I became anathema, but you could not destitute me, for you had led me to a place from which you could no longer bury your guilt. I had to force your child to admit his part in my downfall; he saved me for no purpose, no reason other than to assuage his own guilt when he let those he purports to love die.
At least we never lied to one another, you and I. I called you false prophet and you called me anathema. But I’ve never been sacred, never been religious and I’m uncertain how you can apply the term to me other than as some obscure rule in your patriarchy.
I challenge your orthodoxy; a girl with the power of the angels. Not the Host as you know them, though they court me like delighted fireflies, drawn in by my so called radiance. The real angels; to whom this brotherhood claims lineage. For some reason it bred truer in me than it has done for eons and you despise me for it.
You call me betrayer, Elijah, yet who called me false before my very birth? Who determined that a bereaved eleven year old child should be separated from her peers for fear she contaminated them? That a woman coming of age should be cast out for the perceived sin of temptation? Look deep inside your core and answer me that, All-Father.
And if you’d treat me with a modicum of human kindness, would the outcome have been so very different?