Death Note Fan Fiction ❯ The Angel and the Scarecrow ❯ The Littlest Angel ( Chapter 1 )

A/N: This story is one of those random, crackfic misfirings of the brain. It is not intended to be hyper-serious, and is here merely for whatever entertainment value you, the readers, might gain from it. It is styled kind of like a fairy tale. As the title implies, I pictured everyone to be smaller, cuter versions of their normal selves as I wrote this (though not children). I am also not making any religious statements. It was just a fun little quasi-dramatic story I wrote. Hope you find it to be amusing. :D Happy October!!
__________ Chibi Theatre: The Angel and the Scarecrow   Part 1: The Littlest Angel _________________________________________________________

T he littlest angel was bored of heaven.

Bored of singing, of strumming his lyre. Tired of smiling with the warm radiance of soft, golden sunbeams, and tired of laughing with his brethren for the sole purpose of filling the skies with the tinkling chiming of their mirth, like silver bells.

He was the youngest, only several thousand years old, and he felt his age like a heavy weight upon him. He had questions, and odd thoughts circling his mind. Things that weren’t suited to blindly following tradition and being nothing but splendor and light.

And that is what they’d taken to calling him, in a fashion he found to be rather close to mockery, for angels. Light. They thought it clever, to refer to him by that name as he had no True name yet, and he being more sullen and precocious than they would have liked. It wasn’t entirely mean-spirited. The heavenly host doted on him almost cloyingly, praising his luminescence, his songs, and the potential he had, even as one so new. It, at times, had forced him to seek a hiding place, to escape the pressure and constant responsibilities.

However, the host looked down upon this and became impatient with him. When he was about, they urged him to sing, to play, to shine his Essence through the beautiful, refined heavenly body he had been given. It is only a matter of time, then, they claimed, and he would one day be granted his extra wing and The Name That Is Beyond Knowing.

Light wasn’t sure he wanted to be granted these things. For it meant maturation for an angel, Ascension. And with Ascension came more responsibility and less freedom. Those that climbed the ranks couldn’t see the earth, and every time the sky opened up to admit one more of them to the higher areas of heaven, the outpouring of song, praise, and joy was enough to leave him ill with anxiety. He couldn’t chain himself to that level of production, he just couldn’t. He had interests he wanted to pursue, and his own individuality. If he was selected for Ascension, he feared the worst - assimilation.

Yet they all had such high hopes for him.

“So young,” said they. “So talented.” They believed him to be favored, that his exceptional beauty was a sign. Some envied him, though they tried to hide it. Some resented him his shining, golden brown locks, his snow white wings, his skin which so easily radiated the light of his Essence and his eyes which were like glowing amber.

He couldn’t help the form he was given. It seemed foolish to him that others would judge him by it.

“Light, Light!” Someone was calling for him.

Light rested his chin on his hand and said nothing, moodily hiding behind the bank of a storm cloud until they, hopefully, lost interest.

“Light!”

That name bothered him. He’d been called it so long now, being the butt of that little joke, that he’d forgotten what name came before.

“There you are!” someone exclaimed.

Damn it, he thought, cursing as angels ought not to. Oh, but not aloud. Never aloud. So, it would be his little secret. He wearily got to his feet, flapping his lily white wings with a flourish. He felt a slight sting in one, then, a pull or prick which he would have to investigate later. “Greetings to you,” he said, smiling as he was supposed to, and flaring his Essence through his skin as a gesture of respect.

“We are to begin the high songs, Light. Your presence is desired. Would you do us the honor?”

It all sounded pleasant enough, but the translation was, ‘Come with me, right now, or consequence shall find you.’

Angelic threats may seem an impossibility, but he could assure you that they were quite real, if not a bit obscured by flowery speech. Sword holders, of course, were a different breed. If they felt like being threatening, you would know it. Or you would find yourself quickly dead. They didn’t dawdle, those soldier angels, and perhaps, as a lot, they were a bit hasty. (It was usually only the earth people who fared badly at their hands, though.)

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After serving a 12 course meal of exaltation, Light was exhausted. He fluttered his way to a far off cloud and made his bed upon it.

“Damn merrymaking,” he muttered to himself. It took a lot of work to offput all the positive energy they were expected to produce.

A sharp twinge in his wing make wince dreadfully. He rolled over and fanned his wing out before him. Searching for the source of the pain, he sorted through his feathers and found one to be tarnished.

What the?

But wait, it wasn’t just one. There was another as well, a dull, chalky silver touching its surface. The pain was from where it joined the wing. It looked ugly amidst all of the glowing white.

Troubled, Light grabbed hold of one of the feathers and PULLED.

Pain exploded behind his eyes and he fell to his knees, panting and issuing a moan of agony.

After what seemed like a small eternity, the feeling began to pass. He uncurled his clenched fist to look at the ruffled feather upon his palm. As unsightly as it had looked as a part of him, it did not look quite so offensive now. There was a slight shimmer to the silver, which had quickly overcome the entire feather.

Not wanting to be seen with such a thing, he let it fall to the world below, to be destroyed or forgotten, however chance would have it.

Bracing himself, he then set about removing the other one.


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TBC