"Azalier."

He looks up from the guard position at the door, startled out of his thoughts. While he tries, and mostly succeeds, at keeping his face from lighting up at hearing her call him, it's hard, and he knows she must feel the surge of joy he gets when she speaks. It's embarrassing; he's embarrassed, though less at himself than for her, because he knows it must be difficult at times to deal with him, especially on the days when his feelings are particularly strong. He wishes he could contain it, make it easier on her.

But Raphael is smiling, shaking her head at him, almost fondly. "Come here, please?"

He goes, and gladly. "My Lady Raphael." He bows to her. "What can I do for you?"

The Archangel gestures to a seat at the table, and while a protest rises - not worthy of sitting with her, no - he fights it back and simply bows his head, taking the seat. He's slightly taller than her, even with them both seated.

"My eyes grow weary of straining, Azalier." Her voice is amused, and he knows she is not saying anything; she can read for years without difficulty, eyes straining or not. "And," she continues, "I would like to read something for pleasure, not work." She reaches up, pulls a thin volume down from the shelf behind her. "If you are not too caught up in other learning, can I ask you to read this to me?"

He swallows, lowers his eyes to the title of the book until the quick stinging behind their lids has faded, though the thickness in his throat has not. "It's an honour, my lady."

"Then you are well-suited to it," she says, and chuckles.

Azalier opens the book and clears his throat, then reads. The poems inside are about sparks, wrath, creativity, inspiration. He wonders if she wrote them for Jean, or Jean wrote them for her. Or perhaps another source entirely - but he doubted it. It has the subtle clarity of Elohite-poetry and is written with more skill than he has seen outside the hands of Archangels. They are beautiful, and his heart aches as he reads, caught up in their joy, their promises, their simplicity. He knows they are poems of love, though they're not about that feeling. He can't tell whether it's because he can't hide his own love, or because they were written with it. He doesn't believe, for that one moment, that it matters.

Eventually, she shifts, and he glances up to see her smiling, eyes closed, but slowly moving from her relaxed position to a more studious one. "Thank you, Azalier," she murmurs.

"My Lady."

"Keep the book."

His throat closes and it takes him a moment before he can manage to open it enough again to protest, "I cannot, my lady. They are yours - meant for you-"

"And I give it to you." Her hand touches his for a moment, brushing from cover to hand to cover. "Keep the book."

He smiles at her, suddenly, brilliantly, and she smiles back a gentle Archangel's smile.

He wishes he could stay like this forever.