Sword of the Gods: The Chosen One (64 page)

With the sight granted
to her by the goddess, her purpose for sending Mikhail here to reside amongst
her people was becoming clear.  The words of the Song of the Sword came into
her mind, the meaning of one particular verse so palpable it felt as though the
goddess herself was singing the words.

'A sword of the
gods to defend the people, and raise armies from the dust…'

“He had help, Papa,”
she gestured to the warriors and archers who had helped win the battle. 
“Mikhail has done this before.  We haven't.  If he hadn't been here, we would
have lost.  You need to go to the Chief first thing in the morning and demand
he order
all
warriors be trained to fight like that.  Male or female. 
Young or old.”

“Like Mikhail?”

“Yes,” she felt the
thread that energized her whenever she was given a vision by the goddess. 
“She-who-is sent him to prepare us.  The demons that are coming will be a lot
worse than these Halifians.  Mikhail must prepare us to battle not just men,
but demons, because he won't always be here to defend us.”

“But you and he are
about to be wed,” Papa said.

“And so we shall,”
Ninsianna said.  “But when the darkest one of all arrives, Mikhail won't be
here to defend us.  She-who-is has shown me this will be so.”

“But Mikhail loves
you,” Papa said.  “Why would he not protect you?”

“I don't know why, but
he won’t,” Ninsianna said.  “He is a soldier.  Perhaps he'll be ordered to
leave to battle an even bigger demon by this emperor he serves?  But She-who-is
has shown me that we must learn to defeat the demons
ourselves
.”

“I'll speak to the
Chief,” Papa said.  “I sent Kiana to get your mother so she can help our
wounded.  Go to Mikhail as soon as he lands.  I saw arrows sticking out of his
wing.”

“Yes, Papa.” 
Ninsianna’s heart leaped to her throat, but she forced herself to be calm. 
“I'll find him and bring him home.”

* * * * *

She found him perched
on the roof of her parent's home, crouched in the same leopard-like pose he'd
assumed that night at the ship.  The unearthly ice-blue glow still gleamed in
his eyes as he watched her, muttering in the clicking Cherubim language.

With her gift of
tongues, Ninsianna now understood the prayers he uttered in the clicking
language, begging forgiveness from She-who-is for the lives he'd been forced to
reap.  Asking
HER
to guide the souls of his enemies into the dreamtime. 
Although he killed with frightening efficiency, his gift weighed heavily upon
him.  The fact that the Cherubim had instilled in him as part of his training
mantras dealing with the aftermath of battle indicated that they, too, must be
moral creatures.

“I will go inside to
get supplies to dress your wounds,” Ninsianna said. 

Mikhail made eye
contact, his eyes glittering with that internal blue light that she assumed
must be every bit as eerie as others now described the golden light that burned
in her eyes whenever She-who-is decided to speak through her as a mortal
vessel.  It was an emotionless gaze, but it was not a cruel or inhuman one once
you understood what was happening to him.  Mikhail gave her a nod.

Ninsianna forced
herself to give him a small smile before stepping inside the front door of their
house.  The moment she was inside, her false sense of bravado shattered. 
Time.  He needed time to go through whatever process these Cherubim had
instilled in him to come down off of his blood lust and return to being
Mikhail.  She gathered her supplies, lit a lamp, and took a calming breath
before going back outside.

“I'm ready for you
now,” Ninsianna said.  She instinctively knew it would be easier to reach that
part of him that was still Mikhail in the Cherubim tongue, perhaps because that
was the language of the masters who had turned him into a weapon.  “You must
come inside because it's too dark out here for me to see.”

Still muttering
prayers for forgiveness, he spread his wings and glided down like a dark
shroud, nary a rustle of a feather as he folded his wings against his back,
oblivious to his own pain.  His eyes were turned inward, in towards whatever
deity he prayed to who was neither this emperor he served, nor She-who-is.  He
didn't make eye contact, although she sensed he was more aware of her presence
now
than any time since he'd known her.  The energy was still Mikhail … but
whatever source of power he drew upon, it was
not
the energy of
She-who-is.

“Inside with you,” she
feigned normalcy.  “At the table.  Near the light.  So I can patch you up.”

He ambled inside and
sat upon the nearest stool.  By the eerie blue glint in his eyes, he was not
fully back yet from wherever he went when he entered the killing dance, but she
could see the beginnings of emotion.  The blue light her goddess-enhanced eyes
had seen stream forth like a sunrise during battle waivered, whatever source he
channeled no longer needed in the safety of their home.  She had no idea what
went on in the larger universe, but if this was how the Cherubim defended the
Eternal Emperor, she could see how he'd reigned supreme for thousands of years.

“I must look at this
shoulder wound first," she touched above a dark stain in his shirt. 
"This is dangerously close to where you were wounded before.  I may need
to put a few stitches in so it doesn't keep opening up.”

She watched the cold
lack-of-emotion loosen its hold as the adrenaline left his body.  Touching his
shirt, she slipped the neckline far enough aside to confirm the wound was from
an arrow which he'd torn out.  This was the second time he could have been
killed by an object that landed dangerously close to his heart!

“You need to have to
take this off so I can get at it,” she tugged at his shirt.  “Let me help you?”

His lips moved
silently in prayer, praying for the men he'd killed instead of prayers to ease
his own pain.  He sat passively as she undid the strange fasteners and slipped
off his shirt.  She quashed a curse as she realized the arrowhead had broken
off and imbedded itself into the major pectoral muscle, but thankfully it had
not pierced his rib cage.  It would be less painful if she removed it now,
while he was still under the spell of whatever he did to become an instrument
of
HER
will, than later, when he would feel every awkward dig.

“I need to dig this
out,” she touched his cheek.  “Are you ready?”

Eye contact.  The
eerie glimmer was still there, but fading.  The flowing blue spirit-light had
settled inward, no longer visible to her goddess-enhanced eyes except for the
glimmer of blue still glittering in his eyes.  His prayers had changed, only
the occasional word audible.  He prayed now for the wisdom to use his gift
wisely.  She must work quickly, while the coldness of the blue light still
shielded his ability to feel.  It occurred to her that training warriors not
only to kill, but also to dull their own pain, was masterful.  These Cherubim
must not only be formidable warriors, but also powerful shamans.

“This will hurt,"
she gave him an apologetic smile.  "I'm sorry?”

She dug out the flint
as though digging a tuber out of the ground.  He exhaled and breathed into the
pain.  She could feel his muscles quiver beneath her touch, but his expression
was otherwise blank.  The arrowhead made a sucking sound as she pulled it from
his flesh.  His prayers stopped and started, no longer automatic as he fought
to stay on the threshold of the killing dance long enough for her to finish.

“Souvenir,” she placed
it on the table.  “Now I'll stitch you up.  This will hurt, too, but hopefully
not as much.”

Her obsidian blade had
done nearly as much damage as the arrow itself.  Gently touching the old scar
beneath the new wound, she suppressed the urge to kiss him.  He was not fully
back yet.  Allowing him to linger in that cold mental place he went after
battle instead of hastening his ability to feel would spare him a small amount
of the pain she inflicted upon him.  Threading her bone needle with horse hair
thread, she punctured thirty stitches into his pectoris major where it spanned
his shoulder and chest.

“I must pull the arrows
out of your wings,” she said.  “The arrowheads have shot through.  If I pull
off the fletching, I can pull the shafts the rest of the way through your wings
without needing to tear the arrowhead back through your flesh.”

She knew he was back
by the way he flinched under her touch.  The Cherubim had taught him to
suppress pain, but as the coldness wore off, so did his ability to ignore it. 
He closed his eyes and slowly exhaled as she pulled through first one arrow,
and then the other.  He didn't utter a single syllable of pain, but by the
tremble of feathers beneath her fingertips, the coldness of the killing dance
no longer protected him from
feeling
what she was doing to him. 

Even when
not
in a meditative killing dance, he had the highest pain tolerance of any person
she'd ever met.  Plucking out enough feathers to get at the two wounds with her
needle, she sewed those up as well.  Examining him to see if he had any wounds
she'd missed, at last she was satisfied.

“Mikhail,” she placed
the palm of her hand upon his cheek.  “My parents will be bringing wounded here
to treat.  You will get no sleep down here in the common area.  I want you to
sleep in
my
bed tonight.”

He nodded, his eyes
filled with the pain he refused to show on his face.  The prayers had stopped. 
He was back.  With a sigh, he pulled her into his arms and buried his nose into
her neck, only the subtle tremors of his muscles beneath his flesh betraying
the emotion he'd been suppressing.

"Ninsianna,"
he whispered her name.  He sounded … weary.

“Come,” she led him up
to her tiny room.  “Let’s sleep.”

He curled up behind
her as they spooned together in her narrow bed, holding each other as they fell
asleep.  There was nothing sexual about their first night together.  Just two
creatures seeking comfort in the arms of the person they loved.  Ninsianna
sensed as she had that first day on the ship that what he needed more than
anything in the world was for her to touch him and let him know that he was
loved.  Touch would succeed where words failed. 

Snuggling her head
into his arm and whispering goodnight, she felt him shiver as he wrapped his
arms and wings around her and drew her close. 

~ * ~ * ~
* ~ * ~

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.07

Haven-4:  Youth Training Academy

Colonel Raphael Israfa

Raphael

Jophiel had fallen
asleep, her head resting upon his shoulder.  Was it just wishful thinking?  Or
did Uriel's breathing seem a little easier? 

The room suddenly
smelled of ozone, as though they were in a forest and a thunderstorm had just
passed, scrubbing clean the air.  The dust sparkled in one corner of the room
even though Raphael could detect no source of light that would cause the
strange phenomenon.  It took a moment for his mind to recognize what he was
seeing, an ascended consciousness coalescing into physical form.  Unfurling the
golden wing which kept his mate and son cocooned from the world, he witnessed
the Eternal Emperor materialize inside the isolation chamber.

“Your eminence,”
Raphael tried to extricate himself from Jophie and the baby without waking
them.

“Please,” the Emperor
gestured, palms-down.  “Don't get up.  As you were.”

Although the Emperor
had the ability to assume any physical form he wished, his favored appearance
was that of an elderly, white-haired man wearing a simple white robe, its only
ornamentation being a golden belt tied haphazardly around his waist as though
it were an afterthought. 

Raphael threw his
son’s life at the mercy of the old god. 

“Isn’t there anything
you can do for him?  Please.  He's just a baby!”

The Eternal Emperor
Hashem gave him a weary sigh.

“Contrary to popular
belief,” the Emperor said.  “I am neither omnipotent, nor omniscient.  If I had
the power to solve all problems, then problems wouldn't exist.”