~The Southern Glen~

Love had changed him.

Love and a heart and a touch, all conspiring to make him complete.

He had not thought, when he left the Divine, to be so utterly changed by the action. He had been fleeing the pain that had come with his life, with his position. He had gone to seek something more, with no clue of where that path would leave him.

From the Inn...to the cliffs, the beach...to the Divine, and forgiveness.

And now, here.

He's walking next to Mortis, his pale horse, through the woods of the area the locals call the Southern Glen.

Anyone watching would think his course aimless, wandering, but not so. In fact, shortly after he and grace had shared that blissful, almost eternal moment on the beach, the crashing surf filling their ears, as their lips had joined, as they had come together and sealed the bond between them, he had left her to sleep. He hadn't wanted to leave - his eyes had not wanted to be denied the pleasure of her in sleep, her features as angelic as her origins - but that beckoning, ethereal feeling had been upon him, begging him to stretch his wings...

...to fly. To find.

You can't resist a call like that.

He had glided over the forest, bloodred wings spread and guiding him through the whimsical currents of the air, until he had found what he was looking for.

Home.

It had been nearly demolished when he had found it - the forest overgrown around it, a small tree growing up in the middle of the stone cottage, the roof gone. But the grounds felt...hallowed...clean.

The perfect starting place for an angel, and the angel in love with her.

The Divine had been kind enough to leave him with the magic that he had come here with, and so a little of it had gone a long way to mending the broken home, cleaning up the inside, restoring it to a place of simple beauty.

Now, as he leads her along, holding her hand,he looks down at her, a smile of anticipation on his face. They are very close, and she has no idea of what it is he wants to show her.

"All right, Grace, love. Time for you to close your eyes. And no peeking..."

The tightening of her fingers would bring a tightening of his own grip in hers, as if confirming for her that he does, indeed, still exist.

And, as well, confirming her reality to him.

Thoughts had crashed through his head when he had gone back to her, wondering if she would still be there. Angels are not known to be prone to hallucination. Still, she had proven to be absolutely perfect for him, exactly what he had been searching for.

Too perfect. So sweetly real.

He had felt her lips against his, phantom remembrance of sweet kisses on the sand of the beach, the thunder of surf in his ears.

But to find her again, Mortis waiting nearby, waiting for him...that had brought the reality - and surrealness - of this discovery home to him in a way that nothing else had.

And now, the moment.

He leads her down a path in the woods, so overgrown on both sides as to nearly be concealed, just wide enough to accomadate him, leading her behind, and Mortis following loyally behind them.

It opens again, into the clearing beyond, a small hill leading up to the setting of the cottage.

For a long moment, he halts, remembering exactly what had inspired him to choose this place, the feeling of hallowed ground that had been completed when he found this place.

It had been the sword, sleek and long and still bright, free from rust, that had lain in the ruins of the cottage.

That had, as he laid a hand on it and lifted it from its resting place, burst into holy flame.

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Ultionis, he had named it.

He had placed it on the wall, over the hearth in the cottage. Whether he would need it, in the times to come, one could not know.

But this place...this place, he was certain, would be safe. A haven for the two of them, a place untroubled by the world outside.

He steps behind Grace, his arms slipping around her waist. Blood-tinted wings stretch, expand, wrapping themslevs around her, caressing her with soft feathers.

His lips are next to her ear, his heart thundering in his ribs. Such force in the love he feels for her, so intense, he feels he could explode as he whispers to her.

"Open your eyes, Grace."

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Mortis, as the two of them are looking at the small, hidden-away cottage, continues on past them, as though he already knows what they are here for, the reasons why, and, finding a spot to his satisfaction, begins grazing on the long, thick, lush grasses of the vale.

His own crystal-blue eyes look into Grace's, a smile on his lips. He can feel her cinfusion, as easily as he can feel his own delight with the place and her liking of it. How she could not have touched his own thoughts and seen what he envisioned here is beyond him, but, then...he hadn't had it in the forefront of his mind, really.

He had been more concerned with whether she would like it or not.

By way of a response, he lets out the flood of thought and feeling that had consumed him when he first found this place.

And at the same moment, he touches his lips to hers.

The house in ruins, abandoned, the walls preserved almost perfectly, pristinely. It could have laid here for hundreds of years before he found it. But as soon as he found it, he knew.

This is home.

isions had danced through his head. A life, love, happiness.

The two of them, alone, curled up before the small, warm hearth within, as rain drummed the roof and played its music on the ground outside, safe and warm and hidden from the prying, invasive eyes of the outside world.

Isolation. Privacy.

Days spent in clear sunlight, nights spent before flames.

More intense images - the two of them, moving together ona soft, warm bed, red, feathered wings draped around them as they become one being.

And what comes after? Whatever may, of course.

As her lips meet his again, his arms tighten around her, pulling her close against him.

the connection between them, so easy, so fluid, shows him not only the visions he had when he first came to this place, but shows him hers as well. A blending of the two makes him shiver with the intensity, something he will never be used to.

And what will it be like when they are even closer, more intimately connected"

Who can say"

A smile touches the corners of his mouth as their lips come together, then part, then come together again. Efortlessly, he liftes her up into his arms, taking slow, unsteady steps towards their sanctuary, their home.

Slow and unsteady because he doesn;t want to take his lips from hers, doesn't want that intense, invigorating sense of connection to stop, when their lips meet again and again.

Hopefully, some distant corner of his mind thinks, she won't notice and make him stop.

He'd often heard, when he had been the Ferryman, that some of his charges had died from overdose of addictive substances. And a part of him had often wondered what they meant when they talked about addiction, about a drug, something that made them feel euphoric, something they took so much of that it killed them while they hovered in that ecstatic state.

Now he knows why they said they hadn't been able to get enough.

Why they had been happy to take so much of something that they died even as they drowned in orgiastic pleasure.

His own addiction is Grace, and if she is the death of him, he cannot say he would be unhappy with such a fate.

As Azriel carries her to the doorway, Mortis muches on the grasses of the vale contentedly, unconcerned.

Their progress is slow through the clearing, distracted as he is by her lips on his, the small, soft sounds of pleasure coming from her matched by his own voice as he carries her easily towards their new home.

It seems as if only seconds have passed in that dim haze of her thoughts and feeling flowing over and with his own. He had thought they were heading for the door, but apparently the distraction had proved to be too much as he bumps into the outer wall just to the left of the door. He laughs softly against her lips, eyes opening just long enough to move the two of them to the door.

With one hand, he continues to hold her against him as the other opens the door, crossing the threshold with his beloved, closing the door behind them. As loath as he is to take his lips from hers, he does want her to have a look around, and it is with a smile he gestures around the interior.

"Welcome home, my love."

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http://www.hallflatfarm.co.uk/images/Clancy%20Cottage%20bedroom.jpg

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Of all the things he has learned in his long, long existence, the greatest of them - one he hadn't considered great, in fact, until meeting Grace - is that anything, anything at all is possible.

Without even touching her, without even being able to see the vision in her wind, in her heart, he already knows what the vision is of, what the question is.

In truth, since that first beat of his new heart, since that first, sweet taste of air in his lungs, he had not even considered what may or may not be possible in the future. But even in the back of his mind, he had known things were different, were never to be the same as they had been.

That whole new horizons stretched before the two of them, with limitless possibilites.

Her hands touching, curling at her stomach, her eyes widening in that unspoken question, all pull him clser to her, his arms and wings spreading and pulling her close to wrap her in his embrace, a joyous smile crossing his own features. Again, that unique connection is forged anew, melding her vision for the future with his own imaginings, as he leans down to her, his forehead touching hers, his crystalline blue eyes locked with her darker orbs.

His answer is unspoken, only a nod of affirmation, his eyes bright with hope and wonder. That curiously pleasurable sensation in his chest, pressure to the point of almost being painful, builds until he thinks that his chest may explode. But of course, it doesn't. Instead, he finally speaks into the silence.

"I would certainly like for it to be possible, my love."

You could not put a price on a moment as sweet as this, nor were there any words to describe it.

Among the souls he had claimed as the Reaper were many poets, many writers, many artists.

Perhaps one of them could have captured a moment as simplistically beautiful as this with their words or art. Had he known that all his existence would lead him to this moment, he might have asked one or more of them to do just that.

Her thoughts and feelings flow over and into his, blending perfectly. So many questions, so many thoughts, such lovely images and feelings explode inside his mind's eye as their lips touch again, and again, and again.

No matter where her thoughts seem to take her, he is left breathless with their intensity and emotion. So many things, still new, still mesmerizing. He could get lost for so long in these moments, consumed by the way they bond so perfectly.

And with those three sacred words, words that say so little and yet somehow manage to encompass something that is impossibly gargantuan. His arms tighten around her yet again, lifting her up against him to the tips of her toes to bring her lips closer to his. Whispered words are returned as his lips brush hers in the most heartfelt, intimate of caresses.

"I love you, Grace."

All the choices in the world...

So conscious of every little thing about her. The way she breathes, the way she smells, the way she touches him. If everything about him is a fascination, everything about her, to him, is a fount of ceaseless wonders. The past, a series of ceaseless tragedies, it seemed sometimes, for her as well as him, and it had all culminated in this moment, this time of perfect happiness.

And yet, her question pulls him along, makes him wonder.

Where does one go from here?

He's been an immortal being, little more than spirit really, for time immemorial. He's encountered countless lives that have ended, and never once had he thought to ask any questions of them about this.

He looks down at her, his pale, ice-blue eyes fair shining with love for her, and wonder yet again that she, who has had life for much longer than he has - actual, breathing, living life - should wonder as much as he does.

Even as her fingers are exploring the feathered wings at his back, they are encircling her tighter still, his hands stroking through her hair. A strange, heady feeling seems to rise through him like gentle fire, her its source. Something here he does not fully understand, a feeling that is not just emotion but physical as well.

A shiver passing through his frame as he looks into her eyes, feeling his heart beat faster, blood singing through his veins.

His voice a mere whisper as he looks down into her eyes. Love and wonder filling every note.

"Whatever it is we should do...it should be done together. But I...Grace, I have never thought I would find a moment in life such as this."