((This story thread contains mature content. You have been forewarned.))

Life goes on. Three words that summed up the driving force of Natalya Pimenova's life in the aftermath of the battle at Hell's Gate. Three words that forced her not to give up. She was alive, and she had to go on, if only to honor the last request asked of her by the man she loved. Remember me, Rhys had said as the life fled his body, and though she felt broken and defeated, she would not dishonor him by giving up. She would go through the life appointed to her remembering him. But she knew she would never love again.

As one day turned into two and three, she and Adam had secretly buried Rhys' body in the holy ground of the Domain in Lourdes, trusting to the sanctity of the place to keep the darker forces of the world from desecrating him. Neither of them had been able to face the thought of burning his remains. The third day became the fourth, and Adam went back to America, taking his leave of his friend's heartbroken lover with a heavy heart. Four became five, and Natalya finally roused herself to leave France, remembering her duty to Avalon and the order she had never told Rhys she was a part of.

With the hilt of Joyeuse in hand, she made her way to England, to the county of Somerset, to a town called Glastonbury, and weak with grief and constant pain, she hid herself away from the world in the house there that was her own. She knew she had to hand the Spear over to the Institute, but she just could not face them. The hilt was the last physical object she had to link herself to her lost love. Was it really too much to ask that she could hold onto it a while longer"

The seventh day found her standing at the wide windows of the upper storey landing, staring out through the leaded glass toward the Tor, rising tall and imposing over the town. It called to her, needing her to fulfill her duty and pass over the precious object in her possession. But she couldn't do it, shaking herself away from that contemplation with a start. For the first time since arriving in England, she took herself outside her little house, stepping onto the high street of Glastonbury itself and into the warm spring sunshine. The neighbors who knew her smiled, and murmured to one another at her paleness, her lack of enthusiasm so marked in comparison to previous visits. But she was outside, and determined to make one visit while she still held the nerve to remain beyond the enclosed safety of her own home.

A lone figure hovered in the slanting shadows cast by the afternoon sun, watching from a short distance as he had been for the last day or so, as if he was afraid or reluctant to approach, satisfied for now to watch in secret and silence. Even from across the street, he could tell she was different, quiet, pale, and drawn, and he knew why. How would she react if he were to approach her" Would she be happy to see him or would she be angry' Did she remember him or had she forgotten him already? Had he made a mistake in coming here" These questions and more tugged at his heart, but until he found the right moment to approach her, they would remain unanswered.

Dressed in dark, conservative style, she was a strange contrast to the brightly colored shops she passed, the easy-going people who jostled around her. Unlike them, she walked with purpose, unaware of the eyes on her from the shadows across the street. There was no sign in her that she even saw the happy people she stepped past, her steps taking her to the old ruined Abbey that still stood at the center of the town. Passing through the skeleton of this house of worship, all that remained following the Reformation that had created the Church of England in Henry VIII's reign, she made for the Lady Chapel. There, in the quiet stillness of that ruined place of contemplation, it was still possible to believe that the Virgin maintained her watch over this small piece of consecrated ground. And through her, Nat could convince herself that she was still close to Rhys, buried in ground consecrated to the Virgin, so many miles away.

The lone figure in silent watch set off in pursuit, following as she led him through unfamiliar streets to the unfamiliar ruins of an old church. He couldn't remember ever having been there before, but somehow some part of him knew it was a sacred place, a place of reverence. He hung back as much as he could, not wanting to arouse suspicion or alarm, hands shoved in the pockets of a black leather coat he couldn't remember ever buying. He knew who he was and he knew what she meant to him. That he remembered, though how he'd come to be there remained a mystery.

She was silent for a long time. Nat had never truly understood the faith she had been brought up in, nor its conflicts with the faith that had built this special place, but one thing she knew for certain. She needed to feel as though she wasn't alone, and this was the one place in the world where she knew her pain would be felt by more than just herself. It was just a question of faith. She didn't speak, but stood before the altar stone, silent tears dripping down her cheeks in remembrance of love and loss. Do you see me, Rhys" I am remembering you. How long she stood there, she couldn't have said, but eventually the silent wash of gut-wrenching pain passed. Wiping her cheeks dry, she bowed slightly to the altar in silent thanks, and turned to leave.

He watched curiously as the woman came to a halt in front of the altar, unable to read her thoughts, though she was obviously distressed. He watched while she bent her head and appeared to be crying, and his heart was wrenched with pain inside his chest. How long had he been gone" Was she grieving over him' He wanted to step out of the shadows, take her in his arms, wipe away her tears, and tell her everything would be all right, but he waited, hesitated, hidden in the shadows afforded by an alcove, his back pressed against the stone wall of the abbey. It wasn't until she turned that his heart stopped in his chest, thumping hard with apprehension. Should he pick this time to approach her or should he wait"

She didn't see the watcher in the shadows, too caught up in her own agony. But now he could see her face, he could see the signs that told him how fresh her grief truly was. The lip Abaddon had split was healing, yes, but still raw; the scratches on her neck left by flying glass during her encounter with the demons over Adam's unconscious form were visible under the heavy sweep of her hair. Her face was lined with grief, evidence of not enough sleep, of too many tears. Hugging her clutch bag to her chest, she moved to take the wooden steps back up to ground level, her eyes fixed on the ground just in front of her feet. She'd accomplished her purpose in leaving the house. Now all she wanted was to hide once again and be alone with her pain.

He held his breath as she approached, watching her closely, seeing the stark signs of grief on her face as she came closer. She didn't seem to see him, walking right past as if he wasn't there or was as invisible to her eyes as that of a ghost, but he knew he was no ghost. He felt the pain of hunger, the chill of the spring breeze, the weariness that came with little sleep, the ache of loneliness and confusion. Were these things that a ghost would feel? Weren't they proof that he was alive and human' He watched as she moved past him, tears filling his eyes when she didn't see him, and his heart thumped painfully in his chest. His mouth moved silently as he summoned his voice, able to only utter one word, a name, one he knew all too well.

"Nat..." Rhys called softly, his voice barely more than a whisper, and then he called her again, his voice a little stronger, clearer, the voice unmistakable though it had not been heard in days. "Natalya..."

"Avalon," he repeated quietly to himself, almost in wonder. She had told him a little of her own life, enough to know what the word meant, but not enough to understand the full implication of its meaning. "You live here?" he asked, looking up at the quaint stone house she'd led him to, the house he'd seen her come out of just a short time before. It struck him how little he knew of her life, this side of the ocean that separated their homelands.

Natalya snorted softly, a faint smile quirking her lips. "If I live anywhere, it is here," she agreed quietly, opening the door to usher him inside. The house he was presented with was very much like the little house he had seen in the vision Abaddon had tried to seduce him with, the house the demon had promise him he would share with his wife and children as his life went on. Of course, Nat knew nothing of this, shedding her jacket and bag by the door, kicking her shoes off to pad barefoot through the living room and into the kitchen. "Come," she repeated once again, looking back over her shoulder to him before she stepped momentarily out of sight.

Now that he was inside, he was struck with the familiarity of the place, as if he'd been there before, and he searched his memory for the reason. "I know this place," he said quietly, more to himself than to her. It was different than he remembered it, but not that different, quieter without....He halted just inside the door, his face turning pale. That was the difference. There had been children, two of them, a daughter and a son. He remembered now. It had just been a vision, an illusion to trick him into giving up, but it had backfired, the dream instead giving him the courage and determination to go on. "I've been here before," he said quietly in wonder as he stepped further inside and swung a curious glance around.

She barely heard him speaking, much less understood what he was saying, busying herself in the kitchen for a few minutes before reappearing. "What was that?" she asked curiously, moving toward him. Her hands reached out - in one lay a silver-bladed knife with an iron handle; in the other, a shot glass of salted Holy Water. Such simple things, but both of them could trip up any number of beasties. Her eyes met his, and in them was visible the desperate hope that the next few moments would pass without incident. "Please," she said softly. "Do not make me do it to you."

He turned his head back to her as she rejoined him, gaze flickering to the silver blade and the glass of water, knowing without having to ask what she wanted from him - to prove he was who he said he was, leaving no room for doubt. "It's me, Nat. I swear," he told her, knowing his word wasn't going to be good enough for her. He couldn't say he blamed her. It wasn't every day someone came back from the dead. "All right," he agreed finally, reaching first for the shot glass. If he was who he thought he was, then there was nothing to fear. "Bottoms up," he said before tossing the salty water back, wincing as it went down, but not because he was a demon, only because it tasted horrid.

He would have been disappointed in her if she hadn't insisted, knowing that such trust in someone who knew what was out there was a death sentence. She wanted to take it on faith, to simply accept that he was back from the dead, but she had to be sure. She winced with him as he swallowed, knowing from past experience how bad that particular combination tasted, opening her palm for the glass to be returned. The iron handle of the silver knife was offered to him in exchange. "You do not need to cut deep," she assured him quietly. "But I need to see blood."

"Got a chaser" Because I think I'm gonna barf," he said as he handed her back the empty glass, and he wasn't kidding. Salt water, holy or otherwise, on an empty stomach was never a good thing. He swallowed down the bile in his throat and reached for the iron handle, wondering if she hadn't already seen enough of his blood. He seemed to recall there being lots of it, too much of it, so much he couldn't make it stop. He froze for a moment as the memory of his own death washed over him in a flash, brief but intense enough to turn his face a shade paler.

The sudden pallor of his skin was enough to bring her closer as she closed his fingers about the iron handle, fairly sure at this point that nothing untoward was going to happen. "Rhys?" she asked softly, one hand cupped gently to his cheek. "What is it?" There was a clatter as she dropped the glass onto the mantle beside him, her now empty hand rising to clutch at his sleeve.

He blinked out of his thoughts, pulling his gaze back to her, a haunted look in his eyes. "I really died," he told her, shuddering at the brief memory of it, the pain and the blood, but it hadn't all been horrible. She'd been there, and the demons....Abaddon was dead, and she'd been the one to close the Gate. "I was an angel, but I'm not an angel anymore."

The memory of his death was still too fresh, only a week ago, for her to hear it mentioned without feeling the horror of that day all over again. Tears sprang up in her eyes, making her vision fill, and she swallowed, turning away to try and get a hold on herself. As her hands found employment in opening a small, discreet cabinet and selecting a bottle of Glencraig, she focused on the latter part of his words. "You're not?"

"I don't think so," he replied, watching as her eyes teared up and she turned away, as if to hide the grief that she'd felt at his death. "Nat, I....I'm sorry." He wasn't sure why he was apologizing or what exactly he was apologizing for, but he knew he'd hurt her, and that had been the last thing he'd wanted to do. He glanced down at the iron-handled blade he held in his hand, wondering if it was still necessary to take the final test, to prove he was no ghoul, no doppelganger, no monster of any kind. He pushed the sleeve of his jacket up, just far enough to expose the flesh of his left forearm.

Glass clinked on glass as she poured out two glasses of the expensive whiskey, shaking her head against his apology. "Don't," she told him softly. "Just be you." Her expression as she turned to him once again was torn between hope and fear, a deep longing for him flickering in her familiarly warm eyes.

He didn't see her expression as she turned to face him, too busy contemplating the knife cut. Not too deep, she'd said. How deep was too deep" The first cut's the deepest, he thought idly to himself. Wasn't she happy to see him' Was he who he thought he was" Would the silver blade prove anything? There was only one way to find out. He took a breath and pressed the blade against his flesh, cutting deep enough to draw blood, but not deep enough to do any real damage.

As the blood welled up without any sign of the silver or iron burning his flesh, she reached out to take the knife from him, folding a small cloth over the cut with tender care to staunch the miniscule flow from the little wound. The knife, she let fall to the mantle beside the empty shot glass, lifting her gaze to his, raw with the love that swelled her heart, no longer suppressed for fear that he was not whom he seemed to be. "Dusha moya," she whispered, her voice throbbing with emotion, and yet she made no move to kiss him, to hold him. Instead, she offered him the chaser he'd asked for, holding herself in check just long enough to wash the bitter taste of salt and sanctimony from his mouth.

He gave her no chance to rise up, to do anything but lie back and welcome him into the cradle of her arms and legs, her back arching to help him slip the soft silk over her head. As her skirt slid high, baring the toned softness of the legs that coiled tight about his hips, she rose to meet the next kiss, bunching his shirt in her fingers with the same eager impatience he showed her. "We're in bed," she murmured against his lips, her voice playful through the loving lust that gripped her. "Apologise."

He leaned back long enough to get his jacket off, tossing it, too, carelessly aside, not even sure how he'd come to have it. He'd already checked the pockets. There was no wallet, no I.D., no money, no handgun, no anything. Just a leather jacket with no explanation as to how he'd obtained it, or the black t-shirt and jeans that completed the outfit. Drawn back down toward her when she gripped his shirt, he searched her eyes, his own dark with desire. "I'm sorry," he told her, not just words to placate her, but an apology from the heart. "I didn't want you to get hurt," he tried to explain, knowing no explanation would suffice.

"Don't do it again." The words were an order and a warning; if he ever did do such a thing to her again, he would get more than a couple of thumps with a bag. Her body rose up from the bed with an eager moan, shifting to toss him over onto his back in tender, playful challenge as she straddled him. The dip of her hands beneath his shirt lasted just long enough to pull the fabric up and over his head, the garment thrown aside as carelessly as her own had been before she dropped to brace herself over him, her curls brushing his cheeks and shoulders. "I love you," she promised him again, these words fervent and fierce as she took his lips with her own once again, rocking to him with wicked intent.

He groaned against her lips as her body rocked against his, stoking the fire that was already burning inside him. He had not yet noticed, but whatever scars had marked his body were no longer there, no faded wounds, no tattoos, no marks of any kind. It was as if his body had been wiped clean of every imperfection, every flaw, no matter how insignificant, proof that some higher power had somehow interferred and not only returned him from the dead, but had healed and cleansed him of every wound he'd ever suffered.

Her fingers trailed down his arms, slipping between his fingers, drawing his arms up until he was pinned beneath her with the minimum of strength, a token gesture that challenged him to find once more the tender dominance he'd had over her before all hell had broken loose on the continent. Her lips broke from his, beginning to trail open-mouthed kisses down over his chest, deliberately touching her mouth to the place where Abaddon's blade had impaled him, where his life's blood had poured out, soaking them both in the moment of his death.

He drew a ragged breath as her lips grazed his flesh, further stirring his desire, barely able to contain himself. It was the sweetest kind of torture, an unbearable ache that throbbed with a life of its own. His fingers curled into hers, surrendering himself to her, the mistress of his heart, the redeemer of his soul.

Gradually, she worked her way down over his flawless body, her fingers squeezing into his before releasing him to smooth a loving, possessive touch down along his inner arms and sides as she inched backward. Her tongue dipped in and out of the indent of his navel as she looked up at him, fingertips teasing along the waistband of his jeans to flick open button and zipper. Part of her wondered just how much of this he could take, even as she revelled in the knowledge that he was all hers once again.

Or was he" The words of the demon rose again in her mind. "How much as your angel told you, devushka" Has he told you that he made a bargain with my master" A bargain for a life not your own. A bargain for the safety of a woman he once loved and still loves in the deepest recesses of his heart' A woman he thinks is his soul mate?" Pain touched her eyes as those words cut deep once again, but she hid it away. Now was not the time to question him. Now was the time to prove to him how devoted she was to making herself a proper, perfect match for his heart, mind, body, and soul.

No words needed to be said, no thoughts needed to be shared as they rekindled their love for each other there in each other's arms. Whether it had been an hour, a day, a week, a month they'd been apart, it had been too long, and he promised himself they'd be apart no more, from this moment forward. His eyes closed as she teased him, every touch, every caress stoking the fire that was smoldering inside him, until he could barely hold himself back any longer. "Nat, please..." he pleaded, unable to stand much more, but too lost in her ministrations to make her stop. Had she asked, she would have been assured that his heart indeed belonged to her and more. She held not only his life in her hands, but all of him. In time, she would come to understand that there was no one else, not now, not ever again.

She was determined now not to stop, not unless she forced him to insist upon something more than simply to lie there and writhe under her tender ministrations. Her fingers eased into the cloth that covered him, inching jeans and underwear down from his hips, uncovering his flesh to the heated hunger of her roving mouth excruciatingly slowly. Even when he was naked to her eyes and hands, she took her time, watching him through dark lashes as she toyed and teased and played. Either she wanted to push him beyond his restraint, or she wanted him to surrender completely. But either way, she was definitely enjoying herself.

They were both sort of the same thing, as far as he was concerned, and there was little use in trying to restrain himself when his body had a mind of its own. A groan was ripped from his throat, his fingers finding their way into her hair, digging into her scalp, clutching a handful of soft, brown curls as he rode the tide, waves of pleasure breaking over him as he finally surrendered to her ministrations, rocking him to the core of his being. He shuddered beneath her as she reminded him what it was to be alive and what it meant to be loved, not just any love, but the giving of one's self to another in the most profound and sacred way between a man and a woman.

The rough tangle of his fingers in her hair elicited not a protest, but a moan, the sound driving deep into him with intimate vibration as he crested the peak she had driven him to with her determinedly loving attentions. And Nat delighted in the way he let go of any restraint while holding her so firmly in check in the same instant, daring to keep up her heated touching and tasting until long after his climax had faded away, threatening to tip pleasure into pain but never quite reaching that point, until finally she relented, crawling up over his naked body to share with him a grin that declared herself to be the victor. For now, at least.

"Seven days." Not one week, not a while. Each day was stark in her mind, each one marked with its own agony of loss. Her arms involuntarily tightened about him, as if to reassure herself that he was real and there with her. The grief was the illusion, not him.

"Seven days," Rhys echoed. Where the hell had be been for seven days" Heaven, Hell, Purgatory' He closed his eyes, brows furrowing as he tried to recall what had happened, to conjure up the memory of his last moments. He remembered the battle on the mountain, the clash between demons and angels that was going on all around him. He remembered Nat being there, calling his name. He remembered the pain of the sword as it cut him open. He remembered Abaddon disappearing into the Abyss. He remembered falling and pleading with Nat to finish what he'd started. He remembered the blood and the pain. He remembered saying goodbye, and then there was no more. The next thing he remembered, he was here, in England, apparently, just outside Natalya's home without any memory of what had happened after he'd died or how he'd come to be there.

He shuddered at the memory of his death, a haunted expression in his eyes when they finally opened, unsure of what had happened, but knowing in his heart that he had returned because of her. It was the only answer that made any sense. "I don't remember," he started, furrowing his brows as he stared at the ceiling in further thought. "I died. I know I died, but I don't remember anything after that." He turned his head toward her, wishing he knew the answers, hoping he was finally free to live his life as he chose. It was all anyone ever wanted, wasn't it' He realized that now that he was free, she was not. It seemed unfair somehow, but he kept that thought to himself.

"Gabriel said..." He hesitated a moment, realizing how ludicrous it sounded to even mention that name, as if he was a personal friend, but Gabriel had once called him brother.

Those warm brown eyes rose meet his, her head tipping back until they were face to face in that gentle, lazy embrace. It didn't sound absurd to her, to hear Gabriel's name on his lips. But then, she had been in the company of both Michael and Raphael that day. "Michael told me that the original promise that had been made to you when you chose to become human had been broken," she offered quietly, hoping to help him make sense of what he was feeling and thinking. "That a new covenant had been made with you, that I was to be a part of it." She didn't mention that Michael had been in the process of pulling her out of Hell at the time; she didn't think Rhys needed to know just how close everything had come to disaster.

Something clicked in Rhys' head and he thought he understood what Natalya was saying, at least in part. Who ever truly understood the designs of angels" There had been a time right at the end when he thought he'd understood it all, but that knowledge seemed to have been lost somewhere when he'd become mortal again.

"The Triad," he said, half thinking out loud to himself and half explaining to her. "The number three is sacred. The number of the Holy Trinity. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit," he explained, countering with, "Abaddon, Lilith, and Na'amah." He could speak the names of the demons now without fear that they might hear him. They were dead and gone and could no longer hurt him or those he loved.

"The Triad was broken when John died." How much of this had he explained to her already? He wasn't sure. "And Riley..." He broke off. Riley had left Earth and gone to a place he doubted Natalya had ever heard of. But that was all in the past. If what Nat was telling him was true, and he had no reason to doubt her, then a new Triad had been formed, including Nat and himself, but who was the third"

She wasn't expecting to hear that name, her inadvertent stiffening only too obvious to the man she was curled up with. Nat made a supreme effort to relax, however, blinking her way past the sharp sting to draw in a breath and just offer up what she knew. "I do not know about a Triad," she admitted softly. "But I would assume that with us - you, I, and Adam - Heaven created a new Triad to complete the task before them."

He was too lost in his own thoughts to notice her reaction to his mention of a long lost love. Riley had not been the first or the only woman Rhys had loved and lost, but he was determined not to lose Natalya the way he'd lost the others. He blinked out of his thoughts, turning curious eyes to her at the mention of Adam, but it made perfect sense. Adam and Natalya were the two people he loved most in all the world, and the two who were best equipped to fill the spots that had been vacated by John and Riley. "Adam?" he asked. "Adam was here?"

"Of course." She shifted, propping herself up on her elbow to look down at him. "You left your cell phone with me, and Adam called the evening after you left. He flew over to help me find you." She hesitated, uncertain just how much she should tell him about the risks they had both taken to do just that. "Did you not think that there would be more innocent casualties in the fighting than there were" Raphael and Adam cleared everyone from the Breach." She smiled faintly, though her eyes flashed with an anger that would not soon be forgotten. "Adam was protecting the innocent. Michael used me to inspire you, but that's what got you killed. I can't forgive him for that."

Rhys' eyes widened a moment as he took all this in, each of them filling in the blanks of the story the other had not known and could not have known at the time it was taking place, separated as they'd been from each other, though that had been Rhys' own doing. Everything she was telling him made sense, but it pointed to something perhaps even more important - something that might be a clue to answering her initial question. "Michael knew. He knew all along. He knew what would happen. He planned it all right from the start." He turned his head away again as he contemplated something else. "Gabriel told me I wasn't chosen. He told me I volunteered. He said I wanted to be human. I wanted to..." He trailed off a moment, his voice fading. "I wanted to know what it is to be loved."

Whatever she might have said in relation to Michael and his plans washed into oblivion at the fading softness of Rhys' voice over those last words. Leaning close, she brushed her lips to his, curling her palm to his cheek, holding his gaze with her own. "You will never go another day without knowing what it is to be loved more than life itself, dusha moya," she swore in a low, fierce voice. "Never again."

What could he say to that' There were no words to express what he was feeling in response to her promise. His heart swelled with joy and feelings of love so deep and profound he thought it would burst. It suddenly didn't matter if he had to wait a little while to make it official. They had already promised themselves to each other; the rest was just icing on the cake. He smiled, tears of joy filling his eyes, at her promise, fierce determination in her words, and he knew at last what it was to love and be loved above all else. Should he tell her of his dream of the future" Had there been any truth to it, or had it all just been an illusion created to misguide him from the task that had been at hand" It no longer mattered. It was all in the past.

The worst was behind them. Good had triumphed over Evil, and at long last, they had each other. It was the greatest feeling in the world, and they had the rest of their lives ahead of them.

((As always huge thanks to Nat's player for the above scene. Where will they go from here? Who knows! Stay tuned to find out what happens next. :grin:))