Along the edges of the rooftops, a dancer dares not open her eyes for fear of what she might see. She braves a shaky blind step, moving as if suddenly surprised by a beckoning voice in the wind. When the delicate fabric of an aged pointe shoe finally lands on solid roofing, she accepts fate's hand with eyes shut. She glides away from the lip of danger, rounding a courageous tour jetê in order to implement a change of direction. The dangerous dance-- unsafe, even if her eyes would dare to open-- brings life to undead tendons within a moribund heart. Though her heart is weighted by fear, the dancer's steps are lively and her muscles spring with ease as the blood begins to thicken anew.
The dancer's breath hitches in her chest when her foot brushes empty space. For the terrifying flash of a second, she loses her balance and begins to fall. Her eyelids clench tighter and she holds her breath as her other foot careens forward. She dares not open her eyes but she knows she stands on the cusp of either life or death. One more step and she might never walk or dance again.
The dancer's heart pounds like an unsteady hand upon death's door. She is testing the limits of a God in which she is not entirely confident. The dancer was raised to believe that good faith is all she needs to convene a sort of salvation from a merciful God. Salvation admittedly does sound more desirable than the oblivion that she currently lives.
The wearying dancer piqué dégagés to another position on pointe, unsure if this footfall will be the one to send her toppling down to the street below. She is keenly aware that to test the Christian God is a sin-- and she will likely not receive much satisfaction in the end. However, if a God truly exists, the dancer believes she will not suffer the seven-story drop to a fate worse than the hell she already occupies. Her toe lands firmly on the concrete leveled six inches below where she previously stood.
The antiquated roofing tears at her fragile pointe shoes with each landing upon gritty and groaning structural roofing. She does not twirl along a smooth roofed skyscraper, but rather, atop a warehouse between the alleys of two streets lined with historic suburbs just outside of industrial belt of New York. This abandoned building, that she dances along now, is in the process of long-term decay and has been since its neglect in the eighties. It could collapse beneath her weight after any bounding leap.
That's why she's chosen to dance here, specifically.
Despite the distant pain of her harsh dance, the contemplative dancer seems to ignore the bitter sting of each rough landing, of every step. Stronger than the shoes that fail her, however, which by now do almost nothing to alleviate the stress on her toes, she stands taller and taller with every turn. The pointe shoes are so old-- her favorite pair-- and so comfortably worn around her feet, they are unfortunately hazardous. If she's not careful, she'll easily snap an ankle-- for lack of support. Dancing career over, dreams kaput, life meaningless, if that were to be so.
At the thought, the dancer pauses briefly to open her eyes and blink for the first time in several minutes. She shakily wipes the sweat beads from across her forehead and in the crevices around her eyes, mouth, and nose. She sighs as she pulls away raw, dusty hands now damp with feverish sweat. Febrile pain ripples in her calves and thighs when she lifts them again for a glissade into a stretching developpé. The dancer is overworking herself.
She heaves the stale air above the warehouse in and out while she silently pauses to circle her ankles; the air tastes like dust. Of a mind to unlace the shredded pointe shoes, the dancer relaxes her aching toes. She leaves the shoes on after she shakes them out, however, unwilling to take the time to unravel the careful ties around each ankle. Wilting like a flower, the dancer allows herself to bend carefully into a sitting position, unconcerned with the pulverant pebbles lining the roof. She hugs her knees to her chin and closes her eyes again.
A trembling sadness clutches the dancer's heart like panic when she returns to the concentrated darkness of her mind. Scant of better options, the dancer lifts her suddenly tear-brimmed, blinking eyes skyward-- longing to just feel whole again. The pinpricks of unwelcome tears battle their way from two inches behind her eyes as if they should be heralded and welcomed. A strangled gasp escapes chapped lips as the tears finally fall over unwilling eyelids. She trembles beneath the weight of newly unfettered fear.
She wipes at her tears by pressing her cheeks tighter to her knees. Shuddering still, the dancer looks up into the gradient of twilight. The forlorn, lonely dancer sighs shakily with the mid-summer night breeze. Her hair clings to her neck and face like cobwebs in the wind.
"You are an exquisite dancer, Rhea Remley," an admiring voice emulates the presence of God as it interrupts the turgid silence.
The dancer immediately jumps to her feet and instinctively, as a ballerina might turn to her introspective partner, whirls on her toes in search of the unknown speaker. Immediate shock jolts every muscle into gear-grinding motion. Fight or flight instincts are now jostling within Rhea's mind while she turns and turns. She acknowledges after a moment that she cannot locate the speaker of the disembodied praise, coming to a dizzied halt.
Tender hands appear on the dancer's hips, unannounced. Rhea's skin twinges in alarm, starting her whole body into the air. She shakes herself free of the stranger's grip at once, heart racing with fear as she wildly throws her head in search of the attacker. The dancer presses her hands over her ears when she hears her own blood roaring intensely. Her head spins-- or maybe she spins-- the spinning accompanied by migraine-like pressure from her dizzied confusion. Fueled by fright, Rhea cries out, her stricken cry echoing into the otherwise mute evening air.
The dancer scrambles to push fallen hair away from her eyes and stand to face her attacker. She curses herself as she surveys the seemingly empty rooftop. Her heart pounds with so much force, Rhea fears that it will burst like a balloon. She carefully turns and searches each corner of the rooftop for another anxious, eerily silent moment. Her heart slows and her eyes roll until she blinks herself back to reality. The dancer gasps as she suddenly stumbles with addled discomfiture.
After several heartbeats pass, however, Rhea suddenly realizes the attacker is turning with her at the same rate she moves.
"Please, little bird, be still," pleasantly warm breath disturbs the hair on her neck.
The voice is resplendent with power, and yet, also with amicability. Rhea has no time to wonder, however. The dancer urgently gathers herself to just leap forward, away from the enemy. She is all at once into the air with the force and speed of a bullet. As she lands, one hand touches the gritty ground to steady herself.
"Who are...?" her question slows upon finally sighting the owner of the sweet voice.
"Who are you?" the dancer finishes shakily, "How do you know my name?"
The sentence is punctuated with another feverish, hesitant step back. Rhea is, by now, on the cusp of full-blown panic. Even as tunnel vision overtakes her purpling vision, however, she can judge his answer by the great feathered wings protruding from his back, and the soft light glowing from a white circlet around his head. Alabaster robes sweep his great presence into one united and powerful statue. He is the nebulous picture of a divine being.
Yet, his face and his body are altogether human. The dancer's throat dries from confusion. Rhea wishes to say something-- anything-- but her constricted throat will yield nothing above a whispered puff. The angel's eyes soften as he studies the mingling of white joy and black terror on her face.
He is not the average Western conception of an angel. Restated: he is not a rustically handsome, middle-aged white man. The color of sparsely sweetened coffee, which gives life to otherwise exhausted mornings for the working dancer, hues his skin. More interestingly, his eyes captivate a stormy ocean scheme, reminding the dancer of paint that is not yet entirely mixed between onyx and sapphire. Overall, his physique is humanly youthful-- maybe even not so much older than she.
Rhea sinks heavily to her knees in what can only be described as unadulterated awe. His tentative steps forward bring the dancer's all but stopped heart to life. If there is any remnant of certainty about anything left in the dancer's mind, she is lost as to where it might be. Rhea's jaw sits agape, even as the angel begins to speak again.
"I am the angel Tanziel," he introduces himself with an air of gentle empathy.
He speaks almost apologetically to the dancer, in hushed and tender tones. He takes another slow step toward the trembling dancer.
"Do not be afraid, Rhea. I will not harm you," his hands lift in what could be an invitation for her to come to him.
Rhea blinks hard before she meets his intense blue gaze. Her own amber eyes now dart from side to side, still subliminally searching for a possible flight. Before Rhea can spring to her feet and follow her instincts, however, the angel levels himself with her. He folds his wings in, kneeling before the enthralled dancer.
"I've never read about an angel named Tanziel," Rhea leans back uncertainly, shaking her head when he begins to lean forward.
"That is to be expected," Tanziel acquiesces. "Your ancient and censored Bible speaks naught of my name-- or the names of most of my brethren. I am an angel of music," he bows his head low.
The dancer blinks through reddening vision in feverish-like surprise. Is Rhea sick? Perhaps she's dreaming-- passed out after overworking herself at the diner. It would not be the first time she's worked herself blue in the face for the extra overtime pay. What the angel said, however, manages to rattle itself into her frontal lobe.
An angel... of music? There are angels of things?
A goodnatured chuckle penetrates Rhea's echoing senses, reminding the dancer of resounding church bells before it accompanies his charming voice. He seems so gentle but he is so terrifyingly divine that Rhea can hardly process what action she should take. He claims to be an angel, but could he be a devil in disguise? He promised he wouldn't hurt her but, still, she hesitates to trust this creature.
"You are blessed with a most musical soul, Rhea Remley. More musical, I might add, than King David himself," the angel of music peers curiously at the ledge where she danced only moments ago, interrupting her thoughts.
"But, Rhea," Tanziel glances down, "hard times come to your country, so I think it best, as your guardian, that you have company."
"Company as in...?" Rhea says slowly, "...You?" Tanziel nods graciously. "And you're my guardian angel?" Rhea hesitates.
"That is correct," Tanziel exhales and shrugs his shoulders.
"And that means... all of it... all of the Abrahamic teachings and stories-- they're real?" Rhea muses, touching a hand to her chin in thought.
Tanziel's face changes and he coughs uncomfortably.
"Let us put a pin in that--" he starts awkwardly, "that is a complicated conversation; however, for now, Rhea--" Tanziel helps the dancer to her feet, "I would be honored to share a dance with you."
~Author here: Don't forget to comment and vote 😊~