5 Ithuriel's unusual abilities

The tower in the sky creaks sickeningly on its floating island, as if cursed by some invisible force to permanently sway back and forth with the rocking motions of the turbulent winds. The sky is overcast with a blackening wave of foreboding clouds that creep forward like a lion on its prey, engulfing the sky with its hollow jaws.

Far below, the faint smell of the grass wafts up. It lingers between the multiple pillars that hover above it and in the distance, animals crawl like tiny ants through the pin like trees, unaware they are being watched.

I twiddle a wisp of golden smoke between my fingers as I lean over the edge of the tallest tower's balcony, staring lifelessly as it curls, finally extinguished by the wind. Dryly, I think over the faint possibility that sleep could be achievable and look back half-heartedly into the entrance to my chambers. Even with the dimness of the clouds, it was obvious that the room had barely been touched, save for the scattered disarray of books in one corner. It had been a restless night to say the least.

The draping mauve curtains lash around the entrance like snakes in a fire and turning away, I set my jaw. No sleep it is. Dimly I glance back out over the stark, cold horizon. The rest of the ancient towers are lifeless, not so much as a whisper of life can be heard as the wind continues to whistle aimlessly through their joints. It may have been an irritating sound, had I not grown up with it.

My eyes settle over the hub, the largest and grandest of the floating islands which from this distance, faint shadows of the market and permanent stores could just be made out, silhouetted with an amber light. I feel my eyebrow raise with surprise. Very few were up this early. Perhaps a few forgers were already at their work? Closing my eyes tightly, I let out a heavy sigh, as if just for a moment, I could forget I had the last of a dying kingdom under my control.

The thought makes me nauseous, and I hurriedly open my eyes again, my wings drooping miserably behind me as if to serve another reminder of my shortcomings. A whole kingdom, and I am about to suggest the most ludicrous plan alive.

"Good morning," comes a disjointed voice from above me, and I start. Shooting a look up, I frown.

"Ithuriel?" I call out hesitantly, squinting as I try to make out his face in the obnoxious gloom. Like a star from the heavens he descends, the tight folds of his jasmine robe cling around his sculpted frame like a glue, barely swept at all by the glorious spread of feathers on his sizable wings. Humming, he perches himself on the edge of the balcony before me, uncaring for the drop below. He gives me a soft, reassuring smile, resting a long hand on his cheek.

"Looks like someone didn't sleep." Ithuriel chides lightly, tilting his head to get a better look at me through his dichromatic eyes, twinkling as though the sun and the moon themselves had momentarily taken refuge there. I wave my hand dismissively.

"You're one talk," I mutter, nodding towards the silver and blue shades of his once white hair, absently playing with the cuffs of my embroidered blouse, picking at the delicate stitchwork. Ithuriel jumps down lightly, his feet barely sounding as he pulls my hands against him.

"Okay so I was a little stressed last night," he admits, splaying his hands before rolling his eyes at me as if anticipating my frown. "But," he grins, dropping one of my hands to gesture proudly towards his silvery locks. "I think I look infinitely better with silver hair anyway." I snort loudly.

"If that's the case you should try being stressed all the time. Then you won't have to worry about your hair ever changing back," I say, feeling a grin creep onto my face, pushing him lightly away with my fingertips. Ithuriel is blessed with the rare, but practically useless potential for his hair to change colour according to his mood. It is a factor I always liked to tease him about, which he seems to not care for, though I'd never actually tell him that I am jealous. He sighs dramatically, putting a hand to his forehead and closing his eyes, the wind catching wisps of his hair in the whistling breeze:

"Woe is me. To look so handsome is such a chore." He opens one eye and grins at me, reaching down to ruffle my hair lightly. Ithuriel is far from vain, but seeing him act so uncharacteristically makes me smile. There is a faint smell of pine caught on his robe, and I am suddenly filled with an intense longing to go out hunting, exploring the perimeters of the grove, just like we used to. I look away, feeling a frown form on my face.

"Keep frowning like that and you'll give yourself wrinkles." He scolds. Then adds gently, "Let me do your hair for you," catching a strand of my long hair absently between his pale fingers. Without waiting for my reply, he brushes away my fringe and wordlessly collects up the rest of my hair, weaving it in and out in some fashion I could never perform on myself.

Ithuriel may have been trained to be my knight in the warrior division, but in many ways, he has always felt like a brother. To the other angels, I am a leader, a form of guidance for them to bring hope in the times of need- I am respected, sometimes a little too much. But Ithuriel… he has been the only one I could ever speak to, the only one that truly listened. But sometimes, just sometimes, I wish someone else would too.

Behind me, Ithuriel pauses, and I notice startling the wisps of his hair have formed a deep, red ochre of worry.

There is one more about Ithuriel I forgot to mention. He leans down from behind me.

"Calm," he whispers softly in my ear. A sharp shiver runs through my spine and all at once my body slumps as though my bones had turned to limp noodles. A strange sense of tranquillity overtakes my mind, but amongst the haze, I still manage to force my lips to complain.

"Ithuriel," I groan, as he finishes up with my hair, supporting my body with the side of his arm.

"I warned you not to worry," he scolds.

"And I warned you not to do that to me," I shoot back, my tongue heavy as I force myself to say each word. The effort almost doesn't seem worth it.

Ithuriel's talents, unfortunately, do not stop merely at the remarkable ability for his hair to change colour. Not in the slightest. After the caelestibus angels- the 'heavenly' angels who wield the powers of 'divine light' formed in the royal bloodline, Ithuriel is one of the rarest angels in existence. Ithuriel is an adnexo- a 'feeler' angel. It was partly due to this that he was appointed my knight in the first place. Not only does he have the ability to see the emotional auras of those around him, but he also has the ability to manipulate them as well.

"Think you can stand?" he asks ruefully. I clutch on to his arm and give a low grumble.

"If I can't it's your fault," I sniff in reply, as the peculiar feeling slowly starts to ebb out of my limbs and is replaced by a fresh wave of panic. No more stalling. I reach up and lightly pat my newly fixed hair- two little buns wound tightly by a chord of golden thread. Ithuriel turns to face me, his hair an ombre of gold and red. Taking one of my hands, he opens up my palm and places something there, before closing it over tightly, his hand still wrapped over my own.

"For luck," he clarifies. I smile.

"Thank you, Ithuriel, I'll need it." He shakes his head solemnly and laughs.

"You are the Queen of the angels and the bravest person I know, you underestimate yourself," Padding over to the edge of the balcony, he stands there for a moment, letting the wind catch on his robes, ruffling his feathers as he slowly extends his wings. Once again I am hit with the lulling smell of pine, and I feel my shoulders slump in relaxation. He turns to me for the last time.

"Don't be late."