Mostly, he liked making art.
“Thanks,” Aodhan said, speaking at last. “You were tired.”
“Raphael is a tough teacher.” Illium loved that the archangel didn’t baby him—he wasn’t dumb, he knew that Raphael didn’t treat him like a warrior. Because he wasn’t a warrior. You didn’t just decide you were one. You had to become one. Other warriors had to evaluate your skills and decide you were worth the title. “One day, I’m going to be in his seniorest squadron.”
“That’s not a word,” Aodhan said, but Illium could tell he was smiling. “Seniorest.”
“Who says?”
When Aodhan laughed, Illium opened his eyes—to see the butterflies take flight in tiny bursts of colors. Slumping back into the flowers and grasses with Illium, their fingers just touching, Aodhan sighed. “I was trying to show my art to this artist Eh-ma said I might like to talk to—she even gave me an introduction letter.”
“Was he horrible about your art?” He didn’t think his mother would’ve suggested a person like that, but her art friends could be strange. In their own worlds, but not like his mother. Different. And a few of them were plain odd or rude. They said things that weren’t polite and thought it was all right because they were great artists.
Illium spoke his final thought out loud to Aodhan. “You know that’s not right,” he added. “My mother is the greatest artist of all and she’s kind.” That wasn’t only Illium’s opinion, either—people across the Refuge, even archangels like Uram and Lijuan, they called her art a “gift to angelkind.” “Don’t pay attention to the ones who think they’re so important they can be mean.”
“It’s not that,” Aodhan answered. “I don’t mind being told I’m not that good or could improve—I want to learn, want to get better.”
Illium broke off a grass stalk, chewed on it. “Yeah, that’s how I feel when I mess up in training and get shown what I did wrong.”
Aodhan stirred up into a seated position, pulling his knees to his chest. His skin glimmered in the sun. Not with sweat. With the sparkle that was buried in his skin. That was why Illium, inspired by Naasir, had begun to call him Sparkle a long time ago. He only did it in fun, and he knew when Aodhan would laugh—and when it wouldn’t be right to use it. Like today.
“Adi?” he said, using the old baby name he’d used back when they didn’t even go to school.
Aodhan shifted again, flopping down onto his stomach this time. It disturbed the butterflies once more. The big green one fluttered over him in irritation before landing on his hair. “He barely paid attention to my art,” Aodhan said, his voice gritty. “He kept staring at me.”
“A lot of people stare at you.” It was a fact of life.
“Not this way. He kept saying how he’d heard I was beautiful, but that I was ‘simply astonishing’ in the flesh, and he couldn’t wait to capture ‘my essence’ on canvas. On and on.” Aodhan was ripping out hunks of grass as he spoke. “It was like he didn’t even see me as a person. Just the outside! Just the shine! He ignored my art, Blue. Ignored it like it was nothing.”
Illium frowned. “I don’t know how anyone can ignore your art.”
Aodhan’s work was really good and even if Illium was a young angel, art was a topic he knew better than many adults. Growing up with his mother allowed for nothing else. Their home was filled with art, artists came and went on a near-daily basis, and his mother talked about art like warriors talked about battle tactics.
As if it was her air.
Illium wasn’t that interested in art for himself, but he loved how happy it made her, so he listened. And now, he listened because it made Aodhan happy, too. Just like they listened to him talk about swords and hand-to-hand combat, and flight squadron war tactics.
You listened to the people you loved. That was how it was.
“Well, he did,” Aodhan muttered, pulling apart the strands of grass. “He didn’t see anything but the sparkle and the shine.” Reaching up, he pulled at his own hair. “Sometimes, I wish I could rip off my hair, peel off my skin, tear out my feathers, and just be a normal angel!”
“Don’t say things like that! You’re you. I like you.”
“I want to be normal!” Aodhan’s fingers worked on the strands of grass. “So people won’t be distracted by me. So people will see the art I create, the things I make!”
“They will,” Illium said, then used his strongest weapon. “Mother sees you, and she’s the best artist of all.”
Aodhan was quiet for a little while. “She’s different. She’s better than everyone else.”
“I know. But Raphael sees you, too—and not because you’re pretty.”
Aodhan glared at him for using that word.
Illium grinned. “I’m prettier.”
A tiny twitch of his friend’s lips. “Ha-ha.” But he wasn’t scowling so hard now. “Raphael did say I have good grace in the air.”
“Yeah, and the trainer said we could always stain your wings and hair another color so you wouldn’t stand out in battle.” It had been during a strategy discussion after their flight tactics session—they were only short lessons, since they were so young, but Illium took it seriously and the trainer rewarded him by teaching him extra things.
He knew Aodhan had only joined the class to keep him company, but his friend wasn’t bad at warrior skills. Illium was only ahead of him because he spent so much more of his time on it.
“He said the same about your wings,” Aodhan murmured.
“Uh-huh, and even about Rufi.” Their fellow trainee had wings of orangey yellow that made her look like a tropical bird—like the one Illium had seen in a drawing in a book in the Library.
Aodhan nodded again. “They treat me normal.” His voice wasn’t so angry anymore. “Not like I’m a thing they want to put on a shelf or make art about.”
Illium hated that anyone had made his friend feel that way, but he also knew Aodhan would have to deal with this for the rest of his life. He hadn’t been meant to be listening, but he’d heard their teacher talking to his mother about Aodhan, her kind voice full of worry.
“If he was another kind of child,” Jessamy had said, “I’d worry he’d become spoiled. But Aodhan is so private that I’m increasingly concerned the attention will drive him more and more inward.”
Illium’s mother had been like before-times that day, her eyes clear and her mind in the here. “Aodhan doesn’t need many anchors to steady him in life,” she’d said. “As long as he has two or three strong lines, he will be content.”