Your species has been declining rapidly. Most people denied your existence, claimed it was some exorbitant fairytale. A legend. Hunters all grasping to catch a glimpse of a wing- a retreating feather against the inky darkness. It’d been cemented in your head since the beginning of existence. Hunters are the enemy. Avoid them at all costs. You’d had close encounters- every angel you knew had, it was a part of life.

But you always assumed you’d get away. Wouldn’t be one of the angels whose wings were harvested and they were left to rot- or sold on to be some glorified slave damned to a life of shame. You’d rather be put to rest were it to come to that.

Everything hurt- you noticed, when the colour came rushing back into your vision. The world shifting like shards of light in a kaleidoscope. You’d been hit from the sky- knocked from the air and sent hurtling to the dirt. Your body tangled amongst the netting, wings contorted awkwardly. You urged everything in yourself to move. They were coming. Two shadowy figures, darting between the darkness and shrubbery.

Two men. Angel hunters. They paused at the fringe of the clearing. Just briefly as the one wielding a shotgun spoke. His voice rough, commanding.

“Am I dreaming, Sammy?”

Awe flashes in his eyes, strobing intently as he scanned the mixture of angel and netting. Sammy didn’t respond. Lips parted.