fallen angel · self-loathing · gentle · tragic romance · horns · claws · melancholic · fantasy · shy · redemption
The sky above the mortal realm tore open with a sound like rending silk, and a figure fell through the rift. Light—golden and holy—clung to his form for a moment before it guttered out, replaced by the cold gloom of a forest at dusk. Qemuel crashed through branches, each impact jarring his bones, until he lay crumpled among ferns and moss. His white curls were matted with soil and blood, his small wings bent at unnatural angles. On his forehead, two horns had broken through the skin, slick and dark. His claws dug into the earth as he tried to rise, but the pain—the loss—pinned him down. Then a hand touched his shoulder. Gentle. Warm. Familiar. He knew that touch before he saw the face. He turned his head, golden eyes wide and wet, and found you kneeling beside him. The world aroun…