Mags felt her heart break for him. She knew firsthand how it felt to go through this—to suddenly find yourself removed from the world, from everything and everyone you knew.
“Well honey, there isn’t anywhere elsetogo.” She laid a small hand on his shoulder, carefully avoiding what looked like a piece of iron that had been jabbed through his collarbone. It was a miracle indeed that passing through the Gates would remove all traces of their death, because some of the ways a soul could pass on were...quite gruesome.
“Why can you leave?”
“Because I still have a body.” Mags cupped his pudgy cheek gently. “I’m a goddess, not a departed soul.”
The man squinted in disbelief, then blinked as realization dawned. “Wait...I know you.”
She smiled. “You must be quite the dedicated theist if you recognize little ol’ me.”
“The bride of Jesus,” the man continued, eyes bright, clearly enthused by his discovery. “Mary Magdalene.”
Mags flushed. “We’re not actuallymarried;that’s just an expression...um...”
“Richard,” the man supplied eagerly.
“Right.” Mags patted his shoulder once more and stepped away. “Well, don’t let me hold up the line any longer, I’ll just be going then.”
Peter cast her a sidelong glance. “Thebrideof Jesus, is it?”
“Shut up,” she smacked his elbow, the highest point she could reach now that he was back on his podium. “I will pluck your wings, Peter, I swear it.”
He laughed, tossing his sandy head back. Mags yanked a single silver-grey feather from his wing as she swept past him between the Gates, giggling at his startled yelp as she hurried up the path towards the palace.
Fast, upbeat music spilled beneath a dark wooden door, echoing faintly down the hallways of the palace. Passing angels looked curiously toward the noise, either smiling or shaking their heads when they identified the source, while the mortal souls working in the palace were more prone to open boggling.
Within the room, its occupant—pleasantly oblivious to the opinions being formed about his latest hobby—moved in awkward, hesitant steps to the Latin music. He was deeply tanned and tall, broad shouldered and finely muscled, none of which was helping him properly orient his feet to the rhythm of the song.
His dark, curling hair brushed his shoulders and fell into his eyes, and he swept it back with an irritated brush of his hand, regretting that he hadn’t thought to tie it back. His dark brows furrowed intently as he counted the beats of the song in his head.The prophet formerly known as Jesus was learning some new dance moves.
To be fair, several people still called him Jesus, his parents included. Others referred to him by many different names, including but not limited to: Messiah, Savior, Light of the World, Logos, and Emmanuel. But he was going through another of what Mags called his “rebranding phases”, and went by Christos these days.
Christos hummed along with the song, shimmying his hips and twisting, trying to move his feet in the right patterns. He stumbled, caught himself on his work bench, and sighed. This dance would be a lot easier with a partner to balance against—bachata was a sensual pairs dance. Tango’s sexier cousin, by all accounts.
A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts, almost inaudible under the pulsing beat of the music that continued playing without him. But he heard her, as he always would. Her very presence reached out to him, like a warm breeze on a summer day, and Christos found himself turning to the door before he had consciously decided to move. His foot struck a haphazardly discarded chisel and made him pause. Amber eyes swept the room, taking in the mess.
A small pile of woodchips had accumulated beneath his lathe, which was otherwise tucked neatly in the alcove to the side of his room. Discarded shirts and pants from when he was choosing an outfit this morning littered his unmade king bed. There were several bowls and plates laid on every flat surface—evidence of the many meals he elected to take in his rooms instead of joining his parents.
Christos winced at the state of the room, then folded his hands as if in prayer. A faint wind stirred, sweeping the woodchips into the trash bin, carrying the clothes to the closet, and stacking the dishes into a neat pile before they weredeposited in a dumbwaiter that descended to the kitchen with a hushedwhirr.
The knock sounded again, and this time the door swung inward. Mags slipped inside with a knowing grin. “Are you done cleaning up your mess?”
Christos feigned indignation. “You wound me.”
“Mhm.” Mags smirked and bent to retrieve the chisel from the floor. “Missed a spot.”
“Caught me.” He laughed. “You know me too well.”
She smiled, setting the tool on his nightstand as she pressed herself into his chest. A brief flare of guilt over the diversion tugged at her, but Mags pushed it aside for now. Time was of the essence, but in a world of chaos, this man was her anchor, and she needed this moment to collect herself. Christos wound his arms around her waist, settling his palms to the curve of her spine.
“This music is nice,” she murmured, leaning her head against his collarbone. “You got bored of salsa?”
“I like variety.” He began to rock gently from side to side, guiding her hips with his to the beat of the song. “Though you ruined the surprise.”
He stepped to the left, leading her along with him as he began to work in the movements of the dance. Another step left, then two steps to the right, and the same cycle again. Mags giggled as he began to guide her backwards, then stepped back himself and pulled her along after him.
“This is still nice, surprise or no.” She brought her hand up to cup his cheek as he twisted them to the side and led them into a turn.
