Malthael was doing some major redesign to his quarters. Already he had told Itherael of the news, and now the pair of men stood in Malthael's quarters, most of which were black now. Currently they stood in his room, and Itherael only watched as the colors turned darker. Now the room was mostly black, lit by white candles. The ink was black and red, assortments of demon blood and mortal blood. A letter-opener resided on top of several scrolls and scrolls of parchment wrote in runes. Already was the room rather cluttered, as it once had been years past. A week since Imperius' rejection had passed, and Malthael was doing well to resume his post as Wisdom. Itherael had actually walked in on his leader furiously scribbling with both his left and right hands (he was left handed naturally, however he could write with both hands and write two different things, quite fast, with each hand. As well as this, he could use his magic to levitate additional quills and write even more) in runes. Now they stood in the once white room. Malthael glanced at his second-in-command slightly. He was looking around the larger, cluttered room. Everything was dark gray, to black. Even the bed. Even now the desk was cluttered, scrolls, candles, ink bottles-both empty and full-and an assortment of quills covering the top completly. Boxes of tomes and other assortments of items were placed and stacked oddly around the room. Save for the dark colors, the room appeared the same as it had before; cluttered, yet somehow organized and neat. Itherael looked around silently, and Malthael sighed, picking up a quill, pulling a chair from the desk, dipped it in demon blood ink, and began scribbling. His handwork was very loopy and beautiful, and he scribbled in Horadrim Runes. It wasn't uncommon for any of the other Archangels to walk in upon him doing this, and he usually wouldn't acknolwdge them. Instead he would merly nod, if even that. Most times the angels would not come to him directly, instead sending letters to him via messanger. Again, he would only acknoledge these messanger angels with a curt nod. He then would take the letter into a free hand, open it with a rather sharp letter opener that looked it could inflict fatal wounds if used correctly, skim the contents, grab a new piece of parchment from the large, and somewhat messy pile, dip his quill into the ink, and begin writing a response in his loopy, beautiful handwriting, never even pasuing in his writing of the other things in his other hand or magic. Itherael even dared to dub his friend affectionatly as a "workaholic." To this, Malthael only chuckled.
Itherael, by now, had seated himself on Malthael's dark bed, watching the darker angel write, now with both hands. He craned his neck to see what he was writing, and the talented angel was writing a letter to... Tyrael, it appeared? with his left, which he knew was his best hand, and another to Auriel with the other. Somehow the silence, save for the scratching of quills on paper and the flickering of flames, was calming. Currently Malthael was writing what appeared to be 35 documents, each on seprate scrolls or parchment with different quills. That was the smallest ammount of papers that Itherael had ever seen him writing at once. Malthael seemed to have the uncanny ability to predict the future, even better than Itherael himself. ``Itherael,`` he said suddenly, halting all writing but not looking at his leuitenant. ``Yes, Malthael?`` Itherael asked, his gut twisting. His friend's voice was unusually cold, and almost had a sense of urgency to it. ``Go, fetch Imperius.``
``But, surely-?``
``No. Go, fetch him.`` Malthael let a sigh escape his lips. ``Please,`` he added to the timid Archangel, letting his voice drop to a soft whisper and letting even the tiniest bits of worry and stress show through. Hearing his friend's worry, Itherael nodded breathlessly and stood, rushing from the room in a flurry of armour, robes, and wings. Malthael sighed, looking up at the ceiling that was charmed to look like a mortalkind's night sky. Destruction was coming, he knew it to be so. He only did not know of when.
Itherael rushed from the Pools of Wisdom to the main pavillion, to see if Imperius were there. Upon noting his absence from the area, he knew where he would be: the Gardens of Hope. Which teir, he did not know. He rushed to the Gardens of Hope, passing by his Library of Fate on the way. An Angel of Fate, a mute one that he took pity on, waved to him, but he merly shot a glance in its direction before continuing on. Malthael's worry and stress had worried him, as well; is the Archangel of Wisdom was in stress and worry, if their leader was in stress and worry, they all should be worried, at the least. Malthael was not one to show his emotions while serious; it was yet another trait he shared with the aspect of Wisdom and Death. But Itherael tended to not show emotion whatsoever-Tyrael and Malthael were the only two lucky to see his emotion. However, Malthael had began to be the same, drawing back from his brother and Hope. Ever since Malthael's squabble with Imperius in the Gardens, and the one immediatly after the meeting, the two had become painfully distant. Though in 200 years they had never been closer to each other physically, Itherael and the other two, as well as the rest of the angels and beings of Heaven, knew that the two brothers had never before been so distant with each other. When in the same area, the two would lack to even acknoledge each other. When the other was brought up in conversation, they would go silent. Yet all the same, Itherael knew well enough that Imperius would oblige to his much calmer brother's request to see him. Perhaps, Itherael offered to himself, he believes we will be going into a war, and he wants Imperius to discuss the strategy. Yes, he concluded with a nod, that must be it. Soon he came to the large pavillion where the Angels of Hope resided. Many an angel looked up upon his unepected appearance. ``Do any of you know where Archangel Imperius or Mistress Auriel is?`` Itherael asked breathlessly. He didn't stutter as much when around lesser angels; for it was not their judgement he was afraid of. One small angel with faint blue wings perked up. ``Y-yes, s-sir,`` she squeaked, ``he-he i-is on the 4 teir o-of the Ga-gardens of Hop-pe.`` In reply, Itherael nodded. Perhaps this angel was shy. Akin to me, he thought grimly. ``Thank you, angel.``
The small female nodded, squeaking a sort of ``it is my duty, sir`` quietly. Itherael brushed past the angels without another word, and disappeared into a flash of light. He reappeared on the fourth teir, looking around. Crystal trees grew around the walkways, and streams connected the trees. Itherael flapped his wings once, folding them against his back. Thank Anu he was a master of teleportation. He finally chose his path to go from the six to be chose, from his gut feeling, as mortals called it. He veered to the left, his steps echoing. Soon he came to a fork in the road. Oh, no, he though jokingly, a fork! Whatever am I to do? Itherael then closed his eyes, his moment of humour fading. He forsaw what each path held were he to take them. The left, a series of twists and turns that led to a large display of giant crystal trees; the right, a left, another left, a right, and Imperius and Auriel. He opened his eyes once again, and turned to the right. A soft huff escaped his lips as he began walking at a fast pace. Despite the fact he knew Imperius and Auriel were cuddling, and he knew Imperius would be hostile, he trekked on. A left came, then another left, then a right. He came to an array of crystal trees, the largest of the group in the middle. In the largest tree sat Imperius, seated on a branch, Auriel in his lap. Valour's arms were curled around her waist, and her hands entertwined with his much larger ones. Her eyes were closed, and Valour rested his head on Hope's, a deep purr rumbling in his chest. For a moment, Itherael observed this quietly, a slight smile gracing his features. Even the surly Imperius had his sweet side. However remorsfully, he knew he had to interrupt this rare moment. He cleared his throat loudly, and Imperius opened one eye to look at him. Upon seeing it was him, he scoffed. ``What do you want, Fate?`` Itherael flinched instinctivly, but soon regained composture. ``M-Malthael wishes to see you, Imperius,`` he said. Imperius sniffed. ``Does he? And what proof is there?``
As if on cue, the imposing Archangel appeared next to Itherael in a flash of dark light, his arms crossed. ``Itherael speaks the truth.``
Auriel perked up. ``Only Imperius?``
Malthael nodded begrudgingly. ``Yes, Lady Auriel. I regret to inform you of this, but soon enough you will be called to meeting.`
Hope dipped her head. ``Yes, of course, Malthael. Forgive me for sounding dissappointed.``
Malthael only waved her off with a talon. ``Apologies are not needed, Lady Auriel. Now, Imperius, come, we have matters to discuss.``
All Imperius could do was nod, kissing Auriel's cheek fleetingly and standing.
Malthael leant foward at the black desk, his talons clasped with his fingers. Itherael shifted in unease, and Imperius bristled at his brother's calmness. ``How can you be so-so... calm about this!?`` Imperius snarled. Malthael was unaffected by his brother's outburst. ``If we plan ahead carefully and accordingly, our batttles will be the least of our troubles. You, however, need to rest yourself and your nerves.``
Itherael looked at Malthael. He wasn't doing so well himself, either. Though the angel appeared ageless, stress and a lack of sleep wracked his thin body, making him seem older. His body was bent over and he hunched, even his shoulders slumped. Imperius began to reply, but, in a lecturing tone, Itherael interrupted. ``You both seem to be with a lack of rest. Both of you; go now, sleep.``
Both Malthael and Imperius began to protest, but Itherael cut him off. ``Don't argue. Please. It is for your own sakes.``
``Itherael, I appreciate your concern for me,`` Malthael said quietly, and the unrest and stress in his voice was just as audible, ``but I simply cannot rest until every bit of the demonic forces and their plans have been examined and evaluated.``
``And I,`` Imperius sniffed proudly, ``cannot rest as the Archangel of Valour.``
``Yes, yes you can,`` Itherael lectured. ``Both of you can. Now go. Rest.``
Grudgingly, Malthael was the first to stand. Imperius followed, grumbling to himself. He lumbered out of the room, out of the Pools of Wisdom. Most likely to the Gardens of Hope. Malthael stood still for a moment, before sighing. He hunched over. ``I suppose I shall be going, then.``
Itherael nodded. Malthael nodded once, sliding from the room, down to his own room. He sunk down on the bed and rubbed his face with the heel of his left hand. Now that he realized it, he was quite tired. Throwing the covers aside, he sunk down onto the bed, resting his hooded head against the fluffy black pillows. Slowly, he pulled the covers over himself, sinking farther down into the bed. His eyes fluttered shut once, but he forced them back open. He then remembered Itherael's words, and he knew the younger Archangel spoke the truth. Pulling the covers up to cover his armour-clad chest, Malthael exhaled slowly, trying to let out stress as well as his breath. His large wings drooped across the bed, and he rested a single hand on his abdomen. The other hand slid behind his head, and he tilted his head back, letting his heavy eyelids droop shut once again. This time, however, he did not fight the darkness of sleep trying to consume him. He let it in, gladly.
Itherael watched as Imperius lumbered off, and Malthael stood. Hunching over, he sighed. ``I suppose I shall be going, then.``
For another moment, Malthael was motionless. Then he turned and dissappeared from Itherael's view. Now Itherael felt a sense of unrest come about him. The demons were due to attack the High Heavens. Malthael predicted this. But he could not see when. Itherael felt like his wings were twisting into knots; this attack could come at any given moment. Suddenly he felt himself worrying about the others. As he began to slowly make his way back to the Library of Fate, worry gnashing away at his thoughts. What if someone attacked Mistress Auriel? or Imperius? Or Tyrael? Or... or Malthael? He shook his head rapidly. The sheer though made him shake. As he turned to enter the Library, he caught a glance of Imperius kissing Auriel. He had her pinned back against a tree. What he was planning to do to Mistress Auriel, and more importantly, her innocence, was imaginable, but he prefered to not think of it. If he wanted to stay up and not rest, that would be his choice. Not Itherael's. As he lingered out of mild curiousity to watch, the situation began to escalate at an alarming rate, and Itherael quickly excused himself. He hurried into the Library and back into his studies. He looked around the cluttered area. Like Malthael, papers scattered his desk in increasing layers. However the boxes were replaced with books. Stacks and stacks of books. At the desk was a very large chair, which served as both his working chair and his bed. He slumped down into the chair, letting his wings droop to the floor. There were around five quills strewn about his desk, which was lit by white candles with blue flames. Three of them were broke. Itherael sighed loudly and swept these quills off onto the already cluttered and messy floor. What would three more quills hurt? He then tilted his head back, yawning. At the same, he forced himself to focus on the papers on the desk. A half-finished letter addresseed to Tyrael lay accusingly on top of the pile. Itherael squinted, and picked up a quill. Dipping it into a bottle that was three fourths of the way empty, he sighed, propped his head up with his left hand, and began to write.
Malthael awoke late, two human days later. Though he did not feel he got all of the rest he could have, he sat upright. However, he slowly began to drift back to unconsiousness once more. He shook his head, snapping himself back to consciousness. However, his eyelids were still heavy. He groaned softly; this is why he did not want to rest-now he was two human days behind in what would be invaluable information. He forced himself to a stand, though every joint in his tired body groaned in protest. The angel may have well been ageless, though stress wracked his aching, tired body from head to toe. He looked up, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, yawning, a flash of silver-white fangs visible for a moment. He streched, wings and all, rejoycing in the few stolen moments of goodness before he sighed. He would have to make haste in finding Itherael, Lady Auriel and Imperius. He turned, lazily fluttering his wings to levitate, as he was not quite sure his legs would his weight, despite theire not being much of it. He was a very light and quick angel, always steady on his feet, but yet now, after so little rest, he wasn't sure he could function. First he made his way to Auriel and Imperius. He took time, however, to look through the flowers and trees of kinds. He soon came to Auriel's private quarters and gently rapped his knuckles on the door. He waited a few minutes with no answer before gently pushing the door open. The room was large and beautiful, and in the corner was a larger bed. In that bed laid a dozing Imperius and Auriel, in each other's arms. Both were... bedraggled. As if they'd been doing things. Malthael rose a brow at this, noticing the bare skin visible, and too late did he realize that the entirity of Lady Auriel's left breast was exposed. He slowly backed out of the room. He wouldn't want to ruin his brother's... private life. Slowly closing the door, Malthael turned, almost smiling at the idea of his brother being... sweet, to anyone.
Itherael was quiet at work. Yet another fretful, sleepless nigh had past, but it mattered not to Itherael. He would rather sacrifice a few more nights of sleep than perhaps his place in the Angiris Council as second in command. He couldn't lose the trust of his closest friend, the male whom he'd once been closer with than he'd been with anyone else...
He shook his head, pushing these troubling thoughts from his mind. Another broken quill splattered ink across a small portion of the page. Huffing in much frustration, Itherael slammed his hand into the desk, brushing the broken quill off onto the floor quite aggressively. He then made a grab for the remaining quill and quickly scribbled a note on a spare sheet of parchement in a truly beautiful sort of handwork: Reminder, ask Malthael for more quills. He then brushed it to the side where it was near guarenteed to become buried along with its other brethren. He began to scribble on the note previous, however his handwriting was considerably more messy than it had been. His right hand pummled the paper furiously as he wrote, his eyes narrowed as he wrote with a considerable ammount of aggression. A small rip appeared in the paper and he snarled, casting a brooding glare at the paper. Ever since the day Itherael stood up to Imperius, he seemed... different. That was also partially because of the lack of sleep and food (angels were not required to eat, but it was something that Itherael was generally fond of), but mostly, Itherael wanted to throw Imperius' poison back at him. He mildly wondered to himself what Imperius and Auriel had ended up doing the few nights before. However, he felt he could care less. At that point, Malthael had walked in. ``Itherael?`` He called. Itherael looked warily up at his leader and managed a smile. ``Malthael,`` he responded lightly. ``It appears you have a lack of rest?`` Malthael offered. Itherael blinked. ``Oh?``
``Do not lie to me, Itherael,`` Malthael said softly. ``If Imperius and I need rest, you do as well. Even Lady Auriel has gotten herself rest.``
Itherael shook his head. ``No-no, I'm fine,`` he insisted. Malthael dissagreed. ``Itherael, listen. You are beginning to get more and more like, forgive me for saying it, Imperius, each day.``
Itherael paused. ``I... suppose you are right. But-... there's so... so much to do, Malthael, I-...``
``As your friend and leader, I tell you that you simply must get rest, Itherael. I... do you have a bed?``
``... No. This chair is my bed,`` Itherael said softly.
``I... You will use mine, then.``
``Y-Your bed? M-Malthael, pl-please-...``
``No,`` Malthael insisted in his soft voice, ``you may.``
``Malthael, I-I'll be fine, I-...``
``It is an order,`` Malthael concluded softly. Itherael opened his mouth to respond, but he knew he could not disobey a direct order, not even from his closest friend. Itherael simply nodded, in response. He stood, slowly setting the quill down with a shaking hand. Malthael nodded in response, placing a hand gently on the smaller angel's back, guiding him, out of the Library and into the Pools. Itherael found that his friend's hand, albeit cold, was somewhat calming. He led him to his private quarters, and gently pushed him down to the bed. ``Sleep,`` he commanded. Itherael found that Malthael's bed was very soft and fluffy, and Malthael watched as Itherael moved the sheets aside, sinking down into the bed. Malthael moved over to his friend and slowly pulled the sheets over Itherael, smiling down at his comrade. Itherael smiled affectionatly back up at the Archangel. Malthael's next move surprised Itherael, reducing him to a stuttering, blushing mess. Death leaned down-a considerable ways for such a tall angel-and kissed Fate's forehead. Itherael stuttered, blushing at this. Malthael only winked, chuckling. He allowed one of his great wings to brush over Itherael as he murmured, ``Sleep well, Archangel.``
As Wisdom departed, Fate wondered if the feeling they had once a time ago could be rekindled from the hearth of ashes?
