we were sure god was dead / open, joining

[madster]

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it was raining.

alabaster paws sunk into puddles, mud staining perfect white fur. what had once been pure had been corrupted by the mortal plane, and now the spirit wandered. he couldn't remember his real name. the name that his father gave him. he couldn't even remember his siblings, or why he was here. all he knew was that he felt sick to the core.

sick from being so distant from his creator, with nothing to worship but the sound of rain against the earth. perhaps this was just the hymn of the earth- he tried to distract his wandering mind. god had created this world too, surely, then all was well. he was in his father's realm.

"oh," he sighed, accidentally stepping in yet another cold puddle. this time, though, he peered down at the rippling reflection, this version of himself beyond the rainwater. a feline, powder-white, with baby-blue eyes. still, there was an air of unease around the boy. he was tired and aching, and looked sickly. he was pale, his eyes distant, and his paws trembling. at least he still had his wings. they were lovely, but even they reflected his sickly nature- his feathers were dull and some fell off with any sort of touch of the breeze.

he left a trail of feathers and pawprints in the mud as he reached the border. he collapsed, unable to continue. it was cold. so cold. he wrapped himself in his wings, shivering. was he to die here? cold, and without the grace of his father? in unknown territory?

and so, the angel wept.