:: and dwelt amongst us ::

It's over. As soon as there's a little light, I return to England, pretend nothing ever happened. That's how it works, that's what I do. I kill--and I killed tonight, with a steady and sure hand--and then return to my work, my life and ignore the blood on my hands. I'm practically serene about it until everything's over, and now, now it bothers me. Now what I do, what I have to do, the things I've seen and done, now they make me feel dead somewhere inside, despite the fact that I'm the one living, breathing still. The pain's the only thing that makes me certain I've survived. It doesn't make sense. Guilt, I suppose. Refined, purified guilt. And I should feel it. I've taken lives. I've killed. I've killed so many times that I'm good at it. And sometimes, I know the name of the men who crumple before me. Maynard Greengrass, tonight. One of many. A cousin by marriage. He shouldn't have been here, this isn't his country, this isn't his home, this isn't his life that's been torn to tatters...but is it really mine anymore? What am I doing here? What has to happen before I concede defeat and leave St Michael to defend real soldiers instead of vigilantes who haven't the sense to give up when the revolution is lost? Mother of God, I doubt, a thousand times over, I doubt. Blessed are those who have not seen, yet believe. I see and do nothing but doubt.

I'm writing in this thing so I can get through the night without going mad, and finally go home. So I don't rattle apart at the seams. Words and paper and rational, logical order, no blood, no death, no nothing, just the things that have always, always been soothing. I just have to hold myself together a while longer and then, when I'm back to safety, I can fall apart when I'm alone, patch myself up and fall apart. Just a little while longer.

God forgive me my sins. I don't know how to forgive myself.

The beheading of John the Baptist.

I hated to leave the way I did, so suddenly, but there was no choice. When the weather is right, when the moment is right, there is no argument. I learned this lesson so very well when I first took up this fight, and I have more than a few scars to show where I didn't learn it well enough. Scars are the gospel of survival, written on the body with their own directives, to remember, to bear witness, to learn. I sometimes wonder if I know as much about this work as I think I do. I am not made to be a soldier, not made to beat my plowshare into a sword. But I know that I am called to do it, to protect my flock as well as guide them, and how I was made initially does not matter. The Almighty will shape me as He sees fit, and make my arms strong enough to bend a bow of bronze. I have to quiet and listen to the voice calling out in the wilderness, and to my own instincts.

People will die tonight, and I'm far more comfortable with that than I ought to be. The only difference now is I have a vested, deep-seated interest in returning to England. I've never fought with that before, and I do not know if it will be a weight on my shoulders to make me cautious, or a breastplate to give me courage. I pray for the latter.

St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle.
Be our defense against the snares and wickedness of the Devil.