The Angels

The clear-cut leaves form a low roof for my private wanderings, sheltering me from both the relentless sun and the harsh reality that I try to avoid. There really was no reason for me to come here, but it draws me unto itself. Compulsion is strong, and my curious nature makes tactical retreat impossible, so I grimace and doggedly continue on my way. The leaves decide to let me have some privacy, so they stay behind as I walk onto a clean, well-kept lawn with a lake in the middle. It looks so peaceful, but this is where it happened, so long ago. I sink to my knees and cover my face with my hands, seeing it as it was. Two beautiful angels, wings torn, graceful movements turned to awkward dances of agony. The lake’s shores were covered in angel blood, angel tears. The horrible demon-ridden warrior standing over them, the great sword dripping liquid rubies onto the grass, the sand. I lift my head from my hands, defiance and pride overcoming the painful memory. At that point in time, I had come in to view. I was the Guardian, defender of the tortured souls. The battle had been long, too long, but I had defeated him in the end. Time, though, I had used lavishly, when there was none to be had. The angels had died during the battle. They now rested peacefully, side by side, on the far end of the lake, their graves decorated with a blank stone, for as hard as I looked, I could not find any mention of two angels of their description. I sigh, and stand; this is no place for me. I turn…and fall out of my desk, all eyes now on me. I stare back, not believing that it had merely been a classroom dream. There is a white feather on my desk.