Chapter Text
Children of the sky—of faith and wisdom.
An ethereal pursuit that has consistently astounded those who seek it. Even at the peak of the chasm, eyes drifting below; observing such customs of animals, analyzing phenomena unique to the mortal race, above it all and comforted by the knowledge of it.
It was of the utmost perfection.
Transcendence in all its glory—a glimmer of what has been gifted, an otherworldly blessing not many are granted—comprehension was but a kindling to the forest fire that roared in its intensity, crackling flames that fueled the tongues of those blessed to receive it.
They were not of mortal flesh or blood. All are beyond fragile toil, a concept that incurred laughs from those above such worries. Years passed them by like a grain of sand on an hourglass, inconsequential, minute.
As their wings bore free, appendages curving at the skies, taking air. Willowy sheen of velvet and velour. Hand crafted in the image of celestial might, grace with an underlying threat of sinuous ferocity.
None would dare challenge such celestial beings; yet the threat was constantly overhead, hanging by the thread.
It was a hierarchy wrought not by action—but by birth. Set in their ways of livelihood, resolute with such ideologies and rights. For it was an honor to be below their betters; a pleasure to look down on those beneath their feet.
Small, insignificant. Intertwined to the point of singularity, an understanding that has been set in stone.
For it was considerable, crowned by the glory of their bearing. An honor to uphold such standing, rewarded by keeping peace, an organized assembly of system and tradition.
Who were they to question such a designation?
This was an afterthought to be had, a risk one will dispose of before it corrupts their intellect.
Warnings whispered and unspoken, of outlier knowledge that gripped like a vice. Seizing at the chest and curling depths into their ribs; twining through bone like a parasitic leech that has latched onto a crippled body.
It is of mortal action. A weakness to be exploited, below one as high as he.
A circle of wisdom, an implicit understanding. Discourse was a rare occurrence: for what use will such bring when all have knowledge of similar thought? There were lines grounded into the minds of those who spoke of centuries—of millenia in its age. One must not overstep their boundaries and keep to what was accepted.
In their pantheon of grandeur, of sprawling gold and boundless luxury, materialism and wisdom cradled both hand in hand. A desire can be had with one careless flick of the finger.
What was there to want when all was already accounted for?
Children should be grateful for what they have. For as they looked below—beyond clouds that offered gracious shade, stars that gifted mirrors of each predestined future, a sun of burnished golden rays and moonlit nightingale song—was a desolate prison.
Barren of the gifts celestial beings held dear. Stripped bare of what made paradise worth striving for, to remain in.
That is, if they were to believe what has been shared to them from ear to ear.
It would be a fool’s decision to give it all up, a paradise for the price of an apple. A fruit of saccharine sweet. For the bite will offer a choice, the decision to snip through strings that held a puppet afloat, yet if the support was no longer there—how would they function without it?
When given a linear path of monotony, a future clear and planned out as it was for those before them: a tomorrow that contained a cycle of what was to be expected, again and again, an action done and finished and full.
Peace was a fickle thing.
A bandaid to a bubbling fissure, reaching, wanting, an ambition that welled and seeked for its escape, fingers gripping at the edges to pry through boarded up enclosures.
It was a vice to many. For Al-Ahmar, it was the dream for something more .