[ Stories: The Witch-Girl (Read from the bottom of the list), The Bridge Across the Sky (stand-alone stories), The Canon ][ Poetry: All Poetry; ( ♥ ) ( ⚔ ) ]
My robot is better than your robot. But your robot can stalk me on Facebook, Twitter and DeviantArt.
[ witch_x1 ] nocturne – Girls, trying their best.
01 Sagittarius 11 20:58
[ witch_x1 ] Laura – What do you see them as?
01 Sagittarius 11 18:04
[ witch_x1 ] nocturne – Thanks. I don't see them as strong, though it's nice that you do.
30 Scorpio 11 13:40
[ witch_x1 ] Laura – I'm seeing some sort of pattern of strong women in your writing.
29 Scorpio 11 20:42
…more…
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Witch-Girl / Tempest Eyes (6/23) – The Wings of Angels ♠ 27 Cap♑corn 12, Frigg’s Day ♣ |  |
Witch-Girl / Tempest Eyes (6/23) – The Wings of Angels
“All things sleep,” she says, “it is the nature of things.”
It looks, Ramiel thinks, like the leaf of a palm tree; a line of a stem fanning out into lines in a diamond-shape, a sort of greenish-brown. Upon the diamond at the end of the stem, upon the spreading lines, is an oval (golden); upon that oval, a circle (deep blue). A circle in an oval, like a hard-boiled egg that had been cut in half. Within that circle, a design like the wings of a bird in flight (bright green). This is what is looks like; what it is, is a peacock feather, except that it is not, exactly, the feather from a peacock.
Stacey, leaning into her sofa, is holding it up, looking at it, twisting it, causing the design to glimmer slightly in the light.
In the aftermath of the excitement at the warehouse earlier that day, Izzy had handed it to him, before leaving to take the cultist to a hospital.
He had held up Stacey’s forearm and rubbed the feather over her wound. Like Izzy’s touch, the feather removes pain.
Here, now, from the sofa, Stacey says, musingly, “A magic peacock feather presupposes the existence of a magic peacock.”
Ramiel shakes his head. “There is no magic peacock,” he says, “It’s one of her feathers. Izzy’s.”
“She has healing feathers?”
“It doesn’t heal. It removes pain. It’s… I suppose it’s Father’s idea of mercy. Izzy brings death, but that death does not have to be painful.”
Her eyes flick from Izzy’s feather to his gaze. After a moment, she says, “I don’t know how I feel about that.”
He shrugs.
“Do you think,” she says, “that she really brought that poor guy to a hospital?”
“I do. Maybe she didn’t. I don’t know. I don’t think I want to doubt her.”
“Yeah,” she says, “It was just a passing thought. She scares me, a little. That scythe.”
And then she smiles, “An angel with peacock feathers? That’s kinda funny.”
He smiles back.
She looks at him, for a moment, and she says, perhaps a little timidly, “If I may ask, what were your feathers like?”
“Standard issue. White and fluffy.”
“I think I prefer your wings now.”
“Do you? Why?”
“I don’t know. It suits you more, I think.”
“That’s nice,” he says, “You should get some sleep.”
“I can’t,” she says, giving him a wry smile, “I’m exhausted, I am, but there’s so much to think about. I need to be able to remove the Sign without a circle or people flying about and… that was just one guy, how are we going to invade their base? He broke through the circle so easily.”
“We don’t have a choice. However you feel about it, Izzy is right; they are not to succeed, and, if we have to kill all of them to stop that, then it’s something that has to be done.”
“Something that has to be done,” she echoes.
“Yes.”
“The body…” she says, “all that blood and bone and… meat. I– I know that you’ll say that it’s not my fault, but… I do feel partly responsible. I want to avoid that. And– And I still believe that if I can think, hard enough, I can think it through. You go to sleep.”
“And you?”
“I’ll try, at least. I’ll probably end up thinking, but I’ll try.”
“Goodnight, Stace.”
“Goodnight.”
There is a lot to think about.
He is lying in bed, in the dark, sorting, in his head, everything that has happened, when her voice says, “Are you awake?”
“No,” he says.
He feels the bed move as she climbs on. He feels her hands upon the side of his torso as she pushes him, gently. He shifts, to make room for her.
“Wing,” she says.
He sighs. He sits up and switches on the night light, casting a red glow, over the room, over the bed, over the extremely undressed form of –
“Why,” he says, “are you naked?”
“You’re shirtless,” she accuses.
“I am in my bed, in my room, trying to get some sleep.”
“Obviously,” she says.
He stares at her, blankly.
The annoyed furrow of her brows relax, and she says, “I have underwear on,” she points, “Look!”
Before he realises that he does not wish to look, he has, and she does (red, probably from the light). He averts his eyes.
“You’re so prim,” she says, “I shouldn’t have to get dressed just to talk. Switch off the light if I disgust you so much.”
You don’t– he does not say. I don’t really want to manage your feelings right now. He sighs the defeated sigh of the relentlessly put-upon. “It’s fine,” he says.
“I don’t want to argue,” she says, softly, “Just… just switch off the light and lie back down and listen to me for a while. Please,” she pauses, “I... err... had a nightmare.”
No, you didn’t, he does not say. You barely had time enough to fall asleep.
She does not want to argue, and neither does he. So he switches off the light, and lies back down. He feels her move upon the bed.
“Wing,” she says.
He stretches out one wing.
She lies down upon his wing, slides upwards, takes hold of his arm and stretches it out, pulls his pillow, rests her head upon pillow and arm.
“There,” she says, satisfied.
He has learnt the term “boundary issues” recently. But he does not want to argue.
He wants to ask her what she wants to talk about, what her “nightmare” was. But he does not want to argue.
And, so, he waits.
He can feel her, in the quiet dark. The weight of her, upon his wing, the mess of her hair upon his arm. Her breath, rising and falling. The scent of shampoo.
It is very difficult, he realises, not for the first time, to be annoyed at her when she’s not talking.
“Hey,” she says, into the darkness.
“Hello, Stace,” he says.
“You were magnificent, back there. A god of war.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“Remember that I said it was scary?” she says, “it was, but it wasn’t, not really. I was scared, but I felt safe, safe-scared, like… riding a roller-coaster. I felt the same thing, back when we fought the trolls. This… world. With the blood and the death, it’s all very real – real-real – and just horrid. And– But…” she turns onto her side, towards him.
He can feel her; the weight of her, upon his wing, the mess of her hair upon his arm, her hand, running gently over his stomach, her breasts against his side.
“You make me feel safe,” she whispers.
He can feel her. He had enfolded his arm around her, without thinking, and he can feel her skin, soft and smooth, beneath his fingers, her breasts against his side.
She does have nice breasts. They’re soft, so very soft. And large, except not really. Is that her nip–?
“Bringme,” she whispers.
He stops himself, her word triggering the sudden realisation that his hand, apparently of its own volition, had been moving, sneakily, towards her breast.
“Bringme,” she whispers, “god of war. Bringme comfort, Bringme safety.”
It takes him a moment to hear her, for him to remember what she had just said, what she is talking about. “I’m not a god,” he says, “I’m a demon, nothing more.”
“All demons were angels once,” she says.
He puts his hand down, rests it upon the curve of her side.
The silence stretches out. And she is… there, just there. Breathing. It is peaceful, and he feels at peace.
And, so, in the darkness, into the silence, he reveals to her a small part of his soul, “I took my old name, because you said that. Lilith asked me what my name was, and I remembered that you said that, and I told her the name which I wore, when I was an angel.”
“Ramiel,” she whispers.
He has never heard his name spoken like this before, she had never said it before. She infuses it with her lilt, her accent from nowhere, splitting each syllable into a pure, musical note.
“Yes,” he says.
“You’re an angel to me.”
A demon cannot return to being an angel, but he can act like one. And that is why he will not have relations with a human. Because if he does, then he truly is a demon, nothing more. There is nothing wrong with being a demon, if you’re a demon. Perhaps there is nothing wrong with being a demon, if you’re looked on by a witch. But there are… other things; things not of shadow, but of light. There is nothing wrong with being a demon, but that does not mean that you cannot be... something else, something better.
He can feel her, the light touch of her fingers, her hair, her breasts. She is soft and smooth and warm; things not of shadow, but of light.
A demon cannot return to being an angel, but he can act like one. Not like an actual angel, not like Izzy, not like the seraphim, not even like the Iri that he used to be, but like an angel should be, the way a girl so very young imagines an angel to be.
And, if he wants to be seen as an angel, if only by one person, if only by the one person who matters, if only by a girl so very young, then he must, he must act like one –
“You’re not sleeping here tonight,” he says.
“Of course not,” she says.
She pushes herself up, and he feels her shift, and move, and leave the bed.
“You’re an idiot,” she says.
“What did I do?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
There is a brief flash of light, as she casts sparks from her fingers. And then it is dark, and he hears her walk away.
“Goodnight, Stacey,” he says.
“Goodnight.”
There is silence, and it feels deep and empty and quiet.
And her voice comes through it, curling and lilting and melodious. She says –
“Ramiel, my angel.”
“Stacey,” he says, too softly for her to hear.
Better to deserve you in Hell than to have you in Heaven.
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shop@noctalis
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i’m only happy when it rains
you wanna hear about my new obsession?
i’m riding high upon a deep depression
i’m only happy when it rains (pour some misery down on me)
