Her voice, speaking into the horizon in front of them, with her back
leaning against the gnarled old oak tree and her hand lying lifeless in his. Her voice, like shattering ice and drifting
storms, like the cracking of nuts on the dark forest floor. Her voice
said she'd love him, but she could not utter the words. And his eyes, never on the world nor the vast skies of his home, the
grand majestic feeling of creation; was it really that simple? She'd tell him of the darkest little
forest patches, hidden beneath rocks and leaves, show him the entrance
to stone walls, inscribed for thousands of years; and everywhere she moved, she'd find
for him the traces of a world older than his memory. Don't go too far down the rabbit hole,
my sweet one;
he'd hold her with one hand, anxiously wavering at heart.
At night, under the moon, she'd curl
up under his hands like a little beast, something wild, her breath
ragged. Against the stars, his feathers shone reflectively like a
cascade of mirrors, every single one as precise as the passing of time. There would come none to their little
place under the oak tree, they were never intruded on. But from far, he
could sense the tension of a thousand little critters and animals paying
him attention, mesmerized by his presence, but
too frightened to touch him. In the depths of their fright lay a
minuscule warning, an attentive ever aware memory of the winged ones. The life of the night knew
it belonged not near the being of light, thus, they watched with even
more fearful fancy at their own kind, sleeping calmly in the
angel's arms.
And all she was, was a little monster, a child of the rocks and the trees and the never-ending mountains. Her heart was like
that of a tiny stone, all frozen
by the winter of her world; and all she had known before he came was a
whisper of the song of the earth. She was
teeth and fangs and claws; she was razor sharp and blunt at the same
time. Where he shone, she shook. Where his wings
trailed the ground like silver veins, her hair stormed about like the
thorns of wild roses stung. Her hand was little, lithe, and it fit his
perfectly.