Undone by a Broken Angel

13.) Paul

“My soul is bereft of peace; I have forgotten what happiness is;”

-Lamentations 3:17

Paul doesn’t know where he is.  His body aches as he walks through the thick forest, but he’s not sure what forest-in the Ukraine, probably.  The thicket of trees he walks through frequently open up to rolling hills and lush, green pastures.  The homes are nothing but stone squares and grass roofs, and he gazes at them.  Inside them, a family lives, and even though they don’t have the luxuries life offers, he likes the simplicity.  He would be flying, if not for his elderly joints.  It’s hard to stay in the sky these days, but even walking is difficult.  He injured his knee during a battle in his youth and it has been a problem ever since.

He wants rest.  He wants rest from this constant searching.  He wants rest from the long hike he’s been on for the last decade and a half.  He wants rest from his grief.  He wants rest from...life.  It was a shock to him when the thought originally hit him over a year ago, but since no one has seen or heard of a woman with wings anywhere on this continent, he lost hope of ever feeling whole again.

Luckily, as he follows the road out of the forest, he comes across an inn.  Perfect!  He can stay here for the night and start fresh in the morning.  He’s getting too old for all this chasing, he thinks.  He wants to retire and go join Nathanael in Eden.

Paul limps his way inside and settles down at a long table, sighing with the relief of his weight coming off his knee.  The inn is simple, but warm.  There’s a large fire going in the hearth and he can see the structure’s frame posts through the plaster.  There looks to be another floor as there is a set of stairs across from the entryway.  He notices flowers on the tables, fresh picked that morning, it looks like, and it gives the room a homey touch.  The bench he sits on groans under his weight.

A woman comes over to him and sets down a pint of ale. “Welcome,” She greets.  “Can I get you anything from the kitchens?”

He smiles at her and sees that she’s dressed in the Ukrainian traditional clothing.  She’s in a red skirt, and loose white shirt with a square top, trimmed in red embroidery.  There is a green scarf tied about her waist and her blond hair is tied back in double Dutch braids.  Her returning smile is friendly and bright.  Looking at her, he wonders if this is what his daughter could have looked like.

“Anything warm,” he answers, looking down into his pint.

It’s not fair.  He fought so hard for his people, for his life, to return home.  He just wanted to be reunited with his family.  His wife’s face, so vivid in his memory, gave him a look of sorrow as he left her, as if she knew they’d never see each other again.  She was pregnant at the time, barely two months along.  They decided to keep it a secret when he left since she had miscarried her pregnancies before, but he heard that she had given birth to a girl and he was trying to return to them.

“I have some borscht over the fire if that suits your fancy,” she says sweetly.

He grunts.  Of course she does.  The corner of his mouth pulls up in a smirk.  There has been borscht at every inn he’s been to so far, but every time he has it, he’s surprised at how good it tastes.  He walks off to grab a bowl for him and he watches her leave.  She’s about the same age as his daughter would be.  Would she be as sweet?  Would she have been able to slip by the reaper’s searches and save their species?  He’s not sure, but his grief tightens in his chest and it has him doubled over his pint.  It’s not fair that he should suffer the loss of his family while these humans, so insignificant in the grand scheme of things, live their daily lives without a care in the world.

He drinks his pint of ale fast, feeling his dehydration in his bones.  It’s a good thing he stumbled upon this place when he did; he had run out of water in his canteen around noon.  When he comes back up for air, his head spins from the alcohol.  Then he’s sad that his drink is drained.

Another family comes back at that time, and they sit down a few tables over, their laughter and banter darkening his mood.

Why is everyone else happy but him?  Why isn’t he allowed a reprieve from all this suffering?

The young woman places the bowl in front of him, a loaf of bread accompanying it.  “Need a refill?” she wonders.

He nods, trying to hold back tears.

“Something bothering you, Sweetie?” she wonders, pouring more ale into his mug.

Shouldn’t he be the one calling her sweetie?  “Just an old man remembering things better left forgotten,” he tells her with a reassuring smile.

“Wanna talk about it?”  She sets the mug down and she leans on the table with her open hand, her hip jutting out.

“I’d rather you help your other customers,” he tells her with a pat to her hand.  “But I will need a room for the night, if you don’t mind.”

She nods, but her expression doesn't look reassured.  He chugs his mug empty again, slams it down in frustration, and then takes a few bites of his food.  The borscht is good, but the bread is better.  He chews on it and savers the spring of the crust and the sponginess of the middle.  He takes his time eating and the waitress comes over five more times to fill his cup.  By the time he was finished, it was pitch black out and he was drunk.

The family that had come in shoot him worried looks, talk amongst themselves, and then giggle, the sound barely audible over the sobs that rock him.  It angers him that they would mock him, that they would judge his weakness.  Normally he would give them a stern look and a Proverb verse to ponder over, but his vision is too blurry and his mind too muddled to think of anything.

He hasn’t had a good cry in a long time.  It would usually embarrass him to cry so openly in front of people, but he’s drunk and these people don’t know him.  He feels a soft, warm hand fall on his back and he freezes in shock, his breath trapped in his lungs.  “Let’s get you to bed,” the waitress says.

How is she going to get him to bed?  Why would he let her?  He holds his position, fighting against her pushing and pulling.

“Leave me to grief,” he snaps. 

“You can grieve all you want in your bed.  You’re making a scene here,” she snaps back.

Of course he is!  Why should he care?  Isn’t he entitled to make a scene as a paying customer?

But somehow she’s able to get him on his feet and moving towards his room.  It occurs to him that he shouldn't be letting her touch his back, but every time he tries to shy away from her touch, he loses his balance and almost falls over.

“Would you stay still?” she pleads and he giggles.  His wife used to scold him like this the few times he got drunk.  She’d look at him with those golden eyes of hers and squint them disapprovingly.  Eventually he felt guilty and gave in to her wagging finger.  He’d do anything for her- the more he stayed in her good graces, the more she accepted him into her bed and he really liked being in her bed.

His poor family, not knowing what it’s like to know the loves of a woman, the sounds they make, the curves of their bodies, the softness of their skin.  There’s no way he could forget how he felt inside his wife.  The weight of his grief weighs heavier on him.

By the time they make it to his room, he thinks he’s young again and his wife is helping him in bed, but the sad reality occurs to him when he smells her.  The smell is wrong.  His wife never smelt like borscht.  She smelt like the temple, of burning incense and jungle flowers.

His body hits the bed and he falls asleep, the blankets hugging him in a warm embrace.

The sun is blinding when it streams in the next morning.  His head pounds and his mouth tastes like a sandbox.  He finds a glass of water at his bedside table and downs it, the refreshing coolness of it removing his thirst.

Time to get moving.

In the dining room, he finds the waitress from the day before.  She eyes him nervously and he wonders what he did last night to give her such a reaction.  Guilt floods his system.  He plasters a smile on his face in hopes it could ratify the situation.  “I’m sorry,” he apologizes, “for anything I may have said or done last night.”

She beams at him.  “No worries.  Can I get you anything for breakfast?”

He shrugs.  “Maybe something for the road, if you don’t mind.  I have a long journey ahead of me.”

In truth, he does.  He had heard that his wife’s last days were spent at the bunker, so maybe going there would reveal some answers no one has been able to find.  After all, he did know her best, perhaps she left something just for him.

He’s never been to Dianna’s before- he avoided it after his family was murdered there, but he thinks he’s strong enough now.  He doesn't have anything else to live for.

The waitress returns with a bag in hand.  They exchange food and room for coins.  He refills his canteen and goes on his way, hoping his journey goes quickly.  It’s still early in the morning and not many people are out and about, so he takes off into the sky, trying to lessen his time on the road.

He’s met by a raven not long after and he hovers to read the message.  It’s from Abe, of course, no one else sends ravens.  The sight of it stresses him, wondering what on earth Abraham would need to tell him.  He unravels the black ribbon and reads the words that fill him with joy.  It’s blinding how much light and hope fills him; a weight lifts from his shoulders and the tears that come this time are tears of joy.  Smiling a genuine smile for the first time in eighteen years, he flies faster.  He aims for Dianna’s, intending his time there to be a pit stop on his way back to Eden.

He wonders where the others are and it occurs to him that maybe they should meet up there.  It would be nice to see his family before going to meet the girl.  They’d be able to refresh, regroup, and rekindle their bonds.  They haven’t seen each other in so long, it would be better to return together, a team, united under the God they serve.  It’s safer to travel together, anyway.

But in reality, he just misses them.