Angel Snow
The first angel on the tree was a gift, an accidental one. Part of the choir ascending God's Son back to His celestial home, she fell between the eaves of sky and down to the earth where her body was impaled on the pointed head of the evergreen. Her blood trickled down, white like snow spotting the pine needles. The last vestige of her aurora illuminated the tree, haloing it in a glow that drew the worship of men, women, and child everywhere, who gathered round that day to bow before the speared corpse and offer their gratitude and servitude to the God who had left one of his own behind to bless their year.
Thus, in His infinite wisdom, God deigned for such a gift to be imparted to the people of that hallowed ground every Christmas. Each year, In the last month, twelve angels are sent down, children of the heavens who hide among the forest for the children of men to hunt them down. Twelve descend, but only eleven will return to their Father; one child is destined to be caught and sacrificed upon the tree. It is an annual game of disguise and tracking, and only the human skilled enough to detect the unearthly beings will be able to catch the prize.
The blade used must be purified, made of gold refined and dipped in sacred water to slice through the celestial skin. The angel must be embalmed in robes of linen and silks diamond to the touch. Her eyelids must not be closed, her gaze open to face the candlelight of Christmas Eve when she is hoisted on the shoulders of the strong and carried to her final resting place. The iron spike bound to the top of the tree is crusted white from centuries of blood spilled; the needle tip will pierce up and through her spine, her wings shivering in the winter cold. She will bleed in streams running through the branches, dusting the wide-eyed children standing around the tree in angel snow.
The first angel on the tree was a gift, an accidental one. Part of the choir ascending God's Son back to His celestial home, she fell between the eaves of sky and down to the earth where her body was impaled on the pointed head of the evergreen. Her blood trickled down, white like snow spotting the pine needles. The last vestige of her aurora illuminated the tree, haloing it in a glow that drew the worship of men, women, and child everywhere, who gathered round that day to bow before the speared corpse and offer their gratitude and servitude to the God who had left one of his own behind to bless their year.
Thus, in His infinite wisdom, God deigned for such a gift to be imparted to the people of that hallowed ground every Christmas. Each year, In the last month, twelve angels are sent down, children of the heavens who hide among the forest for the children of men to hunt them down. Twelve descend, but only eleven will return to their Father; one child is destined to be caught and sacrificed upon the tree. It is an annual game of disguise and tracking, and only the human skilled enough to detect the unearthly beings will be able to catch the prize.
The blade used must be purified, made of gold refined and dipped in sacred water to slice through the celestial skin. The angel must be embalmed in robes of linen and silks diamond to the touch. Her eyelids must not be closed, her gaze open to face the candlelight of Christmas Eve when she is hoisted on the shoulders of the strong and carried to her final resting place. The iron spike bound to the top of the tree is crusted white from centuries of blood spilled; the needle tip will pierce up and through her spine, her wings shivering in the winter cold. She will bleed in streams running through the branches, dusting the wide-eyed children standing around the tree in angel snow.
