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Printed from https://webx1.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2344593-The-Angel-of-the-Fourth-Wind
Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Supernatural · #2344593

A traveller, overwhelmed by troubles, on a lonely road in Nevada, thinks it's the end...

The desert road ahead was a black ribbon cutting through a sea of blood red flame. The Valley of Fire’s crimson cliffs rose on either side, pillars of Aztec sandstone sculpted by the breath of ancient winds and flash floods long since spent. Each ridge burned with the last light of day, its molten hues echoing old secrets. At Atlatl Rock, petroglyphs whispered of forgotten lives, hunters with spear-throwers, spirals spinning into infinity, footprints etched in time. Here, the land remembered what men had long forgotten. Local Paiute legends spoke of stone sisters, towering spirits turned to monuments. Their forms stood still, silent sentinels silhouetted against the dying sky.

Ethan drove in silence. No music. No podcasts. Even the comforting hum of talk radio had become unbearable. The world’s noise had grown too loud for him to bear.

Once, his faith had been as steady and reliable as Sunday morning: pressed slacks, soft hymns, polished shoes on wooden floors. The world had made sense then. God was a gentle hand behind it all. But time chipped away at certainty. First came success, career promotions, expensive suits, curated vacations. Then came love, or something like it. Julia, wild and brilliant, had married him in a flurry of wine and whispered promises. It hadn’t lasted. Nothing did.

Grief came next. No, grief reigned. His daughter, bright-eyed and full of spontaneous giggles, had been the last unshakable pillar. Her absence now was an open wound the size of the sky. She’d died in spring. He buried her in white satin and lilies. He hadn’t prayed since. What was left to say?

Now, everything- wars, headlines, viral fears, financial collapse... sounded like static in the background of a scream.

He gripped the steering wheel like it was the only real thing left.

“God,” he whispered.

Then, louder, raw and ragged: “Is this the end? Is this it?”

His cry tore into the sunset.

Then the road bent and the world changed as if his prayer had summoned something terrible and ancient from its long rest.

A whirlwind rose from the sands like some ancient beast awakening. Fire and grit churned in a vortex that cracked the silence like thunder. In its core stood a figure, not man, not entirely, wreathed in light and shadow. The angel’s wings stretched wide, forged of iron and ember. His eyes were like the sun held at sword-point, brilliant and terrifying.

Ethan slammed the brakes. The car screamed. Dust swallowed him.

Silence.

Then stillness.

When he opened his eyes, the cliffs had vanished. The wind, the crash, the fear, all gone.

The angel stood before him in calm splendor. His robe shimmered with red and gold, the folds seeming to ripple with firelight. Behind him, the desert echoed eternity.

“I am one of four,” the angel intoned, voice deep as the earth's bones. “We stand at the four corners of the world, holding back the winds of judgment.”

Ethan’s throat tightened. “How long have you been here?”

“Since the command was given,” the angel replied.

Ethan hesitated, then pressed, “You just… wait?”

“I wait,” the angel said simply.

A skeptical laugh escaped Ethan’s lips, short, bitter. “You’ve stood here for thousands of years… waiting?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s your job? Just… stand there?”

The angel studied him, unmoved. “You see with mortal eyes. Let me offer you this.”

He stepped closer, heat radiating from his form like the forge of stars.

“Imagine a television—”

Ethan blinked. “A TV- how would you know of such a thing?”

"You'd be surprised what campers bring into the valley."

"Okay, a TV..."

“Right, except it's all in 3D, and more real than anything you can see with your eyes alone,” the angel said, his tone patient but edged with something ancient. “It is not just imagery but an encounter that fills your life with a presence so rich, so powerful, joyful, beautiful, and full of wonder. Now you look deeper and realise that you are looking at a person radiating only the best things: truth, perfect beauty, timeless wisdom, and endless love for you. In every moment He speaks directly to your soul, shows you what you need to know before you even know to ask. No lies. No filler. Always alive, always real, always meaningful. To stand in the presence of God is like that, only infinitely more. Every second is full.”

He paused and Ethan felt his soul open to the described presence of God.

The angel continued, "My ministry will last but a moment in the eternal scheme. It was appointed by the Almighty Himself. There is no greater honor than to serve, even if only by standing still. I thank and praise God always for the task He has given me.”

Ethan’s breath caught. That wasn’t boredom. That was devotion, sharper than duty, deeper than passion.

He looked at the angel, really looked. “You actually want this. You’re not just obeying, you believe in it.”

The angel’s expression didn’t change. But something softened, ever so slightly, like sunlight resting on a flower never seen before.

“I see the Master’s face. That is enough.”

They stood in silence. The air trembled with waiting.

Finally, Ethan asked, wondering about the local Indians and the legends they told, “And those first people, the ones who carved the rocks, did they know?”

“They reached for something true, but their hands fell short,” the angel replied. “They called it wind, fire, spirit. They carved without knowing the Name above all names. Yet still, there was hunger in them. Reverence. I honor that.”

Ethan’s voice trembled. “What about… me?”

The angel said nothing at first.

Then, “You are wounded. But not abandoned.”

Ethan blinked into a moment of darkness and then reopened his eyes. Light returned, but different now.

Blue and pulsing on the fractured wreck of his car. The vehicle's front crumpled against a now dark cliff. Emergency lights strobed across the stone. EMTs crouched over him, voices muffled.

“You’re lucky… few scratches… concussion, maybe. Just stay still, okay?”

Ethan turned his head, vision swimming. A shape on the cliff, just shadow, just light. But for a breath, it looked like a wing etched against the stone.

Later, he would try to explain it to his ex-wife, to his pastor, to himself. But there were no words for what he had seen. Only that something had changed. Not the world, not yet. But him.

His daughter was still gone. Yet somehow he knew she’d gone to that better place. He would see her again smiling in the presence of the Lord in which the angel dwelt. The wars, the chaos, and the generic global despair were still here. But now he knew: there were watchmen at the edge of everything, faithful and fierce. Ancient as time. Silent as stars. They were simply waiting for the perfect moment, the one that only God Himself could command them to. When they acted, the world would end and things would be better again. It was a simple vision, but it burned in his heart and soul, animating his being with new purpose and energy.

And this angel, this waiting sentinel, was likely more deadly than every tyrant or gangster on the evening news combined. More devastating than every bomb, every virus, every lie.

Yet Ethan felt something strange in that knowledge.

Assurance.

Because that power, terrible, overwhelming, unflinching, wasn’t on the side of chaos.

It was on the side of the good.

Maybe the gangsters, the tyrants, and the smiling devourers of nations would think twice if they looked into the eyes Ethan had seen.

Maybe the world wasn't bad enough to end just yet.

Maybe… there was still time.


Notes



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