Detective James Sydney Lance has more on his mind than most, and that IS rare, considering the cocky upstuck that he is, where it's a world wide joke that his ego might put the earth out of Orbit by it's weight. That's to be expected though, considering the fact that he now has a Brilliant Assassin who hates him, whom he was pretty sure jumped off the Golden Gate bridge, a little five year old at his door, a adopted sister that follows him everywhere and is boy obsessed, and Did I mention that His wonderful coughhorridcough family is coming for a visit?
Obviously, Dying and Angel don’t go together.
The definition of dying is to cease to exist, whilst Angel means a heavenly being.
Of course the idea is insane!
Or perhaps not.
Depends on how you look at it, I suppose. Elizabeth Reede was a form of Angel. A human angel. A fighting angel. A angel that almost never gave up.
In those moments, so long ago, I beg to differ with all vicious comments existing in response to this one. We were on the wings of a dying Angel.
And we both knew it. We never spoke it, and never tentatively reached forward and proposed the idea.
For we didn’t wish to believe it. I know my companion was adamantly refusing to acknowledge it, Particularly the dying part.
I think he would have agreed more, -at that careful moment in time, in which Elizabeth Reede presided , before her death- to, “On the wings of a Fallen Angel.” But truly, she wasn’t. Well, In ways, I suppose she was. But haven’t we all fallen?
Elizabeth was a remarkable woman. Brilliant, snappy, and with a high sense of loyalty, She was referred to, rather blatantly, for a intelligent woman, by her home town, as “the Archer”.
I think, though, now it has been changed to “the Angel Archer.”
But, to remember the point, in all my musings, one question has forced itself repeatedly into my mind.
Was it my place, in retrospect, to involve myself in a twisted, old, back lashing story that rose from the depths of the Dragon’s mouth, before my time of knowing my companion?
But, it was my place to make sure my companion didn’t drown. Not in water, but in the past, which he fought violently to be free of.
Pity you can’t erase history.
-From the Diary of John "Johnnie" Patson