Breaching from the horizon’s fringe, a towering ball of yellow rose. The grand aureole radiated a waking light whose blessed rays fell atop woodlands and mountain peaks alike, calling for the stirring life of morning’s brace.

  The cosmic presence basked the lethargic planet in a tidal warmth, and the sweeping dawn comfort stretched ever outward as the stellar onlooker rose higher into the sky. The blanket of light refracted along the unassuming atmosphere, breaking into a breathtaking display of crimson and violet, painting the heavens with the artistry of morning’s first touch.

  Through a dusty pane of hollow glass, the celestial ball licked in and brushed against the soft cheeks of a sleeping beauty. Her comely brown eyes fluttered open, strands of flaxen hair falling over her face as she turned to the man beside her, still lost in slumber.

  An ineffable warmth pooled into her heart as she once again, for another morning, took in his small nose that tilted ever so slightly to the upper left, his chiselled chin whose burgeoning beard prickled taut against the soft pillow they shared. His brows scrunched near in deep heed of a dreaming felicity.

  She felt the soft rhythm of his breath, each shallow exhale whispering against her lips, so dearly close to her partner she was. Their breath mingled together in that unforgivable sliver of space between them—so small, yet so unacceptable to her besotted soul.

  Under the quilts burying them, they shared form—limbs entwined, hair interwoven, his thick arm resting with familiar weight upon her stomach.

  The quiet spell of his sleeping glamour was intoxicating cajolery for rest. But the call of daylight could not be ignored. With a downcast hesitance, she disentangled herself from his warm embrace, slipping free of their shared warmth. Rising to her feet, she found herself enveloped by the dim hush of the bedroom, where heavy auburn drapes cascaded around her, their folds so dense they nearly swallowed her whole in a cocoon of feathery comfort.

  The lady trudged groggily to the door, stepping outside the cottage where, at last, she had the space to stretch her still-sluggish limbs.

  As she did, the thick, enshrouding folds around her began to unfurl. Wings—eleven pairs in total—spread wide, each adorned with thick, spotted feathers. Her vast wingspan stretched nearly the length of the one-story house she stood affront, catching the morn’s light like a breathtaking corona for the divine.

  Freed from the concealment of her plumage, she stood unveiled to the waking world. She was tall and striking, her frame impossibly delicate yet surreal in its perfection. Her nude form showcased her impossibly clean skin, unblemished and pristine. Her figure—thin waist and generous curves—resembled more an artist’s hyperbolic caricature of feminine beauty than a real woman, making her appear more like a facsimile of humanity than a possible being.

  From behind her ears, protruding out from her curtain of shoulder-length hair, a pair of small wings peeked out, just large enough to fold over her head. Another set, thin and elegant, jutted from her shoulder blades, reaching half her height before widening into thick, muscular sheets of bronze feathers. Further down, five pairs of gargantuan wings unfurled from her bare spine, flaring out like a burnt corona. From base to tip, each wing was as long as one and a half times her arm length, their combined spread creating a hulking silhouette.

  Just below her hands, a thick bone protruded from each forearm, anchoring a pair of long, slender wings. Near her curving hips, another set—smaller but still substantial—pointed downward, their length no greater than a single forearm. And finally, at her ankles, two tiny pairs fluttered delicately, each just slightly larger than her own dainty feet.

  Along with her wings, the woman stretched her arms and legs as far as they would go, savouring the freedom of open space. She wouldn’t shed a bed with him for anything, but it did come with the caveat of dealing with human construction, which always felt so confining.

  Finding herself more awake in the basking glory of the day star, she felt energy surge through her. She cast her gaze across the landscape, drinking in the beauty before her—not the roaming clouds and sinking mountains of the Divine Realm, but instead, she gazed at the boundless plains of the Sodality of Rain, dotted with their innumerable alluvial rivers. The plains seemed to expand outwards endlessly, only breaking form for the channels and pools of the dynamically morphing water flows.

  A euphoric smile graced her lips, and she released a blissful sigh. This tranquil land, this life beside the man she loved—it was a blessing beyond measure.

  Calloused hands slipped around her waist from behind, their familiar roughness sending a shiver up her spine. She gasped—a soft, startled hiccup—but just as quickly melted into the embrace.

  “Up already?” The deep timbre of the man’s voice danced softly next to her ears, warm and drowsy. He held her close, resting his chin on her shoulder, the bristle of his beard tickling her skin.

  “I wanted to see the rising dawn. It’s always so beautiful here in the Sodality.” She murmured. Her voice was soft and wispy, almost unpracticed as if it weren’t used to being put to use. Her voice came out as less than a whisper, and if he hadn’t long become habituated to her quiet dialect, then even in his embrace he wouldn’t have been able to hear her.

  “It is a beautiful sight.” She turned to face the man, seeing that his piercing brown eyes stared not at the wondrous horizon but right at her. A warm flush rose to her cheeks, and soon, she lost herself in his gaze.

  Tilting her head back, she lifted the small wings behind her ears, clearing the way so that she could press her lips against his. They held themselves together as such, knitted in fervent passion.

  Then, gently, he pulled away, releasing his hold on her. “How did you sleep, Tartuffe? Have you gotten any more used to the bed?”

  His words were a stark reminder of the trials she endured each night. With a sigh, she rubbed her neck, craning it in a futile attempt to soothe the stubborn kinks. “As I keep saying, your human beds are comfortable, but my wings are always sore by morning. They’re not meant to be slept on like that for so long.”

  With one final stretch, Tartuffe pushed all of her wings as far from her body as possible, each trembling from the exertion before settling once more on her sides.

  The man took a few steps away from her to allow her heavy limbs the room to do as needed while he replied to her, surprise coating his voice. “Really? Even with the bigger bed and higher roof? You know you can flap your wings a little—I’m a heavy sleeper.”

  His consideration put a smile on her face even if it had no value within itself. “There’s no room for me to flap my wings in there,” she said with amusement. “And even if there was, I think you severely underestimate how loud my wings can be. Besides, I wouldn’t want to accidentally strike you with them in my sleep.”

  She chuckled as she imagined the scenario—her man jolting awake to the deafening thunder of her beating wings, only to be swiftly returned back to slumber by a rogue wing clubbing him across the head. It was a comedic thing to imagine in one’s head but a terrifying possibility she would thoroughly like to avoid.

  The man, too, chuckled, shaking his head at the thought of an unbecoming death by a lover’s dozing thrashings. “I guess that probably wouldn’t be great, would it?”

  “It would not.”

  Tartuffe turned her back to the horizon so she could face the well-built man. A lazily dressed pair of pants sagged at his hips, and his chest was left bare, showcasing his firm muscles that bulged against his tanned skin. His wide shoulders and powerful muscles made him quite the large human, a powerful presence for anyone, though, with the added size of her wings, he still felt like a delicate vase to her.

  The man stifled a languid yawn as he spoke. “Well, since I’m up I was going to make us some breakfast. I was thinking omelets—do you want one of mine or one of yours?”

  Tartuffe raised a brow in mild surprise. He had never been much of a morning person; usually, she had breakfast prepared long before he even stirred. But if he was offering to cook, she certainly wouldn’t refuse.

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  “One of mine, of course. No matter how hard you try, my dear Swain, I will never understand your odd human taste.” She stuck out her tongue, exaggerating a grimace, though her bright disposition made it impossible to take seriously.

  Swain shot her back with his own faux offence. “My tastebuds are strange!? You’re the one that is going to be eating mother atop of daughter!”

  “I don’t see the problem,” she countered with a smirk. “Chicken on egg is one of the finest delicacies a woman could ask for.”

  Swain jokingly shook his head in mock disapproval. “A delicacy, she says. You’re making my chef’s heartache. Why don’t you try some onion and cheese on your omelet? Ooh, maybe some roasted asparagus on there as well—yeah, that sounds nice.” Swain licked his lips at the thought of the delicious breakfast he was planning for himself.

  Tartuffe didn’t even have to fake the grimace this time. Her face twisted in genuine revulsion at the mere thought of anything remotely green tainting her beautiful breakfast meal. “Eww, gross. Not a chance. For my toppings, I just need some chicken, sausage… Do we have any bacon left?”

  Swain sighed his inner gourmet recoiling at her incredibly unbalanced request. “We do,” he admitted begrudgingly.

  Undeterred by her lover’s disgust, Tartuffe continued with her order undaunted. “Some bacon, then. Oh! Pork chops and a little dried cured ham to top it all off. Mmm, now that is a real omelet.”

  He hadn’t even started cooking the meal yet, and his stomach was turning at the supposed meal to be. “How I fell in love with someone who has such barbaric tastes, I will never know. But suit yourself.”

  Swain’s hyperbolized disturbance of her eating habits only acted as encouraging entertainment to her teasing. “If you think that omelet is bad, you would hate what we ate in the Divine Realm.”

  Swain paled at the mere thought of what an entire society of these meat-obsessed carnivores would eat. “Oh no… What was it? What did you eat?”

  Tartuffe’s playful smile faltered. She hadn’t actually expected him to be curious enough to ask.

  She mumbled something, but this time, her voice was too faint for even Swain’s attuned ears to catch.

  “Sorry, didn’t quite get that.” He stepped closer, tilting his head so that his ear hovered just beside her mouth.

  She leaned forward so close that her lips physically brushed against his ears. “…I love you.”

  Before he could react, she bit down and nibbled at the loose cartilage, tugging gently. Swain let out a startled grunt at the sudden bite, his body tensing in surprise. Swain’s cute cry of displeasure put a grin on Tartuffe’s face. Amused, she placed an apologetic kiss on the reddened spot, where faint impressions of her teeth remained.

  “Now, why don’t we go make those omelets together?”

  Without waiting for a response, Tartuffe took the lead, skipping over towards the kitchen. Each bound of her skip was accented by the delicate sway of her wings, granting her much more air than her leg strength would suggest and creating a floaty, ephemeral quality to her movements.

  Their kitchen was outdoors, sprawled across an open space where every tool and counter seemed, to a human, absurdly far apart. But the wide arrangement was necessary, allowing Tartuffe to cook without worrying about damaging her wings—or knocking anything over.

  Not that her wings didn’t leave their mark regardless.

  The remnants of her last cooking escapade still littered the grass, massive stray feathers scattered throughout the kitchen. She had been too tired to clean up before, and now she would have to pay for her own negligence.

  Tartuffe was much faster than her partner, and by the time Swain finally arrived—nearly out of breath—she had already finished tidying up. She tossed the gathered feathers onto one of many piles set aside for future crafting, then turned to find Swain hunched over, hands on his knees, gulping in deep breaths of air.

  The two of them had been working tirelessly towards constructing a home that could accommodate both of their requirements, but so far, their current efforts seemed to have comically led to a worst-of-both-worlds scenario where the weakest aspects of either’s cultures and design surfaced far more than the benefits.

  It was a flaw for sure, and they still had a lot to work out before either could satisfactorily claim this place to be their true home; regardless, seeing Swain struggle for breath so much, Tartuffe couldn’t help but tease. “You seem out of breath.”

  Swain held up a single finger, silently pleading for a moment longer as he wheezed through a few more laboured breaths. “Human… lungs… suck.”

  Tartuffe burst into laughter. “I’d say. Why don’t you just sit and rest? I can make us some omelets.”

  Swain waved his arms in rejection. “No, no I’ll be over to help in a second, I just need to catch my breath first.”

  His eagerness to cook alongside her brought a quiet comfort, but the pained expression on his face made her wince. “Note to self,” she murmured, watching him struggle. “Remodeling the kitchen takes priority.”

  Before starting, Tartuffe reached for the apron Swain had made for her—a simple brown quilt with a large pink heart sewn onto the center. It wasn’t extravagant, nor particularly well-made, but it was still one of her most treasured gifts.

  Clothing had always been a luxury she rarely indulged in. She was never much one for wearing clothes since with so many wings, even the simplest outfit became a complicated ordeal. But the apron was easy—just a single knot around her neck and another thread between her wings, tying at her back. The latter was tricky, but she’d devised a system to manage it.

  Once it was secure, she couldn’t resist spinning in place, letting the fabric flare around her.

  Swain gave an appreciative whistle.

  Tartuffe’s cheeks burned. She knew, objectively, that the apron was anything but beautiful—anyone would say so. But Swain had been the first person to ever try to dress her. Or… at least, the first since her wings had gotten out of hand.

  Once Swain had recollected himself, they began constructing their omelets together. Well, ‘constructing’ was a generous term—it was less of a cooperative venture in making breakfast and more of a combative competition of who could make the better omelets, where the winner was less the better cook, but rather the superior saboteur.

  It had started as a peaceful enough day, but as soon as Swain made fun of Tartuffe for accidentally dropping some shell into the pan when cracking an egg, it was an all-out war. Tartuffe retaliated by ‘accidentally’ flapping her wings and dousing his fire with a well-timed gust of air.

  Swain, never to be outdone and ever the schemer, began sneaking vegetables into her omelet—the ultimate offence.

  Tartuffe’s eyes narrowed. There was no choice now but to make her displeasure known. With one swift motion, she cracked a fresh egg directly onto his head.

  Any idea of making omelets had been far forgotten in the midst of the ensuing brutal food fight where no pantry was safe.

  Egg, grapes, flour, tomatoes, the kitchen had been butchered. The couple collapsed onto the soaked grass, both slathered in every manner of juices and substances. By now, they were less omelet-makers and more omelet victims, their bodies more seasoned than the pans left abandoned over the fires.

  For a long moment, silence reigned. The fires were snuffed out, the tired couple no longer shouting, food no longer squashing, wind no longer howling. The two lay down in complete silence until, finally, it was broken by Swain’s questioning voice. “So… whose omelet was better?”

  The question hung in the air for only a second before the two burst into raucous laughter, the sound echoing over the chaos they had created. Their terrible makeshift kitchen was destroyed, thankfully beyond repair, and they had run through all of their food supplies. It was a calamitous disaster, and they couldn’t be happier. It was such a perfect day, and not even the gathering rain clouds could say otherwise.

  A spontaneous downpour bombarded down, wiping any hint of their playful war. The rains of the Sodality of Rain were, as expected, always incredibly dense. The water came in sheets so thick that the ground was quickly submerged beneath a shallow layer, and the couple could barely see each other just a few paces away.

  Tartuffe arched her wings overhead, creating a feathery canopy to shield Swain from the relentless rain. She moved closer, guiding him beneath her protective embrace.

  They both sat in each other’s embrace, watching the flash flood run its course. They didn’t speak throughout the whole storm, merely bathing in each other’s company; they wouldn’t have been able to hear each other over the thunderous rain anyhow.

  Together, they sat, bathing in each other’s company while they watched the flash flood run its course. The storm roared around them, but they didn’t speak. Words would have been swallowed by the thunderous downpour, and in the quiet comfort of each other’s presence, there was no need for them.

  Finally, the flash flood ended, and the clouds parted along with the chime of a bell. Tartuffe parted her wings, allowing the day star to warm their chilled bodies as they looked on to the space in front of them.

  A small pink rhombus grew out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards the couple, holding a glowing parchment: It read.