"It's what, then?"
The Cherub looked perturbed. She had been looking perturbed for most
of the day, he had noticed. He suspected it had something to do with
the dog tag around her neck -- the one that said 'Judgement' with
what looked like a little cloak around it. That wasn't the oddity of
the Cherub looking perturbed -- not at all. No, the oddity was that
she was an oversized lioness (a species not known for their smallness
even where he had originally come from) with what seemed to be a
twenty-four foot wingspan, and yet gave off the same musty essence of
a rather old, rather crotchety, rather annoying librarian he'd once
been exposed to during Second Year for months at a time. Said
librarian had the uncanny ability to seem both put out and affronted
at the same time, in much the same way she had the ability to wear
the same grey skirt and white starched blouse for twenty-four
straight years without once considering 'fashion' or 'taste.'
"I've told you," she said, finally. "It's called a Cadre. For...
well, souls."
"Like me," he said. He hadn't quite gotten the hang of being a soul.
He'd just gotten around to getting the hang of the exercycle in the
first place. Getting the hang of said cycle being his passage into
the world beyond was rather more difficult, he was finding.
"Precisely." She wrinkled her nose. "They write, too."
"Writers."
"Yes."
"Dead writers."
"Yes."
He looked distant, for a moment. "I expect they've gotten rather more
popular as a result."
The Cherub sighed. With the Archangel of Creation off doing He know's
what in He know's where, the blessed souls that ordinarily would have
been processed by his organization were generally being shuffled
about to other organizations as need be. The Most Just had suggested
she handle this one, as he'd reviewed her last Triad report and
remarked dryly that she must have quite a sense of humor to think it
was complete and accurate. She hadn't been punished before now. She
now understood what just punishment was, in this case. "Look. They're
a Cadre of blessed souls of you writers -- the more fanciful ones,
mostly -- and they go out and do good things on Heaven's behalf. I
thought you might be interested."
"Good things?" The soul looked puzzled again, and compensated for his
sudden confusion by putting his hands in his dressing gown. (He
hadn't complained about appearing at the Gates in a dressing gown.
Oddly enough, it conformed to his sense of the appropriate.) "So...
these dead writers are running off to the post for Heaven, picking up
Chinese take out, walking the blessed pets and whatnot?"
The Cherub sighed again. "Look. You don't expect we'd send our
revered Saints--"
He blinked again. "Saint? I thought I was a Soul!"
"You are a Soul. But if you join up with the Cadre, you become a
Saint when you go back down to Earth and--"
"Would I need one of those halos? Or for that matter, would I have to
go and perform three miracles? I'm not sure I can -- I'm a fair hand
at juggling, if I have enough gin to soften me up, but--"
"No," the Cherub said intently. "You do not need to perform
miracles. You would go down to Earth and fight Demons alongsi--"
"Um... pardon. But... did you say fight Demons?"
"Yes?"
"I'd rather think my fighting a demon would be a miracle, don't you?"
The Cherub was well aware of the standing restrictions on what the
Heavenly Host could and could not say to the Blessed Souls of those
who met their Destiny. The Archangel of the Sword was quite clear
on that, and the Most Just was quite clear on his support of the
Archangel of the Sword. In fact, the Cherub had been directly
responsible for chastizing, judging and punishing no less than
thirty-three seperate Angels of Choirs ranging from Ofanim to
Kyriotates for uncouth and disturbing language and attitudes with the
Blessed. She was quite good at it, really. So, she took yet another
deep breath, indulged in yet another sigh, and turned back to the
Blessed. "Yes. It would. We would teach you Miracles before you went,
you see."
"So... I do have to perform three miracles to be a Saint."
"NO YOU SODDING WELL DO N--" She paused, took yet another deep
breath, forgoed the sigh, and said. "It is optional, of course. You
really should discuss it with Saint Robert if you're interested."
"Mm. Perhaps. Though for right now... well, I feel most terribly
embarrassed to ask--"
"No no," the Cherub said, her bearing screaming the depths of the
inconvenience this simian in the dressing gown was putting her to.
"No no, this is Heaven. Your eternal reward. Please. Feel free to
ask anything."
"Well... might I get a cup of tea? I'm feeling rather lost without it."
The Cherub took rather a long pause. Deciding a good sigh would feel
lovely right about now, she took it. "Of course. Anything else?"
"Well... perhaps...." The soul considered, and decided. His sense of
the appropriate was being bent into different shapes by all this, and
as his sense of the practical was about used up from the entire
experience of death, he gave it free rein. "I could really use a
towel."
"A... towel?"
"Yes. It would make me feel ever so much better."
The Cherub discovered she had absolutely nothing she could say to
that. In fact, it was so far out of her experience that she found
herself doing the only thing she could. She said, in a clear, almost
conciliatory voice, "right... this way, sir."
The soul smiled a touch. He could see he would get along fine here,
so long as he could get a cup of tea and a towel. Though really, the
place needed a better way to convey information about who and where
he was.
Then again, perhaps he'd write one. He was known for guides, and he
expected he'd have the time.
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