Warnings: lack of editing warning, potential blasphemy towards a fictional God if you squint.
Character sketch of an archangel.
They say I bring the word of God, but the truth is that when my Father has a message, I am lost to Him until it is spoken to His satisfaction. I’m emptied, nothing, until He is gone. Not so much a messenger as a microphone.
Waking hurts. The moment He’s gone, the echo of His voice rumbles through my head like the thundering waters of Niagara. It’s a familiar ache, a pain I didn’t realise I’d missed so much.
She’s perfect, more beautiful than anything I’ve seen before. Tiny, too, the way all human babies are, but she isn’t human. Not anymore. He made sure of that. I can feel the thrum of grace pulsing with her heartbeat. She’s crying in pain as her body tries to adjust to the two competing energies, terrified of everything around her. Grace is energy, and it takes barely any effort to shield her nerves from the pain they’re feeling, and to soothe the surging roiling grace trying to tear her apart.
The grace inside her wants to return to its original owner. It wants to return to me. He has made a child into a halfling, and He has dragged me into it. I don’t know why.
Mortal lives are mapped out in the glints of colour in the eyes, but though her eyes look utterly human, there’s something there I can’t get a read on.
Her original, human life is easy. Human, she’d have died within ten minutes, suffocating and discarded. But now? Now it’s a blur, a tangle of light and dark and colour that feels like being a fledgling again, sitting at Father’s feet as he crafted galaxies, and begging to help bring those colours into life.
He always said no, that I was never meant to bring colours into being.
He has left His orders; I can feel the compulsion of His will in the urge to leave her at the nearest orphanage and go. His will is heavy, a rough and scratchy blanket dragged up and over until there’s nothing but fabric above and over you, and the air gets thick and weak.
Her eyes will be hazel, utterly ordinary, her hair that mousey sort of brown that the humans are never happy with.
Her eyes are blue when she opens them, the tiniest hint of grace brightening the colour. Tiny pink arms reach out.
I can feel her desperation, feel the instinctive human need for connection. She wants the love her human family refused her, wants warmth and safety and to be held close. Babies feel hope, and she wonders, hopes, that I’m her kin.
She is made from me, and now that the grace recognises the connection, it’s calming down within her. I hold her close, feel the contented thrumming of her soul and the pattering of her heartbeat. How could anyone refuse her?
His will darkens the edges of my vision, demanding my obedience. If I keep her, it’ll never stop hurting. But if I go, it’ll never stop hurting, either. It’ll just be a different kind of hurt.
I’m not you, Dad. You created her, but she’s my daughter, and I’m not leaving. So do your worst.