heavenfollowed

[heavenfollowed]

❛ you can still be good. ❜

New. Everything about Aveilut is so new   —   so full of potential. A new piece for a game of chess that has been played for too long, a means of ending a stalemate and yet mistakes have already been made and it shows in the way that Death hesitates at such words   —   in the way that their meaning seems to momentarily shake him. Emotions aren’t something that Aveilut is very skilled in traversing; they are still so fresh, so confusing. He thinks he knows what it means to feel happiness and to feel sadness but there are other sensations that he doesn’t have a name for   —   other states of being that he hasn’t worked out. To stand before the queen of Hell is to experience being overwhelmed for the first time. It’s humbling. In many ways? It’s terrifying. Aveilut’s understanding had been that his father needed pests dealt with   —   that Lucifer had made friends in low places and those friends weren’t anything to be concerned over but he finds that understanding to be very wrong, now   —   momentarily paused and staring in silence as he tries to brace himself against the onslaught of sheer power radiating in front of him. The lightbringer’s wife isn’t like anyone else. Somehow Aveilut knows this without a doubt   —   somehow he understands things that click into place effortlessly as he shifts his weight and shakes his head slightly. Beauty unmatched, she emits an aura that is foreign to him. A mother. Aveilut hasn’t had many encounters with such beings but she’s a strong one, even in the wake of losing so many children. For a moment Aveilut wonders if her mourning has only made her stronger, if her very punishment gave her everything she needed to now stand in his father’s way. It comes and it goes   —   still too distracted by just how it feels to be so close. She’s alone   —   and that’s supposed to play in his favor. That’s supposed to be a good thing and yet the angel finds himself stuck, blade stowed away and heart on display on his shoulder, instead. It’s hard to not be curious   —   to not wonder about the creatures of the underworld and what makes them function. Lies whispered in his ear would have him believe that they are all evil, that they have all strayed from his father’s light and wishes   —   but doubt makes a home when she looks at him and doesn’t strike, when she doesn’t do anything to actually harm him. She speaks and that does damage enough; words coming in a way that is so sure, so strange. It’s comforting, being given this information. It’s comforting, knowing that someone in the universe wants him to be   …   more. A shame it’s her. A shame that it’s a mother who loves so much and so deeply that she extends it even to someone who intends to do her harm. Aveilut knows he was created to undo her very world; to tear more children away from her and help in changing Hell until she no longer recognizes it as home. She knows this, too. He doesn’t understand how this information has graced her, but he knows it’s there and yet she still chooses words, still looks at him in a way that makes him feel misaligned. It occurs to him, quietly, that she isn’t looking at him for the broken weapon he is; she sees a new soul   —   something she can’t help but want to nurture. There is a moment that comes and goes, a split second where he wonders if there is a way he can play with that, make it work somehow. A betrayal in the future, one he’d have to craft very carefully. Get close. Earn her trust. Destroy her. And yet   —   that line of thinking is almost physically shaken away, brows knitting and hands opening and closing at his sides. The angel doesn’t know what to do with this kind of sentiment, doesn’t know how to stop and think about making his own choices. His head shakes again, many of his first battles have been in his own head and this is no difference as he draws a blade, as he points it   —   uneasy. Shaking, it dawns on him that he’s a test for her too. She’s lost countless innocent children and Aveilut stands before her in the same vein. Lilith knows it   —   knows that there are things he won’t be able to walk away from. The words come as a plea and a warning but he wonders if she’ll dish out the same pain that has followed her for eons, if she will take the life of someone she doesn’t believe deserves it. It puts them at a strange crossroads   —   a fork in the path that Aveilut fears because all options are unknown. He knows that he needs to wound her. He knows that he can’t stand before her and return to his father with nothing   —   hands clean and heart heavy. To steel himself is of utmost importance and yet he hasn’t perfected the skill, hasn’t figured out how to flip the switches in his own heart and mind. His own answer comes, more sure than the way he’s pointing the weapon at her. Truth   —   or at least what he believes to be so.

“You could have said this to anyone else and maybe it would have been true   —   anyone else, but not me. I was made for one thing. I’m a specific piece  …   and I don’t fit anywhere else.” A pause comes, hand steadying a bit. The next part seems to hurt to say, seems to damage him more than anything could ever touch her. “I never will.”

[heavenfollowed]

❛ i’m sorry that i can’t save you. ❜

The flowers of a bouquet are scattered; their petals bruised and dulled as ash and blood ruin colors he can’t see. Shades of gray. A few of his feathers have joined them   —   divinity out of place in the heat of Hell. The sounds of the chaos around them is something permanent to the soul, something he knows will follow him around for the rest of his existence. Screams. Pain, made vocal for so many different reasons. A mother’s anguish. A husband’s rage. Friendships betrayed. Weapons clash and hearts aren’t spared from their damage   —   cruel and truly forever. His own is in the dirt close by, bloodied   —   stained with her grace and her very rights to live this life, to experience this happiness. War screams around them and Aveilut forgets what few songs he’s heard. They end up replaced, instead, by the sounds of their namesake. Heart broken, her throat is in his hands in a way that he’s craved since he first laid eyes on her   —   fingers tight to keep from trembling. Both of them are exhausted, both of them are bloodied but there’s something terrible about the discoloration of her dress or the way light gleams off of the band on her one finger where her hand is wrapped around his wrist. There’s blood under her head on the ground and he knows it without identifying the red because of the way it changes her hair, because of the way it makes his stomach twist. Doubled over, he exhales breaths that are uneven as his body complains. Pain. Still new to him, still so strange and yet his mind screams that he deserves it   —   that the scars will be earned   —   that this is what he gets for acting worse than what they actually are. Killing her would be kind. Killing her had been his intention, from the start. But their father has other plans. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Their father. Yahweh isn’t with them in this charge   —   high in the clouds, simply expecting a victory. Angels are dying at the hands of their siblings and creatures unworthy. His children, laid ruined after eons and eons of being nothing but obedient. Aveilut wonders if God will remember their names, if they will leave voids in His heart. He wonders if their father is capable of mourning, if he considers the soldiers fallen in war a personal loss. Questions that will never come. Even in his youth, he knows better. Even in his youth, he fears. All of it. He’s scared of all of it   —   of being where she is, now. Fallen. No longer adored. Replaceable. His very soul shakes at the thought and it pushes him, constantly   —   shoves him over every edge until he’s bent over her with his hands too aware of her fluttering pulse. It’s over. And somehow   —   they both know it. There are tears in her eyes and for a moment he doesn’t know why   —   he can’t pick a reason but then she chokes out a few words, far too honest and apologetic. Mourning. His sister sheds tears for the life he wasn’t able to have while hers is literally in his grasp. She tells him she’s sorry and he knows that she means it, knows that these could be her last fucking words and she wouldn’t mind it   —   that she regrets many things and he is one of them, born and thrown into a war he knows so little about. There are angels here he’s never seen before; siblings that he doesn’t and never will know. The side he’s on is all he’s ever known and the option to think for himself hasn’t and can’t be presented. They know this. They know that the shaking in his limbs is because he’s not cut out for this   —   that their father forgot to put the righteousness in him. Aveilut’s loyalty is blind and runs on fear rather than love. Love that he’s trying to earn, now. Love that he craves so much it hurts. He searches for it in their father’s voice but he finds it in hers, instead as she blames herself for everything that’s happened   —   as she takes accountability for everything that’s to come. His own eyes burn. When he answers, it is with forgiveness that she deserves. Forgiveness and regret. Something Death can’t afford. But the words come with an understanding    —   he needed saving. The window for that closes with his hands.

“So am I.”

Alone. He wakes with an understanding that the nightmare itself isn’t real   —   but the tears on his face are. Crying. He’s crying and it’s something new, something terrible. Hands move to wipe away some of the dampness on his face but he stops to stare at them instead as if in a trance. Horrible hands. Still soft from lack of use. Unscarred. They look small to him, now   —   too small to do anything of substance. But they will, he knows. There’s no other choice.

[heavenfollowed]

due to being slapped together too quickly, aveilut is completely colorblind.

[heavenfollowed]

❛ i can’t do this without you. ❜ (from cassiel)

there is something different in the way that cassiel smells   —   ash thick, warmth clinging to their usual notes. hell lingers on them in the way that cigarette smoke clings to the clothing of humans; musty and slightly faded. just enough for him to imagine it amplified, to wonder what it’s like so far down below. different. a punishment for the damned and those that watch over it; aveilut wonders how his sibling is fairing in their company   —   if they are overwhelmed by homesickness, if they have the same nerves in their stomach when they think about things to come. cassiel’s role is so important; they are heaven’s eyes in a pit of snakes and aveilut can’t help but admire how well they seem to be handling the task. so many of his siblings seem to be made from something stronger than he feels he is   —   maybe time is the key, here; maybe he simply needs a few years to be tempered and hardened. but years, they don’t have. aveilut is rushing and he risks cracking in the process. it’s a risk he’s willing to take. words come   —   heavy in their weight. expectations. aveilut wants to scream; it bubbles inside of him and sits in his throat until he swallows, until hands clench into fists at his sides. not now. he can’t do this, now; their father is expecting them to accomplish everything without a flaw, without so much as a hiccup   —    let alone a tear. the screaming can come later. they have a job to do, first and the days are ticking down, closer and closer. cassiel functions below, precious and surrounded by evil as they wait. he needs to learn, faster. he needs to be ready for when the moment comes. frustration lights anew in his chest but he shakes his head, determined.

“and you’re not going to.” final. a promise, spoken. when the day comes   —   he will be there. they will bring the fight to them. he will deal with azrael, himself. without her, hell will suffer. without her, they will end up on their knees and his father will do whatever necessary to punish them. he knows this. in his mind, there aren’t other outcomes; how could there be, when it’s all he’s ever been told? heaven will be victorious because heaven is right. lucifer and the others   —   they’ve simply strayed too far. when he looks back over, there is a seriousness to his very grace. profound. naive. “we’re going to do this and father will be proud. of you, especially. it’ll be worth it. soon you’ll be able to come home. soon things    —    things will be different.”

[heavenfollowed]

                 LITTLE AVEILUT THINGS   ...   partners may interact.

[heavenfollowed]

&. 𝐡𝐢𝐭 ‘𝐞𝐦 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

(  more  angst  to  devastate  your  writing  partners.  metaphorically.  )

❛ you’re a weapon, and weapons don’t weep. ❜

❛ you can’t save everyone. ❜

❛ it should have been you. ❜

❛ did i do good? ❜

❛ i’m sorry that i can’t save you. ❜

❛ wait for me, will you? ❜

❛ i can’t lose you again! ❜

❛ you were dead, i saw you die. ❜

❛ we won’t forget each other, right? ❜

❛ i’m real. i’m here. ❜

❛ you already know how this will end. ❜

❛ it’s always my fault, isn’t it? ❜

❛ i don’t want to go. ❜

❛ can you remember how you died? ❜

❛ i love you, but you’re not mine. ❜

❛ have you ever lost someone? ❜

❛ i didn’t ask to get made. ❜

❛ you’re as beautiful as the day i lost you. ❜

❛ i never meant to hurt you. ❜

❛ is it really you? ❜

❛ their blood is on your hands. ❜

❛ it would have been better to die. ❜

❛ i’m not ready to lose you yet. ❜

❛ i wish i met you sooner. ❜

❛ let’s just stay here. grow old. ❜

❛ you’re the first friend i ever had. ❜

❛ i told you not to fall in love with me. ❜

❛ you always push people away. i just thought you’d never do it to me. ❜

❛ everyone i’ve cared about has either died of left me. except for you. ❜

❛ i know i have a heart because i can feel it breaking. ❜

❛ they’re not coming back. ❜

❛ i’m sorry, have we met? ❜

❛ in my dreams, we’re still together. ❜

❛ you’re the one good thing left in this world. ❜

❛ i hate the way that i don’t hate you. ❜

❛ it’s okay. you can let go. ❜

❛ you mean nothing to me. ❜

❛ we’re on our own now. ❜

❛ you can’t kill me, i’m not alive. ❜

❛ it wasn’t supposed to end like this. ❜

❛ do you remember when we first met? ❜

❛ we’ll see each other again. ❜

❛ there’s nothing you could have done. ❜

❛ we did it. we won. ❜

❛ let’s not go back. not ever. ❜

❛ thanks for playing with me. ❜

❛ why does it feel like this is goodbye? ❜

[heavenfollowed]

cosmetic surgery is yassifed taxidermy for alive things

[heavenfollowed]

aveilut’s wings are about 1/3rd the size of other angel’s wings   ---   one of the many consequences of god slapping him together so fast. they are small and they have the same markings of an osprey. he has a hard time controlling them and they often pop out whenever he is especially emotional. if he’s flustered at all, you’re probably going to end up seeing them and there is an even bigger chance that they are going to puff up a lot.

[heavenfollowed]

i did NOT open my eyes while counting . i found you all so fast because im a fucking boss at hide and go seek okay. i DID NOT–i swear i didn–you guys are insane. youre all fucked in the head. im not playing with you anymore 

[heavenfollowed]

❛ of course i’m here. where else would i be? ❜ ~ celestialcatpire

Wings flap and give him a bit of lift   —   enough to where he’s able to do a few small hops and put better distance between them. This one, he knows, he needs to be wary around. All of them are dangerous but this one is particularly unstable   —   probably a result of Lucifer using whatever there was lying around to make him. Aveilut ignores the sentiment that comes with being slapped together, with the notion of having anything in common; they are on different levels entirely. God made him for a very specific purpose   —   idea in mind, intentions clear. Lucien doesn’t have the luxury of that guidance, that direction. He’s a fucking mess, as a result. Full of vices. Incapable of playing well with others. An active downward spiral   —   combustion in real time that Aveilut gets to watch, slowly. Unruly. He’s a cat in a cage and all he’s done is pace and get more and more cranky. Aveilut plays the role of a bird that keeps fluttering down and teasing from the top of the bars   —   always knowing when to swoop away as claws reach out. Today he finds him with a cigarette and purposefully stands upwind to avoid the smoke, feet barely touching the ground as he stays in motion in case he needs to make a quick escape. Cocky. Each time they cross paths, his confidence seems to build. This is no different.

“Oh, I dunno.” Sarcasm comes, easily. “Hell? Where you fucking belong?” Lips pull into something like a smirk before his head tips. “Does Daddy know you’re up here?”

[heavenfollowed]

[heavenfollowed]

fortitudina​:

      Scolding his siblings was never something that Akrasiel took lightly, and yet, it was at times, a necessity. He was not as old as Michael or Lucifer, but Yahweh had made Akrasiel the watchman for a reason. Always the level-headed of his siblings, he dealt with things in a far calmer manner than some of the others would ever do so. As was the current case as he sat before his youngest sibling, seeing how he was responding to the minor telling off that he was giving.

         He could not fault the eagerness to please their father that Aveilut was showing but such eagerness often came with cost. Perhaps his youngest sibling had learned his lesson now, but he wasn’t about to condone what he’d seen. A small sigh escaped past parted lips and briefly, the all-seer’s eyes dropped to the rosary that filtered through his fingers bead-by-bead.    “   You didn’t, but you are not yet ready to face the dangers that leaving the silver city brings. You are young; you are inexperienced and you’ve still a great deal to learn, Aveilut.  ”

       Akrasiel rarely became angry, it just wasn’t him. Instead, he paid attention to the smaller details; how people reacted, their body languages. It was why, as his eyes focused upon his little brother again, he noted that less than subtle tremor in his hands. He had faith, he always did and, in time, Aveilut would be able to do this, but right now? He was far from ready to. He could tell himself that same sentence over and over, but until the shaking stopped? until he came back relatively unscathed? Akrasiel knew that he couldn’t.

    He stood slowly from his desk, his expression soft  (  even with a gentle smile upon his lips  )  as he dropped his chin to keep his gaze relatively in line with the youngest angel’s. Pocketing his rosary, he took cautious steps over to him, reach slow and steady until his touch was gentle upon his brother’s lower arms.   “  I have every faith in you that one day, you will be able to do this   —   if you’re questioning the shaking? It’s completely natural as a response. It might even pay to know that there have been times where, when I was young, like yourself and still learning my duty? I would get myself into moments that would leave me shaking too. It will pass in time, don’t worry.  ”

      The younger’s gaze lifts to focus on attention given to the rosary   —   curious. The watchman has faith and Aveilut wants to ask if the beads are particularly heavy at the moment, if his brother is struggling with things while a war rages outside of the city. As it is, Aveilut has no such trinkets, nothing to aid in grounding him away from thoughts or doubts. He has his hands, unsteady   —   and his heart, much worse. Young, he’s too new to the world to understand the benefits of taking things slow; wings much too small for actual flight and yet he keeps wandering away from the nest, keeps finding new forms of trouble. His place is here. The Silver City is his home and it is meant to contain everything that he needs. Siblings are a comfort   —   but the gaps are obvious. Aveilut has a lot of growing to do and Akrasiel doesn’t hesitate to point out as much. Young, he says. Inexperienced. Words that sting when they shouldn’t   —   when he should be accepting of them. Embracing.       Young, yes. There is so much for him to see   —   to learn. The books around them contain so much knowledge and yet Aveilut wants nothing to do with them, wants to spend his time in other ways. Sitting still and reading is difficult when he knows that their numbers are falling, when he knows that their father’s disappointment grows day by day. Hell’s strength is changing. They should strike sooner rather than later and yet most of his siblings seem content with biding their time   —   with waiting. He wonders if they’ve gotten too comfortable in all of their time up here. If they actually fear the idea of things unsettling. Dust. It feels like it’s everywhere and Aveilut wants to run his hand through it and clear it away, wants a blade in his hand more than anything else. Reading can come later. Everything else   —   it can come later.       A demon is dead and yet the focus remains on the risk   —   on the aftermath. Shaking hands. His brother’s touch does little to fix them and it only breeds more frustration, even as he speaks words of encouragement. Understanding. Nostalgia; Akrasiel has been where he is, now   —   eager and nervous and anything but prepared for what’s expected. Adrenaline has kept his body from feeling sore after the fight but it will come, soon enough. He will slow. He’ll be stuck up here, again. Something like a scream makes a home in his chest but he breathes slowly and swallows. Emotions come too easily   —   unfiltered, raw.

      “I don’t want it to pass in time; I want it to pass now.” When he looks up, there is desperation. It’s difficult, worrying the way that he does. Everyone else has had the benefit of eons to come into their powers   —   to understand themselves on the most basic of levels and yet Aveilut stands, a bundle of nerves and expectations that his wings can’t hold. “How do I face any of them if I’m like this? I can’t stay cooped up   —   I can’t be idle; I need to fight. Everyone else is. How are you   —   how are you so calm?”

[heavenfollowed]

❛ i don’t know who i am anymore. ❜

Aveilut finds himself wondering which is worse: starting out without knowing anything about the self or going eons with an understanding only to have it suddenly taken away. Her situation seems to be more difficult to handle; she’s fallen. Replaced by something he’d argue is inadequate. Time has been slowed but it still ticks by in a way that Aveilut feels is too loud; he shouldn’t be here   —   shouldn’t be connecting with her. He is a blade meant for her ribs and yet he lingers with hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie in an attempt to appear less threatening than he feels. Toxic. He’s lacking in years and experiences to help him form sound advice and instead he ends up speaking straight from the heart. It comes out simple. Matter-of-fact. Aveilut doesn’t know better; he’s never been in her shoes and he never will. She sees the world in color and he doesn’t   —   their viewpoints forced to be different by their father’s hand.

“That’s because you’re nobody.” Harsh, he pauses. “Everything you were, everything you’ve been   —   it’s gone, right?” Shoulders shrug. “So start over. Who fucking cares.” It’s not like she has long, right? It’s not like this feeling is permanent. His job is to release her from everything she’s feeling   —   to undo it all. He wonders, quietly, if he’ll finally know who he is when he does.

[heavenfollowed]

❛ you could have died, you know. ❜ ( from Akrasiel )

Lashes lower and the angel’s head bows slightly   —   properly scolded. Rightfully so. Aveilut’s eagerness comes at a price, today; skin split open on a cheek and small wings disheveled. The demon is dead but not without some damage, not without concern. It’s too soon. There’s still so much that Aveilut needs to learn and he knows it, knows that his time will come soon enough. It’s hard, staying up top while everyone else carries out their duties. It’s hard, finding patience when there is an entire universe to explore. Complications come in the forms related to war; he isn’t supposed to go off on his own   —   isn’t supposed to reveal himself to Hell and those who have started gathering in its name. He’s supposed to be learning, supposed to be waiting. It’s not going well. Books are frowned at, stubborn. Akrasiel is right; things could have gone very differently. Frustration builds at the thought of being a waste, of their father making him for nothing. The feathers on his wings puff up a bit and he sighs.

“But I didn’t.” A weak argument, he knows   —   which is why his head lifts a bit, as if proud. “I’m fine. I can do this.” Hands lift and there is a shake to them, something that he finds he immediately hates. His siblings do not shake. They do not tremble. So why does he?

[heavenfollowed]

        when i damage your delicate spine, please don’t act all shy and surprised. ©

[heavenfollowed]

&. 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

❛ i didn’t know where else to go. ❜

❛ i’ll never be that me again. ❜

❛ you can still be good. ❜

❛ i thought you’d be here. ❜

❛ don’t act like you know me. ❜

❛ because i care about you, okay? ❜

❛ it wasn’t supposed to end like this. ❜

❛ i was scared. i thought you had lost your way. ❜

❛ am i supposed to just let you go? ❜

❛ you deserve better than me. ❜

❛ don’t make me do this. ❜

❛ i’m not who you think i am. ❜

❛ you don’t mean that. ❜

❛ please just hold me. ❜

❛ i don’t want to understand, i want you to stay. ❜

❛ and why should i care? ❜

❛ you look awful. ❜

❛ i can’t do this without you. ❜

❛ don’t let me lose you too. ❜

❛ for what it’s worth, i really am sorry. ❜

❛ it’s not your fault. ❜

❛ i don’t know who i am anymore. ❜

❛ is this the part where you kick me out? ❜

❛ don’t we deserve to be happy? ❜

❛ promise me you’ll still be here when i wake up. ❜

❛ you can’t save everyone. ❜

❛ it was a nightmare, that’s all. ❜

❛ it’s just a scratch, don’t worry. ❜

❛ you know me better than i know myself. ❜

❛ don’t go where i can’t follow. ❜

❛ you’re better off without me. ❜

❛ we all die alone. ❜

❛ people get hurt if they get too close to me. ❜

❛ i hate what i’ve become. ❜

❛ i’m not going anywhere. ❜

❛ is there anything i can do to help? ❜

❛ i don’t even recognize you anymore. ❜

❛ who did this to you? ❜

❛ please don’t leave me. ❜

❛ oh, now you care? ❜

❛ don’t come any closer! ❜

❛ i missed you so much. ❜

❛ you don’t have to say anything. ❜

❛ do you want me to leave? ❜

❛ why are you avoiding me? ❜

❛ you could have died, you know. ❜

❛ i wish you were here. ❜

❛ you’re not alone. i’m staying right here. ❜

❛ i can be your family. ❜

❛ of course i’m here. where else would i be? ❜

❛ we just can’t seem to get it right, huh? ❜

❛ don’t look at me like that. ❜

❛ don’t push me away again. ❜

❛ this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. ❜

❛ you’re leaving already? ❜

❛ this was a mistake. ❜

❛ can’t sleep? ❜

[heavenfollowed]

There was always something comfortable about being by the sea. She was sitting in the sand, gazing up at the stars. The deserted beach was meant to be her rendezvous point with Blue when he finished what needed to be done. Azrael wrapped her arms around herself. Blue wasn't meant to be back for awhile yet and she enjoyed the bit of freedom she had in being up here. The crisp wind, the billowing of the sea, the twinkle of the stars. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to take it all in. To savor it before she was meant to go back to Hell.

Waves have a rhythm to them and they make Aveilut realize that he, in comparison, does not share that trait at all. Misaligned. Shoes in the sand, he doesn’t feel connected to the Earth or anything on it   —   his manifestation a whisper of wings too small to carry the weight put on him. To look at her is to try and understand all the wrong parts of himself, imperfections in gray reflections on shined surfaces. Azrael seems content, here   —   away from home, settled on the sand like some unappreciated piece of sea glass. Worn. Smooth. A little faded. Time has made her what she is and Aveilut feels sharp and dangerous to the touch in comparison; litter rather than art   —   freshly broken and pointed towards another with the intentions to spill blood. A weapon rather than something with potential. The ocean breathes, slow   —   but the sound isn’t a comfort. Distracting. Earth is much noisier than he expected   —   even on the beach at night. The stars themselves seem loud. Chattering. Gossip; he shouldn’t be standing where he is (not empty-handed) and he knows that some of his other siblings are likely to scold should they find out. Maybe some of the sea air will cling to his feathers and give him away when he goes back. Maybe they’ll ask why he keeps sneaking away and expect an honest answer. Maybe their father will get angry   —   rarely does he seem happy but perhaps this particular moment will cause some kind of uproar. Words he can already hear. Arguments he’s already prepared to have. They don’t understand, really   —   not this. None of them are capable of understanding what he feels when he lands on the beach next to her, when he sees her and really takes her in for the first time. First, he searches for similarities. Anything obvious. Anything that might stand out and help him understand   —   but there is nothing. She’s shorter. Much more tired. Her grace feels different; heavy with things he doesn’t understand. Different. Individuals but he wants to know more, wants to count her flaws and match them up to a list of his own and scratch out when they match. There’s some comfort in knowing that their father didn’t simply go with a cookie-cutter method   —   in the understanding that he is his own design, even if a little haphazard. Imperfect, yet meant to replace something that has done everything properly up until recently. It’s dizzying to think about   —   to know that she has eons of knowledge on him and yet she’s here, alone. The dog isn’t far. Heaven knows that much, that they usually travel in pairs now. This, if anything, is an opportunity. One that should end in bloodied sand. One that should make his father proud. There is a moment where he feels truly radioactive   —   dangerous to so much as be around as he stands before her on what should be a battleground. Converse sink into wet sand. Water washes up around his ankles but he stays still, stuck. Torn. His own grace ignites as he fights his own thoughts, as he mulls over his options. She’s alone. She   —   the one he’s supposed to be dealing with, specifically, does not have one of the others to protect her and make a fight more difficult. There’s the chance that falling has weakened her   —   that Hell itself has been difficult. The longer she has to adjust, the more dangerous she becomes. Heaven knows as much; it’s been spoken more than once. Hell shouldn’t be allowed to keep her   —    not after her betrayal. Not after everything. The war could shift tonight. Everything could be different, history written in this very sand. Hands itch to find her throat and for a moment he can’t hear anything but a ringing in his own ears   —   a sound that comes and goes as her eyes open, as he’s able to look and spot exhaustion despite having never been tired in the same way.

“Sister.” Spoken over waves   —   it comes out with a calmness even he wasn’t expecting. Heart in his throat. Nerves roaring. A conversation isn’t something they need to have; not when his intentions feel like tar to a garden. Something like nausea finds his stomach and he finds himself thankful to be somewhat held in place by sand and water   —   untrusting of anything good being within him at all. Wings are small, hanging a bit low. Where’s his pride, given what he is? Hesitant, he feels uneasy when staring down the shoes he’s meant to fill. She seems so different. Death, yes. But nothing like what he’s heard. This is no blasphemer, no horrible rebel who deserved her fall   —   who deserved to have their father’s love ripped away from her everyday life. Hands close into fists at his sides. He feels small. That’s something that hasn’t changed since his birth   —   but right now it’s almost suffocating. Unbearable. Oh, he shouldn’t have come down here. Not tonight. A breath is taken and he tries to steel himself, to cull the notion that they have anything normal. This is a war   —   one he was born into, one he will walk away from having done everything required of him. She’s an obstacle. A threat. A problem. And she’s alone. The last thing he should be doing is overthinking.

“I thought you’d be different.” It comes out, simple. Precise. “In my mind you have loomed like a shadow I can’t escape but looking at you without a sun to cast it, I see that I   …   got a bit ahead of myself. I gave you more than I should have. I expected too much.” Below. She’s supposed to be below him. She’s supposed to buckle and break under his touch   —   supposed to fail where he succeeds. Fucking different, but she doesn’t look as tormented as he feels. She looks different than their other siblings. More alive. Like she knows something that none of them can understand and he wants to shake her until the answers spill out, until he’s able to understand why the knowledge is poison   —   why he craves it if it means he can think better than her. Empty, something makes him shake as his head ducks, as he speaks out of frustration. “You aren’t supposed to be here. I’m not—.” Ready. He’s not fucking ready to do this, yet and he knows it. They can’t do this, yet. Not here. Not now. And that makes being around her dangerous. That gives way for something they, as Death, cannot have. Sentiment.

He hates it.