[M] In Excelsis Deo [Ashen & Hannelorian]

[Ashen]

Sam couldn’t believe how much he had learned in his first half-year of his own humanity. It was incredible, the difference between studying humans and being one, experiencing for himself all the complexities of a mortal psyche that he’d read so much about. He was getting the hang of things, enjoying his life in this town with his new neighbors, and even though he still didn’t quite understand his emotions, nor how to manage the mood swings that kept him on his toes, he was starting to see the beauty in the range of human feeling.

But while he was given the opportunity to fall in love with his new start, Genevieve was falling further from that same joy. She was different from the woman Sam had first met, now a ghost among her people and a stranger in her own life. Sam watched her warily, offering help where he could, but she often rejected or neglected his kindness. Sam knew what depression was, had seen so many people battle against it while he’d been celestial, but he’d never grasped how painful it could be until he helplessly watched it claim his friend. She had been taking the deaths of her neighbors harder than Sam had given her credit for, and he felt awful for ever doubting her.

He was walking back to her house one day while nursing a stubborn headache and dreaming about dinner. Sam had spent the day tending to a young man who had recently fallen ill. He was showing the same signs poor Mrs. Parker had before her death, which meant he didn’t have much longer left in this world. His every breath seemed like agony, and Sam wondered if euthanasia wouldn’t have been kinder, but his pregnant wife was determined he would make a full recovery. Sam was more realistic than that, but he kept coming to their home, helping them with their chores and feeding the man who was losing his battle for his life.

It had been a taxing day, so when Sam finally returned to Genevieve’s house and unlocked the door with his own key, he kicked off his shoes and let out a long sigh. He didn’t have long to wonder about what was for dinner because the smell found him, something freshly-made and waiting for him already. “Genevieve?” he called as he made his way to the meal she had prepared for him. She always did that, cooked for him, even though it had been harder to do so with the death of the garden, shriveled and blackened as if poisoned. It was beyond either of their understanding.

Sam appreciated dinner, really, but with each day he was more and more uncomfortable taking from Genevieve. That’s all he’d been doing since he’d arrived, taken her kindness, her home, her clothes and her food; everything he was, he owed to this woman, yet what had he given her in return? She’d been instrumental to his acclimation to this town, this life, and he couldn’t even aid her during her time of mourning. He wanted to change that, but it felt like, no matter what he tried, he couldn’t.

With dinner still untouched, Sam wandered to Genevieve’s room, eager to try again. It was probably about time to talk to her again about what was going on, what she hid from everyone else. He gently knocked on her door and called her name. “Do you have a minute?” he asked. “I want to talk.” Sam had helped a lot of people since he’d come to this town, had eased several souls into their eternal rest as peacefully as he could, but that all paled in comparison to the suffering of the person he cared about most, and he would not stop trying to help her.

[Hannelorian]

The demon in the guise of Genevieve stretched and strained in the darkness. The heavy curtains, at this point a worn shade of navy were drawn tightly closed. The air seemed stale as Genevieve lay in her bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, contemplating what had become of her life. The odds of an Angel cast down from heaven in the same small town that she had chosen to reside in seemed astronomical. Then again, it seemed as though God, in his infinite wisdom would have known exactly what he was doing in sending Sam here. Perhaps this was some sort of strange test for her. What would she do?

The knock at the door interrupted her thoughts and a familiar all too sweet voice called out. Genevieve lifted an arm and dragged it over the beside table, her hand fumbling through the darkness to pull upon the cord which would bring it buzzing back to life. As opposed to the vibrant and bright colors she often worse, she remained in a simple grey sweatshirt and sweatpants, comforting and warm items though reflective of how she had become muted. "Come in, Sam." Genevieve called as she drew her knees in toward her chest, her arms wrapping around them and her eyes trained on the door. "What do you wish to talk about?" There was something akin to a smile on her face, though it didn't seem quite right.

Nothing. Genevieve did nothing. She simply existed. Nothing she had done was directed toward Sam. Rather, only to impact life around Sam, and in a strange way her works had given him meaning. It was she who was making the townspeople sick, it was she who was killing them, slowly and painfully. And it was he, Sam, who was comforting them, easing their passing. It was Genevieve who had spoiled the crops for the town, she had killed their gardens, turning them to little more than piles of rot threatening ever so menacingly to expand beyond their plots.

It was that last part that gave Genevieve such pause. She was giving him meaning, a purpose. Something to do with his newfound mortality and humanity. Was that a mistake? Had she been intending to do that? No. Of course not. But did she oppose it? That was harder to answer. A question that was tossed around in her mind endlessly. Genevieve still cooked for him, preparing his meals diligently and doing so like clock work, never attempting to give up the facade of her reality. Though her facade had changed, Genevieve now appeared to be quiet, withdrawn and depressed. She wasn't the vibrant woman she had once been. She was no longer driven to be social, she simply remained within her private world, slowly working on pulling the strings of all who lived amongst her.

[Ashen]

Sam warily stepped into Genevieve’s room to find her sitting up in bed, watching him. She was dressed plainly, her class outfits a thing of the distant past now. He approached her and tried to offer her a smile. The one she returned to him was wrong somehow, forced and too big and uncomfortable-looking. He wanted to ask her to stop doing that, but the last thing he wanted to do was make her feel worse, so he bit his tongue. Once he’d gotten her permission, Sam sat next to her on the bed and let out a breath, trying to figure out just what to say.

He was no good with words; he never had been. Sam fidgeted with his own hands in his lap as he struggled to figure out all the things he wanted to say. This was too delicate a topic for him to rush in blindly and mess things up. “Hi,” he started with, a little late, and Sam felt the awkwardness of that. He shifted and cleared his throat. “Thank you for dinner,” he added. He hadn’t touched the food she’d made yet, had been hoping they could eat together like they once had, but he appreciated it nonetheless, as well as everything else she still did for him.

There was a reason he was here, and he needed to stop stalling. “I’m concerned for you,” Sam said after another breath. There was concern clear in his eyes, in his drawn brows; he wasn’t skilled in hiding his emotions yet. “You’ve been holed up in this house, in this room, for a while now. I know I didn’t know you before I got here, but you’ve changed. You’re not the same person who welcomed me to this town. You seem miserable, and I’m sorry, I get it, these are dark times, but I…” Sam hesitated. “This doesn’t seem healthy,” he decided to say.

He had tried to find a doctor for Genevieve. Sam had asked around town, but this place was too small to have any resources for mental health, and the nearest clinic she could go to was quite the hike away. He didn’t know where that left him. He was no psychologist, was probably the least qualified person to help anyone struggling like this, but if he was all Genevieve could get, then he was determined to try his best.

“If you think talking about what’s bothering you would help,” he said, looking up at her again, “then I would like to hear what’s on your mind. Having someone to listen might make a difference, right? But if you’d rather not talk, that’s okay too. But…” Sam’s gaze fell as he mentally navigated the minefield of this conversation. “I think you should get out of the house, and talk to your old friends. I’m here to help you do that. I just… I want you to be happy, Genevieve. It hurts me to see such a good person hurt like this.”

He had said what he’d come here to say, so Sam sighed and tried not to expect the worst. He repeated everything he had said in his head, surveying for ways he had been too harsh. But his words were out now, and all he could do was hope.

When he faced Genevieve again, he gave her another sad smile. “Okay?” he prompted, because she didn’t look like she wanted to talk about this. “I want to help you,” he said, “but I need your help figuring out how I can do that.”