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Angel Hunt Throughout the Years...
+ Angel Hunt +
It’s all he ever does anymore. Walking along the vast Borders without aim or reason beyond his so-called Noble purpose; to keep their lands clear of the filth that lie on the other side, to keep their lands pure.
Fuan snorts to himself, the first movement he’s made in hours.
Purity. Is that what they are? Pure? Their people… created by a God they’ve never known for a single purpose understood by any one of them upon the very first day they open their eyes. They are above all those who reside below. They are the Chosen, each graced with a preternatural beauty reflected in their eyes, their majestic wings, even in their hair. Flawless skin and melodic voices, they were given the very skies as their reward for fulfilling their duties. For their obedience, for their blind loyalty.
Tilting his head back, the Angel’s light silver eyes trail from the vast green meadow that stretches out before him and up towards the blinding light shining down upon him from the mid day sun, and he frowns.
“You mock me, don’t you Father…” he whispers to the still air and in his even tone, bitterness swims just beneath the surface.
Four hundred years he has lived. For four hundred years he has studied, he has trained, he has fulfilled his duties without question as his Maker has asked and yet his rewards have been silence… unending and maddening, a silence he has begged his creator in secret to break. A silence he has grown to hate.
One word from his Father, even a breath and he would not question him as he does. One single word is all he has ever needed. He has given his life, his soul, his very being. He has done what has been asked of him and yet the Maker continues to deny him this one request. That denial has become a mark upon his soul. That silence has become little more than a bitter taste in his mouth. If the creator had not denied him, he would perhaps, not doubt him as he have come to, he would not hate him as he does.
And he does hate the Father. He hates him for the existence he has been burdened with. This endless existence where he does little more than walk these vast borders, protecting his sacred lands from those filth that seek to defile it, droning through this life where nothing beyond this exists. Eat, sleep, wake, train, fight, die… is there truly nothing more for his people? For him? Fuan sighs and closes his eyes as a soft, warm breeze tugs at his clothing and long, silver layered locks of hair.
His brother doesn’t question the Maker as he does, but he already know this… doesn’t he?
His brother, who wears his face as if he were a mirror, who’s temperament is so different than his despite their outward likeness to one another. His brother who has no doubt in his head of who he is and what he’s been created to be. His brother who relishes in the gifts that have been bestowed upon them.
His brother, who is as the rest of their people, willfully blind to the Maker’s sadistic game.
There have been times that he’s envied Fanuel for it. Times that he’s envied his surety, his belief, his stupidity. There was once a time long ago that they were the same, that they viewed the creator through the same rose colored eyes, that their thoughts were nearly as identical as their faces. But the Maker knows, doesn’t he, just how long ago that was… He knows, he is sure, that his brother remains in his grace while he has fallen from it because he questions. He has questioned for so long. He no longer believes what he once did, he no longer believes at all.
Frowning, the tall figure reopens his eyes and finally allowing his head to drop down; he scans the area before him once more before turning from the beautiful scenery to face the trickle of poisoned ground behind him. Stretched out before the white clad Angel is more meadow, the lush green grass intermingled with brown, dead blades and clumps of ground both broken and dry. Forest rises up before him, overgrown and unruly, the heavy foliage sickly and dying, yet so thick and obstructive that it veils what land lies beyond. Staring at it for only a moment longer, Fuan turns from it yet again, resuming a path he abandoned hours prior, resuming his near silent steps along the Northern Borders under his command with no more glee than any time that had come before…