ANGELS WE HAVE HEARD ON HIGH 2/?

(AN/ Hi everyone, I'm back with the new [and I sincerely hope] and improved version of Angels We Have Heard On High. It took me a while, and I first had to gather myself up from the shaking puddle that was me after my math final. It was not pretty, but I did it and yeah...so tell me if you like this new version, and how I can make it better...)

(AN/ Not mine, blah blah, plot is mine, and so are the OC's, so please don't snitch, cuz it pains me to admit that you'll probably do a better job than me. *sighs*)







~AD TE OMNIS CARO VENIET~





The road to the city was long and misty with dust. With every step, the silver-gray powder rose and fell in little swirls and flurries, smelling of acrid mustiness that comes with age and centuries of dried up rain. It settled in hair and eyes, turning everything a shimmering shade of gray. Inside little inns and grand villas sitting within the city walls travelers shook out their cloaks and hair, and little piles of dust would drift, silver as the coins they laid on the counters. It was warm and comforting, and when they were finally clean and freshly scrubbed, they would think of the dust, the enveloping cloud with something that resembled longing, then shake their heads, incredulous, at this loss of reason.

But yet the dust had something within that spoke of comfort, of being warm and deliciously dirty. Nights spent on roads looking up at the stars, roasting slices of hearty bread over a dancing fire, companions with the stars in their eyes and hearts warm as the fire. And perhaps it was this that the travelers wished for, all alone in a musty bed, the city's lights and thick walls turning away the starlight.

The dust was beautiful, as were the trees, the orchards that lined the road. They were known for their sweetness...and the neglectfulness of their young owner. Decades ago, when an old man, uncle of the young man reigned master, the trees were well tended, the orchards harvested in the efficiency that marked the lives of farmers. But that was before the years turned hair gray and bones brittle and wagon wheels stubborn and temperamental.

The young drunkard who now was master had seen the city firsthand, when he was a callow youth and impressionable had tasted of carnal sin and drink. Abandoning the hardy beauty of the day, he lived for the smoke-filled, shadow-ruled pleasures of the night. And now his orchards ran wild, the trees stretched their limbs, and the fruit, sweeter in their wilderness, dropped ungathered. Always in the stupor of the inebriated, his grapes dropped and dried untended, his pears turned to fragrant, faintly wine-scented husks. And so, the scent of sun-dried fruit danced with the motes of dust. It kissed the senses, yet danced away laughing like the dryad it was, when travelers, eyes wide and searching for that hint of Eden tried to quaff it deeper.

The trees would rustle in the wind, glossy dark leaves hiding branches. The dust motes that were everywhere would settle and turn the green the shade of northern pines touched with frost. Yet far from the frigid, majestic beauty of the cold, these trees laughed like plump maidens, enticing and lovely with life and fruit.

And the sun was always there, shining down. That was what everyone remembered. The maidens would chatter about the warmth, the farmers complaining about how their produce would spoil, the older folk content to bask in the golden light that made them feel younger. It was like a heavy amber velvet that looked, felt, even smelled of /warm./ Not merely warmth, but a settling, a laxness of the bones, a slumbering of petty problems in the face of ultimate comfort. Merchants, pilgrims, the occasional minstrel, they all succumbed, each step simultaneously lighter and heavier than the last, the sights and sounds a rich German wine. They were like men in a trance, Lotus-eaters, eyes heavy lidded and limbs moving like drowning men content in an underwater world.

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The farmer sat in his wooden cart, master of a worn bench worn smooth with time, a tired plodding horse, and twelve sacks of turnips, still smelling of earth and work and nature. Lulled by the beauty around him, reminding of that time when he had drunk himself into a golden haze, his broad hands merely held the reins, the horse plodding step by step on its own, unguided. Dull eyes the hue of opaque mud gazed dispassionately, insensibly at the road. His dull peasant's mind, uncorrupted by higher learning was filled with muted anticipation of haggling a good price for his turnips. It had been a good year, he thought, and the money would bring a good month of eating. Perhaps, and at this his mind supplied a coarse picture, a girl could be 'persuaded' to entertain him.

He'd seen some of the girls there, little slips of things with pretty painted faces, and he shifted a bit, remembering the scraps of cloth they called clothing, and the pretty white flesh he'd glimpsed, so very different from the peasant girl he called wife, with her walnut-brown skin, tanned from years spent in the sun. With hips like a cow, who possibly could have been pretty once, like the girls who stood on the streets, clothing and hair slightly, wrongly, askew. He sighed, once, and shifted again. He had been young once, and still could remember the sparks he once felt. But the sparks were never really strong, and Time had strangled the rest.

The old horse lifted up her head and slowed. It had been said, in the peasant's grandmother's time, that animals knew, in ways that humans did not, when there was good, or when there was evil. But that had been a long time ago, and the knowledge that she had disappeared with her ashes, flying black against the light of dawn. But the farmer felt the jarring that came with slowing, and lifted his head to a far-off figure that grew as they came closer.

There was something about that black-cloaked figure. Something beneath that opaque covering, something licking at the surface, like flames or sparks. There was power underneath, hot power, passion, coursing through. And although the day was slightly warm, the leaves just beginning to bronze, there was heat emanating off of the figure that was as alike to the sweet golden warmth as ruby and amber. It's heat was that of fire, of scarlet flashes and crimson mists, of obsession and all things violent and beautiful.

In the farmer's mind, the image of the girl with her flimsy shift grew more vivid. He could almost feel her fingers, her lips, her soft little breasts. He licked his lips, tongue flickering nervously. Was it just his mind that supplied him with thoughts of a sly, knowing smile, cool little hands that stroked and fondled? He had only been with two women in his life of dirt and drudgery, and neither had the red lips and flickering pink tongue as the girl in his mind.

His mind dismissed the thought it had been turning around and around, like a miser and his gold. His world was one of solid, earth-colored forms, and his sub-consciousness hid behind an impermeable wall of conviction that such things, such beings did not exist. This man was nothing out of the ordinary, just another traveler headed for the city. Just a man. He cleared his throat and called out, voice rusty from a day's disuse and clogged with fine dust.

"Stranger on th' road!"

The figure turned, and regarded him, silent. The farmer felt as if he were a head of cattle and the man an impassive buyer, eyes on his face, whip in experienced hand. The shadowed eyes seemed to be testing him, flickering to the cart and the horse who was twitching and fidgeting, eyes slightly wild. The hairs on his neck pricked up for no good reason at all. There was flame underneath that black hood, something dangerous and wild and primal underneath that cloak. And it was this his mind latched onto; something solid in the indescribable fear and allure that this man inspired. Black cloak in the warmth of early autumn--the peasant shook his head, disapproving at the folly of some, while his mind cowered in disbelief and knowledge that there was something not right about this figure. He coughed, the thoughts fleeing his mind.

"Stranger, goin' to th' city? An' could I offer you a ride?"

Why did he offer to give a ride to this black-clad figure, he suddenly paused to ask himself. The very thought of that tall figure who radiated fire and brimstone and blood next to him was frightening in the least. And yet...the girl brought him to her mouth, tight little mouth like a vise. His head spun and he cast out his thoughts that were bits of sharp, uncomfortable rocks in the delicious haze that was his mind. A single traveler in the heat of the day, dressed as if it were the first month of the year, the Lord would reward those who helped others. Yes, yes, the traveler needed help and he was a kind man, offering his wagon. Perhaps it would relieve the nagging of his conscience, over the years growing to sound like the constant scolding of his fat wife.

Was the figure smiling? Could it see the images in his head, his loose thighs jiggling, his paunch shaking as that talented little mouth squeezed and the pink tongue stabbed? Impossible.

That level gaze shifted back to his face, reddened and shiny with sweat. The gesture was as regal and dismissing as a king's, dismissing him as no threat, a fact which both relieved and irritated him at the same time. It, no, HE-no woman could have that aura of masculinity* seemed to pause for thought, and then began to speak. It was a deep, pleasant voice...yet the farmer shuddered. It was a voice that was beautiful and terrible at the same time. Hidden swirls of smoke and silken veils seemed to drift in the velvet soft.

The sensations seemed to increase tenfold. His shaft lay thick and pulsing as the girl continued to suck, her naked body curled between his legs, curtain of hair hiding his lap from view. Reaching down he fondled the little breasts, almost able to feel the soft, warm skin. He swallowed, feeling dust and dry spittle and bile burn its way down. Why was his mind giving him such images? Surely no woman had ever touched him in the skillful way of this little courtesan...

"I would be much obliged to you."

A gentleman, definitely, he thought. Those clear concise words, the ringing tones, the gentile manner. He tried to grin and held out a hand as the stranger approached. The cape seemed to flutter in the breeze like the licking of flames. And still he could not see the man's eyes or features, hidden in the shadows that made the hood. He seemed to float across the ground, long legs bringing him close within moments, swift yet with purposeful intent. The farmer did not want to know what would happen to men who crossed this black-clad figure.

He had all the warning of a tree about to be struck by lightening before his horse reared. The heaving of the chest, the flailing legs, the rolling of the eyes, all so completely abnormal. The stranger seemed to find it a source of amusement. If he didn't know better, in this advanced age, the farmer would have claimed that the horse was trying to kick the man who stood next to it silently, trying to reduce bone and skin to tatters, split open by shoes as large as a large man's hands

"It seems I frighten your horse." The softest of comments, with an underlying menace.

Eyes wild, the horse frantically reared its head, trying to escape the stranger, who laid his hand across its forehead. It was almost equivalent to the pronouncement of a death sentence. The farmer shook his head as the horse flinched and was still. Fear, thick as the layer of dust seemed to suffocate him in its grasp. He would have been calmer if the man had struck the horse dead with one blow-that brief touch of a hand was mockery and the cold eyes of a predator feasting on the terror of its prey. Even the twitch of rich lips was the cruel slash of a claw.

The leap onto the wagon, barely making a sound was also dangerous. The farmer knew that he needed a barrel to clamber upon the old wood. Twelve handspans, and the slightest touch caused the structure to scream its pain. Perhaps the touch of this man had silenced its voice. Without meaning to, he slid farther away than necessary, leaving a handspan of warm air between him and the silent figure that sat on the wood as if it were a pagan throne. Even so, the heat that rose off the man was scorching, and the farmer felt as if he were falling into a pit of fire.

He snapped the reins weakly with hands that shook, and the horse plodded on. Yet even he, inexperienced horseman though he was could feel the barely retrained instinct to run beneath his hands. Slowly, coming back stronger than ever, the vision of the girl slid back into his mind. He knew little else as his shaft, softened with fear, quickly stiffened again as the girl pushed him on his back, sliding over him with silken flesh and soft hair.

The wind was blowing its way through the mane of the horse and the farmer would have arched his back and moaned as the girl spread her legs and guided him into tight wetness. But he remembered his companion next to him, and swallowed the moan that was struggling to break from his throat as his manhood was struggling to break free of his rough breeches. Discretely he shifted a bit, coughed to cover the reddening of his broad face and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The man next to him said nothing nor moved.

The sun shone upon them, and the heat seemed to immerse the wagon and its riders in a golden haze rich as honey and soft as silk, the motes of silver dust glinting, faerie-powder, dancing in the wind. It settled on hair and clothing, caresses as seductive as the girl in the farmer's mind, head thrown back, riding him…riding him…and the jolts that he felt…

Were just the brief pauses of old wheels and an older wagon. And had there ever been a girl, the farmer could not recall her name or the color of her hair. He remembered a red, red mouth…or was that the color of an early apple he'd seen? Sensations, all he could remember was warmth and slickness. Just the sunlight in the air, and the sweat that was on his back. Many had said how the sun shining too long on their heads caused them to see three-headed beasts and the earth moving beneath them.

And yet there was a worrying in the back of his mind. There was the sun, and the dust and the air that many said could make a man drunk. But…but there had been something in his mind, and the farmer would not have been disturbed had it just been something that he had forgotten in a moment of lost memory. It was the sensation that something had been inside of his mind, and that the thoughts that he had had were not entirely his.

Tugging at his collar the peasant tried to occupy his hands, moving in jerky motions to cover the unease that he felt. The day was so hot, and he could not see how the black-clad figure did not fall like many did, after a day in the hot sun. Strange-he no longer seemed to be mysterious or menacing-how did he ever think that this tired gentleman was frightening? There was no strange fire that burned around him, and his very being seemed to be that of a traveler who had walked too many miles alone.

He had just imagined the fear that he had felt, the farmer was sure of it. Too many hours under the sun, seeing monsters in the face of a man who had needed a bit of help. There was nothing to cower from in this simple man who no doubt was visiting a sick relative. Perhaps her name was Elda and she had recently taken a bad fall. The man was her nephew, second son of her youngest sister, who was chamberlain to a minor lord, three days away from the city. Just a simple man.

They crossed a small road in silence, the wagon creaking and churning up silvery dust before the peasant felt at home enough with the man. Coughing a bit to make his presence known to this gentleman, he paused a bit before asking,

"Stranger, what name d'you go by?"

The stranger did not speak, and the farmer began to feel worried. Did he offend this man, whose ways spoke of higher learning? The silence was a tense one, even the sound of the horseshoes on dust more muffled than usual, quiet and powdery. Then the voice spoke quietly, yet with an edge as poisonous as a snakebite, a vicious humor that spoke of a dead man's grin, his rotting head mounted on an enemy's pike.

"You may call me…Angeamor."





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*Crowley doesn't do things by half-measures. If he wants to be male, he's MALE.

**"Angeamor" is my mutilation of "angel-lover" in pseudo-Italian-French.

Throw me scraps of helpful criticism. Always in awe of better writers. Especially those who crank out genius stories *coughDaegarcoughafraicoughrippercough* ^_^