had stopped Verchiel, forgiving him his sins and allowing him to return to Heaven to face the judgment of the Creator.
Aaron doubted that the Powers’ leader had gotten off easy for what he had intended for the world, and for the many Nephilim that had been murdered over the centuries.
“What are we going to do with him?” Vilma asked, interrupting Aaron’s thoughts. Even after what he had said to Jeremy, there was a part of him that wanted to leave the angel to rot in the cavern for all the evil it had done, but Aaron knew that wasn’t the answer.
One of the angel’s wings had been severed at the shoulder, while the other, which was missing most of its feathers, beat fitfully upon the ground, stirring up clouds of dust.
“He’s dying,” Aaron said as he knelt beside the trembling creature.
“Looks like he’s been doing that for a very long time,” Jeremy added from where the others stood. “Maybe we should help him along.”
Jeremy’s ax sparked and hissed as if eager for the taste of more violence.
Aaron could see the way the Nephilim looked at the Powers angel. Many of them had endured horrors that the hands of these angels had delivered to them, while others had certainly heard the stories. This was a creature whose sole purpose had been to exterminate them. How were they supposed to feel toward it?
“Maybe you’re right,” Aaron said, staring at the mangled angel on the ground before him.
“You’re not going to hurt him … are you?” Vilma asked.
It hurt him to have her ask such a thing of him, to think that he might be capable of such an act, but the times they lived inhad changed him—it had changed all of them—and he was sure she had seen him do things in battle that had given her pause.
“No,” Aaron said with a slight shake of his head. “The exact opposite, really.” He held up his hand and felt the power surge to life there. The power to forgive.
The power of redemption that was his gift as the Chosen One.
If the angel before him was filled with repentance, Aaron had the ability to send him back to Heaven.
The Powers angel continued to writhe upon the ground as Aaron placed a softly glowing hand upon his sunken chest. The angel was wearing little more than filthy rags, and Aaron felt the cool touch of his skin through his palm.
The angel stopped his thrashing and looked up into Aaron’s face. One of his eyes was missing, but the other fixed upon Aaron intensely.
“What are you?”
“I can send you home,” Aaron told him. “Back to—”
“Heaven,” the angel finished.
“Yes.”
“And what must I do to receive such mercy from the likes of you?” the Powers angel asked.
Aaron sighed, sensing the resentment, the disgust that the angel still held for his kind.
“You have to be sorry,” Aaron said.
“Sorry?” the angel asked.
“Sorry for the sins you’ve committed … sorry for all the pain you have caused.”
The Powers angel started to laugh, and it was an awful sound. Blood, like black tar, spurted from the sides of his grinning mouth, running down his face. Aaron recoiled.
“When I was taken by these … things,” the dying angel croaked, blood still filling his throat, “I was searching for the means to see you … to see all of you dead.”
An icy chill ran down Aaron’s spine as he felt the hate that emanated from the angel in waves.
“We lost the battle,” the angel said, nodding his head. “But we have not … have not lost the war.”
Aaron had heard enough. “Verchiel was defeated, sent back to Heaven to face the wrath of the Almighty. The Powers were wrong, and the sooner you accept—”
“Accept?” the angel barked, blood-flecked spittle spraying from his mouth. “There will be no acceptance. As I lay there in the pit, as those beasts feasted upon my flesh, I waited … not for my brothers to come, but for the eventual end.”
The angel’s ignorance was maddening, and it took everything that Aaron had to hold it
Aaron doubted that the Powers’ leader had gotten off easy for what he had intended for the world, and for the many Nephilim that had been murdered over the centuries.
“What are we going to do with him?” Vilma asked, interrupting Aaron’s thoughts. Even after what he had said to Jeremy, there was a part of him that wanted to leave the angel to rot in the cavern for all the evil it had done, but Aaron knew that wasn’t the answer.
One of the angel’s wings had been severed at the shoulder, while the other, which was missing most of its feathers, beat fitfully upon the ground, stirring up clouds of dust.
“He’s dying,” Aaron said as he knelt beside the trembling creature.
“Looks like he’s been doing that for a very long time,” Jeremy added from where the others stood. “Maybe we should help him along.”
Jeremy’s ax sparked and hissed as if eager for the taste of more violence.
Aaron could see the way the Nephilim looked at the Powers angel. Many of them had endured horrors that the hands of these angels had delivered to them, while others had certainly heard the stories. This was a creature whose sole purpose had been to exterminate them. How were they supposed to feel toward it?
“Maybe you’re right,” Aaron said, staring at the mangled angel on the ground before him.
“You’re not going to hurt him … are you?” Vilma asked.
It hurt him to have her ask such a thing of him, to think that he might be capable of such an act, but the times they lived inhad changed him—it had changed all of them—and he was sure she had seen him do things in battle that had given her pause.
“No,” Aaron said with a slight shake of his head. “The exact opposite, really.” He held up his hand and felt the power surge to life there. The power to forgive.
The power of redemption that was his gift as the Chosen One.
If the angel before him was filled with repentance, Aaron had the ability to send him back to Heaven.
The Powers angel continued to writhe upon the ground as Aaron placed a softly glowing hand upon his sunken chest. The angel was wearing little more than filthy rags, and Aaron felt the cool touch of his skin through his palm.
The angel stopped his thrashing and looked up into Aaron’s face. One of his eyes was missing, but the other fixed upon Aaron intensely.
“What are you?”
“I can send you home,” Aaron told him. “Back to—”
“Heaven,” the angel finished.
“Yes.”
“And what must I do to receive such mercy from the likes of you?” the Powers angel asked.
Aaron sighed, sensing the resentment, the disgust that the angel still held for his kind.
“You have to be sorry,” Aaron said.
“Sorry?” the angel asked.
“Sorry for the sins you’ve committed … sorry for all the pain you have caused.”
The Powers angel started to laugh, and it was an awful sound. Blood, like black tar, spurted from the sides of his grinning mouth, running down his face. Aaron recoiled.
“When I was taken by these … things,” the dying angel croaked, blood still filling his throat, “I was searching for the means to see you … to see all of you dead.”
An icy chill ran down Aaron’s spine as he felt the hate that emanated from the angel in waves.
“We lost the battle,” the angel said, nodding his head. “But we have not … have not lost the war.”
Aaron had heard enough. “Verchiel was defeated, sent back to Heaven to face the wrath of the Almighty. The Powers were wrong, and the sooner you accept—”
“Accept?” the angel barked, blood-flecked spittle spraying from his mouth. “There will be no acceptance. As I lay there in the pit, as those beasts feasted upon my flesh, I waited … not for my brothers to come, but for the eventual end.”
The angel’s ignorance was maddening, and it took everything that Aaron had to hold it
Similar Books
