They never did find any traces of her earthly body.

The only remains to even hint at her presence were little more than a handful of smoky-grey feathers, scattered by the broken stained-glass window, and a sliver of rainbowed thread.

The rain had been falling for hours, softening the curtain between daybreak and nightfall and tenderly kissing the window at her back. It danced upon the iron roof, weaving a lullaby overhead, and painted a mortal pattern of stars woven among the reed-tall grasses and lilies who roamed the elsewise barren fields for as far as the eye could care to gaze. Occasionally a droplet would find its way down through a chink in the ceiling, and fall upon her winter-pale cheek, but she welcomed with a wistful smile this memory of the tears she could no longer shed, for all her joys and griefs.

And the room burned gold, then amber then silver, but all the while she remained bent over her final creation, and her parched lips wordlessly whispered his name.

In autumn the chapel had been freshly painted with roses and candles and murmurs of incense, and this was just as Aurelia had found it, or it had found her, for who can truly say? Yet devoid of its faithful, and stripped of its god whose name is so carelessly spoken by men in any case, she sought out its blessing for her last nest, for she was tired in more than body, and already had she travelled such a long way. And though her mind had been heavy, her load was light, for she entered bearing no more than a bag of feathers, a sewing kit, and some sparkling thread. In those days of early twilight, the feathers too had sparkled, casting tiny flashes of rainbows over the palms of her hands, and so they remained, even after the roses had set free their petals and the candle lights began to flicker and slowly fade.

She had been aware of their purpose forever, these feathers; ever since they had been so gifted to her, and her tears had fallen like the roses' petals on the day their former bearer had flown away. But though she was fragile, yet she tried to be brave, and she roamed the world seeking solace for her heart, if not to find her heart once again.

But from the moment she entered the abandoned building, she knew the time was sweeping closer wherein she must keep a deeper promise, ere the spark that lit her soul completely died away. So murmuing his name, she took up her seat with her back to the window, determined not to surface until she could face it with dreams of freedom and the truth of her self ready to bear her far away.

And so she drew the first strand of thread, and began, ever whispering his name.

The stars did not show their faces to greet her, when at last the hour came. Yet this did little to still the heartbeat of her resolve, for she knew now all too soon she would be one and welcomed among them again.

She stood before the window, pressing her aching fingertips to the likenesses of angels reflected now as twins in its dawn-toned panes. And she unfurled the wings she had woven of the thread and feathers, though their body had begun to pale to grey.

Her face was gaunt while her eyes still sparkled, and her lips now turned their wishes to kisses, and her mind filled with moonlight to the dreaming realms again.

Somehow the wings she had spent all this time weaving coalesced of their own accord with the curves of her delicate frame.

And she smiled and shed a tear before the window, as the winds echoing outside took ahold of her, and she let the wings flow out around her.

All weariness and despair dissolved. And she spoke aloud his name.

And her heart sang out his name.