It's still there, Raphael marvels, his thumb brushing slowly over the grooved hilt of his sword. The thread of snow-white yarn and black hair is barely palpable under his calloused skin, but it is there and it is still whole. How such a fragile thread has survived the massacre at the old aery, the blood hunt and even the Pit is beyond him. But here it is, adorning his sword. "For luck," he whispers to himself, closing his hand around the hilt, his eyes squeezing shut briefly as a stab of pain wells up in his chest.
"Your Grace."
He turns around, the vulnerable moment gone, to face the owner of the timid voice. One of his assistants, a wiry angel with canary wings and pale skin, bows under his gaze.
"Come in, Camael," Raphael says, bothered by the formalities his new role invoked. Camael straightens and clears his throat. "I have news from the Secretary of State."
Raphael frowns. He has personally appointed the office to Thermo after his election, certain that he is much more trustworthy than the old bearer, and up until now none of his men have bothered with the formalities of communicating by messenger. "Why doesn't he come to speak to me himself?"
Camael swallows and shifts on his spot. It isn't a sight Raphael is unused to – long before his election as the Messenger, his position and reputation ensured the respect and humility of other angels. "I don't know, Your Grace. I am to let you know that a date for the first Union banquet has been set. It is to take place in 29 days from now in the earthen state of California. He would like to meet in the following days to discuss the details."
"A banquet? On earth?"
He is well aware of the fragile blossoming of a diplomatic relationship between his people and humankind and obviously a meeting would have to take place sooner or later, but for some reason the news come as a shock to him. Union banquet. Earth. California. Involuntarily, his hand tightens around his swords hilt, and he thinks he can feel the thread of garn and hair cutting into his palm. He hates the deviation his mind automatically takes, the question this occasion immediately evokes in him, even though there are so much more pressing matters at hand. Will she be there?
"The purple one, definitely!"
Penryn catches her sister's excited look in the mirror. She smiles at the younger girl. For Paige, the most important thing about this night is the color of a dress. Penryn can't remember what it's like to worry about something like that. She runs her hand along the exquisite silk material of her dress, numbly aware that it is worth more than her entire wardrobe altogether. She takes a deep breath to calm herself.
"Are you worried about tonight?"
Penryn turns to her sister, once again marveling at how good she was at reading people, despite her young age.
"I am," she admits. "I mean, I knew I would have to be there, seeing as I'm part of the council, and we've been assured multiple times that everything will go smoothly, but… it's a difficult situation."
"Because angels don't like humans?"
"And humans don't like angels. Currently, there's a truce between our nations, but there are many negotiations that need to be carried out, and it's not like either side has forgotten about the war. If anything, tonight is about putting on a show of diplomacy…" Penryn breaks off and rubs her forehead with a groan. She was about to slip into a rant, and though her sister might be unexceptionally mature for her age, there is no way she could play the role of a political adviser to her.
She smiles and sits next to Paige on the bed, tucking a strand of black hair behind the smaller girl's ear. "But at least the food's going to be great. I heard they brought in the best chefs still alive in the States. The council sure wants to put on a good show for our visitors."
A loud car horn interrupts them. Penryn stands up and glances out of the window at the street, where the twins' post-apocalypse van is waiting. What a glamourous carriage for the occasion.
"Okay, sweetie, I have to go," she says and slips on her shoes. "Be good and listen to mom. I'll be back tomorrow."
Penryn leans down to give her sister a quick hug. Paige kisses her on the cheek, her lips rough from the scar tissue. They linger a moment longer, both drawing strength from each other's touch, but all too soon Penryn straightens and heads out of the door, the moment of peace over.
"What about the alcohol?"
Penryn leans forward on the backseat, holding onto the front seats as Dum steers the car over the road at a breakneck pace.
"Nothing but the best. The wine is exquisite. Though I didn't think you were a connoisseur." Dee said.
"You know what I mean," Penryn hisses anxiously, her nerves pulling tighter the closer they get to the hotel the banquet is to be held in. "The last time a horde of angels got together and drank alcohol, they completely lost it and ripped every human in a two-mile radius apart just for fun. One drunken warrior is enough to cause dozens of deaths."
"Both sides have assured that no harm will be inflicted on someone of the other species. Should someone misbehave, both sides will take immediate measures."
"All we have to worry about is shaking a leg on the dance floor."
"Very funny," Penryn mutters.
"Oh, it's no joke," Dum says good-naturedly and veers the car to the left to avoid crashing into a stray car on the side of the road. "The representatives are expected to dance with each other as a show of respect and diplomatic arse-licking."
Penryn falls back into her seat, stunned into silence. A dreadful feeling settles in the car, the air thick with tension. The rest of the drive, no one says a word.
She shouldn't have been surprised. With all the decadent parties at the old aeries, angels feasting on things they had taken from the humans, she should have expected that her people wouldn't let that insult sit and match the angels' excess with an equally decadent binge. Still, it is unreal to see people dressed in fine gowns and suits, waiters passing through the crowd with trays of champagne or refreshments, when outside people are scrambling for shelter and scraps of food outside.
Even more unreal is to see angels mill among humans, their unnatural beauty clashing with the imperfect complexions of the people around them. There is no open hostility, but air crackled with tension, muscles pulling tight and jaws setting whenever humans set eyes on the visitors. The angels, on the other hand, seem to barely conceal an aura of boredom and arrogance, as though this entire thing is beneath them. Penryn supposes it is, though she knew that it isn't their business to disobey direct orders, and so naturally, when their Messenger demands of them to lay down their weapons and put on an act of respect, that's what they do.
The Messenger. She is still unable to connect the word with Raffe, with the angel she's travelled with on the road, carrying his wings wrapped in a dirty bundle and living on nothing but instant noodles and cat pebble. It seems impossible to her that the guy she's fallen for so helplessly, with whom she'd lost herself in heated kisses and stolen touches, was now the single leader of this nation of demigods.
Her belly clenches in a sudden surge of grief, and she has to swallow against the bitterness welling up inside of her. So far, she hasn't seen him, and has desperately tried to avoid thinking about the moment when she will, but if she's honest with herself, it has constantly been on her mind since she'd learnt about the banquet.
She grabs a flute of Champaign from a passing waiter and downs it in an attempt to clear her thoughts and numb herself against the sorrow she knows will come when she sees him again, distant and unreachable, not hers at all.
The evening continues on and she lets herself drift with the blur of it, shaking hands and forcing smiles when she was supposed to, sticking to the twins' side for a lack of alternatives.
When she finally sees him, all her preparations, the mantra she'd repeated in her head the whole night – it's for the better, for all of us, for the better, for all of us – might as well have been for nothing, for all the good they did her. The sight of him, cruelly beautiful in an all black suite that contrasts his snow-white wings, is like a slap to the face, startling and painful at the same time. But with the pain, which she expected, comes a confusing surge of happiness and that somehow makes it hurt even worse. She clenches her fists against the yearning that roars up inside of her, fighting to regain control over her facial expressions, while he doesn't so much as look at her. I'll never forget you, he'd said, and she wondered if there was any truth left in that statement now. She knows he didn't lie to her. He believed it himself at that time, but they haven't seen each other in weeks, months, and maybe he has come to his senses by now and realized what a fool he'd been for ever falling for her. It would be for the better, she supposes, make things easier, but it still hurts horribly to think he could've forgotten her that easily.
Then, when he's done exchanging words of greeting with McHall, the guy that stepped into Obi's shoes after his death and has been serving as the makeshift head of the council since then, Raffe's eyes flicker over, straight toward where she stands, and their eyes meet for a moment. He looks away immediately, almost flinching from the sight of her, but she knows at once that he hasn't forgotten about her at all. As expected, there is no satisfaction in knowing.
"Well, this is going better than expected, isn't it?" Thermo asks as he and Raphael find a minute to retreat to the back of the room and talk quietly.
Raphael watches the crowd and nods a little. "It's not more of an act than any other political party. We've been through piece negotiations under worse conditions."
"Only we weren't doing politics then. We were those that lay waste to the land in case negotiations failed."
Raphael's lips twitch, though there is no humor in him. "Good times. But no laying waste to earth. You know the deal."
"Of course I do." Thermo leans back against the wall and tips the contents of a martini glass into his mouth. They are silent for several moments, before Thermo sets the glass down and throws a sidelong glance at his Commander. "Are you thinking about her?"
Of course Raphael knows who he is talking about, but he still looks at him with a blank expression, unresponsive.
"I know you've seen her already. And I know it effects you," Thermo says sternly.
Raphael stares at the crowd for several moments, unseeing, and Thermo thinks he won't answer, when he suddenly presses out, "I do. Think about her, I mean."
He can see her at the end of the room, looking small and forlorn at the side of those two scrawny teenagers from the Resistance camp. She looks gorgeous in a plum dress, falling softly down her body, catching on gentle curves and hugging tight around her small waist. He swallows thickly, his pulse drumming louder in his ears.
"Are you okay?" There is no judgment in Thermo's voice, no pity, just a sober understanding.
Raphael pulls his eyes away from her and looks at his Watcher, more to keep his mind from wandering off than anything else. He wants to say, no, I'm not okay, wants to say that it hurts to see her, hurts to even be in the same room with her, knowing he can't touch her, see what he'll never be able to have. He's sick with longing and whenever their eyes meet involuntarily – they seem to both subconsciously seek the other out in the crowd – the feeling intensifies. "I'll live," he says dryly and turns away.
When they announce that it's time for the dances, his muscles pull taut, aware that not just he is expected to dance with representatives from the other side, but she is, too. The thought of her in the grasp of one of his people, big, brute warriors that still itch with bloodlust and unfulfilled promises of subjecting the human race, is intolerable for him.
Thermo must read it in the hard lines of his face, or maybe in his fists rhythmically clenching and unclenching, because he says, "I will dance with her. She's done her deed if she held her own for two songs or so with an angel representative."
Raphael gives him a clipped nod. With Thermo, at least he doesn't have to worry about him changing his mind halfway through a song and deciding that it is more fun to break his dance partner's hands or worse. He doesn't want anyone touching her, but if it has to be someone of his people, better one his Watchers than anyone else.
Thermo strides over the dance floor toward her, and Raphael watches, seeing the recognition in her face as the large angel comes to stop in front of her. They exchange a few words and then she nods, seeming relieved herself. She puts her hand in Thermo's and lets him lead her to the dance floor. Her eyes sweep through the room and find him, and they look at each other for a few heartbeats before both avert their eyes.
He dances with one of the female council members, a lean woman in her mid-forties. She's not the worst company, at least she doesn't step on his feet and seems determined to push through this necessity as smoothly as possible. Neither of them is trying to force small talk, and that makes it easier. He lets his mind go blank, the way he so often did when forced to attend political events. As an archangel, this is nothing new to him. He runs through the motions without thinking, gracefully slowing his motions as the music fades out, thanking his partner as the dance comes to an end, leading her from the dance floor and saying goodbye.
He still isn't aware where his feet are carrying him until he is only a few paces away from Penryn, and he comes to an abrupt stop, his heartbeat picking up at once. She notices him, of course, and turns to look at him, startling at how close he is. He thinks about walking straight past her for a moment, but when his body sets into motion, he knows that's not what he will do. He simply can't push her away any longer.
"Dance with me?" he asks quietly when he comes to stand in front of her and puts his hand out to her.
She looks at him, a turmoil raging behind her eyes, but she takes his hand almost immediately, as if guided by force, and lets him lead her to the dance floor. He pulls her into position, gingerly placing his hand on her back, exquisitely aware of his thumb brushing naked skin where the cut of her dress sits low on her back. She shivers and they miss the first beat of the song.
He recovers and picks up the dance, guiding her gently to into the motions, and after a few awkward moments, she follows him into the rhythm and they move together.
"Do you enjoy the banquet?" he asks, his voice coming out huskier than he expected.
She throws him a quizzical look. "Does it look like I am?"
His lips twitch at her bluntness. "Not really, no."
Another couple comes a bit too close to them and he pulls her closer to his body to avoid a collision. She gasps softly. Even after the couple has moved out of the way, he keeps her close to him.
"You seem to be used to these kind of things," she murmurs. He can feel her breath brushing up against his collarbone.
"I am. Though I was never forced to sit through the entire thing. Back when I wasn't a diplomat, me and my men had all the freedom to leave whenever we wanted."
Her hand tightens on his. "Thank you."
He raises an eyebrow. "For what?"
"For keeping your word. Becoming Messenger, even though I know you don't want the job. For taking them away. I… thank you."
His hand shifts an inch up on her back, more of his palm brushing her bare skin and he feels goosebumps erupt where he touches her.
"It's a sacrifice I was and still am willing to make."
She nods and gives him a small smile. They look at each other then, really look, taking in each other's face, as if they were afraid of it before. His eyes roam over her face, dark eyes, red lips. "How have you been holding up? Are you okay?"
She nods again. "I'm fine."
He resists the urge to tip his forehead against hers. He is holding her close to him, but there is still space between them, a minimum distance required to perform the dance, and his body aches to close the gap and feel her body against his.
Instead he bents down as much as propriety allows him, and brushes his chin against her temple. "I don't think I've told you how beautiful you look tonight." In all the worlds, what had ridden him to say that? His voice is deep and dark and he is well aware that he is driving them both down the old road again, making everything more difficult.
She dips her face and doesn't respond, but he sees the flush of blood rise up her neck and into her cheeks and he silently curses himself, because now he feels even less restrained.
Maybe it's the music, the alcohol in his system, their bodies spinning around on the dance floor, that suddenly make him feel lightheaded, a tightness inside him loosening, just a little. He leans closer and breathes her in discreetly.
But all too soon, the music slows down, indicating the end of the song, and he can only pull her against him once more without evoking attention, before they have to step back from each other. He leads her from the dance floor back to the spot he retrieved her from, holding her hand a bit longer than necessary.
"Thank you for the dance," he says hoarsely, reluctantly letting go of her hand.
She forces a shaky smile and says, a bit clumsily "yes, thank you, too."
He stiffly turns away from her and makes his way through the room, back to the corner where Thermo is watching him with thoughtful eyes.
"Don't," Raphael bites out as he leans against the wall beside him. He doesn't need to hear that it was stupid, that he is behaving unseemly, that he is taking unnecessary risks. "I know," he says into the silence between them. "I know."
He swears he didn't mean to overhear it, swears he didn't even take a mental note of the room she'd stay in for the night when he heard her mention it to one of the twins, and maybe he really didn't at the time. But he knows now that some part of his brain must've remembered, carefully filing the information away for later – for what? – because he is walking there now, carried on by a buzzing in his ears and the wine in his head and a thoughtlessness, though he knows that he's being foolish, foolish, foolish.
The elevator tings as it comes to a stop on her floor, and he walks into the hallway, as if it's already too late to turn back. He needs to see her, needs to talk to her. He knows that it was stupid to ask her for a dance, and he regrets it now, for all the wounds it tore open again, but now that he has stirred up so many questions, he needs to go back and make it right again, a clean cut. They had no time to properly say goodbye, not then and not now, and he feels like he owes it to her and himself, a chance to say what needs to be said, so they can go on their way and heal properly.
He comes to stop at her door, room 743, and he rasps his knuckles against it, once, twice.
It takes half a minute and then the door opens and she looks at him, shocked. "Raffe…"
He lets his hand fall back to his side and clears his throat. "Can I come in?"
Finals are called finals because when they are over, everyone only says "Finally..."
And now I can say that, too, because, thank the lord, it's over and I have a life back. Yes, thank you university, I know you're there, but right now, I ain't got time for you! Anyway, I am back from my semi-hiatus and I hope you're all still there, because now I finally have time to write again! I made this chapter longer (originally wanted to split it) because of the long waiting time, so at least this is reeeeally long for a drabble (3,5 k words?). I hope you enjoyed and let me know what you think and if you want to know what happens in le room.
-K.