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PSL for Carrie--
It's been years that Aniel, angel of the Lord and guardian of troubled souls, has watched Carrie White. He doesn't often let her see him--he out of everyone would greatly like her to retain her eyeballs and her sanity--but his tendency to leave notes tied to downy preened feathers means he is rarely out of communication with the girl. He's watched her grow from a precocious and precious child into a stunning and powerful young woman, still fighting the stranglehold her mother has on her faith.
She gives him hope that human resiliency isn't dead. Yet.
And so it is when she comes home changed, when he can smell the blood on her and the shame radiating out like tongues of fire, that he appears to her for the first time in years. His mortal body looks young, exotic face just eye-catching enough to make sure she won't mistake him for a stranger, hair loose about his neck and face and his wings seared into the skin of his back and shoulders and arms like a scarred tattoo. It's why he always wears long-sleeved shirts, not that Ani thinks she's noticed such a thing in the handful of times he's appeared visually to Carrie since early childhood. Since the age when memory would be retained into adulthood.
"What troubles you so, my child?"
She gives him hope that human resiliency isn't dead. Yet.
And so it is when she comes home changed, when he can smell the blood on her and the shame radiating out like tongues of fire, that he appears to her for the first time in years. His mortal body looks young, exotic face just eye-catching enough to make sure she won't mistake him for a stranger, hair loose about his neck and face and his wings seared into the skin of his back and shoulders and arms like a scarred tattoo. It's why he always wears long-sleeved shirts, not that Ani thinks she's noticed such a thing in the handful of times he's appeared visually to Carrie since early childhood. Since the age when memory would be retained into adulthood.
"What troubles you so, my child?"
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Ani moves on silent feet, careful as he sits beside her, wordless for a moment. "You lack nothing, child, and you have not sinned. This is how the Creator made you, and this is holy," he murmurs, slowly extending a hand to press against her belly, making no effort to shift her clothing or his. Merely to ease pain, one of the peripheral gifts of his status, diminished as that is currently; the gentle wave of heat will relax the muscles. "It is merely what happens to every woman when she begins to come of age."