Laurence staggered down the streets of Rome tiredly. So much fighting - so much fighting, but Uriel had stationed him here, and so here he stayed.

His head swam with the alcohol he'd imbibed at the other milites' bidding. After the whole mess that had just ended the day before, he had been called out to dice and drink, and had regretted it, but decided it was part of his role - must be, really. If he was a soldier in Rome, he must do as the soldiers in Rome did.

And of course he'd put them under the table, his angel's metabolism able to handle far more drink than most of the soldiers, but even he had limits and he did not imbibe often. It was an impure action, after all, and he did serve the Archangel of Purity as his weapon, his Angel of the Sword. A very drunk Angel of the Sword, at the moment, but a Wordbound angel despite it all.

He stumbled, running his hands along the stonework of the buildings on the Via Fornicata, aiming for the nearest arch. He only had to get that far before he could rest, he decided, and staggered forward. It was closer than he guessed and he leaned one shoulder into the rough brick, breathing carefully as he willed the world to stop making his head hurt.

"Easy," a voice said, in his ear. "Easy there, little one."

He scowled at the voice. "M'not little," he said, and realized only after it came out how stupid that sounded. He was short, after all. It was just a fact.

The man - as indeed it was - chuckled. "You're drunk, little one. Come with me, there is a resting place nearby."

"I warn you," Laurence proclaimed. "I am one of the soldiers, and I-"

"Yes, aren't we all? Come now, come, come."

Laurence went.

The stranger was an attractive androgyne with hair piled in curls on top his head. The style mimicked that of a woman - almost embarrassingly effeminate, in fact. His dress indicated that he was likely from Corinth and he did have something of a Grecian accent, but he was overdone for what Laurence had seen of Corinthians, going a little too far with dress and hair and styles of speech. Laurence had thoughts of ethereal temples and prostitution, and blushed red. He had not seen any, of course, but one of them - that was his only guess as to this Corinthian's profession. A guess he did not particularly want to think about, mind, but what seemed most logical in his current state.

The Corinthian led him through an arch and up some stone stairs to a room - mostly unfurnished but for the cushions on the couch that occupied it. The usual bedding of the time - a small mattress with a headrest - was missing, replaced with a pile of soft cloth. Despite the few furnishings for the large room, it was clearly the lap of luxury; such cloth was expensive.

"Who are you?" Laurence asked, swaying guardedly.

"A traveller," the stranger said. "From afar. I've come to ...experience Rome, what it has to offer. Is that so strange? They say that all roads lead to Rome, and all people go there."

"I suppose," Laurence said. He attempted to resonate the stranger but felt his resonance fail; this was an uncommon event since his Wordbinding, but still happened now and then. And with his inebriation, it was not too much of a surprise. Of all the luck to have it happen now, though-!

"Rest," the man commanded, taking Laurence's shoulders and easing him down to the cloth. Laurence's knees buckled without his permission and he felt heat seep from the hands. He shuddered, startled.

"Like this?" he asked, and couldn't quite understand why his voice was catching, why his vessel was betraying him so. "My clothes are still dirty from the streets-"

The stranger's delicate brows winged. "Indeed they are. Remove them."

Laurence did, with awkward, failing hands. First the boots were placed against one wall, then the swordbelt undone, leaning the soldier's gladius, sheathed, against the wall.

He hesitated at his tunic, but the stranger was leaning up behind him, wrapping hot arms around him and Laurence felt oversensitized, felt breathless, felt like his vessel was sick, perhaps, or drunker than he'd thought.

He swayed. "I-"

"Off," the stranger commanded, and undressed Laurence for him. It was hard to control his limbs, Laurence found, they were weak in the Corinithian's hands. He focussed on breathing, found spots appearing in front of his eyes. What was wrong? He burned. He was burning up.

"Down," the stranger crooned, lowering Laurence.

Laurence went.

The next little while was confusing. He tried not to think too much upon the hands upon his skin. Tried not to think about the scent of the stranger's hair. Tried not to scream - he was a Malakite, Wordbound in Uriel's service - was he not? Uriel had never done this. He felt sick, felt as if he couldn't stop.

The stranger stopped after a half hour, leaving Laurence begging, squirming. He fought for dignity, managed to stop the heartfelt pleas not to leave - not yet, not yet, surely.

The Corinthian rose, smiled as he refastened his clothing. "Did you come to look for Infernal influence, Laurence of the Sword?" He clearly caught sight of Laurence's eyes widening, and smiled. "Yes, I knew you were here. I knew who you were."

"I - " He couldn't catch his breath, couldn't breathe. "Who are you?!"

"Andrealphus," the man said. He caught up Laurence's swordbelt and his sword, and smiled evenly. "You found it, Laurence. I'm sure Uriel will be pleased with you."

Laurence opened his mouth to curse Andrealphus. Of course, Dark Desire. The bastard had hit him with the arousing attunement -- and found himself saying "No - don't go, I haven't - haven't found enough yet!"

Andrealphus laughed, his voice tinkling in the air like glass bells. "You'll see enough of me later. I have to go now." He saluted Laurence with his own sword, and Laurence realized helplessly that he was being robbed. "Farewell, Laurence."

And vanished.

Laurence moaned helplessly, pressed his face into the cloth, still burning, burning for however long this blasted thing would last. "Uriel," he whimpered, but didn't quite dare invoke. "Uriel."

He closed his eyes, put his hand on himself, and dared to imagine.