Tea and Jealousy
Sometimes, clothes make the woman. I had dressed myself in a deep blue samite overdress with golden silk underneath, with matching shoes. I left my dark hair uncovered and loose, which made me stand out amongst the other supplicants. Morrow was the most sociable hermit I'd ever seen, and I knew exactly the reason why.
"You are Morrow, I think. I'm Rian, nice to meet you." I extended one gold-covered hand to this friend of a friend who, by all rights, shouldn't have been. The great white god of the people of the books didn't often let his more heavenly creatures out much, and when he did, there was usually something horrible afoot. You see, I don't think the one they call 'He' is all that good, even if he is mighty and awesome, and it's always best to be wary of these particular people. Angels, psh. Half of them were from some other tradition, their names coalescing over time into something resembling Hebrew, and then Angliscized after that. Existence follows after belief. Doesn't sound right? Give it a proper suffix. So here was the one they called Uriel, one of the many 'angels' over this planet, who I was only supposed to know as Morrow. They were horrible with disguises, as many were complete narcissists at heart; who would want to hide such beauty, such perfection? Morrow was beyond beautiful, as their ilk go. Not overly tall, though broad-shouldered, caramel skin without a blemish, perfectly waved hair that flowed over the shoulder, the finest Italian suit and silk tie, fine leather shoes whose unique molds lie in some Italian basement, and eyes that burned dark in their sockets, the color of the sea at night. I wish I could say the effect was ruined by the expression on the face, but that would be a lie. Necessarily, I admired Morrow for a moment, but he had something of mine.
"The pleasure is mine, I'm sure," Morrow said, leaning over my hand. I felt a warm breath on my hand in lieu of a kiss. So polite. I demurred and we sat down to tea, provided by a pale serving boy who withdrew almost before I noticed him.
"Let's get to the point, Morrow," I said, emphasizing the name to show what I really thought of it, "You have something of mine, and I want it back. I want it back alive." The chances of getting my friend back were slim; I would not be dealing with angels if there had been any demons I would have been willing to ask a favor of--angels are just easier to snow, and usually never take the whole cost out of you. Suckers, I thought, meanly. It'd been a foul day, and this was only making it worse.
"That will be difficult. I have only one to really please, and He has been silent for some time. So I must only please myself. What do I get if I help you? What are you willing to part with? I have heard of you, and your usual bargains. No, I think I want something a mite more special than a feather or a song. I want a favor."
"I'm not in the escort business anymore, or war, or any other plague business. No killing."
"Don't be so gauche; your kind were always so bloody-minded. No, it is much simpler than that. There is someone more beautiful than I, which bothers me. A brother, if you will. I want him scarred by your hand. Then I will help you get your friend back. As I understand it, it does not have much time."
"Scarred? You want an angel scarred because of your jealousy? Maybe there is more to your lord's silence than his disinterest in this world. Fine, I will do it. In the meantime, you will find my friend and do everything in your power to free him." Morrow's eyes narrowed, as I thought they would. Angry angels make stupid assumptions.
"I do not perform on your demand. I am not a trained monkey. You will scar my brother, and then I will help you," the angel said. "You wouldn't be here if there were others who would help you in this--it must not be important enough to them, so it must be sentiment that drives you. Can't blame a being for taking advantage of such an obvious weakness." He relented, smoothing his clouding features, "More tea? Cookies?"
"No, thank you, I've had quite enough. Now tell me, which pristine relative of yours must I go pay court in order to get close enough to sink my claws in? Which 'brother' will it be?"
"Michael." He spoke the name in derision and anger. I wondered in passing what Michael had really done to incur such venom. None of my business, maybe. I kept talking, to incense Morrow further.
"Michael? The veteran of a hundred hundred battles, who sleeps with the moon to watch him, the stars to guide him, and the sun to wake him? Who lives the pure life of war, his lullaby only the screaming songs of falcons, the baying of the heavenly hound? Who remains as yet unscathed by any natural weapon, whose scars heal as surely as we spin in this little galaxy?"
"Yes, the very one. Scar him, and I will help you."
"Tall orders. As you wish, Morrow. I expect you to have my friend well in hand."
He laughed lightly then, a low chuckle that made me shiver, as it was meant to. "I will keep my end of the deal if you keep yours. Happy hunting, Rian." A clear dismissal. Let him believe I need him, more than I really do.
I got up and the pale serving boy was at my side to show me out. Once into the hall I spoke conversationally to the boy. "He is a hard master, no?" I spoke into the air ahead of me. I felt the boy's head turn to look at me a moment, then back forward to his task. I continued, "If you ever wanted to leave, I could take you somewhere safe. Keep that in mind, once this sorry business is over. I trust you overhear everything?" The boy nodded once and still said nothing. It would have to be enough.
...
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Carrie challenged me with "I don't perform on demand. I'm not your trained monkey!" and I challenged pamela with "I swear to all the gods, that this time, I will see this thing through."
"You are Morrow, I think. I'm Rian, nice to meet you." I extended one gold-covered hand to this friend of a friend who, by all rights, shouldn't have been. The great white god of the people of the books didn't often let his more heavenly creatures out much, and when he did, there was usually something horrible afoot. You see, I don't think the one they call 'He' is all that good, even if he is mighty and awesome, and it's always best to be wary of these particular people. Angels, psh. Half of them were from some other tradition, their names coalescing over time into something resembling Hebrew, and then Angliscized after that. Existence follows after belief. Doesn't sound right? Give it a proper suffix. So here was the one they called Uriel, one of the many 'angels' over this planet, who I was only supposed to know as Morrow. They were horrible with disguises, as many were complete narcissists at heart; who would want to hide such beauty, such perfection? Morrow was beyond beautiful, as their ilk go. Not overly tall, though broad-shouldered, caramel skin without a blemish, perfectly waved hair that flowed over the shoulder, the finest Italian suit and silk tie, fine leather shoes whose unique molds lie in some Italian basement, and eyes that burned dark in their sockets, the color of the sea at night. I wish I could say the effect was ruined by the expression on the face, but that would be a lie. Necessarily, I admired Morrow for a moment, but he had something of mine.
"The pleasure is mine, I'm sure," Morrow said, leaning over my hand. I felt a warm breath on my hand in lieu of a kiss. So polite. I demurred and we sat down to tea, provided by a pale serving boy who withdrew almost before I noticed him.
"Let's get to the point, Morrow," I said, emphasizing the name to show what I really thought of it, "You have something of mine, and I want it back. I want it back alive." The chances of getting my friend back were slim; I would not be dealing with angels if there had been any demons I would have been willing to ask a favor of--angels are just easier to snow, and usually never take the whole cost out of you. Suckers, I thought, meanly. It'd been a foul day, and this was only making it worse.
"That will be difficult. I have only one to really please, and He has been silent for some time. So I must only please myself. What do I get if I help you? What are you willing to part with? I have heard of you, and your usual bargains. No, I think I want something a mite more special than a feather or a song. I want a favor."
"I'm not in the escort business anymore, or war, or any other plague business. No killing."
"Don't be so gauche; your kind were always so bloody-minded. No, it is much simpler than that. There is someone more beautiful than I, which bothers me. A brother, if you will. I want him scarred by your hand. Then I will help you get your friend back. As I understand it, it does not have much time."
"Scarred? You want an angel scarred because of your jealousy? Maybe there is more to your lord's silence than his disinterest in this world. Fine, I will do it. In the meantime, you will find my friend and do everything in your power to free him." Morrow's eyes narrowed, as I thought they would. Angry angels make stupid assumptions.
"I do not perform on your demand. I am not a trained monkey. You will scar my brother, and then I will help you," the angel said. "You wouldn't be here if there were others who would help you in this--it must not be important enough to them, so it must be sentiment that drives you. Can't blame a being for taking advantage of such an obvious weakness." He relented, smoothing his clouding features, "More tea? Cookies?"
"No, thank you, I've had quite enough. Now tell me, which pristine relative of yours must I go pay court in order to get close enough to sink my claws in? Which 'brother' will it be?"
"Michael." He spoke the name in derision and anger. I wondered in passing what Michael had really done to incur such venom. None of my business, maybe. I kept talking, to incense Morrow further.
"Michael? The veteran of a hundred hundred battles, who sleeps with the moon to watch him, the stars to guide him, and the sun to wake him? Who lives the pure life of war, his lullaby only the screaming songs of falcons, the baying of the heavenly hound? Who remains as yet unscathed by any natural weapon, whose scars heal as surely as we spin in this little galaxy?"
"Yes, the very one. Scar him, and I will help you."
"Tall orders. As you wish, Morrow. I expect you to have my friend well in hand."
He laughed lightly then, a low chuckle that made me shiver, as it was meant to. "I will keep my end of the deal if you keep yours. Happy hunting, Rian." A clear dismissal. Let him believe I need him, more than I really do.
I got up and the pale serving boy was at my side to show me out. Once into the hall I spoke conversationally to the boy. "He is a hard master, no?" I spoke into the air ahead of me. I felt the boy's head turn to look at me a moment, then back forward to his task. I continued, "If you ever wanted to leave, I could take you somewhere safe. Keep that in mind, once this sorry business is over. I trust you overhear everything?" The boy nodded once and still said nothing. It would have to be enough.
...
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Carrie challenged me with "I don't perform on demand. I'm not your trained monkey!" and I challenged pamela with "I swear to all the gods, that this time, I will see this thing through."
posted by Bran mac Feabhail at 7:03 AM
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