There were hauntings of screaming children.
Ghosts of a righteous angel swimming through the cerulean sky. An angel who was to be their warrior of light against the brutes of the dark. An angel, who had been a beacon of hope.
How strange that he would be the cause. How strange that his immaculate feathers were now dipped in lead. How strange, that he used them to snuff out the light and steal their souls.
Pristine wings painted crimson. Cornflower irises dissipated into molten gold. Gentle hands defaulting to violence.
They had nightmares about it.
Of that which was to blame for his fall from grace.
Of their own feeble attempts to stop him.
Of him.
Every time they would wake from them, from the gilded eyes and tainted hands, they could still hear the shrieks. They were still spellbound from the fear of him grasping their neck and squeezing until they could only see dark stars. They could still taste the blood along the split in their lip, not knowing if it belonged to them or the tears in his knuckles.
And then they would be reminded of the warm pulse of their blemished skin as they rose from them. Then, they would remember that he was an angel in the day, petting marks he left gently and singing praises for their efforts, and he could still be that omnipotent figure.
Then they would remember he would fall from grace come the turn of night.
Remember, that not all angels were what they appeared to be.
Remember, that because they loved him, he would never allow them to leave.
