Isra Felle Gold did not dream of sheep.
The banquet was lovely, as vibrant and alive as the day it actually happened. The skies outside were a crystalline blue, white doves flapping merrily in the courtyards below the palace.
Golden tapestries hung heavily between the massive, arching windows, stretching from the high ceiling to the intricate floors. They depicted angels, wings spread wide, soaring over the sea, lording over the land of the Gold country. Some were shown performing magic, defeating beasts with gleaming swords, and even healing wounded mortals.
The dream was told in such clarity, Isra already knew what it was going to be about.
It wasn't a dream.
A pleasant voice, melodic and charming, calling out in excitement for her oldest brother. The ornate mirror – one of the many that decorated Isra Felle's private chambers – reflecting the archangel's perfectly made-up, smiling face. Beautiful clothes.
A banquet.
His mother's birthday.
Isra gripped the hidden dagger beneath the lavish dress cloak. Mother's birthdayfear hate envy jealousy murder blood family hate want acid love mother hate hate hate hate
The smile did not falter.
The dream shifted, swirling into a different scene. Colors and shapes reformed into a multitude of wings, leering eyes, and bright patterns of doubt fear rage schemes––
––His sister's grinning face, innocent, helpful, keeping her brother company through the twisting emotions.
The banquet was lovely. They were always lovely. He sat nearest to the king, only a seat away from his mother, and ate only from the best dishes. There was laughter, jokes, and marriage discussions, and a bone-deep feeling of relief washed over the angel.
He was going to be okay tonight.
Sunset streamed through the windows.
And then the dancing, the royal banquet party, music, and shifty eyes. Isra drifted over the many dance offers he received, seeking out an open face amidst the feathers and swishing skirts. Three noblemen offered their daughters to him, two offered their sons.
He went to his sister, standing awkwardly in the back, attempting to turn down a few handsy elites. Isra punched them. They were drunk. She smiled at him gratefully and stole some of his dessert.
She was small, the youngest of the Golds, with the palest of their blue eyes. They spoke easily wth each other, about new things, old things, and basic wing care. How to clean halos and all that.
Whenever Isra was with her, he knew he could be honest. She wanted nothing from him, just companionship, and she was honest with him back.
And then he turned.
The relaxed state of the archangel's mind violently sharpened into focus, an intense pain exploding across his senses. It was all dull, just a distant memory, but the pain and fear cut through to him, even now. Something was very, very wrong. There was shouting, grabbing hands, and blood.
Blood, and a pair of pale blue eyes, shaking hands, and a cursed blade.
The world fell away from beneath him.
"Why––?"
The banquet was lovely, as vibrant and alive as the day it actually happened. The skies outside were a crystalline blue, white doves flapping merrily in the courtyards below the palace.
Golden tapestries hung heavily between the massive, arching windows, stretching from the high ceiling to the intricate floors. They depicted angels, wings spread wide, soaring over the sea, lording over the land of the Gold country. Some were shown performing magic, defeating beasts with gleaming swords, and even healing wounded mortals.
The dream was told in such clarity, Isra already knew what it was going to be about.
It wasn't a dream.
A pleasant voice, melodic and charming, calling out in excitement for her oldest brother. The ornate mirror – one of the many that decorated Isra Felle's private chambers – reflecting the archangel's perfectly made-up, smiling face. Beautiful clothes.
A banquet.
His mother's birthday.
Isra gripped the hidden dagger beneath the lavish dress cloak. Mother's birthdayfear hate envy jealousy murder blood family hate want acid love mother hate hate hate hate
The smile did not falter.
The dream shifted, swirling into a different scene. Colors and shapes reformed into a multitude of wings, leering eyes, and bright patterns of doubt fear rage schemes––
––His sister's grinning face, innocent, helpful, keeping her brother company through the twisting emotions.
The banquet was lovely. They were always lovely. He sat nearest to the king, only a seat away from his mother, and ate only from the best dishes. There was laughter, jokes, and marriage discussions, and a bone-deep feeling of relief washed over the angel.
He was going to be okay tonight.
Sunset streamed through the windows.
And then the dancing, the royal banquet party, music, and shifty eyes. Isra drifted over the many dance offers he received, seeking out an open face amidst the feathers and swishing skirts. Three noblemen offered their daughters to him, two offered their sons.
He went to his sister, standing awkwardly in the back, attempting to turn down a few handsy elites. Isra punched them. They were drunk. She smiled at him gratefully and stole some of his dessert.
She was small, the youngest of the Golds, with the palest of their blue eyes. They spoke easily wth each other, about new things, old things, and basic wing care. How to clean halos and all that.
Whenever Isra was with her, he knew he could be honest. She wanted nothing from him, just companionship, and she was honest with him back.
And then he turned.
The relaxed state of the archangel's mind violently sharpened into focus, an intense pain exploding across his senses. It was all dull, just a distant memory, but the pain and fear cut through to him, even now. Something was very, very wrong. There was shouting, grabbing hands, and blood.
Blood, and a pair of pale blue eyes, shaking hands, and a cursed blade.
The world fell away from beneath him.
"Why––?"