I decide to do a thorough sponge bath with a washcloth. At least that way, I can keep various parts of me from freezing all at once.
As predicted, the water is ice-cold, and it brings back pieces of my dream from last night, which inevitably brings back how I got warm enough to be cradled to sleep. It was probably just some kind of angel host behavior triggered by my shivering, the way penguins huddle together when it’s cold. What else could it be?
But I don't want to think about that—I don't know how to think about that—so I shove it down into that dark, overstuffed place in my mind that's threatening to burst any moment now.
When I come out of the bathroom, Raffe looks freshly showered and dressed in his black pants with boots. His bandages are gone. His wet hair swings in front of his eyes as he kneels on the hardwood floor in front of the open blanket. On it, his wings are laid out.
He combs through the feathers, fluffing out the ones that are crushed and plucking out the broken ones. In a way, I suppose he's preening. His touch is gentle and reverent, although his expression is hard and unreadable as stone. The jagged ends of the wing that I chopped look ugly and abused.
I have the absurd impulse to apologize. What, exactly, am I sorry for? That his people have attacked our world and destroyed it? That they are so brutal as to cut off the wings of one of their own and leave him to be torn apart by the native savages? If we are such savages, it is only because they have made us so. So I am not sorry, I remind myself. Crushing one of the enemy’s wings in a moth-eaten blanket is nothing to be sorry about.
But somehow, I still hang my head and walk softly as though I am sorry, even if I won't say it.
I walk around him so he won't see my apologetic stance, and his naked back comes into full view. It has stopped bleeding. The rest of him looks perfectly healthy now—no bruises, no swelling or cuts, except where his wings used to be.
The wounds are a couple of streaks of raw hamburger ru
“Should I, like, try to sew your wounds shut?” I ask, hoping the answer will be no. I'm a pretty tough girl, but sewing chunks of flesh together pushes the limits of my comfort zone, to say the least.
“No,” he says without looking up from his work. “It'll eventually heal on its own.”
“Why hasn’t it healed already? I mean, the rest of you healed in no time.”
“Angel sword wounds take a long time to heal. If you’re ever going to kill an angel, slice him up with an angel sword.”
“You’re lying. Why would you tell me that?”
“Maybe I’m not afraid of you.”
“Maybe you should be.”
“My sword would never hurt me. And my sword is the only one you can wield.” He gently plucks out another broken feather and lays it on the blanket.
“How’s that?”
“You need permission to use an angel sword. It’ll weigh a ton if you try to lift it without permission.”
“But you never gave me permission.”
“You don’t get permission from the angel. You get it from the sword. And some swords get grouchy just for asking.”
“Yeah, right.”
He runs his hand over the feathers, feeling for broken ones. Why doesn’t he look like he’s kidding?
“I never asked permission and I managed to lift the sword no problem.”
“That’s because you wanted to throw it to me so I could defend myself. Apparently, she took that as permission asked and given.”
“What, it read my mind?”