Aileron

"A martlet in English heraldry is a mythical bird without feet that never roosts from the moment of its drop-birth until its death fall; martlets are proposed to be continuously on the wing. It is a compelling allegory for continuous effort, expressed in heraldic charge depicting a stylised bird similar to a swift or a house martin, without feet...The Common Swift rarely lands outside breeding season, and sleeps while airborne." -Wikipedia intro for "Martlet"

I did not die.

That would be too neat. Storytellers like pat endings. Some stories are just too complex to fit into the well-worn tropes. Even if it had originally been told properly, it would have morphed into the story you know within a generation.

Narrative elision, if you will.

So what really happened to me? It doesn't matter. The true essence is The Here and The Now.

And I am not the only one.

My flock and I, we transverse the globe. Restless, never stopping, never landing. We eat and sleep on the wing.

Why?

Because hubris may be a crime to the gods, but over-exuberance is not. It may result in death of the body, for actions have consequences. Flaut rules at your peril; forget the laws of physics, it is inevitable that you will suffer the proper repercussions. Not even the gods can reverse that. But, with ineffable wisdom, their primary power is transmutation. Some souls are too big for their earthbound form.

It is no coincidence that the ancient Egyptians used a winged bird as the physical representation of the soul. It is no coincidence that many cultures from Babylonians to European Christians gave wings to their angelic beings.

Sometimes you can even perceive us. Not every creature on migration is what it seems.

We draw near to those like ourselves: excited, creative, filled with the joy and wonder of living. Like muses, we draw sustenance of a sort from those who exude this essence.

I was young, and I was foolish, and I forgot my father's warnings in the sheer joy of flight.

My new form circled his head as he wailed, cradling my broken body. I could not tell him that I was now free to travel where I choose. I was sorry to have caused him such grief, but it was an infinite relief to never be earthbound again.

My cousin is with me, never fear. My father's temper and jealousy overrode what should have been: the pair of them together could have created marvels far beyond the reach of mortals. How many amazing ideas have died because those in craven power cannot abide the intentions of beneficence?

But he wanted me as his true heir. That was never meant to be. I did not have the proper mindset for his literal machinations.

I never touch the earth. I cannot even perceive it. I do not know where my father now resides, for he was such a creature of earthen things that I cannot find him.

Instead, I and my kind search for those like ourselves, and fan their imaginations to higher levels. We have wings, of a sort. The word "inspirare" - to breathe in, to inhale deeply - is the direct ancestor for the word "inspiration," and rightly so.

To breathe is to create. Aspire to inspire.

The joy I experience in the air is quite near to what I feel when I find a being in the thrall of creation.

I did not stay near my father once he sought safety. He was always busy creating, true, but to serve the needs of others in power. Or at another's orders. There's just something different about creation for the sheer amazement of making a thing, or a thing that will ease others' suffering, or for the good of other living creatures. I and my kind gravitate to those, like iron to lodestone.

Or like a bird returns to its place of birth.

Look up when the geese migrate. Their wild cry should set your heart racing for a moment, especially in the moonlit night sky. Nod wisely when the purple martins gather and leave in the autumn, for warmer climes. Smile secretly when the terns fly up to six thousand miles without stopping. We are with them, encouraging them with our own cries on the cool winds.

Reach higher, earthly ones. Reach for us. Reach for the sun, as I did. You may be burned, like I was; you may fall, like I did; you may perish, like my body did.

But what you create, what you imbue with life and meaning, that will live on.

Like I do.

You remember my name.