When Angels Fall [GXG]

Chapter 11

Autumn. Or limbo on earth, as Sofiel would like to think. Wherein the flora of the land neither flourishes nor perish. Merely locked in a stand-still, suspended in a fragile state of life and death – too cold to thrive, yet too warm to wilt.

There's a certain beauty to it, Sofiel thinks, as she stands, watching the gentle flutter of leaves rustle in the wind by the windowsill. They wither away into the earth in crumpled hues of auburn and gold.

For the first time in a long time, she actually feels like herself again. The pain she has once felt so acutely in her bones have long since faded. Albeit, leaving just the barest hint of a lingering ache in her joints, which she merely passes up as nothing more than an effect of disuse – a reminder of her weakness.

Standing in front of Abigail's full-length mirror, Sofiel braces herself for the sight that greets her. She flinches when the reflection of her face – and her accompanying thin frame ­– finally comes into view.

Her face is gaunt and pale as a pair of jaded green eyes stare back at her, never looking more empty. Dull. Like the next soulless husk of a person she sees, milling away on the street. Her long raven hair hangs past her shoulders, flat and limp. She frowns, and holds a hand up against the cool glass of the mirror, watching as her reflection frowns back at herself.

She looks almost mortal standing right then in front of the mirror.

How would anyone believe that she's divinity is beyond her.

But she quickly pushes the thought away. The sparkle of blue eyes and a beaming smile flitter through her mind's eye. You glow. Sofiel remembers Abigail telling her, once. She wonders if Abigail still thinks she glows the same now.

Sighing, Sofiel disrobes. Gingerly, she sheds off her grey cashmere cardigan and her white button-down shirt until she's standing alone in her bra and jeans. It is only then, does she allow herself to take stock of the scars and bruises that litter across her body, making note of the numerous imperfections that are now engraved into her skin. Permanent and irreparable. She counts every single one of them, feels her stomach sink as the number ticks higher and higher.

Unforgivable, Sofiel thinks. To sully her Father's immaculate canvas – her body – with such flaws and impurities.

Unforgivable.

(Will Father be able to see past my shortcomings?)

And she suddenly stops short at a single purplish bruise, barely peeking out from behind her right shoulder. Her heart lurches with a foreboding dread, catching in her throat. Carefully, she twists herself at a better angle to further inspect said-blemish.

Sofiel sucks in a sharp breath – so sharp it whistles between her teeth.

Her worst fear has just been realised.

She tentatively traces the outline of the suspicious welt, which she now knows is less of a bruise and more of a stigma – the physical manifestation of corruption.

Of sin.

If negativity and resentment were a seed, cultured and watered daily, then a stigma is what will most certainly spring from it. A curse. A form of taint that plagues the divines. An affliction that is almost unheard of in the Silver City, and only ever seen in celestials who have begun the process of descension – the fall from grace.

Sofiel tries to temp down her rising panic despite herself.

She can't say that she didn't see this coming, considering the length of time she's spent in the mortal realm. But so what if she's been branded? It's nothing that some blessed or holy water can't fix.

The real worry, however, is the extent of it. How far has the corruption gone ­– how deep has its roots sunk, seeding through her system.

Only one way to find out.

Gingerly, rolls at her shoulders, feeling the tight coil of muscles there.

With a slow, steadying breath, she counts to three before finally unfurling her wings for the first time since her fall to the mortal realm.

Sofiel grimaces at the sight.

Or more specifically – at the remnants of what appears to be her left wing. The one, she reckons, that had taken the brunt of her fall. Malformed and visibly distorted, it hangs, protruding out at an odd angle. Not that its twin is faring any better. Her right wing bearing a crookedness to its frame. Albeit, not as bad as the left one, but still grotesque all the same.

Though, that's not even the worst of it.

Her sheer white feathers that she had once prided herself over, have nearly all but dropped off in the process of her healing, growing back in patches of black. In hues and shades as dark as death – the unholy brand of a stigma.

Sofiel purses her lips and ruffles her wings. She can almost hear the words 'disgrace' and 'dishonour' cycling through her head in a wispy whisper that sounds an awful lot like her brother. But she does her best to block it all out, doing her level best to focus on the light at the end of the tunnel.

Positivity.

She needs to think positive thoughts, lest her stigma worsens any further. The last thing she needs is for it to consume her entirely and for her to pose a very real and dangerous threat to anyone within her vicinity. (Abigail.) But at this point in time, it's still very much fixable.

There's still hope for her yet.

Still fixable, she repeats a bit more firmly to herself, and the tiny voice at the back of her head finally silences.

*****

Sofiel pads out onto the balcony of Abigail's apartment, barefooted and clothed in a thin button-down shirt with slits down the back for her unfurled wings to hang comfortably.

She peers down at the streets below her, buzzing with oncoming traffic and the likes. A strong breeze brushes her by then. It stirrs up locks of her raven hair into action, and it feels almost like a warning.

Right now, she's standing a good nine stories high. A height at which a fall will most certainly not kill her ­– much less do her any harm given her recovered state.

And Abigail doesn't get back from work till six, which leaves Sofiel plenty of time to do whatever she needs to do.

She swallows, clutching at the balustrade of the balcony till her knuckles turn white. The indistinct murmur of the city is nothing but a distant drone in her ears. White noise, as compared to the incessant pulse of her heart drumming away in an all-consuming beat.

Gingerly, Sofiel hefts herself over the railing, balancing precariously on the edge of the small piece of landing. Her hands are shaking despite herself, and there's a keen weakness to her knees that is completely unrelated to her previous ailment.

"How pathetic," she chuckles grimly to herself. The view of the streets below almost seeming to blur in and out of focus before her eyes. Her throat feels tight, and her stomach churns. "An angel who's afraid of heights? Now, that's unheard of." She laughs self-deprecatingly.

Though, deep down Sofiel knows. What she's truly afraid of isn't really heights – it's the act of falling. 

In an act of desperation, she glances skywards, hoping to seek solace from the heavens. But all she sees is grey tumultuous clouds, and not a peek of sunlight.

Father, give my strength, she prays silently.

And with a quivering breath, Sofiel lets herself go.

****

a/n: so, ive got some feedback about having longer chapters, so this is just a test run for now. we'll just see how it goes, but do let me know if this flows better or if i should return to having shorter chapters. cheers! (don't forget to vote or comment if you like what you read so far! :D)