My brothers are made of stone. Fire does not harm them; it twinkles quietly when they are near. Flames lap over me, a raging plague that would leave only ash. And they mock me, my brothers, they all laugh. For they see me as weak. For I cannot withstand fire the way they do.
At night, atop the tower, beside the steeple, that’s where we come alive to roam the skies. And fly in the mist, wings spread, lashing at the haze. My joints grind and grimace, my wooden frame shakes, rickety in the firm breeze- my dusty lungs wheezing. And my stone brothers laugh while they slither adeptly through the dark, fierce eyes hunting below.
But there will be a time when I prove my worth. A time when my wooden bones will set me apart. When fire will not be the element that judges us. And my stone brothers will no longer mock, their star-lit cackling will hush and subside. And they will accept me, together we will fly, my splintered wings, my carved face.
For I was born this way, and such things as I do not occur without a reason.
