he exists as this, now, a thousand-thousand wings and voices; a monster within the choirs of heaven. he is fire and grief and he should not be. not like this, not a messenger from the heavens, because he is a monster.
angels, he understands, are monsters.
how many mortals had burned when looking upon him? when he sang to them in those thousand-thousand voices (but some, of course, welcomed him- for the first time in his life- and he laughed, warm. how tragic to know that as this unspeakable horror, he was able to be loved.)
he sees his other self only once, for when he finds the mortal man, he cannot bring himself to look back. he knows that he is jealous. jealous of the man's smile, the music he offers to others. he hates those golden eyes and that face- sharp-featured, by far not the pinnacle of mortal beauty, but pleasant enough. the composer's face became softer when he played music, and the angel hated him.
erik, as he could have been if not for the cruelty of fate. erik, who would hold the world in his heart and gift the people every last bit of love in him. erik, who could have a life like anyone else. it's easy to imagine that this man could find love. he would live in a house in the light, with windows. he would have a gentle wife to go with him on sunday walks. and they would sing. they would be happy. (the angel weeps and rages and burns)
the angel-erik is placed upon a pedestal by the frightened people of the strange city. swarmed by monsters, the god-fearing, god-loving people yearned for an angel. and an angel he was! (be not afraid, soon, you will know no more pain. the kingdom of god is at hand) an angel who perhaps unknowingly returned true forms to the despairing monsters- an act of holy love.
⎛ and what of the composer? ⎠
even when the world is crashing down around him, there is music. in music, erik finds comfort, because it has been with him from the start. he remembers a life that he should've had- surrounded by admirers and kind words. a king among men in his own right. but music was his first love. merely a man like any other, he did not know of the angel's grief. he did not know that the angel believed things of his life that were untrue. for erik had no gentle wife; he certainly remembered someone he fancied, but he had quietly accepted that she was not here. he did, however, live in a house with real windows and doors- and he was not so lonely to say that he was unhappy. how could he be?
he did not know the life that the angel of music had. and he did not know that the angel had seen him. erik had never been a terribly religious man. he would not know to look for angels. his scripture was written upon parchment, and it was only through music that he felt that he could believe in something divine.
⎛ how does the story end, then? if the angel and the composer never truly meet? ⎠
the world is falling apart. monsters roam the streets. erik does not know how to kill, but the angel does. and the angel cannot kill him. in fact, the angel does not want him dead. not that he would know.
the angel understands that it is because the composer lives that he is like this. countless wings and holy voices. but the composer lives the life that the angel never had. the angel knows that if the composer dies, then he will fall from heaven, and he will not be like anyone else. he will return to the cursed flesh of his, hollowed out like the burnt remains of a cathedral. he will not be able to live in the light, not in that body. not with that sorrow.
the composer is only mortal, and it is in the nature of mortals to die. and as the angel expects, it is when the man draws his last breath that his wings rot, and he falls. he lays there, half damned, half holy, the last remnants of his wings wrapping around his body- as if that would be enough to shield him from the prying eyes of the world.
⎛ and then? what next? ⎠
he does not remember returning to the house in the light, but surely he has. for he wakes in an unfamiliar bed. there is a weight on his chest- ayesha, purring. the curtains are open and the sound of a bustling city greets him. he sits up, much to ayesha's dismay, and catches his reflection in a mirror. half damned, half holy. there's an ache in his back where his wings once were.
there is a mask upon the bedside table. his shield from the prying eyes of the world. soundlessly, he makes his way to the window and draws the curtains shut, resigning to the familiar misery. he has lived with it for so long, now. he does not know who he would be without it.
⎛ yes, we should pity him- poor, unhappy erik! ⎠
