Garder mon Ame

Chapter Eighteen: Locked Doors

"War never takes a wicked man by chance, the good man always."

~Sophocles

Opportunity happens upon those who wait.

Cyra prepared himself for patience and spent the majority of his time hatching plans and dreaming of a better world with Maria. Maria Louise Rupe. He found the beauty of Jerusalem somewhat lacking when he arrived after a day with the girl of roses. Her blithe laugh made him smile. Her assurance put him at ease. She was spirited, sure, but it only grew his confidence when he realized he had something – someone – to fight for. A certain word that eluded him preoccupied his busy mind, but when it came to evanescence, he knew there was something much more important that pertained to what was not melting his heart.

The door. Cyra had tried a few times to enter the Judgment Palace, but he was blocked by an elderly woman who called herself "Sylvie." Wishing ill on a soul did not define his nature, but the frustration at each time she stopped him was proving beyond vexatious to the point of humiliation. He tried to pull status by telling her he was a Guardian, but she was as well, one without wings, and she was not impressed. He attempted sympathy. He missed his sister, but she lectured about forgetting much as Didier and Emery had. And fear? She did not so much as entertain the notion of a demon entering Heaven's grounds. She believed in good just as much as he did, but it still impeded any sort of progress. Sylvie had a job, after all, and Cyra knew she was rather efficient at it. To direct the dead and prevent the prying from spying secrets set by God.

But then an odd sort of morbid curiosity overtook him when, one day, Sylvie was gone.

The Judgment Palace was awfully quiet, and few souls sat with judgment. The desks devoid of customers held souls that were peeking around almost nervously. A couple of them even asked Cyra what was going on as he, with quick footsteps, made his way towards the door. He did not know, and that was that was the truth. And the real truth was so close to him that he paid no heed to the tense atmosphere. His whole body concentrated on the door.

He hopped a desk to reach it. Up close, it was even more decrepit and more wonderful than he thought from far away. The black was peeling, but it still shone with the color of the darkest of night skies, both formidable and tranquil at the same time. The brass handle hung loosely on its hinges, but few fingerprints marred the lacquer. And the ones that did were faded horribly to where Cyra could barely make out their uniqueness. He reached a tentative hand out, feeling Maria also brush his hand forward, and he tried the handle.

Once.

Twice.

After about five minutes, or perhaps more in lieu of eternity, he came to the disheartening realization:

it would not open.

Defeated, he stood back. Was it really that covert that one that could see it could not even get past a dying door handle? Was God that protective of the arcane? He looked the door up and down, even kicked it a few times until his wings shuddered with failure. That's when he noticed a small, rectangular lock on the handle, inconspicuous its smallness. He pried it from side to side. It did not budge.

He folded. He felt his forever surcease. The plan he had – the only plan – had come to naught. He felt as though he was falling. He realized he actually had when a soul picked him up from off the ground.

"Guardian," the soul said. Her eyes were aged, a sign that she worked as a peacemaker. "You should not be here."

Cyra had trouble finding the breath to speak. All that came out was a simple apology.