Sentinel of Heaven (27 page)

“I guess,” she
allowed.  “I trust you, baby... I've just got some issues to work through about
it.”

He enfolded
her with the warmth of tenderness and good humor, then sent a question: how are
you?

She responded
with wry sensation-memory of the specific pains she'd dealt with this morning
after leaving him, sending humorous pictures of her buying all things cranberry
and curling around the heating pad at her desk.

A flash of
distress and then a sliding thought of self-recrimination – he hadn't meant to
hurt her, and hadn’t realized it was going to end up so badly for her but felt
as if he should have known.  A deep sense of apology followed.

“I should have
known better myself,” Moira admitted.  “But I wouldn't have traded any of it. 
I loved every minute we've spent together and I look forward to more!”

Leo answered
with smiling caution, continuing his labors; Moira remembered her sandwich at
last and began to eat. 

She focused on
him and not the room; narrowing her far-sight to include only his body and the
sweep of his snowy wings.  Watching the muscles of him flex and flow was a joy.

“So,” Moira
murmured.  “You do plumbing, cooking, carpentry, and jewelry-making; any other
skills I should know of?”

Leo sent her a
salacious picture of the two of them, entwined.

“That's not a
skill, baby – that's a goddamned art.”

He flipped
through pictures: a bucket of paint, a pile of wooden flooring, a stack of
roofing shingles.

“What domestic
talents you have... quite a few home-building skills.”

He sent back a
warm affirmation, with a defining image: that of a little male robin bearing a
twig back to where his mate waited on the branch.

‘Nest-feathering’
said that image, without need of words.

“Oh,” she
gasped, feeling his shy overtones.

He was fixing
up the house.  Not for her... for the two of them, together.

Moira sent
back the only things she could, the ones that filled her up suddenly and
overflowed her grasp – a burst of gratitude and a wave of love and happiness. 
She communed with him as long as she could, then reluctantly released the
connection with a final parting caress and went back inside.

There she
found that the only cipher still waiting was the last and best: Unforget. 
Angela's birthday.  Angela, cowed and crippled and captive.

And Moira
fought it and studied it by turns.  Opening her legal pad for the first time
that day...

~ I cannot lay
with you, with my heart so bound and yours completely free.  It will drive me
mad. ~

~ I may be an
angel, Moira – but I am also a man, of flesh and blood.  Not a statue. ~

She stared at
the beloved script quietly, running her fingers over the words as she read them
all again.

~ Because I
can see the shadow of the life I lived before you, although I cannot yet make
out its details... and it is full of thousands of years and millions of deaths,
humans and celestials alike.  A never-ending ocean of blood.  Can you not
understand my fear? ~

Startled,
Moira quickly tore the page from the pad.  Some words were too dangerous to
leave laying about, spoken as they were in a voice of ink and wood fiber.  She
made as if to tear the entire document up and throw it in the trash –

Not here,
cautioned the little voice, not even in the shredder.  Nowhere in this building
at all.

She took a few
deep breaths to slow her heart.  “You're right,” she agreed quietly.

“About what?”
came the false cheery reply.

Moira looked
up, seeing Erica again in the door of her cubicle.  Her fingers curled around
the edges of the page protectively, as they had sought to shelter and hide her
pendant before.

“You were
staring at that page for like ten minutes,” her supervisor said, rolling her
eyes.

How long
were YOU staring at me, then?
Moira wanted to ask but her throat closed. 
She folded the page in half, and again and again, tucking her lover's
handwriting inside.

“Need that
tossed out?  I'm going by the shredder,” Erica offered, holding out her hand
imperiously.

“Not yet,”
Moira hedged.  “It may still be useful.  To my investigations.”

The other
woman sniffed.  “I'm challenging you to get some actual work done today, Moira,”
she chided.  “Just because we have a holiday this week doesn't mean we can
ignore our opportunities.”

“Indeed,”
Moira answered coldly, levering herself to her feet so that Erica would have to
step back or else be too far within personal distance.  “Just as soon as I
finish my federally-mandated fifteen minute break, of course.”

“Oh, of
course.”  The thick fishy lips made a sour moue.

Moira brushed
past the other woman, the piece of paper now firmly folded in her palm and
carried along as if already forgotten.  In the relative safety of the bathroom
stall she unfolded the creases reverently and read all the words one more time.

~ From before
the first moment I finally saw you with my eyes, when I lay at your feet
bloodied and broken, I had already loved you more than anyone or anything I'd
known in eons of existence. ~

~ I do not
know how or why. ~

I'm
realizing now that you don't have to know, dearheart.  You've shown me now that
love is like flight... the new-fledged bird doesn't know on that first attempt
whether or not it will soar.  All it can do is trust.

Proof of
love's power is gaining the air.  You've given me wings I never dreamed to
have.  We don't have to know how or why; only that it is, and we share it.

She kissed the
warm black hieroglyphics of those words then creased the paper to a razor edge
around them and tore them out into a strip by themselves.  She put the bulk of
the conversation folded again safely in her pants pocket to destroy at home –
consigned to the fire as his shed pinions had been, and any other thing too
precious for the world to touch – but tucked the first silent declaration of
his love into her wallet, behind the gift of his feather.

The rest of
the afternoon passed agonizing and slow; the office was nearly deserted as
other people with real families began to leave for vacation over the holidays. 
In the growing silence Moira could hear Erica muttering at the end of the row
of cubes, talking firmly but quietly into her phone.  That tone never boded
well; wonder who's getting it now...

Still, I can
hear her down there which means she's not over
here
, getting in my
business – time to make another backup of my findings.

And with the
new data safely squirreled away on her USB drive she gathered up her things,
threw away the empty bottle of cranberry juice, and stumped towards the
elevator bays.  Twenty floors and one bathroom break later and she joined the
steel throng leaving the city in the chill of the early winter afternoon.

Miles flowed
by like creek water under a bridge, and were just as easily swept away; her
heart flew higher with every minute closer to home, and fluttered like a bird
in its nest as she pulled the car around to the back yard to see him lounging
again on the porch.

My Leo –
half-naked and careless of the cold, proud and calm, lord of all he surveys,
undisputed sovereign of my soul.

He smiled that
sweet smile as he saw her and immediately took up the burden of her pain as he effortlessly
lifted any other thing; she felt the muscles in her jaws ease.  The hurt that
she'd managed to mostly ignore removed itself from her nerves, leaving only
bliss.

“You,” she said,
“are a sight for sore eyes...”

Leo accepted
the bag from her hands and turned her face up to his for a bending kiss.  “Come
take your dinner, my lady – you have been greatly missed.”

She reached
for his free hand and let him lead her inside to the table.  “Won't you show me
what you've done with your afternoon?  I admit I'm very curious.”

“After you
eat, my love; most definitely.”

Leo opened the
cold stove and removed a plate that was instantly steaming in his hands.  He
set the meal before her seat with a flourish and her stomach growled
appreciatively: a huge serving of fresh-made chicken parmesan, with a lovely
pile of noodles and sauce.

“I think half
of these things you make – or summon – are because you know I like them, and
half of them are because you want to watch me eat them,” she guessed shrewdly.

“I enjoy
anything that satisfies you,” he answered, bringing back her water glass and
taking a sip from it before he set it down at her hand.  Then he folded himself
to sit on the floor and gaze up at her, and the day might as well have been
perfect and pain-free for all that Moira cared.

Hungrier than
she'd previously realized, she wound up nearly finishing the whole plate with a
leisurely pace, her free hand stroking his steely mane and the high plane of
his forehead.  The silence stretched companionably; the warmth in the gazes
they shared said enough.

“Oh, we forgot
to clean out my legal pad, by the way,” she said eventually, setting down the
fork and reaching in her pocket for the folded paper.

Leo took it
from her hand and gently unfolded it, then held it up to the last rays of the
evening sun.  “There is a hole in it,” he noted.

“I know.  I
took out part of it to put in my wallet.  The rest I felt was perhaps too
delicate to discard in just any old way.”

He nodded,
refolding the page and passing it into his wing. 

“Did you
dissolve it?” 

“No, my lady –
I think I shall save it, in one of my personal dimensions.  It has import to
me.”

“Well then, do
you want back the part I took out?”

“Keep it safe
on my behalf, my love – I remember well what it said.”

Once she was
finished with her meal, Leo stood up and put her dishes into the sink –
ostensibly to wash later, although she was pretty sure that by now he was just
waiting until she was gone to return them to their pre-used state and set them
back into the cabinets.  It felt a little bit like cheating but she disliked doing
dishes too, so far be it from her to complain...

Then he took
her by the hand and led her down the hall, face lit with anticipation.

“Shut your
eyes,” he ordered with his fingers on the parlor doorknob.

“I hate
surprises, you know,” she answered, eyebrow raised.

His lips
quirked.  “Please, darlin',” he drawled, “just this once for me...”

Moira studied
him.  “You big damned feathered bully,” she said, stung despite herself.  “You
sure do know how to push my buttons.”

“Out of love
alone, Moira.  Please, trust me on this.”

A long moment
later she sighed and covered her eyes with her free hand.

She heard the
click of the latch and the door swung away on silent hinges – she shivered with
trepidation but his chest was warm behind her as he guided her over the
threshold.

The carpet
felt different under her work shoes; the air moved oddly in the disused space. 
It smelled interesting as well, like nothing she could ever remember – some
light floral and citrus scent that was calming without being dowdy.

“Open your
eyes now,” he breathed in her ear.

If Leo had
simply transplanted a room from a completely different house into this space it
could not have looked more dissimilar from the parlor of her memory than this
one did – only the relative positions of the door and windows were the same.

All the rest
was magnificently changed.

The hated baby
blue carpet with its eternal stain and junk fiber was gone – in its place was
what felt like a hardwood floor.  She couldn't be sure because it was covered
nearly wall-to-wall with a thick and richly colored Persian rug; its striking
brassy tones of red and gold lit the whole space.

Over the rug
were dozens of pillows of all different shapes and sizes and a few small tables
scattered, no higher than her knee.  The entire floor was intended for lounging
comfortably; an incredibly decadent idea Moira never knew how much she'd wanted
until the possibility presented itself.

The walls
behind Leo's new shelves were a creamy white with a slight sheen; she stepped
closer to examine them.

“Wallpaper is
printed,” Leo told her softly.  “I returned the front to the time before the
design was added, leaving the glue on the back.  Easier and quicker than
painting.”

“Maybe for
you!”

“Look up, my
love,” he prompted.

She did as
bidden, and gaped.  “Is that a tin ceiling?”  The shining white tiles displayed
an interlocking ivy vine pattern that tessellated across the room.

“No, but it
looks it.  It is a clever mimic of lighter material, meant to be glued in place
to the old ceiling.  Again, a fast but permanent solution.”

“So I'll never
see those cracks again,” she murmured, still looking up.

“Never again.”

He glanced
from her to his handiwork and back again, then stepped in front of her to brush
the tears gently out of her eyes with the pads of his thumbs.

“And you did
all this in the afternoon?” Moira asked, and coughed to clear her throat.

“I do not have
to rest as others might, not with the sun in the windows,” he said easily, as
if she hadn't been overcome with emotion an instant before.  “However, even at
full effort my time was finite; the flooring is not complete under the carpet
on the far half of the room, so do not look.”

“I won't,” she
promised him, and met his gaze with a smile.  “And so many books!  I had no
idea.”

“Yes – and
room still for more.  This shall be our reading room, yours and mine.”

She chuckled
indulgently at him; he sank onto the floor and reached over to one of the low
tables, decorated with candles and a little brass dish.  The wicks all flared
into life at his glance.  He opened a carved wooden box and drew out a tapered
cone of incense that quickly glowed cherry red at the tip and began to smoke. 
He set it in its dish – thus the source of the lovely calming smell.

“Turn out the
light and close the door,” he asked and she did so with no fear at all, drawing
off her shoes and socks to sink her toes into the opulent carpet.  He chose
several of the bigger pillows and arranged a seat for her with them, next to
where he reclined.

“This... Leo,
this is so wonderful.  This looks nothing like the old parlor.”  She sat down
on the proffered place and stretched out, feeling the anxiety draining away.

“Ahhh, but the
fix is not yet complete,” he continued soberly, moving until he was pressed to
her side.

“The floor doesn't
matter, baby – I adore this rug!”

“I do not mean
the floor,” and before she could breathe to ask he was cradling her face in his
careful fingers, kissing her lips with compelling thoroughness.

“The secret,”
he whispered when she was nicely dizzy, “is to make new memories in this room
and invalidate the old... happy and powerful new memories where you are safe
and feel loved and wanted.”

“I'm okay with
that...”

He kissed her
again and purred deep in his throat, stripping her slowly with his mind as he'd
done the day before – and what a useful trick that was!  It meant he could
concentrate wholly on kissing her until she was drunk with it, until her
heartbeat was hammering in her ears.

He drew her
arms to lay over her head, stroking down the sensitive skin of their
undersides; she arched up into his caress and glanced at the ceiling again. 
She saw only ivy vines, twisting in infinity, white and shining in the
candlelight; there was absolutely nothing to remind her or trigger old pain. 
That
parlor no longer exists – it is as thoroughly gone as if destroyed in reality.

My lover
is seducing me in our reading room.

She chuckled
in amazement and he caught the sensation from her mind, his low laugh tingling
against her body.

“You
insatiable thing.  You're gonna break me again.”

“Not tonight,
my lady... did I not say there were other ways to make love?  I have yet to
wield them all.”

“If you have
more surprises like this room in store, I could learn to like them, perhaps.”

“Think on it,
my brilliant love – if I can remove your pain with my skill, what other
chemicals could I manipulate?”  He looked up at her beneath his brows and
grinned.

“Oh.  Ohhh!” 
That age-old knowing warmth was filling her inexplicably, creeping through the
cradle of her pelvis although his hands lay innocently on her hips.  She didn't
have to bend or flex or strain against it; she didn't have to pull taut or
change the angle of her spine.  She didn't even have to hold her breath to seek
her pleasure because he gave it to her, as quiet and easy as rain evokes the
life in fresh-turned earth.

With limbs and
body completely relaxed the orgasm spread sweet and slow and in the end only
those inner muscles fluttered languidly, like the wings of moths in the
moonlight.

“Leo, my God,
you magnificent seraph, oh...” Moira groaned, “what the hell did you just do?”

“Art,” he
answered slyly.  “When you feel ready, you may have some more.”

She knotted
one fist in his hair, wild-eyed and panting.  “How – wha – why?”

“Why have I
not done it this way before, you mean?” Leo murmured, his lips curving in
amusement.  “Because I enjoy the effort of a craft as much as or sometimes more
than the result.  This is too simple; I would rather be evoking you with hands
and lips and bringing you to your ease... that is literally a labor of love,
and one that suits my passion for you.”

“Too simple,
the cherub says!” and then she was sighing and moaning again, her arms about
his neck as he leaned over her, wings sparkling in the low light.

“Don’t stop,
don’t stop, don’t stop,” she breathed, clinging to him.

“My queen,” he
answered, voice soft with tenderness, “your poor servant obeys.”

He doused the
candles with a thought and carried her to bed an hour later, chuckling as she
dreamily admitted that they had indeed redeemed her opinions of what was now
their reading room.  Leo stretched her out in bed and covered them both with
the sheet; as soon as her head hit the pillow Moira surrendered to
unconsciousness.

When she
surfaced in the dream she was gazing up at the sharp spikes of the surrounding
mountains; they appeared close enough to touch in the clear atmosphere at this
altitude.

“Congratulations,”
said the melodious voice from behind her.  “You've done what not many pawns can
do.”

She turned –
and there sat Angela in her wheelchair and chains, looking pleased and proud. 
Angela, bound and broken... but only in body.

“What did I
do?” Moira asked blankly.

“You've
reached the last rank; you've promoted yourself to queen.  Look,” she ordered,
gesturing with her manacled hands.

Moira looked
down at herself and gasped in awe – she wore an off-shoulder gown of pure white
samite, the sleeves and hem embroidered with a million crystal beads, her
wrists and waist girt with perfect moonstones set in silver.  Leo's gift was in
its place at her throat and on her brow was the weight of a silver crown.

The white
queen.  She would have given anything for a mirror, to be able to see the
splendor that had been conferred upon her.

“You’ve done
well, Moira,” Angela continued, “but the storm is gathering and you must not
forget:  the queen is most powerful because she is possessed of the greatest
ability of motion.  She straddles the checkerboard, Moira – she bestrides it. 
You must use all your power: protect your king, no matter the cost.

“He will want
to run – you must keep him from throwing his life away into the balance.  He
will spill the most blood but yours will be the greater battle, that of the
will and the heart against themselves.”

“The king,
yes, but what of you?” Moira pressed.  “I want to help you, Angela.”

The young
woman shook her dark head gently, her eyes liquid and forgiving.  “There can be
no help for me, oh valiant queen – but if I am fortunate, you will find me in
time to grant me one final mercy.”

The valley
began to fill again with the sound of stomping booted feet.  A look of fear and
strain crossed Angela's features.

“Beware the
Adversary, Moira!  They play a covert game, and they own a million pawns!”

And as the
featureless black horde marched towards them and Moira pivoted to face them,
longing for a blade in her hand – the alarm woke her, shattering the dream.

She lay in a
stupor of confusion until Leo himself turned off the shrilling device.  “My
love?” he asked in some concern.

“I had a
dream,” she answered after a moment.  “About checkers, I think.  Or chess?  It
was important.  But I can't remember it now!”

He reached
over his wide hand to stroke her temple, attempting to soothe that note of
frustration away.

“Do not fight
it and it will return,” he instructed in a loving tone.  “Do you not say the
same to me?  If it is as portentous as you believe, it shall recall itself to
you when events require it.”

He kissed her;
after a moment she shut her eyes and let the tender breath of his soul's touch
bear her to calm.

“You're right,
baby – thank you.”

Leo helped her
again to rise, as courtly in his manners as a born liege lord.  His fingers
trailing down her back to rest briefly on the curve of her ass reminded her he
was no plaster saint, however.

Moira stood in
the shower and flipped through the symbology as the water fell, letting her
brain meander through all the possible meanings.  Chessboards.  Checkerboards. 
Black and white, or red and black, or red and white.  Like roses.  The War of
the Roses.  Fake war, a civil uncivilness, death without blood.

White and red
and black, the phases of a woman's life: maiden, mother, crone.  Pawn, warrior,
queen.

Three colors…
numbers.  Eight times eight is sixty-four.  Eight spokes on a wheel within a
wheel.  Rows and columns; rank and file.  A marble army.

In chess the
king is weak; in checkers the king is strong – but in life, a king can be
both.  Strength can make him weak; a weakness can make him strong.  A steel
crown.  A carved marble rose.

Was Leo
cooking something?

Moira hurried
through her ablutions then; symbology was all well and good but paled in the
face of a home-cooked breakfast.

She limped out
of the bedroom as she dried off to find him dressed again in his grey trousers,
frying eggs and sausage at the stove with fresh toast already arranged on a
plate.

“What's the
occasion?” she asked, spotting that he'd pulled out suitable clothes for her
already and left them by the door.  She tugged her pants on.

“Brain food!”
he answered over his shoulder as he stirred the eggs with a spatula.  “To help
you remember!”  His glance was winsome and lovely and Moira gaped when he
turned back to his work, realizing that for all she was a Magellan in the realm
of pain she had become a lost and happy tourist now because of him, stranded in
a strange land, without cares or complaints – the Terra Amour.

But her
traitor stomach, ever mindful of its own goals, growled hard enough to wake her
from her reverie and she finished getting ready as he put the food on her
plate.  Scrambled eggs, yes, perfect as before.  Sausage – not the tiny little
links but long thick pieces that could get you laughing if your mind wasn't
right, pan-grilled and cut into manageable rounds.