Consider Song

By Moe Lane


You don't know very much about me, do you?

It's not too surprising, really: me and mine are mysteries wrapped up in enigmas, every one of us. Our name is not spoken in our old homes, and our enemies - on both sides - have never been really able to understand us. If the Symphony could be perceived visually - as a map, as you will - we would be the blanks spots on it, or perhaps even the place Where Dragons Be.

I remember dragons. Some of them were wonderful creatures, you know: wise and full of their own wild music. Trust a Malakite to be tone deaf, of course.

You know, I think that that's what started the entire trouble. The Malakim were never meant to be in the first place, and they've spent their existence being a half step behind the rest of the orchestra. It must be maddening, to know that you don't fit in anywhere. Of course, it must be even more maddening to encounter those that were created to counterpoint your existence. We fit in everywhere.

No, we do. As angels, we were at home in Heaven: as the Choir closest to humans, we can live on the corporeal plane and drink in its Song without missing a beat. Even the ethereal plane holds no sense of unfamiliarity to us. Our unique nature allows us to move in it as a celestial yet experience it as a human. There is no place where we are not at home - save Hell, of course. We save that familiarity for the blackwings.

What? There are no Malakim in Hell? Strictly speaking, no: but they could live there without trouble. A Malakite is as close as an angel can come to embracing the concept of forcing one's own views of the world upon it without Falling. Or perhaps they all did, and never noticed. Hell has demons who think that they are angels: the potential symmetry is interesting, don't you think?

But this isn't about the Malakim (and, truth be told, some are able to transcend their nature), it's about me, and my Choir. It is painful to admit that the primary charge against us was correct: we did interbreed among humanity, and we did have children that could not handle the pressures of being both angel and man. We were all very young then, and we didn't always know what we were doing. Punishment was merited.

But not what was given to us. The books tell of the our Outcasting: what it does not speak of was the machinations necessary to justify sending off an entire Choir to quite possibly die. There were Grigori that never visited Earth, Grigori that chose chastity, even Grigori that had fledged the very day of the final decision (and I will make very sure that they, at least, are avenged)... in short, there were Grigori that did not deserve their sentence, and yet they were sent away with the rest of us.

And then the killing started. This has been touched upon, in other places: suffice it to say that we were horribly at risk for a long time. We are not completely safe, even now.

But, enough about ancient history: you wish to know about me. I am ... Song. Such a simple Word to encompass such a grand concept. From the start, I have seen myself as a continual praise to the glory and wonder that is God. That's what the first songs were, you know: hymns. All angels are hymns to God (although most Malakim could use a drastic rewrite), of course, but I am a hymn stripped of all extraneous notes and flourishes. The fact that I am in the wilderness, so to speak, merely means that I can be louder.

No, I am not complex, except in the way that humans are complex. To use the phrase of a recent mortal, I have a barbaric yawp, and I quite enjoy expressing it. There was Song before there was Music (although Israfel's elevation is, in my opinion, long overdue), and I reflect that.

Much is made of the fact that, as Song, I must have some special interaction with the Symphony: that I can bind and loose it at will. Well, it's been a while, so I'm not surprised that they've gotten it completely backwards. I do not act on the Symphony: the Symphony acts on me. I do not cause disturbance because everything I do is dictated by the needs of the Symphony. I am not its brains: I am its hands ... and I cannot act contrary to myself. I - and now my Choir, and to a lesser extent our children - are the tools that soothe the jangled notes caused by others.

You scoff, now. There aren't enough of us to handle such a job, surely. No, I'm not reading your mind: it's been said before. Consider this: if what I say is true, how could anyone see us? Celestials are quite often tracked by the disturbance that they inflict on the world: we do nothing of the sort, and so we are invisible. Anyone you pass on the street could be Grigori, safe inside her proper place in the Symphony and immune to your prying senses.

But our numbers would have dwindled over the millennia and never replenished? That no new Grigori could be created outside of Heaven? Well, that hasn't stopped Eli, has it... but I speak too much of this, as well.

I will leave you with one final thought, one more hint to our purpose. When God created the Grigori, he must have known what would happen to us, and yet he did it anyway. This is either evidence of His cruelty - and no one who has felt the major chords of the universe flow through his soul like I have could ever believe that God is cruel - or it was a necessary move to protect the universe from itself. Heaven and Hell have spent so much time fighting each other since then that they forget to look at the quiet places. The Grigori have learned to be quiet.

But our voices will rejoin the chorus, someday soon, and what a Song that will be, come the Day...


Back to the INC Mainpage.
Back to the Archangels page.

Send mail to the Curator