When I knew Him?
I suppose it's arrogant to impose someone's beliefs onto someone else, to put them on the spot in a situation they are unaware could happen. I didn't mean to do it, really.
I met Him after a battle- he had the resources to help me, and I had the energy to help Him. At the celebration that night, We were celebrated as heroes, complete with pretty girls and flowers and all the food we could eat. I love nights like that, when I get to sit down and eat a meal and just be me. But I was Hero-me, and not the me I am when I'm alone.
It's strange- I believe in angels, you see. Everyone describes him as an angel, even the people who hate him, and those who do are few and far between. Some are bitter, some are jealous, but next to no one truly hates him. But in all things, he is the most angelic looking of the five of us.
Justice. Death. The Hero of the Day. The clown. And the Angel. We all had our titles, pet names the press would call us, or use as adjectives on the news. It was amazing how much venom and how much love can be expressed in one word. Someone will say Justice and it rings like some clear-voiced soul singing Amazing Grace near a lake in the mountains. Another will say justice, and it will be full of the pain and hurt and hypocrisy they all deal with and deal out. The same with all the rest of our titles.
I remember that night, where celebration was the only sound, although so many sounds made up a celebration it's hard to just put one to one. He was sleeping, and I couldn't share the tent- I needed to walk around, explore where I was. Add a little bit to the mental map I carry around. I remember looking back, through the thin walls of the tent that seemed to keep the temperature so right, and the careful glow of my lamp made it look like he truly had a halo. I smiled and kept walking for a while.
God. Allah. All the names, all the faces of a diety so powerful as to create everything, and have a reason for it, even if it is something like "I made a butterfly because the sky needs color." Catholics, they have God, and saints, and the Devil, and angels. I always wanted to ask if there were Muslim angels. I don't think I'll ever get a chance.
All I know is, if there are, he's one of them. I miss him. His men, their families- they wear grey now, because a prince has passed. So now, in a moment of what might be grace, I remove the collar from my neck, and bow low in the sand and dirt where that tent was, saying one of my prayers in his language. I miss the angel.
I suppose it's arrogant to impose someone's beliefs onto someone else, to put them on the spot in a situation they are unaware could happen. I didn't mean to do it, really.
I met Him after a battle- he had the resources to help me, and I had the energy to help Him. At the celebration that night, We were celebrated as heroes, complete with pretty girls and flowers and all the food we could eat. I love nights like that, when I get to sit down and eat a meal and just be me. But I was Hero-me, and not the me I am when I'm alone.
It's strange- I believe in angels, you see. Everyone describes him as an angel, even the people who hate him, and those who do are few and far between. Some are bitter, some are jealous, but next to no one truly hates him. But in all things, he is the most angelic looking of the five of us.
Justice. Death. The Hero of the Day. The clown. And the Angel. We all had our titles, pet names the press would call us, or use as adjectives on the news. It was amazing how much venom and how much love can be expressed in one word. Someone will say Justice and it rings like some clear-voiced soul singing Amazing Grace near a lake in the mountains. Another will say justice, and it will be full of the pain and hurt and hypocrisy they all deal with and deal out. The same with all the rest of our titles.
I remember that night, where celebration was the only sound, although so many sounds made up a celebration it's hard to just put one to one. He was sleeping, and I couldn't share the tent- I needed to walk around, explore where I was. Add a little bit to the mental map I carry around. I remember looking back, through the thin walls of the tent that seemed to keep the temperature so right, and the careful glow of my lamp made it look like he truly had a halo. I smiled and kept walking for a while.
God. Allah. All the names, all the faces of a diety so powerful as to create everything, and have a reason for it, even if it is something like "I made a butterfly because the sky needs color." Catholics, they have God, and saints, and the Devil, and angels. I always wanted to ask if there were Muslim angels. I don't think I'll ever get a chance.
All I know is, if there are, he's one of them. I miss him. His men, their families- they wear grey now, because a prince has passed. So now, in a moment of what might be grace, I remove the collar from my neck, and bow low in the sand and dirt where that tent was, saying one of my prayers in his language. I miss the angel.