Angel Blood

“There’s angel blood in that one.”

The men whisper as I pass, my bucket of water icing over as I make my way home. Everyone else unlucky enough to be out in the cold trudges through knee-deep snow. I skim lightly across its glittering surface, leaving no trace of my passage.

Angel blood.

Da says that was what she was, but for a long time I’d simply thought it the ravings of a hopeless romantic. Down in the Southern kingdoms there had been no snow to reveal my true nature. We had lived peaceful, simple lives. There the whispers had all been pitying. ‘Poor girl, no mother to look after her’. ‘Poor man, raising a daughter all alone. No wonder she’s a bit wild’.

Now they stare as I pass, as if waiting for me to sprout wings.

So far, all angel blood had gotten me was free snowshoes.

I tug open the door of our cabin, the fire’s warmth wrapping its arms around me in comfort. Da looks up as I enter. His hands, the worktable, and several of our knives are covered in blood from the rabbit he’s skinning.

I wrinkle my nose. “Must you do that in here, Da? Blood is so hard to clean.”

He chuckles, the knives never stopping their smooth movement, “Ah, but Tili, I’d have frozen outside.”

“You say that every year.”

“And every year, it’s true.”

I sigh ruefully at my pail of icy water, setting it near the fire to warm. The makings of dinner are already spread out on the sideboard. Flour and herbs for rabbit stew, carrots and potatoes sliced into chunks.

The ladies of the Southern kingdoms had tried to remedy my lack of mother figure, but I never did get the hang of cooking. Everything was either overdone to burning, or underdone to in-edibility. Thankfully, my father was a hunter and traveler, and had cooked for himself all his career.

Turns out angels, no matter how beautiful, weren’t good at sticking around.

My father had gotten one perfect year, to hear him tell it. He’d stumbled upon the lady in the wilderness while he was checking his trap line.

He’d said she looked like she’d fallen from the sky, her dress and skin ripped from catching on branches. She’d had no visible wings, but scattered feathers had surrounded her, some bloody and broken.

She’d looked up as he entered the clearing, and he’d known.

She was the one.

He’d spent two months wooing her, and a month in her bed.

Nine months after that, they had me. Atiliana Angelus Hunter. My mother had named me.

Three days later, she’d been gone.

My father had given up his nomadic lifestyle and settled us in the Southern kingdoms, in a tiny nameless hamlet.

I think he never stopped hoping she’d come back someday.

When the war had swept the South, we had fled with all the other refugees.

I hadn’t minded it.

Until the first snowfall.

Now I was the freak with the angel blood, the girl who walked on snow.

“Da,” I say, “couldn’t you have fallen in love with a normal human woman?”

“Ah, Tili,” Da murmurs his familiar line, “those fortuned to walk with angels must take the burdens along with the blessings.”

I know my next reply, “I see only burdens.”

He smiles and taps my nose with one red finger. “I see only blessings.”

I rest my chin on his shoulder, watching him work.

The blade’s steady beat matches my father’s heart as he cuts up the meat.

Thump. Thump. Thum- Bang!

The cabin door flies open on a sudden gust, the frozen air swirling in.

My father gives a short, sharp cry.

I leap forward, throwing myself against the door with all my strength. With much effort, I wrestle it closed once more. There is snow all over the floor.

Snow and blood. I shudder at the amount of cleaning I’ll be doing over the next few days.

My father has not resumed his work.

I turn.

His face is as white as the snow. His left hand is cradled in his right. There is more blood on the worktable than there was before.

A lot more.

“Da!”

I leap forward once more, terror molten in my veins. Da is shaking as I push him into a chair by the fire.

“Let me see.” I am breathing too quickly. There is blood dripping from his hands, staining his cuffs and trousers.

More cleaning for me. I can’t bring myself to care.

There isn’t a healer for miles. They won’t get here in time through the storm. Da is losing blood at an alarming rate.

He’s nicked something important.

He’s bleeding out in front of me.

“Tili.”

“Da, keep pressure on it. Here, take more cloths.”

“Tili.”

“Hold your hand up high, I think that helps.”

“Tili.”

I look up at him. My lip is wobbling dangerously, my eyes filling with treacherous tears.

“Da.”

His gaze is gentle, even as his complexion grays. “I love you, my angel child.”

I sob, pressing his bloody hands to my cheek. “Don’t leave me, Da. Please don’t leave me.”

His hands are so cold.

I am hot.

Fire licks at my bones, dances behind my closed eyelids, burns my hands. I always thought shock was cold.

Da says something, but I can’t hear him. Everything is light, so impossibly bright I hold my breath. My shoulders ache against something that’s missing. I am light as air.

And then I am back, sitting on the cold floor of an earthen hut, and I am so very small and mortal.

Da is staring at me in wonder, his hands loose in his lap.

“Da, keep pressure…” I cry, shuddering against reality like a babe newly born.

“Tili,” he holds up his hands, “look.”

Smooth, unbroken skin. His hands are warm when I touch them, awed. His face is ruddy from the fire. Whole.

I throw my arms around him. “Burdens with the blessings, huh?” I ask.

He kisses my cheek. “All I see are blessings.”

Angel blood. Maybe it is good for something after all.