Angels didn't always exist.
This should be obvious, of course. In the beginning, there was nothing, after all. But it's easy to miss. Easy to think angels were created at the beginning of time, along with the Earth and the heavens. Eternal custodians, supplicants, and messengers, always there.
Angels are always around, of course, but they didn't always exist. A subtle difference. Hard to understand, perhaps, if you're bound by linear perceptions of time.
The heavenly hosts labour under no such limits.
No, angels are not born, nor did they appear fully-formed at the dawn of time. Angels are made.
The wings are easy enough. Joy. Genuine, warm, kind-hearted, joy. Happiness lifts one's spirits, after all. It sets one's heart soaring, and lifts weights off one's soul. An angel's wings are fashioned from her joy in life. From every happy memory, every echoing, cherished laugh of a loved one, every moment that made her heart sing and let her giggle and roar with tears-down-her-face happiness.
Her gown, similarly, is simple. Crafted for her from every bit of warmth and protection she has ever felt. The arms of her parents, when she was gently rocked and put to bed in her cradle. The gentle, ginger touch of a lover, holding her hand for the first time. The arms of a friend she buried herself in when she was in distress, and needed comfort, and a shoulder to cry on. Every touch, every weight and warmth of gentle, kind protection, woven into her new robe, white as the clouds of heaven themselves. Those she cherish keep her safe, even now.
But her halo? Her halo is... tricky. Harder to understand.
It is the only piece of her new form she fashions herself, in the great forges of heaven. It is not so easily described, for it is deeply personal to each new angel, from the humblest virtue, to the loftiest seraph. What, then, makes an angel's halo?
Her connection to humanity.
All the love she has ever felt.
All the goodness she has ever seen.
It need not be her own experiences; merely expressions of the kindness inherent in every living soul that have moved her, in some way. Into the crucible, she pours her every moment of deep connection. Her every ounce of love for total stranger, and every iota of love a stranger has ever shown her. It can be anything at all. The angel is trusted utterly in this process, and none has ever faltered. A time when a Phoenician merchant broke bread with her, when she was starving in the streets. The time she felt so very sad, and a stranger's music in a language she did not understand dried her tears. That one Tumblr post she read about the Carpathia, and its efforts to save who they could.
With each memory refined, forged, and refined again, her connection to humanity grows stronger. Her love does, too.
Eventually, when she has shared all of her love with the crucible, it is poured into the mould, and her halo of purest gold takes its shape. It needs not be quenched. It requires no further work.
It contains her love, and that is enough.
It is placed above her head, and it radiates with the warmth that she feels in her heart for every single living thing to have ever blessed this beautiful galaxy with its presence.
Be not afraid, for she loves you so.
tangentwithtanner
kianamaiart
