"...Can I see?"

"...It befits me to reward your grace. Come closer."

She's very close. The angel radiates a feverish heat that prickles on her skin like drying sweat.

"My neck. Pay close attention to it. And..."

Clink. The angel's breath sounds a little labored. It reaches for its throat, a small shard of porcelain held between two fingers.

To an angel full of purpose, the devil is the smallest thing in the world; temptation finds no purchase in them. A sinful thought is something to be gently blown away by the course of breath. Understood and released. As easy as keeping an open hand, that it may fly itself away.

Purpose is being rationed here. Hope is kept in reserve. Certainty in the Plan tends to veer into odd directions, left unattended. "Down to earth", closer to the fallen life, it's easier to understand why humans have more difficulty letting go of sin.

And all the devil needs is one thought.

The halo lights up into a plain white bleeding iridescence. Bright, but not blinding. An immune response.

Runes shine orange-red from under the skin of the angel's neck. A collar of embers, a familiar smell of soot and ash, and a light sizzling sound. Behind it, the scent of floral incense and burning sugar. The runes are jagged, thorny, a harsh and violent script. On its throat, in the place of Adam's Apple, a rounded, spiraling pattern, the soot still flowing under the skin, spinning into nothing and coming from nothing.

The angel sighs, or hisses, long and sharp, like a steam machine. Its face reddens slightly, but its brow doesn't tense. 

It's the most beautiful thing she's ever seen in her life. She wants to gaze at it forever. She reaches forward, fingers snaking towards its throat, and -

The angel's other hand darts towards the human's, a gentle viper's strike clasping onto her wrist. Its expression is calm--a content smile, maybe loving. Certainly not judging.

The lights slowly begin to fade, embers reflecting from their eyes as it stares into Electra's.

"Some fruit were not meant for human consumption."

She coughs, a little embarrassed. "You're - Well, that was certainly a show." The skin contact feels like a freezer burn waiting to happen but she doesn't want to pull away.

The angel lingers, too, sensing something odd. It nods in something like a quiet acknowledgement, a concession to prevent the words from stagnating awkwardly in the air.

Clink. The angel deposits the last of the porcelain that it can see on a neat, clean pile.

"In my nature past, I was a guardian angel. There was more of fire to me than thought, but I was also an agent of spiritual guidance. A protector of conscience. Is there anything you want to confide to me?"

 There's a flash of memory of a ticking package in her backyard back home, and she shakes her head to clear it. "No, I don't think so." Hope it can't read her mind.

"Let there be nothing unsaid between us, then. If I can lighten any of your burdens, please tell me."

It holds up a handful of loose dirt, staring at it for a moment, before depositing it inside the new pot.

"Did you travel? Before you came here. And from whence did you come? Terrestrially speaking."

"Here and there, but not far. They scooped me out of Nebraska. Dreadful place."

She squats and starts scooping up dirt and placing it into the pot. "What do you think that alarm was about, anyways? I thought this place was secret enough not to have much in the way of enemy action."

It considers urging Electra to let it handle the cleanup, but, all told, it's not as if they have anything better to do. Scoop scoop. It also very little idea what Nebraska is, though it has memorized the names and rough borders of all fifty US states. Not as a matter of training, though, just because the map was there and it seemed diligent.

"My condolences. And, I am afraid you would know more about that than me. If I were to generalize from some, um, very distant experience, I would say it could be an... internal matter of some kind? An escaped detainee, or some kind of break in discipline."

It freezes, stopping and staring at a fixed point somewhere behind the dirt pile.

"...I would not, of course, cast any such aspersion on your monastery. Which- which I am assured is most finely-tuned and indeed may well be divinely guided."

Huh. She didn't think that they doubted that kind of thing. "May be divinely guided?"

Its eyes widen a fraction, nails pressing against its palm. It speaks up very carefully.

"There is a point of theological dispute regarding whether... His Church, and by extension His Sword, is continually but invisibly guided by the Mind of God, or whether He has ordained all things by necessity to follow as if by occasion towards his ultimate End. It's- it's only a technical dispute. I mean no injury against the institution."

She steps closer to it. "Interesting. A technical dispute between you and, what was the name of your friend?" She wants to know more about these, heh, creative theologians.

Angels don't have much of an ego to protect. But they do have something pouring out from them that isn't their own; the light that seeps out from their crown. And it's because it doesn't belong to them that they have to ensure it's honored.

"It- it turns on an old point of contention between... between many, concerning the Holy Church and its divine mandate. It's clear... from a proper reading of scripture, that the Church has a divinely guaranteed status. But, ah... since we couldn't ever detect any theurgy guiding the whole church as an organization, it had to be either that the Lord willfully made His ongoing interventions inscrutable to us, or that He simply arranged things so they would follow his designs by necessity. The same question remains... here. A question that could only be answered from the Holy Throne."

"And if you could venture a guess?" She's very close again, little puffs of breath as she speaks warm against its cheek.