Angels

The sun sank back into it the horizon like a lazy molten bubble, too weary to continue it's ascent. As the day turned dusk, they both sat on the rise clinging to each other, looking out upon the destruction, the well for their weeping tapped.

There was a blessed moment just before complete darkness where the extent of the carnage faded from view and the glow of the fires hadn't yet repainted their pain against the night sky. Things didn't seem as bad then, but only briefly. This was a favorite moment for both. She turned to him, her face a red-rimmed mask hiding her thoughts. He met her eyes, sure he was just as dirty, just as wounded, just as spent.

"They deserved it." He whispered to her. "All of them."

"I know." She looked back out across the darkening city, smelling the smoke and listening to the sounds of a people dying.

"We are His broom, we clean the unclean so that He may begin anew." He quoted, trying to convince himself more than her.

"I know," she said again, "but it still hurts so much."

He smiled. "That is His gift to us."

"I know." She said, and she smiled too.