Had a terrible bout of writer's block in the first half of this chapter, but finally the characters and I decided to be on speaking terms again last night, so here's a nice, shiny new chapter for you all.
In Which One Should Have Read the Memo
Angels are creatures of light; they thrive off of it, emit it themselves. And thusly do they offer comfort, bearing hope into the dark places where all other light has fled.
Demons are creatures of evil; the most powerful once were angels, but now rather than provide light, they consume it. They are the darkness that swallows the candle flame whole and leaves one, trembling, in the dark.
He was the greatest of the Archangels, their leader and defender, and He would stroll into those haunts where even the other Archangels dared not step with slippered foot, swinging a flaming sword with all the easy causality of a child and a stick.
Then one day, He strolled too far. In the presence of the greatest Darknesses, even the greatest Light may seem weak and insignificant, and there was a struggle beyond comparison, even to the memory of the world's most ancient creatures. Just when it seemed the Light had gained the upper hand, the malevolent Creature played a dirty, desperate trick, and He was cast down, light flickering, and was forgotten.
Two days had passed since those events last related. In that time, plans had been drawn and redrawn, favors had been called in, and a steady stream of Les Amis members flowed in and out of Number 55. At last it seemed everything was ready and all were gathered around the dining table.
Besides Jean Valjean, the Inspector, and Amali, nine of the Les Amis were to assist in the first phase of the proceedings. Enjolras was present, of course, as were Courfeyrac and Combeferre. Joly was fussing over some new spot on the back of his hand (most folks would have called it a mole), Jehan was tweaking minor details within the list of instructions, and Grantaire had succeeded in keeping himself out of a drunken stupor, even if sobriety made him more cynical than usual. Bahorel, Lesgle, and Feuilly were there as well; they had discovered a fine bottle of wine in Valjean's cabinetry and were tormenting Grantaire with the effort of not pouring himself a glass.
"Ahem," Amali cleared her throat, standing up at the head of the table. "We will prepare for departure in about five minutes. Before we go, I'd like to give a quick recap on who is doing what. If you would, Jehan?"
Prouvaire stood, list in hand. "Bahorel, Grantaire, and Lesgle will guard the house while the rest of us are away. Amali has been training them in the science of Astral protection, so they should be well-equipped should anyone attempt a break-in. The rest of us will go on to the courthouse. Feuilly and I will stake out the building's perimeter, observing the comings and goings while also staying alert so as to assist if a quick getaway is required - there has to be a better way to say that. 'A swift escape'? 'A hasty exit'?"
"Keep talking," Grantaire groaned. "We haven't time for poetic restatements of this moronic plan. Just read it as written."
Jehan looked deeply offended, but he continued. "Joly, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre will explore the outer sanctum of the courthouse, looking for... something. Am I right in saying that we don't actually know what we're searching for?"
"Outside of some form of dark magic? That's more or less correct," Javert replied. "Be on the lookout for anything even slightly suspicious."
"Okay," Jehan said, continuing. "And while those three are exploring the rest of the building, Amali, Javert, Valjean, and Enjolras will spread out through the Hall of Records."
"If I may," Javert cut in, "I still fail to see the logic in the largest group of people searching a single area. Why not send one or two of us to assist Combeferre's group?"
"The logic," Amali replied, "lies in the fact that the Hall of Records is much larger on the inside than on the outside; it literally holds the records of the lives of every mortal who ever lived on the planet earth. It is labyrinthine, enchanted, and nearly impossible to navigate for non-Archangels. I wish we could take more people with us, but given the fact that we must also avoid discovery, taking more than four is infeasible. Is that answer enough?"
"Ah. Yes. I'm practically glowing with sudden enthusiasm."
The girl strode to the center of the living room. Valjean had pushed all the furniture to the wall so that there was a large empty area in the middle. Everyone but Amali sat down, creating a twelve-pointed star missing its apex. Amali in turn took her pouch of salt from her waist and poured a wide circle around those gathered, careful to tread only on enclosed space. Then she took her place in the circle.
"Okay. Step outside of yourself just like we practiced, but don't go anywhere yet."
A few people closed their eyes. Javert didn't; it was easier for him to transition into the Astral plane if he could see what he was doing. After a long moment in which he tried to relax, the room blurred and he was looking at everything from a position slightly to the right of where he'd been a moment before.
Deliberately not facing his left, the Inspector watched as the Les Amis slowly shimmered into spirit forms. For a moment, they looked like phlegmatic blobs of light. Then they adjusted to their new parameters and solidified into recognizable persons. Javert felt his own essence do the same, twisting into what was more or less a double of Monsieur l'Inspector Javert. Cautiously, he peeked to his left and saw his own body sitting there, quiet as the grave. Javert's form rippled in surprise and he quickly looked away. Few sensations are more disconcerting than staring yourself in the face.
Amali had, of course, made the transition easily, and she watched in amusement as Valjean struggled to do the same.
"I can't," he said in exasperation. "I just can't. Every time I think I've done it, I open my eyes and I'm still sitting here."
"Of course you can do it," Javert said bracingly. "You've gone and frustrated yourself, which makes it harder. Take a breath and try it again."
Valjean gave him an appraising sort of look.
"Help me, then."
He put out his hand, and, hesitantly, Javert slipped his incorporeal fingers through Valjean's. He tried to ignore, without a great deal of success, the hot flash that swept him over as he did so. Physical sensations were not dulled in the Astral - if anything, they were intensified.
Valjean's quintessence trembled and blurred around the edges of his body, quite refusing to leave its mortal encasement. Javert tutted reprovingly.
"You still aren't relaxing."
"Inspector Javert, explaining to me how to relax? What alternative universe have I stepped into?"
"The same one I've been living in for two weeks now."
Valjean took a steadying breath, and in that instant his body of light swelled past its boundaries. Javert grabbed him by his not-hand and yanked him out of his physical form. A faintly glowing Valjean fell backwards into Javert's lap.
"About time," he grumbled. "I swear, you ought to have just gone ahead. I'm perfectly capable of holding down the fort here."
Javert shifted uncomfortably.
"Er, Valjean..."
"What's wrong?" Then he seemed to realize the nature of his rather compromising position. "Oh. Oh." Blushing scarlet, Valjean pulled himself into a sitting position.
"Have we succeeded in collecting ourselves yet?" Amali asked dryly. "In that case, let's get on with it. First, you three - kindly step out of the circle. Remember, we're relying on our bodies being here when we get back, so do a good job guarding the place, hmm?"
Javert leaned over to Valjean.
"What if we get back and something's happened?"
"Then we're in trouble," the other man muttered. "But don't worry. They know what they're doing."
Amali broke the remaining Les Amis into their disparate groups and stood herself and Enjolras near Valjean and the Inspector.
"I'll drop everyone off at their respective outposts. In the event that anyone gets captured, you all know nothing about the rest of us, right?"
A chorus of "right"s echoed her.
Then Amali began tracing sigils in the air and the house on the Rue Plumet stretched and dissolved. The salt circle glowed with a pale blue light, those within it unmoving in the center of a riotous tornado of color and otherworldly shapes.
There was a difference between seeing the courthouse through someone else's memory and seeing it in one's own right. Memorial images summoned magically are mere shadows of the people and places they represent. Javert had only seen the court of the Sacred Citadel through Melalo's recollections and thus knew the place only in a murky grayscale. As their movement slowed, lines and hues sharpened and Javert found himself staring at a magnificent structure to which the description "courthouse" seemed a veritable insult.
The Palais de Justice should have been shamed to be compared to such a marvelous architectural wonder, though having been built by angels, perhaps there is little cause for surprise. In truth, the Parisian monument bore a few unsettling similarities to its Astral equivalent, most notably the ornate gates before the classical cour d'honneur. The intangible columns, too, vaguely Grecian in style, resembled the stonework of the Palais.
Inspector Javert was immediately overwhelmed by the sheer scope of the place - it was monstrously large - and his heart sank as he realized just how long making a proper exploration of the court would take.
Amali was speaking to Jean Prouvaire and Feuilly.
"- on the lookout constantly. No dozing, no composing poetry. One of you stay on this side, and the other head to the opposite end. Sweep your half of the building as frequently as possible."
"Understood," Feuilly replied. "You're going in?"
"Presently," the girl said, nodding the affirmative. The two boys obliged her in stepping out of the circle and the world sped past again. The gilded doors, tall and imposing, stretched impossibly high and wide as they flew through. They passed through the crowd of immortal bureaucrats slipping into spaces that Javert was sure had been occupied moments before, and then, as near as he could tell, they took two sharp lefts, first into a long hallway and then into a supply closet. It didn't look fit to hold one person, let alone seven, and yet everyone had ample standing room. The Inspector couldn't decide if that was Amali's magic at work or if the whole building was enchanted for maximum convenience.
Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Joly stepped out, looking distinctly less comfortable as they did so.
Must be Amali, then, Javert thought with a smirk. The boys nodded to those remaining, and the circle sped away for the final time. They zipped down such a dizzying maze of halls and passages that even Amali lost her sense of orientation - the circle had to do the driving for her.
At last, they came to a stop, not in a closet this time, but a little-used corridor just west of the Hall of Records. The circle dispersed around them, leaving a bedraggled ring of salt on the floor. The girl kicked it halfheartedly, scattering the grains into a less recognizable pattern.
"Which way?" Enjolras asked quietly. "We need to get out of sight."
"Agreed. There is a side entrance into the Hall. It was added as an entire wing for Black Plague victims' records. People were interested in the crisis at the time, but now it's the least-used area. Through here."
She gestured to a small mahogany door built in to the papered wall. Valjean pushed it open and held it for the other three. That entrance took them into a small foyer, barely six feet square. It was dark and largely abandoned if the dust was anything to judge by.
There was another door on the opposite wall which Valjean crossed to as soon as everyone was inside. This portal he opened slowly, peering through the widening gap into the next room, on guard for any other presence. There was none. With the door open, they crossed the threshold into the Hall of Records.
As it approached midday, Jehan leaned his back against a cool stone pillar and sighed softly. The hustle and bustle of the court filled the cour de'honneur with a low hum, and several times he had been forced to duck into a nearby rhododendron bush to avoid notice by some clerk or visitor.
Feuilly was nowhere in sight, doubtless on the other side of the complex by now. So far, Jehan had seen nothing of note save a pair of angelic lovers doing something most unangelic behind the rhododendron. No suspicious figures or transactions, no sudden disappearances. Even the snatches of gossip he'd overheard were boring.
A woman clipped by, her robe swishing over her heels and a young page trotting in her wake.
"The Archangels are convened this evening - this evening, boy - so we must..."
She faded out of earshot as she strode down the veranda.
Interested, Jehan crept after her, sticking to the shadows between columns. It turned out to be nothing more than an issue of dinner catering - Archangels, Jehan learned, had very specific tastes. Somewhat disappointed, he sat down on a step and fiddled with the pad of paper that never left his side.
Across the courtyard, a sandy-haired child drew breath sharply and shimmied the length of the walk while Jehan was thusly distracted. He'd been beginning to think that Prouvaire would never drop his guard. The boy ducked under a cart, slipped between two shades who were there for an audit, and squeezed through the great front doors as they swung shut after some diplomats.
He'd made it inside.
"I tell you, the dust in here is going to give me an asthma attack," Joly whispered hoarsely to Courfeyrac.
The other Les Amis rolled his eyes in exasperation. As if crouching in a musty closet for an extended period wasn't already uncomfortable enough, Joly wouldn't stop talking about all the diseases he was sure to get from mold and dust and cleaning supplies. As much as Courfeyrac loved his comrade, Joly's malade imaginaire tendencies were sometimes nothing short of frustrating.
"Breathe through your shirt, then," Courfeyrac said irritably. "I hope Combeferre gets back soon."
"Why did he get to go scout around on his own?" the young medical student asked. "We're here to help, after all."
"He thinks I can't take anything seriously and doesn't want you checking your pulse at the wrong moment," Courfeyrac replied, a sort of bitterness creeping into his voice. Sure, he liked to play around, but he also knew when to be serious. That's why he was here, wasn't it, instead of reclining on a chaise in Paris, alive and well? He resented that the older student didn't see that.
No sooner had he thought this then there came a quiet, intricate tapping at the door. Recognizing their signal, Courfeyrac took the makeshift bolt (actually a broom handle) from the knob and Combeferre stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. The closet was uncomfortable with two people; with three, it was downright unpleasant.
"There's a lot of traffic up and down this hall," Combeferre informed them. "It's some kind of main thoroughfare. We're in luck, though, because most of the passages branching off lead to offices so they aren't nearly as busy."
"Offices?" Courfeyrac asked thoughtfully. "That sounds like as good a place to start as any. Perhaps we can find a paper trail to follow."
"Just as long as we can get out of this blasted closet." Joly's voice was muffled by his shirt - apparently, he'd taken Courfeyrac's advice and was breathing through it.
"To the left, then, and then across the hall." Combeferre ushered first Courfeyrac and then Joly into the sunny passage. Wide windows cast a warm glow on the oriental carpeting which would have been quite pleasant had not the three been trying to stay out of sight. They ducked hurriedly to the left and ran to a place where a long corridor lined with doors split from the wider hall.
No sooner had they pressed themselves to the first of the office doors then a group of commingled shades and angels sauntered past, headed down the main ingress. The revolutionaries recognized it as an aggregation of newly dead being shown the ropes. They'd been offered the tour themselves shortly after getting shot but had declined; a brief meeting with their pauchy, exasperated Guardian angels had been more than enough for the lads.
"How many of them are we going to have to avoid?" Joly whispered.
"A lot," Combeferre replied. "People die all the time. I can't imagine how this place
avoids getting backlogged with fresh souls."
"Well, they give me the creeps," the younger student informed them. "I can practically forget I'm dead most of the time, but seeing all this again... It sort of brings it back, you know?"
Courfeyrac and Combeferre didn't answer. Joly's statement was an uncanny mirror of what they'd just been thinking themselves.
Instead, Courfeyrac turned to examine the door they stood in front of.
"We may as well try here first. Better to be systematic about this, after all."
He peered through the keyhole, and, seeing nothing outside of a wide, messy desk, he slowly turned and pushed the knob. The first cubicle, in which the wide, messy desk resided, was otherwise devoid of life. That was the good part. The bad part was that seemingly every other cubicle in the room was occupied. That, and all the desks were wide and messy.
"This is going to take a long time," Courfeyrac muttered.
"You think?" Combeferre said grumpily.
"Come on." Courfeyrac crawled across the floor and hid behind the desk for cover. He leaned out around the corner and motioned the other boys over, grinning cheekily.
"And now, we go through people's private affairs," he whispered, his manner all one of the stage magician. "Observe. The... department memo."
He waved a sheet of lilac paper in Joly's face.
"This is beyond pointless," Joly groaned quietly, taking the memo from Courfeyrac. "We can't possibly go through all this garbage. Besides, how many doors did we see out there? A dozen? Two? There's ten cubicles in here, and this is only the first room. Besides, sneaking around all of them -" he gestured vaguely towards a flimsy gray panel, from beyond which came the sound of a loud debate over the benefits of a pixie-free workplace, "is going to be a nightmare. I mean, what is this, even? It's a bloody letter about a banquet tonight. Why in God's name -"
Joly stopped. His eyes grew wider as he stared in mounting dismay at the memo.
"What is it?" Combeferre mouthed, wrenching the paper from Joly's hands. He read the sheet over once, twice, and then his eyes too grew large. Courfeyrac skimmed over the paper he had so desultorily brandished. It read thusly:
A Note to All Department Managers
Be it known that on this night, the 24th of June, 1832, a banquet of the highest order is to be brought forth to the Hall of Records in honor of his Grace the Archangel Michael...
The memo proceeded to summarize all the significant achievements of His Grace for the past year, listed attendees as "by invite only", and closed with a reminder that the dinner started at 6:00; all faculty and visitors were to be out of the area no later than 5:00, and any unwelcome guests would be punished "according to the severity of their breach of conduct".
"What do you suppose the penalty is for a disempowered Guardian angel to be caught snooping in the Hall of Records during an Archangel's dinner party?" Joly asked, something resembling awe present in his hushed tones.
"Not good," Combeferre answered glumly. "Not to mention what would happen to Valjean and Enjolras, or the Inspector. I don't like him, but there are some things you just wouldn't wish on anyone."
"We needn't take this as all bad," Courfeyrac said, trying to lighten the suddenly dismal atmosphere. "After all, there's bound to be less people in the Hall if they all know about the banquet, right? So they already have a significantly lessened chance of discovery. Maybe Amali even knew the thing was tonight; maybe she's hoping that the guy eavesdropping on the Archangels will come back for the party. What time is it now?"
Three pairs of eyes turned to an ornate desk clock ticking away the seconds. It read 2:30.
"How has it already been over two hours?" Combeferre exclaimed, barely remembering to keep his voice down.
"Time is funny here," Courfeyrac replied. "Remember? They explained that when we first, ah, showed up. This place is fully Astral - it has no physical counterpart - so there's nothing to preserve the usual time flow. Some moments seem to last forever, while others slip away almost immediately. Eternal salvation and damnation are built on the same principle. Now come on, let's get out of here."
Joly carefully replaced the memo on the desk and the three slipped out the door as unnoticed as they'd entered.
As it so happened, Amali had quite forgotten about the banquet. It was something rather akin to a large stain in the carpet - if one lives with it long enough, one forgets it's there, while visitors notice it immediately. It should be noted that Amali looked forward to the annual dinner with an attitude akin to what one might feel in regarding a carpet stain.
Traditionally, the four Archangels with permanent Council seats would host a banquet in commemoration of their accomplishments during the approximate middle of their designated quarter. The festivities were supposed to be all-inclusive with the intent of giving back to friends and supporters, but the occasion had, over time, morphed into a by-invitation affair that took on overtones of self-aggrandization; in short, it was everything Archangels were supposed to stand against. For that reason, Raphael, Uriel, and Gabriel had more or less given the thing up. Michael, however, insisted that it was important to meet and discuss, and so he continued the yearly event, much to everyone else's chagrin. Invitations were therefore sent out to the other six Council members and a select mix of other Archangels, Cherubim, and Seraphim. Guardians were, as a rule, not invited.
Thus it was that Amali blatantly ignored the innumerable reminders, sometimes setting the hapless memos on fire when matters were slow around the office. At this moment, the ex-angel was not concerned about her lack-luster social circle. She was instead worried about Valjean, who couldn't seem to keep his focus.
"I'm only looking at the boxes," Valjean grumbled. "They're interesting."
"They're also not your memories," Amali argued. "Just leave it!"
Valjean sighed and replaced a minute black box on it's appropriate shelf.
The Hall of Records was virtually nothing but shelves. They towered some three stories high, stretching toward the domed ceiling. Each shelf was labeled with name-bearing plaques, and above each plaque sat the irresistible black boxes that contained quite literally the records of people's entire existences. Signs projected from the midsection of the cases, informing the casual browser what era and what region was represented on that particular display.
"Open the lid and watch a play-by-play of someone's life," she had said when first they entered. "Shades used to get addicted to the sensation. They would spend every moment they could here, living other people's lives. As a result, the place is now off-limits to non-angels."
The temptation to peek only grew stronger the longer one stayed, and curiosity unchecked could prove treacherous.
"How big is this place?" Javert asked.
Amali frowned. "At least a mile square, I think. Maybe larger. Why?"
"The plan was to split up, wasn't it? Let's do so, and get a move on."
"I agree," Enjolras chimed in, stepping forward. "If each of us takes a corner, we can search the place in a quarter of the time."
"I suppose..." the girl acquiesced, biting her lower lip. "But do not - do not - muck with the boxes. I'm telling you, this is quite possibly one of the worst places to get caught in someone else's head."
The three men nodded to each other and chose their designated fourth of the Hall. Enjolras took the first right at the shelf's end, while Valjean and Javert headed further eastward toward the other two corners of the room. Amali watched them disappear slowly, wondering at her misgivings. Surely they were mature enough to not interfere.
There was searching to be done. Amali took a left and started seeking possible hiding spots for dark creatures. In retrospect, it all felt like a rather futile task.
Valjean and the Inspector had been walking side by side for some time. There was no sense, they had decided, in splitting off from one another while they were still on this half of the room. There was safety in numbers, after all. They did not speak, but each took comfort in the other's presence.
Everything looked the same. Only the labels changed to indicate that they weren't walking in place. Valjean looked around in wonder. So many people from places he'd never seen - how could Amali blame him for being curious? What was freedom if not the chance to travel anywhere one liked?
Javert was largely uninterested in the shelves' contents. He was becoming more apprehensive, however, wondering again why he'd agreed to this idea and what they were actually supposed to do if they found something immortal and malignant.
They had passed much of Asia through the centuries before they found the center of the room. There was, under the penultimate point of the dome, a wide circular space set half with lounge chairs. The other half was occupied by a flurry of nymph lackies assembling long ebony tables.
"Where's the crowbar?" A short blue-blonde one shouted. "These panels are stuck again!"
A tall red-headed nymph with a clipboard sighed audibly. "Again? That's the third time in as many minutes!"
"I'm sorry, my Lady!" the smaller one squeaked. "It needs more oil yet around the hinges, I think."
The men stood behind a shelf watching things quite literally unfold as the team worked the stretch the enormous table to its full length.
"I suggest we go around," Javert murmured at last. "I think they are well-occupied."
"Indeed," Valjean said faintly. "What do you suppose they're doing?"
"I don't know, but try to commit the location to memory. It could be important."
Nymphs avoided, they wandered deeper into the maze-like Hall. By sheer force of luck, they had avoided thus far the dangers the room presented; however, a first stumbling block would prove not long in presenting itself. Javert and Valjean looked up to find themselves in a wing rather closer to home: signs put the contents of the shelves as belonging to folks from England, from Germany, and indeed from France. As they meandered, it seemed that some force drew them closer and closer to their own day and age until -
"Valjean." Javert's voice was soft, but after so much time spent in silence it seemed too loud.
"Mmm?" Valjean asked absently. He'd kept walking, but the Inspector had stopped and was staring rigidly at something.
"Come here a second." There was something oddly affected about the way that he said it. When indeed Valjean went and stood by, it took him a moment to grasp the importance of what he was looking at.
Then he said, in that way he sometimes did, "Oh".
There was a row of boxes. They were small and black and identical to every other such box in the complex. The plaques were labeled with French names: Alaine Vidocq, Jondrette Valentine, and the like. And then there was one, utterly similar, except for the fact that the brass plaque read "Jean Valjean".
"Are you going to look at it?" Javert asked, something still unusually husky about his voice.
"No, I'm not," Valjean replied, looking at the Inspector sidelong. "I'm intimately familiar with the events of my life, thank you. Why? Did you...?"
"No, no," Javert cut him off hastily. "I just thought, since we were here, that I ought to point it out..."
"Of course," Valjean said uncertainly. "Shall we keep going, then?"
They had passed several other shelves of French memory-boxes before they reached any beginning with "J" that likewise belonged to their contemporary era. Surely enough, a rather abashed Valjean felt obligated to look for, and find, a record labeled simply as "Javert". He pointed this out to his companion and was on the verge of asking why no first name was given when he thought better of it. They laughed awkwardly about coming across the accounts of their respective lives, neither of them mentioning that thing which weighed heavily on both of their consciences.
Each unbeknownst to the other, both men were burdened by the weight of small black boxes concealed in a coat sleeve or a pocket, and two shelves found themselves in the rather distressing position of having a box matched to the wrong name, as if two someones had desperately wanted to conceal the fact that something of great importance had been taken.
What was the price, they wondered, of looking uninvited into someone else's story? One's integrity? Friendship? Sanity? And if the steepness of said price was nearly unspeakable, then why were they so eager, upon abruptly agreeing to go in differing directions, to hide behind a shelf and peek, just for a moment, into the life of their equal and opposite?