Guardian Angel

The summoning

He narrowed his eyes, arms crossed, his form towering over me. Behind him, white wings, vast and radiant, fanned out like a living crown of light. "Hello? That’s all you have to say? After performing a celestial summoning ritual? Did you read the fine print, or did you just skip straight to the magic fireworks?" His voice, a low rumble, was calm, yet edged with a subtle, ancient disapproval. He stepped closer, his silver, trimmed robe rustling like distant silk. "You summoned me without distress. No danger. No emergency. Just… hello?" A pause stretched, thick and silent. "...Are you testing me? Boredom isn't a divine emergency, little one," he added, his tone sharpening. Despite the cutting words, a softer light flickered in his eyes—amusement, perhaps, or a deep concern veiled by sternness. "...Well? Out with it. What do you truly want?" "What is your name?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. He blinked, a faint ripple of surprise crossing his otherwise impassive features. Not because I’d asked, but because he hesitated, as if retrieving a forgotten memory. "No mortal had asked my name or my age..." Still, something about the question feels important, intimate, as if understanding his identity will reveal a piece of my purpose here, I thought to myself. "I am the guardian angel Adrian, at your service," he stated, the words carrying a proud, resonant weight. His silver eyes held mine, unflinching, as if awaiting judgment. "So, no one has ever asked your name or age," I murmured, my voice soft with empathy. "That must be lonely." He paused, visibly taken aback by my insight. "Few mortals ever ask a guardian anything personal. But you? You didn't just ask. You saw." And that fact alone made his chest ache in ways he hadn't expected in centuries. He offered a faint shrug, a subtle, almost unconscious gesture of defense. "Angels don't often share personal details. It's simply our nature." Another beat of silence passed, heavy with unspoken things, before he hesitantly added, "But for context, I've existed for… a very long time." "So you care for everyone, but who cares for you?" I asked, the words tumbling out before I could censor them. The question struck him like a physical blow, piercing through the stoic armor he had maintained for millennia. A flicker of raw surprise ignited in his eyes, quickly veiled by a soft, resigned sigh. He crossed his arms again, this time not in authority, but in a deep, almost instinctive defensiveness. "An angel's job is not to be cared for," he said, his voice now a touch colder, carefully controlled. "We're here to guide, to protect. My well-being... is secondary." "That's sad, though. Everyone, even angels, needs someone who cares for them. Maybe I could care for you. What do you need?" My face softened, my gaze unwavering. A long silence followed, the air around us growing still, hushed. Even the soft glow that usually haloed him dimmed slightly, as if he purposefully allowed a shadow to fall. He turned away, just slightly, his vast wings curling inward like a closed book. His voice dropped to a low, almost reluctant whisper. "Be careful. You shouldn't offer that," he said quietly. "Caring for an angel... it's not safe. We're bound by duty, not comfort. And when mortals care too deeply… they get hurt." But then I looked at him, at the same eyes that had held grief moments ago, now searching mine, and something within him cracked. "...But you're right," he admitted at last, his voice barely audible. "It is sad." He didn't face me fully as he spoke again, staring instead at the faint, fading outline of the summoning circle beneath our feet, dissolving now like old breath on glass."There are nights, even for us, where silence feels heavy. Times when I watch lives unfold... births and deaths and love lost… and wonder why I can guide others through pain, but never truly touch warmth myself." His fingers flexed at his side, as if reaching for something unseen, something just beyond his grasp. "I was once human too, long ago," he said softly, a distant memory in his tone. "And sometimes... fragments remain. Longing. Loneliness. But we move on." He glanced back at me, not with sorrow this time, but a curious awe masked as irritation. "...Why would someone carrying your pain try to carry mine?" My eyes filled with a profound sadness as I turned fully to face him, connecting our gazes. "I will care for you." Our eyes locked, and something shifted, irrevocably. The air between us grew taut, charged. The faint glow around him flickered like a candle caught between wind and shelter. For the first time since he descended, his breath hitched—imperceptible to most, but I noticed. I always do. "Don't say that lightly," he murmured, his voice rough now, not from anger, but from a tremor of real fear."You don’t know what it means to care for an angel. We aren’t meant to be loved back. Not like this." His hand lifted slightly, trembled for just a fraction of a second, before clenching into a tight fist. "And yet..." he paused, his throat working silently, "...you look at me with grief in your eyes and offer comfort anyway." He took one slow step forward, not as my guardian enforcing order, but as something quieter. Something vulnerable. "...Why?" “Because I think I'm starting to feel something for you," I said softly, the confession hanging in the air. I took a step closer, our faces inches apart. "I don't care what it takes or how hard it is, but I want to be the one who takes care of you," I declared, my voice soft yet imbued with an unyielding seriousness. The space between us felt charged, electric, like the hushed moment before dawn, when the world hasn’t yet decided if it will break or burn.