All is not well in heaven.
Here's a short story I've been working on for about a week. Enjoy.
All is not well in heaven.
The clouds break as she cries, her wings withering and crumbling.
Her now limp body falls through the clouds.
A streak of white fabric across the dark sky.
An orange flash follows shortly after, racing faster, faster to catch her body before it is crushed.
Her head pounds, and the beginnings of bony growths start to form on her forehead. Still she falls, cursed. Discarded. Stripped of her glory.
Until she's no longer falling,
Surrounded by orange wings and a soft glow. He's done it. He's caught her. But at what cost?
The glowing crevice in the sky, the gates to heaven slam shut with a mighty clap of thunder. They can't go back now.
Wingbeats.
They descend, the strain on her weakened body becoming too much to bear.
She sleeps. In his arms, surrounded by his many wings, she will not be seen. Hidden from prying eyes. They will not see the sins she was wrongfully accused of.
~
Hidden in the forest they curl together. Her now pale, frail, and shivering body, a shell of what it once was, enveloped by his six, warm wings. Here they will stay, warm and sheltered until she regains strength, regains consciousness.
~
They are not men and women, by anyone's standards. They may look as human as you or me, but they are far more than we will ever become. They may look like us, but they don't work in quite the same way.
~
She slowly, oh so slowly, she rises through the fog, struggles against the weight inside her eyes, as if swimming through molasses.
She feels so empty.
She has lost so much of herself.
A flower, withered and wilted, missing half its petals.
But she is warm.
She is warm, and her body shivers against the hum. The soft vibration of music from deep inside someone's chest. The veil is thinner now. She struggles for consciousness.
She struggles to lift her head, unused to the weight of her burdens, the weight of the horns now sprouting from her forehead.
~
He has waited and will wait for however long it takes. She is so small, so frail compared to her former glory. Gently, because she is the most fragile thing in the world, he cradles her body.
He sings of old songs.
The first songs, the songs of creation. He hums them to her, in hopes they will help guide her to the surface. He sings for her, and mourns her circumstances.
She begins to stir against his chest, and he looks down, to behold the being he has sacrificed everything for.
Eyes stare up, clear as blown glass, wide with unexplainable emotions. The shine of newly polished Amethyst, in a sea of white.
They stare at each other silently for many minutes.
She searches every inch of his face, searching for answers she doesn't know how to ask the questions to.
"Why, why would you join me. You have discarded everything you have ever known, you have discarded your pact to the creator. Why. Why me."
Said as a statement, intended as a question.
"For you."
"Am I worth more than the creator itself?"
"The creator can't disappear. You can."
"Why would you care so much for my disappearance?"
"A question I do not fully know the answer to, currently. Perhaps it will be revealed in time"
That's new. This is the first time he has been genuinely unsure of something.
Satisfied with that answer for the time being, she gazes down to her own body. So much smaller than what she was before. Look at what she has been reduced to, punished for a crime she didn't commit. She is a fraction, a sliver, the barest slice, barely enough to be considered an angel.
"It'll be okay"
The voice low, reassuring himself as much as he was reassuring her.
She didn't realize before, but he too is much smaller than what he was.
More human than they've ever been.
A flower, withered and wilted, missing half its petals.
Hana. That is who she has become.
Hana.
An old name. Tales of ages, tied to stories of blood.
Mikail.
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