Page 6 of Property of Prophet

“In the crater. Where you fell, there were wing prints, thirty feet across, seared into the permafrost.” I watch his face for recognition, confirmation, or anything that makes sense of the impossible. “What fell wasn’t a man.”

“I fell.” The words come slowly, as if he’s discovering them while speaking. “From... above. There was light. Pain. The sky...” His eyes drift closed. “The sky tore open.”

“I saw it tear. Watched light pour through a rupture in reality.” My hands clench, nails biting into palms. “You fell through that tear and rode fire down to earth. Created a crater on impact that should have killed anything mortal.”

“But I’m not...” He opens his eyes again, that light dimmer now, fading. “I’m not mortal. Not anymore. Or I am now. I don’t...” Frustration bleeds into his voice. “I can’t remember.”

The confusion reads genuine. Whatever he is, wherever he came from, the fall has stolen more than just his wings. Memory loss would explain the disorientation and uncertainty. But it doesn’t explain the healing or address the fundamental question of what lies in my cabin, bleeding light and defying nature.

“Your vest says ‘Prophet.’ ” I gesture toward where I’ve laid the leather. “That mean anything to you?”

He stares at the vest, brow furrowing. “No. Should it?”

“It’s yours. You were wearing it when you fell.” The implications pile up, heavy and complicated. “Which means somewhere in Alaska, there are people who’ll come looking for you.”

“I don’t remember anyone.” His hand lifts toward the vest but drops before reaching it. “Don’t remember anything except falling. Except pain. Except...” His gaze finds mine. “Except you. Finding me. Saving me.”

“I haven’t saved you yet.” The words emerge harder than intended. “You’re not human. That much is obvious. Which means I don’t know what you need, how to treat you, or if standard medical care will help or harm.”

“I need...” He considers. “Warmth... rest... time to heal.” A bitter laugh escapes. “Apparently, I heal faster than humans. So time, mostly.”

“And food? Water? Those still apply?”

“Yes.” The certainty suggests some instincts survive whatever amnesia the fall created. “Human needs still apply. Just... augmented by whatever else I am.”

Whatever else he is.

Alaska’s wind howls outside, rattling the windows and reminding me that whatever internal crisis I’m experiencing, external reality continues its relentless march. Night deepens, temperature drops, and inside my cabin sits something that fell from heaven with light in its eyes and amnesia in its mind.

The smart choice crystallizes—put him out. Let him heal somewhere else, let his people find him, let this complication become someone else’s problem. I didn’t ask for this. Didn’t invite impossibility into my carefully constructed isolation.

But the oath I swore doesn’t include exemptions for non-human patients. Doesn’t say ‘first do no harm, unless the patient defies natural law.’

And there’s something else, something I don’t want to examine too closely. When those blue eyes found mine, when that voice asked, ‘please don’t,’ I felt something shift inside the walls I’ve built. Recognition or connection. The kind that forms between people who’ve both fallen from places they belonged and understand what it means to lose everything and start over in the cold.

“You can stay.” The words commit me before reason can intervene. “Until you heal. Until you remember. Until...” I gesture helplessly at the impossibility of the situation. “Until whatever comes next.”

Relief washes across his face, so human despite the inhuman light in his eyes. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” I pull a blanket from my sleeping area and drape it over him. “This might be the stupidest decision I’ve made in five years. Probably is. No, definitely is. But I’m not leaving someone to freeze, human or otherwise.”

His hand catches mine before I can withdraw. The touch sends electricity up my arm, not painful or threatening, just... charged. Alive. “I won’t hurt you. Whatever I am, whoever I was, I know that much. I won’t hurt you.”

“You don’t remember who you were. How can you promise what you’ll do?”

“Because some things run deeper than memory.” His grip tightens briefly, then releases. “Some things are written into the core of what we are. And whatever else I’ve lost, I know I don’t harm those who show me mercy.”

The conviction in his voice carries weight beyond words. I want to believe him and trust that whatever fell from the sky won’t turn dangerous once it’s healed. To believe I haven’t invited a predator into my home.

But wanting doesn’t equal wisdom. And trust doesn’t come easily to someone who’s spent five years running from betrayal.

“Get some rest.” I pull away to create distance and establish boundaries. “I’ll bring water. Food, if you can keep it down. But the talking stops now. You need to heal, and I need to...” To what? To process? To plan? To figure out how to handle the impossibility currently occupying my floor? “I need to think.”

I move to the kitchen area, which is barely more than a counter with a camp stove and water filtration system, and fill a metal cup from my supply. The water comes from snowmelt I collect and purify, one of hundreds of small tasks that constitute survival out here. Usually, the routine soothes me. Tonight, my hands shake, water sloshing against metal sides.

When I return to Prophet’s side, he’s watching me through half-open eyes. Luminous blue eyes track my movement, calculating or observing, I can’t tell. The light has dimmed further, suggesting exhaustion, healing taking its toll, or both.

“Can you sit up enough to drink?” I keep my voice clinical and professional. It’s easier to keep my walls up when I’m operating in surgeon mode.