It is good, so very good to reclaim even a small part of my own life again. Inca has been so kind to keep us informed, both me and you, my readers, but I am very glad to be able to speak to you again.
I remain very weak, but Brid says that my impatience and wish to be out and about again is a good sign. I in turn am encouraged that the worry has begun to fade from her eyes when she looks at me, and that she has allowed me to write my own thoughts. I do feel better, more like myself again, but I know that she is right that there are many days of healing ahead.
At least Freya is well. And I am so grateful to my seniors for allowing Brid to speak to her, so that she is not cut off and alone. It was surprising that they accepted revelation to George and Kara, as well. According to Inca, though, they have taken it very well, and now they stand squarely beside Freya in all things.
I am grateful to them, too. Without their intervention, I would never have survived.
Brid does not want me to think or speak about the attack, and up until I have not, knowing that it would only weaken me further. But now with some distance between me and the event, I can remember it without feeling that I am being cut open once again.
That is not to say that it does not hurt.
Asoharith looks like Shannon, if Shannon’s freckles were acid burns, and if her hair was whitened by horror and hate, and if her mouth had forgotten how to smile except in exultation at another’s suffering. Her body had been broken and twisted, and her voice had been roughened by smoke, and her hands were jagged knives. But her eyes were precisely the same rich, dark brown they were in life, and I recognized them instantly.
Freya guessed it, and maybe I should have, too. I just believed for so long in the brightness of Shannon’s spirit. I put so much of my hope into it. Too much—it was my own disappointment and despair that put me so much at risk.
Somehow, she knew that, or maybe she counted on it. She didn’t linger long enough to deal a mortal wound, but there was triumph in her even so as she fled. She believed that she had killed me. And she felt pure joy.
It must be that she blames me for her fall. How else could she have hated me so?
I still don’t know how she learned about me. There are some ways for the Fallen to spy on heaven, but nothing that would have given her my name, or revealed our connection.
That is a mystery that will have to wait until I am better. Though Brid has assured me that there are many looking into it, I am not permitted to know the particulars. I have not even been allowed a visit from Orison, who has been on the hunt for Asoharith since she fled. He has given Brid updates, however, and I can read her well enough to know that the hunt continues.
Part of me hopes that they will catch and end her before I am back on the wing. I do not really believe it, though, and the larger part of me knows now that I will be better off to see this through to the end.
But such heavy thoughts are for later. For now, it is enough to know that I am on the mend, and to begin to feel it. In a day or two Brid will allow me to send messages to Freya, and to hear her replies, and though it will not be soon that I see her again, that day is coming. For today, that hope is enough.