"My dearest Mireya..." His cold hand wraps around her wrist and guides the blade away from her heart.
"...Do you believe your death is something I want?"
***
Aitháli was an empire known for its lush for...
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Ciaran
Many years ago, there was no man named Ciaran. There was only an angel named Somniel.
An angel of visions, sent into the subconscious of those who found themselves overcome with a sudden bout of fatigue.
An angel whose sole purpose was to deliver a divine message. A message that would decide one's fate. An obedient angel who was not meant to interfere. An angel who was never meant to question the authority that ruled over him.
It was one warning.
He was sent to deliver a message, but he couldn't stand back and watch the events unfold before his eyes. His warning would save one precious life, but it would potentially doom countless others.
He was sent to deliver a message, not to deliver an additional warning. Somniel's actions were found out immediately, by the one who sees all.
It was disobedience, and it wouldn't go unpunished.
The decision had been made. The Angelic Choir had decided his fate. The Seraphim's, Cherubim's, and Throne's watched from their seats as the Powers held him in place.
The expressions around him were empty. Somniel couldn't even look into the crowd of angels who stood by and watched his demonstration and judgement.
He could not bear to look up and see the angels that he had once flown with, look at him with disappointment.
There was no warning when the removal started.
Hot, searing pain tore down his back as though his spine was being ripped out. A guttural scream broke past his lips, filling the usual calm chatter. His eyes watered. A few tears escaped past them. His stomach churned and he hunched over, hoping the pain would lessen somehow.
No one moved an inch. They all watched and witnessed the tragic scene.
The Powers tightened their hold on him as he shook and convulsed. They continued to rip the wings from his back, sparing him no mercy.
Somniel's throat grew sore. He felt as though his heart would be ripped out along with the wings on his back. His limbs grew weaker and he could only succumb to the pain that ran down his spine.
Through his weakened state, his droopy eyes watched as the Virtues walked towards the eternal flame and burned his wings. Not a single piece of flesh or feather was left behind.
The Seraphim had said something and the Thrones and Cherubims agreed. Their words were unintelligible to Somniel. There was only a sharp ringing that rang from one ear through the other. The echo of his own screams consumed every other coherent thought. He could feel his blood oozing out of the wound on his back. A lone tear sat on his cheek but his limbs were too weak to wipe it away.
