FROM HER ASHES³ ━━ Bellamy Blake

𝐈. The Dark Year

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THE DARK YEAR

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[ tw: if you've seen the dark year episode, u know what to except. this isn't violent or graphic until the end, but it is extremely fucked up. ]

ARE WE THE architects of our own downfall?

Your soul is your own; our sovereignty is indisputable. You make your own choices. Good or bad. Light or dark. To live or to die. Your destiny is not laid out for you in the stars; you can reach for the heavens and crush supernovas with your bare fists if that is what you want. There is no divine, ichorous-veined god reigning over the heavens. Only humans with molten red sin for blood, glass for bones, and graveyards for skin. The stars have no power over you. You carve your story out of the night sky with constellations of your own.

Every word on your lips is a gavel, every movement is a penalty, every breath a condemnation. Wraiths cling to us like shadows. What-if's haunt us like ghosts. For accountability is a terrible thing. The demolition is always your own.

There was no other choice is a hollow lie that melts into skin like smoke. False words screamed at the cold, empty sky when sinners beg for forgiveness because they are afraid. Afraid of accepting the bitter truth that will eat you from the inside out: You are scared that you aren't yourself anymore, and you are scared that you are.

You were not born a disaster, but it is who you have become.

And you have no one to blame but yourself.

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SOME ANGELS ARE destined to fall.

Sacrifice is in her blood, red and ruinous. Suffering is her religion. And it is only then in that stone chamber somewhere between heaven and hell that Lyra knows: She was never made to be holy.

Some angels are destined to fall.

Her white wings are dirtied, feathers crawling with mites, eyes flat as snakes. The smell of the ozone lingers in her skin; once upon a time, she had been hurtled from the divinity of the stars and sent crashing into the torch-wood planet. She'd promised glory and arks; the hollow earth, the ascending light. I'm trying to bring back the light. She knows that if her throat were to be torn open, it would be hollow.

Her halo is cracking.

Time is frozen over in the festering darkness of the bunker. Like rivers churning in the thick of winter, it seems to flow a little faster and a little slower all at once; at times it is bogged down by ice, other days it is rapid, volatile, seconds flashing to minutes and minutes blending into hours. Everything is blurred, bleeding all together like the swirling shadows that plague the concrete sky, as if nothing is real at all.