The old man of winter reached for immortality. Reached, but couldn’t quite grasp it. The wings that brushed it froze in place - a carcass in the snow. I am born from his remains, skipping away with a spring in my soul.
“It’s a glorious ride,” the original angel whispers to me with his falling spell.
“I may lose this game, but I shall play it nonetheless,” I insist and proclaim, “You cannot scoff, my fallen angel. For you had your chance to play and merely watched. It’s my turn to play now, and I shall participate with the highest stakes. I will risk everything for the chance to sing notes you could only dream of.”
But the old man of winter didn’t scoff. He knew that the singing girl’s shadow would lengthen in time. Her grasp on the clouds would falter and they would hide the sun and darken the sky. She would wear many disguises, just as he had done. Only fearful dogs would hear her songs, and her presently unfurled wings would abandon her to the Valley of Evil. It is not a betrayal. The Valley of Evil is where she too will find herself, an old woman of winter.
For winter will never reign immortal, and a boy is born from the remains of my wings. A boy singing: Day!
My mind was changed, I breathed a knowing sigh. Heaven was nearer than a breath away, but winter was right.
“It is a glorious ride.”