"I'll come with," he answered.

And that was all there was to it. The two strangers left town together, and travelled no longer alone. She sometimes toyed with the thought of being in love with him, but laughed it silently away. It was preposterous, because people like her never loved anyone but themselves. So how come she couldn't bear the thought of him going away, then? For that she had no answer, or at least none she cared to dwell on.

They sometimes got landed in situations which were the Chinese kinds of interesting. Mostly because they would talk to strangers (there's a reason mothers tell their children not to), and then the strangers would talk about some problem or other, and then the two drifters would get...involved. He never, ever backed down from anything. There was no way he was willing to move on until whatever Interesting affairs they'd become entangled in got thoroughly unInteresting. And she didn't want to leave without him. There was also the fact that he wasn't too keen on her leaving without him either. She tried to once. It didn't work very well. Basically she said that she had to move on; he said no, she'd have to wait for him; she said no, she bloody well didn't and then he repeated his claim with his angry-voice. It frightened her on so may levels that she caved instantly. Her heart was cowering in fear somewhere down in the deepest pit of her stomach, and it felt like a heavy lump of ice.

It was like this: Either the opponents backed off, or there would be a fight. The last man standing was always him. Make that the last anyone standing. It didn't happen too often, though. Those who were looking for trouble, generally sensed that he was too much trouble to handle. Mostly she sang and he listened.

Sometimes he asked her to sing for him when they were alone together, and she would sing and sing and sing, while he listened completely engrossed in her voice. One night she sang a wordless melody, one that had been nagging her for quite a while. It flowed from her lips fully formed and rich in sound. A winding, intricate melody of sweeping heights and hidden depths. He sat as transfixed; listening to her and not seeming to notice his eyes overflowing with tears. She reached out in concern when she finished the song, only then discovering that he was weeping. "What's the matter? Why the tears?", she asked. "I can't remember," he told her. "Things are missing from my mind. There is so much know I should remember and I don't. I know I should know that song, but there are holes in my mind." he said hoarsely.

"Baby, I don't know that song myself. It just came to me," she said gently. He didn't answer, just pinched his lips together unhappily and glared at the wall.

There were many things about him that made her wonder just who exactly he was. Not to mention what. As far as she could tell, he didn't actually sleep. She had yet to find his dreams, and thus suspected that he feigned being asleep at night. Much as she herself did. She shook her head and closed her eyes to hide the dread that built in her. Surely he couldn't be... Could he? One of them... She slid over to hold and comfort him the only way she knew how. He accepted, and once again they lost themselves in each other's embrace. It was better than being alone. Far, far better.

Later that night she sat behind him, resting her cheek against his back. The twilight hour was approaching. Her lover was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking out the window, like he always did at that hour. He said he liked watching the morning come, but she sensed there was something more. It was as if he was waiting for something. Something that hadn't come yet. She caressed his back idly with a hand, feeling the soft skin, criss-crossed with scars, and the relaxed muscles beneath her palm. Her inquisitive fingers traced his spine all the way down to the the bottom. He had such a perfectly accented furrow down the middle of his back, and she loved running her hands up and down it's sides, feeling the firm flesh. She let her fingers linger on the left side; just where his kidney was hidden inside. Frowning, she looked down and brushed her fingers over the same spot again. The skin felt different there, unless her imagination was going funny on her. Good thing he wasn't ticklish, she thought.

She bent down to examine the weird spot of skin, peering at it intently. There was some kind of very, very faint scar there. Yes. Definitely a scar. How come she hadn't noticed it before? Lord knew she'd spent enough time climbing around on his body, devouring it from head to toe. Her index finger traced it hesitantly, as if they didn't really want to. It was a strange scar; and really hard to make any sense of at all. Although, what was there really to make sense of? It was just another scar, and he certainly had enough of them. But she couldn't leave it alone. Slowly and methodically her finger worked its way around the scar, again and again and again. Odd. It felt like she was writing something on his skin. She closed her eyes and relied on tactile feedback alone, brushing her finger over his warm, gorgeous skin while she rested her head against his back.

And there it was! Her eyes flared open and she tensed. Her heart was racing and her ears were pounding and her breath got caught in her throat. He shifted and murmured a question. "What's wrong, my love?" He had taken to calling her that after a night a few weeks ago, when he had decided that he loved her, and bluntly informed her of the fact. She couldn't get herself to tell him about her feelings for him, because to her they had no name. No words. Even through her shock, she could tell he was reluctant to look away from the steadily brightening sky.

"It's nothing. I just though I saw a cockroach or something. It startled me." He nodded absently and focused on the disappearing twilight again. Swallowing, she traced his scar one more time. Then she leaned down to scrutinize it. She could scarcely believe her own eyes, or her fingers, but that symbol didn't lie. It couldn't lie. It just was not in its nature to do so. There was no possibility for untruth in it. It was a script she hadn't encountered in a biblical eternity. Angelic script. The alphabet of the divine. God's own letters. The scar on her lover's back was an angelic rune, and she knew it told her the true name of the man sitting on the bed with her.

His name was Michael, the Michael. There were probably countless human Michaels in Heaven, but only one angel bore that name. The first and greatest of them all; Michael, Archangel of War. The Firstborn.

She fought to repress a shiver, and her mind opted for immediate shut-down. Instinctively she slid closer to him, and embraced him from behind. Clearly, a detached and terrified little voice in the back of her mind muttered, her instincts were all insane. She should be plotting immediate escape! But instead her hands idly caressed and stroked his chest and stomach, slowly ploughing her fingers through soft, curly hair. Tears leaked from her closed eyes, while she desperately tried to keep her breathing even. It felt like her heart had broken all over again, loosening a lump of ice-cold lead that now rested firmly in her belly. After an eternity of despair, he shifted and turned around, pulled her close and asked why she was crying. She hadn't a single, breathing clue how to answer, so she just shook her head and clung to him. He didn't pry, just offered her the warmth and safety of his embrace.

"Make love to me?" she asked plaintively, stroking him. Her hands moved down his stomach, feeling the hair beneath them become coarser, the further down they slid. She found him already hardening, and wasted no time encouraging it further. He gently pushed her back to rest on the bed and covered her. The weight of him pressed down on her and the warmth of him was as comforting as it was arousing. This she could deal with, because sex was so much easier than talk. It was direct communication without all the awkwardness of words and trying to find the right ones without tripping over the wrong ones. Then and there it was just skin on skin. Hands stoking fires, fingers urging pressures to build, lips and tongues fanning the flames, bodies working in harmony to push past the limits of reason and into the white-out.