Page 115 of Close Quarter
He eyed the stranger. No accent. Clean and oddly elegant features. He wore jeans and a white button-down, shirttails out. Red high-top sneakers.
Rhys stared at the shoes for a moment. Then he eyed the man again.
"Strike him down."
Rhys took a step forward.
"Put the sword down." Same booming voice, though the man did not shout.
"Make me."
The stranger smiled beatifically, but what appeared around him was as monstrous as it was beautiful. Wings tipped with gold and scarlet and swords of light encompassed the height of the garden and beyond. Lidless and large eyes-- countless numbers of them scattered throughout the wings--all turned to look at him.
"Rhys," the angel said. "Put down the sword."
He did, then stumbled backward and to his knees under the angel's gaze.
Minutes passed. Or maybe millennia. It was hard to tell because Rhys watched as galaxies were born, lived, and died in those eyes.
Beauty. Death. If he could have crawled under a rock and hidden, he would have.
"My name is Nathaniel." The man walked forward, and the image of the angel's true form vanished. "You need not fear me, Rhys."
"But you... I..." He had thought to slay angels. The truth pinned him to the ground. Stole his breath and left nothing behind but shame.
"A thought is not an action." He touched Rhys on the head, as if in benediction, and the weight of his guilt cracked and frayed. "You were not entirely in control of yourself, and were also half- mad with grief. You are forgiven. We are not capricious beings, Rhys."
Good thing. Because he really ought to be dead right now. But breath came once more.
Another smile graced Nathaniel's lips, and movement returned to Rhys.
The angel walked to the black sword. "Do you know what this is?"
"A trapped soul."
Nathaniel picked up the blade. "Most blades like this contain the soul of one of the Fallen.
They're meant to destroy my kind."
The guilt Rhys expected with those words did not come. "But not this one."
"No." He pushed it into--not the Aether, for the glimpse Rhys saw was as blinding a light as the Aether was dark.
"She was--" Rhys choked on the words, cleared his throat, and tried again. "She was Anaxandros's Quarter."
Nathaniel nodded, his expression grim. Or sad. "He chose a path that cut them both off from the living."
"What will happen to her?" The whisper of the sword had been as dark as Anaxandros.
"She is free, and her soul can rest." The angel seemed to read his thoughts. "Her recompense has been paid out over many millennia, Rhys. As I said before, we are not capricious."
"Silas is dead," he blurted out. "He did what you asked, but he's dead."
"No."
Rhys finally found the strength to stand, but that single word sank him to his knees again. "He's alive?"
"No." Nathaniel held up a hand. "He walks between the two even now, pondering which choice, which path to take."
