And if the angels
All fell down to earth
With a dead god
And no holiness to serve,
Would the humans
Still believe
Or would they die
Of empty leave?
--- ---
Selath stood on the empty barren copse, the burnt trees crackling with embers against an ivory sky. His flaming gold hair reflected in its whorls the flames of a deserted world. Sharp clouds rose as fog from the dry, parched earth, charred and blackened, split in the climax of the battle.
The glittery ebony eyes of the seraph loosed a velvet tear, a bright red track against pallid heavenly flesh. The high wings of his back slumped with his shoulders, unbelieving that the snowy down was now a dark glistening grey, dripping crimson in his footsteps as he slowly roamed the forgotten field.
"Selath, there's nothing left here. Why do you stay?" a voice asked, flickering into the lost world. The ebony-eyed angel turned slowly, allowing soft black robes to form about his body.
"Raziel. You know why I came," he replied, sullen. The other smirked, bright green irises winking before a charcoal wing brought him closer.
"Ah, my sweet. Ever honouring a dead deity," Raziel taunted, looping his arms about Selath's waist, nuzzling his beautiful face amidst the grey feathers. Selath shoved him away, stalking down the hill towards the blood-soaked ground.
"He *is* dead. I don't know why you continue to pray, other than some strange vanity for your grey wings. Are you, grey-feather, so much holier than your black-flying brethren?" Raziel shouted, rouged lips laughing in a nearly human face.
Selath continued to walk, elegant strides leaving moist prints in the fouled earth. He seemed unearthly, an unnatural beauty wasted in a despairing, desolate battleground. Raziel rolled his eyes, and called out again, "Selath! You are needed! Go to earth, to the human's realm!"
The golden angel nodded silently, and fluttered his grey wings as a glowing scythe appeared in his hands, before a flash of darkness hid his exit. Raziel sighed, and folded himself out of the field.
---
A young boy moved quietly through the shadows of the empty house, too silent and ghostly for a child his age. His drawn, pale face seemed to belong to one much older than he, and perhaps it did. He was pretty, almost unearthly beautiful, and utterly unseen and unheard as he swept into the darkest room.
A small, comforting smile that failed to spread to the icy confines of the rounded, childish countenance cross his lips as he surveyed the gasping form lying on the floor, alone. A needle fell to the dusty carpet, tipped with blood, from the trembling hand. The child's thin palm curled, and a light grey from the clutching fingers, glittering and swirling into a menacing weapon, sliding about his wrist.
"Sleep well, Child of God," the boy whispered, his eyes flickering with an ebony sheen in the light of his scythe.
---
A slim, underfed teenaged boy, so attractive as to put his gender in question, slid through the undergrowth of the pulsing music. He was in a club, all far too old for his playmates, yet no one stopped the obviously underage child in his approach. He slithered against the shadowed wall, avoiding the brilliantly flashing strobes and grotesquely gyrating bodies nearby.
An aura of silence, of solemn dignity surrounded his figure, untouched by the writhing humans around the perimeter of the space. He almost glowed, illumined with a pure pallor that only made his eyes seem black and his loosely clothed form dissolve into shades of obscure grey as he pushed open a door, set back into the poster-plastered grime of the wall.
He strode down a dim hallway, following a muffled screaming only he seemed to hear. Shades danced about a door, beckoning
And that's all I wrote. Comments and suggestions, please? Mail them to me!
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