A Fallen Angel's Blessing

Soren followed the ruckus that was going on in the center of the city. The whispers of fear mixed with the murmurs of concern could be a clue as to the demon's location. He shuddered at the possibility that he had let people he was supposed to guard down.

He was stopped in his tracks by the sight of the forest woman, both by her damaged state and by the surprise of seeing her again. Her hair was all over her face, her eyes were staring at nothing, and she appeared broken as she sagged against the wall of Ravenwood Manor. Only a few steps away, a motionless figure covered in a sheet smelled of death and wine, but not blood. So, it must not be the demon's work.

Driven by a burning desire to console her, he swerved through the throng without hesitation and pulled her into his arms, holding her to his chest. There was another murmur among the spectators, this one with a hint of doubt and perplexity. She appeared hardly aware of it, yet she didn't fight his grasp. Nevertheless, she reached for his arm, hoping to find some support—or at least the strength to stand.

"Are you, too?" A chilly voice interrupted, causing the angel to tense up, his rage erupting as ferociously as though he were confronting the demon.

Soren raised his head to examine the speaker, the previous purple-robed man who had made that strange gesture. His lips pursed in annoyance, and he briefly contemplated dismissing the inquiry. However, a lot of people in the crowd thought this man was a leader, so it didn't seem like a good idea to start problems. Without hesitation, he answered, "My name is Soren," without stopping to consider how recently he had been given that name. "What do you think it is?"

The man straightened, trying to look offended, then paled a little. "I am the city's Father Malachi!" he yelled, lifting his purple robes in a dignified manner. "Demon and witch hunter, guardian of these people's souls! And this animal... He gave the woman in Soren's arms a scorching look. "The old woman's death must be her fault!"

"What is the answer?" Sincerely surprised, Soren inquired. For days, the elderly Matron Annelore had been vanishing from our planet. What response is due to this woman?

Father Malachi's face slowly lit up with a smile. "And you say that you know these things, don't you? It wasn't her time to die, and I know them too. That witch—he spat the word in an insulting manner—is undoubtedly just as much a part of the Matron's other offspring. If not a witch, then who else is responsible for the elderly woman's demise?

A witch? Soren looked at him, puzzled, trying again to understand why the word "witch" was used as a badge of shame. He remarked bluntly, "And a priest fears witches so?" as his thoughts strayed to the witch-child's tears, which were poured for some unspoken anguish associated with that phrase.

Father Malachi threw forth an accusing finger as his eyes grew wide. "You see? He acknowledges that she is a witch. His delight at being vindicated was barely contained as he crowed. As the Matron's lone child, let her burn! This is where this damned line should end!

Soren felt hatred for Father Malachi at those remarks, something he had never imagined he could feel for someone he was supposed to defend. Had this man already burned witches? No less than this guy himself, even the offspring of those the angel served? In his memories, Amara's tears stung again where they had touched his flesh, causing a shout of rage inside of him. With a low, menacing rumble, he asked, "You dare speak for the gods?"

Father Malachi gave him a sneer. "I am a church leader and a recognized holy. You know who I am now. With whom are you speaking?

Any response Soren could have given was interrupted by a cry of despair. He was shocked to see Amara kneeling next to her sister's body with the sheet drawn back and her face twisted in sorrow. However, that grief quickly turned to rage, and she stared at Father Malachi, blaming him for the crime. The hatred burning in the young girl's eyes outweighed any anger the angel may have had.

As though it made perfect sense, she said, "Now she is dead too." "Has your sin been forgiven yet? Or must we who are aware of it all perish as well before you are pardoned?

Father Malachi's face turned a sickly chalky grey as her words caused him to freeze. After a lengthy silence, he said in a voice that was hardly audible, "And what do you claim to know of such matters?"

After staring at him for three full breaths, Amara's face changed and became a mask of indifference. "Wonder and rot," she muttered, her voice devoid of feeling. Then, slowly, she got up and turned, running into Gramor's embrace. With his face mostly concealed by his cowl, Gramor had watched helplessly. However, his arms embraced her tenderly and familiarly when she sought solace—not at all like a master and servant.

Gramor then lifted his head and gave Father Malachi a look that the angel was unable to see. The self-styled priest suddenly stopped talking, his words evaporating.

Soren grabbed the opportunity. With a hint of remorse in his voice, he said bluntly, "This woman has done no wrong." "The elderly pass away and rejoin the gods." It has always been like way. Anyone who identifies as holy must be aware of this.

Father Malachi briefly appeared ready to argue once more, but Soren's last remarks rendered him unable to speak. He was obviously annoyed, his lips clenched in rage, glaring yet unable to respond. When he finally realized there was nothing he could do to change the course of events, he whirled away in a rage.

He forced his way to the edge of the crowd and turned around, looking directly into the angel's eyes for a final breath. There was a glimmer of knowledge, like though he had a suspicion that Soren wasn't who he seemed. But for the moment, he let it alone.

The woman hadn't attempted to pull away, and Soren still hadn't let her go. However, he now gently eased her back and crouched next to the elderly woman, examining her motionless body. A moment later, he raised her and faced the throng. His comfort level with the corpse appeared to stun and even disgust several spectators. All he could think about was how light she felt, like nothing.

Elyra and Amara fell silently behind him as he walked through the crowd of people surrounding them. Gramor paused for a second, not sure where he stood or if he wanted to follow, but a look at the witch-girl encouraged him to do so.

The light was a wonderful blessing for what Soren was going to do, bathing his face in forgiveness. The fact that he had strayed from his designated duties was irrelevant. He could bestow a final benediction on a woman who had impacted so many lives because he was a servant of the skies.

As they left the far edge of the city, the sunshine became mottled by waving green foliage. He didn't know what he was looking for, but he put the old woman's body down when he noticed the heavy stone next to one of the most magnificent trees he had ever seen. Her earthly appearance was already turning grey, and she appeared very exhausted. He knew that she had been dead for a while before they discovered her. Even though he was aware that no one dies alone as long as they had faith, the idea nonetheless made him unhappy.

Even though she had long since passed away, he whispered, "You were an old one," as though she could hear him. "Making a difference in many lives, teaching many lessons." After a moment of hesitation, he reached up and picked a sprig of blossoms from a tree nearby. He knelt down and carefully laid it across her chest after it gave readily to his touch. With your earthly form, may your earthly cares rest here. May you be accepted into the skies and have your soul forgiven.

Even though he had only used words that were natural to him and not ones he had been taught, there was a strange air of ceremony to it. Both females had tears in their eyes when he looked at them, and Elyra appeared oddly calm. So it was so easy to accept death? Did humanity gain that gift to lessen the agony of the unavoidable?

After staring at her grandmother's body for a while, Elyra turned to face him. It was shocking enough that it might have been the first time she had really looked at him since the night they had kissed. However, it failed to take into consideration the subsequent surge of feelings, including sadness, shame, and rage. Then, refusing to look into his eyes once more, she turned her face away.

He felt an odd discomfort from it. He put a hand on her shoulder, but she swatted it away and took another step back. With a hint of disgust in her voice, she muttered, "Don't get your hands dirty." Or don't ruin mine—make a decision. Don't touch me, please.

He didn't understand why her rejection hurt like a physical blow. She had previously embraced him, asked for his kiss, and even found comfort in his prayer. Why, therefore, is she looking so dejected now, when all he did was give consolation?

He questioned softly, "Have I done something wrong?" but she took another step back, her face becoming more distressed.

Gramor caught hold of his arm and stopped him before he could push any farther. To put it simply, he remarked, "The loss of one who shares your blood is a profound pain," as though that clarified everything. "Time heals the loss of a lifelong companion, not the embrace of strangers."

His subsequent remarks, however, bore a startling softness where his previous ones had verged on dismissal. It's possible that the elderly woman's spirit could not have been at peace without an angelic blessing. You have our sincere gratitude for that. Please, just leave it there.