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mercury-undying · 11 months

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Restoration

a restoring to an unimpaired or improved condition

A witch sits in a corner of her studio, leaning over her desk in a definitely inadvisable position, as if trying to become one with the notes she's furiously scribbling in between cup after cup of black tea. Deep in the night, the only sounds that could be heard were the rustling of the leaves of the forest around the manor, the frantic pacing of the witch herself all over the room as she pondered over her current project, and distant giggles of some of the more rebellious dolls under her care which never paid much attention to standard sleeping hours. Her abode wasn't the most luxurious or spacious, but it was comfortable, secluded and filled with the warmth of life, and she liked it that way.

A passing glance at the clock in the wall reminds the mistress of the house that she is in fact supposed to take care of herself too. Two in the morning. Probably time to call it a night and get some sleep before all the dolls sprang into action with the sunrise and made any real rest impossible. With a stretch, a crack of her shoulders and a long yawn she prepares to slide under the covers, until —

"Mistress, mistress!" she hears a panicked voice at the other side of the door accompanied with hurried rapping on it. Unusual. The dolls almost never bother her at this hour (out of respect, she presumes) so whatever the matter is must be important. Opening the door reveals the visage of Verdandi, one of her first three dolls who these days acted as senior maids for her. "This one requests your presence in the hall post-haste, please!"

A sharp nod and short sprint later they both arrive at the hall, where they're met with the entire household surrounding someone... something... laying on the ground. As the dolls made way for their mistress while keeping their eyes glued to their new guest, she could get a clearer look at what the white shivering lump in the ground was.

An angel. A very badly wounded one, at that. Leaning down besides it, the lady of the house began quickly making inventory of the damage. Scratches and cuts still open and bleeding. Bite marks. A broken wing. And most concerning of all — a slightly cracked halo.

Well, shit. Though an angel under her roof is nothing new, up until now they've been nothing more than stray visitors, spending a few weeks, months at most as they tried to close the wounds in their heart with the help of the usual residents. This is new, she's definitely out of her depth here, a cocktail of emotions making its way through her veins, from rage towards whatever could do this to this creature to a chilling fear for the idea that she might not be able to do anything —

But, no matter. A witch is a witch, which is what she is. Her privileges come with duty, and when it comes to putting together broken things she's like a fish in water. Extending her hand towards the poor angel, a sound resembling a mixture of a hiss and a growl comes out of its throat as it tries to curl upon itself even more. With a sigh, the witch tries to assuage its fears with a soft caress in the cheek. "Don't worry. We will not hurt you," she says in the softest tone she can muster. And with a tear falling from its eye, the angel collapses asleep.

Standing up, she feels two dozen eyes looking at her waiting for instructions. This part is easy enough. A snap of her fingers, and every doll instantly knows what to do. "One of you, bring me a fresh pot of tea. And you, Verdandi. With me." As she walks back to her studio leaving the angel and its wounds in the expert care of her squad of dolls, she ponders. Dolls are surprisingly easy to put back together when you know what you're doing, and a happy doll makes its brethren happier merely with its presence, completing a self-fulfilling cycle. Angels are more complicated things, more often than not. As her and Verdandi quickly shuffled through her past writings on the subject, she finds herself more grounded and relaxed. She hasn't given up on anyone or anything thus far, and she's not planning on starting now.

—————

Seven weeks have passed since, and after extensive care the angel's external wounds seem to be all but perfectly healed. The wing, however, has proven to be a more resilient issue. Not quite broken but not quite functioning either, the witch suspects it's a reflection of the angel's heart. At least as much as the halo which has remained unchanged with its singular crack, and the eye bags which seemed to be deeper and deeper every day. Despite that, the angel hasn't shed a single tear since that fateful night, but it doesn't need to, for the trails of falling feathers it tends to leave behind say more than a river of tears could.

One more thing of note for the witch was that this angel seemed completely unwilling to speak, despite being surrounded by some extraordinarily chatty dolls. The most you could hope for with this one was a simple, slow, almost pained movement of the head to signal *yes* or *no* in answer to a single question. Complicated.

"Mistress, this one senses your worry. Is there anything it can do for you?" asks Verdandi as it sat next to her in the studio while she continued reading, snapping the lady of the manor out of her trance.

"What makes you say that?" said the witch as she rubbed her eyes.

"Forgive my forwardness, but you've been chewing on your lip again."

The witch sighs. "So I have been." Clicking her tongue she decides she has been sitting on her hands long enough, so she quickly scribbles something in a piece of paper and hands it over to the doll. "Read it, show it to the others, and get everything ready for tonight at ten."

Standing up tight, the doll bows to her owner and goes to follow her instructions.

—————

What is *it*, exactly? Well, nothing too complicated actually. If there's one trait angels seem to share is their yearning for love and care. Wholeness. Validation. Belonging. So she's gonna give the angel just that. Would it even want it? She's not sure, even now, as the time draws near. But she has to try.

The clock's hand hits 10, and with perfect precision the dolls pour out of the corridor where their living spaces reside in perfect rows, with the angel in tow behind them. Meeting their mistress, the dolls snuff the overhead lighting out, leaving the hall completely dark except for the big circle of candles in the middle, illuminating the large conjurating circle in the floor and casting long shadows upon everything else. As the mistress sits in one half of the circle, she gestures for the angel to sit on the other half. It complies, lifelessly, as always. Directing its gaze at the witch, right now she wishes nothing more than to see a spark of life in those deep ponds.

"Angel," she begins with practiced cadence, "this is a place of healing. As I've told you in the past, I do not know what ill fate befell you for you to arrive at my doorstep in such a state, but despite what your heart might say, be assured that things can get better."

The angel looks at her, impassive. So she continues. "I asked my dolls to respect your boundaries and only place their hands upon you for whatever was strictly necessary, but we're gathered here tonight for a different kind of exercise. It is now that I must ask before anything else: do you trust us?"

A second that feels like eternity later, the witch feels her heart lighten as the angel slowly nods. The witch spots in her peripheral vision one of the dolls having to contain herself from jumping in joy at the reveal. She has half a mind to do just that, but not now. So she just nods at the angel. "Thank you. Now, the reason why we're gathered here," she says, "I've spent the past few weeks trying to come up with a way to heal that broken wing of yours, which I can tell has been causing you immense pain." And at that, she swears she can see the faintest glint in the angel's eyes. Leaning closer, she places her hands in its (slightly shaking) shoulders and looking deeply into her, asks once more: "Do you trust us?"

The angel nods once more, with a bit more vigor this time. And with that, the witch stands up and gives the dolls space to step in. The first one approaches it, and gives it something it had never expected: a tight hug and one of its own discarded feathers, the tip dyed blue, with the same color of ink used to write *we care about you* on it. As it read the message, the feather dissolved in its hand — and it could feel a fresh new feather in the damaged wing.

Eyes open wide with shock, it wasn't given much time to mull over what had just happened as one by one each doll stepped forward to do just the same, each feather sporting a different color and message, ranging from compliments to words of affirmation. One of the dolls was even so bold to write *I love you* in its feather. Twenty-four instances of the same event later and the angel was left a visibly shaking mess, its hand covering its face as its left wing now sported an assortment of multicolored feathers.

The witch stepped forward, and gave it one final feather. *Would you like to be part of our family?* it read.

And that was it. With a flap of its now restored wings, the angel broke down into frenzied sobs, launching itself onto the witch, holding onto her for dear life. "Yes," it said with an incredibly raspy voice. "Thank you, thank you, thank you..."

The dolls cheered. And Verdandi, forever a sharp-eyed one, swears it can, for a brief moment, see the remnants of a halo light up over its lady's head.

—————

Some time has passed now, and the angel had managed to fall in line quite easily with the dolls. Though still not exactly a chatterbox, the dolls tell her mistress of how it was surprisingly easy to coax conversation out of it these days when bringing up topics it was interested in, such as cooking and reading.

So she now has twenty-five beings under her care. Not quite what she expected her life to be like while barely in her thirties, but she's happy, her dolls are happy, her angel seems to be happy these days, and that's all she cares about in the end.

#empty spaces #angelposting #dollposting

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