Damian is never one to dwindle on the memorabilia of the past, as he prefers to carve what's ahead of him into barren stone for all future prophecies laying blank in wait. Sonaē do not remain languidly stationed, but instead crosses rivers of powdered snow sheeting stretching mountains that yonder into gray swirling skies.

He had never been prosperous since his unapproved leave from his father and mother, followed by his settlement in Japan. The Tokugawa reign over the throne of his newfound home, and bushido is the only thing that gets a poor samurai like Damian by.

Even with the reality of his pennilessness, Damian still doesn't know how he appeased the gods above so brilliantly that they sent him one of their most venerated angels down to linger at his side. A blessing you were, and his guardian angel who guided him.

You deserved better than him yet you clung to him even when he collapsed from illness. You could spare him from a lethal impale but you couldn't stop the seasonal curses of mother nature.

"What beautiful hands you have, what breathtaking feathers." the sickly boy purred, looping bruised fingers through the flits of your wings. Death was never a fear, to die in the warmth of your lover, he is certain that's how he would go in every lifetime--just you and him.

A poor livelihood like your own could never afford medicine to save him, and he's aware. He has half a mind to write to Bruce, but if nature has it, who is he to disrupt her plans?

For a few yen, you worked, weaving at a loom for hours until your hands weren't so beautiful any longer. Winter came and there is no longer silk and cotton to string together.

You plucked off feathers from your wings one by one until you saved for Damian's medicine. In place of your wings are scars. Damian'd trace the lines as if mapping out constellations on the softest terrace.

"Even if I have lost my feathers, would you still love me?" You'd ask, and Damian would reply, "Of course I would." while lapping light kisses across your closed wounds.