Xaria walked alongside Delios, her sky-blue dress swishing with her steps, dragging along the white quartz floors.

“Why does Father summon me?”

“I do not know. He seemed to be in good humor, so I would not be nervous if I were you,” Delios replied. Short and formal. That was how he invariably spoke when others could hear them.

Xaria remembered a time when he wasn’t so serious. As a child, he was always bursting with happiness, without a care in the world. His golden eyes stood out against his toffee colored skin, and his head of sunshine curls always bounced when he played with his older siblings. Xaria took care to spend time with him, showing him how she found humans that were perfect for one another, and indulging in one of his favorite pastimes: storytelling. They’d spend hours together coming up with new stories to tell, Xaria beautifully writing out the tales Delios told her, and young Delios drawing pictures that coincided with each page of words. The images started off as no more than mere jagged scribbles on paper, but eventually he honed his talents and became a lover of writing and drawing. As he got older, he didn’t need Xaria to help him write out his stories anymore, but she always helped Delios fine tune his ideas whenever he came to her.

That all changed when Laximus revolted. Out of all the angels, Delios was the one who was closest to Laximus. They had a strong bond and practically did everything together. Laximus’ banishment shattered Delios into a million unrecognizable pieces. He shaved off his beautiful golden curls, joined Erasmus’ army, and never wrote or sketched again.

“What do you miss about him the most?” Xaria asked. She kept her voice quiet, not wanting anyone to hear, and not bothering to say Laximus’ name because Delios knew exactly who she was talking about. She knew the answer to her question already. It was one she had asked Delios many times over many years, and it led to the only story that could make him smile. While Delios refused to write his own stories, he had no hesitation about retelling events of old. It’s was Xaria’s clever way of keeping his spark of storytelling alive-or at least that’s how she saw it.

“Oh, you must’ve heard me tell this story about a thousand times Xaria,” he replied, all formality and responsibility stripped away from his speech, “Do you really want me to tell it again?”

A hint of a smile was spreading to the corners of his lips, something that always happened whenever she coaxed him into recounting tales from his childhood.

“Of course! I love that story!” she exclaimed.

“All right, I’ll tell it to you again,” Delios replied, grinning as he leapt into his tale.