Topic: The Sword in the Stone

Rhys Bristol

Date: 2012-03-12 19:48 EST
Cath'drale Ste-C"cile Albi, France

The fortress majesty of the great cathedral dedicated to Saint Cecilia in the French city of Albi dominated the skyline, no matter what time of day you saw it. At sunrise and sunset, it loomed over the city and river, setting its mark over the landscape; at night, it was a dark shadow to remind the locals of their ill-fated historical defiance against the power of the Catholic Church. Yet under the sunlight, it was a warm, welcoming sight, sheathed in golden stone, clinging to the chill of the night deep inside. The chapels that lined the central nave were illuminated with multitudes of candles, the floor tiled delicately with intricately patterned bone, ivory, and terracotta. Tourists and locals milled beneath the high vaulted ceiling, too few to pay much attention to one another.

Along the cool avenue of stone to the right of the main altar, a quietly religious pair walked together, their steps measured, their voices low. A priest in cassock and collar; a nun in habit and hood. Such a familiar sight in the cathedral that no one looked twice at them. Which was just as well, really. "Stop fidgeting with the collar," Natalya murmured, her hands demurely crossed in front of her stomach. "You'll draw attention to yourself."

"I don't know how they can stand wearing these things," Rhys complained, keeping his voice as low as possible. "It itches!" He lowered his hand as he offered a polite nod to a small group of tourists who were passing by. "I can't believe I let you make me wear this. I look ridiculous. You look pretty sexy for a nun." He smirked, tipping his head toward her, his voice low. "Wanna tell me your sins later, and I'll decide on punishment' I'm thinking a good spanking. What do you think" When was the last time you fornicated" Lust is one of the seven deadly sins, you know."

Nat couldn't help laughing a little, hiding the bright expression behind her hand as she nudged him sharply in the ribs. "You will get us thrown out," she warned him in amusement, glancing his way. "Although ....you are an extraordinarily sexy priest. Is the scabbard giving you any problems?" Her gaze flickered down to below his waist, remembering the free for all that had been strapping the priceless sheath to him in the first place.

"No, the scabbard's fine. It's my sword that keeps bothering me. I keep thinking about spanking a naughty nun. You are so paying for this later." He was whining, as usual, but thankfully, keeping his voice low enough that no one else heard. "Did you see the gargoyles out there" You know how hard it is to kill one of them' I hate those things."

She blinked, slightly confused by his gargoyle comment. "Aren't they supposed to guard against demons?" she asked softly, gently touching his sleeve to slow him down as they approached the little chapel dedicated to Saint Cecilia. "When did you ever have to kill one?"

Despite his misgivings, he had to admit, the place was pretty awe-inspiring. He'd never seen anything quite like it, and though he might not want to admit it, there was something about the place that made him feel safe, as creepy as some of it was. He shrugged his shoulders. "A while back in Chicago. Long story." He felt her touch his sleeve and came to a halt outside the chapel. "Is this it?"

"Yes." Nat's voice was low, filled with reverence for the faith that could build such places as this. The little chapel they had stopped in front of was easily the most ornate of the cathedral, dominated by a beautifully painted cast and statue of Saint Cecilia in the moments of her death, the cuts made by the axe on the back of her next bright red against the painted ivory of her skin. Candles surrounded her, votive offerings by the faithful to the saint with a hope that she would intercede on their behalf. Carefully lifting her habit just a little, Natalya lowered onto her knees, making a pretence of being deep in prayer as her eyes scanned the shrine.

Having been born and raised Catholic, Rhys had his own feeling of reverence for the place, though hidden behind his sarcastic sense of humor. He was privately in awe of the place, not only because of the sheer beauty and majesty of it, but because of what it stood for. It was a fortress against evil. This was one place where demons could not abide. A safe place. A sanctuary. He had to stifle a shudder at the thought of that, wondering what the people here would think if they knew who and what he really was. He turned quiet, serious suddenly, the humor that he used to try and hide his nervousness evaporating in the solemnity and sacredness of the place. He picked up a matchstick and held it to a candle to light the end, shielding the flame with his free hand as he transferred the flame to an unlit candle, lighting it and leaning in to blow out the matchstick. He knelt down beside Natalya and made the Sign of the Cross, touching two fingers first to forehead, chest, and each shoulder.

It was a little different for Natalya, though not so much as Rhys might think. She had been raised in the Orthodox Church, with its deep love of ancient ceremony and reverence for the Holy Trinity. But she could appreciate how much the saints of the Western Church meant to them, how deeply they were reverenced as intercession between the supplicants and the Lord they served. As Rhys bowed his head, she rose to her feet, moving with slow purpose up onto the altar itself. This was where they found out if her information had been reliable - if the key she carried fit the lock at the back of that great altar stone, there would be little to stand in their way.

He bent his head in silent prayer, though who or what he was praying for was entirely his own business. A last prayer to a God he wasn't sure he believed in. In all truth, he wasn't sure what he believed in anymore, but here he was, at the final leg of a lifelong journey. Faith, he knew, was believing in something that couldn't be proven. For him, the hardest part of all this was believing in himself. After a moment, he rose, a solemn expression on his face. He wondered what would happen if he asked for sanctuary. Natalaya had a point about keeping them and the sword on holy ground, but they couldn't stay there forever. He had to finish what he'd started, and let the chips fall where they may. He drew a deep breath and watched as Natalya moved onto the altar.

Her eyes - undisguised, warm brown today - swept over the scant mingle of tourists and locals as she rounded the altar, momentarily distracted by the face of the saint in front of her. Her fingers stroked tenderly over the lips twisted in pain, compassion for the woman who had refused death until she had felt the blessing of Holy Communion touching her heart for a moment. Nat's gaze followed the line of the saint's outstretched hand, and there, below the draped fingers, was the lock she had been looking for. Hidden behind the altarstone, she lifted the hem of her habit high, displaying stockings that no nun would be caught dead in. Her fingers hooked a large ornate key from the top of her right stocking, dropping the habit once more to insert the key into the lock as she knelt down. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," she murmured, crooking a finger toward Rhys. If the stone opened, they would have to be through it very quickly.

He stepped up onto the dais and rounded the altar to join Natalya behind it, glancing every now and then to the small pockets of tourists to make sure no one was watching or coming close. So far, so good, but he knew the hard part would be getting the sword out of there without anyone noticing. It was his job to keep watch and then to hide the sword and get it out of there. He'd have to stifle his desire to look it over until they had made their escape, but his fingers were itching to feel the solid metal in his hands, to know it was real.

Rhys Bristol

Date: 2012-03-12 19:51 EST
She didn't know what she had expected. The loud, unrestrained grinding of rock on rock, unoiled mechanisms screaming out their first movement in a hundred years, perhaps. Certainly not the near silence of the stone beneath their feet falling at incredible speed, dropping them from the body of the cathedral deep into the bowels of the crypts and catacombs that wound through the rock and stone beneath.

He gasped at the sudden and unexpected drop, reaching for her out of instinct and pulling her toward him to keep her from falling, even as an almost sick feeling of vertigo washed over him. He hadn't known what to expect, but he certainly hadn't expected this.

Neither of them cried out - the drop was far too sudden for that. Yet it wasn't straight down. The channel they were tossed into curved very gently, guiding and slowing their fall until they were sliding through the darkness. Nat's hand flailed until it wrapped tightly in Rhys' grip, her face white in the darkness at the prospect of the unknown fate ahead of them. The rushing wind abruptly stopped, the stone beneath them falling away to land them both with an uncomfortable thump against the smoothness of cold, damp flagstones in the flickering light of freshly lit torches.

At times like this, it would be nice to have wings, but no wings presented themselves to aid them. Even if they had, the small space would probably not have accommodated them. He scrabbled and scraped a hand across the space to grip Nat's hand, the fall too fast and unexpected to do much else but ride it out, the color draining from his own face and matching the white of hers, eyes wide in the darkness, but more startled than afraid. He knew there were far more terrible things to fear than this. Once they were dumped out onto the ground, he groaned a little, rubbing at his back side as he climbed to his feet, turning to help her up from the ground. "Well, that was fun. Where are we?" he asked, taking a look around.

The breath knocked out of her by the fall, Nat lay still a moment longer. face down against the chill damp of the granite stone beneath them. Letting out a quiet cough, she pushed herself to her knees, reaching up for Rhys' help in standing. The fall had knocked the hood and wimple from her head, her wayward curls released to tumble about her face as she looked around with him. "I have no idea," she admitted reluctantly. "My contact said nothing about that little side trip."

He turned back to her, brushing some of the curls away from her face. She had taken longer to get up than he had, and he took a harder look at her. "You okay?" he asked, worriedly. "If I'd known that was going to happen, I would have tied pillows to our asses!" Okay, so his sense of humor hadn't disappeared completely. He cupped her face in his hands, more concerned for her safety than his own.

She snorted with laughter, leaning into him as he checked her over for injury. Nat didn't expect to walk away from a fall like that without at least some bruises, perhaps a sprained ankle, but then for all her confident wiles, she was still quite a delicately formed woman. What didn't even touch Rhys might easily put her in a hospital. Thankfully, that wasn't the case here. But before she had the chance to reassure him, the unfamiliar clank and creak of plate mail drew her attention to the gloom before them, where an armored figure was approaching with slow, menacing steps.

He hardly had a chance to look her over, much less kiss her hurts away, when they heard the clank of armor, and he jerked his head toward the sound. "Oh, sh*t. What now?" Think fast, Rhys! Shooting a gun at plate mail sure as hell wasn't a good idea, and he didn't think trying to carry on a conversation was going to do much good either. On the other hand, he had the scabbard and he was supposed to be divine in nature, but would the guardian recognize that or not'

"Hold fast, ye lord of heaven, ye lady of earth."

Nat started in surprise. Was the suit of armor actually speaking" Her assumption was that there was no one inside the armor, simply because she refused to believe that anyone could possibly have subjected themselves to the kind of spell that would keep them alive for five centuries or more. Her hand tightened on Rhys'.

"Take heed and go no further. Only he born worthy may take what rests in Cecilia's hands."

The first thing Rhys did was step in front of Natalya, shielding her from further harm, adrenalin pumping, getting ready to hightail it out of there if they had to, his mouth dropping open when the armored figure spoke. There couldn't be anyone alive in there, could there" He assumed it was just an animated hunk of metal set there to serve as a guardian of sorts. He was expecting it to take a swing at his head, not issue a warning. Rhys' face went pale when he heard what the guardian had to say. There was no mistaking that the words were meant for him. He was briefly reminded of an old Indiana Jones' movie, but this was neither the time nor the place to bring it up. He felt his heart pounding in his chest, not so from much fear, but excitement. This was the critical moment, the moment when he would or would not be deemed worthy. He stepped forward a single pace, leaving Natalya behind him. "I am worthy," he told the guardian, hoping he wasn't making a huge blunder. He wasn't sure how much he was going to have to reveal in front of Natalya, but one way or another, he wasn't leaving until he had the sword in his hands. "Be sure. A mortal life rests on your shoulders."

The import of those words was indecipherable for a moment. Then a loud gasp rent the air behind Rhys, torn from Nat's lips as armored fingers grasped her arm, a long serrated sword edge placed at her throat. She swore in her native Russian, wide eyes trained on her lover as her face paled once again, closer to death in that moment than she had ever been in her lifetime before. The armored figure before Rhys gestured into the gloom behind itself, where a circle of torches were slowly igniting. The flicker of light illuminated a ragged statue carved from a single block of granite - a woman, kneeling in prayer. And a shining sword set deep into the rock between her hands.

Startled by the quick succession of events, he swung around to find a sword at Natalya's throat, his initial reaction to shoot whoever or whatever it was that had hold of her, but instead, he froze in place, not moving a muscle, afraid that any movement from him might cause her harm. "Let her go. This is about me. I'm the one who's facing judgment here, not her." His eyes met hers in a silent apology, and then he turned back to the armored figure, his gaze darting the statue illuminated in torchlight and the sword set in stone. "Aw, you've gotta be kidding me." "The touch of mortal flesh is not permitted to the hilt of Joyeuse," the guardian intoned firmly. "Prove your worth or pay with her blood for the weapon of your choosing."

Nat swallowed gingerly, feeling the unnaturally sharp, cold metal against her throat. Mortal flesh' Was Rhys not mortal, in some way' Had she missed some supernatural exchange, was she about to hand the sword to a demon after all"

"Mortal..." Rhys muttered, trailing off. "How the hell am I supposed to..." He trailed off again. He'd never had any control of his angelic form, unable to call it up whenever he wanted it. He came to him when he needed it, it seemed, and he needed it now. "Look, I'm..." He darted a quick glance at Natalya. There was no way he was going to be able to hide the truth from her much longer. He swallowed hard. He'd dragged her into this mess and now if he so much as made one wrong move, she'd pay for it with her life. "I thought you're supposed to be the good guys," he muttered again, taking a few reluctant steps toward the sword in the stone. "If you know who I am, then why all the Excalibur crap?"

Rhys Bristol

Date: 2012-03-12 19:56 EST
"Goodness is relative when evil stalks the world." A low snort escaped from the captive Russian's lips at the unexpectedly philosophical platitude as it escaped from the guardian's lips. The armored figure moved with Rhys toward Joyeuse. "To know is not to hold a certainty. You bring with you a party of neutral allegiance, a woman of the earth. Knowledge and understanding are two separate entities. Draw the sword and prove your worth."

"She's not as neutral as you might think. If the demons have their way, they'll make Earth a second Hell. You think she wants that' No one wants that." Except for the demons, of course. He eyed the sword a moment, feeling as if everything in his entire life had led him up to this moment. The moment of truth, as it were. It was time to make a leap of faith and accept who he was and what he had come here to accomplish. "I know who I am," he told the armored figure quietly, straightening his back as he brought his arms forward, flexing his fingers, balling his hands into fists. "And I know what I was born to do."

A leap of faith, Rhys, he heard a voice in his head, a woman's voice. You know who you are. Accept it and fulfill your destiny.

There was no more argument from the guardians. The atmosphere within the crypt seemed to turn inward, drawing the sensation of critically focused attention pressing onto Rhys' consciousness. Even Nat was aware of it, staring in silent tension as she watched him approach the blessed sword, hoping against hope that she had not made a huge mistake in solving the clues that had brought them here.

"My name is Rathanael and I am an Angel of the Lord," he said, his voice low but full of command, surprising even himself or that part of him that was mortal, the duality of his nature revealing itself. He focused his full attention on the sword, everything around him seeming to fade away. It was just him and the sword, nothing else existed, nothing else was important. He could hear his own heart beating in a slow, steady cadence. It seemed to echo through the crypt, almost feeling the rush of blood in his veins that made him human. He felt heavy suddenly, as if this body weighed him down, time slowing, his heart beating like the tick of a clock. Everything seemed to stop in the moment. There was no yesterday, no today, no tomorrow. Only this moment. The part of him that was mortal dared to take a breath and reached out with two mortal hands to grasp hold of the hilt.

Around him, the torches flared with white flame, illuminating the crypt in brightness that could not be denied. The guardians, twelve in all though only two had moved, fell to their knees with a staccato, resounding crash of metal on stone. Nat was forced down onto her knees with her captor, staring wide-eyed at Rhys' back as he named his true self in the forgotten darkness of this sacred place.

He paused for a moment, his hands wrapped around the hilt. There was no time to think, no time to doubt. Doubt would lead to defeat, and they'd die here, never to leave this place. There seemed to be a conflict within as his mortal self fought against his divinity, and for a moment, it felt almost as if his spirit would be torn in two. He squeezed his eyes closed, leaning forward and tightening his grip on the blade, his body tense with strain. It wasn't the sword that was causing the conflict; it was coming from somewhere within. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead and he heard a woman's voice again in his head, wondering vaguely if it was only his imagination and if anyone else heard it but him. "Take the sword, Rhys. It is rightfully yours. Finish what it is you came here to do."

The stone face of the carven woman before him seemed to glow gently, waiting with eternal patience for the moment when he finally truly accepted his place in the greater destiny of the world. Behind him, Nat felt the full weight of the attention on this chamber, this moment in time, shocked and uncertain as she watched the man she knew as Rhys take hold of the sword. And jealous, too, as the soothing, intimate tones of a feminine voice swept through the chamber, calling to him with a familiarity that set Natalya's teeth on edge.

It was the voice that finally did it, a voice he recognized but thought he'd never hear again. He felt the sharp pain of tears prickling at his eyes, and just as he felt his heart open to that pain, a wave of heat washed over him, hot as fire, and he cried out in pain as he was suddenly surrounded by a blindingly bright light, a light so white and so pure it could not be of the Earth. But then the pain was gone, and he felt only warmth, soothing and calming, and he surrendered himself to the light, the dual parts of his nature melding together, both mortal and angelic. There was another bright flash of light and it seemed for a split second that there were wings at his back. Angelic wings, unlike those of any bird of flight, purest white, but sheer as though they weren't really there at all. The sword shone before him, and suddenly everything seemed to become clear and make sense. Faced with his own destiny, he knew who he was and he knew his true purpose. The part of Rhys that was divine grasped hold of the sword and effortlessly pulled it from the stone, claiming it as his own.

Nat squinted through the painful illumination that surrounded him, feeling her personal hopes crash down around her. Wings ....pure light ....an Angel of the Lord ....No wonder he had been so reluctant to love her, so reluctant to accept her love. She swallowed, freed from the grasp of the guardian at her back as the sword came free, rising to her feet to step away, turning her back to the painful realisation that Rhys was not the man he had told her he was. That he was not, strictly speaking, a man at all. But he had proved himself worthy to wield the sword, a sword he intended to use against a specific demon. As an angel, she could see now how equal that fight would be. She could support that and keep from him the pain that infected her heart in that moment.

He was Rhys and yet he was not, his body mortal, but his soul angelic, part of each, but not fully either. And in that moment that he was aware of his angelic side, he realized and understood why he had agreed to this particular destiny. Some part of him remembered the bargain his angelic self had made, the sacrifice he'd agreed to make, the reward if he accomplished his task. He turned to face Natalya, feeling as though his heart would burst with love, the words right there on the tip of his tongue, but before he could say them, the divine light disappeared all at once. The sword clattered to the ground as Rhys crumpled and collapsed on the stones.

The sudden clatter and abrupt darkness drove her selfish unhappiness from her mind. Nat whirled about, peering through the gloom in time to see Rhys crumple to the stone, ignoring the slow creak and clank of the guardians as they resumed their places in favor of launching herself to her knees beside him. She ignored the sword, though the temptation to touch it was powerful indeed, reaching out to lift Rhys' head into her lap, stroking her fingers against his face. "Rhys?" she whispered uncertainly. "Rhys, can you hear me?"

He laid pale and still, almost as if he was dead, the shock to his mortal body causing him to faint when his divinity so suddenly fled him. No longer did he look angelic. He was once again only a man. After a moment, his eyelids fluttered and he opened his eyes to find himself lying on the cold stone floor, Natalya's face swimming in and out of focus in front of him. "What..." His voice sounded distant, muffled, like it wasn't his own.

Rhys Bristol

Date: 2012-03-12 20:00 EST
His skin was cold under her touch, frightening her as he began to stir. She didn't need a moment to think, stripping out of her habit to tuck it under his head and crawling around to lean over him, studying his face with fierce determination. "Don't you do this to me, don't you dare do this to me now," she was muttering as her hands rubbed against his, pinching his knuckles, trying to bring him out of his stupor before anything else weird started to happen down here.

He was slow in coming around as she administered to him, slow in remembering what had happened only moments before. It seemed strange, as if it had been some weird dream, someone else he'd been watching, someone else, not him. He reached out to touch her, as if to make sure she was real. "Nat..." He started. "I'm sorry." His first words to her an apology, feeling horrible for not having told her, for having put her life in danger. It was a mistake he intended not to repeat.

"What?" She was utterly aghast that the first thing he did was apologise to her, as though she had been in any real danger to begin with. "You have nothing to apologise for," she promised him, holding his palm to her cheek for a long moment. "Can you stand" We should get out of here before these guardians change their minds."

"Are you all right?" he asked, pressing his hand against her cheek, gaze drifting to her neck to make sure they hadn't hurt her. He stifled a groan as he pushed himself up. He felt like he'd just come down from some bad acid trip or something. "I think so," he answered, glancing over at the sword where it lay not far from his hand.

"I'll live," Nat promised him. It wasn't, perhaps, exactly what he wanted to hear, but it was truthful. She didn't think she would be all right ever again. She rose to her feet, tugging her dress down to a more respectable length, and reached to pull the priest's cassock from his shoulders. "I don't think we'll be leaving the same way we arrived."

"I think I know what Indiana Jones must have felt like," he muttered, letting her take the cassock from him, reaching to grasp hold of the sword as he staggered to his feet. He frowned a little as he looked the sword over, wondering how much explaining he'd have to do once they were out of here. He didn't understand it all himself, much less to have to explain it to someone else. But he'd worry about all that later. "Too bad. You looked pretty sexy as a nun."

"Put it on your wish list for when this is all over," she suggested, the innuendo and teasing coming easily to her lips despite the ache that now existed at the assumption that he would not have any need for her at all once his battle was won. "Sheath Joyeuse ....it should cloak itself so that only you and I know it is there. Anyone else won't even notice it."

Need wasn't really the question, as far as he was concerned. He was pretty sure he wasn't meant to survive this, and even if he was, he doubted she'd want to stay with him much longer now that she knew the truth. "You better be worth all the trouble," he warned the sword, sliding it into the scabbard he wore at his waist. The sword slid easily into the scabbard, a perfect fit, as though it belonged there. He looked around the dark, dreary space. It didn't seem quite so mystical now as it had a few minutes ago, and if he hadn't seen what had happened with his own two eyes, he might not have believed it. "Any idea how we get out of here?" It sure as hell wasn't going to be the same way they'd arrived.

Nat's fingers waited until he was done, reaching to twine with his as she turned to feel her way along the cold damp corridor she had located with one outstretched hand. This journey, in itself, was a leap of faith - there was no way to tell whether she was leading him into further danger or not, only that this was the only exit from the crypt in which they stood. "I wish those torches had stayed alight," she murmured softly, picking her way with care despite the urge to run screaming through the darkness. "I don't suppose you can glow a bit?"

He had to smirk at her question, though the hint at her knowing what he was caused a small pang at his heart. He thought it wouldn't be long now before she wanted nothing to do with him, though as far as he knew, he was the same as always. "No, but I brought a lighter. Be prepared. That's the Boy Scout Motto." He reached into his jeans and produced a Zippo with a pinup etched on the front and flicked it to produce a small flame. "I don't have any control over it. I can't turn it on and off at will, if that's what you mean. It's not like the movies, you know. I don't..." He sighed. What was the use"

She flushed, grateful for the darkness and the flicker of the little flame that hid her ashamed glance as she shook her head. "I didn't mean ..." She sighed softly. "We can talk about it later." Turning away, she gave her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, peering into the shadows ahead of them. "This way."

He thought about pulling the sword out and asking it which way to go, like a dowsing rod, but he had a feeling it didn't work that way. It was a weapon that had been created for one purpose and that purpose was to defeat evil. He held the flame out in front of them to light their way, his free hand wrapped around hers. He frowned in the darkness. Now that they had the sword, he was unsure what they'd find when they emerged, unsure if there would be any time to talk later, as she'd suggested. "I wanted to tell you, you know. How do you tell someone something you hardly believe yourself" What was I supposed to say' Hey, by the way, I'm an angel, but I don't really believe it,so I don't expect you to either."

Her footsteps faltered, a faint stumble betraying how much the sight of him emblazoned with light had shocked her, how deeply hurt she felt that he had not told her what he was. She swallowed, shaking her head again as she felt her way along the wall. "So tell me now," she suggested quietly. "No excuses, no chance for misunderstandings. Tell me how I am holding the hand of an angel." Tell me why you let me fall in love with you.

He frowned again, heart heavy with guilt and remorse and the knowledge that whatever it was that was going on between them was more than likely nearing its end. Even if she could get past this, even if she still loved him, he refused to put her life in danger again. It was selfish, and her life was too precious. "I don't know. I....I'm still the same, Nat. I haven't changed. I don't know how it works. I only know what I've been told. I came here to stop the Apocalypse. If I succeed..." He broke off, pausing a moment. "If I succeed, I get a mortal soul."

Her faltering steps came to an abrupt, unexpected halt, the sudden rush of her breath extinguishing the flame of the lighter as she turned to look at him. Even in the darkness, she was certain she had found his gaze, standing close. "You will stay?" Her voice throbbed with hope, the sort of anguished, despairing hope that only the most tragic of heroes ever felt in the classic stories of the ancient world. "When you are finished ....you will stay with me?"

Stay. That was a word, wasn't it' No, he couldn't stay. He'd already decided that, but there was a deeper question looming behind her words, and that was the question he chose to answer. "I don't know if..." He broke off again, not wanting to tell her he didn't think he was going to survive. His life was forfeit, and somehow he knew it. Even in the dark, he seemed to find her, reaching out to draw her close against him. I love you. My heart belongs to you forever. "If I can, I would spend my life with you, if you'd have me." If. It was a very big if.

Almost as though she could hear his mind setting conditions in the gloom, she hurried to answer him. "There is no if," she said with fervent insistence. "I would be with you until the end of time itself, were I allowed to."

Until the end of time. But when would that be? If he didn't succeed, it might be a lot sooner than anyone thought or wanted. There was nothing he could say to that, the words stuck in his throat. She was more than he could have ever hoped for. Instead of answering with words, he found her lips in the darkness and showed her the words his mouth couldn't say, the love his heart was feeling.

((Many thanks to Nat's player for this scene and more! And I apologize for the title of the thread. I just couldn't resist. ;-) ))