War

The horizon looked as if it had been set on fire. He could barely lift his head. He had wounds criss-crossing  almost every inch of his skin and his sword laid next to him as if it had given up. His armor had been ripped apart and his chest had deep lacerations only a skilled physician could now mend. Yet all he could feel was a crippling shame overtaking his heart and debilitating his spirit. He closed his eyes and for the first time in thousands of years he felt tears falling down his cheeks. He could not move. He did not want to move. 

He was no longer immortal.

“Whatever you want to do with me now, ADONAI my GOD, will be okay with me” - he whispered.

      Sounds of battle persisted far away, but he was done. He prepared himself to cease to exist as he laid on the dirt and the last remnant of civilization fought against an enemy they seemed to have never understood - a thought he had found amusing countless of times before, until that same morning. He now knew he himself had misunderstood his own existence and it was now too late. He had wanted to make amends; he had promised so to Him. He had lived in darkness for far too long. He had murdered too many. He had stolen too much. He had rejoiced in the suffering of the innocent far too often. He was unforgivable and yet He had offered him grace. 

Why him? Why now? 

As tears continued to flow and his pulse slowly faded, he found himself pondering questions he could not recall ever having had before. Where does love come from? How deep can grief sink a soul? Is a soul really redeemable? Any soul? What is forgiveness? Why is the breath of God so sweet? He was drifting. His thoughts were running on fields of purple flowers and crisp, tall, green grass. The sky was now deep navy blue and he wanted to make his mind stop and contemplate the beauty of it all, but couldn’t. So many regrets, rushing to rise to the top of his delusion. He became aware of time - aware as a human would, knowing that immortality was now behind him. He felt sadness and it hurt more than any of his mortal wounds. For the first time he realized what he had done to others, how he had made so many feel, as he took their lives. He could not remember why he did it anymore. 

Ever since that one conversation that had happened a few hours before the moment that was now slipping through his fingers, he had found himself full of unanswered questions. He now felt he had an unfathomable void growing in his carcased soul, but he was a fallen angel, one of many and yet one of a kind, and now he had doubts he had no idea how to address. 

“What is your name?”, the Voice had asked at sunrise.

He hadn’t answered right away. He knew that voice. He knew the Voice knew his name. He didn’t know why he had been asked that question. He had awakened that morning on Earth with sunlight caressing his face. The night had been grueling. A dream had invaded his unconscious state and for the first time since he had been breathed into existence by the same being who now asked for his name, he was not ready for battle. He sat at the edge of the precipice overlooking the city he had been guarding for years, where his tent was set on high, and before he could gather his thoughts and think of what he had seen in the dream, the Voice repeated.

“What is your name?”

“You know my name”, he mustered, head bowed, eyes now closed.

He hadn’t heard that Voice in ages. He was surprised at his own surprise. He had figured if he ever heard that Voice again it would be during his appointed trial, which he knew had been scheduled many moons ago. A sudden thought crossed his mind. 

“No, this is not your trial '', the Voice said. There was a pause, a life altering pause. “I am pleased to see you still know when to bow down”. 

He opened his eyes, head still bowed. 

“I remember how quick to judge you are”, he dared to say to the Voice. ”Only these simpleton humans you created know nothing about your wrath”.

“What you call simpleton, I call lost”.

“You made me. My heart is your doing”.

“Your heart is mine because I made you. Your actions however are yours”.

He lifted his head.

“Why are you here? Don’t you have bigger and better fish to catch?”

“I am always here. I have always been here”. 

There was silence again, the kind of silence he knew preceded something big, something unchangeable, something inevitable, and eternal. 

“What is your name?”, the Voice repeated again.

He took a deep breath and stood up slowly. As sunbeams touched his dark, purple irises, he looked up, where he knew the Voice was coming from. He answered with a loud, thundering voice. 

“My name is War!” -

"My name is War" © Excerpt from Chapter 1.