Ch. 1: A Proposal

By: Rem

Notes: SPOILERS for the end of the series, particularly regarding the characters Raphael, and Barbiel.

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"They—they—want me to take over the Medical Institution?" She repeated like a broken record. A swarm of images flew dizzily around her mind: the vacuuum of space, a singing death choir, a life-support machine being unplugged.

"A simple 'yes' or 'no' is all that is required." Hardriel demanded impatiently. Patrician of face, and grim of eye, the tall, dark-haired young aide stared at the angel who stood across him with a mixture of sullen patience and slight distaste. What had the Council members been thinking to elect such an unkept woman to fill Lord Raphael's former position? Just look at her: a torso swarthed in grimy-looking bandages, and perspiration gleaming from her forehead--she was obviously not in any physical condition to take on such an important job. Hardriel also suspected that the woman was also prone to an unfortunate stammer--either that, or she suffered from a shortage of wits.

He sighed. The indisputable facts remained. One, she had been Lord Raphael's second-in-command. Two, she had survived two despots, as had he (barely). Three, Lord Uriel, the acting Prime Minister, had personally recommended this woman. And where he judged, no one ever verbally objected.

He popped the clasp of his black leather gloves open with a hard yank, tightened the fit, and clipped shut the buckle.

The woman remained obstinately silent. Hardriel cast a pointed glance at the clock hanging above the white-washed walls. "Look, I don't have all day--"

"The Counsel should wait for Raphael's recovery." She abruptly cut off his words in mid-sentence.

This time she had not stammered. This time, her voice had been hard and commanding. Hardriel lifted a mocking brow. "'Recovery'? There is no guarantee that Raphael will ever wake up from the deep sleep--we have you to thank for that. For all we know, Lord Raphael's soul may have faded a long time ago--and that" he jerked an imperious finger in the general direction of the sick bay, "might very well be an inanimate lump of flesh."

"You really should choose your words with more care."

Hardriel felt a vague feeling of unease at seeing a cold smile accompany the good-natured words. He tipped his chin; fine, long strands of inky black hair brushed the top of his freshly starched collar. "Madam, are you threatening me?"

She shook her head, playfully. "No, I was merely advising." She took a step forward, then another, until they were almost indecently close. Hardriel opened his mouth, with full intention of ordering the woman to step away, when something as hard as a hammer slammed into his solar plexus. With a strangled gasp, the aide doubled over, and slid onto the marble floor. His black uniform, with the matching black gloves, brushed across the floor like the janitor's mop.

In silent agony, with a blurring vision, he watched the woman step delicately over his body. "Feel free to consider that a threat." She waved airly and walked off with long, even strides. Even after she disappeared around a corner, the hard clicks of her high heels on marble echoed in his ears.

Hardriel went limp.

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