I remember standing at the top of that hill in the Marches, watching the dreams turn black and bloated and blistering with pus.

I remember waiting. Straight-backed, proud; she knew what to do; she would command us all; the armies of Heaven waiting for her word.

Even as the sky darkened, screaming faces in the nearby dreamscapes, my heart swelled with pride and love for her and only her, always her.

(What could you do? They'd ask us, laughing. You serve Knowledge. What do you know of war?)

(We know everything of war.)

And so my eyes were on her, my heart resolved to war, as I saw her take those few long strides up the hill and stare down at what she saw coming up.

(Legion.)

(And she was so beautiful, standing there; I couldn't see her eyes which I loved so much, her pale blue eyes, because her back was turned, but I could trace that line - bare, as so many Elohim are, shining and smooth and perfect, her hips with just a hint of curve to them, her neck pillar-long, her back arched.)

And then she relaxed and tumbled forward and for a moment, there was only blackness, then pain, pain arching through all of us, as we heard the ringing in our ears of her Heart shattering; as we felt for the first time what it was to be without our Archangel.

(Wailing; a wail arose from the Knowledge contingent; from the ex-Knowledge contingent, as the Knowing Ones felt her die, oh Raphael, oh my beautiful lady Raphael, why could you have not told one of us, we'd have died for you, I'd have died for you!)

"Move out, move out, damn you, move out!" And it was me calling, me ordering, my own voice breaking even as I gave the command, because she needed avenging; Legion was coming apart already but it must be taken apart, ground down into ashes and no more, and what could we do but hope there'd be something left after?

And we fought, and it was over, and she was gone.

***

They wail, our loss breaking us again every time we think of it, and I gather together who I can convince to move and we carry those who will not move out bodily.

And then there's a moment of quiet, of deep, deep emptiness as I am left alone.

Orphaned, they call it, but the word is not enough. It cannot describe this feeling.

(Stricken; everything I ever loved, ever wanted, ever needed, taken from me with one blow, everything I could live for gone, my love boiling up with no source to reach, my hatred lashing out with no focus, my needs reaching out and finding no solace, my entire being screaming, screaming: Raphael, Raphael, Raphael! and finding no response, echoing away and growing louder and louder until it seems my ears would bleed if they were hearing it; my heart bleeds instead, inside my chest, filling me like a vat of pain, and still I scream: Raphael! Raphael! Raphael!)

And I stand there for a moment but there are others who feel like that and so I go around, murmur encouragements I do not feel and which do not reach my face - harsh, craggy, angry, in deep pain.

I get those I can to a managable state and pause and go find Jean.

He is dealing with the others; so many transferring to him - as Raphael's lover, as the only other Elohite Archangel, as someone to cling to who can know how they are feeling. And I wait until he has accepted all those in line in front of me and then step up to him and look.

His face is calm, if sad, if tired; calm, relaxed.

(But I look at his eyes and know he is a maelstrom in there, broken, bleeding, calling her name and hearing no answer, beating nonexistant fists against nonexistant walls as if he could tear them down and find her standing there smiling - I remember her smile, gentle and honest and calm and beautiful - and he cannot, because she is not there, and he cannot express it, because to do so would ruin himself and ruin her memory.)

What can I do? I bow and tell him, "I would serve you, Lord Jean." I add, after a moment, "If you will have me," because I know that he knows how I felt about my Lady Raphael, how my love was not the love of a Servitor for his Archangel alone.

(He is Elohite; he knows.)

And he nods and says "I am glad to have you in my service, Azalier."

I kneel before him, Azalier, Malakite of Knowledge, and he reaches to touch me and my world shifts; I rise Azalier, Malakite of Lightning.

(And still I bleed, and still I scream.)

I meet his eyes and they are deeply hurt, though his face is calm, accepting, open.

(And I know I must protect him; he loved her too, so deeply, and he cannot express it; I must help him, I must be his strength, I must give him all I can so that he may stay strong and recover, for his sake, for hers.)

And so I organize the line of angels waiting to be accepted into his service who do not know where to go, and I organize the wandering angels who have been accepted and do not know what to do, who still ache so much.

(And I want to find a room alone and bang my fists into the walls until I am bloodied, and tear them down though I know it will not help me find her again.)

I remain strong, face terse, angry, and get things organized and when Jean finally rises to leave, after having described duties and changed his Cathedral to fit the his new angels, and having closed off the entrance to Raphael's Cathedral, then he turns to me and says nothing, just nods, and I nod back.

(And I am screaming: Raphael!, and he must be as well, but our voices remain silent.)

And that is the way it is and was and shall ever be.