A Special Drink, and Edwin's Confession (Part One)

Having finished their shopping in Heaven's largest shopping center and eaten dinner, the two decided to head home—but first they ordered their own favorites at the food court and talked while they ate.

"Come to think of it, when did you become a Mid Angel? And if you're a Mid Angel, why hasn't the stone in your rank-brooch changed color… and why are you still a Cloud Painter?"

A Mid Angel's stone was red. It was the general term for angels with real power, like Edwin today; there were not many of them, and such angels were normally placed in important posts as reserve High Angels.

Yet Edwin was still in the Cloud Painters' division, doing the same work as any ordinary angel. That was what Vihal could not understand.

"That's… because I haven't accepted that I'm a Mid Angel myself."

"…?…"

As Vihal tilted his head, *why?*, Edwin grinned and rummaged in the loose folds of his robe.

"Here—drink this and listen."

The little bottle he brought out had a label on it—*Angel's Share*—

"That's…!"

Vihal nearly cried out, took a breath, and lowered his voice.

"That's unbelievably rare and expensive…!"

"A reward for both of us, for making it through today!"

Angels are made by the God who governs the Divine Realm, higher even than Heaven.

There must have been some original being from which each was made, but how could an angel ever know what that had been?

For ordinary angels below the rank of Mid Angel, changes of trade were not unusual. In particular, before taking up a post, half of them ascended together with the souls that came up from the earth, and not a few returned to the cycle of all life as spheres of light.

Vihal knew, too, that of the angels born around the same time as himself, few were likely left. "Thank you," he said, and accepted the small glass into which the special drink had been poured.

Edwin drained his in one go, and began to talk.

"I've simply… been doing what help I could, to make up for all the trouble I caused everyone. In my own way, in the ways I'm good at. That's all."

Vihal watched him quietly as he spoke, poking at the strawberries on his dessert plate, and began to sip, little by little.

"I was finishing right at the wire every day in the beginning, too. Always barely inside the time.

Then one day, when I'd gotten fairly used to it, word came in that a fellow from my year—someone who paints really beautiful skies—had fallen asleep on the job from overwork, and hadn't painted even half of what was scheduled, with the handover already close.

I happened to be on my break, so I jumped in to help.

And I noticed one big problem of my own—" ---