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| A Brother's Fate |
Obadiah—still carrying the memory of ancient winds, dusty hills, and King David’s parting words—stepped back into the Arklow Bible Museum’s basement corridor. The transition from the warmth of biblical times to the modern chill of fluorescent lights was always jarring, no matter how often he did it. Pausing, he exhaled to steady himself. Time-jumps were as exhilarating as they were draining.
“Uncle?” came a voice from the stairwell. “You back?”
Laric, Obadiah’s nephew, hurried down. Despite his youthful face, he had a quiet maturity that hinted at his angelic roots, though he easily passed for an ordinary young man to everyone else.
Obadiah—publicly Brian Sessions—managed a faint smile. “I’m back,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry if I worried you. That last visit with King David was… unexpectedly long.”
Laric studied him. “Everything okay? You look wiped out.”
“Just tired,” Obadiah admitted.
They climbed to the museum’s main floor, where morning sunlight illuminated replicas, artifacts, and biblical timelines. Staff bustled, preparing for the day. Laric kept his voice low.
“You’re sure you don’t want me tagging along on these trips?” he asked. “I could help if things get dicey.”
Obadiah shook his head. “Not yet. Your time will come—just not now. We need one of us firmly here in the present.” He tried a reassuring grin.
Laric sighed, nodding. “All right. I’ll keep watch, make sure no one wonders where you vanish to.” Then he hesitated. “At least you’re safe, Uncle.”
Before Obadiah could reply, the museum’s front door opened abruptly. Dr. Cassandra Gregory, one of his closest friends, hurried in. She wore her white clinic coat, her hair disheveled and her eyes brimming with tense hope. Obadiah felt a chill—he’d rarely seen her this rattled.
“Brian,” Cassandra said, striding forward. Laric stepped aside. “Got a minute?”
“Of course.” Obadiah noted the curious glances from staff. “Laric, can you excuse us?”
“Sure.” Laric, catching her urgency, headed into the exhibit hall.
Obadiah led Cassandra into a small side office lined with biblical commentaries. The moment he shut the door, she burst out, “My brother might be alive.”
He blinked. “Cassandra, I thought—”
“I thought the same thing,” she said, her voice trembling. “Daniel was declared killed in action months ago, but I received word—an email and a video clip—that he may still be alive, held captive somewhere. I’ve reached out to the State Department and tried every avenue, but nothing has worked. Brian, you have connections in that region. Please, I’m begging you for your help.”
His mind flashed to the frantic battles he’d experienced in past missions, both in biblical eras and modern times. He knew one slip could expose his secret. Yet Cassandra was near tears for her own family.
“Tell me everything,” Obadiah said gently.
She recounted the grainy footage: Daniel, alive but imprisoned by a militant group overseas. Officials offered no help, claiming the video was fake. Her hands shook as she clung to what little hope remained.
Obadiah carefully weighed his options, but ultimately, how could he refuse her? “You believe it’s real?”
Cassandra nodded and wiped away her tears. “I have a gut feeling Daniel is still alive.”
After a moment of reflection, he replied, “All right, I’ll give it a shot. But I can’t make guarantees; this might be beyond my capabilities. I want to see that video.”
She exhaled, tears welling. “Thank you. Even if it’s a long shot, I have to try.”
That evening, after Cassandra left, Obadiah wandered into the museum’s archive room. Soft overhead lights pooled over shelves of manuscripts. A tapestry depicting an angel shielding travelers reminded him of both his duty and his burden.
A glow spread across the far wall. Obadiah closed his eyes. “Michael,” he said.
The archangel stepped forward, radiating a calm light that lit the dusty manuscripts. His voice held gentle authority. “Cassandra’s brother is alive, Obadiah. You sense it; I confirm it.”
Obadiah inhaled shakily. “Is this the soldier you spoke about?”
Michael nodded. “It is.”
“I’m reluctant,” Obadiah admitted. “My last mission was so long ago.”
Michael gave a sympathetic nod. “I know you hesitate. Still, Daniel Gregory’s survival matters more than you realize. You must intervene—discreetly. I will call upon those to help.”
Obadiah murmured, “Cassandra’s a good friend. I have to do this.”
Michael’s presence faded. “Go, Obadiah. Let your faith guide you.”
The next day, Obadiah pieced together a cover story for traveling overseas: a quest for rumored biblical artifacts in a war-torn region. Cassandra asked few questions, grateful for any hope.
Within a week, Obadiah stepped onto a dusty airstrip in a country scarred by conflict. Soldiers patrolled warily. Presenting his Arklow Bible Museum credentials, he cleared the initial checkpoints, claiming he needed to reach an archaeological site rumored to contain ancient scrolls.
Heart pounding, he left the airport for a makeshift aid station, silently praying for angelic allies to blend in among mortals. If all went well, no one would suspect a thing.
Inside the aid station, men and women in worn uniforms distributed supplies to displaced families. One, a slim man with kind eyes, approached him.
“Obadiah,” he said quietly. “We’ve been expecting you.”
Obadiah felt a faint aura of celestial energy—angels in disguise, sent by Michael. “Thank you for coming,” he said under his breath.
The disguised angel nodded. “We have intel on a militant group holding captives—Daniel Gregory among them, plus others. We act tonight, under darkness.”
That evening, Obadiah and his angelic companions approached a heavily guarded compound. Rather than violence or firearms, they relied on illusions, silent maneuvering, and well-timed distractions.
Whenever a guard patrol neared, angels whispered prayers that conjured faint mirages, sending guards chasing shadows. Obadiah’s heart pounded at each step. A single misstep could destroy everything.
Finally, they found a makeshift prison block. Inside cramped cells, people lay huddled on filthy mats. Obadiah scanned the dim hall.
“Daniel Gregory?” he called softly.
A weak voice answered from the far corner, raw with thirst and exhaustion. Obadiah crouched by the bars, shining a small flashlight. A man with familiar hazel eyes sat there, dazed.
“I’m a friend of your sister,” Obadiah whispered, placing a hand over the lock; it opened. “We’re getting you out.”
Footsteps approached—a guard. One of the angels murmured a prayer, a ripple of light disorienting him. Gently, they laid him aside, unconscious. No violence, just a quiet miracle.
Obadiah helped Daniel up. The man’s knees nearly buckled. Two other captives, a journalist and an aid worker, stood nearby, pleading.
“You’re coming too,” he said. “We’ll get everyone out.”
With illusions and divine nudges, they slipped past the militants’ perimeter to an old truck. Daniel collapsed into a seat, an angel disguised as a driver steadying him. Obadiah glanced at the starless sky, silently praying they’d make it out safely. Moments later, the truck rumbled into the desert, vanishing into the night.
Two days later, Daniel lay in a hospital bed back in Cassandra’s city. He was exhausted but alive. The other captives were also recovering, thanks to humanitarian groups who’d flown them home.
In a quiet hospital corridor, Cassandra paced, awaiting the doctor’s updates. She brightened when Obadiah rounded the corner.
“Brian!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him. “They got him out—he’s here!”
He returned the embrace, feeling her relief. “I’m glad he’s safe.”
“How did you manage this?” she asked, pulling back. “I know you have museum contacts, but this is beyond imagination.”
Obadiah offered a modest shrug. “I reached out to humanitarian folks overseas. Right place, right time.”
A nurse motioned Cassandra into Daniel’s room. Obadiah followed quietly. Daniel lay propped up by pillows, an IV in place. A faint grin spread across his gaunt face when he saw his sister.
“Sis,” he croaked. “I’m sorry you worried so long.”
Cassandra pressed a hand over her mouth, tears falling. She bent to hug him gently. “You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”
Daniel’s gaze shifted to Obadiah. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I don’t get how you did it, but… I owe you my life.”
Obadiah shook his head. “You owe your sister. She never stopped believing.”
Over the next few days, Daniel slowly regained his strength. With Cassandra focused on his recovery, there was little opportunity for her to question Obadiah’s role in the incident. The hospital buzzed with typical chaos, nurses hurrying about. For Cassandra, it felt like a haven—her brother was safe, and that was enough.
Government officials asked how Cassandra had managed to find Daniel. She shrugged, mentioning an anonymous tip and the help of a friend’s overseas contacts. They seemed doubtful but ultimately filed it away as a private rescue mission, their gratitude overshadowing lingering curiosity.
Later that evening, Obadiah slipped into the hospital’s small chapel. Stained-glass windows cast colored light over the pews. He sank into the last row, head bowed, until a warm glow signaled another presence.
“Michael,” Obadiah said, sitting up straighter.
Soft footsteps echoed on the tiled floor. “You did well, Obadiah,” the archangel said. “Many lives were saved.”
Obadiah exhaled, letting lingering tension slip away. “I know Cassandra’s relieved. Thank you for sending the angels.”
Michael’s smile held gentle encouragement. “All that matters is Daniel is safe, and Cassandra’s faith remains strong.”
Obadiah rose, meeting the archangel’s gaze. “So I stay ready for whatever comes next?”
“Yes,” Michael replied. “You have answered a call no one else could. Rest in that.”
As swiftly as he’d arrived, Michael vanished, leaving a hush behind him. Obadiah lingered, reflecting on Cassandra’s joy and Daniel’s second chance. The quiet miracles that had paved the way reminded him why, no matter the risk, he would always answer when someone cried out for help.