Winged Book of Ages

A random piece of wing!fic.

Ian's wings tell a story of the ages, uncountable names belonging to places and people inscribed in the feathers. He's the book of ages, the one, the oldest record alive, tattered by the years but still remaining intact.

His wings seem to be made out of parchment, golden under the light and covered in writing, scriptures and intricate symbols representing races and languages that only he dimly remembers. The earliest writing -- scratching -- are still there, dried blood crumbled and caught in the base of his feathers.

The are prices to pay for being the book of the ages. His eyes are filmed over with the years, if there were eyes in the first place. His mouth is sealed against the spoken word and his wings have never felt the joy of the sky. The book does not to go the ages, the ages come to him as he sits, wings outstretched above his head showing miles of feathers in a room of marble on the top of the hall of records, where lesser books tend to his remaining needs.

He'll be there when the others have crumbled to dust, absorbing their wings into his own. The winged record-keeper in his marble room.