Mine Eyes Have Seen The Glory . .. .

Sci fi/Fantasy image by

Christina Stayton

They say to make a wish upon a falling star. It is a corruption from a time, long, long ago, when the falling stars were not mere chunks of iron and ice. Even after the Fall, angels continued to plummet from Heaven to Hell. But some stopped over on Earth. A falling star could be a falling angel, a pristine work of beauty, a certain death sentence for all who saw it. You wished it would not land near you. You wished a quiet night and a peaceful end to those unfortunates in its way. Of course, not every angel who fell was pure evil. And there were few, so very few, who should not have fallen at all. She was one such. Two fiery bolides came from heaven, twisting about one another, almost dancing. I saw the whole thing, out walking, running really. I should not have tarried on that path, but I caught a glimpse of her wings, and that was enough. I watched, and saw the whole thing. She had no weapon; he had a glowing sword, that struck sparks from the air with each swing. They were both beautiful, both frightening in their unearthly perfection. For it was unearthly; for they were both angels. He swung and thrust, she dodged, circling the grass, trampling it down. I wished to shout, to do something, but it was one of those unbreakable, unshakable, unalterable scenes, that mere mortals cannot interfere with, dare not interfere with. So I could only watch, in perfect horror, in perfect fascination, as they battled, although it was not really a battle, and in the back of my mind I knew there could only be one outcome. Her eyes, when I could see them, were glowing white, impossible to make out, but I could sense her desperation, feel her determination. It radiated off of her, as if it were a visible glow. She dodged one more blow and then, in a gesture both profoundly poignant and profoundly horrifying, she swept off her glowing golden halo and held it in her hand, it somehow becoming substantial, real, mortal. It was inevitable, then that she warded off the next blow of his sword with it, breaking a piece off. The piece of metal hummed toward me, but vanished like mist before it had made it even four feet. The next blow never landed as she darted forward, moving almost faster than my eye could follow, and thrust the broken end of her halo into his chest. There was a moment, an infinite moment, of utter silence, as his blood, red as any mortals, oozed down it and across her hand. Then red light poured off him, out of him, streaming into the sky, staining it red, and he disappeared along with it, his sword dropping to the ground, merely steel. She collapsed, holding the broken, bloody halo limply, her hand stained with red. And she raised her head to look at me. Why, God, why, did she look at me? I will carry that sight until the end of my days, until I can finally rest. For no mortal can look into an angel’s eyes and remain mortal. Mine eyes have seen the glory. (Written by Nathan 'Daetrin' Fierro, as part of an art/writing trade. He's a great writer, go see his stuff at http://elfwood.lysator.liu.se/libr/f/i/fierro2/fierro2.html. )

Published More than a year ago

Category Mythology

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