She stood under the old, dead tree, breath heavy. It had stood here—God only knew how long it stood here, at the edge of the world, weathering everything nature could throw at it. It had outlasted all its mates out here on the bluff; cracked stone was all the legacy of trees hundreds of years gone. By all estimations, this tree stood longer than any of them.

But it was dead now, or mostly dead, and even though it was still standing it had to be cut down. They were going to build here, right on the edge of the cliff; the contractors assured them it was deep, strong bedrock, all the way through. That meant that this tree, impossibly tall against these northern winds, had to be cut down. It was old, tired, dangerous; they said.

She knew, somehow, that the ancient tree would never fall. That the end of the world would come and it would still be here, watching out its time. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to trust that knowledge. So she was here. She wouldn’t give this task to the contractors; if anyone were going to kill this tree, it would be her.

The axe waited on the porch of the old house. That, at least, would not stand forever; the people who had built it hadn’t had the luxury of geologists and contractors, and they had built on the portion of the bluff that was slowly sliding into the sea. In a few months, maybe a year, it would be unsafe; a season later it would collapse, slide into the water, unless they tore it down. She’d tried to talk her landlord, a small widow with entirely too much energy, into building further back. But as long as Vera couldn’t buy the property, the landlord had to think of future tenants.

Vera understood this. She wished she could buy the land, with its wonderful view and unbelievable smells. There was nothing quite like it in the world, not on the Oregon coast or any other. It was the small that had drawn her to it in the first place, spurred her to pick up carving on her off time so she could afford to life in the tourist town that surrounded the forest. It was a finger of the forest that lined the Oregon coast, no different than any other, really; but there was a peace, a sense of belonging about this town that no other could match.

She shook her head, drawing her eyes away from the swaying of the tree’s few remaining leaves. She had a lot of work ahead of her; the tree, she was certain, would be hard and true, despite the contractor’s fears, and it would take a while to chop through the thick trunk. Walking back up to the house, she wrapped her fingers around the wooden axe haft, testing its weight. The whole thing had a feeling of importance and ceremony, as if she were somehow doing more than cutting down a tree. It was the same reason she’s asked to cut the tree herself, the same reason she was using an axe instead of the chainsaw she kept for maintaining the property. She didn’t entirely understand it.

The tree seemed to be waiting. Impatiently, as if wanting this to be over with it. All right. She examined the trunk, trying to figure out where she’d start. There, just below the burl. She swung. The trunk shivered with the impact, force carrying through her hands. She cursed, rubbed one hand on her pants. Licking her lips, she tried again. This time the axe bit deep; she had to wrench it free of the bark, showering herself in wood chips. Again. A few leaves drifted down; one landed on her head, clinging to her bangs so she had to brush it away.

It kept on like that, one small mishap with every swing. It was like the tree was actively fighting her. At the same time, there was an excitement building in the air, as though she would find some treasure when she was finished. She shook her head, trying to clear it of the strange impressions. It was a tree. An old tree, a nice tree, but a tree. She carved wood for a living. Staring critically at her progress, she thought that maybe this wood would serve better in the fireplace. If the new house even had a fireplace. She hadn’t seen the plans. Sighing, she went back to work again.

The sky was getting dark, even though it was hours to sunset; the clouds that she alternately loved and hated were making their way back in after an afternoon’s reprieve. Sweat dripped into her eyes. The tree was still holding firm, despite the fact that it really wasn’t that big, despite the fact that she usually would have been through the trunk twice by now. Frustrated, she swung the axe hard, meaning to lodge it in the trunk and take a moment’s break.

The axe head broke free of the shaft, sending her staggering. She fell, skidding on her palms. The axe handle clattered to the ground next to her. Cursing, she pushed herself to her feet, nursing scraped hands. Perfect. She turned around, glaring at the tree, which she was sure had somehow managed to orchestrate this. Hell with the axe; it was time for the chainsaw.

But first she had to get the axe head. It was buried pretty deep, as though she’d finally punched through the armor and reached something more closely resembling normal tree. She grabbed the head and worked it back and forth. It wiggled freely. Frowning, she pulled again. It came free in her hands, too easily. There was some sort of air pocket in the tree. Maybe it was rotten, hollowed out by age. She looked down at the axe head, staring at the nicks and dents that hadn’t marred the blade before she started. It was wet. Frowning, she ran her thumb along the side. It was awfully viscous for tree sap… and dark…

She dropped the axe head, not noticing when it struck the stone close to her foot. The tree was bleeding. Not sap, not even the thick pitch that pine trees had. It was blood, bright red and pulsing in time with a heart that couldn’t be there. She stepped forward, touching the wet bark. Her mouth gaped in shock. Was it… god. Maybe rust in the ground? Iron? Had she killed a squirrel with her careless strike? But there were no squirrels. And the blood was flowing from the tree, pulsing with life.

It shook. She jumped back, scrambling, groping for the dropped axe haft that she clutched in trembling fingers. This couldn’t be happening. Someone screamed. It was muffled. At first she thought it was the tree, but it shook again and she realized it was someone <I>in</I> the tree. Someone was in the tree. They screamed again. There were no words that she could recognize, but the meaning was clear. They wanted out.

She rushed forward, not quite sure what to do. The whole tree seemed to be shivering now, weakening as she watched. She grabbed one of the lower branches, one she’d swung on a few times. It pulled out of the tree with a dull sound, for all the world as though it had been just waiting to go. More blood flowed, insane amounts, spilling over the ground and pooling around her boots. The smell was incredible, awful. She gagged, but the cries were more intense. God, with this much blood they must be dying. Could a body hold this much blood?

She jumped for another branch. It broke free with frightening ease, showering her in decayed wood. Drops of blood sprayed her face. The tree trunk shuddered once, twice, rocked by impact from inside. With a wet tear, the hole she’d started burst, revealing a white, gleaming arm. She moved to help, stripping away bark and wood that came away in layers now, getting under her fingernails. A shoulder, as impossibly white as the arm. The beginnings of a male chest. She worked furiously, too caught up in the passion of the moment to stop and think about what was happening.

A face, gasping for air. She didn’t stop to look. Another shoulder, another arm, then he was free, tumbling forward to land on her in a heap. Her shirt soaked up blood. He fumbled and tried to push away, face hidden by long white hair that baffled them both. Eventually he untangled himself, back to her house, head hanging as he struggled to stay on his hands and knees.

The tree continued to crumble. With a final crack, the greater portion broke off and tipped over the cliff, smashing to bits on the rocks before falling in the ocean. She didn’t see this, of course. The blood was soaking into the ground, seeping out of her shirt. She shivered.

Things were quiet. After the crack of disintegrating wood, the soft, think sound of blood, the silence was too much. It was the silence that drove her to her feet. Something should be happening, it told her. And it had something to do with the man. He’d collapsed on his side some time when she wasn’t looking, and he was shivering too, but it was from the cold. It was cold, she realized, looking up at the almost-dark sky. Feeling strange and not quite herself, she knelt down beside him. She opened her mouth, but no words seemed right. Questions bubbled up and fell away, inadequate to the strangeness of the situation. She looked over her shoulder at the crumbled ruin of the tree, back to the man. His eyes were open, and he was staring at it too. They were bright, his eyes, a bright brown that burned with passion that even Vera couldn’t miss.

And then there were the words, the only words that seemed right. "Let’s get inside. It’s cold." And he looked up at her, still drowning in the emotion that Vera saw but didn’t understand. And he sat back, shaking, so she could help him to his feet. The lights in the house were all off, and the light obscured the clouds; but Vera had walked this path a hundred times. She knew its hazards.

He wasn’t nearly as heavy as he should have been. She’d been afraid that she wouldn’t be able to shift him at all, despite the muscle she’d built up over the course of her stay on this patch of old, half-dead forest. His legs worked on the ground in a sort of half-hearted rhythm, not so much holding up his weight as pushing them both along. She helped him up the stairs, and it seemed like the greatest effort for him just to lift his feet the few inches that it took to clear each step. At the top he just sagged, defeated, and she had to lift him a few inches to keep his toes from scraping on the doorjamb.

Inside it was a little warmer, but not much; the fire had died, and the little space heater in the bedroom wasn’t up to heating the whole house. Carefully ignoring the strangeness, she lowered the stranger onto the battered couch. He sagged into the deep tired cushions, blending with the tired upholstery as though he belonged there. She grabbed her comforter from the floor where she’d discarded it that morning an draped it over him, then busied herself building up the fire.

The coals hadn’t died entirely, but it was too much work to coax them back up. She tossed in a starter log, one of the pressed paper things soaked in lighter fluid, and stacked wood on top of it until all she could see was the trickle of smoke and the flicker of renewed flame. Then she sat back on her heels, watching the heat build. She was hungry, thirsty, tired; he shoulders ached, her back stung. Se went on with her silent litany. When she was done, she affirmed silently to herself—but at least I’m not cold. Smiling lopsidedly at the odd ritual, she stood, looking behind her.

He was still there, of course. She’d half hoped he would just vanish. More than half hoped. Never mind she’d grown up around this sort of thing, but it had always been play. People who ran occult shops didn’t believe in the occult; they believed in the power of people, in the passion of belief. Everyone needs something to believe in. If they’re lucky, they realize that the best thing is themselves. She smiled again. What would her mother have to say about this? The smile grew. She knew exactly what her mother would say. Her mother would say that she should stop worrying about bleeding trees when there was a naked freezing man laying unconscious on her couch. Only it would be far more colorfully and suggestively phrased.

She stared at his face for a long moment. The lines were clean, smooth and unmarred—almost too perfect. Not effeminate, but lacking the hard edges she was so used to seeing in this fisherman’s town. More like a tourist, she mused. His hair was long, white; he looked as though he hadn’t ever seen the sun. Thinking of the tree, she wondered if he ever had.

None of that. She turned on her heel and made for the bedroom. He wasn’t that much taller than her, and he certainly wasn’t much wider. The loose pants and oversized shirts she wore to bed should fit him… maybe not well, but well enough. She scrounged for a few minutes, looking for any clothing at all that wasn’t dirty. She tended to wear clothes three or four times before she deemed them in need of washing. She was elbow deep in assorted laundry when it occurred to her that she was being far to philosophical about all of this.

She shrugged. And why not? What good did it do her to panic? What good did it do him? And that was the crux of it. As bad as she needed counseling or heavily dosed coffee, he needed help more. And there was nothing that spoke to Vera like a person in need. Her mother, Vera mused, had been much better at giving help and advice. She possessed some vital characteristic that allowed her to separate from the situation, to give enough without giving too much. It was a stopgap that Vera had never quite acquired.

Soup. Cold people needed soup. Or chowder. She considered running out and getting some from Mo’s, but figured it might be a bad idea to leave him alone. It might also be a bad idea to be alone with him, but honestly, what harm could he do right now? Armed with mostly clean pants and introspection, she headed into the living room.

He was still asleep, of course. One didn’t recover from that—whatever that had been—without exhausting themselves. He looked uncomfortable, listing to the side. She considered waking him so she could dress him, but after a few tentative shakes had resulted in more lolling, she gave up and left the clothes on the floor.

She still wasn’t quite certain, even as she warmed over some cream of chicken (there wasn’t any chowder, and she couldn’t stand the thought of tomato soup) what exactly had happened. She knew she was brooding, but couldn’t seem to stop herself. Had he been trapped somehow? Maybe climbing the tree? But every explanation she could come up with was stopped cold by the memory all that blood.

(updated 8-24-04)

She dropped the spoon in the soup. What if he was bleeding? She’d just left him on the couch. Soup forgotten, she rushed into the living room. He was so pale; what if he was pale for a reason? She pressed her hand to his cheek, his neck. His skin was warmer now, heartbeat steady at the base of his throat. Her hands hovered over the edge of the blanket, stopped.

Biting her lip, she shook his shoulder, trying to wake him. He slept on, unaware of her attempts to salvage what was left of his modesty. She gave it up for a lost cause and lifted the blanket. He was fine. Frowning, she turned him to the side, checking his back and checking the couch for any blood. Nothing. Not a bruise, not a scratch, not even a scar, unless you counted the two crescent marks tracing his shoulder blades. Vera stared at them thoughtfully for a moment before lowering him back down and straightening the blanket. Were they some sort of tattoo or ritual scarring?

Her eyes moved to the phone. She should call 911, or the police… where was the handy veterinarian friend she was suppose to have when a beautiful man showed up bleeding at her doorstep? Well, not precisely bleeding, she thought ruefully. But still. She sighed, catching an acrid scent on the air.

Crap. The soup.

She rushed back to the kitchen. Grumbling under her breath, she grabbed the handle and dumped the whole mess in the sink. The tomato mess splashed into the sink, spattering her sweatshirt. For a moment, she saw blood. She yelped and dropped the pan, yelped again when the pan fell with an impossibly loud clang, spraying the remaining soup in a mess across the counter. She leaned against the counter’s edge, shaking, and decided she wasn’t that hungry after all. She cleaned up and made her way to the kitchen table, catching sight of her own scratched knuckles. How had he managed to avoid getting hurt? For that matter, how was he clean when she still had blood under her fingernails?

Hours passed slowly. She made herself a cup of tea and sat nursing it until it went cold and bitter. Several times she reached for the phone, only to hesitate. She’d wait for him to wake, to explain himself. Then she’d call the hospital. Why that order seemed so important, she couldn’t explain. The whole situation was strange, yes, but there had to be some sort of rational explanation. She shifted in her chair, watching him sleep. Please let there be a rational explanation? She drifted off a few times, each time jerking awake with the certainty that he was stirring. Eventually, not even that was enough to disturb her.

Morning found Vera wide awake and pouring over with nervous energy. Nothing she could think of, not even pain, was enough to wake him up. She’d gone to the phone three times now, ready to call and strangeness be damned, but each time she found herself… distracted. Wandered off and fixed breakfast, read a book, just watched him sleep—it was creepy. She wondered what would happen if she rolled him and all this strangeness out her door. Probably she’d just have the strangeness on her porch instead. Growling, she cleaned the dishes, scrubbing at the burnt pot with unnecessary brutality.

She was considering just letting it soak when she heard something from the other room. She wiped the soap off of her hands and walked around the partition. He was still asleep, but he’d moved, shifting to the side and shoving the blanket off his pale shoulders. In the light of day his body was thin, athletic, almost frighteningly perfect. His skin was drum tight and glowed with health despite his paleness. His features were handsome too, but thin, almost childlike in sleep. His hair had folded around his face, reminding her the he’d probably need a hair tie, too. With a strange sort of resignation, she pulled the blanket back up around his shoulders.

His eyes opened. There was no stirring, not a moment between asleep and wakefulness; one moment he was asleep, the next his eyes were wide open and he held her wrist in a firm grip. His face lost its innocence and took on a hard, unreadable expression with those hard, dark eyes staring out from it.

They stared for a moment. He seemed no more interested in speaking than he did in releasing her hand. "How are you feeling?" Vera broke the silence nervously, feeling like she was the one trespassing. No response, only his searching eyes. She blinked, feeling suddenly tired; she shook her head to try and clear it. She looked away, and the grip on her wrist tightened a little. "Look, I’m not going to hurt you." And I hope you feel the same, she thought fervently. "Please let me go?" He did, fingers peeling back mechanically before he slowly lowered his arm. Vera rubbed her wrist; whoever he was, he one hell of a grip. "Do you need anything?" she tried again. Did he even speak English? "Do you want some water?"

He nodded, watching her with those opaque eyes. Well, he understood English at least; whether or not he could speak was a different matter. Feeling just a little grouchy, she went to the kitchen and poured a glass. The pipes rattled a little, making the peeling wallpaper over the sink shiver. Absently promising herself she was going to fix it, she made her way back into the living room.

He was up—and oh god, he was putting on the clothes she’d left by the bed. Ducking back around the partition, she waited for the sounds of movement to stop. Wheeling back around the partition, she almost plowed right into him. He stumbled back a little, recovering with more catlike grace than Vera could exhibit on the best of days. She barely rescued the glass, water sloshing over the side. "Crap." Frowning, she mopped it up with her sock and headed past him into the living room, setting it on the table. "Are you sure you should be up?" She asked, waving at the couch.

"Thank you for your help," he said, and opened the door.

"On, no!" She exclaimed, running around him and slamming the door shut. "I think at the very least you owe me an explanation. I just dragged you out of a tree! A bleeding tree. What the hell is going on?"

He frowned at her. "I don’t think you want to know."

She raised an eyebrow. "Try me."

He sighed. "I don't think I will."

"Look, I drgged you out of that... whatever it was. And you're wearing my sweatpants. You owe me."

"I owe you nothing."

She just glared at him, making it clear that she wasn't going to let this go easily.

"You're not going to believe the truth anyway, so why should I try? Just let me go, chock this up to some sort of drug-induced haze, and move on. You'll be much happier, I assure you."

"Let me be the judge of that." He shook his head. "All right, then give me my clothes back."

"You must be joking."

"No, I'm not All I'm asking is an explanation. If you won't even give me that, then why should I give you my sweatpants?" she said, almost sweetly. Almost. He glared. It was quite a glare. She glared back. "You want pants? You spill."

He growled something under his breath in a language she didn't recognize. She wanted the truth? Fine. "I’m an angel, released from a sleep that was supposed to last until the end of time, thanks to your helpful interference. And I don’t think you really want to be any more involved than that."

She glared, setting herself against the door. "Nice try." His expression didn’t change. "Oh, shit, you’re serious." He just stared at her. She leaned against the door. "So that was…"

"My prison, yes. For one thousand years, give or take." He didn’t seem eager to say anything else.

"So… a prison? Why?" She didn’t think he was dangerous. He certainly hadn’t hurt her. Yet. Another thought occurred to her, a thread of logic against all this nonsense. "And if you’ve been in there all this time, how the hell do you speak English?"

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He just looked at her with those eyes of his, and this time he wasn’t trying to hide it; those eyes were diving into her, draining her, taking her into them… "oh, shit." Her voice was small. Her knees went weak, giving until she slid down the door to hang her head between her knees, breaking contact with those eyes.

He was kneeling in front of her. "Now do you understand? It’s dangerous." His voice held no malice, little emotion at all.

"So, what? You just went into my head and got it—the language, everything—from me?"

"Not really. I can only gather so much, weakened as I am. But I have been here with nothing but my thoughts and the thoughts of others for a very long time."

She shook her head. "All right. Assume what you say is true. What happens now?"

"I walk out that door."

"And?"

"And you go on with your life."

"No, I mean what do you do from there? Do you have a plan? What do angels need anyway? Do you eat? Sleep? Get cold?" His hard expression melted a little, becoming uncertain. "Crap." She pushed herself weakly to her feet, planting a hand squarely on the door. "I can’t just send you out there, in the woods at night. You’ll freeze." She mulled it over. "Look. Let’s at least talk. Maybe I can help."

He looked a little nervous, sitting there on the couch, half-empty glass of water in one hand. More vulnerable. Vera took a long pull of her hard cider and considered him over the rim of the glass. He looked almost… scared, like he was waiting for the house to come down around his ears. She swallowed. If he’d been imprisoned for some reason… "Who imprisoned you?"

He looked at her, startled. "Other angels. The council, for lack of a better human term. That’s part of why I’m eager to be away from you. Their reach is long."

She shivered. He stood up, lips pursed. "Thank you for your concern, but I can't stay here. They may not have realized that the seal is broken--mine is not the only one they have to watch--but it can't be long. Ignorant or no, you would be punished with me."

She glared. "So that's it? The most amazing thing that has ever happened to me and I should jutst let you stagger out into the cold?"

"I tell you, its only a matter of time before they discover me missing. They may be unable to seal me again, but you, you they can punish. And harshly." He made for the door. "I trust I've earned these pants, at least."

She watched him leave, watched the door close behind him. Crap. She wasn't really going to let him go, was she? If what he said wsa true (and that was still a big if) did she realy have a choice? Wrath that could chain someone like tha in a friggin tree was not something she wanted directed her way.

Still. It felt strange to see the magic, the otherworldly that she had craved since she was a child reading fairy tales, and just let it walk away. She stared at the glass on the table, still half full. How bad could angelic wrath be, anyway? She snorted. Seriously, was she really asking herself that? She stood, picked up the glass. Better just to let it go. Better to move on, to count the blessing of this strange, exaustign day. She'd always craved the unknown. All right, she'd seen it. Best not to get greedy. She walked into the kitchen.

She dropped the glass, which promply shattered on the vinyl flooring. This day was bad for her dishes. Of course, if the glowering, very naked angel stanging in front of her stove was any indication, it was about to be a bad day for her, too. He was beautiful, in a painful way, like staring into the sun. He took a step forward. "You are the one who freed Hadrianus." It wasn't a question. His wings seemed to fill the tiny kitchen, and a corner of her brain not engaged in babbling panic worried for her hanging pots.

She nodded. What else could she do? Praying seemed to be out for the moment. Besides, she was agnostic. Had been agnostic. She certainly couldn't claim unsurety now.

He glared at her. She backed away a few steps, despite adamantly ordering her legs not to back down. They knew better, because with a seemingly casual motion he backhanded her. She hit the partition wall hard, that oddly lucid corner of her mind noting that the angel was left-handed. Light footseeps crosse the room, and that large, perfect hand was grabbing her by the collar and dragging her to her feet.

Vera had never been punched. She'd been accidentally hit, run into things, fallen... but none of that could quite match the pain of being smacked by an irate angel. Her whole face burned, and she tasted blood.

"Amadeus." It was another voice. The man--no, angel--from before. "Let her down. You're better than that." His voice held a weary resignation.

"Adrian." The tones in the winged angel's voice were complex, too complex for her to follow as she was lowered none to gently to the floor. She struggled to stay on her feet, and was stabilized by the angel's realtively gentle grip on her arm. "Adrian, you could have been free. Your case was already up for review, and under the new treaties..."

"Up for review when? The new treaties were signed a hunderd years ago."

"I was working on it! The case was actually in a magistrate's hands!" The grip on her arm tightened painfully. "Now you have no grounds for appeal. None! Why on earth did you encourage her?"

"How many times has my case been up for review, Amadeus? With every new treaty. And with every new treaty, I remain a prisoner. They weren't going to free me, right or not. You know that. And I grew tired of hoping."

"You realize I'll have to punish you. And this girl. the council will accept no less. Dammit, Adrian, you'll be foreced to the other side!"

"Better than living in a tree! If the council sees me as evil, I may as well fulfill their expectations!"

"There may be another way." A third voice. Immediately, the angel's hold on her slackened. She took a step away, turning to face the new person. It was a short woman, mercifully clothed and unwinged but as beautiful as the other. And she hadn't used the door, either. The woman looked at me. "I know you don't realize what you've done, but its created quite a mess. And you have no rights by our government. Normally you would be sent to hell with Hadrianus, but... well, Adrian's case is specail. Which makes yours specail as well." She paused.

"Magistrate, I--"

"Quiet, Amadeus, let me think." She drew in a breath, as though preparing to say something important.