Death and the Maiden

And then I talked, and he listened, and sat beside me as the sun slowly swung across the celestial heavens.

I told him about her, and about the way she'd been crying, about the way she'd desperately plucked at my sleeve to try to stop me from leaving. I told him about the colour of her eyes and about how she was far thinner than she should be. I told him about holding her, and about how... good it felt to hold another living being and try, just a bit, to help them.

His eyes grew very grave, but he held his peace.

I didn't tell him the most important thing, though.

I was too scared.

See... my ability to find people is specific and narrow - it's only ever related to the task I'm undertaking, and should only really work for as long as I need to find that person.

The problem, and to be honest a large part of the reason why I was so out of sorts was...

I'd been able to feel her from the moment she first so roughly touched me.

I could still feel her.

I knew where she was.

And I knew that she was crying.

And it would take me less than a breath to be there beside her.

So my problem was not trying not to think of her.

My problem was trying to be strong enough to...

Stay away.

Time passes just as slowly up Above, and Night comes on the same leisurely cycle for us as for you. The Sun sets in a riotous blaze of glory and the brilliant stars of the Celestial Heaven spread out above us. It's the same sky as for you, just... brighter, somehow. More oil, less pastel.

Angels don't really need to sleep, but those of us who were once human still do, from time to time.

It's a comfort thing, I guess.

I had a small balcony - it's convenient to be able to arrive by wing sometimes, after all. I'd carefully conjured myself a small table and two chairs - old and rustic, there were a poignant reminder of the table I'd eaten supper at with old Father Dominic for so many years. I remembered how he'd quiz me on my day, on whether I'd milked the goat and brought water and swept the vestry of the rickety old church and tended such graves as there were to tend. And I'd always answered yes, even if I hadn't been as diligent as I might have been, because he was the only person in the world who cared whether I lived or died, and I'd loved him without thought or rhyme or reason.

Back then I'd been full of energy, full of life, insatiably curious, always out and about despite my crooked leg.

Tonight?

Tonight I was just morose and pensive.

And so I'd decided to put on my soft fleece tracksuit pants and my Care Bear tee shirt and perch on my balcony... brooding.

I filled my Le Creuset teapot (another silly little vanity) and added leaves to steep. Somewhere nearby, someone was playing on a piano; I wondered who it was but I was far too lazy to take to wing and go find the player. The piece being played was slow and moody. I had no ear for music beyond a basic appreciation, and so wouldn't have been able to tell you the genre let alone the writer. But the gentle acoustic raindrops fitted my melancholy contemplation, so I embraced it as part of the atmosphere and let my interest fade.

Which naturally meant I went back to thinking of her.

Caitlyn was sleeping, at last. And that at least helped; she'd been awake for well over a day.

And I'd been fretting.

Caitlyn Iona Monroe.

Her parents had chosen beautiful names for her.

Jet black hair, startling green eyes, slightly shorter than me, and thinner, which was impressive, because I'd never had much spare meat on my own bones.

She'd smelled clean, with some faint herbal scent to her that I couldn't place.

Clean, and... wholesome. Earthy.

Alive.

It had felt so strange to take her in my arms.

I prayed that her dreams were gentle.

I poured my tea and stared blankly at the swirls as the surface of the liquid slowly calmed and the one or two escaped leaf fragments ceased their dance.

The scent surrounded me - Shay, another Ethiopian influence I could blame on my friend. Lucius had a way of rubbing off on me; the trappings of his homeland had become important to me over our decades together, and the tea he'd made for me that first time we'd met had forever become part of me.

I inhaled, closed my eyes, fantasised about distant arid hills under a bright African sun...

I wondered what Caitlyn was dreaming of.

I shifted, crossed my legs, took a slow sip of my tea.

Soft piano music.

A gentle whisper of feathers as someone landed on a nearby balcony of their own.

The soft sigh of the night wind over the truncated spires of the Celestial city, teasing the blossoms of my little pet Lavender shrub in its red-glazed pot.

I lifted my gaze and stared out at the multicoloured lights of the windows laid out around me. I could see others like me, maybe thirty in total.

All of them, without exception, alone.

Loneliness is part of existence up here. We all have internal shadows, things we struggle with. It's apparently meant to be this way; we're meant to suffer at least a bit.

We can perhaps steal a moment of bliss and forgetfulness with one another, or in the arms of one of the obliging visitors from Down Under.

But love?

Love is for you people. I don't think we get to have that.

I put my tea down and wrapped my arms around myself as an aching, yearning need for company took me.

I wondered where Jezebel was, and who she was with.

A bitter pang of jealousy, swiftly quashed. She was a Fiend with Benefits (as she'd called herself) - nothing more. I had no more claim to her than I had to the sun. No matter how I might feel about her, she was not and would never be mine. She was a demon, a Succubus, roaming, true to her nature. How could I expect her to... change?

Intense black loneliness descended on me.

I stared out into the night.

And suddenly, the desire to see Caitlyn again eroded what little of my strength remained.

It was a stupid idea, but I couldn't put it aside.

I felt an overwhelming physical need to go to her.

I had to at least check that she was okay.

I knew there'd be hell to pay later, but in the here and now of my horrible isolation that seemed... unimportant, somehow.

I couldn't rest, couldn't move on without knowing.

And... nobody would miss me here.

Perhaps there was some good that I could do for her.

Why else would I know where she was if it wasn't to... help her?

And anyway, it wasn't like things could get any worse.

Could they?

So I closed my eyes, and focussed, and... shifted... to a small, dark, stuffy room in a small, dark, stuffy flat in a nondescript building that rattled and shook with the road noise outside.

And I stood for a moment, getting my bearings, listening as the eddies of air from my manifestation died away.

I looked around, and felt profound sympathy as I noted the peeling wallpaper and cheap curtains.

The room's only notable features were a desk, and a bookshelf, a plate complete with half-eaten slice of stale toast, a laptop computer (still on, still displaying a photo of Caitlyn and Rhiannon at some younger, not-quite-adult age)...

And her.

Caitlyn was lying, mostly nude but for a pair of shorts, half on and half off her bed.

One arm was tucked under her head, the other trailed on the floor, showing off her delicate shoulder blade.

She looked so small and fragile; a porcelain doll in many respects.

A truck rumbled past outside; her window rattled but she didn't stir.

I sighed.

I slowly and carefully adjusted her so she was comfortable, and pulled her sheet up over her to keep her warm. She made a soft sound of protest as I bent to kiss her hair-hidden brow, frowned briefly, then relaxed.

I stared down at her.

She was so... beautiful.

"Be at peace," I whispered, touching my fingers to her cheek.

I turned, and was about to leave when I noticed something on her desk, highlighted in the sodium-lamp monotone that leaked through what little darkness she'd claimed.

A drawing pad and pencils.

I paused, bit my lip nervously, glanced at her to make certain that she was sound asleep.

Then I gave into curiosity.

I carefully opened the cover, and stared.

A near-lifelike portrait of Rhiannon, frail but smiling.

flip

A woodland scene, wonderfully detailed down to the individual blades of grass.

flip

A kitten playing with a toy, hair and whiskers beautifully rendered with fine little lines.

flip

A little girl reading, the folds of her skirt nearly photographic.

I hesitated, then quickly rifled through to the final drawing.

And paused, suddenly fearful.

My face peered up at me from the page, perfect in nearly every detail... just prettier than I felt was strictly fair.

I turned one page back... and stared.

She'd captured me with fast, harsh pencil strokes - everything from the folds of my frock to the way my braids tended to fall over my right shoulder.

And she'd captured my wings as well.

"Shit," I breathed.

Caitlyn stirred on her bed.

"Whasthere?" she murmured, muffled and indistinct.

Panicking, I shifted.

I glimpsed papers and drawings scattering in my wake, and I cursed my clumsiness.

And I was in my bedroom, staring at myself in my mirror.

And my eyes were dark and haunted and her drawings were still clutched in my shaking hands.

"Shit", I whispered. "Oh, shit, oh fuck me, oh fuck..."

I stared at myself, then down at my unintentional loot.

I'd just stolen from her.

And scattered what little she owned all over the place. Probably wrecked half of it too.

Oh fuck me.

I sank down on my bed, fingers fiddling with the binding of her drawing pad.

Slowly I opened it, and flipped to the portrait of my face.

She'd captured my gentle curls, and the triangular profile of my chin, and the haughty eyebrows and the small little blemish on my right cheek. She'd given my irises intricate detail, making them almost real, and she'd softened my bone structure to an approximation of beauty. She'd even somehow managed to capture a hint of eyelashes...

She was an amazingly talented artist.

Precisely the sort of person that Azrael had implied was the worst kind to... perturb.

For fuck sakes.

Now I'd really done it.

I clenched my fingers, then stood and slipped the drawing pad into my bookshelf, such as it was.

I stumbled to a cupboard.

I found my half-empty bottle of Don Julio.

And I began the process of finishing it.

We may not get Cirrhosis, but we do still get hangovers. It's Ineffable, or something.

Morning at last, and a pounding headache.

I'd woken at whatever time it was, and levered myself up from my rumpled bed to wash myself. (Again, not something we strictly need to do, but... old habits...)

And then I'd sat at my table, waiting for my tea to brew.

Caitlyn was on the move.

I had no idea where or for what reason, just that her location in existence was not the same as the night before.

I wondered what she was up to.

Probably buying new pencils and paper, my conscience muttered.

I flushed.

I could... probably... get back to her room and return her book.

But... part of me didn't want to. Part of me wanted to keep it and the brief contact it represented, the brief touch of something illicit and deeply, deeply private.

But I knew that would be unwise.

So I resolved to place it back where I'd found it.

But first...

I staggered back into my sleeping area.

I pulled off my cotton shift.

I concentrated a moment, and opened a drawer. I lifted the black denim jeans out and stepped into them. I didn't usually go about in denim, but I felt off and needed a change.

I adjusted my bra, added some embroidery to it on a whim. Then I manifested a faded peach low-cut tee-shirt of the sort so many girls seemed to wear in this day and age. All the better to camouflage myself from anyone who might notice me.

Into my pink sneakers, and then a moment to calm myself.

I glance in the mirror.

I looked almost... normal. A somewhat-attractive human girl, young, but not remarkable in any particular way. Small breasts, narrow hips, nice but forgettable face.

Well-camouflaged.

I sighed.

I retrieved her drawing book from my book case, then walked to the small clear section of floor near my table.

I focussed.

My wings curved, cupping the currents of reality.

It was hard to visualise where I wanted to be, but I managed it in the end. It's more difficult for me when it's a place, not a person.

Papers rustled in her tiny, stuffy room as I made my entry. She'd clearly been searching for her drawing pad; I mentally kicked myself.

I moved to her desk and set the pad down gently in front of her laptop. I felt like leaving a note or something, but the idea was ridiculous when viewed dispassionately. What could I possibly say?

Better to pretend she'd just... not seen it.

Like that would work, my inner cynic muttered.

I took one last look around the semi-dark... sarcophagus, it felt like. A place where she came to entomb herself at the end of every horrid day.

I wondered where she was.

What she was doing.

I pretended, briefly, that I wasn't about to break even more rules.

Because, of course, if I concentrated, I would know precisely where she was.

Precisely.

So I took a breath and did just that.

She wasn't far away, by my standards. A few miles.

Maybe I could... drop by.

Just... look in on her from a distance. Make sure she was okay.

It would hardly make things worse; they were already just about as bad as they could be.

And... anyway...

I... needed to see her.

For her sake, I hurriedly pretended to myself, still making excuses, still not prepared to admit that it was actually for me.

So I focussed again, and shifted again, careful this time to hold myself in the in-between, apart from it all until I could find a spot I could manifest where I would not be noticed.

A puff of wind; yew branches stirred and creaked above me.

I crouched down, eased out from under the boughs, and stood.

And realisation dawned.

Ah.

Of course.

A graveyard.

A less-disordered me would have been amused at the irony.

I, however, was not in the mood.

I stalked slowly down a narrow gravel walkway, winding by wide conic sections slowly closer to where I knew I would find her. The land curved and sloped; an old hillside farm bought and repurposed as a cemetery when the soil grew too unproductive and the farmer too old to work it.

Aged stones surrounded me; reminding me uncomfortably of the marker stones outside the Celestial city.

For humans, this place was as final and as disturbing.

I felt a pang of sympathy - many of the graves were unkempt, but many also had flowers, or balloons, or soft toys, or a million other different types of tokens of love and loss left by the bereft.

I slunk around a pruned and ordered stretch of holly, the red berries bright against the green-black leaves.

And I saw her.

She stood, buried in a black coat several sizes too large for her, hunched up, staring down at a plain wooden cross between the lines of newer headstones.

I eased carefully backwards until the holly screened me, and began my... vigil, for lack of a better word.

I watched as she began to speak; the words too soft for me to hear.

I watched as she pulled a small folded sheet of paper out of a pocket, then pressed it to her lips before she knelt and tucked it between the stems of a pot of fading Daffodils.

She stood, and scrubbed her sleeve across her eyes before she turned and stumbled away.

I let her gain some ground on me, waiting until another long arm of hedgerow had obscured her. Then I set off in pursuit, screening myself with plant life and topology.

She meandered slowly back to the graveyard's wrought-iron maw, and from there lethargically along the street to a bus stop.

She sat under the cantilevered plastic roof, and stared at the ground in front of her.

I leaned against the trunk of a mournful Cypress tree, and watched her until she'd climbed onto a bus.

I rolled the tension out of my back and neck; taking it as a good sign that she'd had somewhere to go.

I couldn't wait any longer; I needed to get back Above before someone noticed my absence.

But I had one brief detour to make before I left - back to Rhiannon's grave and all the spilled dreams that had been interred there with her.

I paused a while, staring downwards at the damp, dew-gemmed grass. A strange custom, really. But I supposed it gave them somewhere to come to remember.

Nobody had ever been able to do it for me.

The thought hurt me.

So I frowned, concentrated for a moment, and gently placed the freshly-made blossom of Celandine over Rhiannon's heart.

Then I turned, gathered my intent, and departed.

I returned to "work", and Caitlyn became my dirty little secret.

I began to steal little snatches of time so that I could "look in" on her.

Sneaking a glimpse of her on her way to work.

Watching from an alley as she boarded or alighted from a bus.

Taking stock of the tiny circle of emotionally-inadequate friends that she seemed to have.

Following, distantly, as she rambled the country paths of the area, or visited old Churches, or sat, alone, in cheap cafes.

The latter were the worst for me; she'd sit there, staring blankly into the distance as her tea grew cold in front of her.

She seemed utterly alone.

She visited the graveyard once a week, like clockwork. Rain or sun she'd be there, staring down at her friend's grave as it slowly grew a headstone, foot stone and minimalist, bevelled borders.

Some days she'd talk; no doubt spilling her heart out to the missing half of her.

Other days she was simply silent - cold as ice, pale as moonlight on the distant sea.

I ruefully came to realise that I was a stalker.

So I tried to stay away, for a day, or a week...

But I was never able to.

She compelled me, and I was drawn to her like a moth to the flame.

Thoughts of her began to consume me; an obsession. I'd sit, staring at a wall, thinking of little but the sound of her voice or the feel of the fabric of her coat or the way she'd begged me to stay and talk to her.

The wet of winter arrived down Below, and I'd stand there, hair plastered to my scalp as I shadowed her hither and thither.

Lucius knew I was up to something, but like any good friend in an established bureaucracy, he clearly had assumed the mantra of Don't-Ask-Don't-Tell.

He took to visiting when I was not on my extramural activities.

He'd sit silently with me as we stared out at the Celestial skyline, our tea or the bourbon he so liked in vessels by our sides.

It helped that I was far from the only ragged usher in our motley crew, so my... distraction... seemed to sail past Azrael, bar the occasional contemplative look. I did what I needed to, was scrupulously careful not to be noticed by another human, and reported back after each shift with a "Nothing out of the ordinary," or some variation thereof.

And in those precious, infrequent times I could see Jezebel, I felt almost... normal.

Almost.

Because the lie lay black between us.

So I pretended for her, and lied for her, and lied for me.

And my bleakness grew and grew and grew.

Meanwhile, at least once a week I was following Caitlyn like her own second skin.

Slowly and stupidly I started to take liberties. I'd sidle out of cover, crossing open ground and trusting in Caitlyn's learned behaviour - she never looked up, never glanced behind herself when leaving certain places; so I felt it safe enough to flit closer to her, to share a space slightly less isolated from her. Being close to her was a compelling need for me; being close enough to see the fine detail of her hair, or the shape of the necklace she might be wearing. What clothes she'd chosen. One or twice, a whiff of her scent...