Chapter Text
The artificial loneliness wears off possibly before Mariah even puts her vessel back on. That’s how the Habbalite resonance works: the higher the intensity, the shorter it lasts. The problem, though, is that the loneliness itself wasn’t false, just the degree. We guess Mariah can do that when she knows our emotions. Her artifact ring can tell her that, if she was somehow unable to guess. We’re almost completely isolated down here. The exact one person even remotely safe to talk to is the one who keeps us prisoner, and she’s also gone half the time. About half. Temporal accuracy continues to elude us.
So, yes, most of us are lonely most of the time. Not all of us can be stoic about it.
(We don’t need to be stoic. We’re not an Elohite.)
Sure, we have more important things to worry about—we’re still trapped in Hell after all—but a mind does wonder, who’s even noticed that we’ve gone missing?
It’s not our primary thought, or even one that’s particularly useful to dwell upon. It makes more sense to focus on the external environment and figuring out whether we have anything more useful to do down here besides survive. Some of us come up with half-baked escape plans—all individually guaranteed to fail, but parts of which may actually become useful in the future, like doodles on scraps of paper that eventually translate into a finished painting. But it’s a thought we’re having nonetheless.
These thoughts are useless: unhelpful, unfun, uncomforting, but we need multiplicity the way Mercurians need people and Ofanim need motion, and thinking background thoughts about the ones we knew in our previous life keeps our multitudes from focusing too hard on the singular emptiness of this time and place. So while one mind bothers to process the random Demonling conversations, and the rest dream up impossible escapes, one follows that train of thought and daydreams of rescue attempts.
—
Strictly speaking, we don’t qualify as a loner. We have a few close friends and a fairly wide spread of celestial acquaintances within our most frequented geographic area. We attend a few parties, send a Force or two to an occasional meet-up, and help out with a mission now and again when we’re asked. However, we do our real job most effectively without much celestial attention on us, and as such we usually work independently.
(Worked. Past tense. Because for the time being, we’re just sitting here dormant.)
Most humans we possessed, like our alleged Barbara, were completely unaware of the celestial War being fought around them. They just lived their lives, and mostly that’s what we wanted (still want) for them too. But everyone can become a little better for themselves and the world around them, and when what’s most likely to help them overlaps with our own abilities, that’s when we had a project. We mostly worked on short-term ones: A few days or weeks spent on observation, a few hours or days (or a few hours over a few days) actually in the host to do some small favors or make slight environmental adjustments.
The favors acted like rent or maybe like insurance. (“Thank you for letting us use your body. We folded all your laundry for you, and had someone in to fix your water heater.”) The environmental adjustments focused more on contextual storytelling and long-term suggestions. Those were one the fun parts of our job (one of them). We got to dig up all sorts the little clues scattered about our Host’s lives and arrange them; our hosts got to decide what to do with the information given: An ad for a dream job circled and left at the top of the newspaper stack, a neat rock from a nearby river left in the hand of a recluse, an old photograph of an old flame left sticking out of an envelope.
(Okay, and sometimes we spotted an extra Force or potential extra Forces and got to work on an entirely different kind of observation and matchmaking process.)
Rarely, we would take on a regular host. A decade or two back, we had our friend (sincere) Sylvia who occasionally loaned us her body for host use. In exchange, we served as an assistant for her pottery studio, and occasionally looked after her children. It was a nice set up while it lasted. But children grow up, and they all needed to become who they were going to be, not what some angel thought they should be. We know some Hives who have stuck within the same family-line for generations to the point they’re considered a permanent part of the household. Us? We’ve always preferred to move on.
(Permanence scares us. Good thing it doesn’t truly exist.)
So, we had a quiet, understated job that kept us moving and mostly out of celestial society. We helped our fellow angels when asked and kept mostly out of the way of demons. That plus the ability to competently complete paperwork is enough to give a Creationer a reputation for being sensible. Some of us [Angels of Creation] get tri-state alerts sent out for them if they’re not heard from on a weekly. Us? When we go a few months without checking in, ‘busy’ is a plausible enough explanation that no one would even consider ‘in danger’ as an option for a very long time.
We used to embrace our sensible, responsible reputation. It’s how our mother raised us, and it always keeps more uptight Words on their toes to see one of us who isn’t constantly and obviously acting on our whims. Now, however, most of our minds are changing on this point. Aren’t we tired of being sensible?
What is the sensible thing to do when one is locked in a Force Catcher, anyway?
—
The call for help comes up unexpectedly via Celestial Tongues and with it comes exactly one note of essence. It’s from Telly, an old acquaintance—nearly a friend—of ours.
Dark Humor snatched Darius's attuned. We need eyes. Call the usual number.
Or thereabouts, anyway. Celestial Tongues is very approximate with how concepts string together.
We can’t answer him. There’s probably no phone here that connects up to the corporeal, and even if there is, then we’d, what? Convince some random demonling to dial said hypothetical phone and make sure we were within shouting distance? And do that without either arousing suspicion or lying? That’s absurd enough to amuse us briefly.
Calling back via Celestial Tongues is impossible. First off, we don’t actually know the song. Even if we did, we can’t use any of our songs in here. Otherwise, who would have teleported herself and her crystal somewhere far, far away once she realized how dire the situation was? This Hive.
Sorry, Telly, no answer for you this time.
Days or weeks later, the follow-up comes in while Mariah is still out.
She’s back safe. Call us when you’re free and in the area.
Funny how words can take on different meaning from context. Telly means ‘free’ as in ‘available’ or ‘not busy’, but what we need is ‘free’ as in ‘not imprisoned’. If (when) we get out of here, we’ll have to tell him the story. Or perhaps not. Malakim tend to be inflexible about some things, particularly honor, and particularly where associations with demons are concerned. And we know deep down where that note of dissonance settles on us, we’ve already crossed some of those lines.
(No, Telly, we can’t figure out how to stab Mariah from inside here. Does it makes us more honorable if one of our minds has at least attempted to think of a way?)
But the exchange confirms our impression. Acquaintances, given no other information, will assume we’re busy in some other locale before they’ll even consider the possibility we’re in trouble ourself.
Perhaps it’s better that way. What could they do if they found out? Mount a rescue mission?
We try and picture this. Our casual friends and acquaintances largely do the same sorts of community service work we do, or at least the subset of that work that can be done effectively from a constant vessel and Role. Few of them actively hunt demons; even the Malakim leave that for emergencies or vacation time. We wonder if any of them would have the resources to hunt down that one. Assuming they could identify the correct demon and follow her into Hell, what then? They’ll be immediately identified as angels. Disguises are effective in corporeal work, but celestially we are what we are. If there’s a way of effectively concealing celestial forms…we [I and presumably every other celestial] don’t know about it. So, to rescue us, a group of obvious angels (actual angels, not Habbalah) in Hell would have to stay alive and undetected in the land of Tartarus, get to whatever building we’re being stored in, navigate through that building completely undetected, find this room, get the access codes, and bypass all the security measures on this cage. All without being able to speak or even understand the local language.
(Unless any of them are actually former demons and we just never found about it.)
There’s a reason Heaven hasn’t invaded Hell. If the Commander of the Legions of God or whatever the official title of the Sword Archangel is hasn’t issued the order to storm Hell and win the war, how could we think any smaller scale rescue attempt would be anything other than a suicide mission?
Yes, it’s better for our acquaintances if they keep on assuming we’re busy.
—
Our friend Cole will miss us, but that’s more of an ordinary background sense of missing, not the ‘in danger’ sense of missing. It would still miss us even if we were exactly where we belonged and living our regular life. We [both] lose contact often. Cole’s a busy (workaholic) Ofanite, in service to War, preparing for its new Role in the opposite side of the world from us. Our time together is limited to a few rare vacations, when War gives Cole leave time and we’re between projects. Sometimes we send gifts back and forth, but not often enough to depend on. It’s intentional on War’s side. After a few incidents, they made a point of stationing it far, far away from us [me].
It’s not so much that we [Cole and I] work poorly together, so much as our individual approaches to creativity don’t temper the other one’s in the slightest. We [one or the other of us] will suggest a fairly simple idea, say testing out the effects of squirrel feet as a decorative technique on the rim of a plate, and the whole activity tends to escalate until we’re surrounded by a shelf or two’s worth of of broken crockery, crowds in front of Sylvia’s house, a feature on the six-o-clock news about squirrels doing sculpture, and a probable Soldier of the Media attempting to trying to sell us on the concept of a sitcom about a dog who makes pottery. To take an example from the last time they visited us.
Everything turned out fine. We [Cole and I] are good at cleaning up our messes. We tidied up the shed and learned a bit about ceramic repair, Sylvia got a whole set of new (and paying) students for her pottery classes, and the no-longer Soldier of the Media now works as a wildlife conservation advocate last we heard.
Just, we suppose, War prefers NOT to have the messes exist at all.
So, while Cole would have missed us from the moment we disappeared and has been missing us from the moment its last vacation ended, our lack of contact wouldn’t translate into a call to action until further information came. We’re [both] angels. We have a job to do. It has a job to do. There are people to help, and a War to fight.
It wouldn’t actually know something was wrong until their next vacation. Maybe it still wouldn’t if it took them a while to realize that none of our usual contacts had seen us recently.
And see above about what it could even do about our situation once it found out about the problem. Maybe a bit more than our local acquaintances, having actually been a demon in the past and having access to more people who directly confront demons in the present. The language barrier wouldn’t be as much of an issue in Cole’s version of the hypothetical rescue mission, but every other problem would still exist. A wheel of fire does not simply roll into Hell undetected. Nor would Cole have any useful local knowledge, seeing as Calabim are about as welcome in Tartarus as loose angels are.
(Maybe there’s a Lilim somewhere from way back when who owes Cole a major favor and could be—)
(No. If Cole had that kind of resource available, War would know about it and use it for something bigger than a raid of Tartarus for one not-at-all strategically important Kyriotate.)
We give a silent sigh and wonder when Cole’s next vacation will be. Maybe we’ll find a way out before then. Most likely, we’ll still be stuck here.
(This is depressing. What is thinking about this even doing?)
—
Trade will most likely be the first ones to identify the unusual lack of contact as a definite problem.
It wouldn’t be personal problem for anyone there, simply a business arrangement. Trade provides a variety of useful services to angels on the corporeal, particularly for those of us [angels, all Choirs] who don’t hold down Roles solid enough to access the human-run versions. Mostly these include concrete resources like bank accounts, credit cards, property titles, et cetera, but the one we actually bother paying for is item storage for the busy Kyriotate on the go.
(We wanted a safe and accessible place to archive our sketchbooks after we completed them. Those are our memories.)
But anyway, as the Word implies: Payment is expected in trade for those services. The rates are reasonable—no point in charging too high a price—assuming some outside income or normal essence accumulation or the ability to pay in services. Neither of the last two would normally be an issue, but well, look at us. ‘Normally’ doesn’t apply here. Assuming we could get in contact with Trade right now, what do we have to pay them with?
“Hello, could I possibly interest you in this seven-or-eight Force Habbalite of Technology? She might be salvageable with some psychotherapy. We’ll throw in that demonling making a mess on the counter for free.”
(No. Trade wouldn’t have any particular use for her, and Mariah would have objections.)
Our last payment was two years plus however long we’ve been down here ago. That time, we paid in services, or more accurately, with the contact information for a natural six-force accountant we were trying to teach macrame to. That plus a few post-it notes left behind hinting she should take a new job offer should one happen to come up more than covered that year’s rent and the next. Trade received a new Soldier they wouldn’t have known about otherwise. The Soldier received a new job that paid a whole lot better than her previous one. A good situation all around. Of course, the next payment was already coming up when we made our first mistake, we’re probably way past due now, if not sent to whatever Trade’s version of collections is. When that happens, they might send us message via Celestial Tongues. Or they might send out someone (Cherub? Malakite?) to track us down and personally collect on the debt, probably with penalties and fees for late payments or non-payments attached.
If there were any, the contract would have spelled those out. There probably were. Knowing Trade, they were probably reasonable at least. Trade tends to be reasonable about most things. What exactly those penalties would include though, we didn’t pay attention. The contract had too many words and not enough visuals, and anyway, we were a sensible, responsible Creation Hive who could easily manage these kinds of obligations. Of course, we’d keep paying on time. What would even stop us?
(A Force Catcher and a literally-damned Vapulan apparently.)
We do remember there were clauses covering a Fall or Soul Death, the problems that leave someone permanently unable or unwilling to pay. Emergency contacts, waiting periods, next of kin sorts of arrangements those sorts of things. We didn’t pay much attention to those paragraphs either. We weren’t likely to abandon our hosts for a full on Celestial Brawl or nor did we plan on taking regular dissonance.
Now we wonder—at what point will those permanent problem clauses kick in? And how would those apply to our ‘stuck in Hell, but definitely alive and still an angel’ situation? We’re not sure at all.
What we are sure of: While Trade might send out debt collectors (we picture some very stern Malakim here), they won’t actually go so far as to go all the way down here. Nothing personal, just not a wise investment.
—
Ultimately, we come to the conclusion that while many, many people might miss us eventually, few of them will actually realize anything is wrong. And those who figure it out? We know how little good that knowledge would do any of us [them and me].
Except… Except. Except!
(Don’t get too excited, Raye. That’s still one very qualified ‘except’.)
Our mother. Up until our capture, we carried on regular correspondence with her. Even at our busiest, we had to send a letter once a year to schedule our annual meet-up if nothing else. Once that next letter fails to arrive in time, she’ll know something is amiss. And we know to the depths of the Heart that animates us, if anyone in Heaven can find a way to get us out of Hell she can. Or make one. Our mother is old, she’s big, and she’s on friendly terms with more unusually talented people than we’ll ever hope to meet. All she needs is the chance.
Will she be given that chance? Most likely not. She’s spent the last forty or so years in service to Judgment. The Most Judgmental barely lets her downstairs for our annual visit, especially once our Boss stepped out of the picture. Our mother had to fly through metaphorical hoops to get that one small concession, and even then her request was likely only agreed to because it’s much easier to track down a wandering Kyriotate of Creation when she’s the one setting the appointment. We [Mother and I] get a day together; Judges get to inquisit us [me] on our most recent moral shortcomings. Everyone is satisfied, if also a little annoyed. Otherwise, we get the impression that her list of Judge-approved activities are extremely limited and narrow these days. The real question is not what is our mother capable of doing, but what can she do that falls within her new boss’s guidelines.
We still have a little faith. Our mother is Creation just as much as we are. She’ll find something to do to help us. We know it.
—
And then one day, Essence arrives with a message for us. Celestial tongues again, but not a request for help this time.
A line of address, our name—our True Angelic name soaked through with all the meaning of the Symphony as opposed to the phonetic nickname given to Mariah back on the Corporeal or our preferred name used among friends. It’s the first ray of sunshine coming in through a crack in this crystal, as though Hell is opening up a little bit.
The body of the message: I know you’re alive and unfallen. Hold on, and we’ll meet again.
No sign off needed. We recognize the voice of our mother anywhere and take heart. A message composed by a Seraph must undoubtedly be true. We’ll meet again.
We’ll keep telling ourself that.