Crash

I haven’t the first idea how to begin.

Since I was created, since I was first beginning to learn the shape of our Father’s universe, I have known that we are in the midst of war.  Light versus darkness, good versus evil, and that the battles would go on until the end of time.  I have always known this—my very existence has been defined by the Long Fight.  And yet I think I never realized the true gruesome nature of the war.  The ending is assured, and we know that we are on the winning side, so why fear?

I am afraid now.  I have felt the fear and the senselessness of this terrible fight, and I have been touched by the cold fingers of the other side.  Make no mistake, brothers and sisters—our Enemy is real, and he is powerful, and while he is certain to be defeated someday, he will claim many of our Father’s children before that happens.  This truly is war, and there will be horrors before the peace comes.

Shannon is dead.

I wanted to phrase that gently, but there is no way to do it.  There is nothing gentle in what has happened.  There is only pain and fear and grief, as sharp as knives—

Brid is worried about me.  She thinks that I should wait a bit longer before I try to write this.  But I cannot keep pushing Shannon out of my thoughts.  All I can do now for her—truly, there is nothing else—is to remember her.

A confession, then: I was not strictly following the restraints placed on me by my seniors.  When they removed me from Shannon’s case, I was ordered not to go to see her, not to waste my precious time looking after her.  Well, I did not go to see her, but still much of my time was spent in worrying about her.  Ever since Brid and Inca shared their news about her, I have been working through other angels to keep an eye on Shannon.  Heyele and Bayaer have been true blessings to me, and I am grateful for their assistance.  It is not their fault that it was all in vain.

From them I learned that Shannon has recently been in a rather toxic relationship with a man named Van.  I did not need to see their interactions to know how bad this relationship is—or rather, was—for her soul.  They were not at all in the same stage of life: Van was struggling to keep a job, living off the charity of others—he has been sleeping on Shannon’s sofa for some time.  I think that the only reason Shannon had any affection for him at all was because his adoration of her fed her pride.

I am trying not to hate him.  I do have pity for him—he, too, lost his life far too soon, and is sinking down into the shadow even now.  But there is a part of me that cannot help but blame him for Shannon’s death.  It is unfair, I know.  Shannon made her choices, including the one that killed them both.

Such a small, silly thing!  They’d gone out for drinks, and they had stayed a bit longer at the bar than they had intended.  Both of them were hardly able to walk straight when they left.  Still, Shannon decided that she was all right to drive.

I don’t know how I knew that there was danger.  It wasn’t like the sense that I have developed as a Cupid, which connects me to my charges’ emotions.  That is subjective, vague, and unreliable.  This, however—it was as if there was a compass inside me, and suddenly something drew the needle away from true north.  It was so powerful, I could do nothing but go in that new direction.

I arrived just as Shannon was climbing into the driver’s seat.  I felt one instant of guilt that I had broken my restraints, and another instant of shock that it was Shannon who had drawn me here.

Then the love crashed down on me.

She was so beautiful!  Even darkened, there was such strength and courage in her spirit.  I saw in a breath all of the most wonderful things that took me so long to discover in her.  And the force of her life nearly knocked me to the ground.  She had so much promise and potential—so much to live for.

And as she started the engine, it was as if she were throwing that away.

“Shannon.  Stop this now.”

I hardly recognized my own voice, it was so fierce and deep.  Shannon looked around, as if she had actually heard me, and her aura flickered with surprise—and fear.

It hurt that she was afraid of me, but it only makes sense.  It has been a long time, and I always spoke to her much differently.

I softened my voice.  “This is not worth your life.  Please, just call a taxi.”

Her heartbeat quickened—she recognized me, I know it.  And if she had half a chance, she might have listened to me.

“What’s wrong?” Van demanded, leaning across the car to put his beery face next to hers.  “Changing your mind?”  There was challenge in his voice—as if it is a sign of courage to risk one’s life!

But it was enough.  Shannon’s chin came up, and she put the car into gear.  “Shut up,” she said, and she pulled out into the street.

I did whatever I could to try and persuade her to stop—washing her with guilt and fear, reminding her of her parents, even trying to increase her nausea.  Nothing mattered.  After that first vulnerable moment, when the surprise of hearing my voice again opened a window into her soul, the barriers she built against me returned, stronger than ever.

I did not give up.  I stayed with her, steadying her hands and sharpening her eyes.  It was enough, almost, and if I had been allowed to do so, I would have gotten her home safely.

We were less than five miles from Shannon’s apartment when I felt it—a feeling like razor-sharp wind cutting deep into my heart.  I felt as if ice were growing in my chest, and for a moment I could not move or speak.

And in that moment, the wheel twitched under Shannon’s hands, and she grabbed at it in surprise and wrenched it sideways.  The car lurched across the road, narrowly avoiding another car going in the other direction.  To the music of angry horns, it went tumbling into a ditch, turning over twice before thumping to a stop on its side.

I stood there on the edge of the road, weak with terror and grief.  The cold was gone as quickly as it had come, but still I cried out the names I should have called an instant before—for Orison, or Eburnean, or Inca, or Zaman, or Brid.  I couldn’t think—I only wanted someone, anyone, to help me.

And they came, all of them.  Orison was there half a heartbeat after the crash stopped echoing along the road, black wings at my back.  Brid arrived half a heartbeat later and threw arms and wings around me, already weeping.  Eburnean and Inca took positions on either side of me, watchful and despairing, and Zaman went down to the wreck, only to draw back and shake his head.  There were others—Danit and Zezette, saying words I did not hear, Kuya and Jariel and Sabasa and Bayaer and Heyele and Adiola…  So many of my friends, none of them with the power to make any difference.

As the sirens began to howl, Zaman came back up to the road, flanked on either side by angels with tranquil faces.  One of them I recognized, and I started forward out of the protection offered by Orison and the other Guardians.  “Haizea, please,” I begged.

She stopped and held out one hand.  The other was pressed against her chest, but through her fingers I could see a flickering light.  “Gently, brother,” she said.  “I know that you grieve, but—”

“Just let me say goodbye,” I pleaded, the words tearing out of me.  “Or that—that I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry—”

“This is not your fault, younger brother,” Orison said sternly.  “You did everything and more that could be expected of you.”

I did not believe it then, and I do not believe it now.  Surely something—greater vigilance, or a refusal to accept my dismissal—could have saved her.

I watched the light of Shannon’s soul playing against Haizea’s chest.  It seemed to me that I could feel Shannon’s confusion and fear.  Zezette has said that this is impossible—that all connection I had with her would have been broken in the moment of her death.  But I still think that she was reaching for me, that she had recognized me and was trying to get to me, to anyone who might want to help her.

But I could not.  In life she was mine to guide and protect, but once that life ended, she was out of my reach forever.

“At least tell me where you are taking her,” I whispered, unable to take my eyes from that trembling light.

Haizea said nothing, as I had known she would.  But I knew the answer anyway.  I know where Shannon is now, and it breaks my heart.

“I am sorry,” I said, hoping that somehow she could hear me.  “I should have done better for you.  I should have never let you go.”

“Don’t, don’t do this to yourself,” Brid begged me.  “You loved her as much as any of us could, Asa’el—”

“Enough,” Haizea said, with a sharpness that startled us all.  “If you would save him, Healer, take him back to heaven where he may grieve in peace.”  And before another word could be said, she and her brother spread their wings and were gone—and so was Shannon.

Gone.  She is gone.

I have been over it a hundred times in the past days.  I have discussed it with Brid, with Inca, with Zezette and my seniors, with Orison and Eburnean.  I know that Shannon did not die in an accident—she was taken by one of the Fallen.  I know also that she gave the Enemy the opportunity he needed to seize her.  I know that she is now one of them, that in the shadow her pride and despair will be honed into weapons that she can use against us.

I know that someday she will join the Long Fight on the wrong side, and that sooner or much, much later, one of the righteous will cut her down and end her misery.

I know that I should wish for that day, for it is the only way she can be freed now.  But the thought only brings me more grief.  When I think of what she was—what she could have been!  And every one of the Fallen was once like her, once loved.

I think I finally know some of what the Father feels when he looks on his enemies.  I do not blame him for letting the fight be a long one, for how can one kill what one loves?

I did love her.  I do still.  I only wish that it had been enough.