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There's a knock at the door - early evening, before dinner. Lamont is out, presumably doing Dark Avenger things. He's a restless beast, even with those new domestic ties.
It doesn't sound like him, anyhow. The Shadow has a way of stealing up on a person even when he's not consciously thinking about it. No, it's the tread of boots.
Lindon has come to his apartment to read some of the books he keeps over here, and he looks up from speed-reading an almanac from 1913. Hey, it takes all types. "Just a minute," he says. He puts the book away, then a few more books away, tidying as he makes his way to the door. He opens the door, sheepish as he says, "Sorry, I was just…"
"Cleaning. YOu were tidying," Michael informs him in that voice. His voice should have a clarion harshness, meant to carry to the entirety of the Host. And perhaps it does when battle calls. But down here, indulging whim, curiosity, and the limits and quirks of biology and physics, it's soft, almost diffident. "I haven't interrupted?" He doesn't really think he has.
Lindon smiles, broad and warm. "Yes," he says, "I was tidying. No, please come in." He stands aside so Michael can come in. "It's great to see you. How have you been?" He pauses, then asks, "Do you want something to eat or drink?" I don't know if you do that.
"I don't need to do either, but I like to," he says, easily. "I like experiencing taste and texture." As Lin well knows, to their mutual pleasue. "And I'm fine." He seems clean enough….but then, angels don't sweat, do they? And they don't seem to attract grime, either. His wings are not on display, at the moment, but there's that sense of presence, nonetheless. That the being who walked in is only pretending tobe human.
Lindon closes the door, and he finds himself making room for the wings that aren't currently in evidence. He knows they're there, in a sense. "If you change your mind," he says, "I can put on some tea." He gestures for Michael to come take his choice of the comfortable living room chairs. "To what do I owe the honor?"
"Tea would be nice," Michael agrees, coming to sit rather gingerly on the largest chair. "I wanted to see you," he says. And then, realizing he's using human euphemism, smiles at himself a little. "To begin with," he adds. There's not the least shade of seduction, nor the arrogant surety of acceptance. But here he is.
Lindon clasps his hands together and says, "That's rather nice of you. I'm glad to be seen." He heads to the kitchen to put on the teakettle. "I'm glad you stopped by," he calls into the living room. "You've been on my mind lately. I've just been wondering how you are."
Michael crosses his ankles before him, lazily. Watching Lindon with those crystal pale eyes. "Have I? Perhaps that's why I came. We can sense those things. I'm well," he says, resting his hands on the arms of the chair. "Honestly, there's very little here that can harm or trouble me."
"I envy that," Lindon says. He sets up the teapot and, when the kettle whistles, he pour the boiling water into it. "I think a large part of the human experience is being troubled by one thing or another." He brings the teapot in on a tray with a couple mugs. "Can you tell when you're on someone's mind?"
Lin's posed him a question. "I don't know," he says, quietly. "I think I'm learning to. There are images of me around, and people do request things of me, it seems. 'm not……the ideas people here have are confused. I saw a statue of me in a church the other day, representing me fighting my brother. They aren't fair, though. Lucian's never looked like either a little red cartoon character or a dragon. Real dragons don't even look like those. And of course, I don't really look like that either."
"We see through a glass darkly," Lindon says quietly. He pours a cup of tea for Michael, then one for himself. It's a brisk Ceylon, his favorite. "Sometimes we just don't get the metaphor." He settles back in one of the smaller chairs, facing Michael. "So you don't fight with your brother?"
That quote makes him smile. "Poor Paul," he says, quietly. "He saw the beginning of the new Law, but he could not leave the old behind." He picks up the cup in hand, holds it beneath his nose to savor it. "No. It's not personal. I don't hate him. I'm not angry with him. I love him, very much. There may be a battle in the end, before he accepts his place again. But….not like that.
Lindon nods to Michael's words. "I often felt like that, even before I had the knowledge." He takes a sip of his tea, leaning back in his chair as he relaxes. The angel's presence is soothing. "There are so many versions of the adversary," he says. "From God's prosecuting attorney to the red-winged evil on your shoulder. Imagine what it would do for the faith of millions if it turned out you're just brothers having a disagreement?"
His expression is earnest, even in its gentleness. "I know. The passage of time blurs the lines of story. Think of it, though. There is a plan for all of it. And he, try as he might, is part of it. He hates the idea that anyone's will supercedes his, but it does." A sip of the tea, and he sighs. "Hatred is so strong. Lucian….he doesn't make anyone do anything. There is no 'devil made me do it'."
"He is the older brother," Lindon muses. "I remember when Josie first came along, you could've been describing me." He takes a sip of his tea, studying Michael thoughtfully. "Everyone wants free will right up til they screw something up," he says. "Then they need someone to blame, so I guess your brother is the scapegoat as well."
Michael laughs, but there's no hint of bitterness. "It's true. When the war happened, some of both sides tried to blame him for making them choose what they chose. Nonsense. Angels are made for a purpose, but they have some will of their own. I could quit myself, for instance. Lay down my charge and never pick it up again. I have a second in command, and he would be the leader of the Host."
"Is that so?" Lindon says. "Huh. I often wondered about angels and free will. If there were no free will, there would be no fall. Lucifer wouldn't have been able to act outside his… his programming, for lack of a better word. So you do have will." He considers Michael. "Do you ever want to lay it down?"
"I don't know," he admits. "I…had nothing to compare it to. For there is great joy in doing what we were meant to do. There is no process of discovery for us, not like with humans. We come into being knowing our purpose. I suppose I wanted to understand why Lucian came here, of all places. I'm still learning. I'm not really needed again until we come to the very end, so I have a long time to decide."
Lindon nods slowly and tries to act casual about this conversation that basically encompasses the existence of reality. He just nods as he wraps his head around it. "What do you like here?" he says. "What makes you happy? You seem to like the birds in the park? I think of you when I see them."
"I have yet to meet much that I don't like," he says, with that smile. "Just the way humans behave to each other. All the rest of it is really quite wonderful."
"We could use some work on that," Lindon agrees. "It's fear that makes most people behave badly, and fear's kind of like a lack of faith. Or at least the kind of fear that makes you, you know, behave badly. I'm sorry, I'm still struggling with concepts of sin and salvation after my head got a little fried." He smiles weakly.
"It's not what it's made out to be, sin," he says, calmly, after finishing his tea. "And you're right. It's nearly all fear overriding love. It's hard to trust that." Then he's rising, and extending his hand to Lindon.
Lindon rises to his feet, slipping his hand in Michael's. He may not trust his fellow human being as far as he can throw him, but the angel? It's as though Michael were incapable of doing wrong to him. "It's animal instinct, to fear like that," he says quietly. "We exist where the descending spirit meets the uprising ape."
The angel watches him for a long moment, gazing into the dark eyes. "Precisely," he says, and his voice is soft. Then he brings Lindon's knuckles to his lips.