A wave of crisp, cold air struck my lungs.
Not the shallow, ragged wheezing I had known for as long as I'd lived, but a strong, clean breath. One that felt alive.
But… hadn't I already said my goodbyes?
Fragments of memory flickered at the edge of my mind, blurred images of a life I could not quite hold onto. A life that didn't belong to me. Among them – albeit much fewer, were spindles I did recognise. Memories just barely within reach, like distant stars through a veil of clouds.
Time passed.
I couldn't say how much. Seconds? Minutes? Maybe even an eternity. Gradually, the haze lifted, and the truth of my old life bled slowly into me.
I remembered sickness.
I remembered being bound to a bed.
I remembered pain with every attempt to breathe.
And I remembered saying my farewells to someone whose face I could no longer recall. A shadow, erased by time. All that remained was the name they left me. Something not even my parents had bothered to do.
Atlas.
That was my name.
I inhaled again, bracing for the old, familiar agony. It never came. No rasp, no stabbing in my chest, no struggle at all.
Was I still alive? That shouldn't be possible. The doctors had said it themselves: my body would never recover. My story should already be over.
Yet here I was. Thinking. Breathing. Existing.
I forced my eyes open, squinting against sterile brightness. For a heartbeat, I thought I was still in the same hospital bed where I had wasted away. But the world that greeted me was nothing like it.
A face loomed beyond a thin barrier of glass. Shock widened her eyes, disbelief twisting features that would've been considered breathtaking under any other circumstance.
I turned my head, taking in the place around me. Cold, curved walls. Tubes running into a pod-like chamber. My pod.
A… hibernation chamber?
The thought came unbidden, dragging with it only memories of late-night movies watched with the doctor who had been my only companion. Sci-fi flicks, where impossibly advanced machinery preserved life.
Those were fiction. Not reality. Plot devices made for stories to be able to progress.
And yet – here I was.
My gaze returned to the woman beyond the glass. Locks of autumn-brown hair tumbled down her shoulders, framing eyes of deep almond that pierced straight through me. Her skin was flawless, without blemish or bruise — the very opposite of the frail, wasted boy I had once been.
Beautiful. Otherworldly. Impossible.
But what made my chest tighten was not her beauty. It was the way she looked at me.
Not with curiosity.
Not with the detachment of a stranger.
But with recognition – raw and aching, as though she was staring at a loved one returned from the dead.
Her lips parted. A tear slid down her alabaster cheek as she placed her hand on the glass.
And for reasons I couldn't explain… I felt like I had seen that look before.
A soft hiss broke my focus. Cold air flooded the chamber as the thin glass barrier gracefully slid open.
"Lord Caelus," the woman muttered, tears streaming freely now. "I can't believe you're finally awake."
Her voice rang in my ears like a verdict.
Caelus?
The name was unfamiliar… yet the moment I heard it something deep within me stirred. As if the very sound of her voice unlocked something within me even I did not know of.
But… My name was Atlas.
Why is she calling me Caelus? And more importantly – Who was Caelus?
My throat burned as I swallowed, gathering courage. Talking has always been a chore. A painful, wheezing battle for air. Perhaps… perhaps this time it would not.
I forced the words out past my lips, testing the voice that should have been broken.
"Who… are you?"
The sound was stranger than I had expected. Clear. Firm. Completely foreign from my old sickly rasp and fit of coughs. It was shocking to hear myself in such an authoritative tone.
The woman froze. Her lips trembled slightly, as if that single question had stung more than any accusation.
Slowly, she lowered herself to her knees before me, her autumn hair spilling forwards like a cascade of autumn leaves.
"Its me…" she whispered, her voice breaking. "Don't you remember?"
I stared at her blankly. A stranger's face. A stranger's tears.
And yet, against all reason, I felt a sense of empathy.
My hands trembled as I pushed against the pod's edge. Strength—unfamiliar, alien strength—surged through my limbs. I sat up, every movement smooth, effortless, terrifying in its ease. Slowly, I planted my feet on the polished floor
The impact echoing quietly through the room.
"Tell me your name." I muttered softly, extending a hand toward her.
For a moment, she only stared at it, her lips parting as though she could not believe what I had just said. Then, with slightly trembling fingers, she placed her hand in mine.
Her knees gave slightly as she rose, but I steadied her with ease. The strength in my grip was slightly startling to myself as much as it seemed to comfort her.
"My name is Uriel," she whispered, her almond-brown eyes locking with mine. Her voice carried both reverence and restraint, though the lingering shimmer of tears betrayed her earlier display. "I apologise for my uncouth reaction to your predicament, Lord Caelus.
Lord again? And what predicament could she be talking about?
"I myself must apologise too," I replied slowly, the resonance of my voice still unfamiliar yet surprisingly smooth. "But I can't quite seem to understand why you keep calling me 'Lord.' And I must inquire… What predicament do you mean?"
For the briefest moment, realisation flicked across her face. Her lips parted, then closed again, as if weighing her words.
"I call you Lord because that is what you are," she explained at last, her expression sharpening into something solemn, almost reverent. "I am Uriel, Sixth of the Archangels… and you are my creator."
Her words rang like thunder. And then, with a sound like silk tearing through the air, six snow-white wings burst forth from her back.
Blinding, impossible, undeniable.
An Angel stood before me.
And she had called me her creator.