Starry Eyed Fighters

Chapter 10: Destiny and fate are fickle bastards

Belle blinked her eyes open, the familiar sound of waves crashing against the rocky shore surface filling her long ears. Her ears would flicker jovially at the nostalgic sound. She found herself laying on a soft bed of emerald grass; the salty breeze of the Old Head of Kinsale gently caressed her face like a newborn baby's soft hands. The Irish coastline expanded before her, a vast expanse of deep blue ocean meeting the sky in the distance, where the sun hung low, casting its mesmerizing golden rays that danced across the water's surface.

She knew this place well—it was a spot she had visited often as a child to have picnics with her grandparents; for her, it was a sanctuary of peace, a break from the hustle and bustle of the world. Yet something felt different, almost otherworldly.

Slowly, Belle pushed herself up, the soft rustle of grass beneath her hands grounding her in this strange dreamlike reality. Now conscious that she is asleep and not really back home. A presence beside Belle would appear, catching her attention instantly. Turning her head to address the presence, her eyes would capture a figure sitting gracefully on the edge of the cliff. It was a woman—an Angel— her appearance both breathtaking and heartbreaking. She was radiant yet broken, exuding an aura of warmth and sorrow all at the same time.

The Angels hair was a messy pixie-style cut and her white, cloud-like hair color framed her delicate face immaculately. Her sky-blue eyes, though filled with a gentle kindness, bore the weight of a thousand burdens, and her soft features spoke of someone who had seen far more than her youthful exterior suggested. She looked to be in her early thirties if she were human, but as an immortal Angel, her beauty was timeless, ageless—a coin of youth and weariness.

Chains bound her wrist and ankles, the iron links dull and heavy against her fair white skin. The cuffs that held her looked very well aged, almost ancient, and they dug painfully into her flesh, leaving raw red marks where they had eaten into her overtime. Her arms and legs were exposed beneath the tattered remnants of a long white gown, which bore the evidence of hardship; faded bruises, cuts, and dark marks blemished her otherwise flawless skin. The once pure white gown draped loosely over her short legs, torn and stained with patches of black grime and dried blood. It was clear as day that she had been imprisoned for a long time, her ethereal purity tainted by the darkness she had to endure.

The signature pure white feathered wings, large and majestic, lay folded against her back, but even they showed signs of hardship. The tips of her wing's feathers were frayed, and a few had fallen beside her while she sat there, unkept and worn. Above her head floated a halo, glowing faintly with a soft, golden hue, but it was slightly cracked. A jagged line ran across its circumference like a scar—a sign that her divinity had faded overtime. 

Belle's heart ached at the sight, and she could not help but feel an inexplicable sense of familiarity with this angelic figure, as if she had known her all her life without ever meeting her. The angel turned to face her, her expression tender yet weary, and a small, bittersweet smile formed on her lips despite the pain etched in her features. "She's grown so much since then," the chained Angel thought, in reminiscence.

In her own head, Belle's thoughts wandered too. "I remember readin' somewhere that a cracked angel's halo means they've gone an' broken one of their culture's strict laws and were punished for it. Without their halo, over time, they'll die an' wither away—painfully. Poor lass." Belle thought with sympathy.

"Welcome, Belle, dear," the angel said, her voice melodic and gentle, like a soothing lullaby carried on the wind. It held a deep maternal warmth, a kindness that seemed to pierce through her fatally bruised appearance.

Belle, caught in a whirlwind of emotions, found herself unable to speak, only able to take in the strange, tragic beauty of the angel beside her. Her body urged her to reach out, to touch the woman's hand and offer some kind of comfort, but her voice became lost in her throat, and her hands remained frozen, her nails digging into the grass beneath her.