Nebae

Being an angel doesn't mean you get to always be happy, you decide one day, already dismissing what the Archangels have taught you

("There's no happiness without sadness", they'd say, all white white wings and white white hearts, as if made from Light itself. You hate those guys, with their holier-than-thou attitudes. But they are holier than you, after all, and that's just your problem. Not that anyone cares).

You've gone through your very own hell, too, thank you very much. But you're happy now.

It's just that it wasn't always like that.

*

You were skeptic about this job the first few days, if you recall correctly.

Watch after a human? That didn't sound thrilling at all: you'd rather be Captain over the battle ranks than Guardian over a little girl.

You did your job reluctantly, almost resentfully at first. Of course that was ridiculous, but you weren't particularly known for your dazzling logic skills.

You would peek over the bars of the cradle, fly around the room, look out the window sometimes-- until the day you looked her in the eyes for the first time, a week after she was born.



It was night, and she was restless. You had been trying to count the stars.

And suddenly, a shift in the air and a cry, then feathers standing on end. You startled and flied to her cradle, found her red faced and toothless mouth wide open before realization dawned on you.

You touched her tiny forehead with two white fingers, and a small, fuzzy demon materialized on your other hand. A Nightmare.

It squirmed on your palm before you closed you fingers around it before chanting, "be gone."  And it did, with a flurry of black dust.

The baby shifted and you glanced at her, and to your surprised, she glanced back.

Her eyes were dark, darker than the sky, and they reflected your Light. A tiny fist reached out to touch the tip of your glowing nose, and she laughed in delight.

You laughed with her, and something within you changed.

You'd never let anything happen to her.

And, from that day on, both your fates were sealed.

*

She is four, and she calls you "Ange".

You are millennia old, yet you do not know her name. You aren't allowed to.

*

Five years into the job until you had an almost-accident.

"Why can't I fly, Ange? I want to," she pouted, fingering your feathers with chubby fingers.

"It isn't that great a thing, kid," you had answered back sternly, although you had smiled.

She stood on her tiptoes and began bouncing, up, down, up, down, on the bed.

"Why?"  she asks, dark eyes half closed, mid-laughter. Up, down. Bounce, bounce.

Everything that goes up has to come back down, is the first thing you think of. Perhaps it is a bit too harsh for her, right now.

"You'll eventually crash." The words escape your lips faster than you realize, and she stops moving altogether. You immediately regret your words, but before you can say anything else she murmurs:

"You wouldn't let me. I know it!"

The look of determination on her face is enough for you to soften up. You sigh. "You're right. I wouldn't."

Not ever.

*

At seven, she has problems seeing where you are.

Sometimes, she searches and finds.

Most times, she looks around and forgets.

*

She is ten when she stops noticing you at all, her last shred of true innocence gone. You are sad, but accept it. You are distracted, but try to correct it.

You are a lot of things.

*

At eleven, she tries to count the stars. You had tried, too, once upon a time.

*

She's twelve when she tries to reach them.



She's scared when she tumbles out of the balcony, thirteen floors up from the city's streets.

You are scared, too, and knock out three chairs and crook a framed picture in you haste; you grab both her hands.

And you pull.

And you help her climb back in.

And you, and you, and you. Everything you do is for her.

And her?

She's sitting on the floor, catching her breath. You pretend to not see the tears that streak her cheeks.

She once dreamt of flying. Now she's trying not to fall.

*

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," you remark, eyeing the cake in the oven nervously and then her hurrying figure, phone in hand. She hadn't even bothered to glance at the cookbook this time.

Not that you can tell her, and not like she could even hear you. Not anymore.

You sigh, resigned, before following her.



Minutes later, you're practically dragging her to the kitchen before the smoke gets out of hand. She sees the smoke threading through the air, threatening to trigger the fire alarm and yelps before yanking the oven's door open without putting on her gloves first. You yelp, too, and help her with the tray before she burns her hands raw.

"Thanks God," she murmurs, and you almost laugh. What about her guardian angel?

But you've spent fifteen years on this job, and you can tell guardian angels aren't given any second thoughts.

*

You are ordered to report to you formal rank on the celestial military. Every one of you are, in fact, and you fly back to the Gates to report to your duty.

"The Demon' s side of the war are progressing at a startling rate," the Archangels tell you, and you resist the urge to laugh. I've got priorities now, you feel like saying. I have someone to take care of.

You don't say a thing.

She's eighteen when you leave.

*

You keep track of time as best as you can.

She'd be twenty now, you think as you wield your harpoon, bat your wings, aim.

Fire.

You know progress in war is temporary, and victory is unachievable. Still you wonder, why does anyone fight? Don't they know this as much as you do?

*

She's twenty one when you come back, hours away from her birthday.

You find the city aflame by your own Heavenly Fire, affected by your own Kind's war:  buildings are tumbling down, cars are up-side down, and blood splatters the ground like a morbid imitation of rose petals, all curlicues and stark contrast.

You find her under a pile of debris. Her hair is the same color as her blood.

*

She is twenty two when she dies.

You are still millennia old, but somehow feel older as you pick her soul up.

She is light in your arms, but you are heavy with the weight of your guilt.

*

She refused the afterlife once all her memories came back. She chose you instead, like you had chosen her so long ago.

Only one thing is missing.



When asked her name, she laughs, soars across the sky , extends her hands, touches the stars. You had never seen her look so content.

As she turns to you, she whispers a long-forgotten secret:

"Nebae."