User blog:Stardust the IceWing-RainWing/don't mind this

I'm setting up code here for Naming the Stars to make the chapters collapsible. This is because each of the chapters is about fifteen pages and 4,000 words long in Google Docs. Imagine if thirty of those were on one wiki-page!

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 Some things aren't meant to be held back.

In many ways, the angels of Empyreal are just like you and I. They develop talents (albeit magical ones), then they find jobs, and eventually they settle down and start a family. Except for some small details, most angels are quite normal, living out their lives at a predictable pace. Key word: most.

Orion is fifteen, a natural leader, and extraordinarily gifted. He has the power to manipulate light to small extents, and while this may seem normal in the angel world, it's not. Not in any way. This is proven when he’s assigned to become a Guardian, one of the most coveted jobs in his city: he travels to Earth in order to protect a child prophesied to save the universe.

Enter Vesper. Also fifteen, but that’s where the similarities end. He’s shy, shaky, and has the power to sense the emotions of others. When he’s ordered to become the Guardian of Orion’s assignment’s sibling, the two clash immediately. However, their job is easy enough: besides running into a few initial snags along the way, their now-intertwined lives quickly slow down and return to their predictable pace.

Then Vesper uncovers something shocking… something that changes the way they see everything, including themselves. Immediately, the two young angels are thrown headfirst into a journey of secrets and mysteries - one that they must complete, or the world they’re quickly coming to love will be destroyed forever.

Most angels, you see, don't have stories worth telling. This is the exception.

click on the section headings to see the text!

 Author's Note This story belongs to me, Stardust! Please don't edit or plagiarize, as I hold it very near to my heart.

This will be updated rather slowly - probably every week or so - since my schedule is impossible to predict. However, rest assured that I'll be working on it - my New Year's resolution was to make progress on this work xD

Most sections will have a song listed that I suggest you listen to as you read that part! If a section is missing a song, please feel free to suggest one :3

Some italics might not end up pasting right... if you feel there should be something italicized in a section, point it out, please! You'd be doing me a favor.

 Preface Fireflies - Owl City

I’ve always thought it’s beautiful, the way the universe works. I’m not talking about the big players like planets or galaxies, or abstract concepts like fate and destiny. No, I’m talking about the literal smallest things in existence, the building blocks of life. I’m talking about atoms.

Take sodium and chloride, for example. Both tiny particles on their own, but absolutely lethal to the health of a humanoid. Maybe they’re not sentient beings, but they didn’t choose to be dangerous either. It’s not their fault that they kill anybody who comes into contact with them. Simply put, they were just created that way.

When they combine, though, it’s a different story. Two different elements merge into one: sodium chloride, also known as salt. Two formerly deadly compounds come together to create something new, something helpful instead of harmful. Two negatives unite to make a positive. It’s simple, but beautiful.

This might sound weird, but sometimes I wish everything was as simple as sodium chloride.

 Chapter 1: I Charm All the Ladies (As Usual) Wake Me Up - Avicii

“Happy birthday, son.”

My father beams at me with a brilliant smile. He holds out a lemon raspberry cupcake - my favorite - topped with a candle shaped into the number 15. Behind him stands my mother, wearing an identical smile.

“This is the day your life begins,” my mother says in her lilting voice. “Rowan and I are so proud of you, my love.” She motions toward the candle with a sweep of her hand. “Go on, make a wish.”

Although my bedroom is huge, somehow their faces fill it up effortlessly. Happiness is rising inside me, as bright and pure as the morning light pouring in through the windows. In this moment, I wish with all my heart to remember this and hold on to this joy forever.

I smile back at my parents-

And then my alarm clock rings.

The colors of my dream begin slipping away like raindrops down a glass pane, and I chase after them in desperation, trying to grab the pieces of the puzzle and fit them back together. But my efforts are futile, and soon the background has been reduced to a blur and my parents are nothing but misty smudges on a once-beautiful canvas.

With a sigh, I sit up and whack my beeping alarm clock so hard it almost falls off the nightstand. I stretch my golden wings, fluttering them like I do every morning until the cramps dissipate. Call me odd, but I’ve never gotten used to sleeping with my angel wings tucked beneath me. My father won’t let me splay them out in bed though: he says it makes my posture look bad.

An odd feeling of familiarity hums in my ears when I roll out of bed and stand up. I’m in the same room that I was in during my dream, but now it feels so… empty. My mother and her thousand-watt smile are gone, just like she has been for three years now. The happiness I felt a few seconds ago dissipates until I can’t fight the frown that takes over my face.

“Find the silver lining, Orion,” I tell myself as I wander towards the mirror and take in my disheveled appearance. “It’s your fifteenth birthday today. You’re getting your flair.” I grab a comb and run it through my sandy-blonde hair, flashing the confident grin that the girls at my school are constantly swooning over. “And you still look good.”

I pad down the marble-and-gold hallway, my slippered feet shuffling softly on the ground. When I step into the kitchen, my father’s already sitting at the table reading a newspaper. For a moment, I watch the enchanted photographs on the pages move, lost in thought.

I’m yanked out of my daydreams about my mother when he clears his throat roughly. “You’ve finally emerged from your room, I see. Are you done preening now? Or should I wait for another week or two?”

I hold back the scathing remark that threatens to shove its way out of my mouth. When I’m around my father, I have to constantly check myself: I’d love to crack jokes (I have a few choice remarks that come to mind for nearly every situation), or tease him like my friends do with their families, or even just hold a friendly conversation. But I never feel comfortable letting out my true personality in front of my father, so every fiber in my fun-loving being hurts when I reply meekly, “Sorry, sir.”

I take a seat at the other end of the long stone table. The kitchen is filled with a crushing silence as my father sips his ambrosia, still keeping his attention on the newspaper. It’s a long, drawn-out silence, at that, and when he lays down his mug the sudden thunk almost makes me jump. “So, fifteenth birthday, huh?” he asks me.

I scowl and cross my arms, looking down at the table. He still hasn’t wished me a happy birthday. For the love of Lark, he hasn’t even spared me a glance yet! “I suppose,” I mutter.

“What was that?” he asks cuttingly, hearing how my voice is aimed downward and not toward him. “Do you want me to respond, or were you talking to the table?”

Maybe it’s because today’s going to be the most momentous day of my life and he doesn’t seem to care. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t even looked at me yet, keeping his face hidden behind his stupid newspaper. Or maybe it’s because I’m just fed up with his snide manner. Whatever the reason, I can feel something inside me finally snap at his scathing comment - just one more in the hundreds he’s given me over the years.

I sit motionless in my chair, glaring daggers at my father - who, of course, doesn’t notice. But I can’t, I can’t lash out and scream all the angry things I want to scream at him. After all, he is my father, and I need to please him, to do him proud. It would tear me apart if I disappointed him (if I disappointed anyone, in fact).

And after a few seconds of tense quiet, finally, finally, he moves.

He lowers the newspaper and folds it neatly next to his bowl of fiddlefruit, giving me another wave of deja vu. My father looks almost exactly like he did in my dream - and frankly, he looks just like me, period. His light hair is perfectly done, his tunic perfectly tucked in and his Riser badge perfectly polished. But the thing that stands out is his smile, or lack thereof: without it, his face looks gaunt and thin in comparison to the one in my dream. For the first time, it occurs to me that I haven’t seen him wear a genuinely cheerful expression ever since my mother died.

“Put on your cloak, Orion,” he says firmly. “Let’s go find out your flair.” I rise obediently and don the sweeping violet garment, too used to obeying his commands.

I fasten the pin emblazoned with our family’s signet onto my cloak, a pair of golden wings extended from behind a shining sun. It’s a symbol of our family’s lineage: we’re descended from the very angel who founded the city of Empyreal, Lark. (Not to mention the fact that my father is probably one of the most influential governmental figures in the city.)  As a result, we belong indisputably in the upper class, the Risers. At times, I feel like nobility, but it’s not as exciting as you’d think. Sometimes there’s so much pressure resting on my shoulders that I feel like I’m going to collapse altogether.

I stride toward the door and swing it open, holding it there so my father can step through first. To my surprise, though, he pauses on the threshold and looks down to give me a long, unreadable look. I freeze, internally steaming at his scrutiny, but saying nothing.

And then he paces out of the door, and I follow him into the wondrous city of Empyreal.

Even though I’ve lived here my whole life, I’ve never been able to hold back the wonder that bubbles to the top of my mind every time I look around my home. Everything about it - the graceful buildings sweeping high into the sky, the pleasing colors that go so well together - has a certain quality that just takes my breath away. In the distance, the Outer Regions loom: foggy shapes that I can’t quite make out. We’re forbidden to go into them, but I can’t shake a certain curiosity about what lies past our city boundaries.

The ground is made of pale, fluffy clouds - the very clouds that hover above the planet of Earth. Where humans live. I poke them with my toe, clearing a small hole that I look through to see the city of Los Angeles. Almost all angels are brought up to view humans as inferiors with half our intelligence, but my mother questioned that. Before she died, she left a seed inside me that blossomed into an interest for the wingless creatures.

It takes me a second to realize that my father is far ahead of me, and I hurry to catch up with him. Suddenly somebody grabs at my robes, and I whirl around in shock and - I’ll admit it - a little bit of fear. “Who are you and wh-” I relax at the sight of my best friend, standing there in his forest-green robe and wire-rimmed spectacles with his bronze wings aflutter. “Oh, hey there, Dillon… how ‘bout you greet me without giving me a stroke next time?”

“S-sorry,” Dillon answers lightly. “Didn’t know the g-great Orion, son of the great and powerful Rowan, was scared of his best f-friend attacking him.”

I punch him playfully, and we fall into step together as I trail after my father. Dillon’s a few months younger than me, so he hasn’t Come-of-Age yet, but I’ve known him ever since he was born. Some of my classmates are surprised that Orion, the “golden boy” of Empyreal, would befriend a nerdy introvert with a stutter, but they don’t know Dillon. He’s shy, sure, but he’s got the biggest heart you’ll find out there. And when you get him to come out of his shell, he’s talkative and funny enough to keep me having fun for the whole day. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.

A flock of girls drifts by us, giggling, and Dillon grabs onto my arm with a shockingly firm grip. I wince and try to pull away, but his hand only tightens. I take back my previous statement.

I grin flirtatiously at the girls, and one of them swoons. Literally swoons. She flushes brilliant pink and collapses into her friend’s arms with a dramatic sigh. I have to bite my lip to hold in the snicker as Dillon and I keep walking. Actually, at this point, Dillon is more hanging on to me than moving himself. I give him a questioning look, but his eyes are fixated on the girls.

We’re long past the gaggle of my not-so-secret admirers when Dillon finally speaks in a dreamy murmur. “Isn’t she gorgeous?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Who?” I attempt to turn back and look at the girls, but Dillon grabs my head and turns it back forward. “Ow, haven’t you had enough fun torturing me today?”

“D-don’t look at them!” he hisses loudly, eyes wide. “I’m playing hard to get.”

I choke out a laugh. “Dillon, pal, that is certainly not how you play hard to get. Take it from me-” I strike a comically heroic pose- “if you want to charm all the ladies, I’m your guy.” I finally manage to loosen his grip on my forearm and shove him away. “Who are you mooning over now anyway?”

“Her n-name is Kira,” he says, enraptured. I nod, remembering the willowy girl in the center of the herd. Long dark hair, doe-like blue eyes. In school she’s always chattering away with her friends in a bell-like voice or doing her nails with her posse. She fits Dillon’s usual type, so no surprises there. “And she’s gorgeous,” he repeats dazedly.

Dillon stumbles on a loose piece of the road and falls toward me. I catch him easily and tousle his dusty brown curls - he’s always been like a younger brother to me, and I treat him as such. “Have you actually talked to her yet?”

He straightens and turns to me, apparently offended (except I know he’s faking because Dillon never takes offense). “Of course I’ve t-talked to Kira! I went up to her because I was lost and I was like, ‘Hey, do you know where Avery’s Ambrosia is?’ and she was like, ‘Yeah, turn right and go left at the s-second street,’ and I was like ‘Thanks, see you around’ and t-then I walked away. Wait, no, I sauntered away. That’s m-much cooler.”

“I’m proud of you, Dillon,” I tease. But I really am. For him to pick up enough courage to initiate a conversation is rare, and the fact that it was with the girl he has a hopeless crush on makes it even more impressive.

“Orion!” my father calls from up ahead. I quicken my pace, trotting along the cobblestones toward him. I can already make out the gold-edged building that soars higher than most of its neighbors. The words Coming-of-Age are etched above the archway that Risers are filing into, despite the early hour.

To the right of the skyscraper we’re heading towards, I spot a short brown building that squats close to the ground. It would be fine if it had been standing alone, but next to the fancier tower, it looks painfully drab. I feel a pang of guilt as I remember what it is: the Coming-of-Age center, but for the poorer class. The Rifters. Along with humans, my mother taught me about the segregation between classes, which is why there’s a part of me that scorns the divide between classes. Over the years, it’s diminished slightly, but I know I’ll never like how the government splits us up just depending on what class we’re born into.

“Are you n-nervous?” Dillon asks me suddenly. I detect the slight quaver in his voice, even though he tries to hide it. It helps me recognize his own apprehensiveness over the possibility that I’ll be assigned to a different sector of Empyreal. I’m really his closest friend, and although I’ve introduced him to many other angels, we’re irreplaceable to each other.

“Don’t worry,” I say, trying to hide the sudden shakiness in my own tone. “I’ll still be here afterwards.”

“You promise?” He’s pleading for assurance now.

We stop in front of the Riser entrance, trying to ignore my father who’s tapping his foot impatiently next to the door. He’s never really approved of Dillon, saying he tarnishes our social status.

And that’s why I pull Dillon into a hug right in front of him, not seeing his reaction. Not caring. “I’ll be fine. I’ll tell you all about the Coming-of-Age, and I’ll show you my flair. And when I get my job assignment, I’ll tell you all about that too. I promise.”

“G-goodbye,” he says, muffled against my chest and my swiftly beating heart. “And good luck.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see my father checking his watch irritatedly. He stares at me, motioning with his hand to hurry up and come over here.

“Bye, Dillon,” I say, releasing him and managing a small smile. “See you soon.”

It’s only when we’re already inside that I notice the moisture on my tunic from his tears.

The angels around us are deathly quiet as we climb a twisting spiral of stairs, my father walking next to me. It’s especially infuriating when he gives me a reassuring look and squeezes my shoulder. I know it’s all for the sake of our appearance, our reputation: whenever people are watching, he plays the caring, loving father. And when they look away…

I don’t say anything, but I can’t resist slapping his hand away.

We arrive in a giant circular room, the ceiling twenty feet high and the walls decorated with lavish artwork of Empyreal’s founding: Lark descending from the heavens in a beam of sunlight, reaching out her hands and simply gesturing the city into existence. It’s said that she was the most powerful angel to live, but in my opinion, the current Luminary rivals that status with his control over thoughts and memories.

I look up to see a tiny figure stepping onto a raised platform in the center of the room. His wings are pale gray and look oddly metallic. “Welcome, welcome,” he says nasally. “Before we begin, parents, please exit the room. This is an experience that your children must go through alone.”

“Good luck,” my father tells me before he turns and walks out of the room. I ignore him.

The other parents begin leaving as well, until there’s only a few of us left. The tiny man standing on the platform surveys us with critical eyes, considering me a little longer than the rest. If he hasn’t recognized me already, he will soon: Orion, son of Rowan. That’s what all the papers refer to me as.

Ah, the perks of being famous.

“First, happy 15th birthday to the eight of you,” the man proclaims. “My name is Idris, and I’ll be administering the Serum to you today.” He begins to rattle off a list of rules in a monotone until my eyes glaze over and my thoughts are somewhere else entirely, envisioning what my life might look like just two hours from now. Maybe I’d get a legendary power, one that others only dared to dream of. Maybe I’d be known as Orion without having to tack on the “son of Rowan” to the end of my name.

A baseless hope hums through my head. Maybe my father would love me again.

“Selene, you’re up first,” Idris says. The red-haired girl next to me gulps and moves toward him at the speed of a turtle. I want to wish her luck, but I find that my mouth is dry as a desert from worry. Before I know it, the two of them have disappeared into a small room opposite from where we’re sitting, and I’m left standing awkwardly with some other very uneasy-looking Risers.

We wait and wait, and still, neither one of them emerges. Finally, Idris creaks the door open a crack and shouts for a boy by the name of Zephyr to come in. The remaining few of us exchange wary glances, but none of us speak.

Time seems to grow wings and take off as I wait in the middle of the room. One by one, my companions depart. I don’t see any of them come out, which amplifies my dread by about ten thousand. ''What if this is a sham? What if something bad happens? What if, what if, what if…?''

And when Idris eventually pokes his head out from behind the door and says, “Lastly, Orion,” I swear my heart skips a beat. I feel like throwing up as I trail after him.

I’m too numb to fully take in the tiny space we’ve entered. I faintly observe a soft white carpet covering the floor and walls, soundproofing the room, and the shelves upon shelves of potions glowing in every color. That’s about it, though - my usually alert senses seem to have laid down and gone to sleep.

Idris beats his wings, rises to the top shelf on the back wall, and selects an amber-topaz colored bottle. Within the stout flask, the liquid is leaping around merrily and bubbling. “Sit,” he says, pointing to a lavish plush sofa, and his words echo around my barely-functioning brain like I’m underwater. My legs seem to buckle of their own accord and I collapse onto the sofa, wings limp and shaking all over.

Suddenly Idris leans closer to me, and I gasp reflexively as his face comes into focus. “If you don’t calm down, the Serum will have some nasty aftereffects,” he tells me, sounding slightly exasperated. He starts firing off a list rapidly again, and I only catch a few phrases: chronic headaches. Severe nausea. Hallucinations in grossly neon colors of oversized animals, “as reported by others.” You know, the usual.

I take deep breaths and ball my fingers into fists before I finally manage to get my nervousness under control. Idris is still rambling, and I sit there quietly as he cuts off abruptly and looks curiously at me. “You’re Orion, right?” he asks. “Son of-”

“Son of Rowan, yup, that’s me,” I mutter, casting my eyes downward. By the sparks, am I an individual person or not?

Idris offers me an unexpectedly kind smile. Even though I’m sitting, he has to stand on his tiptoes to reach my eye level. “Listen, this may not sound like much, but I’ve read all about you. You seem like a nice kid. You remind me of my own son. So… good luck.”

He hesitates, then leans closer and whispers into my ear. I flinch at the sudden contact, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m not allowed to tell you this… but cross your fingers. It helps with the pain.”

I open my mouth, a million questions on the tip of my tongue. If he wasn’t allowed to, why did he tell me? How has nobody ever mentioned to me that it hurts before? And excuse me, since when did crossing fingers help with pain?

“Not a word,” Idris hisses. He thrusts the Serum toward me and winks. “Cheers.”

This is it. The defining moment of my life. Every one of the fifteen years I’ve been alive has led up to this precise second. My hand shakes as I reach out unsteadily, and I almost let it fall. But when my fingers close around the glass, I feel a new surge of resolve. I will drink this Serum, I will find my flair, and I will pave my way in this world with the gifts I’ve received today.

I uncork the flask and gulp the liquid down. It tastes like the beginning of a sunny day, like laughing until my stomach hurts with Dillon by my side, like skimming across clouds effortlessly. The edges of my vision are starting to blur into white-gold smoke, and it only becomes more difficult to see by the second.

I cross my fingers behind my back.

And a jolt of pain blasts through me as my world flashes too brightly to look at.

Suddenly I’m free-falling, limbs flailing wildly. I scream reflexively, but no noise comes out, and I immediately begin to slow until it feels like I’m moving through honey. All around me are hazy curls of deep blue and rich violet, reminding me of pictures I’ve seen of deep space. And I’m surrounded by… memories.

Sure, they look like glowing television screens, but the scenes being shown on them exist only inside my head. I look down and realize that there doesn’t seem to be a ground, trying to ignore the wave of vertigo that washes over me. The memory screens are positioned in a vertical tunnel that I’m falling straight down (albeit very slowly).

I try to move my wings and slow my fall, but to my utter shock, they’re not there. It’s an incredibly weird sensation: I’ve never felt the presence of my wings until they’re gone. I feel panic starting to rise inside me again, but I steel myself brain and tamp it down. I can’t afford to fall apart. Not now. Not here. My only option is to let myself fall until… I don’t even know.

I glide smoothly past the first memory, and I twist midair to watch. It’s baby me, fluttering my wings for the first time and clapping in glee. A pair of hands reach out from behind and hoist me up - my father, with a more vibrantly jovial expression than I’ve ever seen. Next to him, my mother flings her arms around her neck and nestles her head into his shoulder. Even though there’s no sound emitting from the screens, I have her melodious giggle ingrained in my thoughts.

I float close enough to the next memory to see it, and I can’t help but smile. I’m slightly older in this one, maybe about three or four, and my mouth is wide open in a silent laugh as Dillon goofs off next to me. In the background, my father and Dillon’s mother are chatting amiably. I feel a rush of nostalgia as, once again, I notice the beam stretching from ear to ear on his face.

My sense of time disappears as I lose myself in the memories. I see my first day of school (for the record, girls liked me even then), my first time flying with my parents by my side, the first time I played piano at a recital and my mom kicked off a standing ovation. These are the best moments of my life, the firsts I’d always hoped to relive. And in every one, my father looks… happy.

I’m still falling, but it feels more like I’m soaring.

Then I see the next memory, and my breath catches in my throat.

Unlike the other ones I’ve seen so far, this one is in black and white. It’s a close-up of me in my best clothes, my hair combed and my wings tucked neatly behind my back. I’m in a chair with my father next to me, both of us wearing solemn expressions. My eyes are glistening, and I reach up to wipe the tears away quickly as a coffin comes into view.

The minister’s mouth is moving silently, but I know exactly what he’s saying. The words are engraved in my mind. ''We are gathered here today to celebrate the loss of one of the finest angels Empyreal has ever known. One who fought like a lion for justice, yet loved gently and deeply.''

In real life, a tear slips down my face. “Mom.”

Then my surroundings fade away - memories and all - and I’m back on the sofa with Idris at my side. “How do you feel? Any pain or dizziness? Some things you might be going through right now are lightheadedness, nausea…” His yammering is so different from the profound quiet I experienced a few seconds ago that I almost cringe at the sudden noise. After reliving my mother’s funeral, I’m mourning all over again.

He gasps, seeming to remember something. “Give me your hands! I’ll tell you your flair.”

I take a deep breath as a bubble of anticipation expands swiftly in my chest, making me feel like I’m about to burst. I raise my hands and place them in his outstretched ones, giving him the biggest grin I can muster.

Now it’s Idris’s turn to close his eyes as he grasps my hands tight, eyebrows knitting together. I feel his miniscule body shake slightly as he murmurs something that sounds a whole lot like “oh no” under his breath. My heart skips a beat in my chest, and I feel the bubble within me pop.

His eyes flash open and he pins me with an intense green gaze. Suddenly there’s a stone lodged in my throat, because I feel something crushing me from the inside and I can’t get any words out. This is supposed to be a joyous occasion, so why does he look so… worried?

“Now, I know you’re confused,” he tells me, and I want to shout at him, Well, duh! “I know you probably want to know what’s going on. But believe me…” He glances around furtively. “It’d be better not to.”

Idris waves his hand, and a column of light surrounds me. I can see myself disintegrating, bits of my body breaking off and disappearing into nothingness. I try to open my mouth, to beg Idris to help me, but to my frustration, I find that I’ve been muted again.

“Just relax,” he tells me, noticing my shocked expression. “Panic only makes it more painful.”

Despite my current situation, I manage to roll my eyes. ''Painful? Oh, now I can relax!''

Idris hesitates, then lowers his voice. “Once you get outside… tell your father to take you to the Luminary. Tell him we’ve found one of our Guardians.”

And then a bolt of pain lances through my head, and I fall unconscious.