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A Fallen Angel - A Shadowhunters Short Story

A trashing sound of wings jammed the air contemporaneously with the searing wind, screeching echoed in the distance as the ground parted under their feet. One after another the angels with the fairest wings now stained with blood shoot down towards the surface of the sinners. Roaring thwacks, cracking and deafening screams extinguished of the levitating ashes as the embodiments struck the ground in a heated world. The unknown world to the fallen angels hotter than anything you could imagine, an ever burning fire tearing on the skin and feathers. An angel with big thick imbrued white wings and black hair, scattered from the group rose to his feet. His wings hung from his back in an unnatural manner as he contemplated the area he had been exiled to, the copper wasteland widened in front of him and he turned around only to be accosted by a equivalent field of vision from every other point of view. His wings turned a coppery red in the manner of the dust climbing onto the white wings whilst he stumbled across the hot desert. Airborne demons circulated high above his head, nevertheless could the fallen angel feel the breeze of scorching wind against his skin.

He fell to his knees of exhaustion after days of straying, his body dehydrated and stale of the scorching air. Establishing his gaze to the skies, he cried out in agony, as all air escaped his lungs he bent over, gasping for air, the heavy wings plastered against his skin the same way as if they were glued to him. The burdensome wings, escaping the ferocious creatures hunting him and the heat constantly encircling him manifested on his mind with a grotesque mindset. He grasped a beautiful silver dagger with loads of tiny dazzling lithographs along the razor-sharp blade, he had held the dagger in it's decorative sheath so cramped when he were cast out of heaven that his knuckles had turned white. The angel clutched his wings, those damned wings, a signature he weren't free, and roughly slashed the blade nether to the bone. The searing pain shot through his whole body as the blade gouged it’s way through the sensitive wings, feeling the crushing of bones under his grasp as he determined gashed his own wings from his body. Aggrieved cries died out, his back stained in crimson as he blacked out in the desert of Edom with his dismembered wings on each side.

The fallen angel jolted up, gasping for air, hunted by the memories of his past as he had dozed off on his throne with a book in hand. He looked around only to find himself alone in his home of Edom, raising to his feet he silently moved over to a chiffonier. Looking into the per glass he reached back touching the top of the deep, misshapen scars where he once had carried his white wings with pride. He walked over to a silver sheath and with gentle fingers he opened the heavy lid, exposing one of the primary feathers of his wings, a memory of what the so called “good God” did to him and the seven other archangels for expressing that the course they journeyed weren’t the right one, the only ones having the courage to assert the way of God. “What kind of fool do you take me for?” he growled lowly as he let the lid fall shut with a heavy cling as metal clashed. His mind set on vengeance.