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It was a quiet day at the office. That in itself was reason enough for Beckett to be in a good mood. He had plenty of work to do, but that was nothing unusual. As Head of Entry Records, he wasn't officially responsible for taking down any arrivals, but enough of those under him made mistakes that he was kept busy every day of the year.

He smiled to himself as he looked over another stack of papers. Most people wouldn't have found much to enjoy about the job. Contrary to what rumors of his cold countenance would suggest, however, Beckett liked what he did. The satisfaction from seeing things righted, put in their proper place and falling into order never lost its appeal for him. Here, among the papers, he was more at home than anywhere else. It was this dedication to order that had brought him all the way to the position he had now. And a good thing too--- he now had the authority to correct any mistakes he found in the records. Under his guidance, they boasted perhaps the most thorough and meticulous documentations of any department in the Bureaucracy.

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Quiet days in the office were rare, however. Usually some subordinate would be bringing news of a mishap to him, or someone would be causing trouble in the lower offices. Not all of the Garden of Stars was so inclined towards order, as he was reminded on a daily basis. The tranquillity, which went on much longer than Beckett had dared to hope, saw him finish not only the day's work but at least two days' worth of tasks ahead of schedule. It was not until the day was nearly done, however, that he began to suspect something was truly amiss. In all his years of work, he had never been so undisturbed before, even when his position hadn't yet warranted any business from visitors.

He cleaned up his desk, and when he had it arranged just so, he donned his jacket and headed out. His office was held apart from the rest of their department. He had to cross a small courtyard garden, then pass through the main portion of the Entry Records offices before he arrived at the door. The desks were strangely empty, however, with only a few scribes jotting down notes with the fluid movements of their brush. One or two looked up at his approach, and he inclined his head at them, but they returned to their work without so much as a word. In fact, they looked rather as if the did not dare to meet his eye. Beckett was strict about work, but he had never seen himself as excessively intimidating, and this reaction made him curious if not slightly uneasy.

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He made his way through the Garden grounds to the stately grounds of the Lord's Seat pavilion. That wasn't its official name, but it was the only name anyone ever used, and the real name had been forgotten by almost everyone. Beckett had never had the advantage of learning it; by the time he had been ordained, the unofficial name had already been in place for too long. It was called thus because the Lord of Stars, the venerated god Elirian, favored this particular pavilion during his idle hours, and one might find him more reliably there than anywhere else in the Garden, especially as more and more of his duties were relegated to the Celestials and the others who served under him. It was still customary for Beckett to report to the Lord of Stars, even though it was a formality that most of those in positions on par with his own had discarded.

Today, however, as he walked up the steps to the pavilion, he saw that it was not his Lord that was in residence. Instead, what he found was a gathering of all those assorted characters who usually could not be bothered to report to the pavilion. His lips thinned into a line, turned down at the corners. Lanwen, leader of the Celestial Messengers, was sending off one of his underlings--- from her agitated look and rumpled garments, it was most likely Flitterswick.

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Lanwen looked grave. Most of the assembled party appeared uneasy. Levana repeatedly smoothed her robes. Yllis, Beckett's counterpart from Departures, fiddled restlessly with his abacus. Of the gathered party, only Senna looked more or less like her usual self. As she caught his eye, she flashed him a grin.

“So good of you to join us, Beckett. We were waiting for you.” She waved him over, but Beckett coolly walked past her to take a place near Lanwen instead. The Messenger inclined his head.

“I trust something grave must have happened, for you all to be here?” he asked. Lanwen smiled tiredly.

“Aye, grave indeed,” he said. He was about to say something more when Irael ascended the elevated platform usually reserved for the Lord of Stars, and motioned for everyone to be quiet.

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Irael, as Beckett had been given to understand it, had been one of the first Celestial beings to acknowledge Elirian's authority when he had come to the Garden of Stars; thus he was one of the foremost in rank of the Advisory Council, and by virtue of seniority, the one to lead in Elirian's stead should the Lord of Stars ever prove unable to perform his duties for whatever reason. The sight of him made Beckett's blood run cold. In all his years within the Garden, Beckett had never seen Irael assume such a post. Elirian had never left the Garden, nor ever been unwell. This was unprecedented, and had Beckett any less respect for Irael's humility, he might have protested a coup of some sort. As it was, however, the likelihood of their Lord being somehow incapacitated, inconceivable though it was, was more likely.

“This morning,” Irael said, “our Lord of Stars, the noble and venerated Elirian Fadeborn, has been declared missing.”

“My, he certainly doesn't mince words,” Revel said, from somewhere behind them. Lanwen had, meanwhile, gone white as a sheet. He looked almost as shocked as Beckett felt. The news must have been new to the Messenger too.

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Beckett scanned the faces of the others, to see who knew. Yllis had likely heard of it, for he stared at the ground and his abacus clicked faster than ever, back and forth. Levana had fainted dead away in the middle of the pavilion. Revel was smiling, but that hardly meant anything. It wasn't worth the effort to try and read his thoughts from his countenance. As for Senna... The dream-weaver had stopped smiling.

“What shall we do? What shall we do?” said Levana, as soon as she had come to. That started them all off muttering anxiously. Beckett remained quiet, though he hardly heard what anyone else said in the hubbub. His mind was still reeling from the shock. The Lord Elirian, missing from the Garden of Stars. Missing.

Lanwen had made his way up to Irael to grab him firmly by the sleeve. Any other day, and Irael would have protested the treatment, but there were now more pressing matters than a breach of etiquette. “Have you looked for him everywhere?” Lanwen asked. His knuckles were white as they gripped the councilman's sleeve.

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“Of course. Everywhere on the Garden,” Irael said. He sounded weary, resigned. Somewhere, someone else echoed Levana's question. It was taken up by the others gathered in the pavilion. Most had realized that panic would get them nowhere, and now they sought to secure a course of action. No one questioned Irael at his word, but to be found to tell such a falsehood would merit such punishment as Beckett could not even imagine.

“We must keep this among ourselves,” Irael said. His voice was clear and strong, and carried easily over the din of less than a dozen people. “If this becomes known, there would be panic, and all will be lost. Nothing you discover here leaves the Lord's Seat. Am I understood?” There was a murmur of assent, but all the same, a scroll was passed around. Each recipient drew a small, slender blade from their sleeves or their pockets, and made a small cut upon their skin somewhere, to press it to the bottom of the scroll.

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When it came to Beckett, he did so as well. It was a good precaution. Some of their number, however good they were at their jobs, could not be trusted to keep a secret. Levana was one of those. There were also the troublemakers of the lot. Reluctant as Beckett was to admit it, Senna might yet be trusted with such a grave matter, for she disliked real and harmful mischief. But Revel had no such scruples, and only a blood binding would hold his tongue.

At length, the scroll reached Irael's hand again and he himself made his bloody fingerprint upon the page. Having ascertained that everyone present had submitted to the binding, he tucked the scroll away in one of his long, draping sleeves and settled his robes about him more comfortably. “I have a few theories as to what may have befallen our Lord Elirian, but these will have to be investigated at some other time."

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"At the moment, our priority should be the return of his person. We must send some of our number out in search of him---”

“Some of our number? No, the place will fall apart! Right to pieces, I say! Nonsense, folly, all of it! You cannot send us!” Yllis looked up frantically, waving his abacus in the air vehemently as he spoke. The poor man was near hysterics, and Lanwen moved to soothe him.

“He has a point, you know. We can ill be spared,” the Messenger said.

“No? I believe some of us could easily be spared,” said Revel. “Irael, for one. With no Lord to counsel, what use is he?”

Beckett bristled at the insolence of his words. “You know nothing,” he said hotly. “Irael can be least spared; he is the only one who knows the conduct of the Garden well enough to take his place.”

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Revel smiled his indolent smile. “And what place is that? Our lord has hardly done a thing for himself in centuries.” Revel always had a languid air about him, but now there was something hard and unpleasant in his smile, in the glint of his hooded eyes. Beckett stiffened, and was about to retort, when Senna cleared her throat.

“Where is it we're being sent, exactly? Let's pick the best folk for the job, and quibble about the consequences later,” she said. She grinned at the assembled party, and Beckett wondered that she could appear so at ease, but her words had enough merit that he raised no protest. Irael was nodding along.

“Yes, well... I believe he must have been sent to a mortal realm,” Irael said. He looked, for the first time, uncertain. It was likely that he didn't know for sure, but that this was his best conjecture, based on what he knew; and Irael must have known more than the rest of them. It had not even been common knowledge to their number until a scant few minutes ago.

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Another murmur passed among them. The mortal realms. Some of the celestials had never set foot in such a place. The looks inevitably turned to Senna, who had once been mortal--- and then, to Beckett.

Beckett had been so long a part of the Bureaucracy that he had quite forgotten his own origins. No, that wasn't entirely correct; he had never known his own origins. When he had arrived at the Garden of Stars, his memories had been in such a sad state of disarray as to have caused his recipients some alarm, and he had been detained in some sort of care facility until he had recovered himself somewhat. Since that troubled time, he had never been able to recollect a life before the Garden of Stars. It was only through reminders, both explicit and not, from the other residents of the Garden that he still sometimes remembered that he was in fact once a mortal.

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It didn't make him any better equipped to handle such a journey than any of the true celestials, or so he felt. But besides Senna, he was the only one among them who could claim such an emphatic tie to the mortal realm. The more he thought about it, the more he supposed he really would have to go; Senna could not be trusted to go alone by any means. It ought to be his duty to go. Elirian had been good to him, and Beckett had more than enough of a debt toward the Lord of Stars to warrant his volunteering for such a task, all consequence to his station and his paperwork be damned. He stepped directly up to Irael. “I will go,” he said. More murmuring behind him. Irael was looking him over, and Beckett steeled himself, but at last the councilman nodded.

“Well, I'll have to go too. Beckett won't know head or tails of anything with that empty head of his,” Senna said brightly.

“My head is not empty,” Beckett said icily. Senna rolled her eyes. “It has been much too long since you were last a mortal; I doubt you would fare any better than I.”

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“Aha, that's where you're wrong! I visit all the time. I've got to keep up with the times, you know. Wouldn't want my dreams to become obsolete.” She grinned cheekily at him.

“You had better go together,” Lanwen agreed. “We have no idea what happened to our Lord, but we had all better be careful.”

“It is decided,” said Irael. “Senna and Beckett shall be sent to ground, and the rest of us will remain on standby until further notice.” He withdrew the scroll from his sleeve and unfurled it, conjuring a brush to his hand. With one smooth stroke, he struck out two of the blood marks. “I release you from your binding. I suspect you will need to be able to speak of this matter if you are to make any headway on your search.” With this speech, Irael managed a small, dry smile. Senna laughed; Beckett nodded tightly. “Very well. You are all dismissed to go about your business,” he said, and the assembled gathering dispersed from the pavilion, one by one.

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Beckett and Senna were the last to leave, and they left together. Becket's face was hard, the set of his mouth firmer and more unhappy than it had been even when he first came. The Lord of Stars, missing... It was unthinkable, and yet it had happened. Beckett was not blind to the flaws of his Lord, which was to say that he was aware that they existed--- he tried as best he could to ignore them, but he knew of them. Yet, though Elirian was not a responsible or even a particularly mindful soul, he was at least not inclined to wander. He had his haunts and his favored places, and a few places where he went on occasion for a change of pace. To add to all that, he was expressly forbidden by powers greater than his own to leave the Garden itself. The Garden was a grand place, but those who knew its workings as intricately as Irael could easily search the whole of it without much trouble. If he was not upon its grounds anywhere, then they had more than enough cause to suspect the worst.

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These thoughts tumbled through his head so quickly that he was mindless of his direction. It was only when Senna hauled his arm sharply to the left that he came to himself abruptly, calling a protest at her sudden invasion of his personal space. “What are you doing?” he asked indignantly.

She rolled her eyes at him. “Saving your beautiful blond ass, genius. You want to be run over by Levana's entourage?” She indicated them with a wave of her hand. The scattered sparks of their passing still lingered in the air just where Beckett had stood a moment ago. That mollified him, and while he did not thank her, neither did he make any further protest. She frowned at him. “I get that a lot has happened, but watch where you're going, would you? You're no use to our Lord or me or anyone if you can't keep your wits.”