Knees pulled up against his chest, Sagra sat on the white bench. The far-away look in his eyes betrayed his presence, the firm way that his back was leaned against the roses behind him. Yet his skin was not pierced by the thorns, and their petals were not bruised; nor where their stems broken.

A piece of parchment rested upon his lap; also untouched. Just as the roses surrounding him, almost drowning him in their heady scent. There was no ink, no quill; nothing to mark the paper for its purpose, to use and later cherish it.

Sagra’s long hands, those of an artist, usually stained by ink, were folded together placidly under his chin. There was frustration welling up in his heart, sadness. The beauty of the day left him untouched, unmoved, as he stared blankly ahead.

Inspiration had not come; Chaioth had not visited him in a long time, being kept busy with more important matters than being the muse of one of his own. Of course. Sagra understood this, wholly. It caused him mental agony nevertheless.

Comfortingly his wings, a brilliant shade of gray, folded around his shoulders. For a moment shielding him from whatever was happening outside. Those governing the World were holding audience with Him, the Great One. Embodied by the Tree of Life, tucked away in the deeper parts of the maze. Yes, the Heavenly Host was a complicated place to live in . . .

A sigh escaped Sagra’s lips. He must repress jealousy, or any other feeling of greed on his behalf. Another had taken his place, yes. That was no reason to be envious. They were all loved the same, all the same . . . Nothing would change that.

Even if one of them turned useless, out of the blue. Falling into a personal version of disgrace. They were not really, only told themselves they were. Worthless. Failures. Wallowing in their self-pity, until Amaliel was forced to cast them out.

Only to make another tear fall; having been shed by the eyes of true innocence of the mind, Michael. His grief deepened, grew. He had never smiled, since the first of their kind had been cast from the Host. Aerie, as they called it. Heaven.

Sagra sighed once more. A cruel world, for all its beauty. He tossed his head, light silver wisps of hair falling away from his face. To reveal big eyes of violet, wise and unknowing at the same time. Not the pained gray of Michael’s, nor the hardened azure of Gabriel’s.

His own. Wise, yet inquisitive. With knowledge hidden deep, deep inside, untouchable for him. For anyone else. Innocent, gentle, caring. No hardened edge of a warrior to their gaze, which was always smiling. Always asking, always needing something new.

Something new would be good indeed. Sagra was desperate; almost enough to go seek out Samandiriel, who was prone to swings of mood. Sagra always resented seeking out someone else’s help; especially if it was someone of such high ranking, who would easily deliver him to the cruel hand of the Powers. Merely to rid himself of a nuisance.

Ah, this was not a good train of thought to follow. Sagra’s gaze wandered from the blank parchment before him to the large, gnarled branches of the Tree of Life. They easily reached over the walls of the green maze, planted and kept with such care.

They said it moved, sometimes. The Tree. When something in particular stirred the Great One’s heart. Sagra had never seen it happen; part of him wished he had, or would. And part of him was deathly afraid that it might be bad news.

But, indeed, what an honor it would be . . .

Quietly he smiled to himself, stretching his ever so slightly cramped limbs. Even for him, sitting in one position for a long period of time could be harmful. Perhaps he should be on the move. Wandering and searching for another place to sit and think.

But, no. He didn’t feel the need to. Was perfectly comfortable with his current spot. Surrounded by roes, underneath the delicate arches through which the vines, laden with blossoms, threaded, wove their ways. Their sweet smell pungent in the air, essential to the mood.

Vaguely did he hear music -- singing -- drifting over the whitewashed walls of the Greater Palace. Sweet, rich voices, rising and falling. A wave in the ocean; sometimes playful, sometimes vicious. A wild animal, next moment a tamed beast.

High and low; now only two voices. A duet, battling each other. Each fighting for the upper hand without even the slightest trace of violence; merely with their crystal clear voices, fragile and strong at the same time.

He barely heard the soft footsteps approaching, coming closer to him. Only then did he look up when someone lightly grasped his wings, pulling them away from his face so he could see. A gentle touch, as anything else existing in this place; even the most scar-riddled, calloused hands of a warrior had a gentle feel to it.

You shall not inflict pain upon another creature . . . Sagra recalled. He had written that line himself, under the instruction of the Great One. In a trance, as if out of this world; drugged.

“Sagra!”

He raised his eyes, only to meet brown ones that equaled his own in expression. “Eloa,” he said, surprised. “I didn’t expect to see you here. One doesn’t see you in the gardens often.”

Her skin was pale, a silent indicator of the truth in his words. The smile on her lips was honest, genuine; her left eye covered by her mahogany hair. “No, one doesn’t. I do have much to take care of . . .” Thoughtfully she tilted her head to the side, causing her tresses to shift, shimmering, in the sun. “But, that’s quite enough of me. How have you been faring?”

“In all honesty? There is no muse for me, it seems.”

Eloa laughed lightly, head thrown back. “Oh, do not jest. These are matters of utter sincerity. Truly, there is no way inspiration would be failed to be granted to you.”

“I do not jest.” How could he, over matters this important? He himself surely did not find it amusing in any way or fashion. More saddening, really. And so frustrating . . . He could watch the other scribes’ quills fly, they themselves high on the wings of inspiration

While he was grounded. Standing still as a tree, a silent sentinel of nature; damned to see the world pass him by. The world of scribes and scholars. And to think this had been going on for some time . . . It was already driving him quite mad.

“Oh my. You do mean it.” The laughter vanished from her eyes and now her look was slightly worried. She sat down next to him, then leaned against his legs and folded her arms on his knees, resting her chin atop so she could look him straight in the eye. “Why didn’t you say so?”

Hadn’t he? Well, perhaps she hadn’t noticed. He couldn’t quite tell. But he was glad she understood, instead of handing him out to the Powers, to dispose of him. Or ban him. It all depended on their mood.

Sagra never wanted to be the cause of Michael’s tears. Never. There was nothing more cruel than breaking an already wounded heart even more. Ignorance of such things would be a bliss, indeed; one that Sagra did not want. Nor would ever wish for.

“See this rose here?” Eloa said, interrupting his thoughts. She was holding a rose delicately between her thumb and her forefinger, careful not to prick her skin on the sharp thorns. Sagra nodded his consent.

“See,” Eloa continued, holding it up further for him to see, “how it is a flower, as beautiful as they come? Fragile blossoms, only swaying ever so gently in a breeze. And even so, they are not harmed. But,” she said, “they also have their measures of defense. One thorn” -- she gently tapped her finger on one of them, thus making it bleed where it had been pricked -- “can hurt a great deal.”

She smiled, apparently glad that she had caught his attention; her warm, golden-brown wings flexed, blocking out the light for a second, then folded again. It was a lecture on something Sagra already knew about, always true. Nevertheless he let himself be enraptured by her way of speech, her fluid speech and ways of demonstrating her knowledge.

“Roses are beautiful. Likely one of the most complete of all the Creations. They’re not always what they seem, though,” Eloa stated. With that, she let the flower drop into the air. It fell for an inch or two, before it was caught by some invisible force

Then it hovered in the air, just above Eloa’s hands. Fascinated, Sagra drew closer. A warm little glow surrounded the flower in its full bloom, while the woman continued her speech. “Understand what I mean?”

Without a second thought, she clapped her hands together. Sagra shouted with surprise, horrified that she should dare to harm another Creation. Destroy it, even. Surely the flower would be crushed by such a force --

Smiling, Eloa parted her hands. There was a butterfly, blood-red in color, fluttering between her palms. It started flying away, but she caught it again. Trapped it between her fingers, holding the artificial cage out to Sagra. “But, a rose, is a rose, is a rose.”

The butterfly was gone, replaced by its former shape. A rose, red as blood. A scarlet stain on Eloa’s porcelain-white hands. Limp, less vivid in color and appearance than it had been before, it fell onto her palm.

“Do you understand what I was trying to say?” Curious, Eloa cocked her head. Much like an inquisitive little bird would.

“Yes, I do.” Suddenly, his inspiration had returned. As if carried back to him on crimson butterfly wings, a new-found, fragile form for his muse. Metaphor for a missing moment; the moment in which it had been gone, morphing from the little caterpillar it had been into the beautiful butterfly.

He watched Eloa walk away, having fulfilled her task for the moment. A god-sent angel, giving him back something that he had searched for. A slight smile on his lips, he carefully tore a feather from his wing and used its sharp tip to cut open his wrist.

Slowly -- through his hand and his tool, the quill -- long, elegant letters began to form on the parchment. Frenzied playing of an instrument he alone could hear. He, the artist. Driven by the urge to follow whatever master musician played in his head.

There was no ink -- only the blood that dictated his life.