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Brona lays awake for a little while, listening to the muffled harmony of the morning choir filter in through the cocoon of Mama’s feathers. Points of silver glint along the delicate fibres, sparked by the dim glow of Brona’s forming halo.
It’s cozy here in their little shelter. Warm and dark and dry- it’s important that it’s dry. Her big sister Laisie snores softly into Brona’s messy blond curls. Draped over them both is the reassuring weight of Mama’s arm. Again over that, the fortress of Mama’s wings.
But now Brona is wide awake. She wriggles out from under her big sister’s arm, and crawls up to where Mama’s head is laid in the cloudy fibres of their nest. Even in sleep Mama is too beautiful for words, waves of Her golden hair coiling around Her ivory face and silvery feathers fanning out from Her eyes, as if they’re adorned by yet more wings.
Brona whispers, “Mama?”
Mama’s eyes flutter. “Hm…?”
“It’s morning.” Brona paws at the tip of Her nose. “We gotta get up.”
“Already?” Mama gives a tired chuckle as Her eyes open a crack, gleaming gold like those of Her daughters. Her smile is dawn and the warm kiss of hearthfire. “Mh. So we do, I suppose.” She brushes a curly bang out of Brona’s face. “How lucky we are, having a little rooster to wake us.”
Languidly, Mama parts Her wings, letting the wan morning light wash over her daughters. Laisie mumbles as it pulls her from sleep. The family rises, stretches out the night’s stiffness. Mama is as tall as a mountain, Her four wings spanning as wide as the sky to greet the pale sunlight entering through the windows of their sanctum. She radiates love with every minute action- sweeping Her hair from Her face, crinkling Her eyes as She looks over Her daughters; radiates love from every soft curve of Her plump body, from every silver feather. Even from the large golden eyes staring from Her wings, one set in each. They just help Her keep watch over their little family.
Up now, they quaff a vial of shimmering amber ambrosia each and get ready. Laisie helps Brona into her favorite dress, the one with a long ruffled skirt and a pretty sky blue sash- she has a green one as well, but never wears it. Brona doesn’t like green. Laisie is part way through helping her tame those unruly blond curls, when the older sister suddenly perks up, as if some noise has startled her. But Mama titters, and she settles. Something passes in silence between mother and elder daughter. Brona pouts, left out in the silence. It’s something to do with their halos- Mama’s hovers above Her head, decorated with eyes of sapphire and wavy patterns engraved along its circumference. Laisie’s isn’t fully formed yet, still cracked in places, the odd small piece floating separate from the rest. It’s further along than Brona’s, however- the little one has only a line of golden scales glimmering across her forehead, which will someday grow out and detach to become the halo.
It irks Brona sometimes, being so small still. Her wings are little more than puffs of white down, far too small to fly with. The halo is worse, though. The older angels speak through them. The warm air of their home swarms with thoughts and conversations and stories, all inaccessible to haloless fledglings like her. She tries to reach out sometimes. Tests if she can snatch something from the ether and listen in. Every so often she even succeeds, catching a fragment or glimpse of something. She tries it now. Whatever Mama and Laisie are talking about, however, she can’t grab onto it.
Mama then dons Her white uniform, as radiant as She is with a half-cape stylishly sectioned to not obstruct Her wings and a copy of the Book of Oaths hanging on Her hip. Then they depart. While they’re still patchy with unshed down, Laisie’s wings are large and strong enough now to fly, if a bit shakily. They don’t have far to go. Mama carries Brona, cradling the littlest close to Her chest. Brona is content to let herself be snuggled there, the warm breeze flowing across her face and the heavy thrum of wings filling her ears. She keeps her eyes closed. Otherwise she’ll see the wall, looming in between the gilded spires and balconies. The wall is a tall blunt stretch of white, save for one section where a large jagged chunk is missing from the top, as if massive jaws had bitten a piece out of it. The sight makes Brona nervous. Makes her think of thunderstorms and rusty metal.
Mama’s office is spacious and comfortable, with shelves full of books and scrolls, and murals of birds and lions and what look to be people sculpted into the pearly walls. Brona thinks the people must be mortals. They have no wings and cluster along the base, reaching upwards towards the doves, herons, and eagles above. The girls perch on one of the wide plush benches encircling the hearth, wherein a golden flame flickers and fills the room with dancing light and the scents of cinnamon and myrrh. Mama has given them Her Book of Oaths to read. It’s important they memorize it, front to back, every hymn and vow and commandment.
“’Thou shalt honor thy sister,’” Laisie reads, tracing her fingertip under the line to guide Brona along. “’For it is through thy sisters thou shalt best serve thy Mother. A lone shield stays no blades, and a lone spear routs no armies.’”
Brona leans into her big sister, rolling the words around in her head. She’s heard them before. She’ll hear them many times more, until they’re set as deep into her being as her bones. This verse used to confuse her, until she understood the “Mother” it refers to isn’t Mama. Even She has a Mama, standing even taller than Her, wings even wider than Hers, billowing even more irrefutable love. Brona won’t be able to speak to Grandmother until her halo has grown in. She can feel HER, though. Tingling like static through her hair and feathers. Grandmother is everywhere. Grandmother is everything.
Brona reaches out again. She wants to hear Grandmother’s voice. Wants to feel some of that all-encompassing affection. She finds nothing.
Mama works in silence at Her ivory desk, observing something on its surface and occasionally jotting something down in an open notebook by the light of Her halo. Mama’s work is important. Brona isn’t sure what it is, but the girl can see Her face knit tight with focus. Every so often She breaks this monotony- swiping a white-gloved hand over the desk’s surface, fanning out a wing so the eye there can check on the girls, humming in thought as She takes Her notes. Brona has asked both Laisie and Mama what exactly this work is. Both of them give the same answer: “Just keeping an eye on things.”
The day takes an eventful turn with a knock on the office door. It yawns open, and one of Brona’s older cousins strides in. “Sister Superior,” the messenger says, bowing her head as she hands Mama a small silvery envelope. “As you requested.”
“Thank you, Sister.” Mama accepts the envelope but does not open it. Instead She simply regards it with that pinched, concentrated face. They’re talking. Judging by the slight frown on her cousin’s face, Brona guesses it’s about something troubling.
Laisie taps her finger on the page, drawing the younger sister’s attention back to the Book of Oaths. “You want to keep reading? We’re almost at the hymns.”
Brona nods, and pretends to read along. In truth, she’s reaching out again. Trying to snatch a word or two from the stream passing between the adults. Finally, she feels something- a minute movement, nudging past the edge of her awareness. Her little wings twitch with excitement. She tries again, feels it again. Tries again, feels nothing. Emboldened, she makes one more attempt...
...any rate, we may...
...we tell the..?
It takes everything Brona has not to flap the down prematurely off her wings, she’s so pleased with herself. But she mustn’t let on. She mustn’t let anyone glean that she can feel the peripheries of these exchanges, tickling along her halo-to-be like the airy kiss of feathertips. She keeps reaching.
...surely has something...
...word from Vaschael...
Brona perks up at the mention of Auntie Vaschael. The seraph had descended on some important task a few weeks ago, and then Brona never heard any more about her. If she’s being talked about, does that mean her aunt would be back soon? The little angel hopes so. She misses Auntie Vaschael.
Laisie giggles. “What are you so happy about?”
Brona realizes she’s beaming so wide her cheeks hurt. “I like this part,” she lies.
“Thou shalt use thy servants well,” reads the Book of Oaths. “For their lot is to serve, hence their brief lives upon the earth below. Thou shalt give them purpose.”
The cousin leaves and Mama slips the envelope into a drawer. Laisie has gotten weary of reading, and Brona finds herself feeling the effort of intercepting those thoughts. The sisters curl up in a heap on the bench and nap in the hearth’s glow.
Except Brona isn’t sleeping. She’s still reaching. Hunting for knowledge she shouldn’t be able to catch, yet she’s already getting a knack for it. A grin on her face, she bounds after distant stirrings like a kitten after yarn. It takes her a moment to find something. When she does, she fails to catch it at first. More reaching. More waiting. Maybe she does sleep a little in between attempts. She certainly feels a bit groggy when she tries again and manages to hold onto something.
Grey.
An image this time! Not just words! Brona’s sleepy smile widens.
Grey. A rolling expanse of it, glistening here and there as if wet. Brona’s smirk falters a little, but she’s too engrossed to let go.
Then, sound: the strokes of massive wings. Angel wings? Is she looking through the eyes of one of her aunties or big cousins? This can’t be home, though. Nothing is so dreary and dull up here. Details have begun to emerge from the mire- things sticking up from it, ditches or pock marks in its uneven surface, filled in with murky water. The smells comes next. Rot. Burnt oil. Smoke and something sick-sweet and foul. Brona’s joy starts to curdle. She’s just about to let go when she sees a figure down below, running away from her.
The golden head of an angelic spear swings into her field of view as its wielder positions it.
Down below the figure turns. Flashing, cracking- gunshots, they’re shooting at the angel. The clamor of bullets deflecting off armor strikes her ears, making her flinch. Suddenly the angel descends spear first, fast enough to make Brona’s head spin.
[...Brona...?]
The figure throws themselves forward, narrowly avoiding the lunge. Pulling her weapon from the mud- wet grey mud glittering with bullet casings and littered with rusting debris- the angel walks after her target. It’s the slow gait of predator who knows her prey is already caught. Said prey drags themselves through the mud, wheezing in exhaustion, their green uniform soaked and spattered with dark stains. But they know as well that the angel has them. They roll over, revealing a hand gun and their face- a mortal woman, young and pale and sickly gaunt, blond hair slicked to her dirt-smeared forehead. She heaves for breath through a bare-toothed grimace of terror as she pulls the trigger.
Click. Empty.
[Brona, what is it? What’s wrong?]
The angel plants a shining silver boot on the woman’s chest and raises her spear.
[Brona?!]
Brona is torn from the vision to find herself back in Laisie’s arms. Her big sister holds her tight, eyes big with frightful concern except that’s not Laisie, not Brona’s Laisie, Laisie was the little sister and she died young and left Brona alone in the mud. Mama is striding over to the bench, She settles onto it, cooing, “Oh, dear, what’s happened,” except that’s not Mum, she disappeared one night a long time ago, taken by shadowy men. Brona feels the burning in her eyes and throat and realizes she’s crying, she’s screaming and thrashing because she doesn’t belong here, this is all wrong, all of this is wrong and she wants to go home, or to whatever she could have called home, she doesn’t
PEACE, GRANDDAUGHTER. THAT LIFE IS OVER.
Coughing and sniffling, Brona curls up and squeezes her eyes shut. Grandmother is with her.
Laisie unwraps her arms from Brona, and the little angel feels herself gently transferred into Mama’s lap. It’s unmistakable- the warmth of Mama’s presence, the soft sureness of Her form. Mama strokes her hair and hums comfort to her. Brona’s family allows her a few moments. Lets her bawl the last few tears away, lets her tremble until the worst of the fear and confusion are shaken off. Then, Mama dabs away Brona’s tears with Her sleeve. “What’s happened, little rooster?”
“I-I...” Brona hiccups, another sob threatening to escape. “I wanted to hear what you were all saying, wi-with your halos...”
“Oh, my dear one.” Mama rubs Her thumb down Brona’s cheek. “You reached out and saw something that frightened you, is that right?”
Brona nods, little face twisted in a frown.
“I know you want to be part of things, Brona.” Mama pulls her a little closer. “But you’re still so little. There’s a lot you’re not ready to see or hear. Things only we grown ups should have to worry about.”
The little one sniffs. “Like where Auntie Vaschael is?”
Mama raises Her brow, but catches on. “Yes, little rooster.” She sweeps a golden curl from Brona’s eyes. “Auntie Vaschael is very busy right now. That’s as much as you need to know.”
Snuggling into Mama, Brona wonders if she should mention the rest. What was it again, though? She remembers the angel and the mortal in green. But wasn’t there something else troubling her?
Mama dries another stray tear- She’s taken Her gloves off, letting Brona feel the soft affection of Her touch. Laisie leans against Mama’s arm, offering her little sister what comfort she can. Grandmother is everywhere, buzzing like static. Brona blinks. Maybe there was nothing else. Maybe she was only confused. So shaken by the vision that she imagined a whole other world of nightmares around it.
“Would you like to talk about what you saw?” asks Mama.
Brona gives a little nod. Maybe that will help her sort through this nameless anxiety still clinging to her. She tells Mama everything. When she’s done, Laisie peers up at their mother, a hint of confusion on her own face. But Mama has an answer to everything.
“That must have been troubling,” She says, setting a hand on Her eldest daughter’s shoulder. “Seeing your cousin and a mortal trying to hurt each other like that.”
“Yes.” Brona curls in on herself again, wanting protection from the very memory.
And Mama provides it. “Do you remember in the Book of Oaths, where it says the lot of mortals is to serve us and Grandmother?”
Brona peers up at Her. “Yes?”
“Well,” Mama continues, Her voice as soothing as the soft crackle of the fire, “some mortals don’t like that very much. They don’t understand what their place is. Instead, they think they ought to have power- ought to run things themselves.”
The little angel blinks. “But they’re so small.” Physically, and in so many other ways. Mortals live and burn out in the blink of an eye, in the span of a few heartbeats. They are specks of ash in the wind. Mama and all Brona’s aunties and cousins have told her so. It’s even in the Book of Oaths.
Mama chuckles. “So they are. And yet, they don’t realize it. From all the way down there, they can’t see how small they are at all. When someone tries to tell them, well.” Mama frowns a little. “Sometimes it makes them rather scared, or angry.”
Brona leans her head against the pillowy curvature of Mama’s belly. The pieces are clicking into place now. “Did my cousin try to tell them? The one I saw?”
“I imagine she did,” says Mama. “And the mortal became afraid and angry, and so tried to hurt her. So, she defended herself.”
The vision runs through Brona’s head again- the mortal dragging herself through the mud. The angel planting a boot on her chest. The fiery gleam of the spear’s head. But Mama would know the truth behind that. Mama always knows.
Mama gives her a sympathetic smile. “Does that make sense, little rooster?”
Brona nods. “Yes, Mama.”
Mama’s smile brightens- gets brighter than the sun- and everything is okay again. The family sits together a little while longer, just to make sure their littlest is reassured and comfortable. Then Mama returns to work, and the sisters return to reading. Brona feels a little flicker of renewed excitement. They’re almost at the hymns.
***
Today is very special. Mama is taking them to the hatchery.
While she has no memory of it, the place feels distantly familiar to Brona as she and Laisie follow their mother in. The pale marble comprising its soft surfaces, the calming streams of amber light entering through narrow windows, the faint smell of copper and flowers, the weighty yet peaceful silence. All of it, like something she’d experienced in a dream. It makes sense. She, like all angels, was born here.
Scattered across the porous white floor are many large humps, around the size Brona would be if she curled up on the ground. As she passes by one, she notes it isn’t just a bump, but rather resembles a marble carving- a child, huddled on its side as if in the womb. Mama leads them into the center of the space, then pauses, Her head raised to the domed ceiling. A long silence. Brona is about to ask what they’re doing when she hears it. A quiet scratching and a muffled whining.
Mama turns Her head to the sound- to one hump, the surface of which is webbed with many small cracks. A smile coming to Her lips, She goes to it, the sisters following hand in hand. “Help me,” says Mama as she kneels beside the hump. The top of pulses in and out, like it’s breathing. She digs Her fingers into the cracks and begins to pry away the chunks of ivory material. Brona and Laisie join in, hearts racing in excitement.
It doesn’t take long for the three of them to open up the top of the shell, revealing a little grey shape squirming inside. “Here she is,” Mama coos, unwrapping a thick yellow sash from Her waist. The little shape bleats as She delicately wraps it in the sash and, ever so gentle, lifts it out and cradles it against Her chest.
No, not it. She. The newest addition to their family. Brona and Laisie’s new little sister.
The hatchling angel scrunches her tiny face up against the light, but calms with a soft gurgle as she feels Mama’s presence. Her halo is only a few small golden scales dotting her forehead, mostly obscured by wispy blond hair.
Brona catches on that. Why does that seem familiar, as well? Why does its familiarity feel less comforting? Why does it smell like old meat, why can she feel it sticking wet and icy to her hands?
“Girls.” Mama beams down on the hatchling. “This your new sister, Adeline.”
The two big sisters huddle in to see little Adeline, and the unease dissipates. Of course she’d be blond, Brona realizes. All four of them are. They’re a family. Mama like the mountains and the sky, emanating love. Laisie the eldest sister, always at her little sister’s side, and Brona the middle child, ready to be the same pillar in Adeline’s life. Grandmother all around them, filling the air, flowing through their thoughts, like mist and static and echoes of things not yet to be known.