THE SLEEPING GIANT, And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters were born unto them, that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took wives of all which they chose.
There were giants in the earth in those days; when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown.

Genesis 6:1, 2, 4

He stared into the bright canopy.

He had not been strong enough to return to his place.
He was in the glen before the woods and before the mountain.
He roused himself and pulled what barbs and arrows from his flesh that he could. He tasted one, it was poisoned. He regarded the blood-soaked grass and did not want to consider why the fragile creatures would have made him flee, why they detested him.
He pulled himself to his knees and he regarded his wounds. He willed them away.
He looked to the mountain and willed himself away. His shining black wings unfurled and he was released of the bonds of gravity.
He strode to the water and drank. He gathered leaves and grass to make a bed upon which he could rest. He layed himself down to forget, to sleep, to rest.

He was of them and from them, and yes, they despised him.
He closed his eyes to be away from them.

They had not yet done with him: they had come for him. They had thought themselves crafty in stealing upon him in his sleep.
They broke his heart.
He took them up into his hands and tossed them away from him. He was imperfect, and awaking him was a mistake that he regretted them having made. They were surrounding him, and he ended them.
Tired and dreadful, he sent them away, over the mountain.

He gathered his sword, dragged it behind him. He soared towards the Star and, then, hurtled towards the valley. To bury them.
He gathered the earth with his aching fingers and placed them, one by one, into it. He cursed them, wept over them, but this was pointless. He was alone in his sadness. He covered them such that the wolves would not eat them, the flesh of his mortal flesh.

He had to continue: there were so many more, and they had not yet tired of him.

The sword was so very, very heavy, so heavy, but there were others like him, like his father, a Bright One who had loved a mortal woman, but did not understand his half-mortal son.
So many of The Beautiful Ones hated him, for being what he was. The sword was for Them.

The mortals… He wished to not be so alone. But he was.

He would stare into the canopy and let the light blaze and reflect and refract into his mind. He would return this light into the village, into their plain, into their reality, so that he could rest, sleep. He would have to burn them all so that he could rest.

He wanted this to be over and done, so the comely woman who beckoned to him from the green grass annoyed him, but she was lovely, and he found her so.

She was abandoned, too, a witch, this is what they called her. They allowed her to birth their babies, to tend to their sick, but they would not love her, allow her to have love.
She had seen him and had known his mind. She beckoned to him to love him and give him love and to stop him from the terrible thing which he was going to do.

He circled high in the heavens and contemplated her. He descended to her and touched his feet upon the grass. She smiled at him, and knelt before the bright, fearsome angel, and asked him to do the same.

Bemused, he knelt. He made himself small, such that he could touch her, be with her. She was bold and fearless. She was bright.

His sinews and bones and flesh torqued and he fell to his knees and kept the pain from her, the agony from her.

She was there for him when he opened his eyes. She gave him water. She cleaned the wounds that he could not see. She gave him good things to eat, and let him not be lonely. She grasped him and rubbed her heavy breasts against him. She gave herself to him, he gave himself to her, all of the best of him, to the kind girl who would not tolerate his sadness.

The change was coming. He kissed her sweet face and wished.

He left so his growing frame would not destroy her home.

She had awakened and seen. She touched him, as his mother had touched another angel. She loved him. She was lonely, too.
She had given to him, and he would give to her. She knew that this was true.

“Take me there. Show me the sky, the mountain.”

He smiled at her.

The brightness and love and light that emanated from him was almost overwhelming: shockingly, terribly, blindingly beautiful, wondrously warm and golden.

She let it wash over her.

He lifted her to himself. His wings broadened, glossy, black, beautiful, and she fearlessly draped herself around his shoulders, and he ascended with her, to the mountain, to their home.