The year is 1879. When thirteen-year-old Ruth Merritt Holbrook emerges from her family's burning estate, bloody and charred, but entirely numb--She makes headlines. Reporters believe she is deranged. They accuse her of having set the fire. All the h...
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Let me begin by saying: I had to see him. It was a necessity.
I awoke from a fitful sleep because of a nightmare. It was similar to the others, taking place in a field of poppies with only a man and myself. Only this time the man was clearly Leviathan. He was already hurt; blood cascaded down his shoulders and arms. When I ran to him, I was not stopped. In this dream, he recognized me—Cassiel. He had breathed the name against my neck like a prayer, his arms holding me to his warm chest.
I had cried, but not because I was happy to see him or because he was hurt—I cried because my very soul, the one I had bargained for so that I might meet him, was shattering within me. I wrapped my arms around his torso, my fingers finding the source of the blood. Two long, deep gashes that ran from the tops of his shoulders to his mid back—the absence of wings ripped apart in a vehement fall.
Had he called for me then too? The way he did now.
Blood smeared my fingers, sticky and warm. It is red, but not the same consistency of human blood. Rather it is a thinner liquid, almost like water. I want to pull away, to look at his face and speak to him, but he is holding me too tightly. I am his lifeline—the person he has prayed to see. I wonder if he has prayed. If my name has ever passed through his lips since he fell. Since he left me.
I should want this. I should relax into his embrace and let myself remember all the times he'd held me before. We had laughed together, shared smiles, stolen kisses and I had thought he was perfect—but he was far from that. He threw away everything so he could have power, a power that was never meant for him. A power that he wanted so he could have more choices with you, the thought finds my mind like a slap and I reel away from him, the force of my own thoughts too much. The sickly slither of guilt pooling in my stomach like ice water.
He does not speak again, but his concern is clear on his face. I want to stand, to get up from where I had fallen on my knees and leave him. I will run through this field and find safety away from him. He has hurt me too much. He is the one that has broken my heart.
And yet I still love him. I know it with the same certainty with which I know that there is blood in my veins. My instinct is to cry out to Adonai, but I cannot. Adonai has already given me what I asked and now it is my job to continue along the past I have set before myself.
Suddenly, my hands are no longer empty. I hold a sword—the same one that has been in the other dreams. The same sword I had watched him drive into his own gut time and time again. The girl I used to be recognizes this sword, for I have seen it with it's owner time and time again. In my hand, I hold Michael's sword. It is heavy and made of materials that are not of earth, rather of heaven. I have never touched anything like this before, not when I was Cassiel and certainly not as Merritt.
Although many angels have these weapons, only certain angels can truly wield them with power. This is the bringer of eternal damnation, the tool by which Adonai's decisions can be carried out. But this cannot kill angels; it can only cast them away. This is the sword with which wings are severed—the sword that, with one strike, will transport a fallen being to the depths.
