Status: On hold
If Skies Would Weep
The Birthing
The Clouds began to darken that day, growing grey and dismal and bleak, which was the first indication of a birthing. They used to rain after a birthing years ago, but now that was no more, and they just faded back to white afterwards, causing the people below to deflate in disappointment.
So, on that day, as the Clouds began to gather and grumble with greyness, the elder Navon shifted and readied himself for another innocent newborn, always demanding their wings to be straightened and their hair, if they had any yet, to be smoothed and their bodies to be comfortable. Navon lightened his soul because on the lightest may touch a newborn, as they must not taint one so young and they must also be light enough to carry the extra weight. Navon then began to prepare the paper made from Clouds on which he would scribe the name for this next beautiful baby, joining the others on this paper. It was a tradition created after they began to Fall, for no one wanted to forget their loved ones, no matter how many centuries passed. The names of the Fallen were marked with a bright red cross.
The Clouds groaned under the weight of bringing a new life into being, simply by their own will. They pained themselves into giving, even though they never gave rain anymore. They drew a baby out of wisps of white Cloud, until the boy was presented with pale skin and fine features and a lovely soul, lying there on the Cloud that birthed him. He did not cry, nor did he respond to any name Navon tried for him. “Amal?” Navon attempted. “Jesse? Alexander?” And yet, none seemed to work. And the boy would only be gifted with his wings once his name had been also gifted to him.
The babe started to cry, then, his fragile body stirring. He opened his eyes and showed Navon perfect midnight-blue eyes, framed by eyelashes of snow. It was startling, for the majority of the Cloud dwellers bore ice-blue eyes or, occasionally, sunlight yellow ones, all of them wrapped in the snowy eyelashes. But here was a boy, who had eyes that had never been seen on a Cloud dweller but many times on a mere human down below.
“Chaim,” Navon whispered. The name had finally come to him, with the meaning of unique, as this boy so clearly was. And the boy, now Chaim, turned his eyes directly to Navon, piercing the elder with a gaze too intelligent for a barely-born baby. He’s just a babe, Navon whispered in his own ear. You’re just imagining things, you silly old man. And then, the elder began to walk forward, listening to the wispy kind of sound his soft soles made against the carpet of Cloud. It was a beautiful thing, that sound, but it was a sound that had become something of a warning; it told the Cloud dwellers, Keep your time precious. Soon you may Fall as well.
Navon suddenly stopped in his tracks, his Cloud-white eyes – declaring him as an elder – widening with distress and shock. The baby was growing his wings but he was crying with pain. Mostly, babies usually smiled as their wings erupted from their back. Sometimes, they were indifferent. But this poor baby was crying as his wings pressed against the skin of his back from inside him. The wings were having difficulty coming through. After years and years of watching the births, Navon had never seen anything quite like this. No babe had ever cried. And absolutely none had trouble growing their wings.
A tearing of flesh ripped through the air, sounding horrid and awful and wrong. Navon steeled his emotions against it, well aware that if he began to feel pain or fear or worry, he may just slip through the Clouds. But even so, a little worry trickled through his blood.
Navon gasped softly as he saw blood-stained wings shoving their way through the baby’s precious skin. “Oh, Chaim,” he said softly, watching as the wings grew out, blood red standing out so clearly against the whiteness of their world. They stopped growing a few moments later, but the baby still wailed, his pain written all over his face.
By then, many other Cloud dwellers had gathered around, though Navon did not notice. They were all focused on this strange new boy. A few of the compassionate shifted around, trying to keep their feet above the depths of the Cloud and what could come below. Their emotions were building up, growing heavier. One of the youngest left – maybe only ten years – felt her wings start to splinter, and she winced, turning her face away from the crying infant. She could not look upon him, for she was too scared for her own safety: She didn’t want to Fall through the Clouds, just as her friends had done.
Many of the Cloud dwellers watched in horror as the baby boy stared around, suddenly silent, before a loud crack rang out across the cloudy skies, loud in all the people’s ears. Those gathered in front whispered to those behind them that his wings had broken – this baby, this pure baby, had already been broken! It caused devastation to all of them, gripped in their hearts. It was a disaster, a tragedy, that the baby had felt their pain already, breaking under it, when he was just a bare hour old.
The girl of ten fell, crying out, crumbling when she reached the denser air below.
Navon moved even further forwards, reached his hands out to comfort the poor young soul, but stumbled back as the other wing was crushed under a force no one could see. It would equal to the same amount of agonising pain crushing a human’s arm or leg would bring. Navon cringed as the baby’s screams grew even more frantic, seeming to reach out and grab everyone there by the throat.
“Somebody, help him…” The murmur sounded through the crowd. But nobody walked forwards, nobody joined Navon so close to the baby. Even he was so unable to help.
They stood, a large mass of pale-skinned, winged people, watching as everyone’s baby – for a baby born from Clouds does not only have two parents, but many different ones – broke. His wings snapped and bled, looking deformed and simply wrong, and the purity of their world grew stained with red. The wails of the baby shattered the silence of the crowd. The Clouds moaned with grey and sadness, gathering to try and keep the boy weightless.
And then, the baby fell.
So, on that day, as the Clouds began to gather and grumble with greyness, the elder Navon shifted and readied himself for another innocent newborn, always demanding their wings to be straightened and their hair, if they had any yet, to be smoothed and their bodies to be comfortable. Navon lightened his soul because on the lightest may touch a newborn, as they must not taint one so young and they must also be light enough to carry the extra weight. Navon then began to prepare the paper made from Clouds on which he would scribe the name for this next beautiful baby, joining the others on this paper. It was a tradition created after they began to Fall, for no one wanted to forget their loved ones, no matter how many centuries passed. The names of the Fallen were marked with a bright red cross.
The Clouds groaned under the weight of bringing a new life into being, simply by their own will. They pained themselves into giving, even though they never gave rain anymore. They drew a baby out of wisps of white Cloud, until the boy was presented with pale skin and fine features and a lovely soul, lying there on the Cloud that birthed him. He did not cry, nor did he respond to any name Navon tried for him. “Amal?” Navon attempted. “Jesse? Alexander?” And yet, none seemed to work. And the boy would only be gifted with his wings once his name had been also gifted to him.
The babe started to cry, then, his fragile body stirring. He opened his eyes and showed Navon perfect midnight-blue eyes, framed by eyelashes of snow. It was startling, for the majority of the Cloud dwellers bore ice-blue eyes or, occasionally, sunlight yellow ones, all of them wrapped in the snowy eyelashes. But here was a boy, who had eyes that had never been seen on a Cloud dweller but many times on a mere human down below.
“Chaim,” Navon whispered. The name had finally come to him, with the meaning of unique, as this boy so clearly was. And the boy, now Chaim, turned his eyes directly to Navon, piercing the elder with a gaze too intelligent for a barely-born baby. He’s just a babe, Navon whispered in his own ear. You’re just imagining things, you silly old man. And then, the elder began to walk forward, listening to the wispy kind of sound his soft soles made against the carpet of Cloud. It was a beautiful thing, that sound, but it was a sound that had become something of a warning; it told the Cloud dwellers, Keep your time precious. Soon you may Fall as well.
Navon suddenly stopped in his tracks, his Cloud-white eyes – declaring him as an elder – widening with distress and shock. The baby was growing his wings but he was crying with pain. Mostly, babies usually smiled as their wings erupted from their back. Sometimes, they were indifferent. But this poor baby was crying as his wings pressed against the skin of his back from inside him. The wings were having difficulty coming through. After years and years of watching the births, Navon had never seen anything quite like this. No babe had ever cried. And absolutely none had trouble growing their wings.
A tearing of flesh ripped through the air, sounding horrid and awful and wrong. Navon steeled his emotions against it, well aware that if he began to feel pain or fear or worry, he may just slip through the Clouds. But even so, a little worry trickled through his blood.
Navon gasped softly as he saw blood-stained wings shoving their way through the baby’s precious skin. “Oh, Chaim,” he said softly, watching as the wings grew out, blood red standing out so clearly against the whiteness of their world. They stopped growing a few moments later, but the baby still wailed, his pain written all over his face.
By then, many other Cloud dwellers had gathered around, though Navon did not notice. They were all focused on this strange new boy. A few of the compassionate shifted around, trying to keep their feet above the depths of the Cloud and what could come below. Their emotions were building up, growing heavier. One of the youngest left – maybe only ten years – felt her wings start to splinter, and she winced, turning her face away from the crying infant. She could not look upon him, for she was too scared for her own safety: She didn’t want to Fall through the Clouds, just as her friends had done.
Many of the Cloud dwellers watched in horror as the baby boy stared around, suddenly silent, before a loud crack rang out across the cloudy skies, loud in all the people’s ears. Those gathered in front whispered to those behind them that his wings had broken – this baby, this pure baby, had already been broken! It caused devastation to all of them, gripped in their hearts. It was a disaster, a tragedy, that the baby had felt their pain already, breaking under it, when he was just a bare hour old.
The girl of ten fell, crying out, crumbling when she reached the denser air below.
Navon moved even further forwards, reached his hands out to comfort the poor young soul, but stumbled back as the other wing was crushed under a force no one could see. It would equal to the same amount of agonising pain crushing a human’s arm or leg would bring. Navon cringed as the baby’s screams grew even more frantic, seeming to reach out and grab everyone there by the throat.
“Somebody, help him…” The murmur sounded through the crowd. But nobody walked forwards, nobody joined Navon so close to the baby. Even he was so unable to help.
They stood, a large mass of pale-skinned, winged people, watching as everyone’s baby – for a baby born from Clouds does not only have two parents, but many different ones – broke. His wings snapped and bled, looking deformed and simply wrong, and the purity of their world grew stained with red. The wails of the baby shattered the silence of the crowd. The Clouds moaned with grey and sadness, gathering to try and keep the boy weightless.
And then, the baby fell.