HIS EVE: The Aftermath Chronicles (Book Two)

1 † Newton's Cradle

† "Do not be deceived: God is not mocked, for whatever one sows, that will he also reap. For the one who sows to his own flesh will from the flesh reap corruption, but the one who sows to the Spirit will from the Spirit reap eternal life. And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up." -Galatians 6:7-9 †

Tiny swinging spheres tap. He'd set it into motion for her, just as he had on their fated first meeting.

The ball transfers with a click to send the farthest sphere on the opposing side, upward.

It's so calming, that Audrey watches while the world fades out around her.

Her reflection in the metal balls is distorted, but she transfixes on the red-haloed woman staring back at her. A figure, she associates with more now, than in any reflection a mirror could give.

It beats, moving to the rhythm of her vacant thoughts.

Behind the steady beat, the voice that always brings her back speaks.

Though, when she lifts her eyes to the distant sound of it, she realizes he isn't speaking to her, but to a stranger in their new home.

On the other side of the clicking device, she watches the broad back of her beloved just beyond the open doorway.

Her chilled bare feet shuffle. Quietly, so not to upset him in her eavesdropping. Her hand clutches to the door's frame, as she peeks to spy the voice offsetting to her familiar.

The soldier, the man in charge of this colony, stands before her beloved as if he's an equal. She's never seen the Richmond Hill leader up close before, only from a distance at their bedroom window.

He's the one the others outside their church called Doyle and he looks far more menacing up close than he does from the distance. He's wearing camouflage pants known for the ARMY uniform, but it's offset by a faded black t-shirt.

His arms are sculpted, much like her Abel's. This was a man who knew labor in this colony, who took care of his appearance. Today, however, the stress in his words is grainy, like the smear of dirt on his arms and over his sweaty neck.

Doyle yells, "You sent only fifteen people! You have at least forty-five members of your church here. Most of which, are still unaccounted for! We need them at the farms, so we all can eat, your people too! Instead, you have women here scrubbing your floors and God knows what else..."

No one spoke to the prophet that way. Especially, in taking God's name. Not Abel's enemies, not his apostles, not even her, took this tone with him. Why, her love didn't strike him down right there, left her in a cloud of confusing questions.

From the hall beyond, she watches Abel's apostles, his most devout disciples. A few, that gathered in the doorway, wielding knives, ready to strike as always, at Abel's command.

The soldier, like so many others, had no idea of Abel's power. How bodies of the slain piled behind him wherever he went, how he was untouchable. They were those who weren't worthy. Not like her.

Here, on this Earth, Abel was chosen. Gifted by God, to not only lead them into the new world but to take out those who would hurt their mission.

The ignorant people that lived under Doyle, had yet to learn of Abel's gifts. Yet, they would learn soon enough.

Abel motions his strong chin to the side. Slightly enough, that only she would notice his distress. Though his back is to her, she can see his face so vividly. The shift, so subtle, a warning that his composure is cracking in dealing with a lesser being.