Ghost of a Hero

Black army fatigues did anything but blend in with the well lit garden wall. Combat boots tapping slowly against the brick pavement clicked loudly across the full parking lot. Underneath the resting soldier the brick wall abruptly ended its travels from the side of the church. In the gleam of the lights one could see the ghostly branches of the birch trees growing just outside the wall, peering over it's top into the garden of the hero.
There was a metallic rasping, once, twice, and finally a flare of light as the soldier lit a cigarette. A long breath set the flame deep within the tobacco. The soldier turned and blew smoke over his shoulder, noting the statue set in the middle of the garden. St. Michael stood there, sword raised over his head as he looked to heaven for the signal to end the dragon. As the smoke diffused upward towards the statues face the old soldier nodded to it, winking at the ethereal warrior and murmuring something about long nights away from home.
He gazed out at the parking lot filled with cars, each one carrying a family to Christmas eve services. In his mind he knew exactly what each one looked like inside the heavy church doors. Small children, their faces lit by candles, watched expectantly and waited. Their youth and innocence kept them from understanding the full implications in the world around them, however they could sense a peace and calm in the light cast by a thousand candles. The thought crossed his mind that at one time he had been just such a child, bright eyed and naive. Then fate had caught up to him. A soul tortured by past sins had turned to fighting for justice as a way to atone for his crimes. Yet with each child he protected he had to kill another man, and the demons that now clawed at his heart were far greater than the ones he had been trying to appease in the beginning.
Snow began to fall from the sky, at first the small white flakes were indistinguishable from the stars above, but gradually they gained sway over the night until the stars disappeared. The falling crystals caught every passing sound and gently scolded it for disturbing such a night.
The soldier shook his head and put up a hood to protect himself. All these thoughts of innocence and peace would have once troubled his mind, however, he now knew that he was the one meant for this. He was the man destined to carry the burden. Deep within him he understood that he could not forgive, could not bring himself to be forgiven. All he could do was protect the innocent so that in time, they would be able to forgive others. It was not given to him to save them, only to preserve them so that they could be saved by another.
Slowly the church doors were opened and a joyous throng issued forth, singing carols. Even their exuberant cries however were immediately hushed at the sight of the falling snow. The soft quiet of the night insisted upon respect, and they gave it. A woman, who had been young not long ago, stepped quietly across the threshold of the church. At her side a man walked who had limped in his left knee.
A glimmer of recognition darted through the soldier's eyes as he saw them. To any passers-by it was apparent that he cared for the woman. It was not clear whether she was a sister, a lover or a friend, what was clear was that he was happy for her. He knew the man with her, by reputation or personally, and was confident that the man would care for her as he himself could not.
Her gaze passed over the wall where the soldier sat, it hesitated at the sight of his face. A memory passed across her countenance as her lips mouthed a name, but the name was lost in the falling snow.
She started to change direction towards him. Her step hastened a little. For the first time in a great while a forgotten emotion flooded her brain. Without allowing herself to name it she knew exactly what is was. Hope.
Even as her pace quickened and her heart with it, a friend called to her from the doorway. She turned for an instant to wave, and when she looked back, the wall was empty.
Black heels stood stark against the junction of vertical brick and walk. Soft crystals of white floated down upon the black, trying to quell the discord, yet as soon as they touched they disappeared into drops of water. Soon it became impossible to tell if the water on the walk and shoes came from the melted snow, or from the eyes of a woman who had dared to hope.
A lonely cigarette butt lay on the edge of the wall. Her instinct called out to pick it up, anything solidify the vision she had seen. Instead she turned, and hastened away to the man with a bad knee.
It didn't take long for the church to empty. The walk, wall, and garden stood alone in the falling snow. All alone but for the cigarette, inner coal still burning, sending up a thin trail of tainted incense at the shrine of the warrior's Angel.