Wings To The World

2.

'The one where they dance around the fire.'

Before me stood the first of the people in our creation. 

Oh, it was a paradise we'd created. 

Skimming my hands over their for, I began to fill it with whatever I could. I breathed in time with it, trying to pull it from the brink of existence into something so warm and tender. As the form took whatever I gave, hungry and eager, I let the light settle around the room and come to a stop. 

"Pality," The voice in the corner was low, soft, and growing. Glancing to the doorway, I saw no other than Naphalie. "What might you be doing here so early?"
"Work," I called back, stepping away from my creation and into the line of her sight. "There is so much to get done, and so little-"

"There is plenty of time," Naphalie's voice was soft, trickling with fire. "Come, take a walk with me. We have time to spare."

That was true, time was irrelevant when you spent most of your time among the clouds. It was rather easy to forget, between centuries and an hour, time had no real concept when you had no time for it. 

Head filled with questions, I took her hand as she scuffed off her shoes and pulled me out the door to dance. 

There is a valley, a small nook carved out in the side of the hill. From there, beyond the stretching trees and bushes, you can look down upon the city below. People bustle about below, going about their lives. When the sun begins to pull its gentle colours across the sky as it fades, you can watch them retreat to their houses. They are so soft, and naïve, and colourful. 

Naphalie pulls me into the valley. She steps upon the cracked concrete tiles half-embedded in mould and dirt, and she is glowing. Her hair begins to shimmer as the first lights-which creep past the leaves of the trees-dance upon it. 

Her hand feels fitted and warm in mine. She settles on the edge of a wooden log, next to the stairs and a tree that grows too fast for its own liking. The valley is peaceful, filled with memories of others. There is no place quite like it, and yet the workshop still holds a spark so much more than the valley's own one. 

"You work too much," Naphalie hums, caressing a leaf. The leaf seems to lean into her touch. It falls back into place as she kicks her heels against the base of the log she sits on. "Spend some time out here."

I oblige, and settle on the ground in front of the log. She watches me, smiling, and begins a tune. It's familiar, held before my reach, caressing me in a way that's so gentle I'm almost scared to join. 

She looks a thousand times younger in this light. Every crease of her face has settled back, freckles lining her face. Her lips, soft and small, seem coloured like a tulip, while the rest of her shape is as if it rose from the ground itself. 

Around her neck sits a few thousand pieces of string, all carrying some sort of story. Meanwhile her wrists hold a few thousand bracelets of her soul she never bothers to take off. And she looks so peaceful, so unique. 

I hum along. 

Angels are beings known for their voices, which fill every part of the room they're in with light. Known for their collective music, of course, and very few can sing on their own. The few that can spend their times down in the valley, doing exactly that- singing.