Garder mon Ame

Chapter Eight: Holy Discord

"At the end of the day, good will triumph even though we, at the time, may not recognize it." ~Unknown

The man leading Cyra was an enigma, a puzzle that was missing some pieces and contained some that were blank. In the few minutes (or however long it was, depending on how time passed in Heaven) that he had known Emery, he had observed that the Warrior was cold and not giving of approval, yet had captivated everyone around him with a strong sense of guidance and leadership. So how could a man have been molded into the very things that defined him without a strong foundation? How could his figure stay so powerful when he had no memories of the past?

Cyra felt a bit sorry for Emery. He wished he had the ability to show his guide how much the past could mean to the future, for, after all, one practically lives in the past as the present quietly slips by with ease, without any pain or warning. The past is remembered, history is taught, so one can always have a robust background, a stout cache of emotion and knowledge for when the future proved daunting. That was why Cyra would never let go. He needed to keep all of his failures for further improvement. A child never learns by doing something right the first time. No, every soul discovers by catastrophe. It's what makes science and art, and it is what makes a man.

So then what made Emery? What made his handsome, aging face? He was like the black door in the Judgment Palace. He was another secret hidden by God, another unknown hidden until Cyra was ready to understand. That was why he was silent, almost like a frightened child, and he trailed behind the man without a word.

Cyra passed a group of angels who were letting the white butterflies dance lazily on their fingertips. They had a past. They remembered all, their families, friends (although Cyra thought the two should be classified together), and they were categorized as indolent. Time spent lamenting and being immersed in technology, as his sister had pointed out, were what made languid souls. So then, if shunning memory and reality really made one strong, like Emery, then could it ever be right to completely forget to become resilient? Or, rather, Cyra wondered when one would be forced to disregard the past, what made someone that desperate for a boost of vigor?

The beautiful grass ended, and the streets began again, paths that carved their way in between the lost hopes and desires of the Guardian Angels. Just as Emery was about to take a step out of the park, a voice froze him in mid stride, making him appear comical as he balanced on one foot.

"Em! Hey, Em, over here!"

Cyra whipped his head around towards the voice and rested his gaze on a table at which sat three angels. One was a tall, lanky man with pointed features much like a rat, complete with shaggy brown hair and small, dark eyes that shone with constraint and intelligence. The second was a small boy, no older than ten, with an adorable, round face and silky blonde hair, who smiled at Cyra with the innocence only small children possess. The man who called Emery was waving with a grin plastered on a slightly wrinkled, but kind face. He was a bit pudgy, and his hair was grayer than Emery's by many shades, but his features were graced with love and compassion, that seen on an adoring father. If all one had was a first impression, then Cyra liked this guy already.

Emery rolled his eyes, an action that seemed to suit him well, and he led Cyra over to the table with a frown plastered on his face.

"I'm busy," Emery said simply. He stood with his arms crossed next to the kind man, glaring black eyes meeting friendly, sea-green, and cocked his head over to where Cyra had placed himself, right next to Emery.

The kind man seemed to notice Cyra for the first time, and his grin expanded as he extended a hand. "The names Didier Moreau, but you can call me by my first name, if you wish. Or Didi, depending on how polite you are feeling."