Through the robin’s egg blue skies, upward into the mists of the clouds, far, far, unfathomably far, into the reaches of the Heavens, lie the Angels. The ones whose holy beauty and natural grace have become trademark of their image. Creatures of biblical myth for eons, the fair messengers of the Creator himself, living so high above the eyes of mortals it is not truthful to say that they truly exist.

Who are the Angels? They are painted on murals in chapels and churches and cathedrals, spoken of and quoted in the book of prayer. Shining, comforting figures - generations have looked to them for solace, prayed to them in times of need. When the word ‘angel’ is mentioned, whether it be in the place you worship or perhaps just in causality, one image is summoned beyond all else:

White wings.

Like those of a dove, white, feathered wings, on which to carry their bearer through the air. What is the need for such wings? Why are they so symbolic?

You are not alone in your pondering. Others have yearned to know as you have. Others have been just as perplexed. Others have been angry.

Others have succeeded.

The flames rise higher, cackling like a thousand evils and devouring everything in their path. Fire, the symbol of the one who was thrown out. The one who lives far below. An inferno.

Screams pierce the air as surely as a sword, the sound of yet another life being destroyed. Where do Angels go when they die? Where is the burial for the Divine?

She hurries down the path. They have not discovered it just yet. But they will soon. Very soon. She must act quickly. She knows her time has almost run out.

She stops at the edge. Where she can see the stars and the world below. Silently she pulls back the blanket from the child’s head. A little girl. She is young. She is innocent. She is hope.

The woman presses her fingers to her head. Under her breath she chants the familiar words, words of a language known to no human being. She allows herself no tears. There, from the edge of her home, she throws the little body over.

She hears them approach. Their callous, leering voices, the darkness in their eyes. They have come for her, like they have come for the rest.

She turns her head to look back once more, over the edge. She sees nothing. She says a final prayer.

There is the clank of metal and a low cackle. She faces their swords. She has done all she can.

It is time.

Something stirred in the dusky darkness of night.

The moon was ere overhead, full and obscured by the curving branches of a behemoth oak, rising from the earth forlorn in the midst of the prairie. And within it, where the shadows stretched as deep and ink-black as oceans, there was a hollow, round as the moon itself.

It could have been a nest, a refuge for a barn owl, such was the size of it. That was, if there had not been a sleeping girl curled up in it.

Indeed, the womanly form lay crouched inside, delicate lashes quivering as she began to awake. She was wrapped sensitively in a bundle of cloth, pearl-bright in the darkness, and flowing around her was a great tangle of brunette hair, matted with the leaves and twigs of years. And enclosing her, very visible, was a pair of feathered white wings.

Again she showed signs of waking. She shifted in her slumber, a faint moan tumbling from her lips. The material shifted as well, so that it barely covered her petite bodice; a makeshift toga. Minutes crept by, an owl hooted from his perch in a far-away tree. Crickets chirped, unknown creatures scuffled through the underbrush.

And then, slowly, deliberately, her eyes lifted. Soft with sleep, they gleamed in an almost feline way, the golden hue of amber, and flecked with hazel. Her surroundings filtered into focus, the air smelt musky and earthen, almost stuffy. She was barely conscious, yet suddenly alert and aware of the world around her. Slowly, she lifted her body erect, and sat in the hollow of the tree. Her mind was fresh, new, she felt a sudden flow of energy throughout her body, her alien body.

Then began the confusion.

The girl studied her hands, her body. When had this happened? She craned her neck through the rustic opening, into the lunar-impaled night. Where was she? It was the sensation of waking up for the first time, one who had been in a dream-filled coma for so long. Memories came unbidden, sketchy and sparse. She recalled holding hands with someone, a beautiful woman who she had cared a great deal about, and flames, roaring and licking the stars... then nothing, her mind was blank. How could she be this old, and know so little?

She fingered her wings, absently stroking them. They were the only clue to her past. They looked strange, enchanting... yet felt so right, so familiar...

Could she fly with them?

On new, able legs she climbed from her prison, emerged into a new world. The air was still and cool. Imitating a statue, a savior, she stood tall, and stretched her wings for the first time in many years.

They lifted her from the ground, a tingling sensation began at the tips of her feet and spread throughout her body. Tentatively, as if just testing the waters, she rose higher, trembling. Birds erupted from the trees, screeching. This felt... right.

And, with a final nervous swoop, she ventured out into the brave new world.