#theres probably going to be a second one because i gotta do valhalla now too

[knowledgebeyondbooks]

Angel drabble 1

The one who called himself ‘Virgil’ was an oddity among angels. In definition by itself, an angel was a sentient, a simple thought and conscious that was plucked out of pure magic and manifested into a physical form which was then passed off to a god, but tampering with the very existence of the wild, unknown force that threaded throughout the cosmos always lead to ‘quirks’, as they were called.

Plucking a single thought out of the theoretical hive-mind was in itself difficult. Letting it to grow and develop into a way one wished it was even harder. Letting these minute hints of sentience develop into their own forms was more efficient when done in batches, or clutches as most decided to refer them as. But even nests of mortal bird eggs needed a brooding mother, their more defined sentience and physical presence helping the developing beings to have some sort of pattern to go off of. At first the gods themselves held roost, but it was quickly realized that it simply took far too much time and most who hatched out of their developing state tended to be too wild to be tamed and used as favorable servants. Thus the task was handed down to other angels, the trusted seraphs of their respected deity, where their loyalty and disposition was desired in the overall batch of wet-wings.

In the case of Virgil, his clutch was supervised by another oddity among angels. They referred to themselves as ‘Pythagoras’, a seraph who shouldn’t have been one to begin with. In the angel society, there were, at its simplest, two groups: combatives, and non-combatives. Combative angels were was the label read- angels who were built to fight, to defend and to guard. They were the largest, shrewd and effective, but they had a far longer ‘gestation’ period. Non-combative angels, in turn, were smaller, easier to produce en masse, and were furthermore, tended to be viewed as not as bright outside of their designated posts. They were to do their job, and never were they to ascend very high in the ranks, unlike the combative ones who could rise to the very top as a seraph.

But then again, an oddity that was Pythagoras existed. A non-combative that had become a combative and ascended to the rank of seraph in a relatively very short period of time after the death of their god. The power fluctuation that had resulted in the destruction of the God of Justice had effected the entire Courts, and many of those under its domain had been effected- most leading to their corruption and eventual reemergence back into the very nature of magic in itself, to perhaps be reformed at another time. Pythagoras was one of the few who remained, changed, but not for the worst. They instead took up the mantle of leading the Courts until either their god was reborn or a new deity of the Courts was established.

Because of this strange oddity, there was inquiry about the seraph themselves roosting over a batch, to see how this change between roles would affect the group. The worst case was that the entire clutch was a dud and the tiny specks of thought would be returned to be collected and attempted at growth at a later date, the best case would be that the entire batch would be a perfect blend between the two classes, to create a loyal serving angel that was powerful and could effectively switch between working and protecting whenever they were needed.

The little project was conducted, and Pythagoras, along with the curious spectators from the Sphere of Knowledge, observed to see what case would come true.

The batch took far, far longer than any prior. Most never even began to develop at all, content in remaining as specks of sentience. The few that did develop further did not go very far, most stopping after a short while and never continuing again. Only one managed to make it to the hatching period.

At hatching, most angels tended to be a bit unrefined, too eager in making some form of themselves and breaking out to explore than to focus on the finer details. Many, especially the combative ones, favored size over definition, expanding themselves to be as large as they could expend themselves. The details were easily fixed after hatching, training the newer angels to use their connection to magic to reform and define themselves better now that they had better ideas of what they wanted to look like. Even the non-combatives tended to lack in refined forms, but they tended to favor a more manageable size and they had some idea of details.

This one survivor of the batch that Pythagoras hosted over was almost a complete opposite to a combative, and even to a non-combative to an extent. They were positively tiny, one of the smallest, if not the smallest angel to hatch at a barely three feet in height. What this one lacked in height made up in form, as every downy fluff on their body was solid, every feather on their armed wings smooth and correct. It was as if they spent so long fixating on the fluff that made up Pythagoras’ own wings that they simply forgot to make themselves a little bit bigger.

Color came to the tiny, very white angel later during their training, or at least in part, Speckles of grey crossed over their entire feature as if someone splattered them with paint. The angels from the Sphere of Knowledge were perplexed at the fact that the angel simply did not pick up colors like any of the others did, or even figure out an identity for themselves or picked out a symbol to represent themselves with on their mask that all angels first learned how to create through refocusing their connection to magic in this physical form. The small one’s blank mask was slightly too big for their face, and constantly kept sliding off, much to their dismay. They didn’t like seeing themselves in reflective surfaces, it turned out during training, after taking one look at their face in a mirror and immediately ducked to hide on the other end of the room.

The hypothesis was that the tiny angel lacked the comradery of his batch like so many others, ones who shared similar traits and kinship with familiarity of them developing alongside each other like siblings. Being the only one of his clutch, this small one had no one other than perhaps Pythagoras, whom they clung to whenever the elder came to observe. The soft grey speckles were instantly paired to the same color that adorned Pythagoras’ own feathers, the tiny angel taking a liking to the color. No one was quite sure why they were speckles, and the young wet-wing simply refused to talk at all.

With such lack of success in training, it was decided that Pythagoras would attempt to teach the small one singly, rather than be bombarded with new faces all the time. It was almost instantly after they brought the tiny angel to their office that they scuttled over to the bookshelf, fluffed antennae-like ears twitching as they seemed to listen to something that no one else could hear.

“My name is Virgil,” they told Pythagoras suddenly a few days later, clutching a book in their clawed wings that had the same name etched onto the cover, their voice holding so much finality that even if they wanted to argue, the elder wouldn’t be able to.

“Of you are,” Pythagoras replied softly, reaching out to ruffle the tiny angel’s head as the fluff there turned the same unusual color of the tome. “It is nice to meet you, Virgil.”

Virgil, it turned out, could hear something that came from the books that no one else could hear. He spoke at length to the many tomes in Pythagoras’ office, often silent and nodding before whispering to the leather covers. He learned far more from the book than any of the training he had gone through, picking pronouns for himself, adorning a symbol on his mask that Pythagoras did not recognize, and no one in the Sphere of Knowledge knew either, and even focusing on resizing himself, although even he only reached up to about five foot in height at his tallest. He preferred being small, hiding on the shelves, the fluff of his body sucking in all the dust and dirt that had collected in the cracks and gaps over time. But talking to others outside of Pythagoras was, in itself, still a faraway concept for the small angel, referring not to speak at all, and even with Pythagoras he oftentimes stopped whatever he was saying, antennae twitching as he focused his entire attention on whatever nearest book was saying to him and start talking to that instead.

It was with hesitance that Pythagoras assigned the small angel to the Sphere of Knowledge itself. There wasn’t exactly a ruling deity over it, instead everyone but no one possessed it. In theory a god would assign someone to it in case they needed to find some sort of information and they were available to do so. In current age it was used for angels who simply did not quite meet the expectations of their deity: too independent, rebellious, emotional, weak, or simply no longer required. The reason why most of them never corrupted for the transfer itself was because there Sphere was massive. It did not just include written knowledge, but skills for objects no longer made, languages, crafts, recipes, raising extinct plants, and creating their own knowledge for knowledge sake. There was no point in having information if one didn’t know how to use it, and it was a stew pot of constant information.

What did corrupt angels was the mere fact there was so much information. Many became so entrenched in their work that the knowledge consumed them. Which was why all those in the Sphere of Knowledge were required to sleep, while it was so unnecessary for everyone else.

Integrating Virgil was easier than expected. Just leading him to the library and he was off climbing all over the shelves, whispering excitedly to all the new book friends. What was difficult was getting him to sleep now that he had so many new tomes to talk to other than Pythagoras’ stash in the office. The others of the Sphere tried to help, but if Virgil was uncomfortable around others, he certainly did not like them trying to pick him up and carry him out of the library.

The task was usually left for Pythagoras, who was called in at the maximum weeks he could be awake for, gently carrying the tiny angel away while said angel told the elder excitedly all the gossip the books had.

“He doesn’t even read them,” the one angel told another with a bemused shake of their head. “Somehow he just… knows.”

Most knew not to bother the strange, tiny angel who somehow could hear books speak, unless they wanted information and couldn’t find the right source. Some persuasion was in order, but Virgil would eventually lead them to the right books, although his peering over the top of the shelves while watching them read was always a bit disconcerting.

Still, Virgil was a strange angel, but strange angels were always welcome in the Sphere of Knowledge.