Hester stayed with Alexander for the whole night. He doesn't know how long he slept like that, sitting up, back against the hard uncomfortable wall, but his wings were killing him when he opened his eyes, a thick wooly blanket was draped on top of him.

He moved his head ever-so-slightly, Alexander wasn't next to him anymore, how long was he here alone? He could hear walking upstairs, was Wilbur up already?

Hester stayed still for a moment. He was having such a good dream too, then begrudgingly threw off the blanket and stood up, the downstairs was cold, the oven Hester was next to seemed like it hadn't been used all day. Hester bit back a yelp from his wings being sore from leaning on them and walked to the ladder.

He could hear paper being moved and footsteps of someone slowly walking. Hester poked his head though the already opened trapdoor, he saw Wilbur sitting on the floor leaning on the couch and Alexander sitting next to him looking at him draw something.

Hester let out a sigh of relief, Alexander was ok Wilbur was ok, everything's ok.

No one noticed Hester as he watched Wilbur gleefully pick up what he was drawing and showed Alexander, Alexander ruffled his already very messy curly brown hair.

The moment was so calm, so peaceful, that no one would ever know the stress and fear of last night, did that happen every night? Was Hester only now just realizing it? The thought plagued his mind slightly as he heard Alexander compliment Wilbur's drawing.

Hester shifted and began to climb the rest of the way, Alexander noticed and gave a half nod then continued watching Wilbur draw, Wilbur babbled happily as Hester walked over, he showed Hester his drawing as well. (Hester had no idea what he was looking at) he gave Wilbur a short hug then sat on the couch.

Alexander grabbed a book under the couch and began reading, Hester leaned over to look at the page, it was something to do with poems and stories.

Alexander noticed and titled his head for Hester to get a better look, Hester wasn't reading it however, he was still worried about Alexander he seemed alright—at least physically—like always he had the same monotone voice and the same tired expression on his face. He truly did wear it like a mask, it was a facade in a way. Maybe to not worry Hester or maybe that was how Alexander dealt with emotions but whatever it was it seemed unhealthy to the point of Hester worries of what happens if Wilbur sees and thinks that's normal?

They both need to be good role models,

For Wilbur's sake.

There was an openness between them now, raw vulnerability that share some awkwardness for something so personal to be so quickly—it feels—to be discovered, Hester felt like a stranger in this man's house as he stays he learns more—of course he doesn't mind that isn't a bad thing learning about him, it's just that—what if he can't help him? This was a new feeling, a new experience with its twist and turns Hester wouldn't be prepared for.

Hester noticed that Alexander also wasn't reading, his eyes weren't moving to the words, his body was tense like he was waiting for something—Hester had no idea what—until he finally broke the ice.

"Thank you for helping me last night. I promise it won't happen again."

Promise it won't happen again.

"You can't promise that."

Hester quickly said a little louder than what was necessary. Wilbur continued drawing, not looking up unfazed by Hester's loud and ear splitting voice compared to the quiet calm silence. Alexander shifted slightly like he was about to argue leaving his mouth open then closing it.

"Look, mate at least from how it seems, you can't control it. And it seems no one can, it's such a strong curse I mean—"

Hester covered his mouth with his hand practically slapping himself, Alexander didn't move he just closed the book he was holding loudly. -Well, I'm gonna die- Hester thought, his loud mouth and foolishness seems to always come up at the worst times. Alexander pinched the bridge of his nose sighing then asked.

"What gave it away?"

Hester stayed quite trying to gauge what would happen if he told the truth. -Oh, well when you helped and took care of me, I went poking around and started to mind your business- Something told Hester that wouldn't be the best thing he could say—but certainly not the worst.

"You talk to yourself. A lot."

"Is that uncommon? I've seen people do that."

Gods he could read him like an open book, Wilbur didn't understand the conversation happening around him from Alexander's calm tone—Wilbur could tell when something was wrong with Hester's voice becoming sharper and sharper.

"My curse is that I hear things, things that are not there."

"Like voices?"

He was poking a sleeping bear, lighting a candle too close to gunpowder to feel comfortable, but still recklessly continued onward.

"Perhaps."

Alexander said calmly, like this was basic knowledge anyone should know just by looking at him, a fun fact. Hey did you know I'm cursed with thoughts and feelings that are not my own? It was so monotone, thrown out so camly—easily that Alexander could say anything and it would take Hester at least a minute to understand what he said.

The silence was overwhelmingly loud as Alexander opened his book again, the conversation seeming to make an end, then Alexander added as an afterthought.

"Was the story you told me true?"

Hester stayed quite, some of it was—most really—big sections were, some of the details became foggy in his mind, him replacing them with little parts of his imagination, but it was mostly true.

"Stories are what the listener wants to hear, for all I know you could have heard something completely different from what I said."

"Your family's awful, you like stars and you met Lady Death, the end."

"Yeah that's the main gist of it." Hester laughed, then Alexander's mouth opened and Hester waited patiently Alexander floundered for a moment then finally asked softly.

"Why can't you go back to her?"

The question was put so suddenly, it confused Hester a little however he still replied.

"That's a long story mate—one I'll tell you later."

Well, Hester just became a hypocrite, always hating how adults say they'll do something later just so Hester would shut up—the time later was closer to never in his mind than any amount of time in the world.

The conversation ended there, Alexander didn't respond, Hester moved his wings slightly and grimaced from the pain, his wings were matted and some of the feathers would need to be preened soon from him not taking care of them, preening was like brushing hair but for wings instead. The process was slow and painful if it was not done in a while, and with Hester not flying? It would hurt. A lot.

The storm hit and Hester stayed occupied with random miscellaneous chores, Wilbur's drawing littered the floors leaving Hester to take care of it, as Alexander stayed unusually quiet, mostly reading upstairs or keeping Wilbur company. Wilbur enjoyed anyone giving him attention, for the most part everything was peaceful.

It continued even as Alexander and Wilbur went below, Hester said he would come down after he finished with something—Alexander didn't ask what. Hester sat close to the fire, the cottage being swallowed by a yellow-orange hue as the sky became a dark ocean blue. Hester began the tedious process of preening, all while cursing at himself for the ache he feels everytime he moves them.

He eventually finished his right and began fussing with his left wing, the one far more neglected, as Hester idly traced the feathers and started to rub some of them in. His fingers caught into a callus spot on his wings, the pit in his stomach became almost painful, making Hester nauseous at the memory.

He hasn't thought of that memory in a very long time.

«»«»«»«»«»

There was the snap of a bow then an arrow whipped passed his face hitting the wall behind him, he tightened the grip on his sword.

He could barely walk straight his whole body feeling weak and fatigued, his feet pulsing from the pain. He looked and saw two people, twins—no three? Four? The world began to spin as he looked down trying to ground himself, he thought the fight was over—the battle won, why keep fighting they already lost? Then he felt a sharp pain in his left wing and stone on the side of his face.

Then the world went dark.

"So—wait, tell me one more time?"

A small voice said, it sounded close by, it was a monotone female's voice. The Angel recognized it as one of his many aunts. She was always a strict and scary person to be around but the presence of someone was a little comforting.

"I've told you everything, an arrow hit him in the wing and he collapsed from blood loss, that's it."

A sharper voice replied seemingly younger and also female from the tone. He heard someone walking and the distinct noise of a door being slammed shut followed by a sign. The Angel had no idea how long he had been unconscious but from his left wing throbbing with a small amount of pain and the feeling of bandages around him it had at least been a few hours, maybe a day.

The Angel tried and failed to bite back a groan. He couldn't pretend anymore trying to wait for them to leave, he reluctantly opened glassy eyes and found his aunt staring daggers at him—he stayed quite staring back at her, unfazed by hearing running outside the room pounding of feet and talking. Investigating the room he sees himself in, a wooden door in front of him big rectangle shaped windows shining a piercing yellow light and a basic white bed Hester was lying on. He was in the recovery room—to say this was his first time, would be the biggest lie he could ever tell.

"I'm very disappointed in you."

The Angel bit his tongue and swallowed his retaliation, feeling the oh-so familiar sensation of the burning anger eating away at the pit in his stomach instead he continued staring—childlike confusion, as the minutes dragged by.

"How did this happen?"

His aunt asked short and clipped leaving little room for anything other than an answer. The Angel merely shrugged, he couldn't remember other than feeling a sharp pain in his wing and hearing a scream, everything else was blurry and unfocused in his mind. "You almost jeopardized everything we have accomplished here." She said coldly his family never yelled, screamed, or raised their voice, they only stared and isolated people who failed. Hester had only ever seen them convey one emotion to him—disappointment.

It was a feeling he had gotten used to, for the most part.

He looked down at his hands to see them covered in dirt and grime with possibly a mixture of blood—his own or someone else's the Gods know. His aunt narrows her eyes at him. "Do you even understand anything—why are you even an Angel? It makes no sense." Disappointment was fueled by envy in the Angel’s life, everywhere he went rumors and legends were whispered alike, some with him being a feared hero others weaved to show him as a idiotic child—he could never tell which was worse.

His aunt turned and began to walk away. The Angel couldn't help but ask.

"What happened to the others?"

He was sent in with four other members of his family he didn't really know—he didn't really know anyone, but still they are family. He remembers hearing someone scream for help, him running through an open door then waking up here, who screamed? What happened to them?

"They are all with Lady Death."

She said calmly, as if these weren't people as if they weren't family, a ripple of shame and guilt washed over him like a tidal wave.

He failed them.

He failed them all?

His aunt turned the doorknob and walked out, for a brief moment the Angle heard sounds of laughter and small snippets of conversation—they were talking about him, how he let four innocent lives slip through his fingertips. All of them not understanding the gravity that this will have, the consequences that will unfold later, instead they mock him—like they always have.

Only when the door closes.

Is when he allows himself to cry.

Grieving the loss of people he never knew, the feeling of bandages around his waist and wings make him feel sick as he drowns himself in sorrow, his chest heaving for oxygen as the air suddenly becomes too thin.

He cried himself to sleep that night and many others after.

After a while the feeling began to dull, the feeling no longer bit but more so growl, the tears that dampen his eyes slow to a stop, almost fading into something smooth, continuously pushing but no longer pulling the weight became more of a comfort than anything else.

He hasn't cried since that day.

«»«»«»«»«»

The trapdoor swings open as Hester becomes aware of his surroundings again, the crackling of the fire, the pounding on the windows from the storm, the wood beneath his feet, and the scar on his wing.

He could hear Alexander gently put Wilbur on the couch as Wilbur looked tiredly at Hester—however still retaining the childlike wonder as Hester combs his hands through his wings—Alexander having the same childlike confusion as Wilbur it makes Hester laugh. He looks slightly embarrassed but still asks

"What are you doing?"

"Just preening."

He said quickly—knowing that wasn't enough information but nevertheless continued his focus on his wings, a sharp spike of pain came from them and he hissed trying not to move until the pain subsided.

Alexander noticed.

"Are you alright?"

Hester bit his tongue trying to block out the pain—it didn't work. Alexander sat cross legged beside him thumbing the wooden floor boards staring idly at the fire. The light making Alexander's hair have a sunset orange hue to it instead of the scarlet red it actually was.

Hester abandoned his attempt at preening and instead let his wing pathetically flop on the ground beside him—the small pile of feathers quivered slightly from the small movement he made.

"Were you trying to cut your wings off?" Alexander deadpans.

"What? Absolutely not!"

"Then please explain why—thirty feathers are just laying on the floor?"

"I was preening."

"Yes, that gives me a lot of information, thank you."

Alexander was of course joking—so was Hester, both of their voices were rough and jagged but both saw the lightness in it, at least Hester did, worried he clarified.

"It's how you're supposed to do it.”

"Mhm hmm.''

Alexander hums and moves his non-prosthetic hand to touch the tip of one of Hester's wings. Hester flinches slightly confused at the action, Hester under any normal circumstance would never allow someone to even come near his wings—but Alexander proved himself to be trusting—seeming to protect Wilbur and taking the safety of the people around him seriously, overall being a gentle and quiet person—something he wouldn't have expected from a former foot soldier—or anyone from the army for that matter. He relaxed his wings, taking a deep breath as Alexander slowly put his hand down.

However he didn't expect what happened next.

Alexander gently shifts closer to his back and a callous hand cautiously brushes through midnight coloured feathers. He tensed for a brief moment, the feeling being very foreign, and very odd—however not a bad one—before relaxing into the warmth that just barely graces his neck. The hand nor its owner paid any attention to the movement. Alexander starts combing through the inky-black feathers, lightly—barely touching them as his metal prosthetic never seems to leave his leg that it's resting on, Hester only feeling the sensation of a slender and non metallic hand.

"What are you doing?"

"Preening. . . I think?"

"You 'think' now?"

"You are the one with wings, not me."

For as much as Hester would never admit it, it was so much easier with Alexander's help Hester merely stretching out his wings and Alexander doing the rest—combing and weaving through the jet-black feathers. Alexander doing this for the first time was slightly clumsy having to redo most of the coverts of Hester's wings but still nevertheless was surprisingly gentle as his non dominant and non metal hand awkwardly shakes from suddenly using it.

The silence never being broken seemed flowing in the moment not even broken by the occasional sigh or of wings rustling, instead integrating themselves into the quiet themselve. The repetitive motion Alexander seemed to find, the movement seemingly in time with their surroundings, the wind howling the fire cracking the occasional breath of Wilbur or Alexander, Hester's heartbeat all weaving into a soft and soothing melody.

Hester hadn't been this calm in a very long time.

Hester's shoulders sagged like a warm blanket was covering them—or maybe there was—he hadn't even noticed his eyes were closed, however not opening them instead only hearing the wind rattling the window and the cracking of the playful fire.

The night was quite so peaceful.

It seemed like it was always like this, like it was meant to be—in some odd twist of fate—that no matter what Hester knew this was where he was supposed to be, this was his family

The wings on his back told him that they weren't his family—at least his real family and Hester agreed.

They weren't his family.

They were his flock.

Something told Hester that was even better than family—something stronger too, they were his flock—the people he loved around him all packed together in one small room.

Hester was home.

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Art by Meltem Dalak (?¿I think??)
Inspired by "I'll make you fly" by bunflower on A03
Get ready for a call back to this scene! First I really like it, and second I want to write more about Hester's wings lol I will say thought, I think I used too much from "I'll make you fly" Bunflower is really talented, (⁠•⁠ ⁠▽⁠ ⁠•⁠;⁠) they inspired me a lot to write more and their really good at it! Check them out on A03
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