Journal Entry I – The Audacity of a Mortal Wound
I stood outside Michael’s chambers today.
I told myself I was standing watch.
That was a lie.
I simply wanted to look at him again.
The healers move in and out throughout the day. Some leave carrying bloodied cloths. Others leave whispering among themselves. None of them notice me. None of them understand what it is they are witnessing.
Michael.
The strongest angel ever created.
Reduced to recovery.
Reduced to rest.
Reduced to wounds.
I saw him briefly when the doors opened.
Bandages.
Burns.
Blood.
The sight made my stomach twist.
I hate Silas.
There. I have written it.
I hate him.
Not because he is evil.
Not because he opposes Heaven.
Not because he has committed some unforgivable sin.
I hate him because he touched Michael.
A nobody.
A name that did not exist in Heaven’s history until recently.
A man who should have spent eternity beneath Michael’s notice.
And yet somehow he managed to scar him.
The thought alone fills me with rage.
Michael carries the weight of worlds upon his shoulders.
He protects Heaven.
He protects Earth.
He protects people who will never know his name.
And for all of that, he is rewarded with wounds.
The injustice sickens me.
Part of me wants to descend to Earth right now.
Part of me wants to find Silas.
Part of me wants to wrap my hands around his throat and ask him how dare he.
How dare he leave scars upon Heaven’s greatest son.
How dare he force Michael to bleed.
How dare he make Michael look mortal.
The rational side of me knows Michael would never approve.
Michael believes in redemption.
Michael believes in mercy.
Michael believes everyone deserves a chance.
I know this.
I have listened to his teachings for centuries.
But I am not Michael.
And perhaps that is why my heart is so much uglier than his.
I do not want redemption for Silas.
I want redemption for Michael.
I want the universe corrected.
I want justice.
I want someone to pay for every wound I have seen beneath those bandages.
And if Heaven will not deliver that justice…
I fear what thoughts may eventually consume me.
—
Stella
Journal Entry II – A Terrible Truth
I am ashamed.
I think I have become selfish.
Michael spoke with me today.
Not as a commander.
Not as an archangel.
Not as the First Sword of Heaven.
Just Michael.
He asked how I was doing.
Such a simple question.
Yet I cannot remember the last time he asked it.
The old Michael was always moving.
Always planning.
Always carrying burdens.
Always focused upon everyone except himself.
I admired that about him.
I still do.
But this wounded version of him…
This version frightens me.
Because I enjoy it.
I enjoy his vulnerability.
There.
I finally wrote it.
The truth looks hideous on paper.
Ever since he returned from battle, he has spoken more openly.
He listens more.
He lingers longer during conversations.
He trusts me with thoughts he would normally keep hidden.
Sometimes I catch him staring out into Heaven’s horizon as though he is trying to understand something inside himself.
Sometimes he actually tells me what he is thinking.
The Michael I have loved for centuries would never have done that.
And every time he does, I feel special.
Important.
Needed.
That feeling should make me happy.
Instead it makes me guilty.
Because every moment of closeness was purchased with suffering.
Every conversation came from pain.
Every shared truth came from wounds.
If Michael had returned victorious and untouched, would he be spending this much time with me?
Would he trust me this deeply?
Would he allow me this close?
I do not know.
And I hate myself for wondering.
I should want him healed.
Completely healed.
I should want the old Michael back.
The unstoppable Michael.
The invincible Michael.
The Michael who walked through Heaven like a living star.
So why does part of me fear that day?
Why does part of me fear losing this version of him?
The answer disgusts me.
Because this Michael needs people.
And I am one of those people.
For the first time in centuries, I feel seen by him.
Not as another angel.
Not as another soldier.
Not as another loyal servant.
As Stella.
Just Stella.
I would never wish suffering upon him.
Never.
Yet I cannot deny what his suffering has given me.
And that truth feels like a betrayal.
Perhaps love has made me selfish.
Or perhaps I was always selfish.
I simply never had the courage to admit it.
—
Stella
Journal Entry III – Raphael’s Visit
Raphael came today.
I knew immediately why.
News travels quickly through Heaven.
Michael’s condition is no secret anymore.
The mighty have gathered like vultures around a battlefield.
Some come out of concern.
Some come out of curiosity.
Some come because they cannot believe Michael is capable of bleeding.
Raphael arrived near sunset.
I met him outside the healing halls.
His presence alone made the air feel heavier.
There is something unsettling about him.
Not evil.
Not malicious.
Simply dangerous.
Like standing beside a storm that has not yet decided where it wishes to strike.
He told me he wished to see Michael.
I told him no.
Simple.
Direct.
Final.
He stared at me for several moments.
Then he asked me to move.
Again, I refused.
I remember placing my hand upon my weapon.
I remember the silence that followed.
For a brief moment, I thought battle was inevitable.
The Savage Archangel has never been known for patience.
Yet something strange happened.
Raphael looked at me.
Then he laughed.
Not loudly.
Not mockingly.
Almost dismissively.
As though he had just encountered something mildly amusing.
The tension disappeared from him instantly.
He no longer seemed interested in forcing his way forward.
He no longer seemed interested in me at all.
That bothered me more than a threat would have.
I realized then that he was not backing down because he feared me.
He was backing down because he did not consider me a challenge.
Perhaps not even an obstacle.
Just a devoted guard dog standing before a door.
I hated that realization.
I still do.
He eventually turned away without another word.
And yet the encounter has remained in my thoughts ever since.
I have asked myself the same question repeatedly.
What if he had accepted the challenge?
What if we had fought?
Could I have won?
The answer is that I do not know.
I want to believe I could.
My pride tells me I could.
My devotion to Michael tells me I would have.
But honesty demands a different answer.
I do not know.
Raphael carries a reputation for a reason.
Even among archangels, there are names spoken with caution.
His is one of them.
Perhaps I would have defeated him.
Perhaps I would have fallen.
Perhaps Heaven itself would have suffered for our arrogance.
I cannot say.
What I do know is this:
If he returns tomorrow and asks again…
I will still stand in front of that door.
Even if the outcome remains uncertain.
Even if it kills me.
Because until Michael rises from that bed himself, nobody reaches him without my permission.
Nobody.
—
Stella
