angel

After a while he stops, and still panting heavily stands in front of the porthole. The reflection in the armorglass is blurry, but I need not see his eyes to know that the storm of emotion has not abated. His hand extends, touching the glass ever so lightly and the longing written on his face makes my heart skip a beat. He leans his forehead against the cold surface, as if in anguish, and my hand reaches out instinctively towards him. No. I pull it back, and it clenches into a fist over my heart.

His breath calms and I sense a change. Yes, something is different. He raises his head and his whole body radiates the decision that has been made. He turns his back on the stars and I sink deeper into the shadows, not wanting to reveal myself. His shoulders straighten and his eyes take on the quality of flint. Then he walks off the flight deck, his determined steps fading off in the distance. I remain standing there, silently in the shadows, for a long time.

A few days later, I am standing unnoticed in a corner outside the flight deck. Watching the 5-8 waiting, as I am waiting. I see their worry, their fear. The relief and thankfulness as the word comes in. My ears register the muffled sounds of a Hammerhead docking below me and then a single cockpit appears on the otherwise dead flight deck. The figure inside is motionless. The deck pressurizes with a hiss and a flight crew bustles trough the opening doors. They center on the cockpit, its canopy now raised. His helmet is removed and switches are disconnected.

His face is harrowed and weary, and has a numb look to it. I see blood running down the side of his neck. The triumph and fierce satisfaction in his eyes is clearly visible, yet there lies a tired sadness behind it all. Like someone who has been given the answer and still keeps wondering *"Is this it..?"* And in that moment my heart reaches out to him. Wanting to comfort yet unable to do so. I shiver and wrap my arms around me.

He climbs out of the cockpit and sees the 5-8, his 5-8, standing there. Helmet under his arm, he makes his way towards them, and they part to let him through. No one speaks, sensing that words alone could not express what they feel in their hearts. I see people look at him with amazement and reverence in their eyes. They stand in speechless silence as the Angel passes by them. Just before he is about to turn the corner, his gaze drifts over me and I freeze in place. Silent recognition of shared insights pass between us and then he continues down the corridor. I solemnly watch him walk away and a sense of wonder fills me. And I am grateful to have been here. To have seen him, and, to some extent, understood him. The Angel. He does not know me... nor I him. Or maybe I do. Just a little.

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