Has it been so long since I have allowed pure clean anger that I am afraid of it? There is so much *rage* in me, sometimes. And tonight I have unleashed it -- use it to help destroy a demon, hapless creature that it is. Its vessel falls, and I see Rashi's celestial form ascend, while no demon-shape appears. Soul-killed then. Hell has lost a warrior. Rook and Arabis and I stand round, looking at the carnage, listening to the echoes still vibrating in the Symphony. So loud -- a wonder if any celestial along the Front Range has not heard.
We construct an 'accident' and set a fire, and drive away to the faint sounds of sirens and more racket in the Symphony. Arabis has places to go, and we deposit Bob at the Painted Pot, where he will feel safe.
And before I can follow Bob, Rook turns to me, and murmurs, "Would you like to return to the Board with me, Jael?"
I know I have a stupid stare on my face. Blink. "Yes." And the question is implicit in the word -- why?
He stares at me, too, in that terribly intense way he has. "I thought we might explore some of those feelings we discussed earlier."
Blink. The heart pounds. "OK." My vocabulary, suddenly fallen to monosyllables. Is this what demon slaying does to Malakim?
The car ride is quiet, charged silence. I try to find my common sense, and my patience, somewhere under the confusion of love and passion and near-terror that has taken over my brain. To my knowledge, he has never done this before. Part of my mind scolds me, all disapproving: he is pure, he is unswerving, and what we are about to do is beyond his experience. It could distract him, could divide him. Do I have any right to blunt one of Heaven's weapons? He is not Creation, to be used to such things, and able to work with them. And again -- it is his choice, as it is mine. What we do is no forbidden, is not evil. I have to believe that I cannot hurt him. I *love* him.
And I need him -- that strength, that determination -- so, so badly.
The car stops, and my mind jolts back to the present. The Board is dark, empty, as I follow him inside. The tension is almost painful in its intensity. Were he Creation we would not have made it past the front stairs. I remind myself, like a mantra, that I do not know exactly what he intends, and I would be wisest not to assume anything. This is one of those times when I cannot just 'go with it.'
By the time we reach his chamber, I have gotten myself back under control. My breathing is steady, my hands are dry. I am almost Elohite in demeanor. He turns to me, eyes unsure.
"I know," he begins steadily, "what an erection is, and what is entailed in copulation. . . " He trails off, suddenly hesitant, and looks elsewhere. "But I do not *know*."
"Okay." It is my night for monosyllables. I reach out, take his arm gently. "Bed? Or somewhere else you prefer?"
"Bed." He is relieved to be *doing*, even something as simple as walking across the room. His arm under my hand is rock hard.
Clothes are removed -- we have no sense of shame or modesty, for these are vessels. Bodies, whatever the shape, are beautiful creations, intricate machines of blood and bone and nerve. I watch him carefully, watch him study me in return.
His face is all angles and bones -- not pretty, very intense, very strong. His body looks like the weapon it is. I can *see* the Malakite beneath, implicit in every line of him. I step in close to him, see the muscles tense in him and he braces for contact, so accustomed to combat is he. I lay one hand against his cheek, search his eyes for any doubt, any shadow that might become regret with dawn.
Again, a moment's hesitation: a flashback to an Inquisition, and a pitiless Seraph demanding the Truth of another liaison, and whether carnal involvement led to a Fall. I did not hesitate then, when perhaps I should have, and the cost still haunts me.
But Rook cannot Fall. *Cannot.* I force the memories away. That is part of his beauty -- he is incorruptible, honor incarnate. And that is part of why I dare this now, with him.
No hesitation. Did I really expect anything else from him? Second guessing himself. . . not Rook. I lean forward slowly, and kiss him. There is room for retreat, should he choose it. He does not.
That emptiness I felt, the hollowness of heart -- it's gone. I see in his eyes a reflection of my own emotions.
Oh Eli. . . I think I have found a way to stave off the *alone.*