Solstice

SOLSTICE
Part 9/10

The guests will start arriving tonight, apart from Aurelius, who is already here, and Buffy and I are catching someh-neh-needed alone time. She won’t come back to the mansion until the night of the ceremonies.

When I say alone time, that’s all it is. We are sitting drinking tea, if you can believe that. I really don’t know what gets into me sometimes, now, with this woman. It’s as if those years with the Soul have infected mth tth the virus of civilisation. The door to my rooms is open, signifying that we aren’t in a very private clinch, although I’m thinking of changing that any second now, when there’s a knock. I don’t need to look; I can tell from the scent. It’s Aurelius, accompanied by Sekhmet. It’s also extremely unusual for a clan master to consider knocking on any door. Times they are a-changin’…

When he comes in, he has the artist with him, followed by two burdened minions. Both artist and clan master look pleased with themselves. The minions are carrying a large cloth-wrapped rectangle, which they lean against the wall. The artist looks a question at me, and I give him leave. He sends the minions away, and in a few minutes, they are back with another cloth-wrapped rectangle, which he also props against the wall. Aurelius looks quizzical, so I keep my expression as bland as possible. I know he has not seen this gift. The firstce oce of work, though, both my clan master and I have seen. The artist has been here for some days, now, finishing up the commissioned portraits. Knowing what he has done with these portraits, I am minded to persuade him to join my retinue. He has caught the very essence of my love, caught her to the life. Aurelius, too, is pleased with it.

Aurelius himself is carrying some wooden boxes, and he puts those down before going to help the artist to hang the portrait intended for my wall. Hooks have already been fixed in place. Buffy has no idea what is coming, and is intrigued.

“Slayer, I have some small gifts for you and for Angelus, to mark the occasions of your wedding and of your mating. This…” and he gestures to the painting on the wall, “is to celebrate your mating. I hope that it pleases you both.”

The artist is clearly a genius. The paintings form a life-sized triptych, a central panel with two side panels that can be closed up, oner thr the other, revealing the ornate outer casing. This, too, is a painting. It’s the sunrise over Galway Bay, and it’s this that Buffy can see. She tells us that she thinks it beautiful, and it is. She is moved when she learns that it is a part of Liam’s birthplace, and looks quickly to me, ensuring that I don’t mind this reminder of my past mortality. Why should I? What Liam was has made me what I am today. Darla was right. What we were informs all that we become.

Inside, though, the paintings tell a story suitable for a demon’s bedroom, and this is revealed as Aurelius opens up the triptych. On the left panel, I am reclining on a couch that has been casually draped in wolf skins, my naked body utterly relaxed in sated sleep. One arm is flung out negligently, my hand almost trailing on the marble floor; the other is curved over my hip, not quite hiding the part that has brought so much pleasure to my equally sated partner on the other panel. My skin, alabaster pale here, seems almost translucent, showing in places the shadowy veins that are carrying blood to my spent body, bringing renewed vigour for the next encounter. The artist has sketched this pose from life. I told you he was a toothsome piece, and I did not deny myself when I went to see him.

On the opposite panel, Buffy, too, is naked, on a couch that has a bearskin thrown over it, her body languid and lax. She is resting on one hip, turned towards the viewer, her golden hair spread in moist tendrils across a mound of silver pillows. She is not quite asleep, but her eyes are almost closed in the exhaustion of satiety. Her skin is still tinged with the rosy flush of absolute fulfilment and tiny beads of sweat give her a pearly sheen that has been perfectly portrayed. In the hand that has fallen towards the floor, she holds a small brown ostrich feather fan, which fails to quite cover her most secret juncture, simply reflecting its outermost texture. You feel that you could run your hand over her flank and immediately rouse her to sexual desire once more.

Both paintings are utterly erotic, but form only the aftermath for the central panel. Here, our bodies are a study in total abandon, tangled together in the act of love, caught at that moment when ecstasy subjugates demon Sla Slayer alike. I am still in human form, but subtle shifts in the paint show that I am about to morph into demon face, and I am positioned to sink my fangs into her. It is clear from the motion the artist has imparted to our coupling that she is about to bite me with her very human teeth.

The sight of that painting almost makes me come on the spot.

This is a private gift, solely for us, and anyone else will see only the painting’s innocuous sunrise on the ornate outer panel; beautiful enough, but hiding treasures inside.

I risk a glance at Buffy, to see how she is taking this very intimate gift. Her eyes are wide, and her hand is covering her mouth, trying to hide her shock. She has blushed rosily, and I know that it is an all-body blush. ll, ll, I’m uneasy. I can smell her arousal, though, so it isn’t all bad.

We wait, all three of us. At last, she lowers her hand.

“It’s stunning,” she breathes. “It’s like one of those Old Masters.” Then she rounds on the artist. “How did you get to see – have you been hiding and watching us?”

I catch up her hands in mine before she works herself into a rage, not at the painting, but at how the poses might have been got.

“No, my love. I did the initial sketches. You can see them if you like.” I kiss her, then, so that she can taste my sincerity. She is mollified, but still slightly embarrassed.

“Will…will everyone who comes in here see that?”

“No, love. It will be closed for all except you and me.”

What? No, I’m not going to bring a string of conqueintointo here, well, not without her knowledge. The place has to get cleaned, though, and we have minions to do that. And there are other, perfectly innocent reasons for people to be here.

Aurelius clearly has other gifts, too, but I’ll tell you of my gift to him, first.

I indicate to the artist that he should uncover the life-sized canvas, and he does so. There is a hiss of breath from my clan master, who goes even paler than his normal colour. Once more, Buffy is intrigued.

The artist has surpassed every expectation again.

The woman is depicted against the reds and russets and golds of the Judean desert as nightfall approaches, her petite body illuminated by the last rays of the setting sun. We can only see part of her face, but her skin is cream and gold, her eyes dark and full of fire. The rest of her is swathed from head to foot in robes woven in a palette of rich, earthy reds; maroon and lake, vermilion and cinnabar, madder and damask; of the finest wool, and figured in a complicated and rich design. She wears a shawl wrapped over her head and the lower part of her face. She has a decorative headdress that completely frames her face, an intricate tracery of beads in semi-precious stones; garnet and onyx, carnelian, jasper and blood-stone, beryl and jet, all offset with shimmering pearls of white and pink and black.

She is holding onnd ond out in welcome, and there is no doubt, from the sparkle in her eyes, that it is a welcome for her lover.

She is exactly as I remember her, and I pray that I was right; that this is she.

The way his eyes are fixed on her tells hat hat it is so. It is Buffy who breaks the silence.

“She is amazing. Who is she?”

Aurelius answers, his voice harsh with emotion.

“She is Palestrina. She is my soul mate and has been lost to me for almost two thousand years.”

In the face of Buffy’s stunned silence he turns to me, and I think I can see the gleam of moisture in his eyes.

“Is this how you saw her?”

“Yes.”

“She was warm, and *alive* and happy?”

“Yes. She held my hand and I could feel her power.”

He turns his face a little away, so that I might not see him.

“Thank you.”

Sekhmet is lying, forgotten by us all, at the side of his chair. Her gaze, too, has been fixed on the painting. Now, she gives a tiny miaow, higher in pitch than any I thought she could make, just like that of a kitten. Then she lays her head in his lap and there is the sound of purring from deep in her chest. It is almost a growl, so deep and rich is the sound. It’s the sound of love. He puts his arms around that huge head, and we leave them for a few minutes. We walk with the artist to the outer chambers, and as we do, I am holding Buffy’s hand.

We talk to the artist, give due praise for his work, and I tell him that if he stays with me as his patron, there will be commissions from all over the world, and from all races and species. He will be able to pick and choose. He is tempted, I can tell. I can also smell his interest in me, and so I put out a few come-hither pheromones. When he bows himself out, I do believe the job is done. Before we return to Aurelius, I take Buffy into my arms and hold her close.

“In this house there will always be decorum, just as there is in Aurelius’ home.” I allow my voice to become more playful. “After all, it may be technically a vampire’s lair, but it’s not a two-bit one.” She smiles. “Nevertheless, I’m not human, and I’m not… a tame vampire.”

That wasn’t what I was going to say, but I don’t want to remind her of him just now.

“I have appetites, and I can’t and won’t deny them.”

Well, not all of them. I know I’m going to compromise on some, for as long as she lives. After that? Well, we’ll just have to see. I press on.

“We are sensuous by nature. Can you live with that?”

Her hands creep down my back, and suddenly she pinches my backside, hard, startling a little yelp out of me.

“You bet,” she whispers, “but what happens in our rooms stays there. Yes?”

I nibble her ear. “Y. “You bet.”

It takes a little while before we go back to Aurelius. When we do, he is standing in front of the portrait of Palestrina, side by side with Sekhmet. He has his hand on her neck. He turns at our entry, and although I can smell the tears that he has shed, he is in command of himself once more.

I ring for some more tea. He says no more about the painting, but I know that he will, when Buffy has left. Instead, he picks up one of the boxes that he brought, a chunky cube about a foot on any side. The wood gleams with the dark patina of extreme age and loving care.

“I have given Angelus a gift in granting him the position as my beta, which you, my dear, will share with him. This, now, is for you. I promised to provide the headdress for your nuptials, and this is it.”

He opens the catch on the front of the box, and then lifts the lid. Whatever either of us expected to see, it wasn’t this. It’s a crown. It wouldn’t suit a monarch of today but call it what you may, it is an exquisite crown. Think of a Juliet cap - that small net ornamental cap worn by brides. I’ve even stolen one or two brides wearing such a thing. This is the queenly version.

Imagine a cap that fits snugly to the crown of the head, and has a broad, thick rim, and is all made of gold. The top part is overlapping vine leaves, with arching stems and tendrils forming a neat finishing boss. The broad rim is made of three bands of golden star-shaped flowers and perfect little pomegranates. Some of the flowers are being visited by tiny, golden bees. All around the crown, hanging from the edge are tiny bunches of black seed pearls, fashioned into clusters of grapes less than an inch long. There is a gap of two or three inches between the two parts, and spanning that gap is a circle of eight standing figures, each with four spread wings, the upper pair attached to the cap of vine leaves, the lower pair attached to the thick rim of flowers and fruits. Angels. I’ll use the word again. It is exquisite.

For the second time, my poor bride is stunned into silence, and I fill the gap until she regains her powers of speech.

“It’s beautiful. It looks old.”

“It was made almost five thousand years ago.” That stuns even me. He continues, “It was copied about three thousand years ago for an Assyrian princess, but this is finer by far.”

“Who made it?” I ask, because I have a feeling in my bones.

“I did. When I was human, I was a smith, remember.”

“Au..Aurelius.” She still isn’t comfortable saying his name. “This is a wonderful gift. It’s so beautiful, but it’s much too good…”

She gets no further, because he takes her hand and shushes her.

“Slayer, you have a unique position as guardian of humanity, and that deserves recognition. You also have a unique position as mate to my beta who, I might add, seems intent on carving out an empire of his own. Here and now, you have the authority of a queen. If my gift pleases you, then perhaps it will also remind you to use that authority wisely. Life will not always be easy for a Slayer mated to Angelus, nor for Angelus mated to a Slayer. Sometimes you must remember your role and not simply your woman’s heart.

“And besides, I rather think it will look very pretty on you.”

He looks a little impishly at me before saying, “It seemed more suitable than bloody he and and skulls and other gothic themes. I’m sorry if you expected something more traditionally vampirish.”

She doesn’t argue with him, which is a small mercy, simply reaches out and gently touches one of the tiny clusters of grapes, which moves freely, scintillating in the light. Aurelius explains that the vines are for prosperity, wealth and happiness. Material things. The pomegranates are rather more complicated. They mean fertility, life and longevity. Sex. Blood. Most importantly, the maiden-goddess who holds the pomegranate holds power over death itself. I think that means over me. I’m going to have to have words with him. I remind both of them that the Greek maiden, Persephone, was forced to remain in the Underworld, as Hades’ wife, for three months every year. She’d eaten some pomegranate seeds after he had abducted her, and that gave him power over her. Aurelius simply smiles and points to tiny clusters of seeds next to some of the fruit.

She gives both of us a caustic glance, then goes to give him a hug. He seems as surprised as I am, and pleased, too. I give him a small flash of amber to remind him of our agreement that he will not call for her. He blithely refuses to look my way, but I can scent his humour. He’s laughing at me.

The second box is long and slim. ontaontains a lace veil, which cannot possibly be the work of human hands. The threads are as fine as spider silk, and this gauzy confection is figured with orange blossom. It is long enough to form a train at the back, and he shows her how to fix it to that delicate central boss of vine stems and tendrils so that it acts as both train and veil and, when it is lifted back, reveals not only the beauty of herself but the splendour of that golden crown.

The third box contains a gift for each of us, a pair of golden torcs. Heavy gold wire has been woven into a round, flexible braid that is thicker than my thumb. The ends, which hook together very cleverly, are ornate Celtic-style representations of Sekhmet’s head. They are barbaric and beautiful, and full of power.

“These are for formal clan gather, an, and whenever else you should need them. They are emblems of your beta status.” He grins at me, a feral grin that seems to speak of the cat herself. “And I think you can feel the spells woven into them.”

So I can. They amplify the power of the wearer, making them impossible to ignore. Neither Buffy nor I need such amplification, of course, under normal circumstances, and therefore he envisages a wider use for these. No doubt we will find out in time what that may be.

These are kingly gifts. I can speak for both of us when I say that we are very pleased with them. When Buffy leaves, for the last time before the night of the equinox, Aurelius and I are moved to express our pleasure to each other. That keeps us amused for several hours, before the first of our guests start to arrive.

*************

There is power in names. More specifically, there is power in knowing names. Know the name of a thing, or a person, and you have power over them, so believed many ancient peoples. Gods believe the same thing. The true name of a god is often sac and and may not be known by the common man, nor spoken aloud, nor may it be written, for fear of the consequences.

The Lady and her Consorts, the Duality, have been known by many names, throughout the history – and prehistory – of human kind, but no one knows the true ones. Sometimes, they have only been recognised by their functions. The Duality, for example, have been called Dark and Light, Good and Evil, Creation and Destruction. They are a duality of opposites and The Lady holds the balance between them. She is Ma’at. Without any of the three, the world would sink into chaos, lost in the waters of Nun. Take as an exemplar the parasite universes. They are each out of balance. The one that is sucking the substance from galaxies in the outer reaches of our universe has no principle of destruction. Nothing ever dies, no matter how moribund it becomes. Stars do not age and die, and there is no dust from long dead nuclear furnaces to provide stellar nurseries for new ones;re are are no decaying plants or corpses to fertilise the soil of its planets; and so these eternal stars and planets and life forms must all starve. They have no option but to feed on the energy of another universe, on life, on souls, from elsewhere. Another one that we have not yet met has no principle of creation. It can only experience rebirth and renewal by stealing life from other, less moribund universes. Yet another has no balancing principle, nothing to keep Creation and Destruction in harmony. It is a pitiful thing.

Our Universe is more fortunate. Since no one knows their names, we shall continue to call them The Lady and the Duality, but we do need eed a name to know what they are. In any event, they know who they are. They know their own names, and they have power over each other. Together, they are strong. Alone, they can achieve only chaos and despair.

The invader has now taken the outer ring of galaxies along fully a third of the universe’s perimeter. It has sated its immediate hunger and is now feeding at a more leisurely pace. It knows that it has thousands of years to devour this rich prey, one of the most luxuriant universes it has encountered. It is moving inwards, shearing into the galactic plane, leaving only the emptiness of space behind. The three are powerless to stop the parasite from feeding. They do not know its name; they cannot command it. Stars and planets, dust clouds and nebulae are all consumed. The loss of life is almost beyond counting. Trillions of creatures are dying: creatures large and small, advanced or primitive. Worst, though, is what happens once life has been extinguished. The parasite continues to feed, to destroy the very souls of its victims. So far as it is concerned, a soul is just one more source of energy. Philosophers have debated the matter, but The Lady and her Consorts know. Everything that has life has a soul. These souls are gone now, never to know another life, never to grow into something else. Extinct.

The Duality take their leave of The Lady, to do the only thing that can be done. Along the leading edge of the invader, Creation and Destruction work together to lay down a line of fire, complete galaxies of stars exploding into supeae iae in a holocaust that is visible across the entire universe. Nothing escapes their righteous fury. Nothing, that is, except the souls of the creatures they have sacrificed. These are not out of danger yet, but the invader will take much longer to reach the underworld dimensions. With the death of their bodies, these spirits may yet be saved. Their lives have been given to the fire, so that their souls can have hope of a future.

Back in their tiny paradise, The Lady reviews the roll of those who, although they do not yet know it, have chosen to stand against the coming darkness. They are few, now, but becoming greater in number. She is sure they will be enough. Almost sure. Some of them have doubts and uncertainties and she allows them to dream, gives them something to reflect on in the years to come. We can see into some of those dreams. Few of those whom we have observed can make any immediate sense of their vns, ns, and may r dor do so in this lifetime. There will be other opportunities, and this memory will stay with them.

Anya and Xander dream of the power of vengeance demons.

Giles dreams of Jenny, and she speaks to him, as beautiful and alive as she was before Angelus broke her neck. She tells him that she will see him again, and he desperately wants to believe her. She speaks to him of Watchers, of *different* Watchers, there to serve champions, whatever form those champions may wear.

Wesley dreams of strange beings, of old gods and new beginnings; and Gunn dreams of death and Slayers.

Willow dreams of The Lady, who asks her to do something. This results in a phone call to Aurelius on the following morning, the day of the ceremonies. Tara dreams of choices, and deaths that might have been or might still be to come.

Faith dreams of Angelus and her sister slayer, and of belonging. Then she dreams of Gunn and Lindsey, stretching as sleekly as a cat while she does so.

The priest, Father Jerome, dreams of the black sand, the black cliffs, and a man torn to bloody rags, huddled in a corner of a dark, dank room, waiting for another tormentor to come. A man who knows that he could say the word and his torment would be over. If he did so, though, his dark half would die, and his soul mate would be left helpless and defenceless, with no one to watch over her. He will never say the word. He’s beginning to forget who and what he is. He’s even beginning to forget his own name. It doesn’t matter. All he needs to do is remember the power of *her* name. Buffy. Father Jerome, priest of lost causes, prays in his dream. He prays to The Lady for mercy for that huddled creature, and as he does so, he sees a white stag enter the room. The man doesn’t move. After all, he is huddled as deep into the corner as it is possible to get. The stag ses ses its muzzle against the man’s neck and licks some of the blood that runs there. Then it is gone, but glinting on the man’s bloody hand is something new. A silver claddagh ring.

Haraeth, king of Hylek, dreams of bands of grim warriors, of barbaric totems and battle standards. Of death, and more death.

Aurelius dreams of Palestrina. In his dream, she tells him that she will come to him soon, much sooner than he thinks, although not quite yet. In his dream, she slips into the cool sheets with him and shows him that she has not forgotten how to love him.

Dawn dreams of dimensions, the doorways to them stretching outwards like a hall of mirrors, more and ever more, as far as the eye can see. She dreams of skies of turquoise and copper, of green and red; she sees earths of blue and brown and white, of green and yellow and all the shades of ochre, laid out like a tablecloth before her.

Sekhmet dreams of her lost soul mate, as he stands at the entrance to the black cliffs and beckons her on.

Cordelia dreams of shoes.

*************

It is the night before the ceremonies, and I have had such a strange dream. A Slayer dream, I’m sure.

At first, I couldn’t sleep. Well, that’s to be expected, I suppose. It’s a *really* big day tomorrow. My spider senses are working overtime with all these strange demons in town. Apparently, we’ve got the elite of half the world’s demonry here, and maybe then some. And there’s still the big question. Should I be doing this?

I know. I’ve beaten this one to death before, but it’s as valid a question as it ever was. Am I betraying my calling? Even if I stop Angelus from killing innocents, he will still kill. He enjoys it too much not to, and besides, he needs human blood. Fresh human blood. You’ve seen some of the things that have faced us in the last few years. His blood has sustained me, and mine has sustained him, at times when we thought that the other might die. Our lives have been… difficult. But the basis of all that, or mur mutual survival, is human blood. Angelus cannot do what he has done on animal blood alone, and he cannot only feed from me. I do not have enough blood for that. What am I to do? Say that I cannot save everyone? Say that some can be sacrificed to my lover’s demonic appetites? How could I live with that? Yet I feel in my heart that this was meant to be: ordained from the beginning.

I fell in love with Angel, but that is not how I feel about either of my demon lovers now. If you fall in love, you can fall out of love again. I simply love. It may be something of the heart, but it binds every part of my being. I feel them in my flesh, my bones, my blood, in every nerve cell. They are as much a part of me as my own spirit.

I remember my biology teacher telling us about the human brain: about how it is layered from the most primitive to the most… rati. T. This is why I am tossing and turning, and unable to sleep on this eve of my wedding to the most vicious vampire ever to have lived, the most dangerous demon on the face of the earth. My rational frontal brain is speaking to me of conscience and duty. My primitive hindbrain recognises its mate, and understands how to use him in the battles that I’m sure are to come.

Angelus is obsessed with me. I know this. Will that obsession end? What about as I age? Will he move on? Will he change his mind and want to turn me? Or is his love as deep as mine? A love that can survive age or disfigurement? He told me that the passions of a demon run deeper and darker, and much fiercer, than the passions of a human. If his passion is nearly as deep and dark and fierce as mine, surely it will never end?

It’s on these thoughts that I fall into an uneasy sleep.

Waiting for me is Angel. Not Angelus. Angel. He is standing in the sunlight in a flower-filled meadow. At first, he doesn’t speak, and neither do I. There is no time for words. There, amongst the long grass and bright flowers, we make love for what I know is only the second time, but I feel that we have known this joy many more times than just twice. He is not so different to my other demon in the way he uses both our bodies to bring ultimate pleasure.

When we are sated and at peace, he gathers me to him.

“Buffy, it won’t always be like this. We won’t always be parted. I promise.”

Somehow, I can’t speak. He seems to understand, and goes on.

“Do you love him?”

I can only nod.

“Well, he’s part of me, and I know how you love. When you love someone, you love them completely and without reservation. I suppose it was to be expected.”

I cling to him a little more, because he sounds sad.

“It was meant to be like this, Buffy. *We* meant it to be. We accepted these paths a long time ago. It isn’t too late to turn back, if you cannot bear it, but watch, now. Look, and see what you can do.”

Although I can hear his voice, his arms are no longer around me. I turn to find him, and he is gone. Over the hill, I can hear a noise, though, the sounds of fighting, and I go to see whether he is there. There are people, although none of them are Angel. There are men, women and children, their animals, their homes, their treasured possessions. Everything is being laid waste by something I could only see in a dream. A unicorn.
isn isn’t the milky-white dainty creature of fairy tale. This must be almost a ton of muscle and sinew and bone, with a yard long horn. It’s as black as polished jet, with a silver mane and tail and hooves. Not white or cream. Pure metallic silver. It is killing and maiming and crushing and destroying everything in its path, and that silver horn is running red with blood. The screams of the dying echo around me, and I’m about to run into what can only be a futile battle when I hear Angel once more.

“Call to him.”

I look for Angel, but I still can’t see him.

“Call to him,” he urges again.

I wonder how to do that, but something in me knows.

“Angelus.”

The unicorn’s muscles are bunched beneath that sleek skin, as it gores through a knot of shivering, screaming people, trampling the survivors beneath its hooves. It hears me, though, and freezes.

“Angelus.”

It turns its head to me, those dark eyes wild and rolling, and then it’s galloping up the hill, head bent in the charge, ready to spear me with that horn. Faster and faster it comes, divots of earth and grass and wild flowers spraying up behind it in a dark cloud, and I can almost feel the hot breath on my face, the horn sliding through my ribs to crack open my heart.

“Angelus.”

The unicorn gives a despairing whinny, and slides to a halt, on its knees. As its hindquarters sink to the ground, the hooves flailing for purchase that cannot be found, it raises that massive but beautiful head to look at me, and I see the madness draining from its eyes. Then, it lays its head in my lap and sighs. We stay there like that for a long time, with only birdsong to keep us company. Eventually, though, I know that it is time to move on. I tell the unicorn to stand, and he does, every muscle twitching and shivering, poised for flight. I lay my hand on his withers, and he calms and steadies. Together, we walk over the hill towards the destruction on the other side. As we crest the rise, we are joined by another. This one is just as massive, just as powerful, just as dangerous as the one under my hand, but it is pure white. As we walk through the carnage, the screams and cries fade away, andind ind us is only peace. Ahead is a towering wall of flame, with strange, barbaric figures moving in it. My companions tense themselves, ready to defend those behind us. Angel’s voice comes again.

“It was chosen.”

Then I wake up, feeling more refreshed than I have any right to be. I am at peace with myself and my decision, although I may never understand exactly why I should be. I just know that this was a Slayer dream, and I am doing the right thing for my calling, as well as for my heart. I’ve spent my time as a Slayer trying to save lives. Angel’s mission was saving souls. Both are important, and there must be a balance. Perhaps that is what the dream was telling me.

I think of that incredible crown that Aurelius has given me, with its deeper symbolism, and I wonder how much he knows of whatever might be to come. Aurelius is reputed to have the gift of prophecy. Well, time will tell.

*************
To Chapter 10