If you were to take a bird's-eye view of the island school of Arcadia (as many Angels did, sooner or later), you would see that the campus had been laid out in the form of a massive cross, defined by a street paved in marble bricks that ran up from where the Halley Bridge connected the school to its attendant city. At the beginning of this road – the foot of the cross – lay the facilities for students ranging from five to thirteen years of age. This, a large portion of the student body, lived in twin four-story dormitories that straddled the road, a connecting bridge on the fourth floors arcing over it. Splayed out from these, connected by footpaths and greenery, were all the facilities needed for the proper raising and education of young boys and girls: Churches, libraries, classrooms, dining halls, and further out, magical and physical training grounds, all built to the highest standards the True Church could muster.
On some nights, of which tonight was one, you could see steam trains, powered by the miracle-working of a particularly strong priest, coming off the bridge and up the railway that bisected the main road, running all the way past the training grounds, past the Empty Quarter and the dormitories of the Pairs, to an array of steel and glass arches situated at the meeting of the arms and stem of the cross. This train station was, if not the geographical, the logistical center of the campus. You were equally likely to see members of the laity unloading the supplies from a freight carriage as seeing visiting high-ranking members of the clergy and dignitaries disembarking from a gilded passenger car. That was the case tonight – well, a couple of hours ago, but tonight.
And if you followed the road further up, where those dignitaries were headed, to the head of the cross, you would find, dominating the landscape, one of the centers of real power remaining in this world – The complex of the Basilica of Saint Michael.
That white-brick road flowed into a meeting square, one that could easily hold not just the population of Arcadia, but the city beyond it. It consisted of a single, impossibly large unbroken expanse of marble, polished to a pearly white, flanked by sweeping colonnades that encircled the square, in a similar arrangement to the much older Saint Peter's in Rome. Within the halls of those colonnades were the entrances to the twin repositories information of Arcadia: The Grand Library, and the Archives, home to the best-preserved texts of the Twilight Age and before, cutting-edge magical and theological research, and all the accumulated knowledge that the Order of Saint Michael was willing to share. If and when you walked among their bookshelves and data-centers, you could almost see what the world must have been like before the fall.
At the center of the square, framed starkly by the field of white, was a cluster of twenty-four black obelisks, each four meters tall, engraved with the names of every fallen Angel in the history of the Order of Saint Michael. Many were still blank, but it was only a matter of time before the list crept along and called for more obelisks. It was rare for an Angel to pass away at peace.
As they passed by the obelisks, Alex felt Max grip his hand tighter. He squeezed back in solidarity, even if Alex didn't understand. The list of the fallen was a point of pride, a roster of the heroes who gave everything to pull civilization back from the brink. It made Alex's heart swell to know that someday, his name would stand beside the men and women who tamed Romania, who civilized Alexandria, who held Tibet and Jerusalem and Moscow in the face of countless assaults. But Max was always a bit soft, and while it was irrational, Alex couldn't judge him for his fear of death. He still had time to overcome it.
Now was not the time to work on that, though. Max's eyes were firmly focused on his feet, and his steps were lagging a bit behind Alex's, just enough to tug at Alex's shoulder.
“Hey,” Alex said.
Maxwell looked up at him. The boy looked like he was ready to tuck his chin into his collar and hide in his own jacket. Alex took on a well-practiced commanding tone. “Chin up. Eyes forward. We're almost there,” and Maxwell, to his credit, listened.
Together they, with the other seventy-eight students of their year, escorted by many of the Sisters of Mercy who raised and watched over them, entered the Basilica.
Few structures in Christendom were better equipped to make one feel like a minuscule part of something much bigger. The atrium alone could fit a reasonably-sized chapel inside it, and it was adorned with far more sculptures and memorials than one could take in before being swept through five story tall doors and into the nave, the main structure of the Basilica. Twinned columns thick as ancient trees, inlaid with bas-relief portraits of saints and heroes, thrust upwards to form the base of crimson-accented arches that held up a curved ceiling that somehow, either through its intricate, beautifully carved patterns, or through the overwhelming weight of its sanctity, felt further away than the night sky. To the left and right, if you walked through them, and the smaller arches beyond, under the watchful gaze of the saints, you might find yourself in a church with walls made entirely of stained glass, light piped in through complex living spells from far away, glowing with the brilliance of the sun, or in a hundred-room museum of sacred art, or in the Chamber of Silent Prayer, which no matter how many entered, would seem to only contain you, and the words you had for God, or walking up a grand staircase worthy of the most decadent of Twilight Age private estates, into nigh-endless corridors of the administrative center of Arcadia and the western reaches of the Order – The Basilica contained multitudes.
Far ahead, past many rows of columns, at the cross-point center of the nave, sat, like a stage, a great altar. In daytime, the large dome above it flooded it with sunlight, and at night, brilliant arc lamps shone down on it so brightly as to be indistinguishable from noontime. Ringed with a lacquered cherry-wood banister and carpeted in crimson, the altar was dominated by a large pulpit to the rear, the stairs to which curved around on both sides, wrapping around the rear half of the altar to form a head-high wall behind. Towering above the pulpit stood the diamond-tipped cross of the True Church. In contrast to its surroundings, it was made of roughly welded iron, a relic, dating back to the first decades of the True Church's existence.
And in front of it all, barely registering against its surroundings, were several rows of pews, divided down the middle by a purple carpet. By them were several Sisters, sorting students by gender, girls to the left, boys to the right, and then assigning them seats.
Something about that sight was what did it for Alex. His heart was now firmly lodged in his throat, and all parts of the world that weren't directly in front of him faded away. The reality that this was happening was suddenly much more real than what he'd been prepared for. A Sister separated Alex and Maxwell, and Alex nearly forgot to let go of Max's hand. He was ushered into the second row, and sat down in the middle. It only took about a minute for everyone to be seated properly, and another for the excited chattering to die down. As it did, behind the altar, there was the sound of shuffling, people moving, and then, the sounds of stringed instruments being checked and tuned.
Then, simultaneously, the first, familiar notes of Bach's Air filled the cavernous room, and some of the most important figures in Christendom came out from behind the pulpit wall and onto the altar. There was, of course, Archbishop Ferdinand, old and frail, the head of religious ceremonies in their diocese, being helped along by the slightly less old and significantly less frail Headmaster Sainz, the man entrusted with the day-to-day running of the academy of Arcadia. He had long since lost all of the hair on his head, and his skin ran heavy with wrinkles, but between his height and his still-prodigious muscles, the Headmaster cut an imposing figure. Both were dressed in the long, flowing vestments of their respective offices, but behind them came someone much younger, and much less well-dressed – Mr. Gautier, the Caretaker. Only forty-four years old, he was the closest thing the students had to a “father”. It was his duty, responsibility, and love to advocate for the welfare of all pre-Pairing students, organize their extra-curricular lives, and to answer their questions and concerns with care and grace. He had no official uniform, and thus, as usual, he wore a crimson woolen vest over a standing collar white shirt, under an unbuttoned jacket with leather-patched elbows. Along with his thick-rimmed glasses, he was the spitting image of a stereotypical “professor”, but this was matched with a round face, unkempt hair above a high forehead, and above all, his nigh-eternal soft smile. That smile could express disappointment or joy in equal measure, but in this case, everyone could read the pride he felt for his children. And behind him – Well, the person, a thin, arrow-nosed man with wispy red hair, wasn't someone Alex recognized, but his uniform said more than enough. A black cassock, buttoned along the right side, with navy trim, and a standing white collar, identified him as a member of the Demetrian Order of warrior priests. They always sent some kind of representative to these ceremonies, but never someone famous enough to recognize. Still, between the Archbishop and the Demetrian priest, the other two major wings of the True Church were here, watching.
The four made their way up the pulpit stairs, and stopped on a secondary platform beneath it, with chairs for them, a concession likely made to the Archbishop. And there they remained, as an assistant priest walked around the altar, swinging a censer of burning incense, and others lit an array of candles on stands around the students and the altar itself. A haze of smoke filled the air, and the lights from above shone down as focused beams, keeping the radiance of the altar, while letting the surroundings grow darker. The strings fell silent with their last notes of Bach, and the assistants withdrew.
A lone man appeared from the wings of the hall, and took to the stage. His stride was quick and confident, and as he climbed the pulpit steps, Caretaker Gautier and Headmaster Sainz shot to their feet and saluted. The man gave them a cursory nod as he passed, and they sat back down as quickly as ordered schoolboys. When he reached the pulpit itself, the rays of light refocused, and shone not on the stage, but on the man himself. There was a regality to his movements, the kind of intentionality born of years of knowing that everything he did would someday be analyzed in books of history. His silvery hair was swept back and full of body, giving the same sense of indeterminate agedness as his face and clothing. He wore a stark white cloak, along with the official regalia of Angels fifty years past. Piercing gray eyes scanned the crowd, and Johan Rome Netzach I, Ordinator of the Order of Saint Michael, eldest and commander of all living Angels, smiled upon his charges.
Alex knew that Ordinator Johan was going to be here, it was all part of the proceedings, but he couldn't help but be starstruck. This was a man without whom civilization would not exist, at least not in its current form. If you wanted to become a great Angel, you could hardly do better than imitating him. Alex did his best to commit every moment to memory.
The Ordinator raised his hand, and crossed himself, and all assembled followed suit. His voice, clearer than mere acoustics could allow, rang out across the Basilica.
“Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.”
All echoed his prayer.
“I want you all to think on that prayer.” He paused for effect. “It has been said by countless Christians almost as long as there has been a Christianity, and it has given comfort to billions of people. But for us, and our Order, it is not just a statement of what is. It is a promise.” His bony hands gripped the ancient lectern, and he leaned forward. “Man once began to forget his relationship with God, and so, God granted man a new responsibility, testing us with the ability to work miracles, to use the same magics that God Himself had used to create the world. Man, given that responsibility, tore apart all that he had built, revealing his sins to all. And it fell to us, the pious, to be shepherds, and guide Man back towards righteousness. It is our duty, our promise, to be the keepers of this world. God granted us this world, these lives, and eternally, we shall protect it. That is your duty.” For the briefest moment, Alex felt the Ordinator's eyes meet his own, and he prayed that he'd be worthy of his responsibility.
“As of midnight tonight, you begin your fourteenth year. After years of training, study, piety, and struggle, now you are undertaking the last leg of your journey to become Angels.” The Ordinator smiled, the words as much of a challenge as they were a statement of fact. “This is the turning point. From here on out, you will be allowed greater freedoms, and given greater responsibilities. And God willing, you will, at the end of it all, become part of that which keeps mankind from falling into darkness. Were it not for the Order of Saint Michael, this empire would have perished long ago,” - Alex may have been imagining it, but he could have sworn he saw the representative of the Demetrian Order flinch – “and Christendom would have been snuffed out by the hordes of demons, monsters, and heathens.” The Ordinator drew himself up, and threw his arms wide. “You, my Angels-in-training, will keep us from the oblivion of the Midnight Age, and instead, will guide us into an era of light! Glory be to the Order of Saint Michael, to the True Church, and to God! Amen!”
Each and every student, the Headmaster, and the Caretaker bolted upright, and saluted, fists to their hearts. The “amen” was echoed even by the Sisters and the visiting dignitaries, though with somewhat less enthusiasm, considering the partisanship of the statement. Alex just thought that the Ordinator was saying what everyone had thought for years at this point; after all, would the Angels even exist if they weren't needed? But denying reality was part of man's sinful nature, so it was to be expected.
Once the room settled, Ordinator Johan continued, albeit in a much softer tone. “If I may be allowed, I would speak of my self, and my ken. I am a man of another age, and while I adapted to solitude, that is not the natural course of things. Man is a creature of flesh and blood, no matter what we craft ourselves to be in service to God. We have desires, and wants, and the neglect thereof led to the demise of many of my contemporaries.” His eyes unfocused, and his brow furrowed with sorrow. “It is not right to deny the experience of romantic love to anyone, let alone those who are tasked with protecting mankind.”
It was only by the grace of it being a metaphor that Alex could feel his heart both rising into his throat and sinking in his chest at the same time.
“And so,” the Ordinator continued, “with the knowledge of Truth, with the understanding of those who have raised you from birth, we shall grant you the boon of a perfect love from one of your peers. Like any love, it will take work. It will take the effort of learning to understand each other on a deeper level than any other human being. Across the aisle from you, your Pair awaits. They will complete you, and you, them. Together, you will grow to be stronger than either could ever be alone.”
Alex forced himself to keep his eyes dead ahead, but he could feel the furtive glances around him, darting to the left, looking to the girls of their class.
“But that is not the only boon you shall receive tonight. Come forth, my Angels,” he said, turning and gesturing behind him. Previously obscured by the stairs and the rear of the altar, forty Angels marched out and onto the stage. Men and women in roughly equal measure, clad in the greatcoats and flowing robes of their Order, they strode out, boots echoing in perfect lock-step. Once aligned in two perfect rows, they slammed their heels together in unison, and saluted. For a brief second, their wings coalesced out of radiant light, flared, and then vanished.
Alex had seen this moment play out in his mind a dozen dozen times, but he wasn't prepared to feel the energy flowing from the Angels. They could level cities. They could annihilate armies. And this many of them in the same place made the Basilica, at this moment, the most powerful place in all of Christendom. For that second, Alex had felt that, and it was both majestic and terrifying.
The Ordinator returned the salute. “There are many things a well-designed curriculum can teach, but it cannot cover everything. Much of what it means to be an Angel can only be taught by an Angel, and so, experienced professionals shall guide your learning – magically, philosophically, and practically. These Angels have been chosen to be your Guardians for the next four years.”
He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. When his eyes opened again, they were firmly fixed on the heavens. “I, and through me, the Order of Saint Michael, and through us, God, have granted you these tools to become who you must be. Now, come forth, and receive this blessing!”
At that, two Sisters of Mercy, in their crimson habits, swept in to the heads of each row of pews, ushering two students forward. As the boy and girl stepped onto the altar, a female Angel came forward, bountiful locks of golden hair spreading nearly as wide as her smile, and grabbed them both by the wrists, turning them towards each other. Both the boy and girl looked incredibly nervous, faces filled with a blush that could well have spread down to their toes, but the three of them held hands – one arm of the boy and girl dedicated to the Angel, and the other to each other.
The Ordinator looked down at them, and smiled. “I present the Pair of Gabriel and Rachel, under the Guardianship of Isabel Pahaliah II. May you serve God, and each other, in perpetuity.”
In the excitement of it all, Alex hadn't even recognized his close friend, though as his expression morphed from nervous terror to hysterical joy, Gabriel's nigh-eternal positivity came to the fore. Someone in the crowd let out a congratulatory whoop, and a girl across the aisle cheered. Alex briefly fretted at the breach of decorum, but the Sisters and all those on the altar were all smiles. Up on the altar, he could see the Guardian mouth the word “congratulations”, and newly-made Pair were having a hard time letting go of each other's hands. It was terrifying, and beautiful, and even more terrifying as it hit Alex that that was going to be him up there within the space of a few minutes. But he knew Gabriel, and he knew Rachel in passing, and they looked so right next to each other. As name after name was called out, and Pairs and Guardians were matched, Alex's fear transformed into feverish excitement. Whatever was going to happen, it was God's will, and it would be right.
When he felt the hand of a Sister of Mercy on his shoulder, the world had already faded entirely away from him, replaced with his racing thoughts, but he walked up the aisle, and onto the right side of the altar, turning smartly on his heel, exactly as he knew he should. He must have let the adrenaline get to him, because the girl was several steps behind him on the opposite side, and Alex let his attention slide to the Angel. To his Guardian.
He was an odd-looking Angel. Looking objectively, he had to be about six feet tall, but next to the other Angels, he seemed more like someone two feet taller, just scaled down. He was gaunt, and his uniform hung off him with far too much room to spare underneath. His hair was jet black, greasy, and hung nearly halfway down his back. His angular face, with sunken cheeks and thin, uneven eyebrows, conveyed no emotion, at least not that Alex could read. But looking at the man, Alex felt unsettled. As the girl took her time getting to the altar, the Angel turned to look at her, and Alex caught a glimpse of the sigil on his back.
In better circumstances, he would have been elated, but in the moment, he was just dumbstruck. On the back of an Angel's dress uniform, they wore an insignia of their rank and position within the Order of Saint Michael, and thus, their power. Clearly visible was the red diamond-tipped true cross, outlined in gold, with one pair of folded wings, one pair of outstretched wings, and a halo above the cross – a layered array of symbols that denoted a sixth or seventh-rank Angel, some of the strongest in the Order. And this sigil was surrounded by circles of Latin text, patches, and medals. Alex, being Alex, had memorized just about every accent and honor that could be applied to an Angel, and while he didn't catch enough of a glimpse, or have enough attention to spare, to identify them all, he clearly saw the patch of a member of one of the Antarctic Expeditionary Forces. Those had few survivors, and many martyrs.
Even when the Angel turned back, obscuring his sigil, Alex's gaze could have drilled a hole in his chest. And then, as the Angel grabbed him by the wrist, his attention was directed to the girl across from him. His Pair. Something about her was familiar, but in his panicked haze, Alex couldn't quite place her. The flowing red hair, the emerald eyes, the fierce expression, she was very pretty, but again, familiar…
She gritted her teeth, and Alex's mind started connecting the dots.
The Ordinator's voice boomed. “I present the Pair of Alexander and Elza, under the Guardianship of Julian Pahaliah V.”
Oh, that's a nice name, Alex thought, before the memory of hurried triage, of the borders of his mind melting and intermingling with that of a mysterious, talented girl, and of what he could only describe as advanced heresy slammed into his chest, and the world promptly stopped making sense.