She was born to the kill. Literally, a desperate and ecstatic emergence onto a field sown with blood, a dream of violence born into battle. Kali, the Destroyer, and with her first breath she had destroyed, had devoured the blood of her enemy. With her first breath, she had plunged to the kill, embracing it fist over fist, and only furious delight in her heart.
He envies her that. Oh, how he envies her that. Gabriel, messenger and wayward son, the wimp of the family, but that had not spared him. That had never spared him. His first kill had been a desperate and horrified consequence of a war that should never have happened, and there are times he doesn't know which to curse more; the peace they had known before, or the destruction that came after. He doesn't know.
But watching her, watching the dream of her, the dark delight ... he wonders if it wouldn't have been better, to be born to it as she had. To emerge fully-fledged to battle, and know no other life. No other choice. He wonders that.
Either way, he knows, watching her, feeling her, moving against her and seeing the clean brutality in her eyes, either way ... he is as terrible now as she. Subtler, quieter, the wolf in sheep's clothing to her proud and terrible tiger, but even still. There is blood on his hands, and in his wings, and between his teeth, and when they kiss he knows full well she tastes it in him. Knows full well that Kali, the Destroyer, embraces him as once she embraced that first and vibrant kill, that first and terrible enemy. Knows she loves him as she loved all those she has slain, no more, no less. Knows, in some deep and desperate part of his heart, that he loves her the same way. No more, no less.
And maybe ... maybe there is a kind of comfort in that. A kind of honesty. Maybe ... that is all he really needs.