Why had all fallen silent? Why had the great feasts around the sacred flames ceased? Even the undead, scattered across the still waters, no longer uttered a single sound. The two gates blocked the gaze of countless figures. All standing upon the same ground, bound by lives that for some were monotonous, safe, and unchanging. And yet, those twin gates seemed to draw every emotion together upon a new stage: distant, shifting, destined to one day fade among the clouds.
The angel's eyes were among those countless humanized sparks, yet his were the last to turn away. Where others showed awe, fascination, and a strange sense of belonging that tore the children of flame from their mothers, the angel's gaze was ruled by a terrible obsession. His eyes, wide and bloodshot, focused on a single detail that made those two gates as sacred as the very God sung of by the Creator. One way or another, he had to reach them. They had to fall into his grasp, like prey before a hunter.
But what had he seen that was so significant?
A series of sharp, repetitive sounds shattered the silence. Those nearby turned, realizing the nameless one was leaping upward again and again, failing miserably like a newborn learning to walk. He flailed his arms, trying to seize some invisible ledge, but it was useless: his wings were anything but suited for flight. Even when he grabbed at them, flapping desperately, nothing changed. Perhaps they needed some lost mechanism to function. For now, they were nothing but translucent lines, glowing faintly indigo, skeletal frames once covered in a thousand feathers. They resembled the veined wings of some insect.
Soon, the angel's despair was joined by laughter. It was as if the others already knew the futility of his wings.
"Why do you hope to breathe the waters?"
"How could you think to walk upon their surface?"
"Will you drink it all?"
"No, you cannot burn it!"
In truth, their words were not pure mockery. They were warnings, gentle invitations to give up. Even as laughter laced their voices, they sounded almost compassionate.
"Stop searching for light in the dark!"
"Soon, those gates will vanish, and we'll return to our mothers."
"They wait for us, they call to us... they will always be there."
"All that you've felt will fade into memory, only to die again when the next cycle begins."
"And yet, you'll never reach them… for who can truly touch the sky with a single finger?"
Once more, the angel fell. It was perhaps his hundredth attempt. No feathers lost, only desperate leaps upon the sea of the dead. The kind words of his kin meant nothing. The twin gates, nearing the end of their cycle, drifted ever farther away. Resignation returned stronger than before, festering in his rotting heart. Yet even through endless tears, he kept trying... again and again.
This time, the laughter grew louder. His futile efforts seemed to distract the human sparks more than the sacred gates themselves. Without a way to reach the heavens, his obsessions would fade — until the next cycle began.
And so it was...
Feasts, silences, mockery, and laughter repeated seven more times. But the angel had only one goal. He would keep smashing his head against fate until something changed. Then, a cold warmth stirred within him, faint at first, then stronger with each failure that sent him sprawling like a child deluded into thinking he could fly. The gates began appearing more often, almost as if destiny itself mocked him. That warmth, that familiar sensation, burned at the spot where he bore the ring, the same left to him by the mysterious savior of the abyss. Each failure made it pull harder, drawing him toward a single point: a Mother Flame. The same that once embraced him in its fiery tongues.
Perhaps the ring was not a gift from the abyssal savior, but a relic of love, a call from the flame itself. But what would happen if the angel, crushed by failure and the weight of endless seasons, chose to follow that call?
After forty cycles, every crumb of his resolve melted away. The ring's promise seemed hollow, another illusion meant to keep his feet bound to the earth. Those few who still bothered to discourage him had long fallen silent, too used to his madness. Words no longer soothed him. They simply returned to their vile monotony, as the angel withdrew into himself — offended, defeated, betrayed by the beauty of a life no longer meant to bloom.
"Great Mothers…" sang three of his kin behind him in a solemn chant. "Here is where our feet meet. Here is where our breaths entwine. In you, our lust is undone. In you, our fear of death becomes but dust. And where fina—"
They were cut short. A possessed being had struck them aside — an angel, of course — pushing past, not to silence them, but for something else. He stumbled, ran, and half-crawled toward the great flame that bound those he called brothers and sisters. There was no stopping him. Those who tried were crushed aside like statues of salt.
A new, dreadful obsession seized him. He no longer sought the twin gates: only the first flame. The ring on his finger glowed red-hot. Terrible burns spread along his hand, but the pain meant nothing. He knew far worse awaited him... and still, he ran.