In his hands he carries the scraps of his wings, feathers scorched from Michael's burning blade. He does not grieve for them, not yet. In time he knows, once he feels their phantom weight on his back, he will come to mourn them. Just as he will mourn the loss of his brothers and sisters, though they now look down upon him in pity, in disgrace.
But Efraim's walk is quiet; his bare feet sink into the sand with every step he takes away from the solace of the softly crashing waves behind him. He wonders if Lucifer had fallen here, too, if he'd taken the very same steps as he. He wonders if perhaps this location is his Father's last act of love, a last attempt to tell him that he will be missed. He wonders if they look at him now, if they can see how gently he cradles his wings, how—from time to time—he looks up to the blue sky above.
He does stop, iridescent blue eyes peering up. He can't see them, not anymore. The Fall will prevent him from ever seeing them again. He clutches his wings to his chest, a chill traveling alongside the blood that streaks from the wounds on his back, and he begins to walk again.
He isn't sure how long it'll be before his divinity is entirely stripped away from him. How long will it be before he can no longer sense him? He must find him—must. For eons he'd glimpsed that soul, had held it in his hands, hoping for the day he may finally see him. Touch him. Love him. Efraim's heart races at the idea of it, the idea of being close to him. How long had he stared at that soul, held it in his hands and felt its warmth? How long had he held that secret, that hope that someday he may cross paths with it again?
Bare feet met the pavement of the road. He gives one final look, drawing in his first deep breath as one of the Fallen. Will he come to regret this? Michael had remarked upon this, before he shoved him over the edge–that he will wait, in pity, for the day that Efraim begs to return to the Heavens. And, like Lucifer, he will deny it.
Lucifer fell for free will; Efraim for love.
He grips his wings tighter, feathers ripping in his hands.
He will not grieve for them, not yet.
YOU ARE READING
The Lost Divine
Romance"In his hands he carries the scraps of his wings, feathers scorched from Michael's burning blade. He does not grieve for them, not yet..." Efraim Morningstar was a mere sentinel, tasked with guarding the gates of Heaven, when he held a soul in his h...
