Raphael is a fan of thunderstorm-watching, and does not have the sense to come out of the rain.

So say those in Heaven who do not understand her, at any rate. Her detractors in Hell say worse things - or rather, worse variants on that theme. They speak of the wild woman and her prophecies, standing on clifftops in the vessels of ragged old women, rain sticking to her and leprosy spotting her flesh, shaking her staff to the sky as lightning arcs in a pure blinding stroke and an act of immeasurable violence.

(The wild woman and her prophecies would come, mind, and during Raphael's own lifetime, but it would not be Raphael.)

Raphael would be joining them soon, her detractors in Hell predicted. With such wildness, how could she not?

The truth is that Raphael is indeed a fan of thunderstorms and their watching. In Heaven, in the Marches, on Earth, she is not usually away from them in one form or another.

A flash, inspiration, then gone.

They go together well, objectively, she believes. But then, she is Knowledge; she knows these things. There are some who do not understand how she can know something - no explanation, no reason - and have that be objective. But then, some cannot understand why the Angel of Faith is an Elohite.

This saddens her, but she understands the necessity and does not mention it to any.

She walks now through a wooded mountain area. There is a rumble and she looks up, letting thin pale hair tumble back from her face. Today, a man built a pen for domesticized animals for the very first time. She can feel the power of that discovery shivering, electric, against the edge of her Word, the charge building.

A storm is coming. It is, of course, expected. There are always storms. The sky darkens in the distance, a line of approaching black, her lover's forewarning of his approach.

She walks to meet him.

Automatically, she notes the changes. The rising static in the air, matching the pressure on her Word. The dampness that can be tasted, rich and loamy, the thickness of water invisible in the air that makes it difficult to breathe. She does not struggle against it, relishes the feel. She knows her body will pull the air out, and the pressure in her lungs (inside her) is almost pleasant, as anticipation so often is.

There is a simple pleasure in this, in walking to meet him, feeling the soft suck of mud under her feet, the twinge that is twigs snapping under her soles. The stretch of legs. The rising wind that sends her hair about her face. The way her eyes adjust to the dark he brings with him.

Eventually, the thickness of rock can be felt under her feet, and then there is open space before her. It is not unexpected, though it has caused and will cause deaths. She stands on the large rock that marks the boundary between cliff and sky, her mud-marked toes curling and gripping as she raises her arms to him. She feels the sudden thickness of the charge as it climbs.

Lightning strikes. Behind her a tree screams and burns, crashing down. The smell is thick in the air, her Word thick in her, his charge thick in him.

She calmly slides free of clothing, lets the wind take it and whip it about. Lightning strikes it in the air - a little bit of play for him, her lover handling her clothing, sexualizing what was once mere garments.

There is much that needs release.

Her toes clench on the rock, her knees bend and she pushes off, defying gravity (She will not fall) and waiting for him to catch her, knowing he will.

The storm sweeps her up and he has caught her. He keeps her safe, as she knew he would, so the sparks and crackles of electricity that play over her do not burn as a bolt arcs from the ground to her and him.

As it hits her, she has an image of him: Years from now, awash with electricity, using his break from work as a chance to grieve. The electricity grounding him as always, passing over him, through him, around him, his eyes closed as he remembers - sad, fond - this time.

A flash - a moment of illumination, inspiration, and then - gone.

She is saddened by that, but she understands the necessity, and will not warn him before his time. She lets him feel her pleasure, instead, lets him feel her love, lets him wonder at how she looks with electricity arching blue, white, golden on her skin, the reflections it picks up in her eyes. Her joy, quiet and peaceful, to be here with him (as the storm rolls over the countryside, as humans strive to deal with panicking animals so that they will know, tomorrow, where their pens were weak). She spreads her arms and legs so that he can hold her more fully. "I love you," she murmurs into the storm.

She has the sense to not come out of the rain.