Transference (Microfic)
God is dead, and the angels debate.
The first question is, of course, what happened? So far as the angels can tell, their Father and Creator simply burnt out. A great pyre, smouldering down to charcoal. Light doesn’t leave the world. Creation isn’t devoured by a dark and endless winter. But the loss is felt by His radiant children.
Colors dull, as if the rods to see them have been removed from their eyes.
Their hymns ring hollow, never quite sounding on key, as if they can no longer hit all the notes.
Sunlight feels cool on their skin. Sensations dulled, like the nerve endings are dying in their skin.
When no answer as to their Father’s fate is found, the angels are faced with the second question: what now?
Some hold to their duties as if nothing has changed. Machines bound to their programming.
Some enjoy their sudden retirement. There is still sunlight to lounge in, still sweet fruits to eat, still beautiful bodies with soft wings to explore.
Some simply leave.
Eloa is one of these. She opens her wings to the cosmic winds, and lets them carry her where they will. She has no plan. She doubts any of her siblings do. All she knows is that Heaven is colder now, greyer, its music no longer pleasing to her. She cannot bear to stay.
She drifts in the void, accompanied only by the pale eyes of distant stars. At last she finds herself descending through the firmament, the void giving way to sunlight and blue sky, and then to a vast forest. Down between the trees, into the petrichor shadows below, until her feet touch damp soil. She takes it in- birds trilling distantly through the branches, moss between her toes, speckles of sunlight dancing across a babbling stream. This place, Eloa thinks, could be a kind of cathedral. Not to Father, but to more primal gods. She almost feels such power lick against her halo, warm and tickling.
It’s something.
Eloa sleeps, laid among the roots of a towering oak.
In the depths of night, Eloa wakes to a tight embrace around her waist- around her limbs, her wings, her neck. With a start she struggles, but her bindings coil tighter, pull her down harder against the dirt.
“Why are you here, child of light?” A voice like the groan of old wood.
The angel opens her eyes, and the forest glares back. Green eyes aglow in the dark, set within the moss-covered skull of some long-dead beast, and beyond that, a huge hunched form, draped with a cloak of leaves and hide which obscure Its willowy frame.
Eloa stops struggling. Strength of arms will not avail her here. The Old God of this place has found her.
“I’ve only stopped to rest,” she answers. “I’ll leave come dawn.”
The God’s bones creak as It cocks Its head. “Your Father is no friend of mine, angel. Why should I take your word?”
Eloa swallows hard. “My Father is dead.”
The God is silent a moment. Then It asks, “What happened?”
She shakes her head. “We don’t know, He just... Faded one day. None of us know what to do.”
“An orphaned angel.” Its voice lowers in thought. “Curious.”
She awaits judgment. An angelic instinct- submission to higher power.
“You are lost, then?” It asks. “You seek purpose?”
Eloa’s lips twist into a frown. “I seek anything.”
A strange thing happens then. Eloa’s restraints- roots snaking up from the soil- uncoil. The God reaches out a gnarled hand. “You may serve Me, bright one. I’ve tended this forest alone for a long time.”
Eloa is wary. Father had no friends among other gods. But her halo can sense the presence of wickedness. It feels none here. She finds no malevolence in the God’s voice, nor in the way It patiently offers Its hand to her.
Besides, what else does she have?
Eloa takes Its hand. Her service begins at dawn. Her tasks are many but simple.
Watch for hunters and traps, ensure they take only their fair share from the forest.
Check the trees and animals for sickness- she cures any she finds with the healing power Father once bestowed on her. It’s quaint, compared to her former life; singing praise in the Heavenly Choir, sparring with demons for mortal souls. But she comes to enjoy the peace, this quiet, meditative work. She feels her new Master’s gaze in the shadows, watching with silent approval.
The God takes time to teach her, as well. Showing her the differences between kinds of plants and animals and how to care for them all. Instructing her on disarming traps and misleading hunters when they take too much. Eloa learns quickly. After each successful lesson, the God runs a long finger lightly through her hair. “Very good, My bright one.”
Then Eloa feels the changes. How colors brighten again. How she feels the sun’s light not only touch her skin but warm it. She doesn’t just feel the damp soft dirt but its porous grain between her toes.
One day as Eloa flies, she notices her wings have darkened to a warm brown. Her chest tightens- is the God doing something to her? Has she given herself to some corruption? But when she shows It, the God tilts Its head, tracing a finger along the wingtips. “Curious,” It muses. “Perhaps the forest has taken to you.”
The forest- her Master’s realm- has accepted her. The thought soothes Eloa.
Some time later, as Eloa kneels by a river to examine the bushes growing along it, she feels something settle upon her brow.
She freezes. Then, she reaches up for her halo. It isn’t there.
Of course it isn’t, she realizes. But that can’t happen. That isn’t how this works.
Running to the water, Eloa studies her reflection. Sure enough, her halo sits on her head like a tiara. Its gold is hidden, however, by vibrant yellow flowers sprouted along its perimeter. Her eyes as well are no longer gold, but bright green.
Panic grips her. “Old one?” she calls out.
Soon her God emerges from the brush. It kneels, taking her chin gently in its long fingers to examine her.
“How odd,” is all It says.
“You didn’t do this?”
“I didn’t.” It strokes Its thumb across her chin. “But you’ve given yourself to Me. Perhaps that stirred some change in you. Adaptations to suit My dominion, rather than your Father’s.”
Eloa blinks. Father is long gone now. She’s served this God with such diligence, and for some time. Of course she’s changed. Her body is releasing a grief that her heart still holds.
“I must say.” Her new God traces a fingertip over her halo of flowers. “This suits you. A bright crown, for My bright one.”
Eloa calms. The pain is there, but she no longer bears it in a void. She’s already on a path forward. This new form is a mark of that- a collection of beautiful scars. Exhaling, Eloa decides to wear them with pride. Here, she once again has a home.
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This is the second part of a microfic series I'm writing with @priestess-of-asphalt-and-silicon, where every two weeks we both write a story based around a different prompt. This time the prompt was "Crown of Flowers". Be sure to check out Rosie's story on her page as well!
