Hurts. Everything hurts. I'm touching something wet. My body aches
everywhere; it's an unfamiliar feeling. It feels oddly heavy as well, my
bones like leaden bars. Yet there is a lightness, as of something missing,
something so familiar I cannot place what it is. My mind is still reeling.
Above, clouds swirl with the wind. They begin to seep down rain, and I arch my wings forward instinctively, or try to, as they are no longer there. Only a dull throbbing ache where they were, and a bright stinging pain where movement should be. But I still feel them. My nerves still want to be connected to something, and haven't figured out yet that they are not.
Echoing this loss, something inside me is empty as well. It's nothing physical, but it might as well have been my heart, my lungs; what is missing is just as vital and painful to lose, if not more so. I arch toward the heavens, towards the uncaring sky, and let out a scream that should rend reality, raze this mountain into nothing, etch an ionized line into the stratosphere. It simply introduces me to more pain. Heaven no longer hears me. I strove higher than what was meant for me, and was summarily punished.
I plead and beg, abase myself, tears running down my face with the effort. This hurts my pride in itself, but that is a lesser agony than the loss within. The sky is as passionless as before. I cry out again, cursing this time, condemning. As I do so, I pull my heavy limbs into a standing position; they are no longer ethereal fire but heavy earth-substances. I am now mortal. But why? The Morning Star kept what he was; why not I?
Above, clouds swirl with the wind. They begin to seep down rain, and I arch my wings forward instinctively, or try to, as they are no longer there. Only a dull throbbing ache where they were, and a bright stinging pain where movement should be. But I still feel them. My nerves still want to be connected to something, and haven't figured out yet that they are not.
Echoing this loss, something inside me is empty as well. It's nothing physical, but it might as well have been my heart, my lungs; what is missing is just as vital and painful to lose, if not more so. I arch toward the heavens, towards the uncaring sky, and let out a scream that should rend reality, raze this mountain into nothing, etch an ionized line into the stratosphere. It simply introduces me to more pain. Heaven no longer hears me. I strove higher than what was meant for me, and was summarily punished.
I plead and beg, abase myself, tears running down my face with the effort. This hurts my pride in itself, but that is a lesser agony than the loss within. The sky is as passionless as before. I cry out again, cursing this time, condemning. As I do so, I pull my heavy limbs into a standing position; they are no longer ethereal fire but heavy earth-substances. I am now mortal. But why? The Morning Star kept what he was; why not I?