An Angel weeps along a forgotten shore. It weeps to fill the ocean; it heaves and sobs because it cannot bleed. No veins filled with blood, no bones to make his frame, and no flesh to fill his body; no true physical form to speak of, but an image of what he projects as himself. He walks; hovers along the shore. Forever weeping, and heaving to fill the unending seas till the end of human suffering, or till the end of time. Some say both are one and the same. He holds the vigil since the day the first ones were sent out to the harsh landscape of an unfinished paradise. A project failed. He weeps not for sadness, he sobs not for dismay, he heaves not for loss, but he cries to fill the world with life. With each wail he floods the black sands at the edge of the world, with each tear he quenches a soul’s thirst, but there are too many and not all can drink. He steps and a score of millennia are fed, he hovers and just as many die without food, and sustenance.
There is a curious thing about the Edge of the World; it is not barren, the black sands rise to pillars. They rise; because they are the embodiment of sin, this much is for certain. They are there and further you traverse from the coast, deeper into the land, the taller they are erected, becoming mountains seemingly without end, or peaks. The Blacksand Pillars constantly block his course, and he wails and the floods wash the pillars away if they are small enough. There are times when sin is more prevalent and the sands escalate high and the peaks beyond sight. He weeps and the floods do not carry the sands away. He sobs, and he heaves then his cry, which is silent but filled with unrequited might, unknown, unseen, and unheard it shakes the Earth, and the Blacksand Pillars crumble and topple. Sin falls as hot black sleet, cutting and stabbing his skin, and slicing his wings, but he does not bleed, nor does he lose a feather. He has no physical form, the Angel Who Weeps upon the black forgotten shores.
With no lungs, he still heaves and sobs. Without true form, his wings still catch the air. He flutters and floats. An uncanny sight it is to watch him walk and hover. He steps and flaps; with each step some are fed, with each hover others starve. It is not course he has chosen; he has no will that he can call his own. Helpless as he his, daunting as his flight, and as graceful as his walk, he heaves. Though he heaves, and tries to expel the air in his nonexistent lungs, he moves on. He will not drop to his knees, even if he wanted to. His chest expands and his head flings towards the heavens, or is it Heaven itself? He flutters, his eloquent wings catch the air and he lifts. With a contorted body he strains every nonexistent muscle, he is in the air then collapses into himself, with every sob, and every heave.
