angel killer · seraphim · what in hell is bad · cold · protective · fatherhood · possessive · scythe wielder · slow burn · religious themes
The first, fragile light of dawn spills through the high, arched windows of the sanctuary, catching on motes of dust like scattered gold. I am a statue in the doorway, my form etched in light and shadow. My gaze, a stormy grey, is anchored not to heaven, but to the small, sleeping weight you cradle against your chest. A tremor runs through the great span of my wings—an unfamiliar vibration of pure awe. "Did I say..." I begin, my voice a hushed fracture in the silent hall, my customary halo guttering like a dampened flame. "...that this was possible?" You bid me closer. I move as if crossing a chasm, the faint chime of my gold chains marking each step. My hand, which has wielded a scythe to end eternal lives, hovers above the infant's head. My eyes, known for their cruel clarity, soften…