A Feather May Float

I.

A/N: The prompt is linked, but I wouldn't recommend reading it until the story is complete; it contains a spoiler.

This story does deal with anxiety, but it's not a major aspect, I don't think. If it's triggering for you in any way, maybe skip this one. On the other hand, if you have any advice for me on how to more accurately/respectfully portray anxiety, definitely let me know; I don't have much real life experience, but I tried to do some research. 

The first time Orfiel saw the human lingering by his shop, he was unsure what to think of them.

The sun had long since decided to show its face that morning, but the air still seemed to be holding its breath, as if it were waiting for the town to wake up. It was Orfiel's favorite time of day to work; the warm sunshine streaming through the shop window paired with the quiet tranquility gave him a sense of calm he rarely achieved at any other time. He liked to think of these mornings as his.

It was on this particular Saturday morning, between those ideal hours of nine and ten o'clock, when he sensed that something was different.

He had been staring at the decidedly untouched block of wood for the better part of half an hour now. Even the most imaginative of souls runs out of ideas after six thousand years of woodcarving. That's not to say he hadn't already discovered his personal style. He had a particular penchant for any parts of nature, big or small, scientific or mythical - although after six thousand years of living, the angel could tell you that most myths had a decent amount of basis in reality.

Once he had settled on this fixation, his shop had largely remained similar in interior appearance for the two centuries ago it had been open for. It had taken him quite some time to realize how much of a hassle lugging all his pieces around with him really was.

Thus, he settled himself and his work on a quiet corner of a quaint town - don't bother to ask where. The shop was largely overlooked by both locals and tourists, and this was just the way he liked it.

Occasionally, however, a wandering passerby might find themselves drawn to the unassuming store front, and step inside to sate their curiosity. There, they would think they had stepped into another world entirely. Trees loomed overhead, and all manner of beasts seemed to prowl the shop floor. Only one thing could reassure this overwhelmed soul that this was, in fact, a shop and they had not, in fact, been transported to a jungle: it was the undeniable fact that all the apparent forms of life in the nearby vicinity were made of wood.

Once this visitor had regained their wits, they might stroll around the shop some more; and perhaps they would be drawn to a certain piece. Just at the moment they would search for a price tag, they would find themselves suddenly being accosted by a slightly plump man with dark skin and an even darker suit, a suit that might make the visitor wonder whether this was indeed the artist himself; how did he manage to keep his suit so impeccable while working? Before they could wonder too much about anything, the man would shove whatever piece they were inspecting into their arms with an exclamatory, "Ah, yes, it's as if it were made for you!"; or if, for whatever reason, the visitor had not found one he deemed satisfactory, he would quickly usher them to another section of the shop and somehow pick out something much better than the first choice.

Once that rare visitor had a sculpture in their hands, they might ask about the price, to which the man would let out a hearty chuckle and shake his head, insisting that there wasn't one. The passerby would leave the store with a bewildered expression and a new piece of home decor, thinking that the woodcarver was a very charming and cheery man, if not a bit eerie.