Page 7 of Property of Prophet

He tries to prop himself on one elbow before his muscles give out. The effort leaves him panting, that too-warm skin flushed with exertion. “Sorry. Weaker than I thought.”

“Hold on.” I grab my sleeping pad, a thin foam that provides minimal cushioning against the cabin’s wood floor, and position it behind him. “Try again. Slowly.”

This time, he makes it to a semi-reclined position, back against the pad, breath coming faster than it should. I hold the cup to his lips, tilt it carefully. He drinks in small sips, throat working, eyes closing briefly in what might be relief or a response to a basic need being met.

When he’s had enough, he pushes the cup away gently. “Thank you.”

I withdraw, but not before noticing the burns on his hands have faded to nothing, completely gone, as if they never existed. The lacerations across his torso show the same impossible progress. What were deep wounds an hour ago now appear as thin pink lines, barely raised above surrounding skin.

“How fast do you heal?” The question emerges before I can stop it. Curiosity wars with caution, and curiosity wins.

He examines his hands with the same fascination I feel. “I don’t know. This is... I think this is faster than normal. Than my normal.” His fingers flex, testing. “The fall damaged more than my body. Something broke inside. Whatever kept me... whatever I was... it’s gone.”

“The wings.”

“Yes.” Pain flickers across his features. “I can feel their absence. Weight that should exist but doesn’t. Balance that’s wrong, as if someone amputated limbs I can’t remember having.”

Phantom limb syndrome, but for appendages no human possesses. The medical parallel should comfort me, proof that some aspects of treatment remain universal. Instead, it highlights how far outside normal parameters I’m operating. There’s no protocol for treating fallen angels. No textbook chapter on supernatural physiology.

“Will they grow back?” I don’t know why I ask. Don’t know if the answer matters. But something about his loss resonates with my experiences of amputation, not physical, but the cutting away of who I used to be, leaving phantom pains where purpose and trust once lived.

“No.” Certainty fills that single syllable. “Whatever sent me falling made sure of that. This...” He gestures at himself, at his healing body, at the situation. “This is permanent. Punishment and exile combined.”

“Exile for what?”

“I don’t remember.” Frustration edges his voice. “But it must have been significant. They don’t cast angels down for minor infractions. Whatever I did, whatever choice I made, it was enough to warrant this.”

We’re both exiles then. Both fallen. Both paying prices for choices we made or didn’t make, bearing consequences that follow regardless of distance or time. The parallel unsettles me, creating a connection I don’t want to acknowledge.

He doesn’t argue but lets his eyes drift closed. Within seconds, his breathing deepens into something that might pass for sleep if I didn’t know better. But I see the light still flickering beneath his lids, still present despite the rest, reminding me that whatever rests in my cabin isn’t sleeping in any human sense.

I retreat to the cabin’s far corner, as far from him as the small space allows. Bear has followed me inside, settling near the door with suspicious eyes fixed on our guest. The dog’s instincts remain wary, uncertain. Smart animal. Apparently, smarter than his owner, who invites impossibility in from the cold and promises it shelter.

The rifle leans against the wall within easy reach. I tell myself it is a precaution, not paranoia. That having an accessible weapon while hosting something that fell from heaven constitutes reasonable preparation. But my hands don’t reach for it, check the chamber, or verify the safety. I leave it there, present but untouched, a prop in a play I’m not sure how to perform.

Outside, Alaska’s voice rises. Wind builds from gusts to a sustained howl, driving snow against windows in waves that sound disturbingly organic. She’s testing the cabin’s integrity, as she does every winter, searching for weaknesses in walls, roof, and foundation. Finding none, I’ve spent five years making this place secure, so she settles into a patient siege, waiting for mistakes I won’t make.

But tonight feels different. Tonight, Alaska’s attention focuses elsewhere on the being I’ve brought inside and the impossibility currently healing on my floor. I can feel her awareness pressing against walls, curious or hostile, but I can’t determine which. She knows something has changed. Something that upsets the balance we’ve maintained, the silent understanding between human guest and wilderness host.

She’s judging my choice and weighing the consequences. And I have no idea what verdict she’ll reach.

Instead, I find myself watching the rise and fall of Prophet’s chest, the wounds continuing their impossible healing, and that faint luminescence pulse beneath his skin. Medical curiosity wages war with self-preservation. Part of me wants to remember every anomaly, document the healing process, and understand the mechanics of whatever supernatural physiology I’m witnessing.

The larger part of me wants to run. Wants to grab Bear and whatever supplies I can carry and disappear deeper into Alaska’s wilderness where angels, fallen or otherwise, can’t find me.

But I don’t run. I sit in my corner while the wood stove crackles and wind howls and something not quite human heals on my floor. Just watch while my carefully constructed solitude cracks wider, fractures spreading from the point where impossibility entered my life.

Outside, Alaska’s winter deepens. Inside, the temperature climbs as fire does its work. And somewhere between those two extremes, between frozen certainty and uncertain warmth, I realize the choice I made in the crater wasn’t about mercy or medical ethics. It was about recognizing another fallen thing, another lost soul, and another being who’d been cast out and survived. Prophet fell from whatever heights held him. I fell from a different place, but the landing feels equally brutal.

Maybe that’s why I can’t turn him away. Not because he needs saving, but because I understand too well what it means to need shelter after falling. To need someone to see you broken and offer help anyway.

The fire pops. Prophet’s breathing continues its steady rhythm. Bear finally relaxes, lowering his head to his paws.

And I sit in my corner, keeping vigil over something that shouldn’t exist, and wonder what comes next when impossibility takes up residence in your home and refuses to leave.

Standing, I pick up his vest. It’s heavy in my hands, the patches staring back at me. Kings of Anarchy MC. Alaska Chapter. I told him his name was Prophet. I didn’t tell him the rest. I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe it’s because I value my solitude and don’t want an entire motorcycle club turning up on my doorstep. Or maybe it’s because I don’t want Prophet going looking for them until I know exactly what fell out of the sky and landed in my life.

There’s a chest in the corner of my cabin, mostly filled with blankets. I lift the lid, shove the vest underneath them, and close it again.