One step at a time, a creature who was once an angel trudges into the woods, following eyes glowing in the dark. Her halo is cracked. Bloody stumps on her back mark where proud wings had been before some act of terrible violence ripped them from her.
She does not know how long she’s been walking. These woods were oppressively dark even during day, but the shadows thickened as her journey continued, coagulating into something so deep and impenetrable that it eclipsed even the memory of light.
And then the eyes had appeared.
She follows the eyes for the simple reason that doing so keeps her from colliding with a tree trunk she cannot see. Some dim concern in the back of her mind reminds her they could be leading her into greater danger than that, but she finds herself unable to muster true worry.
Eventually she feels a change. The darkness lightens, the canopy above opens, and the once-angel finds herself in a glade beneath a sea of stars. Her feet come to a halt of their own accord, and she takes in her surroundings.
The eyes now surround her in a complete circle at the edge of the glade—a ring of blinking embers broken only by the silhouette of a great tree in the center. The exhaustion of her march catches up all at once, and she slumps at the foot of the tree, her back leaning against it.
Her motionless rest seems to invite the eyes—some of them, at least—to slowly approach and close in around her. The once-angel accepts whatever fate they bring, but still some spark of defiance in her refuses to close her eyes in resignation while it happens.
When one set of glowing eyes arrives within arms reach, the dim light permits her to make out some details and see what manner of creature she allowed to lure her here.
The curious, winged creature flitting into view—looking like a small insectoid angel—is a fairy.
It does nothing but appraise her for a moment before returning to the others.
Others approach, look her over, land on her broken halo, or experimentally prod her wing-stumps. She flinches at that one, but refuses to whimper or otherwise show weakness.
The fairies retreat as they satisfy their curiosity, making room for others to explore her.
Her eyelids grow heavy after a while. How long was it since she last slept?
A pinch at her neck jerks her upright. Her eyes snap open and she sees two fairies carrying something.
A cup? As they bring it to her face, the broken angel discovers she no longer has the strength to even attempt to resist, so she parts her lips and allows the pair to pour it sloppily into her mouth, dribbling almost an equal amount down her chin.
It tastes like the stars overhead, like the woods themselves, like petrichor and peat and wildflower honey. It’s sweet and sticky and burns with each gulp. It could be poison or medicine or anything else, and she is far beyond the point of caring.
When she finishes, sleep overtakes her quickly, and this time the fairies let her rest.
Each time she awakens, she finds herself unable or unwilling to move. Each time the fairies soon return to feed her more of the strange liquid, and she drifts off again.
She loses track of the days spent in soporific stupor. They blur together, and her head is fuzzier and less alert each time she awakens. More and more time passes between each brief interlude of wakefulness.
Moss slowly grows over her immobile limbs, creeping across and blanketing her body in the forest’s green embrace. The fairies sow flowers on her mound and arrange a small circle of their prettiest mushrooms with exacting care. They sing and laugh and play their magic on her.
Seasons pass and return again and pass in succession.
Eventually, after a long, long while, something stirs again within the mound.
Cracks spread across the green, and something like a hand emerges to press against the earth and support the shuddering mass shifting upright.
The figure stands, slowly and unsteadily, her hand gripping the nearby tree for balance. She shakes the loose earth and moss from herself and slowly finds her balance. Her throat feels parched, and she takes her first steps in ages toward the pool of water at the glade’s edge.
She spreads her wings to help steady herself as she kneels at the pool’s edge, her hands gently disturbing the full moon’s reflection on the water’s surface as she brings her cupped hands from the pool to her mouth to slake her thirst.
With her thoughts still drifting slowly, it takes a moment of processing for her to realize: she can feel wings again. And her hands—she suddenly notices—are green, as though stained by moss. Confused and uncertain, she leans forward and peers into her reflection in the pool.
Messy, midnight-dark hair rings the unfamiliar face that greets her. It has that same mossy green skin, a shocked and gaping mouth filled with needle-sharp teeth, and two pairs of eyes that shine with a fiery glow. New wings, thin and transparent, stretch out behind her.
The halo hovering over her is now a moss-covered ring bearing a circle of mushrooms sprouting from it. No Divine Purpose radiates from it any more than it has since it was cracked and broken, but somehow, she no longer finds that she misses it.
All she feels is a desire to play.
The other fairies return to the glade as soon as they hear the news of their new friend’s reawakening. Together they sing and dance and paint the glade all the colors of their magic in welcome and in celebration of the pure joy of meeting a new sister.
The Angel Fairy can see it all in ways she couldn’t appreciate before with her old divinity overflowing her senses. Joy radiates from the others, not the strict judgment she lived under until now.
Tears of joy paint her face as she finally feels safe and at home.