Celia Quod Angelus Of Nex

A story of a very sick young woman who awaits her husband, but instead is greeted by a very different being.

One day a beautiful woman walked the fields around her home. Celia was her name. Her hair was thick and curly, her skin as smooth as water and her eyes, a radiant amber color they shone.
However, these eyes were subject to despair, for they had been sightless, blind, for most of Celia’s life.
Her eyes had had only three years in which to gaze upon the earth, the people and the animals that were in it. Many years had been robbed of her from seeing the terrain she walked upon, the people she loved, the food she ate, the sun that shone.
Though her hearing was twice as sharp as her sight would have been if she had still possessed it, she would have given up all her listenings if only to see again.
She was barefoot, and allowed herself to stop every few minutes to wiggle her toes in the cool grass. She would stop, wiggle and sigh. Then she would keep on cautiously walking, stop and do it all over.
She scarce venture very far from her home, she didn’t want to get lost. This was the furthest she had gone in a long time. If she had been able to see, she would have nearly lost sight of her home by now.
Celia walked on, her body dressed in a crisp red dress and a black cloak (her friends worried she might get cold).
Blindness was not the only thing that imprisoned Celia; she had Malaria. She had been attacked by a swarm of Mosquitoes weeks back, and they had mercilessly bit her, causing her so much pain and distress that once she had found her way home, she hadn’t left the comfort of her bed for days. She wore the cloak also in a vain attempt to ease her shivering from the Malaria, and she walked often outside to ease her terrible headaches that were brought by the same cause.
Deciding to take a break, Celia felt on the ground for a place to sit. A large patch of boulders met her fingers soon after, and she sat down, her cloaked wrapped about her frail body.
As she listened to the trees whispering and the wind breathing, her heart ached for her husband. He was a very kind man. His name was Abiathar, and the love and dedication to his darling Celia was strong.
She felt around her on the ground and picked a poppy from it, twiddling it between her fingers, “I shall give this to Abiathar when I see him today” she promised herself, putting the little flower between two of her toes so it would not be swept away by the wind.
Abiathar was away at the present time, off on a trip to hunt with many other men to retrieve the town’s meat supply. He and his group were to return very soon. Even so, Celia was impatient for his return. She missed him with all her heart and longed to be back in his arms.
After Celia had weaned her thoughts of him, she decided it was time for her to find her way back home (by now, she knew how by finding landmarks like the pond or a certain tree).
Her feet bent, ready to spring her up, but she stopped at a noise above her. Is sounded like a whisper, so soft and gentle. It came and went. She paused. Again it came, still soft, but close now.
She felt a chill, and she hugged herself tightly, trying to repress the cold.
Then, she heard a small sigh, so close to her it made her jump.
“Hello?” she called, blinking rapidly, as if in an attempt to see, “Who’s there?”.
She heard an intake of breath. Then, she felt something land…or step…in front of her. Her breath withdrew into her throat in a small gasp as she felt something cold touch her arm.
“Abiathar?” she asked.
When she felt the cold hand (for it must have been a hand), tighten its grip ever-so slightly, she smiled and leapt forward to hug him. She drew back when a chilling cold met her torso, arms and face. She grasped his forearms, which were also cold as ice.
“My darling, you are freezing!” she exclaimed, “You must be exhausted! Come, lead us back to my house and I will have soup made for you and the rest of your men”.
Now, sadly as it turns out, the being Celia was clutching so lovingly was not her dearest husband Abiathar; it was an angel…an angel of death. If Celia’s eyes had worked like regular eyes
should, she would have seen him, a tall pale being with wispy white hair, black wings that tinted an amber color (almost like Celia’s eyes) in the sun’s shining rays, and ever-sad eyes.
He wore a long hooded robe that shadowed his surprisingly handsome face and swished around his bare toes. He carried a scythe in his right hand, the blade shining brightly.
“Where are the others?” Celia asked, “No, don’t tell me, they’ve gone home already. Well let us make haste and go home. Why are you not speaking to me, dearest?”.
The angel of death surveyed this being, a blind, sick woman whom he had come to retrieve, for the Malaria was to kill her very soon at hand. It had been eating away at her mind and body for much time and it had come to a point where Celia’s body had had enough and was ready for its eternal sleep.
His duty was to come down to earth, find the beings whose lives were reaching their crescendo, inform then with the words “I have come to thee to take thee away” and do as he said.
However, he looked upon this girl, clutching at his arms, her warmth against his ice-cold skin shivering him, and he felt the smallest hint of pity. How terrible would it be, on the day of her husband’s return, that she was told she had to be taken away from him forevermore?
So he did not speak the words. Instead, he lifted her into his arms, her warmth body pressed against his chest. Her cloaked snagged on some of the rocks and ripped, leaving a strip of cloth behind, but she neither cared nor noticed. Instead, Celia laughed and smiled, believed herself to have been lifted off the ground by the arms of her precious Abiathar, instead of the angel of death’s.
The angel of death opened his wings and lifted off of the earth, the woman in his arms, heading towards the skies to decide Celia’s fate. Celia looked about her, though to no avail, as her feet left the rocks below her.  
“Are we going home now?” she asked, her cheeks rosy red as her last smile spread over her face.
To that, the angel of death uttered one word. A lie it was, but it was far better than the words he could have spoken.
This word was “Yes”.


Later the same day. Abiathar returned to his village to find Celia nowhere. He waited and waited until he finally went around asking everybody where she was. Finally, one of Celia’s friends informed him she had gone on a walk hours ago, and had not yet returned.
Panicked that she had gotten lost or hurt, Abiathar and a few of his men set out on a search. It didn’t take them long to find the patch of boulders where Celia had been only hours before. Abiathar’s heart nearly broke when he saw only the ripped piece of cloth from her cloak left behind on the rocks…and the tiny poppy, right beside it.

Author's Note

I found the picture I had gotten the inspiration from for the story, and learned that it was of the Greek God of death, Thanatos. This is actually quite fitting because he was known for giving peaceful deaths, and this fit perfect with my story (I didn't learn this until after I made the story, so the fact that I made him this way without knowing who Thanatos was is kind of cool in my opinion).

Reviews

[Meat of Dog]

It was interesting to me how you opened the story by conveying a blind woman trying to satisfy her interests in the things around her even despite her blindness. I wondered why no one was with her (protecting her) and quickly developed a 'maternal' sense in that I hoped no further harm would come to her. You imagery in describing the angel of death was very vivid as well and unconventional (which was good, breaking the normal cliches). While short this piece was emotional and had a surprising end. It was a very good read.