Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters below. At all. Which is a shame.
A/N: I'm pretty sure I have a serious wing kink. There is no other reason why the angels should fascinate me so. But, oh boy, do they ever. Standard warnings apply, with an added one for blasphemy.
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The memory of wings never quite leaves him. Words: 230; Title: Do not stand at my grave…
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in circled flight
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The human body was never meant for flight. Whether you believe in God or Darwin, no humanoid has ever had the slightest potential for taking to the air and never coming back down.
Nick has never known true flight. He has never felt wind on his face, has never had it tear at his feathers in wild play. He has never felt the weightlessness of ten thousand miles of nothing beneath his soft, tender belly and wondered what it would be like to just… stop.
Nick has never plummeted, his wings burning as beacons of warning to all those who stood at the very edge of Heaven and watched his Fall.
Therefore, Nick's body, this fragile, rotting vessel, has not the first idea about flight.
And still, with every step he takes on his Father's precious Earth, with every breath he takes to keep useless lungs working and give voice to his words, he feels it.
Countless eons since he Fell, and Lucifer still feels the memory of wings at his back, calling for flight, calling for him to shed all that he has become and dance across the cosmos once more.
(upwards, the memory whispers, a rustle of feathers, a rushing of motion, upwards. Homewards.)
He kicks his vessels booted feet against the ground and rolls his shoulders, trying to dislodge the constant itch even though it never works.
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