Dear god,
They sent angels to dive-bomb us again, saying prayers as they whistled through the air. I saw from a distance, they splattered in a flurry of feathers, soaked with the red of dawn when they landed. In their embracing arms they took some to hell with them. When the Heroes came there was no light that followed.
They said, you will be safe.
They spoke of angels and I could only be reminded of the ones that come for us. Dread curdled what hours of sleep mustered, set into my bones with the first-born ache of my home. During soot-cloud hours, the angels raged against one another on promised land, brilliant and pure in will. What did I look like, so covered in dust and ash and powder, baptized by the light of their fervor.
They said, the battle is won.
The angels had gone, retracted with white–teethed smiles–badges of honor–or dragged under, fallen. I surveyed the land, all that was left, all that dared not breathe lest it brought those hungry beings back. There were no more souls to take, but here was revealed the rift to hell: cracked and splintered and seething. For a moment I saw them beckon my soul.
I ran before they could take me.
Father, forgive me.
-Mien
Wordsmith, ...Et Cetera 