would be a perversion
of my Word and my Tower.
"It was quite a puzzle for me. Until the toughest being in the universe
announced that he was challenging all comers."
Michael snarled, and clutched at his baton with blood-slippery fingers.
One quick lunge sideways... but Blandine had taken a single graceful step
back from him.
"By the way, Michael, you're carrying perhaps a hundredth of the weight of
the Tower. I don't think I can put it all on you without endangering the
structure's integrity. But I can double it --"
Michael gasped.
" -- and then double that again."
Michael's arm slid out from under him; the floor struck him like a
thunderclap.
"And then add a bit more, just to keep you there. You're very strong,
Michael, and I don't care to take chances."
Michael's vision had gone red; there was a roaring in his ears. _How much
time is left?_ He shifted his shape; for a moment, a great golden serpent
with a broken wing writhed on the floor of the chamber. _No. She has
turned this into a contest of will, rather than skill. And her will is
strong, here_. Michael shifted back to human form, gasped for a breath
that burned his lungs.
_I keep forgetting just how fierce even the gentlest Cherub can be_. With
infinite care, Michael sheathed the baton in the belt of his tunic. Then h
reached out one arm along the floor, groping for a tiny crack or
irregularity. _I won't forget that again_. There! Painfully, slowly, he
pulled himself forward by his fingers.
Was there time to use a Song and heal his arm? No. He had a sudden
suspicion that Songs might not work properly in this room. His fingers
slipped; he blinked blood from his eyes and found his grip again.
_She built this Tower from the stones of the Mount of Revelation, that
shattered at the Fall. *I* shattered them, when I cast Lucifer down._
Michael reached out again, pulled... reached, pulled. _These stones did
not stand before me then, and they shall not now._ Reach, pull --
And then he was at the base of the pedestal. Four feet above the ground,
the bell gleamed mockingly. Vaguely he realized that he had been crawling
along a trail of his own blood.
_I must reach the bell. I must stand_. Michael closed his eyes, summoning
Essence. _I will stand. I *will*_. One-handed, he pushed himself off the
ground, drew his knees under him. Was there still enough time? It didn't
matter. He would stand. Essence burned through him like a bonfire.
Somewhere, Blandine frowned. The pressure on him increased. Very faintly,
the floor shuddered beneath him.
_If I have to bear all Heaven on my shoulders, I will. I will stand._ He
pushed himself to one knee, then groped blindly for the baton. _I am War._
A thousand gravities were pulling the blood from his head. It didn't
matter. He had Essence, and he had his unbreakable will. He pushed
himself upwards. _I am War. I am War. I will stand!_
He stood.
With an arm that weighed tons, he raised the baton.
He struck the bell.
The Tower groaned from deep in its foundations. Dust fell from cracks in
the ceiling. There came a distant chiming of angelic voices crying out in
surprise and concern.
"Time," said Laurence softly.
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