Damaged wings for Zuriel!
"Care for a cigarette?" The lighter clicks as the fallen angel lights the cancer stick in his hand. "No?"
"Avrel, release me," Zuriel says in a voice that's calmer than he actually is. His heart jackhammers in his chest. The way he's restrained, his arms and wings forced out wide, it's hard to take a breath. "You know I know nothing of the inner workings."
His feet fidget on the uneven ground as he tries to see the sky through the dense cover of the trees. The leaves block out the sun, and, so it seems, his prayers. Maybe they are going through. Maybe the angels just don't care.
With a flick of Avrel's wrist, the vines coil tighter around his wrists, around the base of his wings, wrenching them further apart and forcing a gasp from Zuriel. The wingless angel steps closer, blowing a cloud of smoke into his face that makes him cough. "Really? So Eliel hasn't told you anything after three decades of training? I'm calling bullshit." He flicks the lighter open again, and Zuriel's eyes follow the flame.
"You know I'm being truthful. Angels don't lie." He swallows nervously.
"Until they realize how fun it is," Avrel counters.
The lighter comes closer, and Zuriel's struggles become more desperate, frantic. The thick vines chafe his wrists, and each pull sends fresh blood down his arms.
"All you have to do is tell me where the weapons vaults are, and I can let you go." Avrel smiles, and it chills Zuriel to the bone.
"I know nothing, Avrel, please!" His protests are quicker as he twists in the bindings.
"Do you know how it feels to lose your wings? I do." Those dark eyes bore into him. The Fallen steps closer, runs a hand along the trembling, sensitive feathers. "Such beautiful things, aren't they? So powerful. So fragile."
When the first of his feathers starts to burn, Zuriel screams. A part of his soul is dying, he can't breathe, can't even articulate his suffering save for a wordless wail.
Avrel steps back with a look of mild amusement, watching him thrash. The look falters as Zuriel rips through the vines binding his bloodied wrists in his desperation. As the fire licks at the vines trapping his wings, he releases a guttural screech and takes to the skies.
For a beautiful, blessed moment, he's free.
But the fire is still there, still burning at his very being, and he plummets through the trees. The fire leaps to everything his wings touch; the branches whip at his face, leaving stinging cuts that pale in comparison to the agony of his back.
And when he crashes to the ground, he somehow remembers to roll around in the dirt frantically until the flames licking at his feathers disappear.
The raw feeling of his wings almost makes him sob, but he has a job to do. He can't let the forest burn. So he stumbles through the trees until he finds a stream. With shaking hands, he focuses on directing the water into the air, suffocating the fire in the trees.
His mission complete, he sinks to his knees by the riverbank, utterly exhausted. He's in no condition to be using magic. His eyes catch sight of his reflection and he recoils from the sight of his naked wings, the once-pristine white feathers charred, blackened, half-burned away. He reaches up tentatively to feel a feather, eyes fixed on his reflection. The feather crumbles in his hands.
He can only sob as vines once again erupt from the earth and twine around him, pinning him in place as footsteps stalk towards him.
