aile \’el\ noun; 1 : wing, as of a bird

To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune;
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them: To fly, to crawl
No more; and by flying to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to? ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To fly, to dream
To dream, perchance to soar...
(With apologies to Mr. Shakespeare...)

Prologue

Aile was flying.

The wind whistled past her ears, and the tips of her beautiful gray wings fluttered ever so slightly as they held her small body aloft. She’d left the ground far behind, like a phoenix bursting from its ashes. She could see it below in little patterns of squares, triangles, and circles, like some crazy jigsaw puzzle.

Only now did Aile truly know freedom. She might have thought she’d had it before, but it hadn’t been real compared to this. Nothing could be real compared to this. Nothing else mattered. She lost herself in the joy of the flight.

Aile flapped hard to get up into the nearby clouds. Something in her mind was trying to warn her, but she didn’t listen; she couldn’t believe it had anything useful to say. It was only then that she felt a pain in her back.

There was something warm, and wet. She paid attention then, but it was too late. Like a rotten tooth, one of her wings just fell out, some of the edge feathers briefly brushing her in the face, before it started a long dive back to the ground below. Aile was screaming then, but it did nothing to stop her spiraling and quickly increasing descent.

Her other wing fell out as well; now she was simply falling. Falling, falling. Gravity-bound. The one thing that should never be, again.

Aile was nearing the ground now. She could see it more clearly, and with that sight came a clarity and a certain resigned calmness. This is death, she thought. And having already started dying, it is right.

She was only a few feet above the cobblestone pavement when she had the most terribly jarring awakening of her life. She stared up at the ceiling with wide eyes, pulling the covers over herself in an instinctive protective movement, breathing raggedly. After a few moments, she calmed down enough to throw off the covers and walk over to her dresser mirror.

Aile stared at her wingless reflection in the mirror for a few moments, remembering her dream all too clearly, and the thought that came with it: it is right. She’d been standing there long enough to get unpleasantly cold when she finally walked back to her bed and knelt down on the floor with her hands in supplication.

“If you’re out there...” she started out uncertainly. “If you’re out there, please God, please let my wings grow.”

I can’t stand being half alive, she thought after that, continuing the prayer as she got into bed. The rest was left unsaid.