Anaharath looks at it, wondering if she should wish she could feel anything. Then she looks to Gabriel. After a moment, she whispers, "Bright Lady, may I ask a question?"

Gabriel turns one hand palm up. "Ask."

Anaharath says, "I... I have spent a very long time, Lady, denying that I was other than angel, denying that I had left your service." She pauses for a moment, trying to find the words. "If you had not told me that the Mal'ak Habbalah were deemed angels, I would know myself Fallen now. But..."

Gabriel says, "Ah."

Gabriel turns her hand again. Her words are even. "Anaharath, your mistake is in believing that it matters to Heaven whether you have Fallen."

Anaharath says, quietly, "It... used to matter. And it used to matter to me very much. And when this clarity has left me, it will matter again, to me."

Gabriel says, "Each of us changes our nature many times in the progression of the seasons. Angel? Demon? These are excellent tools for categorization, for sorting. Yet, in the end, the only thing that matters is faith."

Anaharath considers this, with the cold Empty clarity.

Anaharath asks, "Then, I am a fitting tool of Heaven, in truth, Bright Lady? I may serve, as I am?"

Gabriel says, "You are a broken and twisted mockery of what you were, wrath of Fire, but this is not the relevant criterion to Heaven. We embrace those who lose their Ethereal Forces and become idiots a'gibbering, or those so unperceptive as to be blind - this is no different. Yes, Anaharath, you may serve as you are. You have already been told your duties."

Anaharath bows her head. "Yes, Bright Lady. I would beg to be made whole again, but... I do not know if I would be..." she hesitates "...strong enough, without my delusions."

Gabriel says, calmly, "As I have said, Anaharath, we do not retrace our footsteps."

Gabriel says, "If you are concerned regarding your service to Belial, do not be. He did not Fall."

Anaharath would blink, or widen her eyes, if she were not so Empty. Instead, she merely tilts her head -- but her attention is most directed.

Gabriel says, "There are others who must be judged. The architects in the Cathedral of the Sword can build your divine Heart." She looks at Anaharath, and her eyes grow slightly warmer. "Rejoice, Punisher. The purpose of the world draws near, and you will be a part of it."

Then she is gone in a shower of flames and there is only the gate.

Anaharath stands for a long moment, wondering what she would feel, if she could.

Finally, she starts toward the gate.

The rough metal of the gate looks razor-edged, but not so fatally sharp as to make opening it impossible. One rook hops down and begins biting the ground within Anaharath's shadow.

Anaharath regards the rook for a moment. "I am not my shadow, though I may be a shadow," she tells it. Then she sets hand to the gate to open it.

There is pain and blood, but the gate opens. Thin, deep cuts in the palm of Anaharath's hand mimic Gabriel's Sigil.

Anaharath regards this, too, for a moment, before she proceeds, making her footprints anew, and not retracing them -- for though she once walked here as Power, she has never been as Punisher.

There's a slight tugging sensation, and the rook flutters back up to the gate with a piece of shadow in its beak. The emptiness is fading, leaving only the faint tang of disease and sickness and the rising Habbalite madness. But Anaharath is in Heaven, and no alarm sounds.

Ephesus Park looks - deeper - than when she knew it last. And far emptier, although the occasional angel can be seen here or there.

Anaharath sinks to her knees, pressing her palms against her temples, trying to sort through what she must remember, as the madness returns.

Anaharath whispers, "I am tasked. I am Heaven's tool. Angel or demon, it matters not, for I have holy purpose..."

Anaharath wraps her arms about herself, tasting weakness, trying to overcome it.

A Seraph slithers slowly through the trees. Several eyes focus momentarily on Anaharath, but the creature shows no signs of disgust, surprise, or even great interest.

Anaharath forces herself to rise. Strength or optimal behavior, it matters not -- she should not waste time. Cathedral of the Sword... she should go there. A Heart, a divine Heart, to vindicate her.

Something moves under the surface of Heaven, bending upwards a small chunk of grass and soil in each place it explores. It is tentative and slow.

A Malakite flutters by in the distance. His chain wobbles loosely with each beat of his wings.

Anaharath furrows her brow and moves to the thing exploring, turning over a clod of earth.

Underneath is a blind and large-mawed creature, hamster-sized, chewing its way through the dirt. Its surface is like uncooked red clay both in coloration and apparent texture.

Anaharath tries to remember if this was typical in Heaven when she was last there.

It pauses, slightly, at the sensation of air upon its back.

This was not typical in Heaven, in Anaharath's experience.

The Seraph is now out of sight.

Anaharath looks around, disoriented. But there will surely be someone at the Cathedral of the Sword. She will go there.

A reliever flits above the trees, chanting something over and over again in a soft, strained voice.

Anaharath forces her steps to be even, forces herself not to run, even with bitter mortal failure wrapped around herSelf.

Anaharath . o O ( What has happened here? )

Outside of the Park, Heaven is - larger than it was. Grander. And, still, emptier. The Eternal City has enough sheer visible space that Anaharath can see a fair share of angels, and two Punishers, but not the crowds one would expect.

Anaharath frowns. Then looks for the souls, the blessed worthy human souls.

There are no blessed worthy human souls anywhere in sight.

The Cathedral of the Sword is eight blocks that way, its greatest spire visible from here, rising into the Heavenly heavens like the Tower of Babel.

Anaharath whispers, "They must be in the higher Heavens..." She sets her jaw and makes for the Cathedral of the Sword, eyeing the other Habbalah surreptitiously.

The Cathedral of the Sword is unguarded, save for the large and heavy-lidded Seraph that wraps completely around it; it seems strong but not Archangelic, its grandeur and size the product of a healthy diet and the Will-adjustable scale of Heaven.

Anaharath pauses in front of the Seraph, and waits to be noticed.

The Seraph, after a suitable pause, murmurs, "Welcome, handmaiden. Your business with the Fencer?"

Anaharath says, "I was told that here was where divine Hearts were forged, I presume for those of us who have survived the winnowing of Fire."

The Seraph dips its head lower, closer to Anaharath. It might be a nod. "This is true. Direct your attention towards the doors; see the symbols engraved upon them? Touch that one that matches the celestial tongue for Hearts, and enter." It hesitates a moment. "Unless you are Hellborn and cannot read our tongue?"

Anaharath says, "I was Elohite, once." She turns her attention to the doors. Absently, dredged from long-suppressed memories, she adds, "My thanks, Most Holy." It does not perhaps ring with sincerity, but at least it is politeness.

A Punisher with a vastly unusual skin pattern, a writhing and twisting tattoo that seems to move and spawn and devour itself with each step he takes, turns quietly onto the street fifteen blocks down; he is only notable from here due to the sense of Archangelic or Princely presence that clings to him.

The Seraph withdraws its head silently and resumes its post.

Anaharath pauses, then turns her head to look at this powerful Habbalite, her eyes wide for a moment as she tries to identify him.

Anaharath . o O ( If that's Vapula of the False Messiah, there is no justice in the universe. )

It does not appear to be anyone known to Anaharath as a Prince of Hell, nor is it a corruption of Jean; yet it seems familiar.

Anaharath turns to the Seraph again. "M-most Holy," she asks, stumbling over the address now that she is thinking about it. "Do you know who that other is?"

The Seraph turns to regard him, eyes still lidded. It shifts slightly, scales scraping along the stones of the Cathedral of the Sword, and seems to think. "It is not an answerable question," it says. "I believe that the most informative identification I can make is quote Raphael."

The Punisher walks calmly down the street. It is heading towards Anaharath, but its destination is most likely the Cathedral rather than the Habbalite standing outside it.

It is still thirteen blocks away.

Anaharath whispers, to the Seraph, "I... I thought that one was dead."

The Seraph murmurs, "Then it is good that I have removed a false belief."

Anaharath glances a bit more sharply at it, mildly annoyed. Then she sets her hand to the symbolic Heart to enter.

There is a tiny spark of light and the door opens silently. The light within is harsh and red, and the sound - muted somewhat - is of the pounding of hammers on sword blanks and the creaking of strange machinery.

This is the smithy and armory of the Cathedral, and the angels inside are laboring hard over their tasks.

Anaharath moves inside, looking about for someone who seems to be in charge. Or at least less busy.

There do seem to be several angels - a seal-like Cherub, a panther-Cherub, and a pallid Kyriotate - whose role is more 'quality inspector' than 'laborer', moving among the rows of tables and anvils and judging the products and the work. There is also a Malakite, his single chain looped casually around his tunic, leaning against the wall and watching it all with a sardonic look in his eyes.

Anaharath musters courage -- she remembers, she has to have that -- and approaches the Malakite, warily.

He glances over, looks Anaharath up and down, and adopts a somewhat disinterested expression. If it doesn't work, it's only because his eyes are pained.

Anaharath flicks her gaze back and forth from his eyes to his single chain. "I..." She stops, and banishes the quaver from her voice. "I am under the impression that I should be here. For a Heart."

The Malakite tilts his head, glancing at Anaharath's hand. Then nods. "This is the place. See that section over there, with the Elohite and the two Mercurians? The Elohite's been slacking; tell him to hammer out a Heart for you and he better not let his other work suffer for it."

Anaharath nods. She pauses, looking at that single oath-chain, and then says, "If I asked, would you tell me?"

He looks down.

Anaharath waits.

Then he laughs. It's not quite clean amusement, but it's not bitter either. "This?" He fingers the chain. "They stopped applying, Habbalite."

Anaharath says, quietly, "And the remaining one?"

He shrugs. "Have to hold my soul together for eleven more days, after all."

Anaharath remembers the current complications with that timetable. A pained look crosses her face, and she turns to hasten over to the Elohite and the pair of Mercurians.

The Malakite smirks faintly.

Anaharath doesn't bother explaining why she looked pained. End of the world? No problem. God's will. Elopement? Potential problem.

One Mercurian glances up at Anaharath as she approaches, and then back down. The other two are engrossed in their work - particularly the Elohite, as it happens, who seems to be endeavoring to complete two relic swords at once.

Anaharath eyes the trio. She goes to stand over the Elohite and watch it work.

The Elohite has a somewhat fevered glint in its eyes. The hammerbeat is regular, but slightly slow; its free hand is engaged busily in feeling along the tops of several ingredient vials beside him for the right one to sprinkle on the mix at any given moment. He is, at least, spared the problem of a bellows; the table provides heat at need. He whispers prayers under his breath, over and over, different ones at different times, as he works.

Anaharath decides that being told to hammer out a Heart for a Habbalite is probably a punishment. She clears her throat at the Power.

The vial-hand gathers up several ingredients, pours them in a measured shake across the blades, and tosses them back into place. It dips down to the bench beside the Elohite, touches an odd-looking device in a complex pattern, and the device sings, "Yes, Punisher?"

Anaharath blinks. "The Malakite says that you are to hammer a Heart for me. And that you must not let your other work suffer for it."

The Elohite's fingers dance on the device some more. "Certainly," the trinket sings. "Your hand appears bloody still; drip a touch thereof on the table before me. You may expect the Heart within the hour. And my congratulations at R," a complicated adjustment with his fingers, substituting the lower-case concept "redeeming yourself, sister. Your timing is impeccable."

The hand goes back to the vials. The other continues to hammer. Then the Elohite coughs, and the hammer-hand reflexively goes to his mouth; Anaharath can sense a touch of embarrassment in his demeanor, because the hammer just keeps hammering the sword blanks.

Anaharath makes a fist over the table, squeezing blood from the cuts.

The blood sizzles slightly as it touches the hot table, but does not appear to suffer unduly for it.

Anaharath then moves from an ironic expression, at 'redeeming,' to an upraised eyebrow at the hammer.

The Elohite nods as he gropes to catch the hammer's handle before too many strokes pass him by.

Anaharath says, quietly, "It was easier to be un-redeemed. But ease is denied all of us, now."

Anaharath . o O ( Angel, holy demon -- all that matters is the purpose. )

The Elohite's hands touch the device again for a moment. "Soon, we will all be joined forever in God's light; then, your life will prove the easier one."

Anaharath's mouth twists into a wry, flame-patterned smile. "That doesn't help, Power," she mutters, turning away. "I'll be back in an hour."

The Elohite nods quietly, its neck the only thing not particularly busy.

Anaharath stalks across the room, back to the door, seeking something familiar -- if only the edged wariness of her own kind. She saw some before...

No Habbalah work inside the Hearts room, but it is not impossible to locate one in the Eternal City outside.

Anaharath squares her shoulders, despite the shadow of mortal defeat that still haunts her, and heads for the nearest one of her Choir. Or whatever Habbalah are.

One walks, broodingly, with a pattern of gold sparkles worked into its skin; evidently, a series of elaborate cuts were made, celestial gold dust poured liberally into the wounds, and then the cuts were allowed to heal. Not as painful as such things could be, but perhaps he was making a statement of some sort.

Anaharath compares, as always, subconsciously, her own flame-patterned and fire-scarred skin. She angles her path to intersect his, on a diagonal. Not confrontation, quite, but neither turning aside. No weakness.

The Habbalite glances upwards and pauses in its path.

It smiles, faintly. "Anaharath," it says, although she does not recognize its face. "Welcome."

Anaharath stands, her arms crossed, as if braced against the universe. Her eyes are more haunted than she knows, tinged with the conflict behind them. "I don't remember you."

Anaharath . o O ( Tell me, dammit. Tell me you were tested as I was. Tell me... I'm not alone. That you're just as confused as I am, that it's not weak to have a part of me that knows that mortal failure as its own... )

Anaharath . o O ( Or strike at me that the scars will make me strong. )

The Habbalite says, calmly, "You would not. It is my business to know the status of Gabriel's work." It smiles thinly. "I cannot therefore welcome you as a friend; still, each other survivor pleases me."

Anaharath nods, carefully. "I... am gratified to know that there are others of our" (tiny hesitation) "kind, who also survived the testing."

It inclines its head. "I am Meshhaber, of Judgment."

Meshhaber adds, "You have questions?"

Anaharath blinks once and tries to get her scrambled thoughts into at least a more solid omlette. "Judgment?"

Meshhaber says, distantly, "It was Gabriel's sentence on me. The general irony is unimportant; the punishment is personal."

Anaharath swallows. Quietly, her tone guarded, she says, "I... was tempered with... other. I... was wondering if that was common."

Meshhaber says, "You were wiser than I." His emotional state is distant, broken, like a human after a horrid trauma. "By the time I understood the test, the conditions were different."

Anaharath clenches her fingers just a little on her arms, in relief that she did not dally. "You survived," she offers.

Anaharath . o O ( His emotions betray weakness... But Fire has punished him. I have other tasks. )

Meshhaber says, dryly, "Yes. I survived. And I learned much." It thinks, slently.

Meshhaber says, "Heaven surprises you."

Anaharath nods. "It is... other than I recalled."

Anaharath . o O ( What the HELL was that crawly mole-thing??? )

Meshhaber says, "It is like this:"

Meshhaber drops to one knee and holds a hand about a foot over the ground. "My head is the Upper Heavens. My hand is the Heaven in which we stand. And the shadow my hand casts upon the cobblestones is the Heaven you knew." It wiggles its fingers. "Imagine for a moment that the shadow has more fingers than the hand, all wiggling. These are the angels."

Anaharath also goes to one knee, thoughtfully.

Anaharath says "We lived in a shadow of this truth?"

Meshhaber admits, "I have given thought to this explanation, and thus it is facile; at the same time, I am not convinced that it is wholly clear."

Anaharath quirks the corner of her mouth in a suppressed smile.

Meshhaber said, "We lived in an illusion; a glamour; a shadow; in a way, we lived in the Marches of Heaven as dreaming humans lived in the Marches of Earth. We were here, we moved among these buildings, we lived among these people, but certain things were kept from us. This was necessary, that there be free will."

Meshhaber smiles thinly. "Free will is no longer necessary; thus, the illusion has been lifted."

Anaharath breathes out a sigh of acknowledgement.

Anaharath looks around, at this true Heaven.

Meshhaber says, "You will need to learn to appreciate it, if you wish to." Another thin smile. "It is like us, in a way; the flesh is pared back, the underlying mechanics are revealed, and it takes a cultivated aesthetic to admire the intestine and muscle beneath as much as the form outside."

Anaharath chuckles. "Whether I appreciate it or not, doesn't matter. It is, just as we are."

Meshhaber admits, "The relevance is minimal, of course; if the touch of Heaven burned you like a crematorium, nevertheless eleven days is not so long to bear it."

Meshhaber rises.

Anaharath's expression fades to a grimace for a moment as she, too, rises. "That is, indeed true." She tilts her head. "My curiosity for this is trivial, but what is the single oath the Malakim are left?"

Meshhaber says, "They are to guard the Cathedral, after the end comes."

Anaharath nods, satisfied. "I thank you," she says, absently, with old habits.

Anaharath stands aside, to let Meshhaber continue on his path if he wishes.

Meshhaber lowers his gaze to the ground and walks away.

Anaharath follows his path for a moment as he goes.

Meshhaber vanishes around a corner.

Anaharath turns and wanders Heaven until the hour is up, looking at it as it is and trying to be comforted. This is not easy, with the '11 days and one of the principle players is missing' fact niggling at the back of her head.

Anaharath finally returns to where her Heart was being crafted.

The Cathedral of the Sword is as it was before. The Seraph remains coiled about it. Tiny dots of light dart in and out, most likely single-Force relievers.

Anaharath looks up at them, and wonders why it is that relievers do not fledge Habbalite, ever, ever... She pushes down the memories. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.

She heads into the Cathedral, touching the door that reads Heart.

The door slides silently open.

Anaharath enters, heading for the Elohite who was working on her Heart.

A golden speck flitters out from the Cathedral, chanting something very very sofltly.

Anaharath looks at the speck with a hint of curiosity. She attempts to discover what it feels.

Anaharath fails.

Anaharath continues on.

The Elohite continues his work, at the far end of the chamber, back to swords once again; an Escheresque construct of blood and light, rather pretty really, sits to one side. It is singing, inaudibly, the Name Gabriel spoke when she crafted Anaharath -- not the word that labels her, but the name that defines her.

Anaharath goes to the Heart, slowly. She stretches out a hand towards it.

Anaharath . o O ( Will it pop like a soap bubble if I touch it? Will it burn? )

The singing grows louder, tuned to some frequency in Anaharath's soul. As the Habbalite's hand touches it, the Heart bursts into flame; yet the singing continues, and it is not consumed.

Anaharath shivers and leaves her hand there for a long moment. (Yes, even if it hurts...)

The flames give Anaharath no pain.

The Elohite taps, "Is it satisfactory, Punisher?" on the speaking device beside him.

Anaharath finally pulls her hand away. Not looking at the Elohite, she says, "It seems well done." After a moment, old old habits have her saying, "My thanks, Power." She smiles as the words drift out.

The flames subside, a moment after Anaharath's hand withdraws, to a pattern of fiery tattoos etched into the surface of the Heart. It seems certain that Anaharath could Ascend to this Heart.

Anaharath asks the Elohite, this time flicking her gaze to it for a moment, "Is there a place I should keep this? Or should I leave it here for others to move?"

The Elohite taps his device. "Relocate it as you wish. It is safe anywhere. Alternately, if you leave it here, it will be relocated to the volcano." It pauses a moment. "It is most conducive to the general good if it is not in plain sight."

Anaharath's lips twist. "What, are there those who are not pleased to have Habbalah in Heaven?"

The Elohite smiles wryly. "Oh, no, sister," the device says. "Gabriel's judgment of the Mal'ak Habbalah is a part of the purpose of Heaven, and we do not question it. It is simply unkind to the small ones."

Anaharath furrows her brows. "Unkind to the small ones? How so?"

The Elohite taps, "It is the Decree of the Seraphim Council that, as the unfledged relievers are not worthy of the Ascension to the Upper Heavens, their Forces are to be recycled into such projects as are necessary in these final days."

All the while, his natural voice continually repeats the prayers and chants that (presumably) empower the artifacts he is creating.

Anaharath raises her eyebrows and strokes her Heart again. "So the weak are crafted into things that are necessary. Fitting enough." She pulls away. "Let someone else move it to the Volcano. I have tarried in my mission long enough."

The Elohite nods.

Anaharath nods back. "Be strong," she whispers, and then seeks the corporeal realm.

The Habbalite takes flesh about twenty feet above the ground of a crater strewn with refuse and debris from, evidently, exploded houses, scenery, people, earth, and plants. A death-black tear in the fabric of the universe, perhaps twenty feet tall and ten wide, hangs above the earth not far away; air storms into it like a winter wind.

Anaharath yelps and goes celestial again.

Anaharath REALLY hopes Vapula has a fun time with Gabriel.

Anaharath indulges in a lot of very self-righteous 'I survived and I know what needs to be done and you were trying to circumvent it so you're gonna FRY, you idiot Prince!' thoughts.

The Habbalite goes celestial successfully, hanging scarred and pale a few feet above the ground. The ether also pours towards the gap, but more slowly.

Anaharath stares at the gap for a few seconds and wonders how much duct tape would be required. Then she turns around and flies celestially about, trying to find her car and hoping it wasn't eaten by the nothingness of that void.

The car is nowhere to be found.

Anaharath swears in angelic, Helltongue and anything else that comes to mind.

Anaharath tries orbiting the crater (keeping a goodly distance from that rip), looking for either a clue (tire-shreds?) or someone alive who might have been a witness.

There are plenty of car pieces in the general rubble, but none specifically identifiable as belonging to Anaharath's car.

Anaharath tries a search pattern, looking for the boots or jacket.

Anaharath spirals out from the rubble as she goes, since it might have been tossed somewhere.

There's a suspiciously large pile of rubble over there -- and a flash of movement beside it.

Anaharath descends, celestially, and heads for the movement.

As Anaharath approaches, she sees a strange and bloated multi-limbed creature scurry to the top of the rubble-pile. It stands about six feet at the shoulder, and its front two limbs are tipped in pincer-like hands.

Anaharath pauses and considers her options. Fast.

It recites, in a rich and deep voice, "Good morning, miss. Nice umbrella. We need to talk."

Its pincers clack.

Anaharath pauses. "Talk, then," she sings angelically.

The creature skitters a little closer. "No, no," it continues. "I assure you, I'm not here to hurt you. Although there are some who will."

Anaharath edges away, celestially, hovering hopefully out of reach. "Talk fast. If you're friendly, then you'll understand my paranoia and not try to spook me."

"Who?" it asks. Several multifaceted and lidded eyes blink. "They're numberless, really. You've got enemies right up and down the scale. Not necessarily to hurt you, my dear, but I'm afraid there are some who would take advantage of you."

The Habbalite catches a glimpse of the jacket and several wineglasses in the pile, made possible only because they are relics.

Anaharath curls her lip. "You're wasting my time." She dives for the jacket.

One limb of the creature clips the Habbalite in midair, knocking her back towards the ground with the jacket in her hand. "You see," it explains, "God wants you for his bride, Miss Olson, which is a fine and noble thing, but it inevitably leads to the death of the universe."

It lurches down with remarkable speed towards the ground it clipped her into.

Anaharath turns her head. "You are insane. I'm her chosen midwife, not her."

Anaharath grabs the jacket and starts running, or flying, or whatever is appropriate.

Anaharath . o O ( Thing must be blind, mistaking a flame-covered Habbalite for a human. )

Anaharath shrugs on the jacket as she runs.

It sighs, deeply. "Please, Miss Olson, there's no need to get hysterical. I can amply demonstrate everything I've told you. -- incidentally, would you like a caramel?"

It races after Anaharath, feet pounding one after another after another and so forth on the ground.

Anaharath flies through trees and anything else that she can put between her and it. She is, after all, insubstantial.

The Habbalite is indeed insubstantial. The creature, while more substantial, seems to have no trouble shrugging trees and everything else out of the way. "Fortunately, I have a solution," it says. "For, as they say, love heals all wounds."

The Habbalite is gaining, ever so slightly.

A tree in front of Anaharath explodes into flame.

Anaharath heads for it. Fire is Good!

Anaharath spits over her shoulder, "Go heal the wound in the universe back there!"

The creature rumbles, "Miss Olson, I understand your devotion to God, but there are other things beautiful in the world. Let me show you some of them. Let me show you flowers, and wine, and -- I seem to have a small water theme park for mice on me."

The heat of the fire actually hurts as Anaharath grows close.

Anaharath flinches from the heat, then dives for it -- but only to skim it, not actually dash through its heart.

The creature springs for Anaharath, its form unfolding into a bolt of black flame as it surges towards her.

The bolt of flame brushes Anaharath, and sends her spinning -- elsewhere.

Anaharath . o O ( Fire should not be black. It should be red and orange and yellow and gas-blue and sometimes Malakite-hand-green. Black is not good. )

The Habbalite is in the bar, in the middle of a sentence. She can't recall exactly what she was saying, though.