Michael and Laurence entered the Glade, incensed, aggravated… and, truth be told, not a little curious. Novalis' politely-worded, cheerfully toned note of challenge had been made in the proper form. However, formal notes of challenge shouldn't be on rose-colored recycled paper, have big-eyed puppies for a watermark, or have the dots for all the 'i's' replaced with hearts. They also shouldn't be delivered in secret by a grinning Ofanite … even though it could be argued that Novalis was showing respect by sending her daughter.

That's probably what convinced Laurence to not categorically forbid this, the Archangel of War mused Having Lily flit around and casually greet the General of the Host with 'Evening, bro. Mom says hi' was a bit too provocative. Lily was about the only Servitor in the Host that could get away with such insolence … and Lily, Laurence and Novalis all knew it.

The Glade was … odd. Empty, for one thing: the tables were bare, all the couches and pavilions were vacant, and there weren't even any birds singing. A portion of the grass had been cleared and marked off with snowy-white ropes, directly resting on the ground. To someone who had seen the endless party normally going on here, the general effect was profoundly disturbing.

"Oh, good. You got my note." The two Archangels turned to see Novalis come out of one of the ubiquitous tents that littered the Glade. She was in human form: young, female, red-haired, barefoot and dressed in sweatshirt and pants. Michael approved of that, at least. Visions of fighting someone in a tie-dyed sweater and sarong faded from his head as he gave Novalis the sketchy bow due any Archangel.

"You emissary was most prompt, Lady Novalis." Not to mention rude, flighty and loose-fingered, just like all other Servitors of Janus. "Laurence and I decided to at least speak further about your … proposal."

"Proposal? I'm sorry, Michael. I meant to make it a proper challenge, but I really don't have much experience in doing that sort of thing." The Archangel of Flowers giggled, then sighed. "I must have ripped up ten notes before I was happy with the wording. Oh, dear.

"Hello, Laurence," continued the Archangel of Flowers to the silent Archangel of the Sword. "I haven't seen you here lately. How have you been?"

"Fine, Lady Novalis."

"Are you eating? You look a bit underweight."

"I have been training hard, Lady Novalis."

"How's that nice boy Galahad doing, dear? Are you helping him settle in all right?"

"Quite well, Lady Novalis," Laurence responded, through gritted teeth. "I'm sure that he'd be pleased to hear that you were asking after him."

"Well, I do see him quite often, but the poor dear's so quiet that it's hard to really get any news out of him. Of course, he does at least come for dinner sometimes, unlike some people I could name…"At this point, Michael intervened - reluctantly; the temptation to just watch Laurence squirm was unworthy, but strong - to bring the conversation back on track.

"Put him on the griddle later, Novalis. We're here because of your note. Am I correct in understanding that you want to challenge me? In a fight?"

"Of course, dear. You did say 'anyone', right? Well, I'm anyone, and it sounds like fun."

"This is supposed to be a fight, Novalis. Violence. Combat. Probably injury. Possibly bloodshed."

"Oh, pooh. The Pax Dei protects us all, after all: you'd no more try to deliberately kill or maim me than I would you. Besides, I get to pick the rules - subject to your and Laurence's approval, of course - and I've come up with conditions that will demonstrate our skills without too much risk. As for injury, well, injuries happen in any sport, don't they? I'm tough enough to handle it, and I know you are. All in all, it's what your drill sergeants tell my Servitors when they practice. We're training: violence shouldn't come into it, at all."

Michael admitted that she had a point. Much as she annoyed him, Michael wasn't eager to rip off her arms, unlike some others he could name. However, a little manhandling would probably do wonders for her attitude … provided that it didn't go to far. The Host wouldn't approve of Novalis with her arm in a sling, just because big, bad Michael to advantage of her willingness to help out.

A thought occurred to him.

"Novalis, where is everybody?" The Archangel opened her eyes wide.

"Why … they went to Janus' permanent floating party and snatch-a-thon. It's a special one, this week: Elvis is going to be jamming with John Dillinger. They even say that N. J. will be coming up for the occasion. No other reason."

That, Michael thought/sensed, is a big, fat, thumping Lie. He couldn't determine what kind of Lie it was, but he could guess. She must be worried that her Servitors would suffer low morale if they saw their precious Mother tossed around the Glades. Reasonable: we must retain our authority, after all. Laurence cleared his throat.

"What are your rules, Lady Novalis? At what are you contesting for?" Novalis dimpled.

"I thought that a wrestling contest would be best. Best of three falls. If I win one of them, Michael has to listen to me while I give him a piece of helpful advice … and if I win all three, then he has to obey my commands, without hesitation or malice, for one day." The Archangel of Flowers held up her hand. "I swear that these commands will not involve his public or private humiliation, and will not hinder his ability to serve his Word." The Seraph could hear the Truth of the vow.

"But, if Michael wins … well, I'll triple the amount of Rofeah that I normally allow to seek out War." Michael heard Laurence's sudden intake of breath. The Rofeah were Novalis' minor Choir, and the best healers in Heaven. The few that served other Words were treasured and fought over like the precious resources that they were. Getting more, without Novalis' irksome 'input' on how they were to be used, was a prize indeed.

It's even worth not rubbing her nose in her defeat, Michael thought magnanimously. Maybe I'll even let her have a fall. That would let her maintain her dignity, I can endure a lecture, and the added goodwill might get pay off in more Rofeah. He nodded to Laurence. Novalis beamed, and put out her hand.

"Do we have a deal?" Michael grinned and clasped hands with her. As they shook, sealing the pact, he said,

"Fine with me. When do we start?" Novalis matched his grin … and pushed, hard. Michael was expecting that, actually: what he wasn't expecting was for the ground beneath him to rise up like a living being. That, coupled with Novalis' leg sweeping in around his ankles, was just enough to send them both sprawling to the ground. Plants burst out of the grass, entangling them both.

"Actually, we just did."

Part II

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, Laurence, sheathe your sword. We're both equally immobilized here."

Easy for her to say, Michael internally grumbled. He was tangled up in the largest rosebush he had ever seen, with thorns to match. She was loosely draped in sunflowers: Novalis was idly scratching the head of one as it moved under her fingers like a purring cat. It's hardly the same thing. Laurence, however, seemed a bit too livid at flouted conventions to note such petty details.

"Lady Novalis, that was most unfair. Michael came here for a fair contest, not to be shamefully deceived. You didn't even wait for him to enter the tourney field before you began to cheat!"

"What tourney field, dear? You mean that? That's just four pieces of rope, laid out in a square on the grass. It has no other significance, except by consensus. And what cheating? Neither Michael nor I made any rules about not using the terrain to our advantage. Michael, tell me truthfully: could you have done this, in your part of the Groves?" The Archangel glared, but nodded. "Laurence, can you make the very stones of the Cathedral defend your Word?" Laurence also nodded, just as reluctantly as Michael had. "Then why shouldn't my domain obey my will? Laurence, this gets to be your lesson. Don't assume that, just because you won't stoop to some level, no one else will, either."

The Archangel of War blinked. Lord of Hosts, but I've been trying to get that through his head for a thousand years. Strange to hear Novalis say the same bloody thing. The Archangel of Flowers turned her attention to her fellow-captive.

"And here's yours. Not a lesson, just a reminder. Don't rush into things … and never dismiss an opponent just because she doesn’t share your concerns. A little forethought would have countered my ploy, but you didn't think it necessary for 'poor little Novalis'. Arrogance will always eventually rise up and bite you in the ass. Agreed?"

Novalis sighed at Michael's scowl. "We'll sit here like this until you say whether you agree with me or not … or until you rip up a lot of helpless plants and storm off, of course. But if that happens, no more contest … and no Rofeah at all."

Well, if you put it that way… "Agreed, Novalis." The sentiment is True, after all.

"Oh, good. You can go now, thanks," said Novalis to the plants, which obediently whipped themselves back into the ground without a trace. Michael stood up, checking for scratches. Not a one. Potentially useful restraint technique there. "Best two out of three?"

"Actually, dear, we're tied at one fall each. I didn't exactly stay on my feet, did I? Fair's fair." Novalis looked over at Laurence. "I think, all things considered, that we should make the next round easier for our suffering referee. Wrestling: full human form and limitations, no celestial advantages, no throat locks, first person to hit the ground loses. Just like the ancient Greeks."

"Fine. Hmm: I need to speak to Laurence, before we start." Michael went over to the silent Archangel of the Sword. "Relax, comrade. It's my fault for not setting the rules … and my fault for not taking this as seriously as her. In her place, I would have pulled the same thing."

Laurence raised his head somberly. "It's not that. Tell me the Truth, Michael: do I actually act naively?"

Novalis, I regret the last twenty-three nasty things I said about you. Well, twenty-two. "Not exactly, Laurence. When it comes to actual combat, you're every demon's personal nightmare. It's just that sometimes… you imagine that the Enemy sees things as Purely as you do. They don't. Hard as it is for you to believe, they really don't. Usually, it doesn't matter, because you're Laurence and they're just a bunch of Damned demons, but it can get in the way, sometimes." The Archangel of War clapped his commander's shoulder, not forgetting to take on the full limitation of corporeal form. A very small limitation: Novalis has no way of knowing that I routinely train this way. "Buck up, lad. You don't actually have to change your beliefs: you just have to stop assuming that everyone else shares them."

He might have continued, but at that moment Laurence took one look over Michael's shoulder, paled, and turned his back, blushing furiously. Novalis had, during the two fighters' conversation, casually removed her outer clothing and was now fumbling with the catch to her bra. Looking up, she returned Michael's raised eyebrow with one of her own.

"What's with Laurence? By the way, be a dear and pass the olive oil…" The Archangel of War labored mightily not to chuckle.

"I really don't think that Laurence is quite ready to judge that kind of … struggle. Especially one that would involve you…"

Novalis frowned. "I looked it up. The ancient Greeks always wrestled nude. The oil's traditional, too… oh." She put her hand up to hide a laugh. "I swear, he's almost as bad as his father." Michael, out of the corner of his eye, saw Laurence's face perform the usual frozen look of embarrassment that appeared whenever Novalis mentioned Uriel. "This younger generation … well, the blessed catch is stuck, anyway. I suppose that we can skip the oil, too."

After a minute or two's wait, Laurence's composure was sufficiently recovered to handle judging the second round. The two contestants faced each other, bowed slightly, and began. Michael knew how to wrestle, of course: he was mildly surprised that Novalis did, too.

Still, I'm stronger and faster. Novalis should have emphasized a more brute-force approach for her vessel this time around. Increased flexibility will only take you so far. Although, truth be told, her vessel was smoothly muscled… and very attractive. As the struggle continued, Michael discovered an unfortunate problem involving human physiology that occurs when an extremely healthy, sweating young male engages in a non-life threatening activity that requires close and constant body contact with a supremely desirable, sweating young female.

THAT never happens in practice! Michael's eyes narrowed. Another trick? No… no. She said, 'no celestial advantages'. No false modesty here, but she's probably no better off. It is annoying, though: how mortal men deal with this happening all the time is beyond me…

But back to the matter at hand. If the heaving of her chest is any indication, she's starting to tire. Let's end this. Duck, feint, grab, oops, grab somewhere else, PULL… Michael yanked her off balance, beginning a series of moves that would end up with her landing on the ground.

She wasn't going anywhere without resistance, of course. Interesting smell: what do they … oh, yes, 'perfume'. What is it reminding me of?

And at that point, Novalis did something certainly never done in reputable ancient Greek wrestling.

She licked Michael's earlobe.

At the same time, her foot was doing very interesting things to the back of his left leg … just before she overbalanced, sending them both to the grass sideways, Michael's face eventually ending up pressed to Novalis' upper torso. He could vaguely remember that this should have been a cause for annoyance, but the hormonal cocktail currently being simulated by his vessel was making it hard to remember precisely why.

An urgent clearing of the throat guiltily brought the Archangel of War back to his senses. Reestablishing his normal form (albeit slightly reluctantly), Michael waved a finger in Novalis' face.

"That was cheating. Fun, but cheating."

"And you didn't? Or did you not, in point of fact, pick a form that would limit your abilities as little possible? So did I … but I just have different skills.

"And that's your second reminder. Remember your limitations, and everyone else's. Laurence, dear, stop scowling - your face will freeze like that if you keep it up - and listen to this one, too.

"Michael, we're all tools of the Almighty: you, me, him, Janus, David, Marc, everybody. Even Dominc. Aside from that common thread, we've got all different responsibilities, skills, and strengths. We also all have our own limitations. There are things you can do that I can't … and there are things I can do that you can't. I don't like to nag..." - Laurence snorted, despite himself - "but one of the biggest problems we're having in our mission to save humanity is that the war faction doesn't know when to get out of the way and let the rest of us do our jobs.

"To mangle a old human cliché, you two are hammers in God's toolbox. The two finest hammers we have. But not all problems are nails." The Archangel of Flowers clapped her hands.

"So. Here we are, tied at two apiece. Last one takes the marbles. Now, Michael…" Novalis grinned, "you're probably feeling justly annoyed by my cynical manipulation of your trusting nature. Tell you what: you set the rules for the third round. I'll abide by them, like a good little Archangel."

…

Michael had sat on the grass for fifteen minutes, thinking, and Laurence was starting to get a little worried. He couldn't work out his colleague's mood: there was no anger, no irritation, but the Seraph wasn't exuding cheerfulness, either.

He almost looks … sad, Laurence thought. Sad, and not a little oppressed by memories. I don't think I've ever seen him quite like this. Weary, yes, but not melancholy. By the Standard of Creation, why? Novalis has gotten this far by wholesale stacking of the odds in her favor, but in a straightforward fight, she doesn't have a chance. But she's already made her point, hasn't she? This contest was never about her Rofeah: it was about Michael … and I … learning some respect for a colleague.

Eventually Michael's face cleared, then set in resolve.

"I have decided, Novalis. For the third match, we will use the rules … for Avatars."

AVATARS?!? Laurence, shocked, looked at Novalis, whose face had paled. No … no. Whatever she had expected, it wasn't this.

Neither had Laurence. Avatars had been first been played during the Silver Age, that bittersweet time between the First Rebellion and the First Incursions. It was a game, and a tool, and an affirmation of Creation, and all of those things at once. You had to be a Superior to play it properly: Word-bound could manage a rudimentary version, but only an Archangel had the necessary complexity and self-awareness to master the sport. In essence, it was the direct competition of Word upon Word, with victory going to the one smart and creative enough to define his or her Word over the other's. It had been played with a passion, even after the War started in earnest. Of the limited pool of players, Michael had been acknowledged one of the two very best.

The other one was Raphael.

Memory can be the celestial's curse. Suddenly, Laurence was there, on that evil last day of the Legion Campaign. The Renegade Prince had been brought to bay, and the Powers That Be of both Heaven and Hell strove to defeat a threat starkly dangerous to both.

They succeeded. They did not succeed without cost. If a Malakite could shudder - if a Malakite even knew how to shudder - Laurence would have done so at the memory of the Archangel of Wisdom, her unraveling Forces spiraling behind her like a phoenix' tail, diving upon Legion like a Divine wind…

Michael had never spoken of what that sight did to his own Heart… but he never played a game of Avatars again.

Until, apparently, now. I wonder if she understands the significance of this. Yes, of course: she was there, after all. Legion was declared Beyond The Pale, and she knew herself obligated to participate in the consequences of that judgement. She knows the nature of Michael's gesture.

This time, there was nothing perfunctory about the bows, as the two contestants spoke the opening rituals of a sport not practiced for over half a millennium. The special shields wavered and formed: Laurence knew that the flickering shapes seen through the distortion had fueled (the few times this sport had been practiced and witnessed on the corporeal plane) human legends of shape-shifting magician's duels.

The Archangel of the Sword settled down to wait. A proper game could take hours.

…

Michael had forgotten the sheer exuberance of Avatars … or, more accurately, had not permitted himself to remember it. He could feel his skills returning, meshed perfectly with his will. There was only one sour note.

Novalis was good, there was no question about that, but she wasn't that good. One needed a deep appreciation of both offense and defense to truly master Avatars, and his opponent only had the latter. Michael remembered Novalis as being the finest defensive player in Heaven … but Michael could always beat her in the old days, and he was going to beat her now.

The problem was, now he wanted more.

Even Laurence could hear Michael's laughter. Baal probably heard it. The Archangel of War, still laughing, abandoned all subtlety and simply gathered up his opponent … and deliberately threw them both to the ground. They rolled and impacted against the shields, which promptly broke. The two figures continued to roll, until they ended up sprawled on the grass, all the time laughing like two relievers who have just experienced how far one can dive when you 'borrow' the thermals coming from Gabriel's Volcano.

Michael spoke first. "Alas. Woe is me. I find myself vanquished. I must subject myself to your last piece of nagging … excuse, me 'reminder'. I only hope that I can understand your glorious Truth…"

Novalis made a rude sound and propped herself up on her elbows, impishly grinning at her competitor. "You already demonstrated it, Mike. I'll say it aloud, if you like…"

"Oh, would you, Archangel Novalis? I'd be ever so grateful…"

"Hush and let me pontificate. The War is, at the end, a zero-sum game. Either we stop Hell, or we don't: if you like, we either 'win', or we 'lose'. Keeping the status quo is as unacceptable to you as it is to me. However, there's more than one way to win … and just because the most important issue in the Three Planes can have only one 'winner' doesn't mean that all the issues are that way. There can often be a way to make everybody happy … or at least make everybody equally unhappy."

The other two Archangels had raised themselves up by now, just in time for Laurence's discreet cough

"At least in this case. I should point out that, in point of fact, Michael has won his prize…" Novalis bowed to the referee.

"Of course, Laurence. I will alert those Rofeah of mine seeking more a more active role in the War that their petitions have been approved." Novalis looked sidelong and muttered, "I would have eventually permitted them to seek your service, anyway. Treat them right, or I'll come looking for you with your own Servitor's Really Big Stick."

Michael muttered back, "And violate your own dissonance restrictions? Tsk, tsk."

"'Unnecessary violence' is a contradiction in terms when it comes to getting your attention. Yes, dear?"

Laurence sighed and started again. "As I was saying, Michael has won his prize … but so have you. Elegantly done, La…" The Archangel of the Sword took on a martyred expression.

"Elegantly done, Mother." Novalis beamed. Michael grinned nastily (well, sort of nastily)… but the smile froze on his face as Laurence suddenly grinned on his own.

"And, since you have both fought to a draw on three occasions, I see no reason why Novalis should not claim her prize as well. Mother, the Archangel of War is at your command for the next twenty four corporeal hours." The Archangel of Flowers clapped her hands.

"Oh, goody! Well, let's see…" Michael wasn't really equipped to experience apprehension, but he could begin to see why his Servitors weren't fond of it. Of course, if she feels like practicing ancient unarmed combat techniques again, I could live with that…

"Down, boy. This is what we're going to do. If any one asks, we'll discuss your victory and just not mention mine: they'll be too happy about getting to play Avatars again to ask any questions. I didn't expect that, by the way. Just full of surprises, aren't you? I don't want the reputation of "the Archangel who beat Michael" … especially since it isn't remotely true.

"Anyway, now for what you're going to do. You will go back to the Groves, you will grab every Servitor, Saint and blessed soul who seems tolerant enough to drink with Flower Children, and you will come back here, sit down, have a blessed drink or three, and blessed well relax for the rest of the blessed day. Make sure you bring Aphra along: I'm sure that she and Elvis will hit it off, just as soon as I drag him and my Servitors back from exile. There's four other major Archangels out there that can keep the War quiet while you take at least one day off," The Archangel of Flowers paused.

"Actually, make that three. See if you can drag David in on this. I understand that Abvriel has made a new batch, and if we get him drunk enough, maybe we can get David to relax his stance on clothing enough to permit him to wear potholders…"