Several weeks ago, I received a comment on this work that told me how prone I am to talk, rather than action. It is true—like many of my brethren, I spend my energy on thought and analysis, always so concerned that I understand what is happening. I have come to believe now that I have missed an opportunity, that I was so worried about seeing Pamela’s point of view that I have allowed her to be hurt.
No more. I have to act.
What changed my mind was a conversation with my good friend Brid, who is a Healer. Brid was telling me a story about her most recent assignment, a young woman who has been raped. Forgive my bluntness, but someday we will all be in the field against the Enemy—we cannot be afraid even to speak of the cruelties that happen in the battle. She was raped, then, and Brid was describing how the worst wounds inflicted on her were those that hurt her heart. The man who hurt her used her own feelings against her, manipulated her so that she felt she was to blame for everything she is now going through.
And all through the time that Brid was describing this, I was seeing Pamela and Rohan, falling together as they always have.
I am well aware that the Enemy uses our tools against us sometimes, but I had never seen it myself, and so I did not recognize it for what it was. Love, desire, hope—all can be destructive if misused. They will destroy one another if they are allowed to continue. And I cannot allow it.
I believe I surprised Brid when I left her abruptly, before she had even finished speaking. Brid, I apologize for my rudeness, but I know that you will understand when you read this. I went directly to the Garden, right where I was needed at Pamela’s side.
Pamela told Rohan that she had to think about what had happened, but I could see as soon as I returned to her that she was weakening. She spent nearly half an hour working on a message to him, filled with words of reconciliation and hope.
It was a struggle, but I managed to persuade her not to send the message. She went to sleep with a heavy heart. For the first time, however, I did not hesitate to lay further hurt on that heart. Brid has also told me that it is necessary sometimes to hurt someone in order to heal them. It is the way of the Earth, she says, that often one has to cut and break and make objective decisions in order to repair the body.
And I have decided that if the Enemy can use our tools against us, why can we not use his against him?
As Pamela slept, I spread my wings over her and spoke softly, reminding her of all of the times that Rohan has let her down. I spoke his words back to her, bringing up the message he sent that made her so angry before.
“He does not understand what you want,” I told her. “He sees you as he has always seen you: someone who needs him. And he likes that sometimes, but at other times you are a burden.”
I could see the anger building in her, even in her sleep. I drew her closer to me, draining away the passion and leaving only cold reason.
“If his head will not follow his heart—if he will not choose to love you—then you must cut him away,” I told her.
Her will struggled with me, remembering Rohan’s kindness, his understanding, his touch.
In response to this, I showed her how I had seen her submission to him—how Rohan silenced her with his kiss and used her desires as a shield between himself and her anger. He never meant to hurt her, but in his heart he had decided that she would be better off with him. It was a decision that aligned with his own wishes, but he never considered that hers might be different.
“If you will be with him, let it be by your choice,” I said to her. “Not his.”
Pamela woke then, the anger burning low but strong. It set her aura alight with a white heat, beautiful to behold. I know many of you have spoken of how anger taints the aura, how it is ugly, but that is not true when there is righteousness in the rage. Pamela gleamed like a star, calm and sure, and I have rarely seen something so terrible and beautiful.
Pamela went to her computer, where the message she had been composing still waited for her. She deleted it without a qualm and wrote a new one with quick strokes. I barely had time to read it before she sent it on its way.
Meet me tomorrow, noon, you know where. Time to talk.